The cerebral aneurysm which had been slowly growing in her head had ruptured some time earlier, causing a sub-arachnoid haemorrhage and the blood flowing into her brain had finally resulted in a devastating stroke. Immediate neurosurgery might have been able to help her, but lunch had been an hour ago, and nobody came to her room until 7pm, by which time it was far too late.
CHAPTER 65
The Memphis 6 Downtown Motel was not the kind of place that anyone would ever expect to find billionaire Joshua Wainwright. It was far more typical of the kind of accommodation Jack Nightingale had been used to since his arrival in the USA. It was at least clean, but the furnishings were pretty spartan. A round table and two armless chairs with thin orange cushions, a very basic brown MDF desk, with an upright chair, also with orange cushions, a melamine drawer unit with a small television on top and two double beds, with counterpanes in an eye-scorching light blue abstract pattern. The bathroom seemed to contain all the necessary fittings, including the all important bathtub, but was about a quarter the size of the one in Nightingale’s abandoned Peabody suite.
‘It ain’t much, but it’s home,’ said Wainwright. ‘And at least it means the cops don’t see some black guy handing guns and shells to a white dude in a parking lot.’
‘There is that,’ said Nightingale. ‘Let’s do it.’
Wainwright opened the sports bag, took out the two holstered Glocks and the box of shells.
‘His Reverence was not happy with the idea of loading the guns for us,’ said Wainwright. ‘You ask me, he didn’t know one end of a gun from the other and was scared he’d shoot himself. So I got some gloves in Walgreens.’
‘Gloves are always a good idea,’ said Nightingale and pulled on the pair of latex gloves Wainwright handed him. He opened the box of shells and put sixteen into each magazine. The clip held seventeen but Nightingale always left one out to ease the strain on the spring. He handed one of the guns to Wainwright.
‘You sure this is gonna work?’ asked Wainwright.
‘It did last time, in New York.’
‘Good to know,’ said Wainwright. ‘And you sure we have the right address?’
‘Sure as I can be. There are only so many places you can take a little girl and keep her safe from prying eyes. Cops have no reason to call round, there’s literally nothing to connect Naomi to Dudák.’
‘You told Parker.’
‘She’s nowhere near convinced I’m not insane, and she has nothing to get a warrant for. Probable cause is big here, and I’ve heard nothing on the radio or TV that suggests the cops even know Naomi is gone.’
Wainwright reached into the bottom of the sports bag, and brought out a slim manila file, He put it on the desk and opened it.
‘The List,’ said Nightingale.
‘Sure is,’ said Wainwright. ‘Only four names left on it now, Emma Miller, Carmen Garcia, my niece and Sophie Underwood.’
‘I told you, Proserpine says Sophie’s a bluff. Just put in to make sure I got involved, maybe stop me thinking straight. She must be fourteen now, way out of Dudák’s age range, and thousands of miles away. I hope Emma Miller’s safe.’
‘How can you know that?’ asked Wainwright.
‘Because Bonnie Parker is her mother, and she sent her to...well, I don’t know where, but she said it was a thousand miles from Memphis.’
‘You told her? You told the police?’
‘I had no idea it was her daughter when I gave her the names on the list. Once I knew, I had no choice but to tell her to send the kid away. Joshua, I’ve had to watch helplessly while a bunch of ten-year olds crossed themselves off that damned list. How do you think I feel about that? Innocent kids dying. If there was one chance in a hundred of saving one of them, I had to take it.’
Wainwright nodded. ‘I guess so. But I sure do hope we’re gonna be saving two of them. That thing has my niece, and we have to get her back.’
‘We’ll do it, Joshua. I know where Dudák is, and that’s where Naomi will be. She’s safe until Saturday. Seems like that’s an important day to Dudák and she won’t be harmed till then. I’m still pretty sure that Proserpine wants Dudák exorcised and destroyed, but it’ll be easier to kill the host, and the thing will be forced to return to Hell.’
‘You hope,’ said Wainwright. ‘You better be right.’
Nightingale nodded. He agreed with Wainwright, but he couldn’t keep his thoughts off an unknown little ten-year-old girl somewhere in Tennessee, who shared the name of Carmen Garcia with lots of other little girls, and whom he could do nothing at all to save.
CHAPTER 66
There were dozens of children named Carmen Garcia in Memphis sleeping peacefully that night. Only one of them had turned off her iPad, sneaked out of bed, picked up the bag she’d prepared earlier, slipped out of her apartment, down the stairs and quietly out the main entrance to where Dudák was waiting in the car. Carmen smiled as she saw Dudák, opened the passenger door, slipped onto the seat and buckled the seat belt. She could barely see over the dashboard, but Tennessee State laws declared that she was old enough not to need a booster seat, and Dudák was not planning to drive her very far. It was probably unwise to appear with the child in public at all, but the chance of recognition was minute, and Dudák would be in another shell soon enough.
The car drove out to the west of the city, and stopped in the parking lot of the shopping and dining complex across the street from Memphis’s most famous monument. It was long past dark now, and traffic was very light. Security at the gate would be tight, but nobody was going to try to break in, and it would all be over before the guards would have chance to react. Dudák smiled at the girl, who returned the smile. Control was complete.
The two figures left the car, walked to the end of the parking lot and crossed the street, where they separated, Dudák turning to the left, walking fifty yards and then stopping and leaning against the wall.
The child marched off to her right, until she came to the famous musical-patterned gates, where she dropped her bag, unzipped it, took out her mother’s carving knife and plunged it into her heart with all the strength her lithe little body possessed. She fell back dying onto the gates before the guards had chance to move.
Dudák leaned back against the wall, eyes rolled up, the red flush spreading up the neck, as the child’s death energy coursed from its body and was absorbed into the creature.
Dudák walked to the entrance of the nearby hotel, where there were three taxis in a row waiting, and got into the first one. It was a fifty-dollar fare from Graceland back to where Naomi Fisher still slept, but money was of no consequence, and it was pointless to risk using the car and being seen.
In fact it was four days before anyone bothered to do anything about the abandoned car, and by then the whole thing was long over.
CHAPTER 67
Wainwright looked at his watch. ‘Getting to be around that time,’ he said. ‘You want to go first?
Nightingale nodded, stubbed out his latest cigarette and went into the bathroom, taking with him the two carrier bags they’d filled at the Broom Closet, which advertised itself as a ‘Metaphysical Shoppe’ and had pretty much everything they needed, apart from an item or two that Joshua’s tame priest had supplied, for a further contribution to the ‘Church Restoration Fund’, no doubt.
Nightingale stripped off his clothes. He showered first, then cleaned his finger and toenails with a new nailbrush. He washed his hair in pure lemon juice. He dried himself with a clean towel, then placed a church candle at each corner of the room and lit them, then sprinkled half the large bag of herbs into the empty bath.
He got into the bath on top of the herbs and lay down. He said six sentences in Latin, then turned on the hot tap. He added just enough cold water to make it bearable, and lay flat as the water covered him up to his shoulders, his chest, his chin and finally over his face. As soon as the water covered his nose and mouth, he folded his arms in the sign of Osiris slain, then opened them and held up his
hands in the sign of Osiris risen.
He sat bolt upright in the bath and made the obeisance of Set, a series of complex hand gestures he’d spent a long time learning several months before.
He pulled out the plug and let the water drain away completely, before getting out of the bath and letting himself drip dry over the next fifteen minutes. Finally he rubbed a laurel branch over his entire body, then sealed the nine orifices of his body with holy water, placed a blessed communion wafer on his tongue, and spoke two more sentences in Latin. He examined himself in the mirror then dressed in new Levis and a brand new polo shirt and the new Hush Puppies and raincoat he’d brought with him from Brownsville. The Ritual of Purification was complete.
He opened the bathroom door, and nodded at Wainwright.
‘Your turn,’ he said. ‘You remember it all?’
Wainwright held up a piece of paper, covered in neat handwriting. ‘Got it all written down, Jack,’ he said. ‘I must say this is a new one on me, where did you hear about it?’
‘An old lady in Salem,’ said Nightingale. ‘I have no idea how effective it is, but she told me that, when heading into great danger, it’s important to be cleansed, inside and out. I’m guessing that Dudák and whoever might be controlling it, come into that category.’
Wainwright shrugged. ‘Can’t hurt, I guess. See you in thirty.’
It was actually only twenty-five minutes later when Wainwright emerged from the bathroom, wearing new jeans, a pale blue silk shirt, shiny new cowboy boots and a black zip-up jacket. ‘Even polished the watch and jewellery,’ he said, with a grin.
‘You’ll be fine,’ said Nightingale. ‘Gold doesn’t hold impurities.’ He nodded. ‘Gun time.’
The two men strapped on the holsters, which held the Glocks in the middle of their waistbands, hidden by their coats. Nightingale piled the used supplies back into the bags, picked up his own holdall, took a last look around the room and followed Wainwright out to the parking lot.
They threw the bags into the back seat, then Nightingale started the engine and they drove off back towards Dudák’s place. A mile down the road, Nightingale suddenly yelled out, and grimaced in pain.
‘What?’ said Wainwright.
Nightingale shook his left hand vigorously and cursed.
‘The sigil on my hand just burned red hot,’ he said. ‘Dudák must have been within yards of us.’
‘Maybe we passed it on the street or something. Do you want to turn around? We could go back?’
‘No, it could be anywhere by now,’ said Nightingale. ‘Let’s stick to plan A.’
They drove on in silence for another twenty minutes, then Nightingale pulled up on the right in a quiet residential street.
‘That’s the one,’ he said. ‘A hundred yards up on the left. No lights on, and my hand is hardly tingling.’
‘So do you think Dudák’s not at home?’
Nightingale nodded. ‘Exactly.’
‘And what about Naomi?’
‘We’ll soon find out.’
CHAPTER 68
Nightingale broke a window at the rear of the house, gingerly pulled away the remaining shards of glass and climbed inside. He stood in the kitchen, listening intently. There was enough light coming in to allow him to look around. When he was satisfied that the house was silent, he helped Wainwright in through the window.
‘I didn’t realise that house-breaking was a skill of yours,’ said Wainwright as he stood in the middle of the kitchen.
‘I attended enough burglaries when I was a cop,’ said Nightingale. ‘Though there isn’t much skill involved, to be honest.’ Nightingale’s hand only tingled, so wherever Dudák might be, the house was safe enough, for the moment. He whispered to Wainwright. ‘Dudák’s not here, but this is the place for sure. I’ll stay down here, why not check upstairs, see if you can find Naomi, or any sign that she’s been here.’
Wainwright nodded, switched on the flashlight on his mobile phone, then took the gun out his jacket pocket and held it in his right hand.
Wainwright started to mount the stairs silently while Nightingale edged his way carefully into the sitting room and darted the beam of his phone around. As expected, the place was empty. He sat on a sofa, facing the door.
After a couple of minutes he heard a creak of a stair, and hoped it was Wainwright coming back down. He relaxed when he heard Wainwright’s voice from the doorway. ‘It’s me, Jack. She’s up there, thank God. Looks to be unharmed, but she’s fast asleep, and I can’t wake her.’
‘Drugs or hypnosis, I guess,’ said Nightingale. ‘More likely the second one. Dudák seems to make a speciality of having kids under his power. I guess we can deal with bringing her round once Dudák’s out of the way.’ He yelped and blew on the back of his left hand, which felt as if it was on fire.’
‘What is it?’
‘The sigil on my hand, just starting to throb. Dudák must be getting nearer.’ Nightingale started to grimace as the pain in his hand increased, until it seemed that the flesh would catch fire. He stood up and joined Wainwright in the hall. They heard the sound of a key in the lock, and heard it turn. Nightingale took out his gun and held it rock-steady, with a two-handed grip despite the pain, pointed at the front door. The door slowly opened and a figure stood there.
Wainwright also had his Glock ready and aimed as they strained to see in the darkness.
Then they heard the sound of a gun being cocked a few feet behind them. A deep gravelly voice spoke, loudly and authoritatively. ‘Alright guys, you can both take your fingers off the triggers and point the guns at the floor, right now.’
‘What the fuck?’ said Wainwright.
He and Nightingale turned to see Tyrone standing behind them with a large pump-action shotgun in his hands. He had changed his suit since the last time they’d seen him and was now dressed in pale blue with bright yellow shoes.
‘I won’t ask again,‘ said Tyrone. ‘It’s not part of my plan for you to die here, but plans can change. Do it now.’
Tyrone didn’t sound like he was bluffing, and Nightingale had no cards to call with, so he eased the pressure on the trigger, then pointed it at the ground. Wainwright did the same. ‘What’s this about, Tyrone?’ Wainwright asked.
‘You’ll find out soon enough, Joshua,’ said Tyrone. He looked over at the doorway. ‘Dudák, it’s safe to come in now.’
Dudák walked through the doorway, switched on the hall light, took off the woollen cap she was wearing and shook her long blonde hair free.
‘Good evening, Mr. Nightingale. Nice to see you again.’
‘Hello, Carol,’ said Nightingale. ‘Or do you prefer Dudák?’
‘As you wish,’ said Carol Goldman, in a voice which carried a slight trace of a German accent now. ‘I have learned quickly to answer to Carol in the last months, but I have borne so many names, and one is as good as another.’
‘Will somebody tell me what’s going on?’ asked Wainwright. He looked across at Nightingale. ‘Who is she?’
‘Her name’s Carol Goldman. She’s the shell that Dudák has been using.’
‘Ain’t you the clever one,’ said Tyrone. ‘So sharp you’re gonna end up cutting yourself.’
‘Tyrone here has his own agenda,’ said Nightingale. ‘I’m guessing he’s done a deal with someone. And that someone has linked him up with Dudák, who is using the shell of Carol Goodman. She’s a supply teacher which gives her easy access to children across the State.’
‘That’s why you were so interested in supply teachers?’ said Wainwright.
Nightingale nodded. ‘And as Kim Jarvis’s housemate, she was able to influence her to get her to kill herself in front of me.’
‘Stop the chit-chat and drop the guns, gentlemen,’ said Tyrone, gesturing with his shotgun.
They did as they were told. The Glocks clattered on the floor. Nightingale looked over at Dudák.
‘Congratulations on identifying me, Jack Nightingale,’ said Dudák.
&nb
sp; ‘It wasn’t difficult,’ said Nightingale. ‘Someone who had access to kids all over Tennessee, who they’d trust enough to let get close enough to establish control over them. Who better than a substitute teacher? And you could put them under your influence weeks or even months before, and then trigger them via social media. Or the phone.’
‘And Tyrone here is local,’ said Wainwright. ‘He’d have all the intel needed to select the victims.’
‘Well done, geniuses,’ said Tyrone. ‘This plan’s been a long time cooking, hope you’ll enjoy the final course.’
Tyrone stepped forward and slammed the stock of his shotgun against the back of Wainwright’s head. Wainwright slumped to the ground. Nightingale turned and raised his hands to protect himself but Tyrone was too quick for him. The stock hit Nightingale just above the right temple and he went down like a pole-axed steer.
CHAPTER 69
Nightingale woke up with a splitting headache, but he consoled himself with the thought that at least he’d woken up. Either Tyrone or Dudák could easily have killed him and left his body to be discovered maybe weeks later. The consolation evaporated once he started thinking about the possible reasons why they hadn’t done that. None of them seemed appealing. His current situation was nothing to get excited about either. His wrists and ankles appeared to be tightly bound with duct tape, and there was more of it over his mouth. A bag of some rough material had been pulled over his head. He could breathe, just about, but he couldn’t see anything. He figured he had been placed face down across the back seat of a car or a truck.
He listened as carefully as he could, but all he could hear was the sound of the engine. Then he heard voices.
‘Five minutes more,’ said Tyrone. ‘Then some preparation to make and we can rest up till midnight. Then we can make the sacrifice and you feed for the last time in that shell.’
Tennessee Night (The 8th Jack Nightingale Novel) Page 25
