The Darkness of Bones (15 page)

“What do you know about my son? Where is he?”

“Know? I know
everything
about him. I know what you do not. I know what you could never imagine. I know his heart, his soul. More importantly, I know everything about
you
, Detective Calvert—or ex-detective, to be more precise. I know how you murdered an innocent man, leading to your
early retirement
.” Judith made a snorting sound. “Early retirement? A euphemism for being kicked out of the police force, disgraced.”

Jack’s eyes hardened slightly. “He wasn’t innocent. He was a drug dealer, selling to kids. He deserved all he got for the lives he destroyed. Now, what do you know about my son?”

“Lots. His eyes were pond-blue like his father’s, but set closer together and lacking the history only age and experience can bring. But here’s a kicker. Want to hear it?”

Jack didn’t reply.

“I know about your
wife
, how you murdered her, drunk as a
pig
—oink oink—at the wheel; how you covered it up, cowardly, like the hypocrite you and your ilk truly are.”

An invisible fist slammed into Jack’s stomach. His insides were a contradiction of heat and cold, competing against each other: hot shit, iced blood.

“You seem shocked. Why? Didn’t I tell you that I knew Adrian’s heart and soul, his tongue—that sweet-tasting piece of plum meat? He liked to use that, you know? A lot. And not just for talking, I should add.” She smiled. “He hated you for what you did to his mother, for ignoring him for years with your silent abuse, putting job before son, for fucking that whore from the gallery. Adrian was the perfect candidate for an Oedipus complex, and you helped him to achieve it.”

Inside, Jack was cringing, fully aware that she was speaking in the past tense each time she mentioned Adrian. “
Where
is my son? You can still get out of this with your life. Armed officers are heading in this direction, as we speak.”

“Are they indeed? Good. They’ll find a dead trespasser when they arrive. An armed trespasser into the bargain.” She removed the shotgun from his face, leaving two perfectly circled marks indented on his skin. The menacing looking razor was quickly brought back into play, inches from his clammy face.

Jack was trying to think, but his brain was going into overdrive. Too many things happening at once. Her breasts were swelling, obscenely so. They looked weird, but he couldn’t draw his eyes away from them, no matter how hard he tried.

“You like my breasts? So did Adrian.” She smirked, pressing the razor against Jack’s mouth, her lips touching his skin. He could feel air on his skin as her nostrils went to work, investigating. “If you only knew what your smell is telling me—all the apprehension and fear.” She removed the razor from his
mouth, calmly placing it on the tip of his nose. The smell of dried rabbit blood filled his nostrils. It stank like a corroded penny.

“Don’t be foolish. You don’t want to do something now, only to regret it—”

“
Quiet!
Did I grant you permission to speak—to
grunt?
” Her hand was trembling as she clenched her teeth, pressing the razor against Jack’s nose, penetrating skin. “Sit yourself down—
slowly
. Don’t do anything silly.” She transferred the razor from Jack’s bleeding nose to his throat. “You even sneeze and I’ll pop your Adam’s apple like a cork in a wine bottle.”

Obediently, Jack sat down on a pile of rags, the other shotgun on the back of his skull following him.

“It’s not you, or your husband, we’re after. It’s Harris. We know he killed the little McTier girl.” If Jack believed that final revelation was going to make Judith panic, reveal all, he was very much mistaken.

“Harris?” said Judith, sniggering, her eyes darkening. “You know nothing. Absolutely nothing. Meeting people with identities other than your own can teach you all sorts of things, Mister Calvert. Did you not know that? The most valuable, obviously, is how to enjoy their company. The fact that they have a different
experience
may also introduce you to perspectives you had not encountered and challenge presumptions you never knew you possessed. There is darkness in
all
of us. What is your particular brand? I’m sure that would be very interesting indeed.”

“What have you done with my son? Where is he?”

“Shut up! Listen. Don’t talk.”

Jack remained silent.

“Good,” said Judith, easing herself into a battered seat
opposite him. Her eyes were tunnelling right into Jack’s as she spoke. “I’m going to tell you a story. A bedtime story to scare. Are you sitting comfortably, Mister Calvert?”

“
A
NY MORE ON
those two bodies, Shaw?” asked Benson impatiently, sounding slightly irritated. Jack’s remarks on the phone mystified him. He kept going over the short conversation, again and again, until he drew a blank. Perhaps all the strain of Adrian’s disappearance was beginning to take its toll. It couldn’t be easy, especially after Linda’s death.

Guilt was gnawing at Benson. He should have called on Jack more often, gone fishing like they use to do. But instead he had deserted him—just like the rest of his so-called friends.

Shaw was leaning over a table, his eyes firmly embedded in a microscope. He appeared deaf to Benson’s question.

Ignorant old bastard
, thought Benson, standing at least six feet away from the cadavers stretched out on trolleys. To his nostrils, the distance felt like six inches. The stench was insufferable and the enclosed quarters only strengthened the smell. It was difficult to tell whether the bodies were adults or teenagers. The clothes were no help. They looked like
painted-on
tar, meshed with muck and rotted leaves.

Creatures had feasted joyously on the faces of the two bodies,
the harsh winter granting the animals a wondrous appetite. Benson shuddered involuntarily, as if a million insects had just crawled over his body. The cadavers’ horrendous condition reminded him of his own mortality. Despite all his macho bluster, Harry Benson dreaded death, the thought that one day that grumpy old bastard, Shaw, would be poking around his hairy hole, slicing and dicing like a chef preparing a banquet for Hell.

Boldly removing a cigarette from its packet, Benson placed it in his mouth. He fumbled in his pockets for his untrustworthy lighter. “How the hell can you stand the stench in here? Give me a good open-air killing any day.” The unlit cigarette jerked in his mouth. He couldn’t find the lighter, and was becoming more desperate in his searching.

If Shaw heard, he did not respond—not immediately. A few seconds later, he glanced up from the microscope and squinted his eyes, as if sunlight had touched them.

“Why are you always so hungry for conversation?” asked Shaw dismissively. “As soon as I find something relevant, you will be the first to know—oh, and don’t even attempt to light that thing. This is a no-smoking area.”

“Are you serious?” asked Benson, reluctantly returning the cigarette to its home. He knew he shouldn’t have come down here, into Shaw’s domain, to be spoken to like that, but something in Jack’s voice had bothered him—the entire conversation had bothered him—and if it meant humbling himself in front of Shaw for a lead, then so be it.

Shaw’s eyes returned to the microscope, much to Benson’s annoyance.

“Can’t you pull yourself away from that thing for one minute, you nasty old fuck?” said Benson. “I spoke to Jack on the phone, less than ten minutes ago. It just didn’t sound
right. He didn’t make sense. He was incoherent. Kept calling me John.”

“That must have been nice for you,” replied Shaw, finally easing away from the microscope, rubbing his tired eyes.

“Have you checked dental records?” Benson cleared his throat with a loud, deliberate cough. “Do … do you think one of the bodies … do you think one of them could be Adrian?”

When Shaw didn’t answer, it put Benson on a war footing. “It’s okay, you hiding away down here, not having to trek through all the shit out there, in the real world. The rest of us are doing our best to locate Jack’s son. What the fuck are you doing, Shaw? Playing the mad scientist?”

Sighing, Shaw stood, and then walked a couple of feet to the trolleys. A few seconds later, he gently removed the covering sheets, exposing fully the bodies beneath. It was a tender, delicate movement and Benson understood immediately that no matter how much death or how many bodies this grumpy old bastard had witnessed, he still retained a modicum of respect for the dead.

“Come closer,” said Shaw. “They won’t bite. I promise.”

“I’m fine, where I am,” said Benson.

“You’ll not be able to see anything from that distance. I want to show you something, up close and personal.”

Reluctantly, Benson moved his feet in front of each other, until he stood perilously close to the two bodies. For one horrible, heart-stopping moment, he had a vision, a vision that the bodies were his and Jack’s, sprawled out in some godforsaken landfill, a banquet for rats and insects. Finally, able to summon a few words, he asked, “Well? What is it?”

Shaw stared directly into Benson’s eyes. “Post mortems are a slow process owing to the necessity for thoroughness. One
mistake by me and the killer’s mistake will never be discovered. Would you prefer the killer to escape justice because of your lack of patience? You think I don’t care about Jack’s son? Of course I damn well do. But unlike you, I can’t afford the luxury of being so irritatingly transparent.”

“I … well,” mumbled Benson, caught off-guard by Shaw’s outburst.

“For your information, both bodies were dumped,
semi-buried
within close proximity of each other—though at different times. The condition of this particular body”—Shaw pointed at the smaller of the two, with his index finger—“tells me that this was the first to be buried. Most of the skin is gone—caused by the elements and forest dwellers. Once the warmer weather arrived, the ice began to melt, pushing the bodies closer to the main stretch of water, allowing the fish to nibble and feast.”

“Fish? The ones in Alexander Lake?”

“Where else?”

Benson felt his stomach heave. Just a few weeks ago, he had done some late-night ice fishing, catching at least ten well-fed fish. The subsequent days saw him devour all ten. It made him wonder if more than fish had entered his mouth.

“Fish can be quite carnivorous when the occasion arises,” stated Shaw.

“Can we stop talking about fish?” asked Benson, believing he saw a ghost of a smile appear on Shaw’s lips.

“Very well, but let me show you something before you throw up all over my floor.”

Skilfully, Shaw dropped an object into a cleaning cloth. Little twists of his wrists and he appeared happy with the results, removing most of the darkened layer from the item.

“What is it?” asked Benson, slightly weary.

“Hold out your hand,” commanded Shaw, a teacher about to administer the cane to a naughty pupil.

Obediently but reluctantly, Benson complied, stretching out his massive hand while Shaw deposited something in it. The item felt strangely cold, yet warm and bizarrely disconcerting.

“What the hell is—?” Before he could say the last word, Benson knew exactly what is was; believed beyond a doubt the identity of its owner stretched out before him. His stomach did a little flip-flap and suddenly all of Jack’s words were coming back to him, clear as crystal, making him feel foolish and angry that he hadn’t known their relevance until it was too late. Far too late, he feared.

I shouldn’t be long, John … Long John …

Like a charging rhino, Benson ran through the doors, and up the first two flights of stairs, leaving a bewildered Shaw staring at the flapping doors.

Benson had never been fit, and over the last few years had piled on pounds of extra fat, lying to himself that, once retirement came, he would have plenty of time to get into shape.

He reached the third flight of stairs, out of breath, feeling dizzy, sweating like cheese. His heart was pounding mercilessly in his chest, sending tiny bolts of electricity up his left arm. He rested his back against a wall, desperately trying to obtain an intake of air, managing only to slither down the wall, unceremoniously, on to his large arse, as he felt his face redden and swell like a red balloon being given too much air.

Get up, you fat waste of space. Do something right for a change. Stop fucking moaning
…

Sucking in beautiful air, Benson willed himself to stand and crash through the barrier of pain like a whale surfacing from the sea. Within seconds, he had slammed through the doors of
Wilson’s office, startling the superintendent.

“What the hell! What do you think you’re doing, barging in like this, Benson?” asked Wilson, quickly regaining his composure, shuffling papers at the desk.

“It’s Jack, Superintendent. He’s in danger.” Benson sucked in the stale, smoky air. “I believe he’s gone to the Grazier place. He thinks … he thinks his son is there, held by Jeremiah Grazier and Joe Harris, our main suspects in the—”

“I warned Calvert to keep his nose out of police work. I also warned
you
about getting involved with him.”

“Yes, yes, I know, you do a lot of warning. Right now, Superintendent, I couldn’t give a monkey’s tit about your warnings. I need permission to get a chopper into the air immediately.”

Momentarily taken aback, Wilson simply stared at Benson.

“I would be very careful of how you speak to me, Detective Benson. Your retirement is coming very—”

“The chopper.
Now
.”

Wilson fluffed himself up like a peacock.

“There will be no chopper. Not now; not
ever
. Calvert can stew in his own mess. Now, I advise you to turn—”

Leaning over the desk, Benson forced his face in towards Wilson’s. “If anything should happen to Jack Calvert, I will hold you personally responsible, you desk-eating piece of cowardly shit. I’m going to make sure every newspaper in the country knows that you had a vendetta against him because you were envious of his courage, while you for the last twenty years hid behind a desk, brown-nosing your way up the fucking ladder. Now, do I get that chopper or not?”

“Get out! You’re finished here, just like your friend! I’ll make sure that both you and—”

Benson slammed the door, shaking wood and glass, before making his way towards the front exit.

“Sir?” a young voice called after Benson, trailing behind him.

Benson ignored it until its owner caught up with him, tapping his back.

“
What?
” snarled Benson.

“I’m … I’m Johnson, sir. You saved me from being dismissed from the force, last week.”

“Johnson? Oh, Starsky. Where’s your shadow, Hutch?”

“Taylor, sir. He’s been given traffic duty for two months.”

“Rightly so. Next time, neither of you will be so fucking lucky. Anyway, nice chatting. Now, if you don’t fucking mind, I’m in a hurry.”

“I couldn’t help overhearing the … conversation you had with Superintendent Wilson, sir.”

“Couldn’t you? Worth the watching, aren’t you? Well?”

“I think … I think I can be of assistance to you, sir.”

“What? You be of assistance to me? What are you mumbling about? Spit it out, lad.”

“Fly, sir. I know how to fly.”

For the first time in days—weeks, possibly—Harry Benson smiled. It was a fatherly smile.

“I always said you young cops could teach us old dogs a few tricks. Let’s go, lad.”

Less than ten minutes later, Benson and Johnson were airborne, though the older cop was wondering what he had walked into, feeling the chopper jerk a few times in midair.

“Are you sure you know how to fly this thing, Johnson?”

“Yes, sir. I’ve been taking flying lessons, in a light aircraft.”

“A light … for fuck’s sake … just keep your eyes on the
road—or whatever it is you’re supposed to keep them on up here.”

The chopper narrowly avoided hitting the roof of a nearby factory, before panning away from the city entirely. A few minutes later, it eventually steadied—as did Benson.

“You know, you’re going to be in the shit with Superintendent Wilson, taking me to the air, lad, going against his orders?”

“No, sir. I didn’t hear Superintendent Wilson’s orders. I was just obeying
yours
.”

Benson smiled. “Crafty sort of bastard, aren’t you?”

“Yes, sir.”