by Chris Carter
That had been almost an hour ago.
Thirty-Five
Mr. J blinked once . . . twice.
Cassandra held her husband’s stare for a split second longer before squeezing her eyes tight.
Seventh of March, he thought. That’s correct, isn’t it? It’s got to be. Why else would the date have popped into my head the way it did? Cassandra and I got married twenty-one years ago, on the seventh of March, at the Cathedral of Our Lady of Angels in downtown Los Angeles.
Cassandra reopened her glassed eyes. In them now, only terror.
‘I hope that you are looking straight into your wife’s eyes, John,’ the demon finally said. ‘Because you have just let her down.’
‘What? No, wait . . .’
‘That’s not your wedding date,’ the voice cut him short. ‘And the rules are – you give me an incorrect answer and Cassandra gets punished.’
‘No, please wait . . .’
‘Rules are rules, John. You just told me that you are an “enforcer of rules” of sorts, so I’m sure you understand that they need to be enforced.’
Still keeping Cassandra’s face as its main subject, the camera panned up a few degrees. Seconds later, a figure dressed all in black took position directly behind her chair. All Mr. J could see were his wife’s face and the person’s strong torso standing just behind her head.
‘You remember the rules of our little game, don’t you, John?’ the demon asked rhetorically. ‘You have to keep watching. You close your eyes, she gets punished again. You look away, she gets punished again. If you move away from your phone’s camera and I can’t see you on the screen, she gets punished again.’
Mr. J’s gaze stayed exactly where it was.
‘Now, would you like to know the real reason why I paralyzed your wife?’ The demon didn’t wait for an answer. ‘So she wouldn’t spoil the fun by moving.’
Suddenly, the demon’s gloved hands appeared above Cassandra’s head. They weren’t empty.
Thirty-Six
Dr. Barnes checked her watch one more time.
‘Oh, screw this,’ she said under her breath.
She had had enough. She collected her belongings and placed everything back into her briefcase. She still didn’t want to go home, so she decided that she was going to do what she should’ve done a long, long time ago – drive herself to a different police station.
As she got up and turned to leave, the door to the interrogation room was finally pushed open by a tall and sturdy man. He looked to be in his mid-forties, with a rugged face that gave her the impression that he hadn’t smiled in years. His clothes were clean, but scruffy, as if they had been slept in, and his hair was lank and uncombed.
‘Ms. Barnes,’ he said, offering his hand. His voice sounded as rough as his clothes looked. ‘I’m Detective Julian Webb. Pleased to meet you.’
She shook his hand, properly introducing herself as a doctor.
‘I’m terribly sorry for making you wait for such a long time, doctor. If I could’ve made it back here any earlier, I would’ve, but tonight, so far, I’ve attended two homicide scenes, and one gang rape.’
Dr. Barnes didn’t disguise her surprise.
‘Unfortunately,’ Detective Webb explained, ‘some nights, that’s just how this city rolls. If this is the City of Angels, God forbid I ever come across the City of Devils.’ He gestured towards the table. ‘Please . . .’
Dr. Barnes returned to the same seat she’d been occupying for the past hour. Detective Webb took the one across the table from her.
‘So, how can I be of any assistance?’ He interlaced his fingers together and placed his hands on the table in front of him.
The doctor studied the detective for a couple of seconds. He had the look of a man who was used to hard work and responsibility. She breathed in through her nose and slowly let it out through her mouth before beginning. She started with when she got to the underground parking lot.
‘And do you have this note with you?’ Detective Webb asked, reaching for his reading glasses, which were hanging from a cord around his neck.
Dr. Barnes placed the note on the table.
Detective Webb retrieved a pair of latex gloves from his pocket, gloved up and turned the envelope so it was facing him.
‘And you’ve said that you’ve never received one of these before?’ he asked.
‘This is the first one,’ she replied with a headshake.
‘And has anyone else other than yourself handled it?’
‘No.’
‘So since you’ve found this note no one else has touched it?’
‘No.’
Detective Webb opened the envelope and pulled out the note. The fact that whoever had created it had used cut-out letters and words didn’t seem to surprise him. He read it silently.
I bet that you never even noticed me standing right behind you as you picked up your copy of the LA Times from the newsstand, did you?
. . .
I must say, your hair smells different when you are awake.
After reading the note twice, Detective Webb’s eyes lifted in the direction of Dr. Barnes.
She was staring straight at him.
Webb pulled his reading glasses from his nose and let them fall loosely by his neck again.
‘When was the last time you picked up a copy of the LA Times from a newsstand, Doctor?’
‘This morning. I do it every morning just before getting to my office.’
‘And where is that?’
‘Downtown. West Ninth Street.’
The detective nodded. ‘Busy street. And did you notice anyone standing right behind you as you picked up the paper? I mean, anyone close enough to be able to smell your hair?’
‘No, I didn’t.’
‘Think about it carefully now, Doctor. This morning, yesterday, maybe the day before?’
‘Believe me, Detective Webb, I’ve thought about it more carefully than you could imagine. I didn’t notice anybody standing behind me – this morning, yesterday, the day before, or any other day.’
Webb sat back on his chair and regarded the doctor for an instant. She was an attractive woman. Her midnight-black hair was perfectly styled into a short shaggy bob, with face-framing layers. Her eyes, which were just as dark as her hair, had a certain serenity to them that seemed contagious. Her whole presence somehow seemed very calming. Webb didn’t find it surprising that Gwen Barnes had chosen to become a psychotherapist.
‘Have you ever had any trouble with stalkers, Doctor?’
‘No,’ she replied. ‘I can’t say I have.’ Her turn to regard him. ‘You don’t seem convinced.’
Webb shrugged. ‘We get tens of stalker complaints every year, Doc. I deal with several of them. The truth is – you check most of the boxes for the sort of target they go for.’
Dr. Barnes was quite surprised by the comment, but her expression showed nothing. ‘And what boxes are those?’
‘You’re an unmarried, very attractive woman, Doctor. You seem to have a great career—’
‘How do you know I’m unmarried?’ she cut him short.
Webb pouted his lips and raised his eyebrows as if asking – ‘Is that question for real?’
Dr. Barnes lifted her hands in surrender. For a moment she had forgotten where she was.
‘OK,’ Webb said. He knew that Dr. Barnes had had more than enough time to think about the scenarios surrounding that note. ‘Let me ask you a few quick questions, Doc. Do you think that this note could maybe have come from an ex-anything – husband, boyfriend, lover – someone who you’d had some sort of relationship with in the past? Maybe someone with whom the relationship didn’t end on very good terms?’
The doctor shook her head. ‘No ex-husband, and no. That’s all I’ve been thinking about since I found this note. And since I’ve been waiting here for several hours, I’ve thought about it hundreds of times. I can think of absolutely no one.’
‘Once again, I’m sorry about all the w
aiting.’ Webb’s tone was plain and sincere. He moved on. ‘Are you seeing anyone at the moment?’
‘No, nobody.’
Webb nodded. ‘How about an ex-patient,’ he suggested.
‘Or maybe even a current one.’
Another shake of the head. ‘Nope. I thought about that too. I can think of no one who’d be capable of something like this.’
‘People are capable of things you just wouldn’t imagine, Doctor.’ Webb fumbled with his glasses. ‘Can you think of anyone at all that maybe would want to scare you, or . . . harm you?’
Dr. Barnes shrugged. ‘No, I can’t really think of anyone.’
Webb leaned forward and rested his elbows on the table. ‘Would you like my truthful opinion, Dr. Barnes?’
‘No, not at all, just give me the bullshit, because that would be much more helpful.’
Webb just kept his eyes on her.
‘I’m sorry,’ the doctor said, showing him her palms once again. ‘It’s been a very stressful day.’ She tilted her head to one side. ‘And I’m hungry.’
‘No need to apologize, Doc. I understand.’
‘So what’s your truthful opinion?’
Webb looked at the note on the table one more time before his stare glided back to Dr. Barnes. ‘I think this is just a hoax, pure and simple. Someone pulling your leg. Maybe someone who you don’t even know. A practical joker. Someone who knows you’re a psychotherapist and could maybe overanalyze the note. Maybe this person works in the same building as you. Maybe he’s seen you around as you pick up your paper in the morning, I’m not sure. But I’d say that this . . .’ He nodded once. ‘You being here. You being scared. Is the exact reaction he wanted to get out of the joke. I’m very sorry to say, Dr. Barnes, but I think that you’ve wasted your time.’
To Detective Webb’s surprise, Dr. Barnes agreed with him. ‘That was exactly what I thought when I first read the note. I thought it was a joke and not a very good one, but then I noticed that there was something else inside the envelope.’
Webb frowned as his stare hopped back to the envelope on the table. ‘What else?’
She reached for the envelope, tipped it, and allowed whatever else was inside it to slide out on to the tabletop.
Thirty-Seven
With an imposing, three-hundred-plus collection of bourbon, rye, blended and single malt Scotch whisky, the Seven Grand was one of the most accomplished bars in the whole of Los Angeles for whisky aficionados.
Hunter jumped out of the cab directly in front of number 542, on West Seventh Street. The wind blowing from the coast had picked up considerably, and the night air had acquired the slight smell of damp soil, announcing that rain was imminent. Hunter pulled the collar of his jacket tight against the nape of his neck, pushed open the door and took the steps to the second floor, where the whisky bar was located.
‘Hello and good evening.’ The five-foot-seven, brown-haired hostess greeted Hunter by the Seven Grand glass door with an encouraging smile. ‘Will you be having dinner with us tonight, or only drinks?’ She spoke with a very charming Scottish accent.
‘Probably both.’
Being five inches shorter than Hunter, the hostess tilted her head to one side, trying to look behind him. There was no one else there.
‘Party of one?’
‘Story of my life,’ Hunter joked, nodding.
Her smile brightened as she collected a couple of menus.
‘Please follow me.’
She guided Hunter through the short entrance hall, which was decorated with plaid wallpaper and taxidermy, past the pool table room and bar on the right, and on to the busy restaurant floor. The sound of loud conversations mixed unevenly with the quickstep beat of electro swing playing from the ceiling speakers.
‘Have you dined with us before?’
‘Yes, I’ve been here a few times, mostly just at the bar. It’s been a while since my last time, though.’
‘I was about to say, I don’t recall seeing you here before, and I’ve been working here for the past eight months.’
‘Well, I don’t blame you,’ Hunter replied. ‘I don’t have a very memorable face.’
The hostess paused and turned to look at Hunter. ‘I wouldn’t say that.’ She renewed her smile. ‘On the contrary, you have a very . . . striking face, with kind-looking eyes. People remember that.’
‘Thank you.’ Hunter reciprocated the smile.
They moved past a large table where eight young men in expensive-looking, tight-fitting suits seemed to be having a party.
‘Hey there, sexy lassie,’ one of them said, addressing the hostess in the worst Scottish accent Hunter had ever heard. For some reason, as the young man threw them into his sentences, he decided to stress the few Scottish terms he knew. He also sounded way past his limit. ‘We need another tipple over here, but none of this Scottish nonsense. We need another bottle of good old American bourbon – Tennessee-style, you hear? The lads over here are thirsty.’
The rest of his friends all broke out in loud laughter.
‘No problem, sir,’ the hostess replied politely. ‘I’ll send a new bottle to your table straight away.’
‘Aye,’ the young man retorted, stepping in front of her and blocking her path. ‘I think it would be better if you brought it over yourself, lass.’ From his wallet, he produced three fifty-dollar bills and waved them in front of her nose.
‘I’m sorry, sir,’ she said, taking a step back, but still keeping a well-mannered tone. ‘I can’t take payment right now, and I’m just seatting a customer. If you wait a moment I can either send a bill together with the bottle, or you can just pay it all at the end when the table gets the check.’
‘Oh, I’m sure the customer can find his own table, can’t you, lad?’ The man placed a hand on Hunter’s arm and left it there.
Hunter first looked at the hand resting on his right arm then back at the drunken young man. As the man caught the look in Hunter’s eyes, his smile vanished and his hand quickly returned to the side of his body. The hostess saw it and bit her bottom lip, stiffening a smile. But the young man wasn’t done yet. Turning his attention back to the hostess, he then placed his arm around her shoulders.
‘You should come party with us, lassie. We can show you a reeeeeal good time, can’t we, blokes?’
‘Aye,’ the other seven said in unison before, once again, breaking into loud laughter.
Hunter was about to intervene, when the hostess, stepping away from the man’s embrace, put him back in his place herself.
‘Three things,’ she said calmly, showing the count on her fingers. ‘One: “Bloke” is a term that’s used mainly in England, Ireland, Australia and New Zealand. It’s not that popular in Scotland.’
The first finger came down.
‘Two: It’s never used vocatively. “Can’t we, blokes?” makes no sense, really, and frankly, it just displays your ignorance when it comes to English grammar. You should’ve stuck with “lads”. And three: I don’t party with little boys.’
The laughter and shouts got even louder, as the entire table began mocking their friend. None of them seemed to realize that the comment had been aimed at the entire group.
‘I like your style,’ Hunter said as they finally moved past the annoying, drunken table. ‘But I don’t think any of them really know what “vocatively” means.’
‘Probably not,’ the hostess replied with a laugh. ‘They look dumb enough.’
‘And drunk enough,’ Hunter added.
‘Financial district city boys,’ she said, looking over her shoulder at Hunter. ‘We get a least one group of them in here every night of the week, since the financial district is just around the corner. It’s always the same – too rich, too young, and because they have more money than they know what to do with, they think that they can do whatever they fancy. We have plenty of those back in Glasgow as well. Back home we call them “dickheeds”.’
Hunter smiled. ‘Appropriate.’
‘Wait . . .’ She stopped as they finally reached a small squared table at the back of the spacious and packed restaurant floor. ‘You don’t work in the finance sector, do you?’ She looked truly embarrassed.
Instinctively, Hunter looked at what he was wearing – black jeans, black shoes, and a blue shirt under a thin black leather jacket. ‘Do I come across as if I worked in the finance sector?’ He sounded a little concerned.
‘No, not at all,’ the hostess came back. ‘But if there’s one thing I’ve learned about LA it’s that appearances over here are almost always deceiving.’
‘Yeah, that’s very true,’ Hunter agreed. ‘And no, I don’t work in the finance sector.’
‘That’s a relief,’ the hostess said. ‘Or else I would have to back-paddle like a pro.’ She looked at the vacant table they were standing in front of. ‘Here we are. At the moment this is the only table I have free. Unless you’d like to sit at the bar.’
‘No. This is perfect. Thank you.’
‘My pleasure.’ The hostess waited for Hunter to have a seat before placing two menus on the table in front of him. ‘A waiter shall be with you shortly. Meanwhile, since you’ve been here before, perhaps I can get you something from the bar?’
Usually, Hunter would take his time and look through the whisky list, which was more like a booklet than a list, but he already had a pretty good idea of what he would like.
‘Yes, that would be great, thank you. Do you still serve Kilchoman here?’
The hostess nodded in a way that told Hunter that she approved of his choice.
Kilchoman were one of the few distilleries in the whole of Scotland that still carry out traditional floor malting, taking whisky back to its roots, and in turn creating some stunning expressions.
‘Yes, of course we do. Do you have a specific one in mind? We stock a few different ones.’
‘Yes, the single cask release, if you have it.’
Her left eyebrow twitched up slightly. ‘We do indeed. On the rocks?’
‘No.’ Hunter shook his head. ‘With just a little spring water, please.’