by Maynard Sims
Night Souls
L. H. Maynard and M. P. N. Sims
The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.
Text copyright © 2010 by L. H. Maynard and M. P. N. Sims
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.
Published by 47North
P.O. Box 400818
Las Vegas, NV 89140
ISBN-13: 9781477808436
ISBN-10: 1477808434
Mick: This book is dedicated to Clare Sims and Emily Rose Sims, eternal loves.
Len: This is for Bev Manders. Old love, new love.
For they have sown the wind, and they shall reap the whirlwind.
—The Bible
www.maynard-sims.com
www.dept18.com
THE LIVING SHADOWS
The sense of danger was becoming oppressive and Lucja quickened her pace. The bracken seemed alive now. There were black shapes everywhere, dancing on the path in front of her, skimming across the water of the canal, making the undergrowth rustle and move. She took one more look behind her and a cry burst from her lips. Not more than three paces behind her was a man, at least it looked like a man, but most of his face and body were in shadow.
Her heels were hampering her flight and as she ran she kicked them off, ignoring the pain of the sharp gravel as it drove into the soles of her feet. Her breath was coming in short stabbing gasps and her lungs were on fire. She glanced back. The figure was still behind her, at exactly the same distance—it hadn’t gained or receded from her. She could see a gate in the fence ahead. Beyond the gate was the road and comparative safety.
She was about to veer towards the gate when the flitting shadows came at her, rushing at her legs, entangling themselves around her ankles. With a choking cry she pitched forward into the freezing, filthy water of the canal…
Table of Contents
Cover Page
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
THE LIVING SHADOWS
Day One
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-one
Chapter Twenty-two
Chapter Twenty-three
Chapter Twenty-four
Chapter Twenty-five
Chapter Twenty-six
Day Two
Chapter Twenty-seven
Chapter Twenty-eight
Chapter Twenty-nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-one
Chapter Thirty-two
Chapter Thirty-three
Chapter Thirty-four
Chapter Thirty-five
Chapter Thirty-six
Chapter Thirty-seven
Chapter Thirty-eight
Chapter Thirty-nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-one
Chapter Forty-two
Chapter Forty-three
Chapter Forty-four
Chapter Forty-five
Chapter Forty-six
Chapter Forty-seven
Chapter Forty-eight
Chapter Forty-nine
Chapter Fifty
Chapter Fifty-one
Chapter Fifty-two
Chapter Fifty-three
Chapter Fifty-four
Chapter Fifty-five
Chapter Fifty-six
Chapter Fifty-seven
Day Three
Chapter Fifty-eight
Chapter Fifty-nine
Chapter Sixty
Chapter Sixty-one
Chapter Sixty-two
Chapter Sixty-three
Chapter Sixty-four
Chapter Sixty-five
Chapter Sixty-six
Chapter Sixty-seven
Chapter Sixty-eight
Chapter Sixty-nine
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Critics Rave About L. H. Maynard and M. P. N. Sims!
This title was previously published by Dorchester Publishing; this version has been reproduced from the Dorchester book archive files.
Day One
A thing of beauty is a joy forever: Its loveliness increases; it will never pass into nothingness; but still will keep a bower quiet for us, and a sleep full of sweet dreams, and health, and quiet breathing…
—John Keats
Chapter One
Barbarous nations breathing pure air and eating simple food enjoy immunity from its ravages.
—Ambrose Bierce
Dunster House, Docklands, London, England
Robert Carter pulled up behind Department 18’s black SUV and switched off the engine of the Toyota. He was thirty-five, tall and slim with an athletic physique he owed to the four hours a week he spent at the gym, combined with regular games of squash. The exercise was complemented by a healthy diet, apart from far too many cigarettes, a light intake of alcohol, and occasional sex with willing partners.
The rain was beginning to ease. As Carter stepped out of the car, he saw Frankie Morgan sheltering in the doorway of Dunster House, the very exclusive apartment building he’d been asked to investigate.
He sketched a wave and stared up at the building. Twenty-six floors of cold concrete and glass. Carter remembered a time when this area of London was a rundown part of the city, with streets filled with slum dwellings backing onto the River Thames. But that was before the London Docklands redevelopment program transformed the place. Millions of pounds injected by astute businessmen who saw the potential of riverside dwellings for the upwardly mobile men and women flooding into the area to be closer to their workplaces in the city and Canary Wharf.
Now the area was unrecognizable from the dark side of town he’d known as a child.
“Frankie, what have we got?”
“Didn’t Crozier brief you?” Frankie Morgan was thirty, pretty, with fair hair tied back in a ponytail from her round, open face.
“He left a message on my answering service asking me to get down here. He mentioned poltergeist activity, said you’d fill me in.”
“Not very helpful,” she said.
“When is he ever?”
“You look flushed,” she said.
“I came straight from the squash club. Are the others inside?”
“Yes. And I think it’s a little bit more than poltergeist activity. The police evacuated the place yesterday after the third fatality.”
“On whose authority?”
“The Home Office.”
“So the whole building is empty?”
“Apart from the ghosts,” she said with a smile.
“Let’s get out of this rain,” Carter said and pushed open the door to the apartment building.
The three others in Frankie’s team were waiting inside, all of them young and fairly inexperienced. Adam Black, Chris Baines, and Ellen McCrory. Frankie made the introductions.
“So Crozier thinks we can’t handle this on our own.
Great vote of confidence,” Baines said petulantly, glaring at Carter. Baines was in his early twenties and had an attitude that bristled with antagonism.
“It’s not like that,” Frankie said.
“I’ve handled poltergeist cases before,” Baines said.
“So have I,” Ellen McCrory said. “And I really don’t think we need a babysitter.” At thirty-two, Ellen was the oldest of the group.
“In my experience, poltergeists don’t kill people,” Carter said. “How many fatalities have there been, Frankie?”
“Three.”
“So it’s unlikely we’re dealing with a poltergeist,” Adam Black said. Black was in his midtwenties but looked like a teenager. Carter had read his file and had been looking forward to meeting him. Adam Black’s upbringing was similar to his own. A child prodigy when it came to clairvoyance, giving readings from the age of eight. A domineering father with a God fixation who pushed his son relentlessly to the point of a nervous breakdown. Carter could empathize.
“Unlikely, but not impossible.”
“So what do you think it is?” Baines said.
“No idea. I’ve only just arrived. Frankie, where was the first fatality?”
“Apartment 53. Fifth floor.”
“Ok. We’ll start there. I suggest that, until we have a clearer idea of what we’re dealing with here, we all stick together.”
“Oh, for Christ’s sake!” Ellen McCrory said. “We know what we’re doing.”
“And we have the details of your next of kin on file, do we? Just so we know who to contact if you get killed,” Carter said.
Ellen McCrory glared at him.
Carter held her gaze until she looked away. “Right. Let’s get on. Are the elevators working, Frankie?”
“Yes. All utilities are functioning. The police just cleared the residents out and left everything else alone.”
“What were the residents told?” Carter asked her as they walked toward the two elevators set into the south wall.
“Asbestos alert,” Frankie said. “They were told that routine maintenance had uncovered asbestos in the roof and they had to be evacuated until it was cleared. We fed the same story to the local media. Didn’t want a circus down here.”
“Good idea. And all the residents swallowed it?”
“Most of them,” Frankie said. “There were one or two who didn’t believe a word of it, but they were the ones who’d had other experiences here, and they were only too happy to have an excuse to leave.”
With a hiss, one set of doors opened. “Okay. Fill me in on the details on the way up,” Carter said and was about to step into the elevator when the main door of the building opened and a young man wearing an Armani suit and an angry expression strode into the foyer. “Would one of you mind telling me what the hell is going on here?”
Frankie Morgan stepped forward to intercept. “I’m sorry, sir, I’m going to have to ask you to leave. For your own safety.”
The young man raised his chin pugnaciously. “And who the fuck are you?”
“Dr. Frances Morgan, Environmental Heath. And you are?”
“Jonathan Lassiter, Braxton Developments, the company that built this building. What’s all this crap about asbestos? There’s no asbestos here. The building’s only a year old.”
“Be that as it may, Mr. Lassiter, but I’ll have to ask you to leave until the matter has been properly investigated.”
“Tough. I’m not going anywhere. Let me see some identification.”
Frankie glanced back at Carter, uncertain how to proceed.
Robert Carter sighed and walked across to join them. “Do we have a problem, Dr. Morgan?”
“Identification,” Lassiter said. “Now, or I call the police.”
Carter reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out his pocketbook, flipping it open and letting Lassiter read his ID card.
“And what’s Department 18?” Lassiter said, looking at Carter quizzically.
“Part of the government. We’ve been called in by the Home Office to investigate three suspicious deaths that have occurred here in the past week.”
The color drained from Lassiter’s face. “Three deaths? Nobody told me. What are you, police?”
“We work in conjunction with the police and the security services and, as Dr. Morgan said, the Home Office. So, if there’s nothing else, for your own safety, you should leave now.”
Confusion clouded Lassiter’s eyes. “I’m not happy about this,” he said.
“I don’t care,” Carter said. “Go away, and leave us to do our job.”
Lassiter hesitated for a moment, then spun on his heel and stalked from the building.
“Thanks,” Frankie said. “I wasn’t sure what to do when he asked for identification.”
“Always tell the truth, Frankie,” Carter said. “Within reason,” he added with a smile. “Come on, let’s get to work.”
Frankie turned the key in the door of apartment 53 and pushed it open, reeling back as the stench hit her like a physical blow. She clamped her hand over her nose and mouth and struggled to prevent herself from gagging. “Jesus! What is that?” she said.
“I can’t smell anything,” Baines said.
Ellen McCrory shook her head. “Nothing.”
Robert Carter was watching them. He worried about Frankie Morgan sometimes. She was too open, her senses too attuned. She needed to protect herself more. He lowered his defenses slightly and sniffed the air. Yes, she was right. There was an odor; something rank and fetid, something long dead. He stepped through the doorway.
“Very nice,” Chris Baines said as he followed the others into the room. “Wouldn’t mind a place like this myself. Look at the size of that TV.”
“Concentrate,” Carter snapped at him. “Frankie, are you okay?”
She was last into the room and now had a handkerchief pressed against her nose. “It’s fading,” she said. “The smell’s nowhere near so strong once you’re inside.”
From his pocket Carter took a small black box with a dial at its center and a small white dome on one end. There was a switch on the side. He flicked it on. The needle jumped across the dial. “Strong electromagnetic residue,” he said. “Be careful.”
“The death occurred in the bedroom. Melanie Fry, thirty-two, commodities analyst,” Frankie said.
“How did she die?”
“The autopsy was inconclusive. Four puncture wounds to her thorax, but small, not enough on their own to kill her. The pathologist could find no other injuries. In his words, it was as if she had just been switched off. As if someone had thrown a switch and she just died.”
Carter walked through to the bedroom and looked around. It was smart and neat with a low, oak-framed, king-size bed taking up the center of the room. The rest of the furniture was modern and plain, Shaker style. “There’s nothing here,” he said. “I’m not picking anything up.”
“How do you explain the smell?” Frankie said.
“An echo, I suspect. Nothing more.” He held the meter out in front of him and scanned the room. “Are you sure this is where she died?”
“She was found in bed. Naked, spread-eagled. Looked like she’d been having sex when she died.”
Carter shrugged. “I’d expect there to be more residual energy than I’m picking up.” He slipped the meter back into his pocket. “Okay. The second death. Which floor?”
“We go up,” Frankie said. “Apartment 120. Twelfth floor.”
“Right, let’s get on,” Carter said.
Chris Baines had already left apartment 53 and was making his way to the stairwell. Ellen McCrory was close behind him. “Where are you going?” she said.
“Up,” Baines said. “I’m getting nothing on this floor, but something’s nagging me to climb. Coming?”
“And you don’t care if you upset Carter.” It wasn’t a question, and the grin on her face encouraged him.
“Come on then.” He pulled open the door to the stairwell and started to c
limb the stairs two at a time.
By the time they reached the tenth floor, Ellen McCrory was panting for breath.
“It’s time you quit smoking,” Baines said.
“What are you, my father? Why didn’t we take the elevator?”
“Not safe,” Baines said, every nerve in his body tingling.
“But we just used it.”
“Well it’s not safe now. Trust me. Come on.” He pushed open the door to the tenth floor. He stood for a moment, eyes closed, letting the random impressions flood into his mind. Black shapes slithering across the floor, coalescing, becoming a much larger mass, rising up and moving through the apartments. A woman’s scream. Pain. Death. “This way,” he said, his eyes snapping open.
Ellen watched him nervously, her maverick spirit starting to dissipate. She’d worked with Baines before and knew he was a risk taker. She found it an attractive attribute and, if she was honest with herself, a bit of a turn on, but she was beginning to have second thoughts about leaving the others behind.
She was getting her own impressions of the place, and they weren’t good. Not good at all.
“Did you see that?” she said, squinting and peering along the plush, carpeted corridor.
“See what?” Baines said. He was looking from door to door, trying to focus, to feel where he should lead them next.
“Something black, moving, down at the end of the corridor. It went into one of the rooms.”
“Can you try to describe it?” he said, turning his attention back to her.
“Like a black sheet, blown in the wind, but not as substantial. Like gauze.”
He frowned at her. “Come on. Show me the room.” He strode off down the corridor, Ellen following tentatively a few paces behind.
“Where are McCrory and Baines?” Carter asked as he came out of the bedroom and saw Adam Black standing alone in the lounge.
Black shrugged. “One minute they were here, the next they’d gone.”
Carter swore and wheeled on Frankie. “Is your team always this undisciplined?”
