Reviver: A Novel

by Seth Patrick

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  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Notice

  Dedication

  Acknowledgements

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Epilogue

  Copyright

  For Laura

  (No pressure)

  Acknowledgements

  Thanks first to my agent, Luigi Bonomi, for his support and enthusiasm; to Peter James for his encouragement; to my editor, Julie Crisp, for her guidance and for taking a chance on a first-timer; to everyone at Pan Macmillan; and to Brendan Deneen at Macmillan Films for making the movie deal happen.

  Also to those who read early drafts and whose feedback was so useful, including Dorothy Fawcett, Mark Sutherns, Ross Manton, and Scott Pitkethly of Unicorn Power. Special mention goes to Doctor Tim Gosling and Doctor May Yee Yong, who read every draft I threw their way with diligence and speed, and whose suggestions made the finished book so much stronger.

  And of course, to my wife and children for putting up with me no matter how distracted I was.

  Final thanks go to Edgar Allan Poe. It was the discovery that I shared a birthday with Poe that led to Reviver, as it brought to mind two of his stories I’d read years previously. First, The Facts in the Case of M. Valdemar, in which Monsieur Valdemar dies under hypnosis but his corpse speaks, the tongue vibrating hideously in the dead mouth. Second, The Murders in the Rue Morgue, widely regarded as the first modern detective story. These tales collided in my head, and – with the image of Valdemar being questioned by Poe’s detective, Dupin – Reviver was born.

  1

  Sometimes Jonah Miller hated talking to the dead.

  The woman’s ruined corpse lay against the far wall of the small office. The killer had moved her from the centre of the room; she had been dragged to the back wall and left propped up, slouched with her head lolled to one side.

  Forensics had been and gone, leaving him to get what he could. They had been eager to leave. Jonah sympathized. Hearing the dead bear witness to their own demise was never pleasant.

  He was wearing the standard white forensic coverall, as much to protect his own clothing as to prevent contamination of the scene. Gloves on his hands, covers over his trainers. He took a slow deep breath, ignoring the dull tang of blood in the air. It was a familiar smell.

  The heavy wooden chair had been discarded next to the window, after the killer had used it to bludgeon the life out of the woman. Blood spatter was everywhere, clear swing patterns on the walls and ceiling.

  The woman’s corpse had almost been pulped by the frenzied attack. Her limbs had been broken, her torso ripped and distorted, the back of her skull torn apart. However, the throat seemed undamaged; the lungs, from what could be seen of them, appeared intact. That was the important thing. Three cameras were placed around the room, ready to record everything that happened. It was vital to have the words spoken aloud.

  The duty pathologist had not moved her. Disturbing the body would make revival more difficult, reducing the chance of success. Time of death had been estimated at around nine the previous evening, almost twelve hours before.

  Her name was Alice Decker. She was a clinical psychologist, and this was her office; a family picture in a mangled frame lay on the floor, Decker smiling beside her husband and two teenage daughters.

  With care, Jonah stepped around one tripod-mounted camera, his paper suit rustling as he tiptoed between cable and bloodstain. He knelt by Alice’s body and removed the latex glove from his right hand. Direct contact was an unpleasant necessity.

  ‘Everything ready?’ he asked, looking into the lens of the nearest camera. There was a brief confirmation in the earpiece he wore. The red indicators on the cameras went green as recording commenced.

  Jonah took the victim’s shattered hand. ‘Revival of subject Alice Decker. J. P. Miller, duty reviver,’ he stated. He focused, the cameras recording in silence. Minutes passed. His eyes closed. His face betrayed nothing of his work’s difficulty, but it was this part that he hated most, this plunge into the dark rot to bring his subject back.

  A violent death was harder, and Jonah was always dealing with violent deaths.

  The violence also limited the time he would have. When he brought Alice back, he expected five minutes of questioning at most, perhaps far less. He would release her as quickly as he could, once there was nothing more to be learned. After the indignation of death, and the sacrilege of resurrection, it was the least he could do.

  He opened his eyes and breathed deeply. He’d been going for twelve minutes and was close to success, the worst of it over, but he needed a moment to prepare for the final effort.

  Her open eyelids flickered, an early indication. For a moment, his gaze stayed on her left eye, which had been punctured in the attack and had spilled slightly onto her cheek, leaving the eyeball surface subtly wrinkled. The tip of the bone shard that had caused the wound was visible in the fractured mess surrounding the eye, retreated now that the damage was done.

  Above her left ear he saw a flap of Alice’s scalp that had been lifted in the assault. The severe damage underneath was a confusion of colour – whites, greys and reds mingled with Alice’s blonde hair. The worst of the damage to the head was at the back, pressed to the wall and not visible.

  Ready at last, Jonah closed his eyes and continued with the revival. Moments later, her throat quivered briefly. A dozen more seconds passed, and then he had her.

  ‘She’s here,’ he said.

  The corpse inhaled, an unpleasant wet rasping coming from the chest. Jonah couldn’t help noticing how unevenly the chest rose, open in places, jagged lines clear through clothing. Low cracks of bone and gristle were audible under the groan of air entering the dead woman’s lungs. Her vocal cords started to move, creating a gentle wail.

  Full, her chest halted.

  ‘My name is Jonah Miller. Can you tell me who you are?’ Jonah tensed, waiting. It was far from certain that she would be able to respond at all, let alone audibly.

  A low sigh rose from her, the grim bubbling from her lungs distressingly loud in comparison.

  Then a word formed. ‘Yesss…’ she said. ‘Alice…’

  To the cameras, her voice was a whisper, monotone and distant. To Jonah, it was as if the corpse spoke directly into his ears, with a terrible clarity. This clarity was equally true of the emotional state of the subject, laid bare to the reviver. With murder, the emotion was often anger. Anger at being dead. Anger at bein
g disturbed.

  Gripping her hand, Jonah leaned in. He steeled himself and made full eye contact. The dead couldn’t see, but if he avoided looking his subject in the eye, he felt like a coward.

  ‘You’re safe, Alice,’ he said. His voice was calm and warm.

  The chest fell as Alice exhaled. Sounds of popping, and of tissue coming unstuck, came from her. She inhaled again.

  ‘No…’ she said. Her voice was full of despair, and this was a bad sign. He needed indignation, not self-pity.

  He paused, uncertain whether she was aware of her situation. It was more common in adult subjects; sometimes they simply didn’t know they were dead. A refusal to accept it could bring the revival to an abrupt end, a rapid onset of incoherence, then silence.

  ‘Do you know where you are, Alice?’ he asked.

  ‘My office.’ Her tone, her sense of loss. He could tell: she knew what had happened, and was understandably afraid.

  ‘Please, let me go,’ she said. Jonah halted, a painful memory surfacing. He had heard those words often enough since, but they still made him pause.

  ‘I will, but there are questions I have to ask. What happened here, Alice? What happened to you?’

  Alice exhaled, but said nothing. Precious seconds slipped past. Jonah knew how agitated the observers would be, watching their key witness flounder, knowing time was short, but he was patient. At last, the chest moved again, and she inhaled.

  ‘Please, let me go,’ she said.

  Jonah considered his options for a moment, then chose another tack. He made his voice cold, stern.

  ‘Tell me what happened, Alice. Then I’ll let you go.’

  Another pause.

  ‘We want to catch who did this, but you need to help me.’

  Still no reply. He decided to risk scolding her.

  ‘Don’t you care what’s been done to you?’

  He sensed anger forming, outrage congealing from her despair.

  ‘I was alone,’ she said. ‘The building was empty. I was working. The door opened.’ She inhaled, then paused. With each breath she took, with each pause she had now, there was a risk of it being a final silence. He needed her to keep talking, her breaths momentary delays. Time was running out.

  Yet he had to take care, not push too hard. He waited a few seconds before prompting. ‘What time was it?’

  ‘Eleven. Just after. I asked him what he was doing here.’

  ‘Who was it, Alice?’

  ‘He said George had let him in but George had gone hours ago.’

  ‘Who was it, Alice?’

  ‘He’d been crying, I could tell; blood on his hand, he saw me notice and hid it behind his back.’

  ‘Who was the man, Alice?’ He was anxious to get the name, in case she stopped. The details could wait.

  ‘I said something about the door, to distract him. He looked away, and I tried to use the phone. I knew I was in trouble.’

  She stopped, not inhaling this time.

  ‘Who was the man, Alice? What’s his name?’ He heard one of the observers swear, and felt like doing so himself. Then Alice inhaled again, more deeply than before. Her back slid several inches along the wall, making Jonah flinch.

  Reluctant, he moved closer, and reached around with his right arm to cradle her. He pushed his knee hard against her legs, supporting her enough to prevent her slipping out from the wall. He was brutally aware of her injuries now. A splinter of rib dug painfully into his forearm. He could feel her breath on his face as she spoke.

  ‘He saw my hand on the phone. He moved fast, and wrenched it off the table. He hit me hard, the side of my head. I fell. He picked me up – threw me. The rage on his face, I asked him please, please.’ And then, to Jonah: ‘Please, let me go.’ She stopped again.

  ‘What was his name, Alice? His name.’

  Jonah found himself holding his breath. Fifteen seconds passed. With a suddenness that made him start, she inhaled; he could feel the muscle tear, feel the bones grinding against each other.

  ‘Roach,’ she said, her voice fading now. She was losing focus, dissipating. ‘Franklin Roach. He lifted the chair. I saw him swing it at my head. So much rage.’

  Silence. His intuition told him there would be nothing else. Jonah waited a few moments before speaking to a camera.

  ‘I think that’s all we get.’

  He got a confirmation that it was enough, and then the green camera lights went red as recording stopped.

  He turned back to Alice. Silent as she was, she was still present. Release would come the moment he broke physical contact – the moment he let go of her hand.

  ‘We’ll catch him.’ His voice was tender again. ‘You can rest now.’ He was about to release her when she spoke, a terror and an urgency in her voice.

  ‘Something’s coming,’ she said. ‘Please, let me go. There’s something coming.’

  She was confused. Somehow, she had refocused, and Jonah was reluctant to let her go like this. He wanted to reassure her. The terror she was feeling was considerable, and Jonah had to work hard to keep calm; revivers sensed the emotions of the subject, and as those emotions grew stronger they could prove overwhelming.

  ‘There’s nothing coming, Alice. You can rest now. It’s over. You can sleep.’

  ‘Something’s coming … please, let me go!’

  ‘Alice, it’s OK, it’s OK. You’re safe.’

  ‘I can’t see it! I can’t see it!’ Her lips barely moved, her voice fading, but to Jonah she was screaming.

  ‘Alice, you’re safe. Please, you’re—’

  ‘It’s below me!’ The fear surged, sudden and total. He was frozen now, bewildered and infected by her level of terror. He had an image of darkness beneath him, stalking, circling. ‘Please, please, let me go! Please, it’s…’

  Jonah released her hand and lurched away from her. He scrambled back, staring, appalled that his inaction had led to such distress. She had simply been confused; her words were meaningless. He should have let her go at once.

  And yet. It hadn’t just been a desire to reassure her that had made him delay. He had felt something. He turned to a camera.

  ‘Did you get any of that?’ he asked, but there was no response. Nobody was watching. Then the red light on the camera faded and died. Jonah looked at it, puzzled, and saw movement reflected in the blank lens. Movement behind him. He turned back to the corpse. Alice’s head, which had been lolled to one side for the duration of the revival, now twitched and rose. The eyes moved to look at him.

  It wasn’t Alice. Jonah had no idea what this thing was, staring back at him. It spoke.

  ‘We see you,’ it said, and then it was gone.

  2

  The knock on Daniel Harker’s door came just after half past one.

  The afternoon was hot and muggy. Daniel had been out of bed for only an hour, and wasn’t in the mood for visitors. He’d heard the car tyres crunching on the gravel out front, and the footsteps approach his door. When the knock came he’d already decided what to do. He ignored it.

  He sat alone in his kitchen, curtains still closed, eating a bland lunch of dry toast and tomato soup. It was all he could stomach. He looked at the two empty wine bottles on his sink drainer and vowed not to drink for several days. Or until evening, at least.

  He knew he was drinking too much, but it was an annual pattern. Each year, the hated month of April would arrive. Each year, he would become withdrawn and uncommunicative, sinking into a depression that would have a tight hold until the end of June.

  June was more than half gone now, and his daughter Annabel was coming home for the Fourth of July; home from her own career as a journalist in England.

  He needed a week to straighten himself and the house out, make it presentable and welcoming. She knew about his dark times, certainly. She had as much of a share in them as he did, but she was young. She had her own way of dealing with things.

  Her annual visit marked the end of Daniel’s grief, at least until the followi
ng year. It gave him a deadline, something he always needed to focus his mind. Without her coming, he suspected he would rough it indefinitely. He knew his daughter thought the same. And every year, she gave him just long enough, and no more. Every year since her mother’s death.

  He missed Robin. God, he missed his wife.

  She had been an elementary school teacher and had loved what she did, continuing to work even after Daniel’s wealth and success had arrived.

  ‘We’re rich,’ he told her time and again. ‘We should be living it up, making the most of it.’ Robin’s answer was simple, and it shut Daniel’s mouth at once. She would give up her job, if he gave up writing. And that wasn’t something he would consider.

  But it had not been his novels that had brought their wealth.

  After leaving university with a degree in English literature, he had drifted, taking a year-long journalism course both to delay the need to find real work, and to give him a career he could use as backup while he toiled away on his novel.

  Yet that book died, and he began another. He found work, meandering from newspaper to magazine, and earned a reasonable wage with a competence and dedication that made him a respected underachiever.

  His pieces were well-crafted and punctual, but he lacked the luck and judgment of some of his peers. He lacked something else as well – the ability to spin, to distort, to lie, and expand the smallest nugget of truth into something bigger. So he broke underwhelming stories while his novel writing stuttered and failed.

  But then, twelve years ago, he discovered Eleanor Preston. He found the first reviver.

  * * *

  A friend had passed a possible lead his way: a claim of a fraudulent medium, stealing from the bereaved.

  Sixty-year-old Eleanor Preston had worked as an administrator in a hospice for twenty years, until Trudy Brewer’s interference got her fired. Brewer’s uncle had died at the hospice; Eleanor Preston had then, according to Brewer, offered her services to Brewer’s parents for a significant payment. Daniel’s first impressions of Trudy Brewer weren’t positive. Her real concern seemed to be financial: her uncle and parents were relatively well off, and Daniel could see that any payment to Eleanor Preston would be coming out of Trudy Brewer’s inheritance.