Once bitten, p.20
Once Bitten, page 20
And in that moment, it was as if the light of the Lord did strike him and, lo, the way forward was revealed to him.
Because the they was a she.
A she he recognized.
Vaguely.
Something pecking away at the back of his mind. Something he knew he could get to. If he knew where to start. Meaning it hadn’t been an outright lie when he’d told Buckley that he didn’t recognize her.
Unlike what he’d told him about the boat, that it was the last thing he’d want to own. He wasn’t sentimental that way. His parents had drowned in a boating accident—on this very boat. So what? It didn’t mean it was going to happen to him. Nor was he about to break down and weep every time he set foot on it. He felt a lot safer, too, the sound of halyards slapping against the mast in the wind strangely comforting as he lay wide awake the previous night, a veritable aurora borealis of mental agitation keeping sleep at bay.
He’d motored up the coast and was currently tied up in Newburyport Harbor. To you, sir, fifty bucks a night. A bargain. The Black Cow Tap & Grill a short walk away took care of food and drink and the free Wi-Fi allowed him to carry out his research. With his laptop and his baseball cap pulled down low, a pint of Whirlpool Pale Ale on the table in front of him, he looked like any other beer-obsessed nerd surreptitiously browsing porn sites as he eyed up the girls walking by.
He didn’t care what they thought.
Because there was something big waiting to be found, and he was the man who was going to find it. Then the old women would be begging for his story. Gagging for it. But he’d only put it on his own site. He’d need a bigger server for all the traffic he was going to get.
Of course, he had to find it first.
He had a voice in his head. One of the old hacks jabbing a nicotine-stained finger at a photograph, his voice full of gravel.
That’s her there.
But who had he been talking about?
And why? What had she done?
He had an image in his mind to go with the voice. A big group of people, maybe a convention of some kind. Or a political rally? That sounded more like it. The hack whose name he couldn’t remember having to search through the sea of faces smiling for the camera until he found the one he was after. Jabbing the face like he’d spotted the last of the Nazi concentration camp guards hiding out in a small town in Massachusetts.
He thought about the political rally angle for a minute. It wasn’t the main man—or woman, in this case. They’d be on the podium, no need to search through the throng. Someone in the background—physically and metaphorically. But linked to the star up front in the sort of way that sells newspapers.
Scandal.
Ideally with some prurient interest. Although good old-fashioned suffering and misery can be as good, if properly milked by a skilled practitioner.
He remembered when his parents had died. How the papers had wanted to interview him. He’d refused. What were they going to ask?
Our readers want, no, demand to know if your parents suffered horribly.
And was it an accident? Or did you sabotage the boat yourself in order to inherit the house and your father’s shrewd investments, which we hear are substantial.
He was digressing.
But why not? It was sure as hell no use straining to remember, trying to squeeze it out as if he was working his way through a bad bout of constipation. He needed to go with the flow, let the memories find him. The Whirlpool Pale Ale helped with that.
Just not yet.
The thought of things being found sent an involuntary shiver through him, made him glance nervously around, alert for a person looking rapidly away, somebody concentrating too hard on the newspaper like it did indeed hold the answers to all of the world’s problems as the front page claimed.
There was no one.
He drained his glass nonetheless, then headed back to the boat. He was forced to jump back at the intersection of Merrimac Street and Summer Street before he crossed the on-ramp to the Newburyport Turnpike when a police cruiser almost ran him down as it tore up the ramp, siren blaring, lights flashing, the cops inside playing with all their toys.
It made him think, the picture he had in his mind gaining clarity. The event had been connected to law enforcement in some way. Something to do with Chief of Police George Dupree? A celebration to mark his reappointment for a second term? It was coming back to him. Now the effects of the Whirlpool Pale Ale were a hindrance, the beer living up to its name as his head span out of control.
What was it that had caused the old hack to jab a face in the crowd of assembled party-goers, say, that’s her there? Dupree had been linked briefly to a judge some years back, but it couldn’t have anything to do with that. The judge was a dyke, famous for handing down overly-stiff sentences to male defendants. Besides, if she’d been there, she’d have been up-front, shaking Dupree’s self-serving hand, not hidden in the crowd.
He was on the right track, of that he was sure. And it brought a smile to his face, a vindictive warmth to his heart. He knew that Dupree had been instrumental in having his story pulled, supposedly out of concern that people didn’t panic, believing a serial killer to be loose in their midst.
The killer couldn’t be Dupree himself, not if it was the intruder he’d seen in his house, a woman.
But what if Dupree was linked to her in some way?
He almost missed his footing and fell in the harbor as he climbed on board the boat, he was so pleased with himself.
33
The Grim Reaper swept into the Jerusalem Tavern in a swirling mist of icy damp air, a graveyard chill settling on the room as conversations muted and strong men averted their eyes lest hers, as hard and pitiless as the sun, rested too long on them.
Kieran nodded to her, said, Hi, Kate, went to pour her a beer before her face turned it all sour and he had a riot on his hands.
The reapee, if there is such a thing, squirmed on his stool as the dark Angel of Death descended upon him, her ragged black wings casting a shadow over him from which he would never escape.
No, it was her right arm. And some arms don’t need a nightstick on the end to do their work.
Thwack!
All heads turned, as if watching to see where the ball landed as it sailed out of the park. Except Evan’s head was still on his shoulders—just. Wobbling, but still attached. Then the Reaper’s mouth opened wide and an inhuman howl spewed forth from its evil black depths.
‘Dickhead.’
The Dickhead smiled a satisfied smile—inwardly, of course, for no man smiles at the Reaper—that he’d been right. Bastard was not a word she was in the habit of using. Proving himself right did nothing to make him feel any better.
It seemed it was monosyllabic night, the Reaper spitting an accusation at him.
‘Why?’
He thought about saying plausible deniability as he had in the past. Tonight, it needed spelling out, lest his own sacrifice go unnoticed. He looked her directly in the eye as he did so, unpleasant though it was, not a hint of fondness in the barren wastelands that lay behind them.
‘Crow put me in an impossible situation by telling me what he did. I didn’t want to do the same to you.’
She might have laughed, an incredulous note to it, except the Reaper is not one for laughing.
‘You were protecting me?’
He shrugged. Decided ludicrous was the way to go.
‘It’s what men do. Protect their woman. Or ex-woman.’ He held up a hand as her mouth flapped soundlessly. ‘When I say ex-woman, I don’t mean you’ve become a man, I mean—’
‘Shut up, you stupid, stupid man. Where’s my damn drink?’
‘I think Kieran’s scared to bring it over. And he never got the hang of that sliding it down the bar thing.’ He waved at Kieran. ‘It’s safe now. For you, at least.’
Thoughtful Kieran had poured Evan another one while he was at it. He delivered them both, didn’t hang around. Evan let the beer do its magic, some of the grimness falling away from the Reaper, although he guessed it was resignation at work as much as the beer, an acceptance of her lot in life.
Her lot waited a while longer, then made an offer.
‘You want me to tell you what I think?’
‘That won’t take long. Whoosh.’ She snapped her head sideways as if a low-flying jet had skimmed across the bar. ‘You missed it.’
It struck him, as it had before, how bizarre the situation was, that the more abuse she heaped on him, the better he felt. It was the icy politeness you had to watch out for.
‘I’m guessing you’ve spoken to Detective Lang . . .’
She grunted, uh-huh.
‘And I’m guessing we won’t be playing the body parts game later that we played last time.’
She smiled at him, genuine pleasure in it. Excitement. Anticipation. They were all there.
‘Only chopping them off. And you don’t get a knife. Want to know what’s going first?’
He leaned in, turned his ear towards her.
‘You better whisper. We’re in a public place.’
She nodded approvingly.
‘Not as stupid as you look. You were about to talk some more rubbish. I believe you were working up to some pathetic excuses.’
‘Lang told you about the headline—’
‘Dyslexic killer strikes again.’
‘—and the messages written in the victim’s blood.’
‘Keep it coming.’
‘And you’ve assumed . . .’ He paused, long enough to let her nod her agreement. ‘That there was something similar in the Lister case. And that’s what prompted Crow to—’
‘Get you to clear up his mess twenty years later.’
‘Exactly. But you don’t actually know anything for a fact.’ He paused again, made sure she was looking at him. ‘Do you want me to tell you?’
‘Put me in a similar impossible situation, you mean? But with nobody to pass the buck to.’
‘What I didn’t want to do to you in the first place.’
‘When you were protecting me.’
‘My purpose in life. You can think about it if you like. Even though I wasn’t allowed to think about it when we were talking about swapping . . .’ He made a vague gesture in the direction of some of the more interesting parts of her body rather than complete the sentence.
She consulted with her beer. Exactly what he’d have done in her position. The only difference was, she didn’t follow it with a stupid remark like he did now.
‘It’s not easy, is it?’
‘Dealing with you? No, not at all.’
It wasn’t the time to say that hadn’t been what he’d meant.
Time passed. New species crawled out of the primeval mire, learned to talk and use tools and even visited distant planets in the universe before dying out again. And still he waited, his beard long and gray.
‘I don’t know,’ she said, finally. ‘I don’t want to have to think about it.’
But you have to wasn’t appropriate at this point, either.
She finished the last of her drink, slipped off her stool.
‘I’m going to the ladies’ room.’
He kept his thoughts to himself, that a touch of lipstick wouldn’t hurt while she was in there, give her face a bit of color. Thought about the best way forward, instead. Didn’t like what he came up with. It meant violating one of his cardinal rules—no volunteering.
That’s not to say that he got right to it when she returned, lipstickless.
‘Any answers in there?’
She pretended to think about it.
‘I saw somewhere I’d like to put your head.’
‘Before or after—’
A rigid digit materialized at the end of his nose.
‘Enough!’
‘I want to ask you a question.’
‘I hope it’s not, am I forgiven? Rest assured that I will inform you if the answer to that ever changes. And tonight, I’m tempted to tell you to hold your breath.’
‘Are you interested in charging Crow with a twenty-year-old crime just for the sake of it, without it making any difference going forward?’
She nodded vigorously, the clear bright light of conviction in her eyes.
‘Absolutely. You didn’t order me another beer while I was away.’
He waved to Kieran who was watching them as if an illegal cockfighting match was being held in his bar, one of the birds a fit athletic specimen armed with metal spurs, its opponent a one-legged chick. He held up two fingers, went back to Guillory.
‘Or would you prefer me to tell you something useful that has no bearing whatsoever on what Crow allegedly did?’
‘Allegedly?’
‘Just answer the question.’
‘I want what you’ve got and to prosecute Crow to the fullest extent of the law. In this country or anywhere else.’
‘Because you’re a woman?’
‘Exactly. I want it all ways. And keep your disgusting thoughts to yourself.’
‘Well, you can’t have it. Not this time. Your choice.’
Kieran nipped in, deposited the beers and out again in under a second. Guillory took a noisy slurp to give herself time.
‘Does what he did really have no bearing?’
‘None whatsoever beyond further confirmation that it looks like you should concentrate on finding the woman who used to be Jodie Lister.’
She narrowed her eyes at him. Like a suspicious bird eyeing up a worm, wondering how much more of it there was still in the hole. She sounded like she’d been told talking too quickly gives you indigestion when she replied.
‘Okay. Give me what you’ve got.’
‘She was gay, for one. Probably still is. Her lover was involved in setting her up as the poor, abused wife who snapped one day and killed her husband. And there’s a chance she’s legally trained, might be working in that field.’
Guillory looked very unimpressed.
‘That’s it?’
‘Uh-huh.’
‘As Ryder would say, our jobs are safe. Her father was a judge, so it makes sense she might’ve gone down that route. Given that she’s committed two more murders it makes sense that the first killing was also premeditated. A lover helping her do it isn’t what you’d call a big surprise. And being gay? Okay, maybe that narrows it down a bit. Unless we’re talking about people who keep their private lives to themselves in which case who knows what they get up to.’
‘Don’t ever become a school teacher. Not unless you want all the kids committing suicide after they get their assignments back.’
She slipped off her stool again.
‘Weak bladder?’ he said.
‘No. I’m going to make an announcement. Get everyone to give you the big round of applause you were obviously expecting.’
He got them back on track before she could do it.
‘What are you going to do? Arrest Crow?’
She shook her head, perched on her stool again, the weight of it all putting a slump into her shoulders.
‘No. I think I’m going to give up. I’ll pass on your revelations to your friend Rachel, who I’m sure will want to show her gratitude with a display of her perfect body. Then I think I’m going to do what Ryder’s been on at me about for the last week, do my own job. I think that takes me up to the end of my life. How about you?’
He shrugged, an open-to-anything gesture.
‘See where it goes for a bit longer.’
She twisted on her stool, looked directly at him. Confusion on her face, something close to desperation in her voice.
‘Why?’
‘A very good question.’
‘I’ve got lots of practice. And what’s the answer?’
He looked briefly for some easy answers in the bottom of his glass, took a swallow when he found there was only beer in there.
‘I don’t know. I suppose I’m hoping to discover that Jodie Lister isn’t responsible for all the killings. That Crow didn’t let a serial killer go.’
‘Help. Not, let go.’
‘If you like.’
‘He’s not worth it, you know.’
‘You’re only saying that because you had an argument with him.’
She gave up then. Accepted that she would never understand him. Until the next time she tried. Wasn’t that the definition of insanity? Doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results.
Once more their glasses were empty, the beer gremlins having syphoned it out while they weren’t looking. Suddenly there was a very different light in her eyes to the one she’d brought with her.
‘You asked me an impossible question earlier. I’m going to do it back. Do you want to risk playing the body parts game?’
‘Depends what room we’re in.’
‘The kitchen, of course. It’s no fun if there isn’t a knife within reach.’
He slid off his stool, extended his hand for her to lead the way.
‘You didn’t used to be called Jodie Lister, did you?’
34
As ever when staying at Guillory’s, Evan was up early the next morning, eating toast in her kitchen and deciding on what he wasn’t going to do, a potentially limitless list. Restricting himself to the Lister case, there was no point in duplicating what the grown-ups were doing. Searching for a gay lawyer whose father was a judge—if they’d taken any notice at all of what he’d told Guillory.
It only left one option. Lucia Petty. Ex-journalist, feminist and non-returner of calls. Despite the early hour, he called her again now, figuring that if some inconsiderate jerk wakes you up, you’re going to answer the call to spoil their day back with a few choice words. It went straight to voicemail for the third time. This time, he didn’t leave a message.
He called Lang instead, no worries about the time. Her opening remark told him Guillory had beaten him to it.
‘How’s your head?’
‘Still attached to the rest of my body. Thank you for your concern.’
She laughed good-naturedly, a sound at odds with most of their previous exchanges.
