Whispers of the Dead (23 page)

It started to rain as Jacobsen drove me back to my hotel. Fat drops
slid down the car windows in uneven bursts, swept away by the
wipers only to reappear a moment later. Away from the hospital,
the roads and bars were still busy. The bright lights and bustling
streets were a relief, but I couldn't connect with their normality. I felt

222

4
separated from them by more than the car window, aware that the
reassurance they offered was illusory.
For once I was almost unaware of Jacobsen's closeness. It was only
when she finally spoke that I dragged my thoughts back to the here
and now.
'Dan says Loomis and Harper were strangled with some kind of
ligature,' she said.
I stirred, surprised by the conversational gambit. 'Probably something
called a Spanish windlass. A sort of tourniquet.' I explained
how it worked.
'That'd fit in with what we know about York. He'd like the power
something like that would give him. Literally life or death, and much
more satisfying than killing someone straight away. It'd allow him to
control the process, decide exactly when to exert enough pressure
to kill his victim.' She gave me a quick glance. 'Sorry, that wasn't very
tactful.'
I shrugged. 'It's all right. I've seen what York does. I'm not going
to faint because he's playing mind games.'
'Is that what you think tonight was?'
'If he was serious about coming after me, why warn me in
advance?' But even as I said it I realized I'd encountered another
killer once who'd done exactly that.
Jacobsen wasn't convinced either. 'York needs to assert himself. To
a narcissist like him, what happened with Dr Lieberman would've
been a huge loss of face. His self-esteem's going to demand something
even more spectacular to make up for it. Warning his next
victim in advance might be it.'
'I still can't see why York would bother targeting me. Tom
and Irving were both well known. Why go from high-profile
targets to a stranger no one here's heard of? It doesn't make any
sense.'
'It might to him.' She spoke flatly, her gaze on the road. 'He saw
you working with Dr Lieberman, don't forget. And you're British, a
guest at the facility. York might feel that someone like you might
make a bigger splash than someone local.'
That was something I hadn't considered. 'I suppose I should be
flattered,' I said, trying to make a joke of it.
I wasn't rewarded with a smile. 'I don't think you should take it lightly.'
Believe me, I'm not.'Can I ask something?' I said, wanting to change
the subject. 'Have you heard anything from the lab about the blood
samples from the cabin?'
There was a beat before she answered. 'A full DNA analysis takes
weeks.'
That wasn't what I'd asked, but her evasion told me I was on the
right track. 'No, but they should have found out by now if the blood
was human or not.'
At any other time I might have enjoyed her surprise.'How did you
know that?'
'Call it an educated guess. So it was from an animal, then?'
The darkened profile gave a nod. 'We only got the results this
afternoon, but even before then we knew there was something not
right about it. Forensics weren't convinced by the spatter patterns in
the cabin, although York made a good job of faking them. So the lab
ran a preliminary test which suggested the blood was non-human.
But we still had to wait until they'd extracted the DNA before we
could be sure.'
'What was it? Pig's blood?'
I could see the white of her teeth in the darkness as she smiled.
'Now you're just showing off.'
Well, perhaps a little. 'It isn't as clever as it sounds,' I admitted.'Once
we'd confirmed that Terry Loomis had been strangled, then the
blood obviously couldn't have been his. So the cuts on his body had
to be post mortem, in which case most of the blood in the cabin
had to have come from somewhere else.'
'I still don't see how you could know it was pig's blood . . .' she
began, then answered herself. 'Oh, I get it. The teeth we found with
Willis Dexter's body.'
'I'd wondered if the blood could be animal before then. But once
I saw those I guessed it was probably from a pig as well,' I told her.
'Seems to be the sort of game York enjoys.'
Jacobsen fell silent. Her face was marbled by the rain running
down the windows. In the slanting planes of yellow from the streetlights,
her profile looked like a Grecian sculpture.
'I shouldn't really tell you this,' she said slowly. 'The blood samples
from the cabin aren't the only results we've had. Noah Harper tested
positive for Hepatitis C
God. Poor Kyle. Unlike the A and B strains, there was no vaccine
for Hepatitis C. The virus wasn't necessarily fatal, but the treatment
was time-consuming and unpleasant. And even then, there were no
guarantees.
'Does Kyle know?' I asked, uncomfortably aware that it could
easily have been me instead.
'Not yet. It'll be a while before he gets his own results from the
hospital, and Dan didn't think there was any point worrying him.'
She gave me a quick look. 'You understand this is strictly in
confidence?'
'Of course.' For once I agreed with Gardner. There was still a
chance Kyle might escape infection, but I wouldn't have wanted to
stake my own life on so slim a bet.
We'd arrived at the hotel. Jacobsen found a parking space near the
entrance. As she pulled in I saw her glance in the rear-view mirror,
checking the cars behind us.
'I'll see you up to your room,' she said, reaching into the back seat
for the manila envelope that Gardner had given her.
'There's no need.'
But she was already climbing out of the car. There was a new alertness
about her as we went inside. Her eyes were constantly moving,
flicking over the faces around us, checking for potential threats, and
I saw how she walked with her right hand held close to where her
gun was concealed under her jacket. Part of me felt unable to take
any of this seriously.
Then I remembered what had been left on my windscreen.
An elderly woman gave us a twinkling smile as she stepped out of
the lift, and I could guess what she was thinking. Just another young couple, on their way to bed after a day in the city. It was so far removed from the truth it was almost funny.
Jacobsen and I stood side by side in the lift. We were the only
passengers, and the tension between us seemed to increase with
every floor. Our shoulders brushed lightly at one point, causing a
quiet snap of static. She swayed away, just far enough to break the
contact. When the doors opened she stepped out first, her hand
slipping under her jacket to rest on the gun at her hip as she checked
that the corridor was empty. My room was at the far end. I swiped
my key card through the slot and opened the door.
'Thanks for escorting me.'
I was smiling as I said it, but she was all efficiency now. The
barriers that had briefly come down in the car had gone back up.
'May I take a look in your room?'
I was going to tell her again there was no need, but I could see I'd
be wasting my time. I stepped aside to let her in.
'Feel free.'
I stood by the bed while she searched. It wasn't a big room, so it
didn't take her long to satisfy herself that York wasn't hiding in it. She
was still carrying the manila envelope from Gardner, and when she'd
finished she brought it over to where I waited. She stopped a few feet
away, her face a perfect mask.
'One more thing. Dan wanted me to show you these.' She busied
herself opening the envelope. 'There was a security camera over the
road from the hospital payphone. We pulled the footage from
the time the call was made to Dr Lieberman.'
She handed me a thin sheaf of photographs. They were stills from
a CCTV camera: low quality and grainy, with the date and time
printed at the bottom. I recognized the stretch of road where the
phone booth was situated. One or two cars and the boxy white shape
of an ambulance were partially visible in the foreground, blurred and
out of focus.
But I was more concerned with the dark figure that was caught
turning away from the payphone. The image quality was so poor it
was impossible to make out its features. The head was bowed, the face
no more than a white crescent that was all but hidden by a dark,
peaked cap.
The other photographs showed more of the same, the figure
hurrying across the road, shoulders hunched and head down. If anything
it was even less clear in those.
'The lab's trying to clean up the images,' Jacobsen told me. 'We
can't say for sure that it's York, but the height and build look about
right.'
'You aren't just showing me these out of courtesy, are you?'
'No.' She looked at me unflinchingly. 'If you're York's next target
Dan felt you ought to know what he might do to try to get near you.
The dark clothes and cap could be some kind of uniform. And if you
look on his hip there's something that looks like a flashlight. It's
possible he tries to pass himself off as a police officer or some other
authority figure who-- Dr Hunter? What is it?'
I was staring at the photograph as the memory fell loose. Flashlight. . ..
'A security guard,' I said.
'I'm sorry?'
I told her about being stopped in the car park a few nights earlier.
'It's probably nothing. He just wanted to know what I was doing
there.'
Jacobsen was frowning. 'When was this?'
I had to think back. 'The night before Irving was abducted.'
'Did you get a good look at him?'
'He kept the torch pointed at my face. I couldn't see him at all.' .
'What about anything else? His mannerisms or voice?'
I shook my head, still trying to recall. 'Not really. Except. . . well,
his voice sounded . . . odd, somehow. Gruff.'
'Like he was disguising it?'
'It's possible.'
'And you didn't mention this to anyone?'
'I didn't think anything of it at the time. Look, it probably was just
a security guard. If it was York why did he let me go?'
'You said yourself it was the night before Professor Irving
disappeared. Maybe he had other plans.'
That silenced me. Jacobsen put the photographs back in the
envelope.
'We'll check with hospital security, see if it was one of their
people. In the meantime, keep your door locked when I've gone.
Someone'll be in touch tomorrow morning.'
'So I've got to just wait here until I hear from you?'
She was all stone again now. 'It's in your own interests. Until we
know how we're going to play this.'
I wondered what she meant by that, but let it go. Any decision
would come from Gardner or above, not her. 'Do you want a drink
before you go? I don't know how well stocked the minibar is, but I
could order coffee or--'
'No.' Her vehemence seemed to surprise both of us. 'Thanks, but
I need to get back to Dan,' she went on more calmly. But the flush
spreading from the base of her throat told another story.
She was already heading for the door. With one last reminder for
me to keep it locked, she was gone. What was that about? I wondered
if she could have read too much into my offer of a drink, but I was
too tired to worry about it for long.
I sank down on the edge of the bed. It seemed impossible that it
was only that morning I'd heard of Tom's death. I'd intended to call
Mary again, but it was too late now. I put my head in my hands.

I
Christ, what a mess. Sometimes it seemed I was dogged by ill luck and
disaster. I wondered if events would have followed the same track if
I'd never come out here. But I could almost hear what Tom would say to that: Stop beating yourself up, David. This would have happened no
matter what. You want to blame someone, blame York. He's the one
responsible.
But Tom was dead. And York was still out there.
I stood up and went to the window. My breath fogged the cool
glass, reducing the world outside to indistinct yellow smudges in the
darkness. When I wiped my fist across the pane, it reappeared with a
squeak of skin on glass. The street below was a bright neon strip, car
headlights creeping along in a silent ballet. All those lives, busily
going about their own concerns, all indifferent to each other.
Watching them made me acutely aware of how far from home I was,
how much I didn't belong.
Whether you belong or not, you're here. Get on with it.
It occurred to me that I still hadn't eaten. Turning away from the
window, I reached for the room service menu. I opened it but only
glanced at the gushing descriptions of fast food before tossing it
aside. All at once I couldn't stand to be in the room any longer.York
or no York, I wasn't going to hide away until Gardner decided what
to do with me. Snatching up my jacket, I took the lift back down to
the lobby. I only intended to go to the hotel's late-night bar to see if
they were still serving food, but I found myself walking straight past.
I didn't know where I was going, only that I needed to be somewhere
else.
Outside, the rain had stopped, but the air was still freshened by its
recent fall. The pavement was slick and shiny. My shoes raised small
splashes as I set off down the street. The skin between my shoulder
blades twitched, but I resisted the impulse to look behind me. Come on then, York. You want me? Here I am!
But my bravado soon burned itself out. When I came to a diner
that was still open I went inside. The menu was mainly burgers and
fried chicken, but I didn't care. I ordered at random and handed the
menu back to the waitress.
'Anythin' to drink?'
'Just a beer, please. No, wait - Do you have any bourbon?
Blanton's?'
'We got bourbon, but just Jim or Jack.'
I ordered a Jim Beam with ice. When it arrived I took a slow
drink. The bourbon traced a gentle fire down my throat, easing away the lump that had formed there. Here's to you, Tom. We'll get the bastard
soon, I promise.
For a while I almost believed it myself.

The straps and cogs gleam in the lamplight. You polish them after every time,
waxing the leather until it's soft and supple and the tooled steel gleams.
There's no real need. It's an affectation, you know that. But you enjoy the
ritual. Sometimes you think you can almost smell the warm beeswax scent of
the saddle polish; probably just a faint trace memory, but it soothes you all the
same. And there's something about the sense of preparation, of ceremony, that
appeals. Reminds you that what you're doing has a purpose; that the next
time might be the one. And this time it will be.
You can feel it.
You tell yourself not to get your hopes up as you lovingly burnish the
leather, but you can't deny the tingle of anticipation.You always feel it beforehand,
when everything is possible and disappointment is still in the future.
But this time it seems different. More portentous.
Special.
Leaving the skin on the car windscreen was a calculated gamble, but well
worth it. They were bound to realize what you'd been doing eventually; better
for it to be on your terms, when you can use it to good effect. You're still in
control, that's the main thing. By the time they realize what's happening it'll
be too late, and then . . .
And then . . .
But that's something you shy away from. You can't see that far ahead.
Better to stay focused on the job at hand, on the immediate objective.
It won't be long now.
You gently turn the winding mechanism, watching the leather strap tighten
as the cogs turn smoothly, their teeth meshing with a clockwork whisper.
Satisfied, you breathe on them before giving them a final rub. Your reflection
stares back at you, distorted and unrecognizable. You stare at it, obscurely
disturbed by thoughts that never quite break surface, then wipe it away with
a sweep of the cloth.
Not much longer now, you tell yourself. Everything is in place and ready.
The camera is loaded and in position, just waiting for its subject. The uniform
is brushed and cleaned. Well, if not cleaned, exactly, at least clean enough to
pass a first impression. And that's all you'll need.
It's all a matter of timing.
I was lingering over my second coffee in the hotel restaurant next
morning when Gardner called.
'We need to talk.'
I glanced guiltily around the busy tables, conscious that he'd told
me to stay in my room. I'd considered having my breakfast sent up,
but in the bright daylight that didn't seem necessary. If York could
spirit me out of the hotel in broad daylight then I was in real trouble
anyway.
'I'm in the restaurant,' I said.
I felt Gardner's censure down the phone line. 'Stay there. I'm on
my way over,' he told me, and hung up.
I sipped my cooling coffee, wondering if this was the last breakfast
I'd be eating in Tennessee. I'd felt out of sorts all morning. I'd slept
badly, waking with a heaviness I couldn't place at first. Then Tom's
death came back to me, followed a moment later by the recollection
of the skin left on my car.
It wasn't the best start to a day I'd ever had.
Gardner couldn't have been far away when he'd called, because he
arrived within twenty minutes. Jacobsen was with him, looking as
untouched and untouchable as usual. The late night seemed to have
left no mark on her, but if her vitality held shades of Dorian Gray,
then Gardner was the portrait in the attic. The senior agent looked
worn out, the skin of his face a network of fine lines and grooves. I
reminded myself that it wasn't just the pressure of the search for York
that was weighing him down; Tom had been a friend of his as well.
But he held himself as straight as ever as he strode across to my
table, Jacobsen a pace behind him.
'Can I get you a coffee?' I asked, as they sat down.
They both declined. Gardner glanced around the other tables to
make sure no one could overhear.
'Security cameras show someone by your car at eight forty-five
last night,' he said without preamble. 'It was too far away to pick out
much detail, but the dark clothes and cap look the same as on the
footage from the phone booth. Also, we checked with hospital
security. It wasn't one of their employees you saw in the car
park.'
'York.' There was a bitter taste in my mouth that had nothing to
do with the coffee.
'We couldn't prove it in court, but we think so. We're still trying
to identify the fingerprints we lifted from your hire car, but there're
so many it isn't easy. AndYork probably wore gloves anyway.' Gardner
shrugged. 'No luck with the sloughed skin, either. Its prints don't
match either Willis Dexter s or Noah Harper's. From the small size it
could be off a woman or an adolescent, but other than that we can't
say.'
An adolescent. Christ. A skein of congealed milk lay on top of my
coffee. I pushed it away from me. 'What about the photographs you
found at York's house? Do you have any idea who the people in
them are?'
Gardner looked down at his hands. 'We're checking them against
the missing person database and unsolved homicides, but there's a lot
to wade through. And it's going to be hard finding a match for them
anyway.'
Remembering the contorted faces, I imagined it would.'Have you
any idea where York might be?'
'There've been a few unconfirmed sightings since we gave the
press his details, but nothing definite. He's obviously got a hideout
somewhere. He doesn't seem to have killed his victims either at his
house or at Steeple Hill, so he must've taken them someplace else.
Probably somewhere he can get rid of the bodies easily, or we'd have
found others besides Loomis and Harper.'
With the Smoky Mountains on his doorstep, disposing of his
victims' bodies wouldn't be difficult. 'According to Josh Talbot, for a
swamp darner nymph to get caught up with Harper's body, it had to
have been left near a pond or a slow-moving stream.'
'That narrows it down to almost the whole of East Tennessee.'
Gardner gestured irritably. 'We've been checking out recorded sightings
of swamp darners, but we need more to go on than that. Diane,
why don't you tell Dr Hunter what you've come up with?'
Jacobsen tried to hide it, but there was a marked tension about her.
I could see a pulse in the side of her throat, beating away in time to
her excitement. I tore my eyes from it as she began to speak.
'I took another look at the photographs we found at York's house,'
she began. 'They seem to have been taken when the victims were
very close to death, perhaps at the actual point of death itself. I'd
assumed they were just trophies York had collected. But if that's all
they were, seeing how he'd strangled them you'd expect the victim's throat to be in the frame as well. It isn't, not in any of them. And if
York just wanted to relive his kills, why not just record the whole
thing on video? Why take such an extreme close-up of the victim's
face, and in black and white at that?'
'Perhaps he's a photography buff,' I said.
'Exactly!' Jacobsen leaned forward. 'He thought he was being
clever leaving Willis Dexter's fingerprint on the film canister, but he
gave away more than he intended. Those photographs aren't just
quick snapshots he's fired off. According to the lab they were taken
in low light without a flash, using a very high speed film. To get a
print of that quality under those conditions takes serious photographic
know-how and equipment.'
'Wasn't there a thirty-five-millimetre camera at his house?' I asked,
remembering the box of old photographic gear.
'The photographs weren't taken on that,' Gardner said. 'None of
the equipment there had been used for years, so it was probably his
father's. Judging from the pictures at the house York senior was an
amateur photographer as well.'
I thought about the fading photographs on the sideboard.
Something about them bothered me, but I couldn't think what.
'I still don't see why any of this is important,' I admitted.
'Because the photographs aren't just souvenirs to York. I think they
might be central to what he's doing,' Jacobsen said. 'Everything we
know about him suggests an obsession with death. His background,
the way he treats his victims' bodies, his fixation with a forensic
anthropologist like Dr Lieberman. Factor in these photographs of his
victims in extremis, and it all points to one thing: York's a
necrophiliac'
Despite myself, I was shocked. 'I thought you said there was no
sexual motivation?'
'There isn't. Most necrophiliacs are males with low self-esteem.
They're drawn by the idea of an unresisting partner because they're
terrified of rejection. That doesn't apply to York. If anything, he feels
society doesn't appreciate him enough. And I doubt very much that
he's attracted to his victims, dead or alive. No, I think his condition
takes the form of thanatophilia. An unnatural fascination with death
itself.'
This was getting into uncomfortable territory. I felt the first spike
of a headache in my temples.
'If that's the case, why didn't he take the photographs when his
victims were dead rather than as he killed them?'
'Because that wouldn't be enough. Over and above the
necrophilia,York's a pathological narcissist, remember. He's obsessed
with himself. Most people are scared of dying, but to someone like
him the notion of his own extinction must seem intolerable. He's
been surrounded by death all his life. Now he's driven by a need to understand it.'Jacobsen sat back, her face solemn. 'I think that's why
he kills, and why he takes photographs of his victims. His ego can't
bear the thought that one day he's going to die himself. So he's looking
for answers. In his own way he's trying to solve the mystery of
life and death, if you like. And he's convinced himself that if he can
take that definitive picture, catch the exact moment of death on film, it'll all become clear.'
'That's insane,' I protested.
'I don't think sanity is a prerequisite for serial killers,' Gardner
commented.
He was right, but that wasn't what I meant. There was still no firm
consensus on exactly when life ended. Stopped hearts could be
resuscitated, and even brain death wasn't always conclusive. The idea
that York thought he could capture the actual instant his victims died
on film, let alone learn anything from it, disturbed me in ways I
couldn't describe.
'Even if he managed it, what good does he think it'll do?' I asked.
'A photograph isn't going to tell him anything.'
Jacobsen gave a shrug. 'Doesn't matter. So long as York believes it
then he'll carry on trying. He's on a quest, and it won't matter how
many people he kills pursuing it. They're all just lab rats as far as he's
concerned.'
The flush sprang up from her throat as she realized her mistake.
'I'm sorry, I didn't mean . . .'
'Forget it.' I might not like it, but I was no worse off for knowing
what the situation was. 'From what you say, York's obviously been
doing this for some time. Years, perhaps. God knows how many
people he's killed already, without anyone knowing about it. He
could have carried on like that indefinitely, so why the change?
What's made him suddenly decide to draw attention to what he's
doing?'
Jacobsen spread her hands. 'Hard to say. But I'd guess it's precisely because he's been doing it for so long. You said yourself that what he's
trying to do is impossible, and perhaps on some level he's started to
realize that himself. So he's compensating, trying to make up for his
failure by boosting his ego some other way. That's why he went after
Dr Lieberman, a recognized expert in a field York probably regards
as his own. In a way it's classic displacement -- he's trying to avoid
confronting his failure by reassuring himself that he is a genius
after all.'
The headache had developed into a full-blown throb. I massaged
my temple, wishing I'd brought some aspirin from my room.
'Why are you telling me this? Not that I don't appreciate it, but
you haven't exactly been quick to share information before. So why
the sudden change?'
Jacobsen glanced at Gardner. He'd seemed content to let her do
most of the talking so far, but now he drew himself up almost
imperceptibly.
'Under the circumstances it was felt that you'd a right to know.'
He regarded me coolly, as though still assessing me even now. 'You've
presented us with a problem, Dr Hunter. York was sending us a
message by leaving the skin on your car. We can't ignore that. He's
already abducted and in all likelihood murdered Alex Irving, and if
not for the heart attack he'd probably have got Tom as well. I'm not
about to let anyone else connected with the investigation be added
to the tally'
I looked down at my cold coffee, trying to keep my voice level.
'You can throw me off the investigation if you're like.' Again. 'But I'm
not going back to the UK, if that's what you're thinking.'
It wasn't bravado. At the very least I wanted to stay for Tom's
funeral. No matter what, I wasn't leaving without saying goodbye to
my friend.
Gardner's chin jutted. 'That's not how it works. If we say you go,
then you go. Even if it means having you escorted on to the plane.'
'Then that's what you'll have to do,' I retorted, my face growing
hot.
The look he gave me said he'd like nothing better than to drag me
to the airport himself. But then he let out a long breath.
'Frankly, it might be better for everyone if you were to go home,'
he said sourly. 'But that wasn't what I had in mind. There could be
certain . . . advantages if you stayed. At least then we'd know where to focus our attention.'
It took a moment for me to realize what he meant. I was too
surprised to say anything.
'You'd be kept under constant surveillance,' Gardner went on, his
manner businesslike now. 'You wouldn't be placed at any risk. We
wouldn't ask you to do anything you were unhappy about.'
'And if I'm unhappy about the whole thing?'
'Then we'll thank you for your help and see you on to your plane.'
I felt an absurd urge to laugh. 'So that's my choice? I can stay, but
only if I agree to be a stalking horse to draw out York?'
'That's your choice,' he said with finality. 'If you stay you'll need
round-the-clock security. We can't justify that kind of expense when
we could get you out of harm's way just by sending you home. Not
without a good reason. But it's your decision. No one's twisting your
arm.'
The brief relief I'd felt had dried up. Gardner was wrong; it was no
decision at all. If I left then York would simply transfer his attentions
to another victim.
I couldn't let that happen.
'What do I have to do?'
It was as though a bubble of tension had been pricked. A look of
satisfaction flashed across Gardner's face, but Jacobsen was harder to
read. For a second I thought I saw something like guilt cloud her
eyes, but it had gone so quickly I could have been mistaken.
'For now, nothing. Just carry on as normal,' Gardner said. 'If York's
watching I don't want him to realize anything's wrong. He'll expect
us to take some precautions, so we won't disappoint him. We'll have
a team parked outside the morgue and your hotel that he'll spot. But
there'll be covert surveillance that he won't.You won't either.'
I nodded, as though all this was perfectly ordinary. 'What about my
car?'
'We're done with it. Someone's bringing it to the hotel. They'll
leave the keys at reception. We're still working on the details, but