Whisper in the Dark (A Thriller) (33 page)

“Abby, no . . .”

“It’s all right . . . we’ll be together. . . . We’ll always be together. . . .”

“Promise me,” he said.

She smiled at him.

“I promise.”

Then she squeezed his hand and quietly closed her eyes. And a moment later, as she drifted into death, she began to change again, her face shifting, cheekbones widening, nose growing narrow. And in a few short seconds there was a stranger lying next to him.

Jane Doe Number 314.

But it didn’t matter. Tolan knew that he’d be with Abby soon. Because he, too, was starting to drift, listening to the faraway sounds of someone sobbing.

After a moment, Lisa crouched over him, grabbing his hand, tears rolling down her face, and he wondered if hell reserved a special place for people like her.

“Don’t you die on me,” she cried. “Don’t you dare die.”

But he
was
dying. It wouldn’t be long now.

“I’m so sorry, Michael. Hang on. You’ve got to hang . . .”

The words suddenly caught in her throat as her eyes went wide, a look of confusion spreading across her face.

Then realization.

Then pain.

“. . . that hurts,” she said softly, and slumped forward, landing in a heap next to Tolan.

Tolan stared at her, at her lifeless eyes, but was too weak to muster up much surprise. What
did
surprise him was the man standing over her.

A familiar face.

A friend.

None other than Clayton Simm.

And he was holding a bloody scalpel.

He smiled at Tolan, his voice little more than a whisper. “I guess I owe you an apology, Doctor. Frankly, I’m a little embarrassed by this turn of events.”

“. . . Clay?” Tolan was trying to understand exactly what was happening here. “It was you . . . ? You’re . . . ?”

He couldn’t get the rest out.

“I think
Vincent
is what you’re going for. At least that’s what they call me now. Who knows what it’ll be tomorrow.”

Leaning down, he wiped the scalpel on the sleeve of Lisa’s T-shirt. BEST OF SHOW.

“I’m sorry it had to turn out this way. But I guess everyone makes mistakes.”

He smiled again, then backed away, disappearing into the shadows.

“Say hello to Han van Meegeren for me.”

The moment he was gone, there was a loud crashing sound and Detective Blackburn barreled into the room, looking as if he’d been hit by a very large truck.

He took one look at the mess, said, “Oh, fuck,” then collapsed to the floor, out cold.

That was when Tolan closed his eyes for the very last time, Abby’s sweet voice in his head:

Sleep, Michael
.

Time to sleep now
.

SEVEN

The Man Who Said Good-Bye

60

T
HEY NEVER DID
find Sue Carmody’s body.

What they found instead was a room in the bowels of the old hospital, the room Vincent had been staying in, complete with sleeping bag, a portable stove, and another generator.

There were also mementos of the various Vincent killings:

Jewelry. Photographs. Clothing.

Killing tools.

Two envelopes had also been left behind: one addressed to the Van Gogh task force, and the other to Blackburn himself.

The task force letter laid it all out for them, confirming Blackburn’s suspicions. Vincent explained in detail his misguided attempt to infiltrate Tolan’s world and set him up as a killer.

He reasoned that since Tolan had tried to blame
him
for Abby’s murder—or so he’d thought—the only solution was to give Tolan credit for
all
of the Vincent murders. To expose him as a madman. The mementos he’d left in Tolan’s house, the altered cell phone data, and the murder of Sue Carmody had been designed to do just that.

He was, however, happy to admit that he’d been terribly wrong. And he hoped the untimely demise of Nurse Lisa Paymer made up for his mistake.

It certainly made
him
feel better.

He also told the task force that they’d find the body of the
real
Clayton Simm buried in a vacant lot up in San Mateo, and he thanked the staff of Baycliff Psychiatric for welcoming him into their family.

He was profoundly sorry, he said, for any grief he may have caused.

W
HEN BLACKBURN GOT
the letter addressed to him, he didn’t open it right away. He wasn’t sure he ever would, although he knew the department had already read it at least fifty times, dusted it for prints, and spent hours debating its contents, hoping to catch the man who had killed one of their bright and shining stars.

Blackburn spent the day of Sue Carmody’s funeral stuck in a hospital bed. The gash above his temple took sixty-six stitches, while the one on his forehead took thirty-nine. He had a serious concussion and a ruptured spleen where Vincent had hit him. He was pretty sure that the
Frank
enstein label was already circulating around the station house.

The investigation into the murders of Carl Janovic and Todd Hastert had proven that Blackburn’s theory about Lisa Paymer was also correct. She’d been the duty nurse five out of the seven times Hastert had visited County General, and her bank account—which was considerable, thanks to a very rich father—showed regular monthly withdrawals that matched the money given to the dead men.

Two months after the funeral, Blackburn and Kat Pendergast went out to a movie. Three dates later, they finally had that milkshake, and it was just good enough to help Blackburn forget about Carmody for a while.

Later that same night, however, as Kat lay sleeping, he took Vincent’s envelope out of his desk drawer, slid a finger under the flap, and opened it.

The letter inside was short and to the point.

Sorry about your partner
, it said.

I can send pictures, if you’d like
.

Acknowledgments

Once again, I want to thank Kathy Mackel for being my cheerleader throughout the writing of this novel.

Thanks also go to:

Ellie Evans, retired psychiatric nurse, for fact-checking the manuscript. Any mistakes, however, are my own;

Peggy White, for being a terrific sounding board;

My tablemates at Authors at Sea: Ann DiVito, Bill and Sally Hacker, Gloria Hall, Marti Keely, Gail Ryan, Gloria Wood and Karen Yates;

Scott Miller, world’s greatest agent, of Trident Media Group;

Marc Resnick of St. Martin’s, and on the other side of the ocean, Stef Bierwerth of Macmillan;

My Killer Year crew mates;

My mother, Louise, my sister, Scoti;

My kids, Lani and Matthew, who make a father proud;

And, finally, my wife, Leila, who is my best friend, my biggest supporter, and my greatest love.