The Colour of Death (17 page)

“So why haven’t you got her?”

“There was a problem.”

“What problem?”

He explained what had happened.  “It was dark.  Nobody saw me.”

“Can’t you do anything right?” the voice hissed.  “You should have told me where she was and let me handle it.  Listen very carefully, there can’t be any more mistakes or misunderstandings.  This is what I want you to do.”

As he heard his orders he tried to protest.  “But I’m so close.  I just need a little more time.”

“There is no more time,” said the voice.  Then the phone went dead.

As he watched the Porsche pull away from the light he could taste the acrid taint of failure and frustration on his tongue.  Dr. Fox believed he was his patient’s protector and helper, but he was wrong.  His interference last night had only sealed her fate.  For a second he hesitated, unsure what to do, but he knew he had no choice.  Whatever his orders were, he had one last chance to finish this and he had to take it.

He pushed his foot down on the accelerator and followed the psychiatrist’s car.

Chapter 25

When Fox had called his aunt and told her about last night’s attack, she had not only agreed Jane Doe could stay with her but insisted on it.  As he drove up to the house he saw a police squad car parked at the curb outside.  After a brief complaint about moving the security detail from Tranquil Waters, Jordache had acknowledged that Jane Doe might be safer staying somewhere the killer didn’t know and sent two uniformed officers over from the clinic with a bag of her personal effects.

Samantha was waiting by the front door and as Fox parked his car she hurried over and greeted Jane with a hug.  Before Fox had turned off the engine both women had disappeared into the house.  Following them inside, he found Samantha settling Jane into what had been his old bedroom and winced at the old baseball hat and tennis racket in the corner and the high school pennants, Stanford class photos and other paraphernalia of his youth that bedecked the walls.  Perhaps this hadn’t been such a good idea.  After the awkward exchange in his apartment, when Jane Doe had offered to go back to the scene of his family’s murder and fill in the missing minutes that had changed his life, he was reluctant to expose any more of his personal life.

He realized, however, that as Jane Doe helped Samantha put fresh sheets on the bed she was oblivious to his old room and the mementoes of his youth.  Relaxed and smiling, she appeared totally secure in Samantha’s presence, all trace of her earlier panic gone.  Judging by the maternal way his aunt clucked over her, Samantha was equally delighted to have company and someone to look after.  He felt suddenly foolish.  “Everything OK?” he said, more gruffly than he intended.

“We’re just fine,” said Samantha.  “Aren’t we, Jane?”

Jane smiled.  “Very much so.”

“You want to stay for dinner, Nathan?”

“No thanks, I’d better get going but if you need me for anything…”

“Don’t worry about us,” said Samantha.  “We’ve got two policemen outside.  Relax, go.”

“I’ll check on you both in the morning.”

Samantha walked over and kissed him on the cheek.  “You do that, darling.  Good night.”

As he left the house, Fox approached the two uniforms standing by the squad car.  Jordache had reassured him that the killer had no way of knowing Jane Doe was here or Fox wouldn’t have risked endangering Samantha, but he still wasn’t taking any chances.  “Jane Doe’s staying with my aunt tonight so you take good care of them both.  OK?”

“Don’t worry, Doc,” said the taller cop, walking to the back yard.  “I’m taking the rear.”

“And I’m staying right here,” said the shorter cop, a neat black guy with a serious face.  “No one’s getting into that house unless they come through us.”

The man in the anonymous white vehicle parked across the street watched the doctor talk to the policemen and then drive away.  Despite the air conditioning he dripped with nervous sweat and his smell filled the car.  He had seen his target — the woman they called Jane Doe — enter the house with the old lady and it appeared they were the only ones inside.  The urge to act was overwhelming but he had to wait for the right moment.  He watched as the policemen patrolled the front of the house for the first hour then retired to his car and drank coffee from a flask.  It was clear from his relaxed body language that the officer didn’t expect trouble.  Why should he?  He had no reason to suspect that the doctor and his patient had been followed here.

Watching till it was dark, he accessed Google Earth on his cell phone and studied the layout of the neighborhood.  Then he drove the van around the block and parked on the street behind the house.  A welcoming fresh breeze cooled his face as he got out and checked his bearings.  The houses on this street backed onto a narrow public access path, which separated their rear gardens from those on the old lady’s street.  Darting down a side alley, he found the path and walked down it until he reached the back of the old lady’s house.  The narrow wooden gate to her garden was bolted at the top but by reaching over he easily pulled back the bolt.  Peering through the gap he could see extensive lawns, a summerhouse and the other policeman sitting on a bench by a pair of glazed folding doors that led into the main house.  Like his colleague the cop looked relaxed, settled for the night.  Through the glazed doors he saw the old lady enter the kitchen with his target.  He bit his lip and told himself to be patient.

He stood in the shadows until shortly before eleven, when the folding doors opened and the old lady gave the policeman a cup of coffee, before returning inside and disappearing from the kitchen.  A few minutes later a light went on upstairs and he saw both women clearly in the window as they drew the curtains.

A radio crackled and the cop put down his coffee.  “Everything’s fine here.  They’ve just gone up to bed.  How about you?”  A laugh.  “You better not fall asleep.  Yeah, I’ll check on you in an hour.”  The cop replaced his radio, stood up and did a cursory scan around the garden.  Then he walked past the summerhouse, toward the gate and the darkest part.  After another quick look around, the policeman turned his back, unzipped his fly, closed his eyes and began pissing loudly against a tree.

The right moment had presented itself.

Pulling a syringe from his bag, the watcher slipped the latch and pushed open the gate.

Unlike the terrifying death echoes Jane Doe had experienced at today’s crime scenes, the archaeosonics in Fox’s old room were reassuringly benign.  She wasn’t sure if it was Fox’s innocent childhood souvenirs on the walls or Samantha’s maternal presence, which pervaded the entire house, but she felt secure and calm.  As she prepared for bed she looked around the walls, breathed in the smell of beeswax polish and freshly laundered sheets, and imagined the young Nathan Fox sleeping here, cocooned by the love of his aunt and uncle.  When she rediscovered her own family she hoped she had an aunt, or even a mother, like Samantha.

Earlier, Samantha had served simple but delicious pasta salad, which they had eaten in the kitchen with a bottle of Italian red wine.  As they talked Jane Doe had felt her anxieties fall away.  It had been wonderful not talking about herself.  Although they had briefly discussed last night’s intrusion and the murders, they had talked mainly about Samantha’s late husband and Fox, who she clearly loved with a savage pride.

There was a knock at the door.  “You need anything?” Samantha asked.

“No.  You’ve been very generous.  Thanks for letting me stay.  It’s just for one night, I promise.”

Samantha ruffled her hair.  “Don’t worry.  It’s nice to have the company.  I’m just going to lock up downstairs then I’m off to bed.  Sleep well.”  The door closed and as she lay on the bed she heard Samantha’s receding footsteps.  Resting her head on the pillow she instantly fell asleep.

Crash
.

She jolted awake, unaware how much time had passed.  The noise had been close.  Disoriented, she wondered if it had been real or in her dreams.  Then a high-pitched alarm sounded, causing an array of psychedelic colors to spike before her eyes.  She sat up, suddenly alert, a cold feeling in her stomach.  Within moments she became aware of distant police sirens and the cop downstairs banging on the front door, shouting:  “Open the door.  Get out of there.  He’s inside.  He’s in there.”  She sprang from the bed and ran to the bedroom door.  It was solid wood and there was a strong lock but she no longer cared about her own safety.  All she could think about was Samantha.  By coming here she had put Fox’s aunt at risk and would never be able to forgive herself if anything happened to her.  She opened the door.

Moments earlier

Dispatching the cop took seconds.  The man was still pissing, his flow uninterrupted , as he collapsed to the ground.  The intruder replaced the empty syringe in his bag, then, using his sleeved arm, pushed the handle of the folding doors.  They weren’t locked and opened easily.  Exhilarated, he stole silently into the house and walked up the main stairs without encountering anyone.  When he reached the landing he heard a door opening ahead and a soft voice:  “…company.  I’m just going to lock up downstairs then I’m off to bed.  Sleep well.”  It was the old lady.

He stepped into a dark doorway to his right.  The light from the landing revealed a study crammed with history books and display cases.  He heard the old lady approaching and backed further into the gloom.  Her footsteps came closer until she passed the open door.  As he watched her walk out of sight he sensed something solid behind him.  Reaching down, he realized it was a desk.  As his knuckles brushed the surface, the back of his hand touched a large, flat stone.

His reaction was instant and involuntary.  He jumped, as if electrocuted, pushed the stone away from him and sent it crashing to the floor.  Scrabbling to regain his equilibrium, he heard the footsteps return and saw the old lady reappear in the doorway.  She looked small and frail.  Dazed, he pulled out his knife but she made no attempt to run away or turn on the light.  Instead she reached for something unseen on the landing wall.

“You shouldn’t be in here,” she said, firmly.  “That’s my husband’s office.  I think it’s best if you leave now.”  Her tone added to his confusion.  She sounded angry more than frightened and remarkably calm — much calmer than he felt.  She stepped away from the door and gestured to the stairs.  “I’m pushing the panic button now.  I suggest you go before the police come.”

He heard her backing away, toward the end of the landing, as the alarm sounded.  Its piercing wail intensified his disorientation.  Still reeling from the earlier shock, his head began to ache.  He needed time to concentrate.  He had to think.  He couldn’t make another mistake.

“Samantha!”  The unseen cry cut through the fog and restored his focus. 
She
was here.  He was so close he could taste it on his tongue.  He would end this now.

Jane Doe’s first reaction when she opened the bedroom door and saw Fox’s aunt backing down the landing toward her was relief.  She was unharmed.

“Samantha!”

“Go back to your bedroom, Jane,” said Samantha, darting an anxious look over her shoulder.  “Our guest’s just leaving.”  She pointed to a dark doorway on her left and Jane realized the intruder was in there. 
He
was in there.

Instinct took over and Jane leapt at Samantha.  Grabbing her arm she dragged her down the landing and bundled her into the bedroom.  As she slammed the door shut behind them, she fleetingly saw the intruder — the man she had glimpsed in the crime scene death echoes — rush out of the study and storm down the landing toward her.  Heart pounding and hands shaking, she turned the key in the lock, seconds before he threw himself against the door.  The wood was solid but the juddering impact was so strong she feared it wouldn’t hold.  Without speaking, she and Samantha reached for a heavy chest of drawers by the window.  As they pushed it against the door he threw himself at it again.

“What do you want with her?” Samantha shouted as the wood bowed and creaked.  Jane Doe thought she heard him say something but also two gunshots from downstairs drowned it out as the policeman tried to shoot open the lock to the front door.  “The officer will be through the front door soon and he’s armed.  Go.  Leave us alone.”

Jane Doe pushed open the window but it was too high to offer any escape.  A juddering impact smashed the door, splitting one of the panels, pushing back the chest of drawers.  Frantically she searched for a weapon.  Fox’s old tennis racket was too light.  The baseball bat was better.  Wielding it like an axe, she found it strangely familiar in her hands.

The scream of fast-approaching sirens rose above the din.  “Listen!  More police are coming,” said Samantha.  “They’ll be here any minute.”  Jane Doe heard panting on the other side of the door.  As she gripped the baseball bat and braced herself for another impact there was a rending crash downstairs.  The intruder swore under his breath then ran, his heavy footsteps clattering along the landing and down the stairs.  Jane Doe embraced Samantha and they held each other close as more shouts and gunshots rang out.  Then it went quiet, including the alarm and sirens, and all she could hear was the beating of her own heart.

Chapter 26

The next morning, when Fox entered the homicide incident room of the Central Precinct headquarters, he had calmed down enough to greet Jordache and his team with a brisk nod.  He sat at the narrow conference table with two of Jordache’s detectives:  Phil Kostakis, who Fox had worked with before, and Dennis Allen, a wiry guy with a receding chin and wispy goatee.  Jordache eyed him warily and handed him a cup of coffee as a peace offering.  There was a pile of dog-eared manila folders on the table beside them, each filled with papers.

“Sorry, Nathan.  We screwed up.”