by Oliver Stark
The horrible carnival of the media rolled on to the screens. The pictures of the seven dead girls. The endless theories. The old experts rolled out to give their thoughts. The recriminations. The hypnotic pace and endless repetition. Then the pictures of Denise Levene smiling at graduation with a voice-over about a bloody shower scene, ‘like something outta Psycho ’.
Denise Levene had entered the public arena. She belonged to them now. Inside the electronic world. Nothing was personal; everything was in the public interest and appetites were vast. You just couldn’t satisfy the machine. They wanted more and more. It didn’t matter if it was useful or trivial. Even now, there was a high school friend of Denise’s from Chicago saying how sad she was and how Denise was such a great student.
There would be more. Many more.
Harper turned round to Blue Team. The faces were all tight-jawed and determined. Harper felt the weight of their indignation and anger. She might not walk the front line as a psychologist, but Denise was one of them and the American Devil had made it very personal. He wanted to hurt Harper. The question was — why?
Harper breathed deeply and kept his hands flat on the desk in front of him. ‘I know how you’re all feeling, guys, so I’ll keep this brief. We need to put a lid on our emotions here. Denise deserves our best efforts.’ He looked from man to woman across the team. They all nodded.
‘Okay. Here’s where we are: Maurice Macy is not, and never was, the American Devil. We just have to accept that we don’t know if and how Macy and Sebastian might be linked, but the links keep coming. The man who has kidnapped Denise Levene has killed seven women and he has also killed Detective Williamson and Senator John Stanhope. He will not baulk at killing Denise or any one of you. He is ruthless and determined. He’s spreading his wings, too: his targets are getting more and more risky. Just before Denise was taken, I received a threat. The letter’s on Denise’s board. For some reason he’s taken Denise to punish me. We need to figure out the reason for this. We’ve got nothing from the concierge at Denise’s building, but one sighting from the street. A man was dragging a suitcase on wheels along the sidewalk outside her apartment. It was late, so it was a strange sight.’
‘Just like with Lucy James,’ said Eddie.
‘Yeah, that’s right. Another of the links between these two men. Also, about the profile — Denise told me to take off the four-day period related to Lottie and ask the papers to re-release the profile. Can you get that done, Eddie?’
‘Sure thing,’ said Eddie.
‘Then we’ve got to clean up this photofit. We’ve got plenty of sightings. The guy was spotted during the stalking and just prior to the murders of Amy, Elizabeth, Jessica and Rose. We’ve got the FBI working on these images, taking off the disguises, trying to work the best fit between the various sketches. They’re going to give us a picture that they think is a good fit to the killer. We’ll put this out with the profile while the story is still hot. The networks will flash the killer’s image all over the world.’
‘Is she likely dead already?’ asked someone from the back.
Harper paused as if the thought hadn’t even occurred to him. ‘No. We’re working on the assumption that she’s alive, but that gives us forty-eight hours maximum. He didn’t kill her and leave her body at the apartment, like the others. There’s a reason why he didn’t do that. He wants to try to get to me. Let’s not think the worst, let’s think about how to catch him. He must have taken Denise somewhere, so he maybe has a lair of some kind.’
‘So what do we do?’
‘We go back through every case and see if we’re missing something. We’ve got the guy from the botanical department at Columbia looking at our flowers. He thinks the cherry blossom came from a winter-flowering cherry and there ain’t that many in New York. We’re getting notices out to all the gardening organizations. It might be one small detail that nails this guy. And we’ll need detectives manning the phones. The profile is good, people. It’s Denise’s work, so let’s listen carefully out there. And think lucky. We need a break and we need one soon.’
The investigation team scattered. Detective Lassiter patted Harper on the back. ‘You sure you don’t want the lead? I’m happy to stand aside.’
‘No, but thanks. I’m better on my own. I need to be out there, not in here organizing the interior. I need to get across to the FBI. They think that they’ve traced the psychologist who called in the Rose Stanhope lead. We’re going upstate to find him. It was a helluva task finding this one analyst. You have no idea how much therapy this city needs.’
‘Hope it falls for you.’
Harper thanked him and walked up to Denise’s board. A photograph of a bloody shower cubicle. Denise’s police photograph. The letter. ‘Why are you after me and Denise, you bastard? What is it that we’ve done? What the fuck flicked your switch?’
Chapter Ninety-Two
Mace Crindle Plant
December 3, 9.50 a.m.
Denise tried very hard not to think about Daniel. It was just pointless. Thinking of him just made her feel sad that she couldn’t control her thoughts. It made her despair, and despair would not help her win this fight for her life. It would not help her survive and that was all she wanted. To survive this. To do all that she could to help Tom find her before Sebastian killed her.
Silence again.
Perhaps this was it, though. This was goodbye. Dying in the darkness for no purpose, without anyone seeing or knowing. Yes, Sebastian was capable of that. Absolutely. She wasn’t sure why he hadn’t killed her already. That’s what really frightened her. She lay back against the hard mattress.
Then out of the darkness, the whistle again. The low, long whistle. Near and now further away… moving away. Her flesh bristled with fear.
She had been gnawing at her thumb, nibbling it with her teeth and rocking, like one of those little Rhesus monkeys the psychologists had deprived.
At university, she’d learned about a lot of cruel psychological experiments. Two sets of Rhesus monkeys were put in very similar cages after birth. In one cage was a plastic milk bottle and access to food. In the other was one simple but significant difference — the plastic milk bottle was covered in fur, to simulate the warmth of the mother’s body.
That was the only difference — the presence of monkey fur. Given time, the welfare of each set of monkeys was entirely different.
The baby monkeys with the fur bottle were happy, healthy and playful. Then you looked into the cage without the fur. The Rhesus monkeys were all rocking like psychiatric patients, some on their own like lost shadows, others clasped together in lines and rocking as one. And like her, they gnawed their little monkey arms right down to the bone.
Poor monkeys. For want of a scrap of comfort, a pretend mother, they’d started to destroy themselves with the anxiety. Like her, gnawing her thumb. She could taste blood. It was comforting to taste blood. Why was that? Was it food? Or was it company?
Then there was a noise. It was a different noise. Suddenly, she was alert. It was a clanking sound. Like metal on metal. Then a creak. Then a bang.
A door! There’s a door out of the Kingdom of Darkness. Hope swelled in her chest. Then fear pushed it back down to her stomach.
Footsteps now. They were definitely footsteps. It didn’t seem to matter to her then whether it was the killer or not. At that point, the killer was her saviour.
Someone was at the door of her dark cell. She scrambled her way to a corner. There was the sound of a key in a lock. Then the sound stopped.
Suddenly, a loud click and the room burst into light. Bright, bright light — as fierce as the midday sun. Her eyes burned and her hands rose to cover her eyes. Then he was there. In the same instant.
Something was put over her head. It felt like a tight fitted hood. She could smell it. It was made of new leather. Was he just going to kill her like that? Not a word. The hood was pulled tight and fastened below her chin. Then his hands moved away. She was so weak and disorient
ated that there was no fight in her.
He was behind her, lifting her to her feet. His hands found her bare neck. She was thinking about dying. She didn’t mind now. Best to go quickly and quietly.
How long can a body go without air? It’s a matter of minutes and seconds. There’s such a fine line between life and death, between the infinite variety of being and the singleness of non-being. Why was she thinking these poetic things? The stranger was lifting her off her feet. His forefinger and thumb pressed against her arteries. Her body fought for blood and air, desperate sudden lunges rising up through her muscles, the terrible clawing agony in her lungs, in her veins. Then she relaxed into his body. A scrap of fur, any fur, even pretend fur. Even killer fur.
Chapter Ninety-Three
The Catskills
December 3, 1.14 p.m.
Two black and chrome Federal vehicles sped up the last stretch of the hillside track towards the small fishing cabin. The wildlife hadn’t heard noise like that for a long time. The big tyres and wide vehicles ripped the path apart in their wake.
They found the cabin quiet and still. The two cars screeched to a halt and six black-suited FBI special agents got out in unison. The sight was strangely out of keeping with the romance of the small rural retreat. Tom Harper emerged from one of the cars in his long black overcoat. He instinctively looked into the woods and listened out for birdsong.
Special Agent Baines stared at the cabin. He hoped to God he was right. The heart of every investigation was detailed groundwork, nothing else, and they’d done the work on this one. After the kidnap of Denise Levene, they’d gone back to the phone call that tipped them off about the threat to Rose Stanhope.
The recording was clear enough. Baines could tell it was a male and not much else, but the techies at voice analysis could tell a whole lot more. ‘What you got, guys?’ Baines had asked. ‘This is our one and only lead, so it better be good.’
The two guys staring hard at the green EQ on the screen hadn’t even looked up. ‘Okay, it’s a male, in his late thirties to early fifties, probably mid-forties, but this isn’t exact. He’s a smoker, there’s a definite nodule or two in his vocal cords. You can hear it, right? The gruff throaty tone? Well, he’s a New Yorker through and through. Probably from Brooklyn. His parents, at least, are from Brooklyn and he’s educated. His vocabulary scores high. Degree and postgrad level study. He works with his voice too, by the sound of it. He’s got a high score on evaluative language. He’s probably science trained, so as he says he’s treating a patient, I’d tend to think of him as a psychiatrist or therapist.’
This agreed with what the guy had said on the phone. Baines had been pleased, but it was still a whole lot of nothing. A native New York therapist in his forties who smoked. They still had to find the guy.
Baines decided on a search on foot. Get into every practice, speak to the receptionist, play the tape. Meanwhile, if the guys looking through the professional databases scored a hit, they’d lost nothing.
Earlier that morning, two special agents entered Marty Fox’s practice and were told he was still on extended vacation. They played the tape and the receptionist smiled. That was Marty. In a few minutes they had the records of his meetings with a guy called Nick Smith. Dates, times and psychological analysis. He was treating this killer for Dissociative Identity Disorder. It didn’t take them long to find out that Nick Smith was another false name, just like John Sebastian.
They still had to find Marty and see if he had more information. That took only forty minutes. He had a cabin registered in his tax records. At that point, the hawks flew from the field office out to the cabin in the hills.
Tom Harper smelled the wood smoke rising from the stack. It was a beautiful place to hide out. They stood for a moment until the door opened and Marty Fox and his wife stood there, like the happy couple.
‘Martin Fox?’ called out Baines.
‘Yes, sir,’ said Marty.
‘Special Agent Baines of the FBI. We’re investigating the homicide of Senator John Stanhope and Rose Stanhope. We’d like to talk to you.’
Marty’s face crumpled. ‘Christ, no, really? They’re dead?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘He said it wasn’t real!’ said Mrs Fox. ‘He said he was just being cautious.’
‘You didn’t leave your name, sir. You could’ve helped us on this.’
‘I thought I had. I thought you’d be able to protect them. I didn’t know he was a killer.’
‘Sir, we’re taking you back to your offices,’ said Baines. ‘We need to know everything you got on this guy. This is Detective Harper, part of the task force. He’ll be in the car with you. You happy to talk to us, sir?’
‘I’m sorry,’ said Marty. ‘I gotta say, I’m sorry. Jesus. I didn’t know. I didn’t know he’d hurt anyone else. He threatened us, my wife, that’s why I left a message and came up here. I’ve got nothing here. No phone, no TV. Good God. Dead?’
‘Dead.’
Chapter Ninety-Four
Mace Crindle Plant
December 3, 1.30 p.m.
She woke up. She was sore but she was alive. How many hours had passed? She didn’t know if he had gone or was sitting with her. She couldn’t keep silent any more. She was close to breaking point. She didn’t want to speak to him, but she couldn’t bear it any longer. ‘Why are you doing this to me?’ she said.
There was silence for a moment, then the low whistle again. It started coming closer. Closer and closer.
Then she heard the sound of his shoes on the grainy concrete floor and the shuffling of a chair, the slight rustle of his clothes. Why was he staying so quiet?
‘Why are you doing this to me?’
Was this some kind of game he was playing?
She’d woken up on a chair. She wasn’t dead. That was her first thought. Why wasn’t she dead? She remembered dying, but now… she was here again. She wasn’t dead: there was too much sensation, too much pain, too much fear.
Her arms and legs were tied to the chair. There was a tight hood over her head and eyes, but she didn’t seem to have anything more than bruises.
‘I want to know why!’
The figure behind her stirred. It whistled. The same low whistle. Her body shivered. She couldn’t help it. It was recognition. The whistle was her scrap of sanity in the dark and now it was up close and dangerous. She heard him rise to his feet. Her body tensed in fear. His footsteps were coming round in front of her. What was he going to do?
He touched her. A horrified pulse ran through her spine. A finger on her lips. She went still like an animal playing dead. Dead, dead still. The finger was cold. It was pushing her bottom lip down. She was resisting opening her mouth. She didn’t want him to open her mouth. She didn’t know what he was going to do, but his finger pressed more forcefully.
He whistled low and long and continued to press.
Finally, her mouth opened obediently. Was he looking at her mouth? Was he thinking? An object moved against her lip, then her teeth. It was hard. No, not very hard. He pushed it in her mouth and closed her lips.
It was a half-moon shape and soon the taste registered on her tongue.
Apple!
She nearly whimpered. The simple pleasure of a slice of apple. She was being fed. Food was sustenance, sustenance was life — he was sustaining her. She sucked on the piece of apple, then crunched into it. The juices on her tongue felt so concentrated, it was almost painful. She chewed and swallowed.
What next? He didn’t do anything else. A minute passed. She wanted more. She wanted more apple.
Slowly she opened her mouth before him. As a bird would to its mother.
He pushed another piece of apple into her mouth. So this was what he wanted? He wanted her to need him?
She chewed the crisp, juicy flesh. It was heavenly. She missed the earth and its gifts. Air, sky, fruit, grass and fields. The simple horizons.
She felt him close. He was behind her. He was uncuffing her hands. T
hen he knelt and untied her legs. What was he going to do?
Suddenly, he turned on a water tap. She could hear it, but with her leather hood could still see nothing. The water ran to the top of a bucket. Then she heard it overflowing. They were both concentrating on the bucket. He with his eyes, she with her ears.
He whistled. She felt her body wake up, the saliva form in her mouth.
‘Come to me,’ said his voice.
‘Why?’ she said.
‘Come to me,’ said the voice. Again the whistle, low and long.
She remained in her seat. She could hear the trickle of water as a small stream slowly reached out from the bucket.
‘Come to me,’ said the voice. He whistled again.
Denise put her foot forward.
The water touched her toe. She recoiled quickly and then regained her confidence. The foot moved back to the edge of the stream. Denise felt the water reaching under the soles of her feet, tickling her.
‘On your knees.’ His voice was terse and severe.
Denise didn’t move. Then the whistle came and she couldn’t stop herself. She needed food. She had nothing but obedience to occupy her mind and body. Her legs bent and she lowered herself to her knees.
The water was ice cold about her shins. She shivered and goose bumps appeared all over her.
Her flesh was alive and awake. He wanted to touch her. Feather-light touches in his dungeon. He wanted to touch this one so lightly, his spirit would soar. He wanted to see the reaction of her flesh to his touch.
‘Crawl to me,’ said the voice. He whistled. She crawled across the ice-cold stream of water. Hooded, bent, cold and vulnerable.
‘Lay your head on my lap,’ he said. He whistled. She obeyed.
‘Good, good girl,’ he said. A small piece of bread was pushed into her mouth.