by Oliver Stark
She heard the band twang three times behind the door. Why was he twanging? She didn’t understand.
‘It feels good to twang. It keeps Nick away, too. Did it not occur to you that it might? Ha! I drove her home, Dr Levene. In my car. I was alone with her in my car. The opportunity was there, but I let her go. I felt so good, letting her go. I felt what virtue must feel like. It was quite a new sensation.’
‘Keep going. Keep working on the strategies. You can heal yourself. You must. You can.’
‘You have amazing faith, Doctor. I wonder what that feels like too. Denise, I have felt lost my entire life. Will it ever end?’ He slapped the elastic against his wrist again.
‘Why are you twanging? Is Nick there?’
‘He wants to be here. Oh, one more thing,’ he said as he stood up. ‘You will be pleased to know, Denise, that when I dropped her at her home and drove away, I felt proud of myself on your behalf, as if you were my mother or my father. It was a nice feeling.’
‘I’m pleased. You did well.’
‘Yes,’ he said. There was something in his voice.
‘What? What is it?’ she said sharply.
‘Oh, you know, Denise. You deny yourself something. You walk away. You feel satisfied, but then the urge just comes back stronger. Much, much stronger. You know.’
‘What do you mean?’
He took something out of his pocket and held it a moment. ‘I have something for you.’
He threw something through the bars. It splattered on the floor. She shivered at the cold red slime.
‘It’s Kimberly’s heart, Denise. She was a lovely, gentle girl. I have no complaints.’
Denise threw herself back against the wall and let out an agonized scream.
‘We worked on the first phase, Doctor, and that worked very well, but we did nothing on the second phase. I drove off, but I still wanted her. I needed to see her suffer. I had no strategies. None whatsoever. You left me quite unprepared.’
Denise was lying on her side, in pain. She started to cry as the monster stared at her through the bars.
‘When you do that, Dr Levene, that crying thing… what is it like? What does it feel like?’
Chapter One Hundred and Six
East Harlem
December 4, 1.30 a.m.
Harper didn’t wait around to watch the body being bagged, humped on to a gurney and rolled over bumpy ground to the waiting ambulance. He didn’t have the heart for anything. He wanted the world to swallow him up and make it all disappear. But he couldn’t say any of it. He snarled at Lafayette, walked away from his building and felt the nausea rising in his belly. He’d never be able to go in there again.
The killer had destroyed his home. Had Sebastian meant to do that? Why did Sebastian want to hurt him so badly?
The face of the corpse had been completely removed. How, they could only half imagine. All that was left was a thin layer of bloody flesh over the bone, and the dark holes of the eye sockets, nose and mouth.
Nothing from which they could identify her until they ran all the necessary tests. The agony was far from over. In fact, it was just beginning. I want you to feel pain, Tom Harper.
Harper took himself away to the East River and sat down to think. There was a riot of painful emotion going on in his head and he could hardly cut out the noise. He was at breaking point but he knew better than to give in to the chaos. He had to do the one thing he knew would keep him together. He had to go to work.
The East River was like black ink, tilting with bright streaks of moonlight. The odd picturesque boat chugged by and anyone might presume that the man sitting at the edge was just enjoying the scene.
In his head, the discipline was at work. Harper had a ferocious capacity for work and now was the time to draw upon it. Ignore the thump and throb of emotion, ignore his self-pity. Ignore everything except the forces of reason.
Only reason would catch the killer. Harper took a piece of chalk from his pocket and on the paving stones in front of him he started from day one. He wrote the names of the killer’s victims:
Chloe Mestella
Mary-Jane Samuelson
Grace Frazer
Amy Lloyd-Gardner
Jessica Pascal
Elizabeth Seale
Nate Williamson
Lottie Bixley
Kitty Hunyardi
Rose Stanhope
Senator Stanhope
Lucy James
Denise?
He took out his notebook and went through the notes he took of each scene. The poetry sprang from the page: Every angel is terrifying; Subtle he needs must be, who could seduce Angels.
Then he wrote: Abaddon. He looked at his list. What was this telling him? Sebastian had killed the Upper East Side girls. Had he also killed Lucy James and Lottie Bixley? Why did Sebastian want Tom to feel pain now? Why? What was the connection? The marks on the pavement were barely visible in the dark but Harper just kept staring. He wanted to know what connected these victims and he wanted to know why the killer was punishing him. A half-thought appeared in his mind. It caught his attention and then waited for him to consider the implications.
His mind had starting going there already, but with it all down in front of him it became crystal clear. It was about Mo, wasn’t it? It had to be. He had gone for Denise because Tom had gone for Mo. Sebastian had loved Mo. He was seeking revenge. What for and why didn’t matter, it just meant that the link was real.
But if he was punishing Harper, he was also playing games. He played a game with Elizabeth Seale. He’d said it was ‘sealed with a kiss’. Maybe Abaddon meant something? Maybe Abaddon meant something about Mo.
Detective Harper spoke the word slowly. ‘Abaddon.’ Abaddon. He recalled something from earlier in the investigation. What was it? The phone call after they released the fake profile. Sebastian had said something about Abaddon, but then he’d said something else. What was it?
Harper flicked through his notebook. He found the transcript of the phone call. There it was. That’s what he said. ‘I’m the American Devil. I’m Abaddon — that’s where I am. I’m a pure breed devil and I was raised in hell.’
Harper had looked up the word Abaddon — it was a name for the angel of destruction and he’d thought no more about it. Now he looked down more intently at the word.
I’m Abaddon, that’s where I am…
It was a curious phrase. Tom had taken Abaddon to be a person, an incarnation of the devil.
The cogs in Harper’s mind turned and clicked. A gear shifted.
He’d gone to Maurice’s room. Harper recalled it in slow motion, trying to picture it in his mind. Yes, he was sure. There was a photograph. Two boys. Obviously connected, maybe even family. The sign was obscured. Just the letter A was visible.
Abaddon, that’s where I am…
What did it mean? And now, again, he’d written it near the corpse of a woman whose identity he dared not think about. As a reminder, maybe? As a clue?
Abaddon, the name of the angel of destruction. Was that all it meant? What was Sebastian trying to tell him? Then it came all at once. Elaine’s voice. Elaine Fittas. Just before he heard the news about the body in his basement. What did she say?
‘Maybe he loved him.’
Abaddon wasn’t a name, was it? It was a place. It was the place where he and Mo started all this. They knew each other all right. They knew each other damn well!
Suddenly, the only sound on the vast dock was the heavy slap of Harper’s running footfalls.
Chapter One Hundred and Seven
Blue Team
December 4, 2.28 a.m.
Harper arrived back at Blue Team and ran up to Mark Garcia. ‘Garcia, how far have you got on Macy’s background?’
‘Nowhere beyond a few names,’ said Garcia. ‘No address as yet.’
‘Come on, I need to know where he lived in West Virginia.’
‘Why does it matter right now?’
‘Maybe Mo had a partne
r in crime back then, someone who also fucked up.’
‘What are you saying?’
‘I’m saying that I think Sebastian and Mo knew each other back then. If I can get Mo’s details, then I can get closer to Sebastian’s, you understand?’
Garcia was nodding. He got it all right. ‘I’ll make the calls.’
‘What about these names? Is Macy his name? Is it his original name?’
‘No. He took the name of whatever family he was with, as far as I can tell. I’ve got six names in his file.’
‘Let me see them.’
Garcia handed over the file. Harper looked down the list of Mo’s surnames: Foster, Hummel, Dresden, Doberman, Quiller, Ash and Macy. ‘You got any details on any of these?’
‘Not yet, but I can ask. Thing is, no one’s going to be at work now. It’s the middle of the night.’
‘Call the local police, go county by county, see if you can get to the files that way,’ said Harper.
‘Okay, I’m on it.’
Harper paused for a half-second. ‘Any more on the girl in my building?’
‘Sorry, Harper, but they don’t know. Her prints are being checked against the database as we speak.’
Harper nodded and headed off back to his computer, trying not to think about the report from Latent Prints that would soon tell him the identity of the latest victim. He started to search again for Abaddon. Every web reference was to some thrash metal band or some images of the dark destroyer. He wanted something else: a meaning beyond the obvious. He knew this was a message from Sebastian. He found an original definition soon enough; Abaddon meant ‘a place of destruction’ not a person. That made sense. Sebastian was the American Devil and wherever he was was Abaddon. That’s what he meant. He was re-creating Abaddon again, collecting parts of his destruction in one place. But where was the original Abaddon?
Harper stared at the screen. Mo and Sebastian. If they had known each other and they were bad news, then there might be a quicker way to find them than calling every local sheriff’s office in West Virginia.
Harper called the West Virginia State Police. A gruff trooper answered and Harper explained who he was and what he was doing.
‘What’s the American Devil case got to do with us?’ said the trooper.
‘A girl called Chloe Mestella was murdered in West Virginia in 1982. That murder could have been the American Devil’s work. It might be his first kill, back when he was a kid. Listen, I’ve got a lead on a guy I’m trying to trace. He was arrested for attempted rape in New York but he grew up in West Virginia, and I’ve got no records for him. My guess is that he might have got in trouble a lot back then.’
‘Give me his name. I can see if our database can drag anything up for you.’
‘Thank you,’ said Harper. ‘Okay, his DOB is December 8, 1969. He was twelve at the time of the Chloe Mestella murder. His first name is Maurice or Mo, but I’ve got six possible surnames.’
‘We can run them all through,’ said the trooper.
‘He went under the following: Foster, Hummel, Dresden, Doberman, Quiller, Ash and Macy.’
‘I’ll try them all, Detective. Give me your number, I’ll call you back.’
Harper gave his number and thanked him. Like with everything in life, he’d have to wait. He sank back into his chair and started to trawl again through the details of the Chloe Mestella murder. The online archives gave the story he already knew. Another unsolved murder, a cold case.
Twenty minutes passed before the trooper called back. ‘Sorry, no arrest records for any of those names.’
‘None of them?’
‘Nothing. Sorry.’
Harper was about to hang up but he was desperate for a break and panicking at the thought that Denise might be dead. He looked at his notebook in front of him, the word Abaddon scrawled across the page. He threw out the line.
‘Does the word “Abaddon” mean anything to you?’
‘Can’t say it does. You want me to run that through our local database?’
‘That would be great.’
‘Okay, stay on the line, it’ll take a moment.’
Three minutes passed. Five. Then the trooper returned.
‘You still there, Detective Harper?’
‘I’m still here.’
‘We got nothing on record for Abaddon. It’s not a name or a place around here.’
‘Shit,’ said Harper.
‘Hold on, feller, listen up. The word threw up a link through to the local Cold Case Unit, but I can’t tell from this what it’s for. You want me to put you through?’
‘Yeah,’ said Harper.
The ringing tone went on and on. The trooper came back on the line. ‘Sorry, buddy, looks like you chose the wrong time of day, but you can take a look yourself.’
‘How?’
‘Well, the system’s showing a hit, Detective. Take a look on the cold case website and call me back. The details are up there. I’ll give you the link.’
Harper quickly typed in the link and the case came up before his eyes:
The Cold Case Unit of the West Virginia State Police is seeking information concerning the murder of Bethany Hummel, aged 14. The murder occurred on February 6, 1982. The victim was murdered in an abandoned fishing cabin on Abaddon farmstead in Pendleton County, West Virginia. Bethany was one of three sisters. The other two girls, the girls’ father, Mr Ned Hummel, and his two adopted sons were not hurt in the attack.
Mr Hummel became a farmer after retiring from business after the death of his wife. The Cold Case Unit is seeking anyone who may have information concerning Mr Hummel’s daughter and this investigation.
If you have information, please contact Sergeant John Eigen or contact your local State Police Detachment. If you wish to remain anonymous, you may submit a tip by clicking on Submit Online Tips on the main page.
Tom Harper’s head was spinning with the possibilities. Abaddon! Fucking Abaddon. It was the farmstead. It was a message and Harper had found it, right at its source. The American Devil had killed before Chloe Mestella. This was his first kill.
The whole case clicked together in his mind like a jigsaw puzzle that’d been keeping him at work all night. He saw it with crystal clarity. Harper called the state trooper right back. He wanted to know exactly what had happened to the girl. He wanted to know if the images in his head had any substance.
The trooper fetched up the full report. His gravelly voice came back on. ‘Bethany was hooded and taken to a fishing cabin by the river. She was kept there for a day and a half, they reckoned. Seemed the killer kept her and petted her. Then the murder was real violent.’
‘Thank you,’ said Harper. He was also thanking Elaine. Mo and Sebastian had killed together. Maybe Mo had taken this girl and Sebastian had just been unable to resist the temptation of a helpless victim. ‘Did they look at the Chloe Mestella case alongside this one?’ he asked.
‘Sure they did. There were reports of an itinerant farm hand. Both murders were close in date. They figured someone came through town, murdered these girls and moved on.’
‘The Hummel girl was held in a fishing hut, right?’
‘Yeah. All three girls went to bed and someone must’ve broke in and taken Bethany from her bed.’
‘Without raising the alarm?’
‘He probably threatened to kill her.’
Harper doubted it. The truth was harder to imagine than the story the cops had used to paper over the cracks. A crazed out-of-towner who blows in like a bad wind and takes your children. No, the truth was closer to home.
‘Do you have the names of the two Hummel boys?’
‘I can look them up. Hold for a moment.’
Harper waited on the line, listening to the sound of the officer clicking away on a keyboard. His heart was racing now. He tapped his fingers impatiently. Come on! Come on!
After a minute, the voice returned. ‘Here we are, Detective. Mr Hummel had delusions of grandeur, it seems. The two boys were calle
d Maurice and Sebastian.’
Chapter One Hundred and Eight
Dresden Home
December 4, 7.30 a.m.
The family sat round the big kitchen table. Dee, Nick, William and Susan. Breakfast was spread right across the table — cereals, fruits, toast. A ceramic pot sat in the centre full of hot bacon and eggs. A low rise of steam was visible just over the rim. The children were eating in silence, their heads bent down to their food. Nick tried to smile. Such a beautiful family. Perfect. If only it wasn’t all a dream.
Endings are always hard, reflected Nick, as he watched his family eat. The end was coming because it had to. He had to end it. He had to get rid of Sebastian.
Dee was picking again. She always picked. What was it with Dee and food? She never enjoyed it. It was a constant struggle. Nick sat without eating. He was listening to the clinking of stainless steel on the china plates and bowls. The clinking always irritated him.
Dee had read the latest profile released by the NYPD. She’d seen the cleaned-up photograph they were publishing of the killer. She noticed that the four days had been taken out. She kind of recognized the man in the picture and she knew that Nick hadn’t come back until nearly half past one that morning. But it still seemed to be a story that she could close like a book. She still couldn’t believe that the killer might be her husband. The paper was lying face down on the couch.
Nick looked up slowly.
‘Can’t you two stop scratching your plates,’ Dee said quietly.
The two children tried to eat quietly. Nick was not looking good. He was dark and brooding. He’d showered for over an hour when he got home. Dee had been scared all night long. And now they could all feel the atmosphere. They had grown to fear it.
‘Why don’t you go and relax and watch the TV news or something,’ Dee suggested.
‘You want rid of me?’ asked Nick.
‘No, I don’t want rid of you. I just thought you might be more comfortable.’
‘Stop eating,’ Nick said. His voice was too serious to ignore. His children both stopped and looked up. They were waiting now. What would happen? What would he do next?