Marked (Callum Doyle 3)

by Jackson, David

  ‘I don’t know your family, and I don’t know you either. This is crazy. You need to let me out of this now.’

  He strains against his bindings. She can see his tendons flexing in his body as he struggles. But she has made too good a job of this.

  ‘I’ll let you go,’ she says. ‘But only after you’ve told me everything.’

  ‘Everything about what? I don’t know what you’re talking about. You got the wrong guy.’

  Nicole reaches into her bag and takes out a small box. She clicks a button on it, then places it on the floor between herself and Proust.

  ‘What’s that?’ he asks.

  ‘A voice recorder. You can start talking now.’

  ‘Talking about what? What am I supposed to say? What the fuck do you want me to say?’

  ‘Everything. Tell me everything. This is your chance to confess. Your chance to do something righteous for once in your miserable existence.’ Her voice is flat, emotionless. She feels neither pity nor anger. She feels only a deep-rooted desire for truth. To know what happened. Doyle did what he could, but it wasn’t enough. She needs more.

  Proust’s own voice heightens in both volume and tone: ‘Confess to what? I got nothing to confess. Not to you, anyhow. I don’t know nothing about you.’

  ‘All right,’ she says. ‘I’ll make it easy for you. I’ll give you specifics. Start with Megan. Tell me how you met her. Tell me about how she came to you for that angel tattoo.’

  He barks a forced laugh. ‘Yeah, see, you definitely got the wrong guy. I really have no idea who you’re talking about.’

  ‘That’s not what my husband thought.’

  ‘I don’t give a fuck what your husband thinks. He’s as wrong as you are.’

  ‘Past tense, Stanley. You need the past tense. My husband is dead. You killed him, remember? With a knife?’

  Mock recognition on his face now. Sickening. ‘Oh! Oh, that guy! He was your husband? Oh, I get it now. He’s dead? I didn’t know that. Listen, I’m sorry. I’m real sorry about that. But, see, he attacked me. Came in here yelling all kinds of crazy shit at me, and then he attacked me. With a hammer. I was just defending myself. Ask the cops. They’ll tell you what happened. It was caught on the cameras. In fact – hey, yeah – why don’t I show you? I can show you the video! You can see exactly what happened. We can clear this up right now.’

  She says nothing for a while. She just stares at Proust. Wonders how long he intends to keep up this charade.

  ‘I don’t want to see the video. I know he came here, and I know you got into a fight. What I want to know is why. But before all that, I want to know about Megan.’

  Proust chews on his lip. She knows he’s considering his options.

  ‘This is Detective Doyle’s doing, isn’t it? He sent you here. He told you I had something to do with this. You don’t believe him, do you? Do you know about him? Do you know how fucked-up he is? You see these bruises on me? Do you? Well, Doyle is responsible for those. He beat the crap out of me. He even threw me through my own door. Go ahead, take a look. Go back there to my apartment and take a look at my door. It’s wrecked. The glass panel is shattered. And you know why? Because Doyle threw me into it. The man’s a lunatic. He’s not even allowed to work anymore. I bet you didn’t know that, did you? He’s off the force, because all the other cops know what a fuck-up he is. Are you listening to me? Are you listening?’

  She’s listening, but she’s not getting what she came to hear. She lowers her head and closes her eyes. She thought it would come to this. It was always going to come to this. And she’s ready.

  ‘The letter,’ says Proust. ‘Do you know about the letter? Doyle sent your husband a note, telling him to come talk to me. That’s why he thought the guy was me. It was all Doyle’s fault. If anyone’s to blame for your husband’s death, it’s Detective Doyle. He hates me. And you know why? Because of what I know about him and the partner he used to have. A female partner. You get my drift? They were getting it on, you know? And he was scared I was gonna tell someone. And then she got killed, in mysterious circumstances. Do you know this story? Have you heard about this before?’

  He’s talking too much now. Rambling in desperation. It’s all garbage.

  But she has to be sure.

  She reaches behind her. Picks up another object. Brings it into view.

  She sees his eyes widen. His verbal diarrhea has suddenly dried up. He chews on his lip again.

  He says, ‘What . . . What are you doing?’

  She looks at the power drill in her hand. Slides a finger along the thin, shiny drill bit. She pulls the trigger briefly. Just enough to give it a nerve-grating whine of life.

  ‘You haven’t answered my questions. I asked you about my daughter.’

  He seems suddenly full of uncertainty. ‘I . . . I told you everything I know. Look, this is crazy. Why don’t you just let me out of here so we can talk about this?’

  She slides off the stool, onto her knees. She places the tip of the drill bit against the underside of Proust’s left foot.

  Proust tries to pull his foot away, but the leather binding is too secure.

  ‘Lady . . . Lady, please . . . You got this all wrong. I swear to you, on my mother’s life . . .’

  ‘You have a mother? That’s good. It’s good that you have family. I had a family. I had a beautiful daughter and a wonderful caring husband. You took them from me. And all I want from you is to tell me why you did it and how it happened. Is that too much to ask?’

  ‘But that’s what I keep telling you. I didn’t—’

  The drill shrieks into life again. Proust shrieks too. His body tenses and trembles and he yells in pain and disbelief at the sight of the drill bit coming into view as it sears through his foot.

  Nicole flicks the drill into reverse and withdraws it. She looks at the blood and the pink slivers of flesh on the drill bit, and then the blood flowing down Proust’s foot and onto the floor.

  Proust is screaming at her: ‘Jesus Christ! You fucking bitch! Look what you did, you fucking stupid cunt! Jesus!’

  She shuffles along the floor, getting closer to his face. She looks deep into his eyes, wondering what he sees. Puzzling over how their two views of the world can be so different.

  ‘What?’ he demands. ‘What the fuck are you looking at?’

  She blinks. What am I looking at? What is this thing in front of me? Not a man, no. Not a human being. A thing. A monster.

  ‘Did that hurt, Stanley?’

  He glares his malevolence at her, and then he shows her a smile of contempt. ‘You can’t hurt me, you dumb bitch. Look at me. Look at what I’ve been through. I know pain. You want to torture me, go ahead. You’re wasting your fucking time. I ain’t gonna say what you want me to say. I ain’t gonna lie just to make you happy.’

  She raises the drill. Pushes the bit up and into his right nostril.

  ‘No,’ she says. ‘You don’t know pain. I’m a midwife. I see pain every day. Real pain. You don’t know anything about pain.’

  ‘I know you’re fucking mental, is what I know.’

  She pulls on the trigger. Sees Proust’s eyes cross and water as he watches the drill bit come up through the tip of his nose. A thin shaft of whirling steel, inches in front of those satanic eyes.

  She says, ‘My daughter felt pain, didn’t she? Pain worse than any childbirth. Megan’s birth was painful. So painful I can’t have any more children. But her pain was much, much worse, I’m sure. Worse even than this . . .’

  She yanks the drill away. Pulls it away so fast and hard that it tears through the soft flesh of Proust’s nose. Rips right through it.

  Proust lets out a roar. His whole body contracts as he throws his head back and releases a ferocious bellow.

  When he has finished, he turns his eyes on Nicole again. Blood is spurting from the ragged gash in his nostril, and onto his heaving bony chest.

  But still he smiles.

  ‘Bring it on, bitch. You ain’
t getting nothing from me. NOTHING!’

  She touches the drill point to his neck. Traces it down his sternum and across his tattoo. Onto his abdomen. Down to his groin. She brings it to rest on his scrotum, presses it into the soft, yielding flesh. She looks up at him again.

  ‘Tell me about Megan. Tell me what you did to her.’

  He stares back at her. Fixes her with his gaze. Shows her his blood-flecked teeth and gums.

  ‘I don’t know any Megan.’

  Doyle was right, she thinks. He could see in Proust what nobody else could. This thing is evil. It is madness. It feeds on pain. But not its own pain. The pain of others. Megan’s pain is locked up inside Proust. It needs to be released.

  She pulls the trigger.

  It takes over an hour.

  When she’s done, she puts down the power drill and stands over what’s left of Stanley Francis Proust.

  She is tired. Mentally and physically exhausted.

  But still there is work to be done.

  She goes over to a sink. Washes the bodily fluids and brain matter from her hands.

  Then she goes back to the gym bag. Pulls out a small case containing her laptop.

  This will take a while, she thinks. But I’m in no hurry. I have what I came for.

  THIRTY-FOUR

  The call comes at just after nine-thirty.

  Doyle puts down his beer and finds his phone. Stares at the number. Doesn’t recognize it. Wonders whether he should even bother answering it.

  But he does. He answers it with the air of a man who no longer gives a shit. Say what you wanna say, caller, because whatever it is, it’s nothing compared with my problems.

  ‘Yeah,’ he drawls. His eyes are still on the beer bottle. He suspects this may be the last one in the apartment. That’s not good news. More alcohol is definitely required tonight.

  ‘Cal? It’s me. It’s Nicole.’

  Oh, yeah. Nicole. She has my number. I forgot. Well, I’m sorry, Nicole, but you’re wasting your time. I can’t do anything more for you. And to be honest, not having me meddling in your affairs is probably something you should be grateful for.

  ‘Hey, Nicole. What’s up?’

  He doesn’t really want to know what’s up. She’s not his problem anymore. Move on.

  ‘You were right,’ she says. ‘About Proust.’

  Which is a curious statement. One to grab the attention, all right. One that says, Okay, sober up, Doyle. You need to listen to this.

  ‘What do you mean? How am I right?’

  ‘He murdered Megan and he murdered Steve. He murdered that other girl too. Alyssa Palmer.’

  Doyle shifts himself out of his slouch. Sits bolt upright.

  ‘You know this for a fact? How do you know it?’

  ‘He told me. Proust. He told me everything.’

  ‘What . . . What do you mean, he told you? When did he tell you this?’

  ‘A short while ago. I know it all now. I got my answers. I know exactly what he did to Megan. I know what he did with the pieces of her. And I know what he did to you, Cal.’

  ‘To me? What do you mean?’

  ‘His clever plan. With that other man. Lucas Bartok.’

  And now Doyle is standing. Pacing, even. ‘Nicole, where are you?’

  ‘I understand now, Cal. They put you in an impossible position. You tried. You did what you could for me, when nobody else would. Answer me one thing, though, Cal.’

  ‘I’m coming right over. Stay there, okay?’

  ‘I’m not at home, Cal. Don’t come looking for me. I just want to know something, all right?’

  ‘Nicole . . . All right. What is it?’

  ‘Were you planning to go through with it? The alibi for Proust? Were you going to set one up for him?’

  Doyle is at the window. He touches his forehead to the cool glass. She knows so much. Too much. It can mean only one thing. And he’s too late to do anything about it.

  ‘No. I thought about it. But no. I couldn’t live with myself. I decided to take my chances.’

  ‘That’s what I thought. Like I said, Cal, you’re a good man. You do what’s right. So I’m going to help you now.’

  ‘Nicole, please. I really think—’

  ‘Shh, Cal. Listen to me. I’m going to send you something. Do you have an email address?’

  ‘Uh, yeah. I think. Hang on.’

  He knows he has a private email address, but he never uses it. He has to go over to the computer in the corner of the room and sift through some papers to find it.

  He says, ‘Okay, I got it.’ He tells her what it is.

  ‘Thank you, Cal. I’m sending something to you right now. You need to open the attachment, okay?’

  ‘Yeah. Yeah, sure. But—’

  ‘There’s something else I need to tell you, Cal. Something very important.’

  ‘You can tell me in person. Just tell me where—’

  ‘Hush, Cal. Listen to me now.’

  The way she sounds those words reminds him of his mother. Reminds him of when he was young, his mother telling him stories as he sat cross-legged on the floor.

  And so he goes small-boy quiet and attentive. He listens to a story that is filled with unimaginable horrors, but which, for Nicole at least, obviously brings some degree of comfort. Her voice remains level and peaceful, and when she ends her brief tale, it is with the finality of a narrator who wants to convey that all the loose ends have been neatly tied off. Doyle can almost hear, in his mother’s lilt, those additional two words: The End.

  Says Nicole, ‘One final request, Cal, if I may.’

  Doyle feels as though his throat has closed up. He has to clear it to allow his words to escape.

  ‘Name it.’

  ‘I know you’ll have to make some calls when we’re done here. I understand that. You’re one of New York City’s finest, so I wouldn’t expect anything less. All I ask is that you hang fire for a short while. Just a few minutes. Just to give me a little time.’

  ‘Nicole, I . . .’

  ‘Please, Cal. Will you do that small thing for me?’

  ‘I . . . Of course I will. It’s the least I can do.’

  ‘Thank you. You know, I’m glad I met you, Callum Doyle.’

  ‘I’m glad I met you too. Nicole, please. Tell me where you are right now.’

  ‘Don’t let them change you. Trust your heart. Goodbye, Cal.’

  ‘Nicole . . .’

  But she’s gone. Out of his life. And Doyle, his head still pressed against the rain-spattered window pane, finds that he is crying.

  He cries through the sheer relief of having an insoluble dilemma erased from his life. He cries because he knows definitively now that he was correct all along about Proust. He cries because his decision to stick to the path he believed to be right has been vindicated. But most of all he cries because of all the pain and the sadness in this case. For Alyssa. For Megan. For Steve. And for Nicole.

  Sometimes there are no happy endings.

  She inches her way to the edge, her toes feeling their way along. When they curl into free space she stops and gathers herself. She is looking straight ahead. Gradually she allows her eyes to roll down.

  It’s a hell of a long way. For a second she feels as though she will lose her balance and topple off, and she has to raise her eyes again.

  She stands statue-still. Feet together. Arms at her sides.

  ‘Go ahead, Mom. Don’t be such a big wuss.’

  She smiles. ‘Easy for you to say. I’ve never done it from this height.’

  ‘Always a first time for everyone, Mom. Come on, loser.’

  ‘Hey! Who are you calling a loser?’

  ‘Sorry, did I call you a loser? I meant chicken.’

  Megan makes a chicken noise that causes Nicole to burst out laughing.

  ‘Stop it! I need to focus here.’

  ‘You’re going to do it?’

  ‘I’m going to do it. Now be quiet and let me concentrate.’

 
Megan clams up, but Nicole can picture her down there, a big smile on her face.

  She’s expecting me to back down, thinks Nicole. She knows I always back down. Well, not this time, buster. Watch this . . .

  She waggles her fingers, flicking the water from them. She takes a deep breath. Another breath.

  This is for you.

  She goes. She enters space. And she knows.

  She knows that this is a perfect dive. The best one ever. Megan will be mouthing a silent wow as she watches, so proud of her mother. Everyone will stop to watch. They will see this most sublime dive and they will talk about it for ever. But they don’t matter. Only Megan matters. My Megan, whose heart is filled with pride and with love and who will always be a part of me, always be with me now. Megan, Megan, Megan . . .

  This is for you.

  They come eventually.

  They come to a small tattoo shop on Avenue B. To the home of Stanley Francis Proust.

  They will remember this scene for a long time. It’s a new one on most of them. What was done here is unusual, to say the least. I mean, drilling all those holes in a guy . . .

  The other one, though. Not so uncommon, unfortunately. They get ’em all the time. Jumpers.

  Looks like she tortured and killed the guy. Went up to the top floor. Drilled out the lock of the roof door. Jumped.

  Funny thing, though.

  That book on the ledge. About high-diving. Like she wanted to make sure this wasn’t just any old jump. Like it really makes any difference how you get down there.

  People.

  The world is full of fucking crazy people.

  THIRTY-FIVE

  What it is, is an audio file.

  Doyle surprises himself at how easily he manages to open and play the email attachment. But listening to it doesn’t come so easy. It’s not exactly Vivaldi or Bach. Not even Kenny Rogers.

  It’s stomach-churning stuff.

  He never liked Proust. Thought he was the worst kind of scum. But what he’s listening to now, he wouldn’t wish that even on him.

  It’s all there, just as Nicole said. How Megan first called into Proust’s shop to ask about getting a tattoo. How he told her to come back to him in secret. How he drugged her. The things he did with her then. How he disposed of the body.