“Now you,” he urged.
She reached up, took off her domino, and saw her face, only looking far more youthful, glowing with life. But as she watched, taut young flesh darkened, rotted, and fell away, revealing the skull beneath the skin. She screamed, or tried to, but now she had no tongue, and her nose became a gaping hole. Somehow, she could still see the death’s head in the mirror despite the fact that it had no eyes.
The ship keeled over, dancers skidding wildly down the sloping deck. Sara’s partner clutched at her, but she was already out of reach, falling over the rail of the ship and into the roiling sea. Sara’s heavy, elaborate dress billowed up around her as she sank into the dark waters. She thrashed desperately, trying to propel herself back to the surface, but she had lost her ability to swim and was too hampered down by the weight of her costume.
She sank further, the last vestiges of light dying around her. She was utterly alone in the black universe and knew that she was dead. Yet in the darkness, the voice of the dark-haired man echoed again.
“Catherine.”
And she knew it was her name.
Chapter 10: More Questions Than Answers
Sara woke from her dream of drowning to find the kitchen bright, the light restored. She looked around, woozy and panicking, expecting to see a bloody corpse sprawled in front of her. But Lomax was nowhere to be seen, though her flashlight was still on the table. Joe was lying on the far side of the kitchen, not moving. She saw blood, dark dried blood, on the side of his head.
She crawled over to him, tried to bring him round, checked his pupils for dilation. He seemed unconscious, simply knocked out, but she was still panicking, struggling to breathe normally and think straight. She had no time to think about the specter that had put its dead mouth to hers or the dream that had followed.
“Joe!”
She slapped his face gently, and he moaned slightly.
“Oh God!”
She grabbed her phone from the table and called emergency services. She tried 911 four times and was starting to panic before she remembered Sainte Isabel used the British emergency number. She had yelled at the 999 operator to send an ambulance for Joe, and only then registered that there was no trace of blood in the kitchen other than a few spots from the gash where Joe had hit his head on the kitchen counter.
The wait for help to arrive was the longest twenty minutes of Sara’s life. Joe was unconscious for the first five minutes or so. She put him in the recovery position, propped against the dishwasher, towels wadded behind his head. Sara felt an irrational impulse to rub the tread marks from Lomax’s sneaker off of her husband’s face. But they were evidence, of course. They would have to be photographed. She wept, fretted, got the First Aid kit, tried and failed to put a dressing on the wound, cursed her ineptitude, and apologized to Joe.
“Calm down, for God’s sake,” she told herself, wiping away snot with the back of her hand. “You’re not helping anyone, Sara.”
The second time, she remembered to clean the wound first. She went a little crazy and got some white rum. The sting of it brought Joe around, at least for a few moments. He looked at her, his pupils dilated, the whites of his eyes bloodshot. She fumbled with the dressing, taped it on, begged him not to move. He tried to talk instead.
“It’s okay, yes, what is it honey?”
She put her ear close to his lips.
“Who… was that?”
His eyes closed, and his head lolled to one side. When the paramedics came, they were efficient, brisk, sympathetic. They told her Joe might have a concussion but his vitals seemed okay. When Banks arrived soon after, he was bleary-eyed, his shirt not properly tucked into his khaki slacks, his uncombed hair revealing a spreading bald patch. He asked what had happened, why Lomax’s jeep was parked outside.
“She tried to kill us,” Sara said. “Get your friggin’ notebook out and write that down! She assaulted my husband and tried to attack me.”
Banks fell silent and stood in the doorway of the kitchen as the ambulance crew asked Joe routine questions of the ‘how many fingers?’ variety. The chief paramedic decided that Joe had a mild concussion and needed to see a doctor. Joe protested, but when he tried to stand up, it was clear he was still woozy. He let them take him out to the ambulance, but Sara was not allowed to go with him.
Banks insisted on questioning her instead.
“She tried to kill us both,” repeated Sara. “That’s all you need to know.”
Banks did not seem to be taking in the key point.
“Where is she now? She didn’t drive away,” he demanded.
Sara got a whiff of rum and halitosis and leaned away from the Englishman.
“She cut the lights, attacked Joe, tried to kill me…”
Sara trailed off, trying to remember what had happened next. There was the horrific face, a skull with black voids where living eyes once were. She tasted salt on her lips, rubbed them with the back of one hand. There was something else, a sound, perhaps a name…
“And you fought her off? Or she just left? She walked into the jungle? Because we didn’t pass her on the road. That makes no sense,” Banks pointed out. “And you still haven’t explained… well, any of this.”
“Charity Lomax was corrupt,” Sara shouted, jumping up from the couch. “She was working with the Deep Star company and corrupt officials, maybe with you!”
Banks, who had been standing over her, fumbling with his notebook, seemed to focus on her properly for the first time.
“I am not corrupt!” he hissed, genuine anger dispelling the bleariness. “And please sit down! You won’t get anywhere making accusations like that. A police officer has disappeared, we are perfectly entitled…”
There was a sudden, incongruous burst of music, which Sara recognized as the overture from ‘Carmen’. Banks scrambled for his phone, turned away from her. It was obvious who the call was from, with plenty of ‘yes sirs’ and ‘no sirs’. The commissioner wanted to know what had happened to his precious daughter.
She got stabbed by a ghost pirate, Sara thought. But if that happened, where’s the blood? Where’s the body? Is she on board the devil ship now? How does it work?
Banks was struggling to make himself heard through a volley of orders and possibly abuse. The call ended, and he turned back to Sara. Then the Inspector nodded to one of the police constables who had secured the scene.
“Okay,” he said. “We’re taking her in for questioning.”
Sara stood, too stunned to move or speak, as she was handcuffed and led outside. The taillights of Joe’s ambulance were already vanishing along the Port Louis road. A couple of minutes later, Sara was bouncing along in the back of a police Land Rover. She demanded to see a lawyer. Banks said one would be provided if she was formally charged. The inspector, who was riding shotgun, turned to look at her in the half-light.
“Why did you use the past tense, talking about Lomax?” he asked. “You said she was corrupt. How can you know she’s dead? You see my problem, Sara. I can’t ignore that kind of thing. How about you just tell me what happened?”
Sara shook her head, still trying to remember. She could recall a fourth person in the kitchen, the touch of bone on her mouth, an intense coldness, and the all-pervading fear. Not much else. Her waking nightmare was receding like a dream. The headlights lit up the potholed road, occasionally flickered onto wayside buildings. She glimpsed Castlereagh, looking more than ever like a haunted house.
The police station was already surrounded by people despite the late hour. Locals gazed on curiously, watching as Sara, an actual American, was bundled out of the Land Rover and inside. She was hustled through the lobby, along a short passage to holding cells at the back. Banks, now looking more or less sober, seemed slightly shamefaced as he explained that she could be held for twenty-four hours without being charged.
“We didn’t do anything!” Sara protested. “You’re arresting the goddamn victims! This is wrongful arrest, you know that, right? This is
a lawsuit in the making, fella!”
Banks did not reply but gave a tiny shrug. She felt an unexpected surge of pity for the man, an outsider like her and Joe, now entangled in a corrupt system. But the pity evaporated at once. Banks was a cop, she reasoned, and if anyone should be challenging corruption, it was him. He was, at best, a coward, probably the kind who hid in the bottom of a bottle.
“Hey,” she said, remembering something that should have been obvious. “We’ve got security cameras set up around the house. After that last incident, you know? The one Lomax did nothing about. Maybe you should check the footage?”
“We certainly will,” the Inspector said.
She gave him the name of their security firm. The video feed was sent to a server in Port Louis. Sara sensed that Banks was happy to be thrown this bone, to have something to do, and therefore, report to his commissioner. He thanked her for her cooperation and said he would speak to Joe next, if the doctor concerned approved.
The cell door clanged shut, and the constable locked it with an old-fashioned key. The whole police HQ had an obsolete, rundown feel to it. There was a distinct odor of urine and marijuana in the cell, barely masked by disinfectant. Sara decided the distinctive aroma summed up the kind of offender the cops were used to dealing with. Drunks and small-time dealers, nothing too big.
Maybe fear of Lemaitre does keep crime levels down, she thought. It would be massively ironic if a long-dead, homicidal maniac in his phantom ship is doing a favor for local law enforcement.
Sara felt forlorn, phoneless, and was in an old t-shirt, denim shorts, and a pair of bright pink flip flops. She knew she wasn’t looking or smelling her best and longed for a shower. She felt rage against Banks, the commissioner, the whole system that had put her behind bars. And she was also afraid.
Locked up for the first time, she thought. Never actually locked in anywhere before, not once in my whole life.
She suddenly realized how quickly an average person could become powerless, a pawn, a mere statistic. She tugged distractedly at her pendant, and the chain around her neck snapped.
Sara stared at the golden half-heart, then shoved it into the back pocket of her shorts, determined not to see the accident as an omen. She stood up and shouted, rattled the bars. She demanded to know if Joe was okay, to be taken to see him. There was no reply, no sign that she had even been heard. And she had to pee. Which was another novel experience, as the cell’s facilities were rudimentary, to say the least.
“So many new experiences,” she muttered. “Still, at least I’ve got a pot to piss in.”
After taking a leak, she sat on the rickety single bed and tried to think. She could not imagine ever sleeping again. But eventually, the adrenaline that had flooded her system wore off. She found herself lying back on the narrow bench, pulling a thin blanket over herself, and dozing. She woke to find the lights out, and the cell lit by the radiance of a full moon, and shivered. It took her a moment to notice someone standing in the next cell. The person was lit from the waist down.
“Hey!” she said, sitting up. “Hey, new guy, do you know how to get some attention around here? Do they check on us during the night?”
The other person turned their head.
“Catherine.”
The name was barely audible, spoken so softly that it reminded her of the slight stirring of leaves in a breeze. Sara froze, her eyes adapting to the darkness, making out now just how thin the figure was. Too thin, in fact, with hints of bare bone visible through great rents in its garments. A hand appeared, reaching through the bars, fleshless fingers moving fitfully, like the legs of a dying spider.
“Catherine.”
Then she woke up for real, the odor pervading the cell confirming that it could not be a dream. The shadow of the window bars lay across the concrete floor. She lay still, hearing the sounds of Port Louis, which seemed to consist of car horns and loud music. For a small town, it made a lot of noise pretty much around the clock.
A fast-moving shape blocked the light for a moment. She sat up, peered up at the window, but nothing was moving now. She adjusted the bench so that she could stand on it and then tried to lift herself, just managing to peep outside before her strength gave way. There was nothing to be seen but a few streetlights, a parking lot, the brightly-lit façade of a bar across the street. She flumped down on the bench and wondered what time it was, but without her phone, she had no idea.
An unseen door opened, and footsteps echoed. She heard Joe’s voice and stood up, but instead of Joe, Banks appeared. He waggled a bunch of keys at her, smiled ruefully, and unlocked the cell door. As he stood back, Sara noticed that his shirt was still not properly tucked in. She mentally filed him as a guy who had either given up or was pretty close.
“You’re free to go, Mrs. Hansen, and your husband has been given the all-clear by the medics,” he said. “But, before you do, I would be obliged if you’d help me with something. Your husband is not keen to cooperate, for obvious reasons. But I’d appreciate a positive attitude. It’s up to you.”
Sara’s first impulse was to tell Banks where to shove it, but she quickly regained control of her anger. She let him usher her back to the interview room, where Joe was waiting. They hugged, only a little self-conscious in front of the detective. She almost touched the new dressing on the side of his skull and flinched at the thought of inflicting more pain on him.
“Oh God,” she said. “That bitch could’ve killed you.”
“I can’t remember much about it,” Joe admitted. “I know the lights went out, she was there, then I remembered you and…”
Joe stopped, looking pointedly at Banks. The Englishman gestured at a laptop on the table, two chairs set up in front of it.
“If you’ll take a seat, we’ll show you what your security people so helpfully provided. Legally, such data remains your property, of course. You know you’ll watch it sometime. Why not look at it now?”
“Get it over with, Joe,” Sara urged.
He grunted agreement. They sat and Banks dabbed a flabby finger at the keyboard. A video window sprang to life, and they saw the area in front of the bungalow. Nothing happened for a few moments, and Joe shifted impatiently in his seat. Then the light level dropped—the external security lights had gone out along with the rest. Lomax appeared, a foreshortened shape looking even squatter than usual. She paused at the front door, seemed to take something from a pouch on her belt.
“She picked the lock after she cut the power,” said Joe.
“Then who put the power back on?” asked Banks. “We checked, there’s no problem with your supply. But that’s a minor point compared to what happens next.”
He reached down and switched to another window, showing the front of the house from a different angle. They saw Charity Lomax fiddling with the door lock, opening it, and entering the bungalow, shutting the door carefully behind her. Then there was a blurring of the image, as if something had moved past the camera lens so close it could only be out of focus. For another minute, nothing happened.
“Edge of the seat stuff,” said Joe, sourly.
“The point is, that if we wind forward…” Banks said.
He sped up the video by ten times, then twenty. He stopped as soon as movement appeared, wound back. Despite the foreshortening, it was clear that the two people caught on camera just outside the front door were the paramedics. Nobody had left the bungalow since Lomax entered.
“So what? You know there’s a back door. She must’ve left that way,” said Joe. “There’s another camera…”
Without speaking, Banks switched to a third video window, this one showing the rear of the bungalow, angled so that they could see the kitchen door from above.
“Would you be surprised to learn that nobody came out?” Banks asked. “She couldn’t have climbed out of a window without being caught on camera from some angle, so far as I can tell.”
“So, she hacked the camera system…” Joe began, then fell silent, frowning.
“Precisely,” said Banks. “She erased footage of herself leaving, but not her arrival? Makes no sense. It’s your classic locked-room mystery—unfortunately. Logically, Detective Sergeant Lomax should still be in there. She isn’t. Without a body, we can’t charge you with anything, of course. But your injuries do support your story, Mr. Hansen, and her conduct in these videos would arouse suspicion in anyone.”
Sara got the impression that Banks was rather pleased to have solid evidence about Lomax’s misconduct. It might prove difficult for the commissioner to claim his daughter had been the victim when she was on film acting like a burglar.
“She wasn’t exactly your favorite person, was she?” Sara asked.
“I couldn’t possibly comment on a fellow officer,” Banks replied, deadpan.
Joe asked if they were free to go. Banks shrugged, walked to the interview room door, and opened it.
***
It was after midnight, and the town was half-awake. A cool breeze washed over Sara, and she took a deep breath. She felt as if she had just been freed from a long stretch in jail. She knew this was absurd, but she admitted to Joe that being behind bars, after their ordeal at the bungalow, had been pretty stressful.
“And for good measure, I broke my chain. I’m sorry,” Sara said, taking the pendant out of her pocket and showing it to him.
He reached into his shirt for his pendant, and she put the two halves of the heart together. It had been a long while since they had done that, a gesture they had made when they’d first gotten engaged. They’d both pretended it was no big deal, made a joke of it with friends. Now, Sara knew it symbolized the most important thing in her world.
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