Department 18 [02] Night Souls

by Maynard Sims

  “What do you mean, ‘in a roundabout way’?” Dylan said.

  “The initial contact was through her uncle,” Crozier said. “The Department had been going through a bit of a shake-up and we were only partly operational, and so it existed, more or less, under the radar. But this girl’s uncle was a fairly important civil servant in the Ministry of Transport. Once she’d told him her story, he contacted me and introductions were made.”

  Bailey continued. “The last time Jenny Marshall saw Sally Bronson was at a party at the house of a mutual friend. Sally was excited, telling Jenny about this wonderful man she’d been seeing for the few weeks leading up to the party. Jay Cavanagh. She was even more high on the fact that he was coming to the party later. Well, to cut a long story short, Cavanagh arrived and within the hour he and Sally had disappeared upstairs.

  “Toward the end of the party, Jenny decided to go and look for her. Sally had been gone for hours and Jenny was worried. She’d been introduced to Cavanagh and taken an instant dislike to him. She thought he was, in her words, creepy. She found Sally and Cavanagh in an upstairs room. They were naked and apparently making love. She was about to apologize and leave them to it when she noticed the look in her friend’s eyes. ‘Glazed but terrified,’ was how she described it to me. And then she noticed Cavanagh’s hands, well, his fingers to be more precise. They appeared to be burrowing into Sally’s flesh. Jenny said, ‘are you all right?’ or words to that effect, and at that point Cavanagh leaped from the bed. What Jenny Marshall described next was why the police had a problem with her story.

  “She described Cavanagh’s body as ‘barely human.’” Bailey closed his eyes, trying to recall her words. “His fingers were at least ten inches long, and tapered to points. They were covered in blood. His skin was gray and scaly, like a reptile’s. His tongue was long and black, and flicked like a snake’s.” Bailey paused again and took another swig of his drink, then closed his eyes and carried on. “His penis was thin, twelve inches long, and barbed on both sides. It, was covered in blood, like his fingers.

  “But it was his eyes that terrified her. They looked totally different from when she had seen him earlier. Whereas earlier in the evening they’d been a deep brown, now they were pale, almost white. ‘Dead-fish eyes,’ was how she described them.”

  “So what did she do next?” Dylan said, leaning forward in his seat, his curiosity piqued despite himself.

  “That’s another problem. She doesn’t remember what happened next. One moment she was standing in the bedroom, with Cavanagh coming toward her, the next she was being helped up from the floor by one of the other party guests. When she checked her watch she realized she’d lost two hours. It was now a little after three in the morning. She’d begun her search for Sally a few minutes before one. Of Sally and Cavanagh there was no sign. She called the police and told them what she’d seen. A short while later a single constable came along, took a perfunctory look around and left again.”

  “But there must have been blood on the bed,” Dylan said. “If, as you say, Cavanagh’s fingers and dick were dripping with the stuff.”

  Bailey shrugged. “You’d think so, wouldn’t you? But there was no evidence that anything had taken place. And that was the police position throughout.”

  “So what’s to say this Jenny didn’t imagine the whole thing?”

  “Because her story was corroborated.”

  “Who did that?”

  Bailey smiled slightly. “Jay Cavanagh.”

  “We tracked him down,” Crozier said. “Actually, he was very easy to trace. It was almost as if he wanted us to find him.”

  “I think he did,” Harry Bailey said. “He agreed to meet with me at a hotel in Bayswater.”

  “So you met this monster?” Dylan said incredulously.

  “Oh yes, I met him,” Bailey said. “He looked completely normal and was perfectly charming. Quietly spoken, polite, and very open. He admitted killing Sally and seven others.”

  “Did he say how he’d killed them?”

  “Yes, he did. He told me he had drained the life force from their bodies. He said he belonged to a race that coexisted alongside our own, who needed the life force of we ‘lesser mortals,’ in order to survive. And he often did this during sex when, as he succinctly put it, ‘the human essence is at its most vibrant.’”

  “So he was mad,” Dylan said.

  Bailey frowned. “No, I don’t think so. I believed him, and I think he was totally sane…and totally evil. He was playing with me. He was demonstrating his arrogance and his complete disdain for human life. He was saying, I can take any life I want, and there’s absolutely nothing you can do about it.”

  “So what did you do about it?”

  Bailey took a breath. “Nothing,” he said and drained his glass. “Another, I think.” He stood and went to the bar.

  “Understand, Dylan,” Crozier said. “I’d only just become Director General of the department. I was still wet behind the ears and we simply didn’t have the resources or the clout we have now. And although we had the blessing of the prime minister and several members of the cabinet, Whitehall in general treated us with scorn, suspicion, or amusement. We didn’t have much of a voice to be able to influence the police or any of the security services for that matter. That all changed, of course, after the Balmoral incident. Then they had to take us more seriously.”

  Bailey returned with three more drinks. “I went back to the hotel to see him again,” he said, taking his seat. “But he’d checked out. And after that he proved impossible to track down. Which makes me think he wanted to be found the first time round. I think he needed to gloat. He got his kicks, then disappeared.”

  Crozier reached down and lifted his briefcase onto the table. He pulled out the file Martin Impey had given him the day before. “So, I have your interest now?”

  Harry Bailey said, “What do you think?”

  “Go on,” Dylan said neutrally.

  “Okay. In here is a rough transcript of the conversation I had with Daniel Milton and some photographs of some of the key players. Plus there’s a dossier compiled by Martin on the Holly family. According to Pike, the Hollys are not human.”

  “Like Cavanagh,” Harry Bailey said.

  “Indeed. Just like Cavanagh.”

  He opened the folder and spread the contents out on the table. The other two men started pulling pages out at random and scanning them quickly before putting them back and moving on to the next.

  “So what happened after you left your club?” Bailey said. “What happened to Milton?”

  “He vanished. Disappeared into the night like a ghost. He was scared. I could sense that. He told me that since the incident at Faircroft Manor, Holly’s people had been on his tail. He’d given up his house and his job and was traveling the country living in various squats and doss-houses. He was running scared. We left the club, and I went to call a cab. When I looked round, he’d gone. I’ve seen neither hide nor hair of him since.”

  Dylan was reading the transcript of the conversation between Crozier and Daniel Milton.

  “Then excuse me for asking a rather basic question,” Bailey said. “How do you plan to stop…” He fell silent, reached out, and pulled one of the photographs toward him.

  The other two watched him, noticing that Bailey’s ruddy complexion had paled. He was sitting, unmoving, staring at an eight-by-ten glossy color shot.

  “Everything all right, Harry?” Crozier said.

  After a moment Bailey seemed to shake himself. He slid the photograph across the table to Crozier. “And who’s this?”

  Crozier glanced at the photograph. “That’s John Holly.”

  Harry Bailey shook his head. “No, it’s not,” he said.

  Dylan leaned over to look at the photo. “It is. I recognize him. I’ve seen his face in the Financial Times a number of times. As CEO of Holly Industries, he earns himself more than his fair share of column inches. Of course, it has nothing to do with the
fact that he’s as handsome and charismatic as a movie star,” he added with heavy irony.

  Bailey didn’t smile, but took a breath. “Gentlemen,” he said, prodding the photograph with his index finger. “That is Jay Cavanagh.”

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  King’s College Hospital, London, England

  Carter had been awake for hours, barely slept in fact.

  Despite that, he felt fresh and alive. He had done a lot of thinking; about Jane mostly, but also about his life, his work, his future.

  His last two assignments hadn’t gone well. Sian had paid for it with her life, and now several casualties from the apartment building. He didn’t blame himself for the deaths of Baines, McCrory, and Black, but he couldn’t ignore them either.

  And with that job, he had been badly injured. Though the way he felt now, just a day later, he clearly wasn’t as bad as he first thought.

  His ribs ached, but the bandages were tight and held off much of the discomfort. Scratches and bruises he could live with. The test results had shown no concussion, so the worst he had from the head was a migraine-level ache that was being kept at bay by copious amounts of painkillers. The knee had been put back in and was sore but flexible enough.

  What had woken him, and then kept him from sleeping was Jane. Not literally he was sad to say, though thoughts of their time together were spinning around in his brain and refused to stay still. He wanted to be able to think rationally about what was going to happen between them, but the more he tried to think it through, the more his mind spiraled out of control.

  In the end he got out of bed, which took him longer than he expected, and sat in the chair for a couple of hours.

  By the time morning came, he was back in bed but sitting up, resting on the pillows. He knew what he had to do.

  He was a man of action rather than introspection. His psychic powers had never led to deep psychological reasoning, and personal as his thoughts were, the emotions they contained clouded any logic or thought patterns.

  No, he decided, it was time for action.

  He had been outfought at the apartment, and he needed to get back into the fight.

  He knew that if he had led the investigation fully, without the inexperienced colleagues, things would have been different. But it was too late for that now. He needed to get some stuff from his apartment and get over to Whitehall and join the fun.

  He pressed the buzzer for a nurse and waited a few moments. The nurse who answered wasn’t Paula, but she was friendly enough. Until he requested his clothes. Then she argued, eventually leaving the room.

  Carter was sure she would return with a doctor in tow rather than the clothes.

  Sure enough the door opened and Bernard entered, this time without accompanying junior doctors.

  “Well, I alluded to you not being with us much longer, but even I didn’t think you’d be this impetuous.”

  “I just need my clothes.”

  “No witty response? No sarcasm intended to prick my supposed pomposity? You disappoint for once. Nurse, where are the results of the scans?”

  The nurse handed him a manila folder and he quickly read the contents. “You must have the hide of a rhinoceros and a head made of steel, Mr. Carter. Congratulations, no lasting damage, and indeed nothing too major currently.”

  “I’ll put it down to being in your expert care.”

  Bernard handed the folder back to the nurse. “That’s better. Now I know you are fit enough to go home to the loving bosom of your family. Though judging by the look of determination on your face I would guess pipe and slippers and feet up in front of the TV for a few days don’t fit in with your plans.”

  “Seriously, thanks for sorting me out.”

  Bernard nodded in acknowledgment. “Nurse, please find whatever garments our guest had with him when he arrived and discharge him, and you”—he pointed at Carter—“keep out of trouble.”

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  Smile, breathe and go slowly.

  —Thich Nhat Hanh

  Dunkerry, Republic of Ireland

  “Jay Cavanagh? Are you certain?” Crozier said, picking up the photograph and studying it hard.

  “Oh yes.” Harry Bailey nodded vigorously. “He hasn’t changed a bit. Looks no older, the same supercilious expression. It’s him.”

  “How come you haven’t come across Holly before?” Dylan said. “He’s always in the papers.”

  “Harry doesn’t read newspapers, do you, Harry?” Crozier said.

  “Or watch the news on television. Too depressing,” Bailey said.

  Crozier leaned back in his seat and folded his arms. “Well, that settles it then. The department has to get involved in this. Are you with me on it?”

  “You can count me in,” Bailey said. “I’d give my pension to nail this bastard.”

  “Dylan?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Crozier’s face dropped. Bailey gave a deep sigh and settled back into his seat.

  “Dylan, we really need you on this,” Crozier said.

  Dylan rested his elbows on the table, steepled his fingers, and blew across them. “I’m not sure I’m ready to come back.”

  “Look, I know you’ve had a tough few months. That poltergeist case in Burnley took a lot out of you. I know that, but…”

  “It’s not only that,” Dylan cut in. “I’m tired. Not physically, but up here.” He tapped the side of his head. “I’m tired of dealing with all the horrors in the world. Ask Harry what I mean.” He looked across at Bailey. “You know, don’t you, Harry?”

  Bailey stared down at the drinks on the table, avoiding eye contact with either of them. “It’s like looking into hell on a daily basis,” he said. “Over the years it gets more and more difficult to shut the images out. You walk along a street and you know everything about those on the street with you. You recognize the ones who beat their partners, the ones who are planning theft or murder; you even know what they had for dinner and when they last took a crap! Blocking is the only way of shutting the images out, and over the years it becomes less and less effective. So you try to dull your senses, to anesthetize yourself. Why do you think I drink? I’m not an alcoholic, but I need the booze to blur the visions and to muffle the sounds. It’s one way, my way. What’s yours, Dylan?”

  “My way is to get as far away from civilization as possible,” Dylan said. “A place like this. I can go for days without seeing a soul…and I use that word deliberately.”

  “Or is it simply that the powers you possess force you to hold a mirror up to your own souls and examine what’s there,” Crozier said. “And neither of you like what you see.”

  “Bastard!” Bailey said under his breath.

  Dylan glared at Crozier but said nothing.

  “I see I’ve hit a nerve,” Crozier said. “So there must be some truth in what I say.”

  “Some,” Bailey said.

  “And you, Dylan?”

  Dylan nodded slightly, almost against his will.

  “I thought so,” Crozier said. “Dylan, I think it’s time you stopped acting like a prima donna and got your ass in gear. We’ve got a job to do.”

  Dylan got to his feet angrily. “Go fuck yourself!” he said and walked to the door.

  “I’ve booked three seats on a flight to London, leaving Shannon at two o’clock,” Crozier called after him, but the door was already swinging shut.

  Bailey looked at his old friend steadily. “Well you blew that. You were too harsh. It’s one thing knowing the truth yourself without someone else beating you over the head with it.”

  “He’ll be on the flight,” Crozier said confidently. “His ego is too big for him not to be involved in this.”

  Bailey looked skeptical. “We’ll see,” he said.

  “Another drink? My round, I think.”

  Chapter Thirty

  Faircroft Manor, Hertfordshire, England

  As soon as the flight from Poland landed in the private airfield, t
he Jeep was driven to the exit doors and the sack and its contents transferred to the trunk.

  The four men had stripped out of their black clothing and masks on the flight and were dressed in standard dark jeans and sweatshirts. One took the keys from the airfield driver and swapped places with him in the driver’s seat. The engine already running, he waited for all the passenger doors to click shut and then drove off into the morning light.

  They were just a few miles from the manor, and the mist on the fields gave a surreal appearance to the passing scenery.

  Soon they drove in through the iron gates at the front and went slowly along the winding gravel drive. Trees and bushes lined the way, in places overhanging the road so the weak sun trying to filter through the leaves and branches was beaten back.

  Eventually they turned a corner, and Faircroft Manor came into view.

  Built on the grounds of a former royal palace where Elizabeth I spent much of her childhood, it was beautifully preserved. Additions had been made through the years, but sympathetically, not detracting in any way from the overall look of the house.

  The bricks were of mellow russet, lined with pale mortar pointing, and the mullioned windows were symmetrically positioned. Inside the house, most of the forty or more rooms were wood lined with tall ornate ceilings, many bearing tapestries and paintings from centuries past, depicting former owners and their families.

  In front of the house, as the Jeep pulled to a halt in front of the pristine portico and vast oak front doors, topiary and flowerbeds gave a neat but friendly welcome.

  There was nothing friendly about the way two of the men pulled the sack out of the Jeep and carried, half-dragged, it up the front steps and into the house. Perhaps they would have been more comfortable performing these tasks at the rear or side of the house, at the smaller servants’ entrances that usually witnessed the mundane house tasks, but Mr. Holly had been insistent about “not hiding our guest away.”