by Wes Markin
As the train rumbled away into an afternoon that was starved of light, but overwhelmed with snow, she thought of Jake. Was he the source of her restlessness?
While the train clawed its way through surely impossible weather conditions, she ran through the entire encounter with Jake again. Every single word. It had gone perfectly. He had been terrified, which had been a wonderful piece of revenge following his obnoxious behaviour on her last visit to town. She had provided the key to unlock the puzzle of Tezcacoatl, and potentially, bring someone who had viciously murdered a young woman to judgement (not her preferred method of judgement, but a form of judgement nonetheless). She had even indulged in a moment of passion with Jake, which she could have sworn he enjoyed. She smiled over the stirring she felt beneath her while she had been on top of him.
However, there was a single moment in that entire interaction that she kept returning to and she was struggling not to become fixated on it.
The train pulled in at a station and a young mother and her son boarded. He must have only been about six, and she was barely out of her twenties.
They held hands. In fact, they clutched each other’s hands.
She followed the pair with her eyes as they passed her in the aisle. The young boy was letting himself swing from his mother’s hand now. His mother looked down at him, ‘Jordan, stop that.’ She wasn’t shouting, or in any way angry, she just wanted him to be careful.
Not to fall. Not to hurt himself.
Lacey watched them through the space between the two headrests. Jordan, the little boy, was climbing all over his mother now. Burrowing his head into her neck, making her giggle.
She now had his cheeks between the palms of her hands and was talking about the ‘cuddle monster’ and how he was coming to eat her son. The result? A huge hug. After which, they both descended into hysterics.
And then she remembered again that single moment.
The moment she told Jake that she couldn’t have children.
The train screeched to a halt at the next stop. Lacey grabbed her bags. She’d had an idea. She would head back to Brighton immediately. Put this right. End this feeling inside her. She disembarked.
Through the thickening snow, Jake approached the front door with his heart pounding in his chest. Alongside him, marched Topham, who looked purposeful and confident. It was bravado; Topham would be feeling the same dread he would be feeling.
Was this really it? he thought. Are we at the house of one of the most vicious individuals the South-West had ever come across? And, if we are, what was Yorke doing in there alone?
There were three police cars on the road behind them; and the armed response officers who had accompanied them were preparing themselves. A further two police cars had already gone around to the back of the house.
Jake approached the door, noticing it was ajar. He rang the doorbell and then knocked.
The door was opened by someone he did not expect to see.
13
TEZCACOATL SWITCHED ON the light as he descended into the cellar. He negotiated the steps carefully to avoid the splashes of blood which could, quite easily, take his footing. He still held the knife in his right hand.
At the bottom of the stairs, he stepped over the body. The lower half of his victim’s body had twisted to an impossible angle to the upper half of the body and would be unlikely to return to its previous position without some force.
Her moans were dying down now, but the tears were coming more freely. He pulled her gag out and she started to murmur his name repeatedly. ‘Brandon … Brandon …’
‘I had no choice.’ Tezcacoatl slid over his chair. ‘He was becoming aggressive at the door. Said a neighbour had seen you come into the house. I think he genuinely thought you and I were … well … ridiculous, I know. But he just marched straight in, went into the lounge, then the kitchen and then, unfortunately for him, he decided to try the cellar door. I guess he has always been the impulsive type. That’s probably why he hit you, Rachel. I’m not proud of what I’ve had to do, it serves no purpose, but I hope it can offer you some sort of relief from the burden you have had to endure—’
‘How … could … you?’ She’d been crying and screaming so hard that she was now hyperventilating.
‘Relax, Rachel.’
Still lying on the floor with her arms tied to the radiator, she rocked her head from side-to-side with her eyes closed.
Tezcacoatl waited for her to tire, and then said, ‘I have to go, but before I do, I want to tell you a story. Help you understand.’
She continued to rock her head.
‘I was fourteen when Lord Tezcatlipoca started to come to me, Rachel. And it wasn’t long after this that the dreaming began,’ Tezcacoatl said. ‘But they were more than dreams, much more. I took the position in the body of a boy who shares my soul. It felt so strange to enter the body of this past life, because I immediately knew everything about him. How his father worked himself to exhaustion as a farmer; how they were training him and his older brothers to fight in the youth-houses; how one of his elder brothers had been sacrificed during the Flower Wars – and how proud his whole family were of that.
‘In one dream, I watched the 500-strong Spanish army come to Tenochtitlan. Led by Hernàn Cortès – a leader clothed in black upon a white horse, wearing a soft hat with a protruding feather. Our city contained 300,000 people, yet still they came! Thousands of our people swarmed over the lakes in canoes to meet them; thousands more over the roads.
‘Our Tlatoani, Motecuhzoma II, was carried out the city and along the causeway to meet Cortès. He wore a turquoise crown and golden jewellery, which whet the appetites of the Spanish, who came in the name of a false god, and cared only for gold. I had to strain against the crowd to see Motecuhzoma II conduct his ceremonial walk and was almost up on the shoulders of the person before me to see the gifts they exchanged.
‘I saw Motecuhzoma II lead Cortès inside the city. The Spanish had proven themselves efficient, ruthless fighters in the open field, so Motecuhzoma believed that by keeping the Spanish, and their allies, within the city walls was the best way of maintaining control. But he was wrong. So, so wrong. It was the beginning of the end.
‘The dreams continued, Rachel, for years and years. In one dream, I had to contend with losing my father to smallpox – a good man. I watched my mother succumb to despair as the owls and the shooting stars came to signal that the end was near. I would have had no problem dying there with them, Rachel, you must understand that, but our link was only in the dreamworld. Physically, I would always return here, to now. To this sterile wasteland.
‘After the Spanish troops took control and erected a place for Christian worship on the Great Pyramid, and one of our lords was murdered, Motecuhzoma II was condemned by us, his own people. He had welcomed the Spanish in and broken his warrior code; he was stoned to death pleading for reason.
‘I want to tell you about the last dream I had because it was by far the most visceral and vicious, Rachel. It will show you that I am not a stranger to sadness, as you may think, and that I do understand your current emotions.
‘It started with one of my elder brothers marching on the Great Pyramid; I remember his face emerging from the open mouth of a jaguar head while he proudly displayed his shield and maquahuitl. I followed him, and admired the Great Pyramid, the centre of our great universe, rising 35 metres in the air via four superimposed platforms, each one stepping back to form its pyramid shape.
‘I stood back and watched with pride as my brother and his squadron climbed the steps and then, at the top, launch missiles into the palace courtyard where the Spanish were quartered.
‘Cortès led the charge on the pyramid and I retreated far back, behind the walls, to watch. The Spanish and their Tlaxcalan allies in feathered headdresses and skirts began to ascend. Arrows rose into the air like a sheet of rain, distorting shapes. The firing of enemy muskets shook the air around me.
‘I watched my brother’s squadr
on with a pride that cannot be described, Rachel. They sent burning logs crashing down the stairs, lifting the enemy off their feet, sending them bouncing, smouldering, from step to step. The Spanish fought back hard. The muskets and crossbows would send many of our warriors plummeting 30 metres from the side of the pyramid. It was sad, but ever so glorious.
‘People swarmed in around me, desperate to see, and before I knew it, I was drowning in the crowd. I couldn’t breathe. The boy, whose soul I share, died under a thousand raining feet.
‘And then my lord, Tezcatlipoca came for me, as he so often does. He rose my soul to the summit of the temple, so I could look down upon the great battle, and at the brother of my now-dead spiritual twin. The Spanish and their allies had breached the top, and my brother, charged into the fray, bringing the maquahuitl crashing down on the helmeted head of a Spaniard; the bronze metal split like an egg shell, and the contents of his skull spilled out like yolk. Several of my brother’s companions, and men I knew, were impaled on spikes and pushed to the edges gripping the shaft of the weapon that had speared them. Once the pikes were torn out, the warriors plunged to their deaths.
‘Despite being vastly outnumbered, the Spanish quickly took control of the battle by marching in tight columns. They either speared into the warriors en masse, or sometimes formed small defensive squares which my people found hard to penetrate. The Spanish also operated on a principle of protecting each other and working together. When my brother fell to the floor and a Spaniard stamped on his windpipe, I begged Lord Tezcatlipoca to wake me up, so I didn’t have to watch him writhe, gargling blood and gasping for air.
‘When the Spanish noticed their Christian shrine had disappeared, they began to ransack the temples. Tlaloc-masked pots and other ceramic vessels were among the many objects smashed and thrown over the side of the pyramid. Idols and shrines were set alight and many were cast down the steps of the pyramid. I watched the skeletons of a jaguar and a crocodile being torn apart by a snarling Spaniard, while masks, seashells and jewellery were all crushed under the feet of his companions.
‘Plumes of smokes spiralled up from the Great Pyramid. The victorious Spanish and their allies started to march down the steps away from the carnage. Few Aztec warriors remained alive. The eyes of all of Tenochtitlan were unwavering as they watched the beginning of the end.
‘At that point, everything started to fade away: the colours of Tenochtitlan; the smoke of its burning heart; the people in despair; the victorious strangers; the bodies of my family, until there was only me and I was floating in emptiness.
‘And it took me years to realise, Rachel, that no matter how hard I beg Him, no matter how hard I work for Him, I am never to return. I am never to see my people and my family again.
‘So, whenever I think about the crumpled body of my spiritual ancestor thrown onto the smoking pile of death and destruction back in Tenochtitlan, 1519, I always feel a part of myself turn to ash with them.’
Rachel looked at him and widened her eyes. ‘Please let me go.’
Tezcacoatl took a deep breath. He had never told anyone that story before and paused to consider the significance of its sudden emergence now.
‘Please,’ she continued. ‘I won’t tell anybody, you can carry on doing what you’re doing and no one will ever know.’
‘But I want people to know, Rachel, do you not see that? Everyone needs to know. It all has to change.’
He glanced at his watch. He had no time to clean up this mess now and reflect.
‘We will talk more later,’ he said as he stepped over the body of Brandon and climbed the steps.
‘You can’t leave me here!’ She shouted. ‘In here with Brandon. He’s dead …’
He closed the cellar door, went back into the living room, went upstairs, changed into his uniform, gathered his equipment and left to continue his life’s work. He only realised, when he’d locked the front door behind him, that he’d forgotten to send the email to Tepiltzin. He looked at his watch again; he didn’t have enough time to go back in and send it now.
Sarah Gavin, wearing a silk dressing gown, had led Jake and Topham into the living room, where Yorke was interviewing Dr Page.
The room was dimmed. A black futon lay in the middle of the room, red petals were strewn around it and there was a strong smell of incense.
Sarah said, ‘I’ll be in the kitchen. Tea?’
Everyone nodded.
Sarah was at least half Page’s age and had already explained her presence at the front door.
‘Raymond is my partner of two months,’ she had told them, before explaining that they worked at the hospital together. ‘Your boss just walked in … on me.’ Her face had flushed at this point.
Jake noticed that Yorke was clearly not bothered about having invaded her privacy. He was simply concerned with finding the truth. And why wouldn’t he be? Especially with the ugly threat to a child’s life on the horizon.
‘So,’ continued Yorke, ‘Sarah has confirmed that you were with her all night on the two dates in question. So, the question is, if you weren’t with Karen Firth and Michelle Miller at those times, who was? Because they weren’t at Mary Chapman.’
‘But the answer is surely obvious?’ Page said.
‘How so?’
‘Well, it must be the nurse that transported them to and from the hospital.’
Jake watched Yorke flinch, and then observed as his eyes wandered over to him. His look said everything. It was obvious. So perfectly obvious. Why had they not thought to check out the person taking these elderly patients to and from the hospital?
Yorke stood up and turned to Jake and Topham. ‘Contact Mary Chapman, find out who is transporting these patients.’
‘I can tell you that already.’ Page rose to his feet also. ‘His name is Terrence Lock. He works as a nurse for Mary Chapman and is also their registered driver; he takes the patients to and from the hospital when an ambulance is not required.’
‘Describe him to me,’ Yorke turned back to Page.
‘You would know him if you saw him. He has a bad case of Plummer-Vinson syndrome, and suffers badly from iron-deficiency anaemia. He’s as white as a ghost and has very long hair.’
‘Like your own?’ Topham said.
‘Yes, except he doesn’t tie it back.’ Page reached up to stroke his ponytail.
Yorke looked back at Jake. They were clearly thinking the same thing. The bastard can’t tie his hair back because then you would see his ears.
Yorke pulled the sketch of Tezcacoatl from his pocket.
‘Yes,’ Page said, ‘That does look like him.’
‘Have you not been watching the news? His picture is all over it!’ Yorke said.
‘Been very busy, I’m afraid.’
‘Is there a possibility that Jessica would have known Terrence Lock?’ Yorke said, replacing the sketch into his pocket.
‘Every possibility I imagine. Jessica visited her mother a lot, and Lock and some of his colleagues would have been in and out of that room attending to her.’
Jake knew what Yorke was getting at. There had been no forced entry into Jessica’s house. If Jessica had known him well enough, he would have found it easier to slither into her house. What excuses he must have given for turning up at her house at that time with her sick mother was anybody’s guess. The tragic thing was though: it had worked.
‘Anything else you can tell us about Terrence Lock?’
‘Not much. I doubt anyone would be able to really. He is very quiet. Keeps himself to himself. Most people would consider him peculiar enough no doubt.’
‘Why didn’t any of you notice?’ Volume crept into his voice. ‘Did Reiner not wonder where his patients were when they didn’t come back? I mean, they weren’t with you and they weren’t at Mary Chapman. Whose alarms bells were supposed to be ringing?’
‘I can only assume that Lock is altering the paperwork,’ Page said. ‘I have a few patients participating in these drug trials, but I very ra
rely request them overnight. A few hours will usually suffice. He must be altering my signed requests when he collects them, possibly changing the return date and time. Reiner should have questioned it, I guess, due to its irregular nature. But you’ve met Dr Reiner, haven’t you? To be perfectly frank, his incompetence doesn’t surprise me.’
‘When I saw you at the hospital that morning on the day Karen died, did no one think to ask you why you’d kept her overnight, that she’d only recently returned?’
‘Sorry, Detective Yorke.’ Page shook his head; he genuinely looked quite sad about this.
‘And Michelle Miller, you requested her yesterday?’
‘Yes, for a couple of hours again.’
‘And she was returned this morning?’
‘Like I said, not per my instructions.’
‘And how long did you request Michelle for today?’
‘I didn’t.’
‘So, he’s gone one step further, he must have forged the entire form? Because he’s taken her again.’
Page looked concerned about this. ‘I hope she’s okay. You know Michelle has been a wonderful addition to the study; I hope to learn more …’
‘Stop right there,’ Yorke said, ‘If you are really about to deliver a speech about the importance of your studies over the lives of these people, you will see another side of me.’
Jake looked down at the floor. Topham too. It was rare to see a display of such emotion from their boss towards people he was interviewing.
‘Sorry, Detective. I genuinely hope she is fine.’
‘DI Topham,’ Yorke said. ‘Go and pull everything on Lock now.’
‘Will do, boss.’
‘DS Pettman, contact DI Gardner at Mary Chapman. Get the details of the vehicle Lock is using to transport the patients.’
‘Yes sir.’
Jake joined Topham in the hallway to make the phone call.
Yorke said his farewells to Page and followed the two men outside.