The Love of the Dead (17 page)

Beth.

He looked up and saw smoke ahead and in the smoke he thought he saw wings spreading wide. He blinked and saw it was just the smoke, blowing into the dark sky.

“Ah, fuck.”

He couldn’t see what was happening, but the cars in front of him slowed, flashing emergency lights. The traffic crawled then stopped altogether.

Peter hit the steering wheel. He swore harder than he’d ever sworn in his life.

He hated himself for falling asleep, for leaving Beth alone while a killer came for her. But it didn’t make a damn bit of difference. He couldn’t get past the traffic. There was nothing he could do. Nothing at all.

For the next hour he watched as the emergency vehicles worked on the fire. He didn’t move. He couldn’t even use the shoulder. It was full of a burning truck and two smashed cars. A helicopter landed in a field and took off again pretty soon after.

He couldn’t shake the impression that the smoke looked like wings, spreading and folding in again. As the night turned to day, he watched the smoke rolling across the road, waiting for the crash to clear, waiting to move on, hating himself because he felt death all around.

There was nothing but death in front of him. He knew that was right, just as he knew that he could do nothing about it.

Chapter Fifty

The clouds blew away and took the rain with them. The sun shone hard and bright into Beth’s bedroom as she woke from a troubled sleep and remembered the night before.

He’d been there. In her house. Next to her, like a lover, sharing her bed.

She leapt from the bed before turning to see the indent where someone had been. Too big for Miles.

Suddenly, she felt sick. He’d been here. In her bedroom...

God.

She put on her bathrobe and rushed through the cold hall into the kitchen. The two officers were in her kitchen, looking tired and gray. Not dead.

“Did he come back?” she said, knowing the answer anyway. Their presence meant that he had not.

If he had, she doubted they’d still have their heads. For a second she saw their heads sitting on the table, answering her, blood dripping down on her floor to join the rest of the stains there that she could never wash clean, because the memory of the blood would always live on.

“Who?” asked one of the officers. He had a cup of tea. Not bothered, not scared. Just having a morning cup of tea, passing the time with his colleague.

He hadn’t come back, then. She tried to remember what had happened after he’d climbed in bed with her.

“What happened?”

“You were pretty frightened,” he said. He had stained yellow teeth. She thought you had to look presentable to be a policeman. But then Coleridge was hardly presentable. He looked like a fat tramp in a suit. “You passed out. We put you to bed. Don’t worry, we’ve been here all night. Nothing.”

It wasn’t nothing, though. He’d been in her bed. Her fucking bed.

But it was nothing to do with these two. It wasn’t their fault. It wasn’t anyone’s fault. Maybe hers. She’d been courting the Devil for years, now, hadn’t she? Since Miles’ death, maybe. Could have been before that.

Why else would he mark her out?

Why couldn’t he leave her alone?

“Did you hear from Coleridge?” she said, because these two, happily drinking their tea, looking forward to their beds, they didn’t have any other answers she needed to hear.

“No. But we’re being relieved in an hour. Might get news soon. It’s still early.”

“What time is it?”

“Eight.”

“What time’s Coleridge’s shift start?”

The policeman shrugged. “Don’t know. Probably pulling an all-nighter. Most of us are. The cop killed yesterday.”

“Call him.”

“I don’t know where he’s stationed.” He changed his tune when he saw her glare. “I’ll call, though. Shouldn’t be too hard to find out.”

The policeman with the yellow teeth fussed about with his radio, while his partner drank her tea. She didn’t know how she felt about that, but in the grand scheme of things it was a small indiscretion. After all, they’d been up all night, while she’d been asleep.

He tried his radio, but it wouldn’t work. Beth walked into the hall and tried the phone, but that was dead, too.

She knew it was him. He’d done something.

Was she surprised? Not at all.

She was on her own, then.

She walked along the cold tiles back to the kitchen.

“I can’t get through on the phone either. Can you take me out today?”

“I can’t. Not now. Our relief’s due in twenty minutes. I’d wait until then.”

Beth nodded and went to get dressed. She forwent the shower. She didn’t have time. The sun was up but the sun was quick in the winter. When dark came she’d be at his mercy again.

There was no reason to think he was a night creature, but she suspected he was. She didn’t think daylight would burn him up, like a vampire. But the more she thought about it, the more she was sure she was right. And there was more. She thought it was the form of the thing. The way he’d appeared to her at first, slashed her son’s throat. “I can touch you here, I can touch you there.” Something like that.

And the head in the box. Like he was showing off.

He was proud of himself. Proud of his abilities.

Pride comes before the fall. Her mother used to say that to her all the time. She’d tried not to be prideful when she was young, then she got older and her life turned gradually to shit, and after that, what did she have to be proud of?

Would his pride be his downfall? Could she somehow use that?

She laughed out loud. The chatter from the kitchen stopped suddenly. She put her hand over her mouth and chuckled again. She couldn’t help it, but the thought of doing anything but dying was just so damn funny.

She didn’t have any doubt that she’d die. She couldn’t see any way she wouldn’t. She couldn’t fight him. She couldn’t reason with him. He was coming, and when he came she’d die.

But she wouldn’t go quietly.

She heard a car pull up outside. She finished dressing quickly and went to meet the relief.

She needed to get out, because as much as she was resigned to dying, she didn’t want to. All the years she’d tortured herself, ever since Miles’ death, she couldn’t have cared one way or the other.

Now death was so close, she found she was reluctant to give herself over to it.

She wanted to fight, but if she was going to fight him, she would need something of his.

Chapter Fifty-One

The police car pulled up without a fuss. No sirens wailing, no lights flashing. The policemen stepped out and walked up to her door slowly, no rush, just taking it easy. Out for a fucking stroll.

Beth was at the door waiting. She pulled on her big coat as they approached, ready to go, desperate to be doing something other than waiting for him to come to her again.

She remembered his words, now. “I’m going to kill you tonight.”

Maybe, she thought. But then maybe I’ll have a surprise for you.

“You’re the relief, right?” she said as soon as their feet hit the sand, about twenty feet shy of her front steps.

“Yes, Mrs. Willis. We’ll be here all day. I’m Sergeant Read, this is Hind. How are you?”

“Shit-scared.”

“We tried to get in touch, but we couldn’t get through on the phone or the radio. I have some news. We caught him last night. A man called Gregory Sawyer. There was...evidence in his house.”

Beth shook her head.

“It’s a sweet lie, Sergeant, but you don’t believe it anymore than I do.”

He shook his head, looked uncomfortable.

“There’s some loose ends...we just want to make sure. Our boss wants everything covered. No mistakes.”

“What are the loose ends?”

“I can’t discuss that with you.”

“Is my life in danger?”

He looked uncomfortable, yet again.

“It’s my life. You can damn well show some common decency and at least tell me that.”

“He died.”

“So I’m safe?” It didn’t feel like it. She could feel it, waiting. She could feel
him
, waiting. Waiting for the dark.

“I don’t have all the details myself, Mrs. Willis...”

“Can you take me out? I need to get out.”

The sergeant shook his head. “I’m under orders. Here, until I get the call. Then I’m to take you into protective custody.”

“You can come in, or you can go. I don’t care. But this is my home, this is where I’ll meet him when he comes. Shy of arresting me, you can’t do a damn thing about that, either. Can you?”

He didn’t look sure. Didn’t look sure at all.

“Now, I need to go out. Are you going to take me?”

“No, ma’am,” he said. He didn’t look sad or embarrassed, just stating a fact. He didn’t leave any wriggling room. For a second, Beth imagined punching him in the face. She wondered if she was strong enough to break his nose. Probably not.

“You’ve got to understand, I can’t,” he said. He didn’t sound sorry. He didn’t know he was killing her.

“Well, I’m damn well going, and you can’t stop me.”

But Miles could.

As she took the first step away from her house, onto the sand, she felt her hand being tugged. Insistent and strong. Stronger than any little boy had any right to be. Stronger than a ghost should be. She tried to pull away, but Miles just held on tighter and pulled all the harder.

“What?” she snapped. The policeman jumped.

“Ma’am?”

“I’m not talking to you.”

She turned her attention to Miles. She didn’t have much choice. He pulled her so hard she nearly lost her balance. She stumbled as he drew her into the kitchen. She must have looked some special kind of crazy to the policemen at her kitchen table helping themselves to her tea. Her arm was pulled out in front of her, and she staggered as Miles damn near dragged her to the freezer.

She couldn’t worry about how the thing looked. Not right now. Miles was pointing at the freezer, his mouth set in a determined line.

“What? What is it?”

He pointed again. Threw her hand down so hard it slapped against her thigh. He pulled open the freezer door and ice cubes rained out and tinkled onto the red tiles, spilling and sliding across the kitchen floor.

She got the message.

Four policemen stared at the ice cubes skittering across the floor. She couldn’t worry about them. She couldn’t get something of his, but as she’d learned a long time ago, spirits were demanding bastards.

The spirits didn’t want her to leave, didn’t need for her to touch the killer’s things. They didn’t give a shit if she read his cards or got to know him.

The spirits only wanted her to know herself.

She got the message all right:
This is for us. Not him. Not you.

A matter of faith. Let go, they were saying. We’ll catch you.

The only trouble was, she didn’t have any faith. She was scared, out of hope, waiting to die. But she could feel the power of the spirit, that thing beyond death that she didn’t understand but that could touch Miles and guide him to guide her.

She ignored the police staring at her and took a shallow washing-up bowl from under the sink. She eyed the whiskey, but that was for when the day was done. She didn’t think this day was quite done yet.

Maybe she wasn’t quite done yet.

“I’m going to my bedroom,” she said as she added water to the bowl and ice cubes. “Make yourselves tea. There’s biscuits in the cupboard. Leave me alone, OK? Whatever happens. If Coleridge comes, tell him to wait. He’ll understand.”

She didn’t wait for confirmation they’d understood.

Miles was nodding at her, smiling. That was all the confirmation she needed. She was on the right path. She didn’t know where it led, but it was a path, and it was a hell of lot better than wandering blind and lost.

Chapter Fifty-Two

The driveway to Sawyer’s house ran a ways back from the road. On the east side of the city, but removed enough so that it was off the main run, in one of the more expensive neighborhoods of Norwich. The river ran along the Yarmouth road on one side. Sawyer’s house was on the other. A vast expanse of well-tended lawn led up to a house that might have been called a mansion. A heavy red door framed by two ivory columns waited, open. Coleridge wouldn’t have been surprised had the columns been marble.

The gravel driveway at the front of the building was filled with police cars, crime scene vans, unmarked cars driven by detectives. Plenty of room for all of them.

Coleridge figured Sawyer had probably been shitty at parking.

He drove up and parked behind one of two crime scene vans. They’d be leaving last. Nodding to a few cops he knew, he headed straight up the stairs. Start at the top, work your way down. Just like cleaning.

Not that he did much in the way of cleaning, but the theory was sound. The dust goes down, same as the shit.

Mooney met him on the third floor. He was sitting on a bed, an old fashioned four-poster, smoking. He tapped his ash into a vase placed between his feet. The thick carpet was covered in ash. Mooney evidently wasn’t a good shot.

“Coleridge. You been down yet?”

“Thought I’d start at the top. What’s down?”

“In the basement. That’s where the action is.”

“I figured I’d start at the top. Work my way down. Like cleaning, you know?”

Mooney just looked puzzled. He had a heavy face, all drooping eyelids and wrinkles. It was a look that suited him.

“Never mind. What time did he pop it then? You find that out?”

“Yeah. Pronounced at 11:47 PM.”

“Sounds about right.”

“For what?” Mooney dropped his cigarette into the vase. Smoke swirled into the room, which already stank from the cheap tobacco he smoked.

“For everything to be completely fucked up. The killer phoned about 12 o’clock, give or take. So it wasn’t Sawyer,” said Coleridge. “No way.”

“Yeah. That fucks things up. But Sawyer’s definitely involved.”

“Maybe there’s two of them.”

Mooney nodded. Coleridge wasn’t so sure, but it was the only explanation he could give that a detective wouldn’t laugh at.