“He has been identified as Ashton Malone. Eight-year-old. COD: starvation.” Gates turned his intense silver eyes to Rachel, awaiting a response.
Rachel scanned the tiny, fragile bones, which had turned brittle and yellow with age. “When?”
“1978, give or take a year,” Gates said.
Peak’s expression was willfully detached.
The room around them consisted of a wall of body lockers that were sadly full, a desk with organized stacks of files on top, a sink and lab area, and a metal slab where the autopsies were performed with a series of shiny sharp tools, saws, and rubber tubes. The room’s smell could not be easily forgotten: a chemical stink that was the result of disinfectants and embalming fluid.
Rachel asked Gates to excuse her and Peak for a moment.
“I’d rather not,” the white-haired coroner replied. “Every time you come in here, you mess with my bodies. I don’t know if it’s some sick fetish thing, or you two have an odd sense of fun.”
Peak glared at him. “And you’ll never know the answer to those questions. Leave us be.”
“Not until I get an explanation,” Gates said.
Rachel sighed. “Whenever I touch a cadaver, I can see how they died.”
Peak’s eyes widened. He was completely taken off guard by Rachel’s confession.
Gates straightened out his lab coat. “Fine. Don’t tell me.”
He marched out of the room and slammed the door. Rachel watched the observation window until she saw him vanish down the hall and then removed the glove on her right hand. Her hand trembled as she touched the small skull’s forehead. The bone was dry, crusty, and rough like sandpaper. The room and Detective Peak faded into blackness. The air became very still. Her body felt as light as a feather. In a split second, Rachel Harroway was Ashton Malone. They shared thoughts, emotions, memories, and the eight-year-old’s last day.
Darkness.
Dust.
A cold chill.
Ashton sat alone in the abyss. He couldn’t see his own hands. A soft scratching filled his big ears. It was that rat again, come back to nibble on him while he slept. Ashton slept often and dreamt of blackness. Sometimes, when he awoke, he wouldn’t know if he was still dreaming. No light shone under the door beneath the stairs. Day or night, night or day, time didn’t matter in this place.
Ashton screamed, his voice crackly and dry. He didn’t yell to attract help. He knew that wasn’t coming. He shouted to remember he was alive. Was he? Ashton was unsure, so he shouted again.
“Rest now, Ashton,” said a figure in white.
“I’m… thirsty,” Ashton replied. Cotton stuffed his empty mouth. He gnawed on his tongue as a substitute for lack of food. “Hungry...”
“Rest now.”
Ashton blinked. Or at least he thought he did because the figure suddenly vanished. He tried to remember how he got here, but he could barely remember his name. A horrible smell wafted into the dark place, like that dead cat he found on the roadside that one day. Smell. His thought seemed like a whisper. Dinner.
He shut his eyes. His mind rewound through hours of darkness. His imagination bloomed.
Ashton stood on the sidewalk opposite his house. The leaves on the tree in the front yard were all shades of red and orange. He looked down at himself, seeing he was in overalls and boots, holding a jack-o’-lantern mask. Across the street, a few other children ran by, dressed in costumes. Lagging behind the crowd was a child with a jack-o’-lantern mask and overalls, just like Ashton. Only this child had a backpack. Ashton’s backpack. In still silence, Ashton watched the boy push open the metal fence, hike up the stairs, and vanish into the house.
Ashton shivered, a cold chill coming over him. He hugged himself and studied the building. Somehow, he knew he was still in that dark place under the stairs, even though he was standing under the sun. Even stranger, he knew that boy that went inside was him, and he was here. How he was standing in two places at once made no logical sense, yet it felt natural.
The next moment, he was in the entrance hall of his home. Family pictures decorated the wall. Old ones of Grandma and Grandpa, Uncle Gene, Aunt Zelda, and cousins Becky and Robert. The boy in the jack-o’-lantern mask walked by him and upstairs, vanishing from view.
Ashton waited. He watched the side table pressed next to the wall by the stairs. Ceramic vases stood on top with the wildflowers he had picked for his mom.
The faucet turned on in the kitchen.
Ashton walked that way, passing through the living room. The wooden box TV was playing a black-and-white program, but he couldn’t hear the words or see the picture. He remembered being jealous that his parents didn’t buy a colored television like most of his friends had.
A few moments later, the boy, still in costume but now lacking his backpack, descended the stairs and entered to the dining room, where Mother sat. She wore a pale-blue-and-white sleeveless scoop-neck dress with an unpressed pleated skirt. Her greying hair was in a loose bun, and she had a sorrowful face. Her eyes were red rimmed and droopy. Wrinkles creased her mole-spotted forehead. Like every other day when Ashton came home from school, she was crying and drinking a glass of wine.
The boy ran to her and wrapped his arms around her. She returned the embrace.
“Don’t be sad,” the boy commanded sweetly.
With the tip of her finger, Mother wiped away a tear. “Momma’s not sad, sweetie. Why don’t you run along and play?”
“I wanna play with him,” the boy said.
Mother smiled sadly. “Not today, sweetie. Father would be very angry.”
“Father’s always angry,” the boy said and pouted.
Mother held him tighter. “That’s because he provides for this family.”
“Shouldn’t family make him happy?”
Mother was at a loss for words.
The front door knob jiggled.
Mother went stiff. She let go of the boy and gave him a kiss on his mask. “Go now.”
The boy hurried to the living room, dropped down on the couch, and acted as if he’d been there watching TV all day.
Father stomped inside and slammed the door behind him. He reeked of alcohol and turned directly into his office, where he swiftly tore off his suit jacket and button-up, balled them up, and threw them on a nearby chair. In a stained muscle shirt, suspenders, and slacks, he rounded the desk, unlocked the top drawer, and withdrew a bottle of amber liquid. Above the fireplace hung his prized hunting shotgun. He looked at it for an uncomfortably long amount of time before unscrewing the bottle’s lid.
After drinking down half of the bottle, he squeezed its neck tightly and clenched his eyes even tighter. Shaking, he threw the glass against the wall. On impact, it erupted into millions of crystalline shards.
Mother stayed seated at the dining room table, clasping her hands together to keep them from shaking.
Finished with his drink, Father stormed into the dining room and stopped at the nose of the table. “It’s gone.”
“How much?” Mother asked nervously.
“All of it. That rat David cheated me. I had Aces in the pocket. I was loaded, and he cheated me out of my money. ”
“Oh…” Mother panicked but tried to keep a cheery face. “Maybe next time. We can put our money into other investments, like farming.”
Father glared at her. “Farming up here? Are you stupid?”
“I’m sorry, Henry,” the woman replied.
“Cards is how my father makes money. Cards is how I make money.” He walked into the kitchen, balled his fist, and swiftly swiveled back to Mother. “Where’s dinner?”
Mother quickly got up. “I forgot.”
“Forgot? You trying to starving me, woman?”
“No, I—”
“I work all day to put food on this table, and all I ask of you is to take five minutes away from your day and make something.”
Mother scrambled to the kitchen door. “I’ll start right now.”
Father s
truck her as she walked by, sending her to the floor. “I can’t live with you screwing up all the time.”
The boy stepped inside and stared at his mother. One half of her face was glowing red.
“Go and play, Ashton,” Mother pleaded.
“Get out, Ashton,” Father barked. “This does not concern you.”
The boy felt his mouth dry up and terror crawling at his mind. With watering eyes, he mustered what little strength he could. “I want you two to stop fighting.”
Father glared at him with hateful eyes. “You want to end up like your brother? Get!”
The boy lent his hands to his mother, helping her rise up.
“Don’t you help her,” Father commanded.
The boy didn’t listen. “You’re angry all the time. You make Momma cry.”
Father’s anger boiled. “I said get!”
The boy took Mother’s shaking hands and helped her steady herself.
Father grabbed a chair and hurled it across the room. It missed the boy and slammed into the wall. “I have had enough with you disobedient children!”
He stomped past Mother and toward the study.
“I’m sorry, Henry,” Mother said, rubbing her sore cheek. “I’ll get started on dinner now.”
“Too late for that!” Father yelled from the hall and slammed the study door.
Both mother and son watched and waited.
“Can we leave, Momma?” the boy asked. “I don’t want to be in this house anymore.”
“I don’t either,” Mother whispered. “But we can’t go. No yet. Not until Father’s mood has passed. Understand?”
“So he won’t be angry and chase us?”
“Yes, Ashton. Very smart, and so we can get your brother.”
The study door opened and slammed against the wall.
Heavy footfalls approached. The boy’s heart thumped with the rhythm of the boots.
Mother whispered, “Let me talk.”
Father rounded the corner with his hand clenching the neck of a shotgun. “You thinking about leaving, aren’t you? Take what’s left in savings and go? Huh? Is that it? Speak, woman!”
“No—”
“This is my house, woman. You will not go anywhere unless I say so.”
“Please, Henry. I can’t take any more.” Mother’s face turned ugly with tears. “I only want you to be happy. Like you were when we first met.”
“Sit down.” Father raised the weapon. “I said sit down.”
Mother grabbed the top of the chair and lowered herself to the hard wooden seat. “Please, put away the gun.”
The boy stepped between his mother and the shotgun barrel.
The father glared at him with nearly black eyes. “Boy. Move.”
Teeth chattering, the boy held his ground.
Face turning bloodred, the old drunk grabbed the boy by the scruff of his neck and yanked him off his feet.
“Henry, please,” Mother begged. “He’s only a boy.”
The father ignored her as he dragged the boy into the hallway. He opened the latch for the under-stairs compartment and shoved the boy inside. His palms landed on the dusty wooden floorboards, and his mask fell off, revealing a mop of greasy black hair and dark eyes like his father. Ashton crawled in after the boy. When the latch closed, the light went with it.
Father yelled through the house. “This family. This business. It’s all falling apart thanks to you!”
Mother’s voice was muffled. “Please, Henry. This isn’t you. You’re drunk.”
“You want to talk about drunk? I’ll make you a drink.”
“Please, Henry. Think about the children.”
Father’s voice sounded from the kitchen. “The child we brought into this world, or your lover’s bastard?”
Mother sobbed.
Father’s voice was nearly lost through the walls. “Drink up… You love wine. It’s a lover’s drink, you said. I know you’ve known quite a few lovers… Do it.”
“Yes, Henry.”
The boy pushed on the latch. It didn’t budge. He tried putting his shoulder into it. Nothing, but a new purple bruise. Ashton was now in the dark place, too, seated beside the boy. His doppelgänger.
Father’s words were quiet and indistinguishable. Something thumped in the dining room. Several moments later, footfalls could be heard through the walls and entering into the adjacent study.
“We’ll be happier now,” Father’s muffled voice said. “Yes. We’ll all be happier now.”
The boy frantically looked around the dark place. He needed to save his mother, and he couldn’t do it alone. He felt his way to the small square door at the far end of the room. A metal bar slid between two rings nailed to the wall on either side of the small door. The boy’s tiny hands found it and felt the chalky metal on his soft fingertips. Quietly, he removed it. Something stopped him from opening the latch, though. His father’s words swirled in his thoughts. “That room is his home. Not ours. Keep away, Ashton. He doesn’t deserve you.” Thinking of his mother’s well-being, the boy grabbed the tiny knob and opened the door.
The room beyond was stiff. A tall lamp stood in the corner and cast a bloom of pale-yellow light across the unpainted ceiling. Martin sat cross-legged on the floor, his frail hand teetering a little toy rocking horse. His big dark eyes met with the boy’s. Skin the color of curdled milk stretched over his thin body. Greasy black hair tumbled over his eyes, ears, and down the back of his neck.
“Time for supper already?” the brother asked. All across the walls behind him was a single phrase Father had taught him. This is your home.
“Momma’s in trouble,” the boy said. “We need to save her.”
Without further explanation, the boy crawled back into the under-stairs compartment and slammed his shoulder into the door. A bolt of pain jolted through his shoulder, collarbone, and arm. Soft scuffling sounded behind him. He turned back to see his brother’s dark silhouette. His voice was high pitched and cracked. “Why didn’t you ever help me?”
“I’m helping you now,” the boy explained as he rubbed his upper arm. “Let’s get this door open.”
Squatting low to the ground, the brother watched with a cocked head.
“Are you deaf?” the boy said. “Momma’s in trouble. You love Momma, right?”
The brother stared with bugged eyes.
“Martin!” the boy exclaimed.
The brother snapped out of his daze. Still squatted, he waddled over to the latch. After counting down from three, they hit the door. It rattled but did not give. They reset, got into a better position, and rammed into it again.
A thunderous boom echoed through the house.
Silence.
Both of the children stood very still for a moment. The brother named Martin slammed his bony shoulder into the door and staggered back. He tried again.
Ashton and his doppelgänger both observed the study wall where the sound had originated. They recognized it as the noise of their father’s gun.
The boy joined his brother, and together they slammed against the door with all their might, sending both of them toppling out onto the hallway floor.
Lying prone, Martin scanned the quiet house with his eyes. A half smile crept up the side of his face. He rose up at the same time as the boy and put his hands on his shoulders.
“What are you doing?” the boy whispered. “Momma’s waiting for us in the kitchen.”
Martin’s smile was wide and wicked. Without warning, he shoved his hands into the boy’s chest, sending him back into the under-stairs compartment.
“Martin?” the boy called in confusion as he started crawling to the latch.
“Stay there,” his brother said and slammed the latch door in his face. “This is your home now.”
A swirl of confusion hit the boy. None of this made sense. They needed to be helping Momma. He tried pushing open the latch, but something held it. The sideboard by the steps dragged across the floor and blocked off all light.
&
nbsp; “Martin!” the boy screamed.
His brother’s voice sounded like a muted jingle. “This is your home, this your home, this your home.”
“Martin, please!” the boy pleaded, hammering his fist on the latch door.
Small footsteps pattered to the hall. The back door opened but never shut.
Suddenly, Ashton and the boy were one again, their back resting against the wall. The memory had faded. All that remained was darkness. Days went. Nights passed. His mouth went dry. His eyelids fell.
“Where’s Martin?” he asked himself. “Momma needs help.”
Rachel pulled herself from the darkness with a great gasp. She was lying on her back on the morgue’s icy floor. Peak stood over her, watching her with a pensive expression. He extended his hand. Rachel took it. Her legs felt wobbly. She balanced herself on the metal slab full of bones.
“You had a seizure,” said Peak.
Rachel closed her eyes. She could feel Ashton’s hunger in his belly. The confusion in his mind. She tasted dust and smelt his sweat. Goose bumps speckled her body. She hugged herself for warmth she seemingly hadn’t felt in days. A question swirled in her thoughts. Where’s Martin?
Drained emotionally, physically, and mentally, Rachel said to her partner, “I know the Poisoner’s name.”
6
Woodhall
The leather office chair ate Rachel up. She wanted nothing more than to close her eyes and sleep for a week. She felt Peak’s eyes on her and opened one of her own to look back at him.
“You good?” he asked harshly.
Rachel readjusted her posture and nodded. She rolled her chair closer to his desk as Peak’s skeletal fingers clacked on the keyboard. In the bullpen around her, a few officers with dark circles under their eyes and holding their third cup of coffee gave her curt nods. The case robbed them of their sleep, too.
“About time,” Peak grumbled as he pulled up Martin Malone’s name on the database. There was no picture. Only a birthday in ’72, a brief physical description, and scanned police report dated November 8, 1978. The account described a robbery at a local candy store. A “feral” child was caught in the act of stealing and brought into the station for questioning. After hours of silence, he revealed himself to be Martin Malone and described where he lived. Unable to reach his parents via telephone, the officer drove the boy to his home. The mother’s body was at the kitchen table, poisoned by a mix of rat poison and wine. The father was found in the study, killed by a self-inflicted gunshot wound. A number of photos on the wall revealed that a boy, Ashton Malone, lived in the house, though he was never recovered. Martin was sent to Woodhall: a children’s hospital and orphanage.
The Lost Orphans Omnibus: A Riveting Mystery Page 28
