by Krishna Ahir
He noticed a red stain along the side of her right pinky.
"You're bleeding...?" Christopher said, before he could catch himself.
Following Christopher's line of sight, Veronica lifted her hand and inspected the blood.
"It's not mine," she replied, simply.
The dismissive way that she spoke left him with a sick feeling as he remembered Georgina, bound to the chair, with her throat slit. Again, he fought back the urge to throw up.
"Georgina's?"
There was urgency to his voice that belied his fear.
Veronica's face ticked noticeably. She hadn't expected his use of the name. It didn't fit with her quixotic hopes for their meeting.
She moved faster than he expected her to. Lurching across the room, the small girl struck him hard across the face with the back of her hand. Despite her small stature, the swing carried far more force than Christopher had anticipated, his head shocking backwards and bouncing atop his neck.
Tasting blood on his tongue, Christopher realized that she had hit him hard enough to tear his cheek against his teeth. He needed to be careful with what he said. Given the situation, and her sudden outburst, even the slightest thing he said wrong could result in something much worse.
Again, the image of Georgina's bloody throat flashed into his mind.
"It's cat blood," Veronica said, her voice mellifluous and pleasant. Her expression returned to its former calm, yet somewhat calculated, state.
In an attempt to placate her, Christopher played along. "From my present?" he asked.
Just saying it made him feel disgusting. It brought back memories of the note, passed through his door. Made him think of how she must have dumped the corpses at the college, as some kind of perverse gift to him. And done the same with Crystal.
Christopher felt sick. The sensation like maggots crawling under his skin returned, the sparse contents of his stomach churning violently. Christopher had always liked cats. Something about remembering them and knowing that they must have been in a situation mirroring his own disturbed him far more than it had done before.
It occurred to him, peculiarly, that maybe Veronica liked cats as well. Well... Parts of them, at least.
Either not seeing the nausea that had twisted itself around Christopher's mouth, or choosing to ignore it, Veronica brightened noticeably. "Yes! Though I'm going to have to go and get some more soon. I really want you to try it yourself. It's just... Something about it. I can't even describe it."
Striding back over towards him, she hesitated for a brief second, before nervously easing herself down to sit on his lap. Feeling the warmth of her legs on his own, Christopher shifted his position as best he could. He found himself thinking about how absurdly light she was.
Christopher recalled his aching joints, from when he had first awoken. He realized that, in order to move him, she must have dragged him by his limbs. The stopping and starting must have put strain on the sockets.
Looping one arm around his shoulders, Veronica rested her head in the crook of Christopher's neck. Once again, he smelt the same strong odor. It seemed to seep out of her pores and lingered in the air, like sour pheromones.
When she spoke, however, her breath smelt of mint.
"You share the things you love with the people you love," she said. Her voice lowered, and she whispered into his neck with hot breath. "I never thought I'd be able to do that with you. Share things, I mean. I never even thought that we'd be this close... The only time I ever even touched you was last Tuesday, when you brushed past me on your way into college. I think... I think that's when I knew. That I needed you."
Christopher swallowed, unsure of what to say. He needed to gauge her reactions; get a good feel for what she was saying and how he had to react. Slip ups would get him hurt. Or worse.
She kissed him once on the neck. As Veronica's lips brushed his skin, a chill coursed through Christopher's body, plucking up goose bumps.
"I thought I'd lost you, last week," Veronica continued, her voice taking on a hard edge to it, despite its softness. "When I saw you at the party... I watched you outside, talking to her. Then inside... Going upstairs." Her hand, looped around his neck and resting on his back, suddenly tensed. The hard prick of fingernails dug at Christopher's skin. "But it's okay... Because something good came out of it. I got to talk to you. Well... Send you messages at least."
Ringing through his mind with the clack of wood, another piece of the puzzle fell into place. That was why Maddie hadn't been talking to her parents. Why her texts to Christopher had been so different to those she sent to Eric. Why she had stopped talking to him, after he had mentioned her parents.
For the past week, Christopher hadn't been talking to Maddie. It was Veronica.
But then how did she get her phone...? Christopher thought, terror in his mind's voice.
"What did you do?" he asked, this time aloud.
A jaded look passed over Veronica's face, as she sat up and stared into Christopher's eyes. "Drugging her was easy. So was getting rid of her. The problem was cleaning up after. Mum would have been furious if she had found out."
"What happened?" he repeated.
That was when Veronica shut down. The jaded look remained on her face, but took on a curious hardness. She rose to her feet and turned her back on him.
Making for the door, she moved in a slow and mechanical fashion.
"I'll be back soon," she said, ignoring Christopher's question.
Walking out of the room, she shut the door behind her. All the while, Christopher tried to call after her, but received no response.
He was left alone in the room, painfully aware of his restraints.
Once again, the fear took over and he began to tremble.
Chapter 21
Drake sharply whipped his car around in a tight U-turn and sped back towards Grand Stone Bay. Displayed on the crystal screen of his dashboard, the hands-free phone symbol blipped out of sight as the call was disconnected. Gripping the wheel, his palms were soaked with a chilling, clammy sweat.
He should have known that something wasn't right when the boy hadn't arrived at the Station, for his interview. Christopher didn't seem like the kind of person to go back on an agreement. Him not arriving should have been enough of a red flag; especially considering the boy was currently at home alone.
Memories of the note that Christopher had showed him invasively drummed through his head.
Did you like my present?
A powerful feeling washed over him. A peculiar sense of uncertainty. Drake had missed something. Something extremely important.
The girl that had just called him said that Christopher was missing. That there was blood in his house, and the lights were off. That she had found a dead cat hanging in the airing cupboard.
This wasn't some kind of ridiculous coincidence. Christopher was the one that found the dead cats at the junior college. The fact that there was no one in his house set off every alarm in Drake's head. Worse still was that he was now missing. Red flashed in his vision and the ringing rippled through him, causing his hands to tremble.
Lightning flashed overhead, the sonic boom of thunder not far behind. Black clouds churned in the sky, threatening a maelstrom.
Reaching out, Drake tapped against the touch screen mounted on his dash and dialed Harold's work phone. The synthetic sound of the ring filled the silence of the car and rattled inside his eardrums.
Harold always let his phone ring for five seconds; a long standing compulsion that Drake was well aware of. Ordinarily, he didn't care about the delay, but now every second felt like an hour. Fear and anxiety numbed him to time, leaving him hating the electronic sound that seemed to drone endlessly in his ears.
"Harold."
His superior's voice eliminated the tone, and pierced the inside of the car.
"James, it's Drake," he said, forgetting courtesy and addressing the DCI by his first name. "I... I've caught on to something. It could be nothing, but...
If I'm right; if this is what I think it is, then... This could get really bad."
The Detective spoke with a restrained urgency that Drake had never heard before. His usually slow and mechanical voice lost its hard edge and rolled quickly down the line. "Drake, I need you to calm down. Tell me what's happened."
If he had been panicking, Drake wasn't aware. But Harold had sensed something in his voice; enough to switch his tone and try to get the situation under control.
"Sorry..." he replied, taking a breath and blinking hard.
White again flashed in his vision, as lightning struck overhead. The deafening crash of thunder punctuated Drake's speech.
"I just got a call," he continued, only realizing once he started to speak how on edge he was feeling. Emotion burned and bubbled in his stomach. "From a girl; she said her name was — damn, what was it? Barbara? Barbara — She said her name was Barbara Beatrice. Her friend is the boy I briefed you on: The one that found the first dump site. He was supposed to come in and give us another written statement, but never arrived. She was supposed to pick him up from the station, but when he didn't show she went to his house. Lights were off, and the door was open. She went inside and-"
"He was missing," Harold said, interrupting him. If Drake didn't know any better, he would have suggested that there was a tiny note of fear in the Detective's voice.
"Yeah, no trace," he replied, his voice again growing anxious. "More than that... Shit, James, she found a dead cat. Hung in the cupboard under the stairs."
"Shit."
Drake realized that this was the first time he had ever heard James Harold swear. The presence of it unnerved him, making him all too aware of the situation. It confirmed his fears and suspicions, kicking his senses into overdrive. His vision tunneled and all that he was aware of was the road in front of him. White lines raced over the blacktop, blurring until they merged into one continuous grey trail.
"I'm on my way there now." Even as he spoke, he was only vaguely aware of the words.
"To the house?" Harold asked. "Okay. I'll call up the Grand Stone Bay station, and get them to send some uniforms over. And the Crime scene team. You call your partner, tell Osborne to meet you there."
The thrum of the engine roaring in his ears, Drake just about made out Harold's voice. "Okay, sir."
"I'll be heading over myself in a second," he continued. "And Drake..."
"Yes sir?"
"Be careful." Harold's words were firm but reassuring. Like he were a concerned but encouraging parent. "And call Osborne."
The DCI hung up, leaving the dial tone lingering in the cold air.
Thunder and lightning, closer this time, shook the car. Still, however, the rain didn't yet fall. The clouds dared not release the storm that was brewing, seemingly waiting and biding their time.
He turned off on the right, and drove over the next intersection before finally hanging up the phone and dialing Osborne' number.
The disgruntled DS answered on the second ring. "What do you want?"
In the background of the call, Drake could hear the teeming of a large crowd, accompanied by the clink of glasses. Not particularly raucous, the setting was still alive with atmosphere; something that he was shocked that the burly and disgruntled individual would be a part of. Osborne was more than likely in a pub. Somewhere local if Drake was lucky. He prayed to God that the Detective would still be sober enough to drive.
"I'm sorry about this," Drake said, making little effort to sound apologetic. "But something's come up. Something big, to do with the case. I need you to meet me at the address I'm about to give you."
"I just got poured a fucking ale," Osborne replied, harshly. "I haven't even had a chance to take a sip yet!"
"Better for us, it means you're still in a fit state to drive."
"Tell me again why I need to come out?" the voice, ruined by cigarettes, asked. "Because if you don't give me a good reason, so help me I'm downing this pint."
"You know you said about the Cat Killer kidnapping the girl at the station?" Drake began, in an attempt to play to his partner's vanity. "It's happened again tonight. The kid who found the first dump site has gone missing. And there's another dead cat at his house."
Osborne didn't reply straight away. He seemed to be taking the time to think about it, to get his bearings on what he wanted to do.
"Osborne?" Drake said, raising his voice and pushing his comrade for a response.
"Alright! Alright!" he blustered. Drake heard the rustling of clothes as the large man rose to his feet and began to pull on his coat. "I'll meet you there. What's the postcode?"
Drake reached across his handbrake and into the bag that lay sprawled across the passenger seat. Fishing into the contents, his fingers clumsily gripped his notepad. Eyes still on the road, he used his left hand to thumb through the pages, until he reached a six digit line of text.
"LM6 7NY," he said, finally looking away from the windshield to read the characters.
"Okay, got it," Osborne replied. He didn't even say goodbye when he hung up.
Killing the phone line, Drake reached out and turned down the radio. The sound was distracting; the harsh music setting him on edge, and the obnoxious voices of the radio hosts grating against his nerves.
Turning down into the new housing estate, he ignored the distant dots of light, from the cottages that decorated the countryside.
Detective Sergeant Devon Osborne pocketed his phone and swung a hard gaze around the pub, from his mismatched eyes. The public house was already teeming with patrons, as was typical of a Friday night, even considering the fact that it wasn't far past seven o'clock. The smell of hops filled the air, from the locally brewed ale, and mixed with the scent of nicotine that clung to the clothes of the men that made the bar stools their home. Dull orange light radiated from the hanging overhead lights, leaving everything with a warm and earthy tone. Above the bulbs, dense oak cross beams supported the high ceiling and allowed the room a rustic appearance.
His long iron grey hair catching the light like fire on metal, Osborne finished pulling on his coat and grunted in disappointment. A full pint sat beside him on the bar, the pale frothy head pristine and clear. He had yet to take a single sip.
While it was true that Drake's lead was promising (even more so considering it was based on Osborne' own theories), the prospect of staying and finishing his beer tempted him more than once. The pub was hosting a local ale festival, and the beer might not have even been there the next day. He had been waiting a long time to try it. Just looking at it sat there was making his mouth water.
Squaring his beard-lined jaw, Osborne ripped his eyes away from the glass and began to make his way towards the exit.
"Hey, Devon! Where you going?"
Jim Mitchell, the landlord of The King's Arms, dwarfed the room not through any form of charisma or aura, but through sheer physical size. So rotund that he almost had a radius, Jim was the size of a transit van and as bald as an egg. He wore a flannel shirt so huge that it looked like someone had stretched a patchwork marquee over his body.
Waving over to the detective, his massive hand bore a dark shade of red to the skin, his expensive gold watch cutting off the circulation.
"Work," Osborne grunted in reply, shrugging his huge, muscular shoulders.
"Work?" Jim parroted back, half mocking and chuckling. "Since when have you ever left the Arms to go back to work?"
He was right. Osborne spent every Friday night in the pub and, as far as Jim was aware, he hadn't missed a day in fifteen years. Antisocial though he was, the burly Detective was a creature of habit. He would sit in his seat at the bar, knocking back pints of ale and absorbing the conversation around him. And once he was there, he wouldn't leave until almost exactly eleven in the evening.
"Since now," Osborne shot back. "I need to chase a lead on something."
Again the landlord's form shook with a boisterous belly laugh. "You're chasing a lead? Jesus, Devon, anyone would think you were
actually a police officer!"
"Fuck off," the Detective replied, bluntly.
"Come on," Jim said, waddling across the room to him. "You haven't even had one yet. Look, you've just left your pint on the bar. You know we got that in today from the Brewers Fair?"
"If I have one, then I won't be able to drive." He pulled a pen out of his pocket and began to write on the back of his hand. The angular letters of the postcode rolled onto his skin, before he could forget what it was. "Look. That's a Grand Stone Bay postcode. I can't exactly walk there, can I?"
"We're not that far," Jim replied, dismissively waving one hand. "We're barely in Rosefield, you can walk that."
"I thought I told you to fuck off, Jim?" Osborne retorted, a vague flicker of a smile finally forming on his lips.
"Alright, alright," the landlord said, grasping the untouched pint that the Detective had left on the bar. "Tell you what: You make it back before 11 and I'll buy you a drink." He downed half of the pint. "No, make that two. How's that sound?"
Osborne pondered the proposition for a moment, before making up his mind. "Deal."
"Don't be too long though," Jim grinned. "We'll miss having our regular gargoyle sitting at the bar."
The burly man again grunted and made a move for the door, checking the postcode scrawled onto the back of his hand, with messy writing. Pushing out of the heavy wooden doors, the cold night air hit him in the face, shocking him into an awake alertness.
Pulling up the collar of his thick Jacket, Osborne dashed his peculiar eyes down the rural street, in an attempt to place his car. The chill licked at the exposed skin of his face, and the dense storm-filled air beaded moisture in the hairs of his beard and choked in his throat. He could smell almonds in the air, and he knew that a storm was coming. As if in response to his thoughts, lightning split the sky in a jagged white line.