by Adam Hamdy
‘Most people would think they were beaten,’ Wallace said before taking a bite out of his turkey sandwich. He was conscious he was slurring his words slightly.
‘I thrive on adversity,’ Ash told him. ‘My life has been one beat down after another. If I didn’t live for the fight, I would have stayed down a long time ago. Sometimes I get low, but that’s just me passing through stormy waters, charting my way back to the right course.’
‘You’re pretty self-aware,’ Wallace observed.
‘Maybe it’s the Jack,’ Ash smiled, indicating the Jack Daniels bottle, which was half-empty.
‘I’ll drink to that,’ Wallace said, raising one of the plastic cups he’d found in the bathroom. Ash saluted with its twin and they both downed their drinks.
‘Most kids got spanked. If I stepped out of line, I got a minimum of a week in a discipline cell. Solitary confinement. Gives you plenty of time to reflect. Really get to know yourself,’ Ash explained as she took a bite of her sandwich. ‘What the hell is this?’
‘It says it’s turkey,’ Wallace answered, picking up the discarded cellophane wrapper.
‘More like dog,’ Ash drawled the final word so it sounded like daaawg, and Wallace grinned.
He chewed his way through airy bread, wilted lettuce and leathery turkey and watched Ash as she did likewise. She got up and poured him another generous measure of bourbon, before returning to sit on the edge of her bed and fill her own cup.
‘How’d you get into photography?’ she asked.
‘I started doing aikido when I was a teenager,’ Wallace replied. ‘My instructor wanted some publicity photographs, so I borrowed my dad’s camera, and, well, people liked what I did. So I never stopped.’
‘Your folks live in London?’
Wallace shook his head. ‘They died.’
‘I’m sorry,’ Ash said.
‘They were in a car accident just after I finished university.’ Wallace felt a pang of grief and wondered when he’d last spoken about his parents. ‘Looking back, I think I had a mini-breakdown. I was working on fashion shoots, but when they died I became consumed by the idea of doing something worthy and important with my life. That’s when I started pushing for documentary jobs. Chasing war.’
‘Were you chasing war? Or death?’
Wallace shrugged, and a wistful smile flickered across his face. ‘I don’t know any more.’ He hesitated before adding, ‘It went badly for me. I got a war correspondent assignment at The Times and was embedded with the Fourth Battalion of the Lancaster Regiment in Afghanistan. I was with a unit that had received word of insurgent activity on the outskirts of Kandahar. They went in ready for a fight, killed twelve adults and thirty children. It was a birthday party. The men had been firing AK 47s into the air in celebration. We gunned them all down. I tried to get out, but the unit commander, Captain Nash, seized my camera, destroyed the evidence. They put pressure on me to corroborate their story that some of the men and women were insurgents who had put the children in harm’s way by hiding out at a suburban family home. I was beaten, my life was threatened, but I managed to get out of Afghanistan. The government convened the Masterson Inquiry to investigate what happened. I spent two years fighting for those people, fighting for those kids, fighting for the truth to come out. It ruined my life. Almost destroyed me. I met Connie, my . . . friend . . .’
Wallace took a swig as words failed him and felt warmth spread across his chest as the dark whisky worked its way down. ‘I met Connie about a year after I got back,’ he continued. ‘She was understanding, patient . . . loving.’ He paused again, struggling with the words. ‘But I was fucked up. Obsessed. Depressed. Dark. Two years ago last September the inquiry threw out my testimony. They came to the conclusion that I was motivated by a political agenda and a personal vendetta against Captain Nash, and that my testimony was the only thing that contradicted the official record and the reports of all sixteen men in Nash’s unit. Those people. Those kids. There would never be any justice for them. I went out and I got drunk. I mean really drunk. When I got home, Connie was waiting for me. I don’t even remember the fight, but I know I said I hated her. The truth was, I hated myself. I’d failed. I felt so powerless. But the damage was done. She’d had enough. Connie and I were finished. It was one of the worst nights of my life. After she left I drank myself half to death with regret. I came round in the early hours slumped at my desk, covered in puke. My laptop, my photographs, everything that had been on my desk was smashed into tiny pieces.’
‘I’m sorry,’ Ash said quietly.
‘I suppose I’m just trying to say that we all make mistakes,’ Wallace explained, before falling silent.
‘Yeah,’ Ash agreed. ‘We all make mistakes. I guess it’s how we fix things that matters. Connie wasn’t your fault, and from what you told me, she knew you loved her.’
Wallace nodded uncertainly and then looked away. ‘What about you?’ he asked, his tone falsely light.
‘What mistakes have I made?’ Ash smiled. ‘I’m starting to think this might be one,’ she said, holding her cup aloft.
‘No, I mean you’re not a typical cop. What are you doing with that badge?’
‘It’s for my mom,’ Ash replied. ‘I joined the Bureau for her. I’m her legacy. I can give her life meaning.’
Wallace saw the confident veneer fall away as Ash’s eyes filled with the raw hurt that she buried deep within her. He guessed that she didn’t open up to many people, and was surprised by the honest intimacy. After an endless moment, she picked up her cup and went to the bathroom.
‘This stuff is brutal,’ she said, indicating the Jack Daniels. ‘I need some water.’
Wallace didn’t say anything as Ash shut the bathroom door behind her. He reached across the narrow gulf between their beds, grabbed the bottle by the neck and poured himself another drink.
42
Zach Holz did not regret his decision to walk. The main thoroughfares had been cleared and gritted, but Chicago snow wasn’t defeated so easily. Huge moguls lined Cityfront Plaza and fed the pedestrianised square with a steady stream of slush. Zach’s shoes were soaking, the black leather marked with white salt lines. The hems of his tailored pants were leaching freezing water towards his ankles, and if it hadn’t been for the thick lining of his Yves Salomon parka, which kept him tucked in a pocket of warm air, Zach’s impulsive decision to walk to his hotel would have been a miserable experience. As it was, apart from his wet feet and the intermittent flashes of cold around his ankles, Zach was enjoying his stroll back from the convention. The Intercontinental Hotel and Conference Center was located five minutes away from the Langham, but Zach had extended the journey by heading east on Illinois Street and walking a couple of laps of Cityfront Plaza. After two days trapped in a windowless convention hall, breathing the recycled air of hundreds of other cyber security executives, Zach longed for the challenging runs of Foothills Park. Cityfront Plaza was ringed by wispy bare trees and illuminated by street lamps and the interior lights of the surrounding skyscrapers. It was a poor substitute for the expansive Los Altos hills, and Zach paced the small concrete square like a restless lion trapped in a cage.
When his watch told him that his pulse had reached a hundred beats per minute, Zach cut across the plaza opposite the NBC Building and walked west, past the iconic Tribune tower. He preferred California’s rugged natural beauty, but he could not help but be impressed by Chicago. The soaring peaks of the high towers looked down on a city that gleamed. There was none of the grime of New York or LA; Chicago seemed so clean and new, and, unlike Manhattan, which had to maximise every inch of land, the Midwest could afford to be generous. Wide streets and expansive plazas meant the forest of skyscrapers never felt as though they were overshadowing the city.
Zach crossed Michigan Avenue and headed past the curvilinear Trump Tower to the small crosswalk on Wabash. The illuminated buildings on the south side of the Chicago River reached up towards the cloudless sky, overwhelming the stars
with their artificial light. Zach checked his watch; his brisk walk had kept his pulse above a hundred. It was no Foothills run, but it would do. He touched the bevel and his watch displayed the time: nine p.m.. Ali and the boys would just be sitting down for dinner. He turned north up Wabash and walked the few yards to the Langham entrance, which was set at the foot of a gleaming black monolith that towered at least fifty stories above the street.
He exchanged greetings with the liveried doorman and hurried inside the building. Crossing the lobby to the elevator, he rode it to the eleventh floor, then walked along the quiet corridor towards his suite. His phone squealed and he pulled it out of his pocket: Ali, on a Facetime call. After a moment, the line connected and Zach saw the faces of his pregnant wife, Ali, and his two sons Aaron and Reuben smiling up at the camera.
‘Hey, guys,’ Zach said with a smile.
‘Hey, Daddy,’ Ali, Aaron and Reuben all replied. They were seated at the dining table, and had obviously just finished dinner.
‘The boys are going up for their bath, so we thought we’d try you,’ Ali said.
‘I was about to call,’ Zach responded. ‘I’m just on my way back to the room. How are my monkeys? Have you boys had a good day?’
‘Nah,’ Aaron said. ‘Jamie hit me.’
‘Why?’ Zach asked with overplayed concern.
‘We were fighting,’ Aaron replied with the perfect logic of a six-year-old.
‘Oh, you were fighting,’ Zach said as he slipped his key card into the door. When the light flashed green, he stepped inside. ‘Did you win?’
‘Zach!’ Ali protested.
‘Yeah,’ Aaron responded with a broad, gap-toothed smile. ‘I pounded him.’
‘Good for you,’ Zach laughed.
‘Zach! Fighting’s bad, isn’t it?’ Ali said reprovingly.
‘It’s good for the soul to have a little scuffle every now and again,’ Zach replied. He walked through the entrance hall and dropped his key card on the chaise that ran along one of the floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the river. He flipped a switch and the recessed spotlights came on, illuminating the hallway and living room.
‘You’re setting a bad example, Zach,’ Ali chided him.
‘Come on, Ali,’ Zach protested. ‘I was never allowed to fight as a kid, and there were times I wish I had. Boys’ve gotta learn to stand up for themselves.’
‘Where have you been?’ Reuben asked. Two years older than Aaron, Reuben was much more serious and thoughtful than his younger brother.
‘I’ve been at the convention hall, listening to lots of people talking.’
‘When are you talking, Dad?’ Reuben inquired.
‘Tomorrow. I’m giving the closing address,’ Zach replied.
‘Isn’t Daddy clever?’ Ali teased.
‘I’m cleverer than Daddy!’ Aaron exclaimed. ‘And stronger!’
‘I don’t think so, Mister,’ Zach said. ‘Where’s my tiny girl?’
Ali pulled her phone towards her bulbous belly. Somewhere, hidden beneath the bright floral dress, was their daughter, quietly growing in warm darkness.
‘Hey, little girl, I can’t wait to meet you,’ Zach cooed. ‘How was the scan?’
‘Everything’s fine. She’s healthy and she looks great,’ Ali replied, lifting the phone up to her face. ‘Only another ten weeks.’
‘Sorry I missed it,’ Zach said.
‘Don’t worry, Reuben took a video,’ Ali reassured her husband. ‘There’s some great commentary about how gross Mommy’s belly looks.’
‘I can’t wait to watch it,’ Zach responded with a smile.
‘What’re you doing now?’ Ali asked.
‘Gonna jump in the shower and then order some room service.’
‘I’ll call you later when I’ve put the boys to bed.’
‘Sounds good. Love you,’ Zach said.
‘Love you,’ Ali echoed.
‘Love you, Daddy,’ Reuben and Aaron yelled at the camera.
Ali smiled at her two enthusiastic boys, and then ended the call.
Zach put his phone on the circular dining table, before placing his wallet and billfold next to it. He took off his parka and slung it over one of the white leather chairs, then removed his suit jacket and laid it on one of the grey armchairs facing each other across the long glass coffee table. He sat down on the purple couch and proceeded to undo the laces of his now ruined shoes. Once they were off, he removed his sodden socks, and his feet immediately tingled with the warmth of the room. Zach sensed, rather than heard, a hushed sound from the bedroom.
‘Hello?’ he called loudly as he got to his feet.
He walked past the wet bar and poked his head through the bedroom doorway. The maid must have closed the drapes; he couldn’t see the lights of the neighbouring buildings. As his eyes became accustomed to the darkness, he saw the outline of a shadow by the bathroom door. His heart leaped as it started moving towards him. Zach took a couple of steps back and was trying to turn to run when a tall, well-built man in a long coat, body armour and a mask barrelled into him. The force of the impact expelled the air from Zach’s lungs, and his attacker pushed them on, across the living room, until Zach collided with the large window overlooking the river. His head thumped against the glass, and his teeth snapped against his tongue, sending a very real bite of pain through the surreal situation.
Zach punched at his assailant’s stomach, but his fist hit hard armour and the blow simply added to his suffering. A sharp elbow cracked into his collarbone and he was sent crumbling to his knees. His only thought was of his family: Aaron, Reuben and his beautiful wife, Ali, with their baby girl growing inside her. Zach knew he couldn’t afford to stay down, so he forced himself up, grabbed his attacker behind the knees and thrust his shoulder into the man’s waist. He pushed forward, his powerful runner’s legs pounding the wooden floor. His attacker collided with the edge of the coffee table and the large man fell backwards, smashing through the glass.
Zach lunged for the occasional table and picked up a lamp that was set in a heavy crystal plinth. He yanked the lamp free of its cable and brought it crashing down on his assailant’s head. The blow landed and knocked the attacker on to his back. As Zach raised the lamp for a second strike, a fist caught him in the gut, sending waves of nauseous pain coursing up into his neck. Another punch forced Zach to drop the lamp, and he doubled over. His dazed assailant drove a fist into Zach’s neck, and he yelped in agony and tried to resist the rush of darkness that threatened to overwhelm him. He could not afford to black out. He staggered back, the unyielding floor driving shards of glass into his feet with every step. Zach’s attacker pulled himself out of the wreckage of the coffee table and stood upright, as Zach hurried towards his phone. As he reached it, a crushing blow flattened his hand against the table, and he felt his fingers crack under the base of the crystal lamp. As he tried to swallow the pain, an arm snaked around his neck and he was pulled backwards into a chokehold.
‘Please,’ Zach tried. ‘Please, I have money.’
His broken fingers flopped ineffectually at his assailant’s head, while his other hand pulled at the man’s wrist. Dazed, dizzy and deprived of oxygen, Zach simply didn’t have the strength to break his attacker’s hold, and each breath became more laboured.
‘Please,’ Zach pleaded. ‘My kids.’
‘Give me what I need,’ growled the masked man, ‘and it will be quick.’
Tears filled Zach’s eyes as he realised that he would never see his family again.
43
Hazy light filled the room, penetrating the paper-thin drapes covering the window. Wallace rubbed his eyes. He’d become accustomed to his aching body, but the gritty residue of a hangover was something he hadn’t felt for a while. He sat up in bed and saw that Ash’s was empty, the bedclothes pulled back in an untidy pile. The muted television was tuned to CNN, which was broadcasting the image of a hanged man suspended from the window of a tall black building. The caption read, ‘Chicago H
anging’. Wallace rolled out of bed and staggered towards Ash’s beside cabinet to grab the remote.
‘Christine,’ Wallace called hoarsely. He coughed to clear his throat as he turned up the volume. ‘You need to see this.’
The bathroom door opened, releasing a wispy cloud of steam, and Ash appeared in the doorway, wrapped in a towel.
‘. . . with authorities unwilling to confirm that these supposed suicides are now the subject of a Federal serial murder investigation. Unofficial reports say that the victim’s hotel room showed signs of a struggle and that he was murdered by a man that some commentators have dubbed the Pendulum Killer,’ the male anchor said. ‘The man, unofficially identified as Zachary Holz, was a resident of Los Altos, California. Chicago Police Department is expected to make an official statement within the hour, and we’re also expecting to hear from the FBI on rumours that there is a link to a series of murders in Britain.’
‘Shit,’ Ash observed sourly, as the anchor moved on to a new horror, and Wallace turned the volume down. ‘Have they mentioned any connection to the other cases?’
‘I don’t know,’ Wallace replied. ‘I just caught the end of it.’
As Ash crossed the room towards her bed, Wallace became conscious of the fact he was only wearing a pair of shorts. He watched a drop of water draw a glistening line down Ash’s calf and hurried away from her bed to grab his clothes. As she started combing her wet hair, he pulled on his jeans and took his iPad out of his jacket pocket. He connected to the motel’s Wi-Fi network and ran a Google search for Zachary Holz. The screen filled with news reports of the Chicago hanging, and his screen was assailed by sensational reports of the so-called Pendulum Killer. Wallace refined the search with a LinkedIn reference and immediately found the man’s professional profile.
