Prosper Snow Series

by Shaun Jeffrey

  Feeling useless as the scene of crime officers went about their slow and painstaking business, Prosper left them to it and drove straight to Wolfe’s house. It was too late to be concerned about being seen together. Now it was just a matter of staying alive long enough to find his wife.

  The fourteen killers photographs placed around Ty and Paris’ corpses had been identified: Mack Ray Edwards (twice). Coral Eugene Watts. Patrick Wayne Kearney. Patrice Alègre (twice). Donald Harvey. Colin Ireland. Robert William Pickton. Jane Toppan (twice). Harold Shipman. And two new faces, those of Charles Cullen and Herbert William Mullin.

  But what did they mean?

  As he parked the car in Wolfe’s drive, his mobile phone rang and he accepted the call.

  “Prosper, we’ve just heard what happened,” Chief Superintendent Hargreaves said.

  Prosper swallowed. He felt close to tears. “I’m going to catch the—”

  “Prosper, I told you before, you’re too personally involved. Now I’m ordering you off this case. I think it only right you take compassionate leave and join your son at the safe house.”

  “But Sir, the Oracle’s got my wife.”

  “I know, and we’ll find her. Don’t you worry.”

  “But—”

  “No buts, Prosper. Understand?”

  Prosper disconnected the call. There was no way he was going to sit around while the Oracle had Natasha.

  He exited the car and hurried to Wolfe’s front door. He kept his finger on the doorbell, not allowing his friend the indulgence of waiting for the three rings.

  “Okay, okay, I’m coming,” he heard an irate Wolfe mutter.

  The door opened and Wolfe peered out, his coal dark eyes glinting. He was dressed in the baggy black pants of a bodybuilder and a vest top that displayed his musculature. He was sweating, and he looked past Prosper to survey the area.

  “Prosper. What is it?”

  The lump in Prosper’s throat rendered him speechless.

  Wolfe frowned and then pulled him into the house.

  He closed the door and said, “What is it? What’s happened? It’s Ty and Paris, isn’t it?”

  Momentarily stunned by Wolfe’s insight, Prosper nodded his head. Was it that obvious? Or was there something more to it?

  “They’re dead, aren’t they?”

  Prosper felt a chill clamber up his vertebrae like a monkey. “How did you know?”

  Wolfe shrugged. “I just guessed.”

  “That’s some lucky guess.”

  “What else could it have been? They haven’t been answering their calls.”

  “Well that’s not all. The bastard’s got Natasha as well ...” Prosper trailed off, shaking his head. Although he hadn’t received anything telling him the Oracle had taken Natasha, Prosper just knew that’s what had happened, and his heart was breaking.

  He now knew how Jerel had felt after the man raped his wife. If the Oracle was standing before him now, he could quite happily kill him.

  Wolfe looked steely eyed, his jaw clenched tight.

  “They’ve also suspended me from work,” he said, rubbing his face.

  Wolfe nodded. He put a comforting hand on Prosper’s shoulder. “So what are we going to do?”

  “We?” Prosper asked.

  “You don’t think I’d let you handle this alone.” Wolfe shook his head. “They were my friends too. If I can’t help now ... Besides, you seem to be forgetting that I’m a target too.”

  Although he didn’t like to admit it, Wolfe’s support comforted him. Obviously, it was in his best interests, and his motives were partly selfish, but Prosper knew it went deeper than that. They were friends.

  “So what have we got to go on?” Wolfe asked.

  “Not a lot.” Prosper ground his teeth feeling helpless.

  “There must be something. Something that you’ve missed.”

  Prosper shook his head. “Don’t you think I’ve been wracking my brain trying to think of something?” His voice had risen, but he couldn’t help it.

  “No, I’m sure you’ve been doing your best to track the suspect down, but you’ve been looking at it head on. You should step back and look at it from a different perspective.”

  Prosper frowned. “What do you mean?”

  “Follow me.”

  Unsure what Wolfe implied, he followed him along the hall.

  When they reached Wolfe’s studio, Prosper wrinkled his nose. A putrescent smell filled the air. Prosper warily eyed the statues that stood in silent poses, like mime artists on a street corner. They were perfect. Too perfect. If he didn’t know they were carved in stone, he would swear they were real – as if the figures had been real people that had been covered in cement. Wolfe once tried to explain to him that his work was meant to show the frailty of life, but Prosper couldn’t understand why he smashed something that had taken him so long to sculpt. It was no good arguing with Wolfe on the subject of art though.

  At the far end of the studio, a sheet hung across the room. Wolfe walked towards the sheet and pulled it aside before slipping through.

  Chewing on the skin of his fingers, Prosper followed. The smell grew stronger as he pulled the cover aside, and he dropped his hand and stepped back, mouth open, eyes wide.

  Wolfe had taken his recreation of the Oracle’s macabre exhibition and set it up in his studio – including Hatchet Man’s decaying corpse.

  Prosper put his hand to his mouth and stared, aghast.

  Wolfe leaned against the wall, arms folded across his chest, his expression deadpan.

  “What the hell’s going on?” Prosper asked, trying not to grimace.

  “This is what I wanted to show you.”

  “Show me. Jesus Christ, Wolfe, this is sick. Why? I don’t ... Hatchet Man’s corpse ...” He shook his head. “I thought you’d disposed of the damn body. If someone finds it here—”

  “I couldn’t get rid of it. If you ever find the Oracle, we’ll need to add Hatchet Man’s corpse to his victims, otherwise people might get suspicious. You see, I’m always planning, thinking ahead.”

  “I don’t fucking believe this. You’re crazy. I’m sure you didn’t have to bring it home with you.” Along with the gruesome exhibit, Wolfe had tacked copies of the Oracle’s photographs to the wall, like windows to a bizarre world of disfigurement and pain.

  Prosper staggered back. He couldn’t take his eyes off Hatchet Man’s mutilated corpse. Signs of decay had already set in, the body bloated; his face seemed to be moving, the cheeks wobbling – then he realised something was squirming around inside Hatchet Man’s face: maggots, fly larvae that had been laid in the rotting corpse. Prosper covered his mouth, trying to stop himself being sick.

  “This is crazy. You can’t keep that here,” he stammered.

  Wolfe shrugged. “Safer here than anywhere else.”

  Prosper didn’t know what to think. This wasn’t right.

  Wolfe walked across and studied the photographs. “What is it about those pictures? Why does he add those photographs of serial killers? ”

  “If I knew that I wouldn’t be standing here.”

  “I just think there’s something we’re missing. Some clue.” He glanced at the photographs, lips pursed.

  Prosper gritted his teeth. “I haven’t got time for this.”

  “The photographs. There’s more to them than just a picture. There’s got to be. Why else would he send them?”

  “If that’s the case, then why hasn’t anyone spotted it?”

  “Perhaps they have. They just don’t know it.”

  “And what makes you so sure you can spot it?”

  “Because I’m an artist. I can read art like a writer reads a book. I can see what an artist is saying in his pictures, the stories they tell.”

  “And what’s the Oracle saying then?”

  “I don’t know yet, but I’ll get there.”

  Prosper didn’t know whether he believed Wolfe or not. He looked at the gruesome exhibit. How had it co
me to this?

  His life would never be the same again.

  But at least he still had a life. He remembered Jerel, Ty and Paris and his eyes went moist with tears. Then he thought of Natasha and he clenched his fists.

  “Well you’d better find something soon. Natasha’s life’s on the line here.”

  Wolfe nodded. “I need to pop out for a while,” he said. “Make yourself at home. I’ll be back soon.”

  “Pop out! Where are you going?”

  “I’ve got a meeting with my agent, and I can’t afford to miss it.”

  “Fuck your agent. My wife’s missing.”

  “I know. But this is important. If I don’t turn up, he’ll wonder where I am and I can do without his interference if he decides to pay a house visit. I won’t be long.”

  “Take as long as you want. I’m out of here. I’ve got to find my wife.”

  “Just give me an hour tops.”

  “In an hour, Natasha could be dead.”

  Wolfe shook his head. “For some reason, I don’t think he’ll kill her. He’s playing with us.”

  “Well it’s some game.” Prosper grimaced.

  “Just hang in. I won’t be long.” Wolfe patted Prosper’s shoulder and then hurried out of the room. Moments later, Prosper heard him drive away.

  Gazing around the room, Prosper shivered. Despite his revulsion, he couldn’t stop looking at Hatchet Man’s corpse. In need of a drink, he walked out of the room and wandered through the house and into the kitchen.

  Although he needed a clear head, he poured a measure of neat vodka from a bottle he found in a cupboard and swallowed it in one gulp. It burned his throat, and he welcomed the slight discomfort; it made him feel alive.

  He noticed a letter on the work surface, and although he felt a little impolite, he read it. The gist of the letter was that Wolfe’s latest exhibition had been cancelled due to lack of interest. How the mighty have fallen, Prosper thought, wondering whether it had anything to do with the meeting Wolfe had gone to attend. Feeling useless standing around waiting, he decided to return to his office to pick up his notes on the case. There had to be something in there that he’d missed.

  Noticing a selection of wooden handled knives hanging from a rack on the wall, Prosper withdrew one. No way was he going anywhere without a weapon. He’d never felt so lost and confused in his life, but there was one certainty: when he found the Oracle, he was going to kill him.

  CHAPTER 45

  A car’s engine grumbled, rousing Natasha from her lethargy.

  The Oracle was back.

  Frantic, she crawled across the floor and peered down into the dark depths of the hole. She heard the car engine die. A door opened and then slammed shut, followed by footsteps approaching the front door, crunching across gravel with a sound like snapping crab legs.

  She knew she had to get away, and without the aid of her leg brace, she couldn’t walk, so the only way was down, into the dark.

  A key clicked in the lock, and Natasha turned around and lowered herself over the edge. A cold draft blew up from the abyss, but Natasha was more concerned with trying to find a place to put her feet. Although her legs wouldn’t support her, one was stronger than the other and it would take some of the strain. She closed her eyes and said a quick prayer that the rungs would take her weight, before she climbed down the ladder, one rusty rung at a time, letting her arms take most of the load.

  A few moments later, she heard footsteps above, and a spattering of stones fell down the shaft. Some of them hit her on the head, while others fell past and struck the water below with a soft, plinking sound. Natasha looked up, terrified of seeing the Oracle staring down at her. When she didn’t see him, she swallowed and continued descending. The Oracle wasn’t stupid. It wouldn’t be long before he looked down the hole. Besides, the blood trail would soon lead him to her.

  “It’s no good hiding.”

  Tears welled in Natasha’s eyes as she continued down, spurred on by the Oracle’s voice that seemed magnified within the hole. Without warning, her foot slipped on one of the rungs, and her heart missed a beat as her body dropped, her foot striking the wall and producing a clatter that echoed around her.

  Terrified by how far she might fall if she let go, Natasha managed to get her feet under her again and steady herself. She held her breath and looked up, nerves jangling as she prepared herself to see the Oracle. When he didn’t appear, she exhaled and increased the speed of her descent, but her fingers were sore from gripping the rusty handholds and her joints and muscles ached. Her legs strained with the effort of supporting her.

  Small stones skittered over the lip of the opening and fell past Natasha into the water. The surface sounded close, very close.

  Any second, the Oracle was going to look down the hole.

  Unable to take her weight, her legs buckled and she held on for dear life, taking all her weight on her tired arms as she let her feet dangle to rest them. Then she continued down, falling more than climbing, too terrified to even catch her breath.

  She dropped down a couple more rungs before she realised her feet dangled over empty space. She tried to feel around, but there was nothing there. Her heart raced, her lungs laboured. She tried to pull herself back up, but it was no good, her muscles were too drained.

  Her body swung like a pendulum, and she was terrified of falling, but with no other option, she knew she had to drop. She waited for the forward swing and then let go.

  Falling ...

  down ...

  into the darkness.

  Her heart stuck in her throat as she plummeted.

  Expecting to hit water, she held her breath, but it was immediately knocked out of her as she hit solid ground. Unable to cushion the impact, her legs buckled beneath her and she used her bruised hands to soften the blow and stop her head from smashing into the floor.

  Luckily, the drop hadn’t been very great, and the ground was covered in a layer of mud or silt, otherwise the impact would have broken her bones. As it was she had the wind knocked out of her, but she was intact.

  Seconds later, a beam of light filled the tunnel and Natasha scuttled back, dragging her legs behind her.

  The Oracle had a torch.

  In the illumination, she saw the surface of the clear water only feet away. Luckily, she had landed on a ledge, no doubt created over thousands of years by the water that flowed through the rock, floodwaters that rose and fell, leaving an underground chasm. She didn’t dare think how deep the water was, but the ledge followed the course of the water, creating a path she could follow.

  The light disappeared, leaving Natasha in darkness, the sound of her ragged breaths desperately loud.

  Unsure where the path would lead, she set out, dragging herself over a surface that felt like a carpet of slugs.

  Sounds echoed around her, the constant drip of water almost melodic. She used her hands as feelers, shocked when she dipped one hand in the icy cold water. She snatched her fingers out and blew against them to warm the digits that no longer felt connected to her body. When she moved on, she moved slowly. The last thing she wanted to do was fall in the water.

  Suddenly a flash of light flickered across the walls behind her.

  The Oracle.

  CHAPTER 46

  Flashes of light crept across the surface of the water and Natasha tried to move faster, but her legs held her back. The Oracle was getting closer. She heard him shuffling along the tunnel, imagined that instead of crawling, he was slithering like a snake; she wished she could move as fast as her beating heart.

  The ledge narrowed, forcing her to dip her elbow into the freezing cold water and she shivered. Her path illuminated by the reflected torchlight gave her an idea how far behind the Oracle really was. Any minute, she expected to be subjected to the full glare of the torch.

  Searching frantically, she noticed a dark patch further along in the ceiling. When she reached the spot, she looked up and saw another tunnel, a fissure that had widened over
the years to resemble an empty eye socket in the bowels of the earth.

  The fissure looked narrow, but it might be her only chance to escape. Using the sides of the wall like a climbing frame, she hoisted herself and gripped the rim of the fissure. Cold water seeped out of the rock, filtering down from above and making it hard to get a purchase.

  Bright light flashed across the walls.

  Her fingers slipped.

  Straining, she reached out, trying to find something dry to grip. Her fingers scratched around; found a stone she could utilize. She brought her other hand up, linking her fingers around the stone.

  The light crept closer, brightening her surrounds, the Oracle just around the corner.

  Using all the strength she could muster, Natasha pulled herself up, managing to pivot enough to wedge her hips in the gap. She unlinked her fingers to reach higher, attempting to find another handhold. She started to slip.

  Heart in her throat, she twisted, reaching out with one hand to the opposite wall. Her fingers clawed at the rock; sharp slivers of stone sliced through her flesh and her fingernail split, causing her to wince. She almost screamed, but bit her lip to keep it in.

  She grabbed a ledge to stop her fall and pain shot along her arm.

  Breathing heavy, she readjusted her grip to make sure she wouldn’t slip, and then used the fingers of her other hand to search higher until she procured another handhold. Satisfied it would hold her weight, she took a quick moment to catch her breath and swallowed a few times to wet her parched throat before continuing. As the fissure narrowed, she found it easier to wedge her hips, allowing her to find a higher hold each time.

  A flood of light washed the walls below. Although her arms ached, the muscles stretched beyond normal endurance, fear pushed her forward, one slow, painful handhold at a time.

  The light below grew brighter, starting to illuminate the fissure.

  Natasha looked up, saw only darkness.

  How far did it go?

  As if in reply, the Oracle shone the torch up the fissure and Natasha looked down, blinded by the light. Disoriented, she stopped climbing.