‘You don’t have anything a little nearer the ground, do you?’ he asked.
Michael leaned over and ran his fingers over his computer keyboard, but his frown was discouraging. ‘I’m sorry, Mr. Nightingale, nothing else available at the moment, we’re very full. Couple of conventions in town.’
‘Can’t be helped,’ said Nightingale, then asked hopefully. ‘Is that a smoking room?’
‘I’m sorry, sir, the Peabody no longer has smoking rooms.’
‘Can I smoke on the balcony?’
‘Sorry, sir, I wouldn’t advise you to try that. The Peabody has no balconies.’
‘I thought it was the English who were always apologising.’
‘I’m sorry?’
‘Doesn’t matter,’ said Nightingale. ‘English humour.’
Nightingale took his key, handed five dollars to the waiting bellhop, but told him he’d carry his own bag, then headed off to find the stairs.
‘Elevators over there, sir,’ said the bellhop, trying to help, but Nightingale shook his head.
‘I’ll take the stairs,’ said Nightingale. ‘I’m not a big fan of elevators.’
‘But that’s the twelfth floor, sir.’
‘Isn’t it just,’ said Nightingale, walking away, while the bellhop shrugged his shoulders behind him.
Nightingale cheered himself up for the first few flights, by reminding himself that America started counting floors with number one at street level, so he really only had eleven flights of stairs to climb, but that psychological boost wore off quickly, as he trudged on upwards. He took off his raincoat on the fifth floor, and was breathing too heavily for comfort by the time he reached his room. He unlocked the door and looked around and decided it made a pleasant change from the generic chain hotel bedrooms he was used to. The armchairs looked old and comfortable, though they showed no wear, and the bed headboard, nightstands, closets, table, desk and drawer units were all dark wood and looked reassuringly solid. Real furniture, as opposed to veneered chipboard. The walls were painted grey, the ceiling white, and the carpet was a subdued pattern of browns. The only jarring note was the black wide-screen television on top of a chest of drawers.
He badly wanted a cigarette after his exertions but walking down twelve floors to street level didn’t appeal at all. For a moment he thought of breaking the rules, but the red light of the smoke detector, and the nozzle of the sprinkler system dissuaded him.
The flight up from Brownsville had given him plenty of thinking time, but he hadn’t firmed up any ideas yet. He was pretty sure the whole idea of the list was to flush him into the open, and wrong foot Wainwright. He still couldn’t think of anyone with a grudge against both of them, except the surviving members of the Apostles in San Francisco, several of whom were walking around on bail at the moment, and probably keen on revenge. Though without their leader none of them wielded real Occult power, according to Wainwright. Or maybe Wainwright wasn’t really a target, just another means to an end, and Nightingale himself was the one they really wanted. Whoever ‘they’ might be.
Or whatever.
Nightingale shuddered at that thought. Human beings were quite nasty enough for his tastes, he had no wish to be dealing with any other kind of creatures.
Nightingale was pretty sure that whoever was calling the shots would make something happen soon, but in the meantime the obvious place to start was with Joshua’s sister and her family. A call from Wainwright had arranged the visit, and they were expecting him that afternoon.
The original parchment was still with Wainwright but Nightingale had a copy. He took it out and stared at it, hoping for inspiration, but none came.
He picked up the hotel services menu and learned that the Peabody Duck walk happened every day at 11am and again at 5pm. The custom dated back to the 1930s and out of respect duck was never served in the Peabody’s restaurants. Apparently the ducks lived in a two hundred thousand dollar Duck Palace on the hotel roof, when they weren’t swimming in the fountain. Nightingale did some quick calculations, and decided that the duck’s new house had cost more than his old flat in Bayswater. He also learned what was available on the room service menu, and called down for a club sandwich and coffee. He unpacked his clothes while he was waiting for his order to arrive, but left some of the more unusual items in his bag, which he stored in the bottom of the closet.
A discreet knock announced the arrival of Lucille with his order, and he signed the bill, letting her have another five dollars in addition to the twenty percent service charge and four dollar delivery charge already added. It was all Wainwright’s money, and who knew when he might want a favour from someone in the hotel.
As he ate his sandwich, he pondered again where to go from here. There was no cover story he could think of that would get him in to see Olivia Taylor’s parents, and the idea of a supernatural list would have them calling the police before he got a foot in the door. Concentrating on Naomi Fisher, Wainwright’s niece seemed his only option, but even there he was pretty much hamstrung. Wainwright had been insistent that he shouldn’t mention any threat to the parents, and especially not the existence of the list, or any connection with the Occult.
‘Still,’ thought Nightingale as he sipped his coffee. ‘Nobody ever said life was easy.’
Nightingale had checked the distance from the Peabody to the Fisher home on Google Maps, but had no idea what the Memphis traffic might be like at that time of day. Assuming it would be horrendous, he allowed an extra hour for the trip, but the GPS got him there twenty minutes before his appointment, so he decided to take a look around Fisher’s neighbourhood. He parked in the empty lot in front of the Galilee Baptist Church, which was Reverend Matthew Fisher’s place of business, as shown by his name, written in gold lettering on the bottom of the notice board along with the times of services.
Nightingale stood next to the car and smoked a cigarette as he gazed up at the church. It was a two-storey brick building with half a dozen tall arched windows set along the sides, the frames painted white. The entrance was set under a white stone pediment, held up by four white stone columns. The grey slate roof was in good repair, and the whole building looked freshly cleaned. Nightingale had noticed that American churches generally seemed to be in better condition than their British equivalents. Probably due to having bigger congregations. Or richer ones.
Attached to the rear of the church was a brick tower, a storey higher than the rest of the building, with a spire covered in the same grey slates. On the side nearest him, there was a stained glass window that ran almost the whole width of the tower, and was the height of the second storey. It showed Christ, inevitably a young white man with light brown hair and beard, standing in a pure-white robe, surrounded by an aura of light, a halo around his head. All around him were what Nightingale thought of as junior angels, chubby-faced kids with small halos and wings.
As often happened when he looked at churches, Nightingale pondered the paradox of Christian churches being pretty much everywhere throughout the Western world, while Satan worshipers made every effort to keep their places of worship hidden. And yet, Nightingale knew several different ways of communicating with members of Satan’s demonic horde, and had used them many times in the past years, and met others who had done so. But he had no idea at all how to contact God, Jesus or an angel. Had never read any instructions on how to do so, and had never met anyone sane who claimed they had managed it.
He stood on his cigarette butt, and looked up at the figure of Jesus on the stained glass window. ‘I mean,’ he said, ‘come on. If you’re really up there, why do you make it so hard for the good guys, and so easy for the opposition? It’s almost as if you want them to win.’
As ever, God and Jesus gave him no sign of listening, so he headed off down the street.
The Reverend Matthew Fisher lived about a hundred yards or so from the church. Nightingale thought that his house didn’t look much like a vicarage, or if Americans even used that term. It was a double-fron
ted, two-storey detached house, with a well-kept patch of lawn and flower beds in front of it. The house was clad in sandy-coloured wood planking, which stretched right up to the grey slates of the roof, where two semi-circular windows looked out like half-closed eyes. Presumably to give light to an attic. Five stone steps led up to a plain red wooden front door.
Nightingale walked up the steps, rang the bell, and the door opened almost immediately. ‘You must be Mr. Nightingale, come on in.’ Sarah Fisher looked to be in her mid-thirties, which, since he’d said she was his younger sister, meant that Nightingale would need to revise his guess about the perpetually youthful Joshua Wainwright’s real age. She shared her brother’s dark skin and warm brown eyes. She was a head shorter than her brother, and was dressed casually in a pale green shirt and blue jeans, which showed off the fact she kept herself in pretty good shape. She led Nightingale down the hall and into the family sitting room, comfortably furnished with a long green sofa and chairs, which blended well with the cream walls. There was a long glass and brass coffee table in front of the sofa, and a large television opposite, with an X-box connected. A black cat was curled up asleep on one of the chairs. Nightingale couldn’t see any ashtrays, or smell any trace of smoke, so he assumed that Sarah didn’t share her brother’s taste for tobacco and kept his Marlboro in his pocket.
‘So, what can I get you, Mr. Nightingale?’ she asked. ‘Tea? Or is that too stereotypically English? Coffee?’
‘No, I’m fine thanks,’ said Nightingale. ‘ And make it Jack, please. Nice house you have here.’
‘Thanks, it does the job. We were lucky to find one so close to the church. My husband will be back pretty soon, he had to go out for a while to visit one of his lady friends.’
Nightingale failed to hide his surprise, then noticed the wide grin.
‘Hah, not really,’ she laughed. ‘Ellen Wade’s nearly ninety and can’t get to the church any more, so my husband takes the communion wafer round to her every week. He’ll be back soon. And Naomi will be back from school in twenty minutes.’
She pointed at a photo in the middle of the shelf-unit to the right, and Nightingale saw a bright-eyed girl with a gap-toothed smile. Her skin was lighter than her mother’s, but they shared enough facial features to make the relationship obvious. Naomi’s hair was short and curly, but her mother wore hers shoulder length and straight. ‘Pretty girl,’ he said.
‘She hates that photo. She’s just reaching the age where she’s started to think more about her appearance. She’ll be taking selfies soon.’
‘She uploads photos of herself onto Facebook and stuff?’
‘Oh no, we’re pretty strict about that, she’s not allowed social media accounts yet. In fact we’re so cruel she doesn’t even have a mobile phone, though she’s working pretty hard to break us down.’ She smiled. ‘Things were a lot simpler when I was a kid, We just wanted the latest Barbie outfit.’
‘Yeah, I had quite a collection,’ said Nightingale. He smiled. ‘Joke.’
‘Yes, Joshua warned me about that English sense of humour. How’s he doing, we don’t see much of him these days?’
‘Nor do I really,’ said Nightingale. ‘He’s usually airborne, making some deal or another. You know what he’s like.’ He smiled but he was pretty sure that Sarah Fisher had absolutely no idea what her brother was really like. Or the effort he was going to in order to protect his niece.
‘How do you come to know him?’ she asked.
The question was innocent enough, but Nightingale noticed that she was studying him closely while she waited for his reply. ‘Books,’ he said. ‘We share an interest in collecting, and I’ve helped him track down a few items. We’re not in competition, of course, I couldn’t afford to think about some of the prices he pays.’
‘That why you’re in Memphis? Book buying?’
‘Pretty much. On the trail of something unusual, and he suggested I drop by to say hello. To be honest, I think he feels guilty about not spending more time with you. You know how busy he is.’
‘Glad to have you here,’ she said. She leaned towards him and lowered her voice conspiratorially. ‘Though...maybe it’d be best not to talk too much about Joshua’s book collection when my husband get’s home. Doesn’t bother me, but Matthew doesn’t really approve. As you might expect.’
Nightingale nodded. ‘I won’t mention it,’ he said, smiling again but wondering how much Sarah Fisher actually knew about her brother’s Satanic book collection.
The front door-lock rattled, opened and closed and a deep male voice rang out. ‘Hi, honey. I’m home.’
Sarah rolled her eyes. ‘Matthew, not every time. We have a guest.’
Nightingale stood up to shake hands with the tall man in the dark suit and clerical collar who strode into the room. His sandy hair and pale skin showed the origins of Naomi’s lighter colouring, and his ready smile mirrored his wife’s.
‘Matthew Fisher,’ he said, releasing Nightingale’s hand from his strong grip. ‘Good to know you, Jack. Any friend of Joshua’s is always welcome. We don’t get to meet many of them. And we don’t see the man himself very much either. He’s always so darn busy.’
‘I know he wishes he could spend more time with you guys,’ said Nightingale. ‘I think that’s why he was so keen that I dropped by.’
‘I’m not sure I really count as a friend,’ said Nightingale. ‘We just have a few mutual interests.’
‘And what would they be?’ asked Matthew.
Before Nightingale could answer they heard the front door open again. ‘That’ll be Naomi,’ said Sarah. ‘Hi, sweetie.’
‘Hi mom, hi dad,’ came the answer, and Naomi walked in, a year or so older than in the photograph. Her adult teeth had grown in to fill the gap in her smile, and her hair was longer and straighter, maybe following her mother’s lead. She was nearly as tall as Sarah now, though very obviously still a child. She stopped as she saw Nightingale, put her head on one side, then glanced a question at her mother.
‘Naomi, this is Mr. Nightingale,’ said her mother. ‘He’s popped by to visit for a while. He’s a friend of your Uncle Joshua.’
Was it Nightingale’s imagination, or did the girl give a little frown at the mention of Wainwright’s name?
‘Pleased to meet you, Mr. Nightingale,’ she said, solemnly holding out her hand for him to shake. She looked at her mother again. ‘Is Uncle Joshua here too?’ she asked.
‘No,’ said Sarah. ‘Not this time.’
The girl didn’t seem too disappointed, but turned and headed towards the kitchen.
‘Lovely girl,’ said Nightingale.
‘We think so,’ said her father. ‘We’ve been lucky, she’s thoughtful, works hard, always happy, and never gets sick.’ He reached over and tapped a side table. ‘Touch wood. Her guardian angel does a good job.’
‘You believe in guardian angels?’ asked Nightingale.
‘Of course. Why not?’
‘Why not indeed? Joshua says she’s ten now?’
‘Good that he remembers, though he’s almost out-of-date, she’ll be eleven on Saturday.’
‘Big party?’
‘Not this year, she’s just doing the cinema with a few friends, then back here for cake and Coke. Seems only yesterday she was in diapers. I tell you, Mr. Nightingale, having kids makes you realise just how quickly time passes.’
Nightingale smiled but he was running out of reasons to stay. It had seemed a good idea to see the family, but it hadn’t got him anywhere. He’d picked up no vibrations of evil, or impending doom, the Fishers seemed an ordinary happy family with a lovely, well-brought-up daughter. So all was well with the Fisher world, so far as he could see.
Except, according to Wainwright’s theory, the ten-year-old daughter been marked down for imminent death.
CHAPTER 9
Timmy Williams heard the sound of the car in the drive, then the door opening downstairs and knew that his mother had come home. He turned off his iPad, walked out o
f his room, across the hall and downstairs to meet her. Mrs. Williams gave her son a perfunctory hug, then steered him out of the door and into the rear seat of the car, which was waiting in the drive, the motor still running. Mrs. Williams backed out of the drive, turned up the street then headed uptown.
She glanced in her mirror from time to time, but Timmy was just staring straight ahead. He looked a little young for twelve, but she knew that boys often had their growth spurt later than girls of the same age. He was wearing Adidas bottoms and sneakers and his favourite Memphis Grizzlies sweater. He never enjoyed visiting the dentist, but he wasn’t usually as quiet as this. ‘You okay, honey?’ she asked cheerfully. ‘Nothing to worry about today, just a little check-up, and you never need any work. All that brushing and flossing is paying off. Filling free for ten years now. And those adult teeth are coming through nicely. No retainers for you.’
The boy still said nothing, just nodded and carried on looking straight ahead.
Five minutes later, Mrs. Williams pulled into the parking lot opposite the dentist, opened the back door to let her son out, and the two of them walked up the street to the crossing. Anyone watching would have seen an attractive blonde woman in her thirties wearing a stone-coloured raincoat over a grey business suit and low heeled shoes, leading her kid along by the hand. Not that anyone paid them any particular attention at all, except for Dudák, who kept pace with them on the opposite side of the street, sparing them just an occasional glance.
The red ‘Don’t Walk’ signal was on when they reached the crossing, with heavy rush-hour traffic flowing pretty freely. She looked down to smile at Timmy, who didn’t hesitate at all on the curb, but stepped straight into the street and under the wheels of a beer truck that was rolling past. It was all over before his mother had chance to move or scream.
The truck was doing no more than twenty miles an hour, but that was more than enough. The driver had no time at all to react and his huge vehicle crushed the life out of the little boy instantly. He hit the brake as soon as he felt the impact, the truck screeched to a halt, with a grey SUV running straight into the back of it. The SUV driver leaped out, the angry curses dying on his lips as he saw the mangled body of the young boy. The truck driver gaped in horror for a few moments, then threw up on the side of his cab.
Tennessee Night (The 8th Jack Nightingale Novel) Page 4
