Ashes, Ashes

by Charles Atkins

  Houssman stepped back from the building and over to a gated alley. He pointed, through the metal slats. ‘I think that’s where the apartment is.’

  Hobbs rang the bell for the fifth time. He banged his fist on the door. ‘Open up. I can hear you in there. It’s the police.’ Every fiber in his body tensed; this was wrong. He should have back-up, but that would let Cosway know his suspicions. And if Barrett were held hostage inside it would mean her death.

  Houssman reached a bony hand through the alley gate and lifted the latch. ‘There’s another door back here,’ he said, letting himself into the narrow alley. In front of him was a ramshackle wooden garage, to the left was the brick wall of the building and to the right was a tall, chain-link fence covered with weeds and ivy that separated it from the tenement next door.

  Hobbs joined Houssman and banged his closed fist on the wooden door. ‘Police, open up!’

  ‘Quiet!’ a voice hissed from the other side. The handle turned and a sliver of dark appeared. A gray-haired man with water-blue eyes peered through the crack; he blocked the opening with his body. ‘What do you want?’

  ‘Mr Glash?’ Hobbs asked, trying to see inside as Houssman joined him.

  ‘Who wants to know?’ And then Peter Glash caught sight of Houssman. ‘What are you doing here?’

  ‘Hello, Peter,’ Houssman said. ‘I wasn’t certain you’d remember me; it’s been a long time.’

  ‘If this is about Richard, I don’t know anything. You took my son away from me. Now leave me alone. I’ve had enough trouble. I don’t want the neighbors to know I have anything to do with him.’

  Hobbs flashed his shield and placed a booted foot against the door. ‘Do you, Mr Glash? Do you know where your son is?’ He applied pressure, feeling the old man on the other side resist.

  ‘Go away,’ he said. ‘I have nothing to do with Richard. I don’t want you here.’

  ‘Mr Glash, we need to talk to you. I’d prefer we not do it in the alley. Let us in.’ A hand joined the foot, Glash started to falter.

  ‘What if I won’t?’

  Hobbs eased off. ‘I’ll be back in twenty minutes with a search warrant. I’ll have this building swarming with cops. And I’ll get you thrown in jail for interfering with a multiple homicide and kidnapping investigation.’

  ‘Why are you doing this to me? Why do your people persecute me? I haven’t done anything.’

  ‘I didn’t say you had,’ Hobbs said, his hand back on the door, applying pressure. ‘Now let us in.’

  ‘This isn’t right, you can’t do this.’ But Peter Glash stepped back.

  Hobbs didn’t hesitate, as he rapidly took in the surroundings. His ears attuned to any sound, his eyes in wide focus, not wanting to miss anything in the shadows or the periphery. He quickly noted the immaculate and sparse kitchen, waxed and yellowed linoleum flooring, old chrome and Formica furniture, a single bare bulb illuminating the space. He let the door swing wide open, seeing the impact that had on Glash.

  Peter Glash recoiled as sunlight spilled across the floor. His eyes darted toward the opening, as though expecting others to be watching. ‘This is police harassment. I don’t know what it is you hope to find here. I have nothing to do with my son.’

  Hobbs stepped over the threshold, taking stock of Glash: tall, like his son, and looking younger than his seventy-one years. The resemblance to Richard was striking, both with the same staring blue eyes and gaunt faces. Only where Richard was stocky and muscular his father reminded Hobbs of a tall, bony bird.

  Houssman trailed in uninvited behind Hobbs, leaving the door wide open.

  ‘You killed his biologic mother … your wife, nearly forty years ago,’ Hobbs stated. ‘That’s something of a connection.’

  ‘She was a whore!’ he spat.

  ‘When’s the last time you saw your son?’ Hobbs asked, stepping across the kitchen, making eye contact but keeping alert for any other sound or movement.

  ‘Thirty-eight years ago.’

  ‘Since your release you’ve never visited him?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘When did you last write to him?’ Hobbs asked, forcing eye contact, knowing in his gut he was lying – he had to be. Although the logs they’d had Felicia pull would back his story – Peter Glash had never gone to visit his son.

  Glash hesitated slightly. ‘Never, now leave me alone.’

  ‘Why the pause, Peter?’ Hobbs asked, pushing back the desperation – there was something here.

  ‘What are you trying to do to me?’ Glash spat back. ‘I’ll get my lawyer. This is harassment. Where are you going?’ he said, realizing that Houssman had wandered to a closed door on the far side of the kitchen. ‘I didn’t say you could go in there!’

  ‘Why?’ Hobbs sniffed the air. ‘What don’t you want us to see?’

  Houssman tried the handle. ‘It’s locked.’

  ‘Open it,’ Hobbs ordered.

  ‘This is harassment. I’ll call my lawyer. I’ll sue you.’

  Hobbs snapped, in a flash he’d crossed the last few feet that separated him and Glash. He grabbed the older man by the neck of his button-down shirt and pushed him up against the wall. ‘Open the fucking door!’ he shouted into Glash’s face. ‘Do it now!’

  Peter Glash stared back at Hobbs. He didn’t flinch. ‘Go ahead, beat me. It won’t be the first time I’ve been beaten by cops. You think this will make me help you? It won’t. I’ve been watching the news and I’ve seen what Richard has been doing. You’re mad because you can’t stop him.’

  ‘What do you know about him?’ Hobbs shouted, twisting the course fabric tight around Glash’s throat, cutting off his air.

  ‘I don’t know anything,’ he wheezed, his hands batting ineffectively at Hobbs.

  In the meantime Houssman was rifling through the kitchen drawers. As he came to one next to the sink Glash became agitated; he struggled fiercely to twist away from Hobbs’s grip.

  Houssman pulled a torn manila envelope from out of the drawer. He peered over his glasses at the address. He dumped the contents on to the kitchen table.

  Glash glared at him.

  ‘You lied to us, Peter,’ Houssman accused. There, on the table, was a neatly folded letter with a faded Polaroid photograph of a teenaged Richard Glash. The address was the Albomar youth facility. Houssman picked up the letter and started to read.

  Dear Father,

  I’m happy that you are no longer in prison for killing my mother. I am not mad at you and I understand why you killed her. I think they will keep me here until I am eighteen. I am told they have to let me go then. They lie and so I can’t be certain if this will happen or not. I cannot predict the probability; I think it is greater than fifty percent. Although, I do agree, as you stated in your last letter, it is impossible to predict probability accurately unless you know all of the variables.

  ‘That’s private,’ Glash hissed.

  ‘No.’ Hobbs smashed Glash hard against the wall. ‘That’s called probable cause. Now where the fuck is he?’ he demanded.

  ‘I don’t know,’ Glash replied; he was smiling. ‘Go ahead and beat me. It won’t do any good. I don’t know where he is.’

  Disgusted, Hobbs let go, walked to the locked door and kicked it in, splintering the wood around the lock. It was Glash’s bedroom, drab and tidy, but what snagged his attention was a framed photograph of father and son in the grounds of the state hospital. It must have been taken soon after Peter Glash’s release from prison. They were both smiling, but the expressions were forced and grimacing.

  Hobbs grabbed Glash again, wanting to keep an eye on him, and pulled him along as he proceeded to search the building. He knew that Peter Glash was lying, but as he and Houssman went through the three rooms of the tiny apartment and into the largely derelict storerooms, he could see no trace of Richard. His despair mounted. There had to be something. ‘Don’t you care that your son is killing people and has taken two women hostage?’

  Peter Glash stood still, watch
ing the cop and the aged psychiatrist search his home and his business.

  ‘I do care,’ he sneered.

  Hobbs gave him a warning look, he sniffed the stale air. ‘Something died in here.’

  ‘I have a rodent problem,’ Glash replied, and pointed out sticky glue traps at regular intervals around the periphery. ‘See,’ he said, looking at one on which a desiccated rat body was affixed. ‘We’ve always had rats … As for those two women … they’re not here, and Richard’s not here; he’s too smart for that. But I’ll tell you this; they’re both as good as dead.’

  Hobbs felt something snap.

  ‘Ed, no!’ Houssman shouted, as Hobbs shoved Peter Glash against the wall. ‘Ed! Don’t!’

  Hobbs didn’t even feel Houssman’s bony hands on his back, trying to pull him off. His eyes bore into Glash’s as his fist slammed into his gut.

  ‘Tell me where he is!’ Hobbs screamed as he backhanded Glash’s gasping face, making hard contact with nose and cheek.

  Houssman’s hat tumbled to the floor as he kept trying to pull him off. ‘Ed, don’t. This isn’t the way. Maybe he knows things, but she’s not here. They’ve not been here.’

  Ed looked down at Peter Glash, and saw his nose was bleeding and his eye and jaw were red and starting to puff up. He wanted to scream, the emotions too powerful – rage and fear.

  ‘He won’t tell us anything,’ Houssman said. ‘And beating him isn’t going to help. If it was, I’d say keep at it. Richard Glash isn’t here … But I think I know where he is. I should have realized it sooner.’

  ‘Where?’ Hobbs asked, getting off Glash, feeling as though his knees might buckle.

  Houssman looked at Peter Glash. ‘I’ll tell you in the car. Let’s get out of here. I don’t think we have much time.’

  As they headed out Glash followed them. ‘You’re in so much trouble. I’m calling my lawyer. I’ll sue you. I’ll sue you both!’ And he slammed the door and bolted it.

  Peter Glash’s heart pounded. The right side of his face throbbed and he was still gasping from the blow to his gut. He didn’t move at first and then he hurried from the apartment into the deserted storefront. His eye spotted the dead rat – he knew that he’d come close to catastrophe. The rat had been a good touch. He sniffed the air as he peered through a chip in the painted windows. He caught the scent of death as he watched the detective and Dr Houssman. He waited for them to drive away.

  ‘Too close,’ he muttered, as he pulled out a cell phone, identical to the ones being used and then discarded by his son. He punched in a number. There was no answer. He tried a second number. Again, nothing.

  On the third try, he heard, ‘Yes, Father?’

  ‘The police were here,’ he said, and, knowing that the mention of Houssman’s name could send his son into a violent rage, he kept silent about that. ‘They’re gone, but it’s close. They didn’t believe me.’

  Richard Glash said nothing at first. ‘Did you tell them where I am?’

  ‘No, but there’s a probability they’ve figured it out.’

  ‘How is that possible if you didn’t tell them?’

  ‘They saw the picture of us at Albomar.’ Peter prayed his son wouldn’t question him further on that.

  ‘Is everything ready?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘All three of them?’

  ‘Yes,’ he answered, ‘I got the last one this morning. She was jogging, and from the back she looks just like your lawyer. I dressed her just the way you said.’

  ‘Good. I’ll call you when I’m ready for them. I have one more thing I have to do. Then it’s time. And Father?’

  ‘Yes, Richard?’

  ‘Thank you. I’d never have been able to do this without you. The probability would have been zero.’

  As Peter Glash hung up, he felt something moist on his cheek. He assumed it was blood, from the cop’s beating. He stared into an empty glass display case and caught his reflection. He could see the start of a large black eye, but what he’d thought was blood were tears. The first he had ever shed.

  Seventeen

  Barrett stared through the glass wall of the locked observation room, her eyes flipping between the three snowy television sets. Her wrists, still restrained, ached, but at least Glash had removed the tape from her legs.

  Carla slept fitfully on the padded floor behind her and she saw no reason to wake her. She’d been like that since Glash had brought Barrett back from Jersey. What he’d revealed to her on the ride back was monstrous; it had shattered through her numbness, filling her with near-paralyzing panic. He’d insisted that she write it down. ‘I will culture Dr Albert’s plague strain,’ he’d said, ‘and then I will pour it into the Ashokan Reservoir, which supplies eighty percent of New York City’s water.’

  As he’d talked, she could barely think. Could such a plan succeed? The reservoir water was too cold; the bacteria wouldn’t survive, and wouldn’t they become too dilute to actually infect anyone? And in their current frozen form perhaps they’d already been destroyed. Albert had been locked up for five years; how long could bacteria keep? But she’d kept those thoughts to herself. Something didn’t add up. Until now, Glash had been so careful. It seemed unlikely he’d make such an amateurish mistake. Was he deliberately misleading her? And if so, why?

  On the opposite side of the nursing station she watched as he abruptly stripped out of his guard’s uniform. He was completely naked, no sense of modesty, his genitals and bare buttocks clearly visible above the counter. That same lack of social appropriateness she’d observed when he’d taken her or Carla for their bathroom visits. It was clinical … but maybe that wasn’t the word. It just didn’t register with him that people weren’t supposed to strip naked in front of strangers. Or that there was something odd in taking down a woman’s pants so she could pee.

  As she watched, she noticed that for a man in his forties he had an outstanding physique, no trace of fat, or middle-age spread around the middle. Once naked, he began to pull out newly purchased clothing from plastic bags he’d deposited out of view.

  ‘Do I look nice?’ he asked, coming to stand in front of the window.

  She stared at the tall man, now in Levi’s, sneakers and a button-down shirt. At his side was the metal box he’d retrieved from Albert’s property. ‘Yes,’ she replied honestly. ‘You look very nice.’ He’d even combed down his thick shock of black hair. She wanted to add, You can almost pass for normal.

  ‘Where are you going?’

  ‘To see my girlfriend.’ A muscle in his cheek fluttered.

  She glimpsed the hint of a blush creeping up the sides of his face. Gently she tested the water, knowing that the slightest wrong step would set him off. ‘What’s her name?’

  ‘Mary.’

  Barrett shuddered. The only Mary she knew connected to Glash was the woman he’d twice tried to kill. Would this be the third time? ‘Does she know you’re coming?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Was this the accomplice? she wondered. ‘Is that who you’ve been talking to on the phone?’

  ‘You’re trying to trick me.’

  ‘I’m not,’ she said, afraid to move. ‘It’s called small talk. Are you nervous?’

  He paused and blinked. He said nothing as seconds stretched. ‘I am,’ he finally said.

  She wanted to know what he intended for Mary. Was there any way he could be stopped, or she could be warned? Then again, he hadn’t gotten dressed up for any of the other murders. ‘What are you planning to do with her?’ she had to ask.

  ‘I told you already. I’m going to ask her to marry me.’ He patted his breast pocket and pulled out Lucinda Peter’s diamond engagement ring. ‘I’m forty-two years old; I should have a wife. There’s a ninety percent probability that I will not be alive in three days. I’ll tell her that. But there’s a ten percent chance I will be alive.’

  ‘What if she doesn’t say yes?’ Barrett asked, and immediately wished that she hadn’t.

  Glash’s f
ace contorted, his nose flattened and his jaw tensed as his fist came down hard on the glass wall that separated them. ‘Shut up!’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Barrett said, jumping back.

  Carla’s eyes, both badly bruised, opened in slits. ‘What’s happening?’

  ‘She has to say yes.’ Glash shouted, and droplets of spittle landed on the window. ‘I’ll make her say yes. I’m forty-two years old; I should be married. She will say yes.’

  He put the ring back in his pocket. He was breathing heavily and he glared at Barrett. He shook his head. ‘You shouldn’t make me angry.’ He turned to leave, and then he stopped with his back to the two women. ‘I’ll kill her if she doesn’t say yes. Then again, she might die anyway from the plague.’

  ‘What have you done with it? With Albert’s plague?’ Barrett asked, pushing through her fear, wondering if it were already too late. She pictured her sister, her mother … her unborn child.

  He turned. ‘I’m surprised, Dr Conyors. Didn’t you take microbiology?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Then you should know that the bacteria were frozen and in a suspended state. I’m waking them up and feeding them with enriched agar; I should have enough within twenty-four hours. Although I plan to test them first.’ He hoisted up the box and opened the lid to reveal two quart-sized glass milk bottles filled with a swirling, coco-brown murk.

  ‘Don’t you want to protect Mary?’ she asked, staring at the deadly brew, stunned to realize that the bacteria were quite alive. ‘Don’t you love her?’

  ‘I love Mary,’ he said, ‘she’s going to say yes. And either I survive or I don’t. She survives or she doesn’t. “A” and “B”, “A” and “B”.’

  He walked away. Barrett stared down the hall, her eyes fixed on the metal box that dangled at his side. She heard the door to the ward bang open and then closed.

  ‘Is he gone?’ Carla asked, rolling on to her back. Her face was a puffy confluence of bruises, and unlike Barrett, he’d left her fully restrained with thick bands of duct tape across her thighs and her ankles.

  ‘Yes,’ Barrett said, barely able to speak. Her thoughts were racing – the bacteria were alive, this was all possible, horribly, undeniably possible. End of the world, end of everyone she loved.