Daughter of Darkness

by Ed Gorman

  "Yeah. Some guy Quinlan had strapped into a chair."

  "You sure it was Quinlan?"

  "Positive. You could see him over in the corner of this room, giving them instructions."

  "What kind of instructions?"

  Gretchen shrugged. "Oh, you know. Do this and do that. At first, it was silly stuff. Lift your left leg. Or gallop like a horse. Or take a pin and prick yourself. Then he told them to take the guns from their pockets."

  Jenny was beginning to see the situation clearly. "Did they looked drugged to you?"

  Gretchen thought a long moment. "Yeah, I guess they did."

  "Like they were moving slowly and weren't quite sure of what they were doing?"

  "Yeah; yeah. Just like that."

  "So what did they do then?"

  "They shot him"

  "The man tied in the chair?"

  "Yeah."

  "Did he bleed?"

  "Oh, he bled, all right. I mean, it wasn't fake or anything." She paused. "Over in the warehouse, there's this big room they keep locked all the time. It has the word Sigma on it. I never knew what was in there until a couple of weeks ago when I snuck up to the Tower and found this tape."

  She was beginning to see the relevance of the tape and why Quinlan had been so angry that Gretchen had taken it. Quinlan had long been obsessed with mind-altering and mind-controlling drugs. Like most sociopaths, he saw nothing wrong in devising ways to control people. He was much smarter than they were, wasn't he? And if he used his drugs and hypnotherapy to get them to do his bidding, what was the harm? Sometimes, you had to take extreme actions to get your way. And so be it.

  Thinking about Judith Carney and Sean Gray, Jenny realized that Quinlan had achieved his dream. Persuading two people to go out and kill a number of other people for you…that was the ultimate expression of mind control. While the psychiatric establishment in the United States still considered that level of control a fantasy, most other major nations knew it could-and was being-done.

  As she sat next to the bed where Gretchen lay, Jenny realized the implication of this. If he could get the woman and the boy to kill… then he obviously had gotten her to kill, too.

  She had murdered those men, after all!

  "What's the matter?" Gretchen said, sounding like a child.

  "Nothing."

  "You look-sad or something."

  "I guess I just want to get out of here. When do you think's a good time?"

  "Right after lunch."

  "Good. The sooner the better."

  Gretchen lay back and put her hand on her stomach and looked up at the ceiling. "I want him to be there for the birth."

  "That'd be nice." Jenny was on autopilot, answering words that meant nothing to her. Her mind was still filled with the terrible realization that she really was a killer.

  "I want him to see the baby coming out."

  "That'd be great."

  "And hold it before they wash the blood and the afterbirth off."

  "Yeah. He'd always remember that."

  "Then I want to streak his face all up with the blood and the afterbirth. You know, like an Indian warrior."

  That brought Jenny back to the conversation. No more autopilot. It was hard to disregard what Gretchen had just said.

  "Well, maybe that's going a little far, Gretchen."

  "He's the father, isn't he?" She was angry that Jenny hadn't liked her idea. The insanity was back in her voice and eyes.

  "Well, yes."

  "Well, then why wouldn't he want to let me paint him up with the blood and the afterbirth?"

  She needed Gretchen as an ally. "Maybe you're right, Gretchen."

  Gretchen's gamine face turned toward Jenny. "Damn right, I'm right." The anger again. "He's the one who got me pregnant, the least he can do is show me he loves our child."

  "Right."

  "I mean, if he doesn't, I'll go to the police and tell them what he did with Judith Carney and that Gray kid. He'll be sorry then, believe me."

  Jenny sat back in the chair. She needed for Gretchen to calm down. She needed Gretchen to be as rational as possible. Only Gretchen could lead her to an escape route. And if she displeased Gretchen in any way, Gretchen might very well turn her over to Quinlan.

  She said, "I'm your friend, Gretchen. You know that, don't you?"

  "You piss me off sometimes."

  "I'm sorry if I do."

  "He'd look real neat all painted up in blood and afterbirth."

  "Yes, he would."

  "You're not just saying that?"

  "No, no, I'm not."

  "He wants to fuck all these other girls."

  "I'm sorry."

  "I'm the only one he should want to fuck. I know tricks. Tricks other girls don't know. So why does he need other girls?"

  "Maybe he'll change when the baby is born."

  Gretchen turned her face back toward Jenny again. "You really think so?"

  "Yes, yes, I do, Gretchen. I think he'll see that baby, and he'll realize that he should be true to you."

  Gretchen's eyes gleamed with tears. "I just wish he knew how much I love him."

  "Maybe he will when he sees the baby."

  "He's all I think of."

  Gretchen turned her head away. "Maybe he'll hate the baby."

  "Why would he?"

  "Some men do."

  "He won't. I'm sure he won't."

  "You promise?"

  "Yes, I promise he won't."

  "He'd better not, the sonofabitch." The anger, yet again. Then, "You know when I was in the mental hospital when I was ten?"

  Jenny didn't know what Gretchen was talking about, but she went along anyway. "Yes."

  "You know what a woman told me?"

  "What?"

  "She said that she loved her baby so much, she ate the afterbirth. You think that was true?"

  "I suppose it could be."

  "She said she paid the nurse to save the afterbirth."

  "Wow."

  "I don't think I could do that. I mean, even as much as I love this little baby inside me, I don't think I could do that. You think you could?"

  "I don't think so."

  Gretchen closed her eyes again. "He better not fuck anybody but me from now on."

  "Gretchen."

  "What?"

  "Could we go?"

  "I'm kind of tired. Maybe I should nap. Maybe it's because I'm pregnant."

  "We really should go now."

  "Right away?"

  "I'm afraid so. All you need to do is get me to the fields, and I can go on alone from there. Then you can come back here and have yourself a nice, long nap."

  "That does sound kind've good."

  "Good. Then can we leave now?"

  Gretchen went in to the bathroom and washed her face and dried her hands. She did all this with the bathroom door open. Then she came out and said, "You scared of tight spaces?"

  "A little."

  "Then you won't like this one. It's a tunnel, goes from the basement of this building all the way to the river."

  "Have you ever taken it?"

  "Oh, sure. A couple of times. But it's real scary. So narrow and all."

  "I guess I don't have much choice, do I?"

  Gretchen looked at her calmly. "I'm glad you're doin' this. Then you won't be around to tempt him. He can concentrate on the baby and me." Then, "You ready?"

  "All set."

  "Then let's go."

  CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

  Coffey counted seven cars either in the driveway or out at the curb of the Cummings home. They were all new cars, mostly high-end Chryslers and Caddies, The B list of suburban wealth. The place was a large ranch with a terra-cotta roof and whitewashed stucco walls. It was well-kept, as was the landscaped lawn. Cummings had done pretty well for himself as a private operative. Coffey didn't see anything that looked like a police car. They'd probably finished questioning the widow until tomorrow or so. She'd be busy today with funeral arrangements and family.
r />   He knocked on the front door, behind which he could hear the conversation of several people all, apparently, women.

  The woman who came to the door was young and quite striking, mostly due to her almost unearthly blue eyes. She was blonde and slim and elegant in a country-club way, sandals and blue slacks and a tailored white blouse. Not a strand of polyester to be seen. Her hair was in a soft and somewhat loose chignon. Her eyes said that she'd been crying but she seemed utterly composed when she spoke. "May I help you?"

  "I'm looking for Mrs. Cummings."

  "I'm Mrs. Cummings."

  "I guess I must mean your mother, ma'am."

  "My mother lives in Connecticut and her last name is Walsh. Now, may I help you with something? This is a bad time. My husband was killed last night."

  Cummings had done well for himself, indeed. The lovely lady had to be twenty years Cummings' junior and an unlikely mate for a smooth but hardass ex-cop like Cummings.

  "That's why I'm here," he said. "About the murder."

  "You know something about it?" she said. She sounded excited. Maybe she really had been in love with the guy. Anything was possible.

  "Is there somewhere we could talk?"

  "There's a patio?"

  "That'd be great."

  "You can walk around to the back. There's a gate. There's a big red dog back there. He looks fierce, but he won't hurt you unless I tell him to."

  "Why don't you call him in advance, then?"

  She smiled, tears collecting idly in the corners of her numbingly beautiful eyes. "You'll be fine." She turned an elegant wrist to the house behind her. "I'll go in and explain to the girls what's going on."

  The dog turned out to be a retriever mix of some kind. He looked, as predicted, pretty fierce. Coffey opened the gate and let himself into a large backyard with a swimming pool, covered now for the coming cold months, and a large, screen-enclosed patio. Her dog followed him to the patio, growling all the way. He probably wouldn't get fed if he didn't act at least a little bit tough.

  Coffey let himself into the patio and sat down on a rather slight-looking chair at the rather slight-looking garden table. The melancholy of autumn was in the air. Leaves fluttered from tree branches, and a high intoxicating scent of burning grass was on the air, the scent of nostalgia, the summer idyll gone now, the savagery of Midwestern winter just ahead. It was peaceful out here on the patio, almost its own little world. He could envision summer evenings here, the pool open, its icy blue depths perfect for swimming, and after swimming sitting here at the table talking softly against the background noise of crickets and the nightbirds, the dark air flickering with fireflies until, sleepy as children, you headed inside. There was only one suitable mate for such a moment, Jenny. And that was why he had to help her.

  "My name's Rachel, by the way." She came out the back door quickly, carrying a small tray, efficient as a waitress.

  "Nice to meet you, Rachel. My name's Michael Coffey."

  "Are you a cop? You seem like a cop?"

  "Ex-cop. Like your husband. Now I'm a mystery writer, and I own my own cab."

  She set two glasses down in front of them. "I'm an iced tea nut. I just assume everybody else is, too."

  "I like iced tea. Thanks."

  She then emptied the tray of sugar, lemon slices, and napkins. "Help yourself." Then, "A mystery writer and a cabbie? Do you drive the cab to get ideas for stories?"

  "I need to drive the cab to make a living."

  "God, are you serious? Didn't Patricia Cornwell just get something like ten million a book?"

  "Unfortunately, most of us never have that kind of luck."

  She sat down, flicked her hair back with a model's panache, and then looked directly at him. For the first time, he noticed that for all her aggressive style and beauty, there was something a bit cold, distanced about her. She wore her looks the way she would wear a stunning new outfit, one she didn't quite feel comfortable with yet.

  "I want to say two things," she said.

  "Fine."

  "First of all, I'm forty-two years old. My husband was only six years older than me. Just to put that thing to rest. He wasn't handsome, and he didn't have a very good formal education, but he was the gentlest and most tender man I've ever known. To me he was. To other people he could be a real prick. And I'd be lying if I said he didn't take some pride in being a prick to them. He was also the funniest guy I've ever been with. Had a real dry sense of humor. And he could actually do stuff. I'm an old-fashioned girl, Mr. Coffey. I can take care of myself, but I do like a husband who can fix a car or get the washing machine running again or who can climb up in the tree and get the cat down. There aren't a lot of men in our generation who can do stuff like that anymore. We've all become helpless little girls, men and women alike. I'm afraid, everything gets done for us by somebody else. He could build a passing fair cabinet and he could do some pretty complicated electrical rewiring when he needed to. And he could cook a mean steak dinner, too. And despite what you may have heard, I didn't marry him for his money-he didn't have much, not when I met him, anyway-if anything, he married me for mine. I came into quite an inheritance when I was thirty-six. He insisted on 'borrowing' the money from me. He didn't want a gift. We signed a contract and everything-bank-loan rates. His idea was to open up a private investigation agency for the wealthy. Most wealthy people are very wary of private cops. And understandably. There are a lot of sleazeballs in the trade. And secondly, I loved my husband very, very much. And I want the fucker who killed him. Because if he doesn't get executed by the court, then I'll kill the sonofabitch myself. And that's not just talk. If you can help me with that, great. If you can't, then please don't waste my time."

  What a very different impression he had of her now from the one he'd formed when she'd been just another languid suburban beauty answering her door. She was a vital, impressive, grown-up woman.

  "I think I can help you," he said. "And I think you can help me."

  "Good," she said, and put forth a slender but muscular hand for him to shake.

  "He was working on-"

  "I have to be careful here, Mr. Coffey. I can't divulge the names of anybody he was working with. They deserve their privacy. I need to know if you're looking into the same case I've got in mind."

  "How will you know that?"

  "Give me a couple of names involved. Then I'll know."

  He thought a moment. "Jenny Stafford is one."

  Her face was unreadable. She watched him over the edge of her iced tea glass. She put the glass down and said, "Any others?"

  "Quinlan."

  "Any others?"

  He smiled. "Do I win an appliance or anything if I come up with three names?"

  "One more, Mr. Coffey."

  "The obvious one. David Foster."

  She nodded. "The same case."

  "The police no doubt have his files by now."

  "Yes. But my husband never wrote much down. Files are vulnerable. They can pretty easily fall into the wrong hands. He kept most of his information in his head. He had a great memory. He never forgot anything."

  "Did he talk to you about cases?"

  "Sometimes."

  "About this case?"

  "Yes," she said. "Yes, he talked to me quite a bit about this case, in fact."

  "Anything you'd care to share with me?"

  The anger was back in her eyes. He had no doubt that this woman would be able to kill the man who'd killed her husband. No doubt at all.

  "There's a lot I'd care to share with you," she said. "Let me get rid of the girls-they've been very helpful all day long-and I'll be back."

  She got up and went inside.

  Coffey went back to his fantasy about sitting on a nighttime patio like this with Jenny Stafford.

  CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

  Gretchen had predicted that the tunnel was scary. She hadn't been exaggerating.

  Even getting to the tunnel had been a problem, sneaking out of the apartment where Quinlan
had confined Jenny, then waiting until they could get to the corridor leading to the basement. This time of day, there was a lot of foot traffic.

  Gretchen seemed oblivious to being caught. She just assumed that they were going to make it, that there was nothing to worry about. Jenny also noted that Gretchen seemed much happier now that Jenny was actually leaving. She would have Quinlan all to herself, Jenny thought sadly. At least, that's what Gretchen thought. But no woman ever had Quinlan all to himself. He was fascinated with the notion of conquest, of defiling a woman. Then on to the next conquest… which, in Quinlan's case, would hopefully be prison.

  For her part, Jenny would be glad to be out of here. Even this brief a stay brought back terrible and painful memories of her days here as a patient. She knew now that Quinlan had somehow "messaged" her to come here.

  She followed two steps behind Gretchen. They took a long, empty corridor, then a short, empty corridor. The building was as quiet as a mid-morning five-star hotel. Baffling had been built into the walls to absorb loud noises. The quiet lent the place a certain unreality, though, as if they were moving across the bottom of a silent sea.

  Finally, just as they reached the short corridor where they could see the steps leading to the basement, Quinlan's number two person Barcroft came out of a room several doors behind them.

  "Say, where are you two going?" he snapped. In this kind of quiet, he didn't need to shout. His voice carried just fine.

  Both women turned to look at him. Gretchen looked as if she was trying to concoct some logical-seeming lie. But no words came from her. And then she broke into a run.

  Gretchen ran quickly and surely, taking the steps two, even three at a time, elfin and quick as an arrow.

  Jenny should be so lucky. Not only did she stumble twice, she made the supremely stupid mistake of looking back over her shoulder. Barcroft was closing quickly on her, a big man with a loping run that reminded her of a bear closing on prey.

  Gretchen disappeared around a right corner at the bottom of the stairs. She was now nothing more than sounds, foot-slaps against the tiled floor, breath-gasps as her burst of energy began to take its toll, then a metallic rattle as she pulled a large set of keys from the pocket of her drab uniform.