The Dead Room dm-3

by Chris Mooney

  Darby nodded. She didn’t speak.

  ‘What, you don’t believe me?’

  ‘Of course I believe you,’ she said. ‘I’m still just trying to process what happened.’

  ‘Go ahead and say it. I can see it in your eyes.’

  ‘Did you see a videotape in which Baxter was being raped?’

  Coop gritted his teeth, his face turning a deeper shade of red.

  ‘Have I done things I’m not proud of?’ he said after a moment. ‘You bet. But you’re talking about something that happened more than twenty years ago. I was nineteen and standing inside a room with a bunch of guys who’d done some serious hard time. If I’d gone for that tape, I’d be rolling up to crime scenes in a goddamn wheelchair.’

  ‘Great group of friends you have there.’

  ‘Look, I’m sorry about what happened to Michelle. It’s a goddamn tragedy –’

  ‘No, Coop, it’s a crime.’

  He held up his hands in surrender. ‘No argument there. But you’ll have to forgive me if I’m not acting, I don’t know, all broken up at the moment. A lot of people around here, myself included, have gone out of their way to help Michelle out – I’ve got a list a mile long of people who went to bat for her, called in favours and got her a legit job, a place with health benefits, and every time she blew it off and ran right back to the pole. If you like, I can take you to someone who picked up the tab for her rehab. Twice.’

  ‘What’s the deal between you two?’

  ‘There is no deal.’

  ‘There’s something going on. You kept trying to get me out of the apartment.’

  ‘I wasn’t interested in hearing her story again. At some point you’ve got to stop playing the victim card. You’ve got to make a decision to get on with your life, take responsibility and stop wallowing in all your shit.’

  ‘Are you speaking from personal experience?’

  ‘I’m done here.’ He turned around and started walking away.

  She grabbed his arm. ‘I asked you to watch that man. Why didn’t you call me when he left?’

  ‘I tried, but all I kept getting was static.’

  ‘Give me your phone.’

  ‘What for?’

  ‘Just give it to me.’

  ‘I’ve had enough of –’

  She ripped the phone from his belt clip, opened it and checked the log of outgoing calls.

  Coop hadn’t called her.

  ‘Why are you lying to me?’

  He looked away, across the street to the apartment building.

  ‘That cop Baxter was talking to,’ Darby said. ‘You know who he is, don’t you?’

  He didn’t answer.

  ‘Baxter told me this guy is a ghost,’ Darby said. ‘She said you’d tell me the same thing. How do you know him?’

  ‘Just drop it, okay?’

  ‘I’m not going to drop it. If you know something – Coop, if you’re deliberately keeping something that’s interfering with this case, you need –’

  ‘I want to be removed from this case and your unit. I want out of CSU.’

  Darby opened her mouth but couldn’t speak. She had heard Coop clearly – his words were echoing inside her head.

  ‘I’ll head to the station to start the paperwork,’ he said.

  ‘What reason are you going to put down on the transfer form?’

  ‘Conflict of interest.’

  ‘About what? Kendra Sheppard? Or do you know the names of the women we found in the basement?’

  ‘I don’t know their names.’

  ‘But you have an idea, don’t you?’

  ‘I don’t.’

  You’re lying. She could see it in his eyes.

  ‘Why were you in such a rush to get inside Kevin Reynolds’s house?’

  He didn’t answer.

  ‘Why don’t you trust me?’

  ‘It’s not a matter of trust,’ he said.

  ‘Then what is it?’

  ‘The paperwork will be on your desk when you get back.’

  ‘I’m not going to sign it.’

  ‘Your choice,’ he said and walked away.

  Darby was still staring after him when her phone rang. She unclipped the phone from the holster and looked at the screen. Randy Scott was calling.

  ‘The fingerprint Coop lifted from the hollow-point round rang the cherries on the database,’ Randy said. ‘IAFIS says the print belongs to a man named Francis Sullivan from Charlestown, Massachusetts.’

  ‘That’s not possible. Frank Sullivan is –’

  ‘Dead, yes, I know. It says here he died in July of ’83.’

  ‘Then there’s got to be some sort of mistake.’

  ‘IAFIS says it’s a 92 per cent match. I don’t think there’s a mistake.’

  Darby looked down the street at Coop and saw him talking to Artie Pine. ‘What about the prints from the house, have any come back?’

  ‘I checked. Nothing yet.’

  ‘I might need your help here, both you and Mark.’

  ‘That’s fine. We’ve almost finished processing the evidence.’

  She hung up and shoved the phone into her pocket. She wanted one more run at Coop. He knew something, and she didn’t understand why –

  The house exploded. Splintered wood, debris and bodies flew through the air with a terrifying force and speed. The crime scene vehicle, the Ford Explorer, blew up next, and Darby felt a pair of invisible hands pick her up off the ground and hurl her backwards through the air. She clawed at the air and then slammed against a parked car, her head slamming against a window, shattering it as she blacked out.

  Day 3

  41

  Jamie sat behind the wheel of the minivan, its windows rolled up and the air-conditioning left on low to keep her from sweating underneath clothing more suited to an early-autumn morning – jeans, her beaten and battered Timberland work boots, and one of Dan’s baggy sweatshirts. It hid her breasts and the Magnum’s shoulder strap nicely, the cotton a bit more breathable and much more comfortable than the windbreaker she’d worn inside Mary Sullivan’s basement.

  Jamie had also helped herself to Michael’s knockoff Ray-Ban Wayfarer sunglasses and one of his favourite baseball caps – a ridiculously bright yellow one with the phrase LADIES MAN stitched next to a patch of a barely awake Homer Simpson dressed only in a saggy pair of tighty-whities. She wore the brim pulled low to hide the surgical scars on her forehead. She had used the clippers to shave her hair down to a crew cut. From a distance, especially in this ashy predawn light, she could easily pass for a man.

  She leaned forward in her seat and for the second time this past hour checked her reflection in the minivan’s rear-view mirror. Up close she looked like a lanky man – one with slightly effeminate features, sure, but the visible scarring along her jaw line, coupled with the fresh bandage slapped across the raw skin on the side of her face, would balance that out.

  A skinny guy who got his ass kicked, she thought. Perfect. She needed to look the part of the driver Ben Masters had hired to take Kevin Reynolds to safety.

  Jamie checked the minivan’s dashboard clock: 4.45 a.m. Fifteen minutes until show time.

  She grabbed the bottle of Gatorade. A fine white residue had settled across the bottom. She had taken six of her Xanax pills, crushed them with a spoon and poured the fine powder into the bright red water. One pill mellowed her out; an elephant like Reynolds would need at least three or four. Six, she figured, should probably put him to sleep. After he went nighty-night, she would tie him up, cover him with a tarp and then drive ten minutes up the road to a secluded spot on the other side of these woods.

  If Reynolds didn’t cooperate, she’d have to take him down here.

  She wasn’t particularly concerned about being spotted or heard. Unless someone had an avid interest in studying or weeds, there was no reason to come to Waterman Park. Her father, back when he was alive, had told her how the recession of the eighties had hit Belham hard, and the first thing on the choppin
g block was funding for the city’s Department of Public Works. Waterman Park’s fountain, jungle gyms, swings and slides had all been removed. All that remained was a long, wide field of tall burnt grass and bald patches of sun-baked dirt. And the bridge.

  The bridge was the main reason she had selected this spot. One way in and one way out. You could walk across the bridge but you couldn’t walk through the woods – not unless you wanted to fight your way through the thick brush. No way for Reynolds to sneak up on her.

  Leaning back in her seat, her thoughts drifted back to Michael.

  You thought you could save only one of us, he had told her, and you chose Carter.

  Michael was right. She had chosen Carter. Wilfully, maybe even deliberately. And, while she could tick off a list of logical reasons why she went to him first – Carter was the youngest, her baby – she couldn’t escape the truth that had lived inside her every waking thought since the day Michael was born. Michael was difficult. He had been a colicky and fussy baby who had grown into a stubborn young boy who took a peculiar delight and satisfaction in fighting her at every turn. She recalled one particularly nasty fight inside the grocery store when Michael was six. She had refused to buy him a sugary cereal he’d seen on a TV commercial and he responded by knocking the boxes off the shelf and stomping on them. She carried him out of the shop kicking and screaming.

  By the time she reached the car she had lost her cool, yelling at him until her throat was raw, and when he smirked at her with grim satisfaction she had wanted to hit him. She later confided to Dan that Michael was an emotional vampire, a creature that fed off her anger. Dan told her that she was being too harsh. Dan could say those things because Michael didn’t act that way with him, just her.

  Carter was the polar opposite. Carter was easy. Carter smiled and enjoyed people. Sure, he could be fussy and yes, he had his moments like any other normal kid. But even at almost seven Carter was remarkably empathetic. He felt bad when he did something wrong and apologized. Michael never did. Like Dan, Michael lived inside his skin, didn’t show emotion or let anyone get too close to him.

  Not true. Michael had allowed Dan to get close to him.

  By turning to Carter that night, had she severed whatever thin thread she and Michael shared as mother and son? She wondered how Michael would react if he knew that the man who had shot him was dead, floating inside the boot of a car submerged beneath the waters of Belham Quarry. The scars on Michael’s chest and back would heal, but what about his mental scars? Would knowing how Ben had suffered help Michael heal?

  Killing Ben Masters had certainly helped her.

  Jamie looked around the empty park. The last time she had been here was on that hot July afternoon she had buried her father. Dan was with her. She had come to Waterman Park, a favourite spot of their childhood, and told Dan stories about the long summers they had spent at the park with her parents. Back then, you could climb monkey-bars or wait your turn to use the swings or go down one of the four slides. Then you’d cool off in the concrete wading pool in the centre of the field, and sometimes around noon the high school gym teacher, Mr Quincy, would pull up in his Winnebago and sell sodas, shaved ice, hot dogs, hamburgers and snotties – French fries drenched in Velveeta cheese. An ice cream truck always rolled in twice a day. During the long winter months, the city turned the pool into a skating rink.

  That afternoon with Dan, not one car or person had entered the park. The city’s joggers, bikers and dog walkers took advantage of trails on the north side of the woods – a good eight miles away from where her minivan was now parked. She was the sole person here.

  Make that two. A compact car was slowly making its way across the bridge.

  42

  Jamie slid her right hand underneath a copy of the Globe that was spread across her lap and gripped the Glock resting against her stomach. She had plenty of ammo left.

  She let her mouth hang open as if she’d fallen asleep while waiting. From behind her sunglasses she watched the dark-coloured car come to a full stop at the end of the bridge. The driver didn’t turn. The car just sat there, idling.

  If it’s Reynolds, she thought, he’s probably checking out the place to make sure he’s alone.

  She glanced down at her lap. The papers hid the handgun and silencer perfectly. No way would Reynolds see it.

  The car was making its way across the curving road of broken asphalt.

  That odd mixture of dread and adrenalin was shooting through her veins. She felt jumpy and anxious but not afraid. She was definitely not afraid. No matter what Reynolds threw at her, she’d find a way to handle it.

  Provided he comes here alone, Jamie. It all hinges on that single fact.

  The car, a navy-blue Ford Taurus with a sagging back bumper, pulled up against the kerb near the entrance of the car park. The windows were rolled down and she could make out the face of the driver.

  Kevin Reynolds perched his arm across the front seat and looked in her direction. Nobody else inside the car; he had come alone.

  Reynolds took a drag from his cigarette and kept staring.

  Was he waiting for her to come to him?

  She had planned for that possibility. Michael’s backpack, stuffed with his dirty laundry to give the appearance of money, sat on the passenger seat. If she carried the backpack the right way, she could hide the Glock behind it. Granted, it might get a little dicey – she wanted Reynolds outside his car, not in it. It would be much easier to take him down outside. She’d have more manoeuvrability if he decided to go for the gun.

  Let him, she thought, feeling the tyre iron hidden beneath the left sleeve of her sweatshirt. One hit to the artery behind the ear and the blood would rush away from his brain and shut down his central nervous system. He’d go down fast.

  And there was always the jaw. A good, swift crack would disrupt the fluid in his ear. He’d lose his balance and his knees would buckle. Win-win either way. And let’s not forget about the kneecaps.

  Reynolds flicked his cigarette out of the window. He didn’t get out of the car, just sat behind the wheel smoking and staring out of the front window.

  He smells a set-up, Jamie.

  No, he doesn’t. If he did, he would be driving away.

  Get out of here. Go home to the kids and –

  Reynolds opened the door.

  Mouth dry and heart beating faster, faster, she watched Reynolds step into the ashy light. He grabbed a pack of cigarettes from the front pocket of a short-sleeved black silk shirt. He wore it Tony Soprano-style – untucked to accommodate his ample gut. She couldn’t tell if he was packing.

  He lit another cigarette and looked towards the woods behind the minivan.

  Come on, quit stalling. Come on over and introduce yourself.

  Here he was.

  Reynolds’s high-topped sneakers crunched across the gravel. He paused in front of the minivan, smoking as he studied the person asleep behind the wheel.

  Jamie didn’t move or turn her head. She watched him through her sunglasses, watched him staring. Her finger slid across the trigger as she waited for him to come and knock on the driver’s door. That would be the best play. Have him open the door and when he reached inside to wake up the driver she’d press the Glock against his stomach.

  Reynolds walked back to the Taurus.

  Opened the door.

  Climbed behind the wheel.

  Started the car and pulled into the car park.

  Jamie’s breathing was steady and shallow as he pulled up in front of the minivan. She could hear the low rumble of his car engine over the air-conditioning, and she could see him staring at her.

  Reynolds hit the gas, tyres spinning as he shot backwards out of the car park.

  Jamie threw the door open. The papers spread across her lap blew away in the hot breeze and the tyre iron tucked underneath her sweatshirt sleeve slipped past her hand and hit the ground. She had the Glock up, ready to fire, but Reynolds was too far away, speeding towards the bridge, sc
attering crows from the trees.

  43

  Darby’s eyes fluttered open. She saw a steel bed railing and, beyond it, a wooden chair with maroon cushions bleached by sweat. She was lying in a hospital.

  A clock hung on the wall at the foot of her bed. Half past six. Judging by the dim light filtering in through the blinds, she assumed it had to be morning.

  She wondered how long she had been out.

  She could wiggle her toes and hands. Good. She touched her face and felt thick bandages wrapped around the right side of her head. She didn’t feel any pain.

  She remembered what had happened – another good sign. That wasn’t always the case with severe concussion or head trauma. Sometimes your short-term memory blacked out. She remembered seeing Coop talking to Pine when the house exploded. Splintered wood and debris –

  Coop. Coop was standing near the house when it exploded.

  Slowly she lifted her head. A bolt of pain that felt like a hot poker slammed into the centre of her brain. Her head dropped back against the pillow and she sucked in air through her gritted teeth to stem the vomit creeping up her throat.

  A machine started beeping. A nurse came in and injected something into her IV line.

  Darby was starting to drift away when she saw Artie Pine standing beside the bed. His torn shirt and thick, pale forearms were covered with soot and dried blood.

  ‘You’re going to be okay, McCormick, you’re just a little banged up. Thank God you inherited your old man’s thick Irish noggin.’

  She wanted to ask him about Coop but couldn’t focus.

  Coop’s okay, she told herself as she drifted off to sleep. Pine was standing next to Coop, so Coop’s okay. Banged up but okay.

  The next time she opened her eyes, bright sunlight flooded the room. Squinting, she looked at the wall clock: 9.13 a.m.

  She lifted her head again. No nausea but a new kind of pain, one that felt like nails were pressing against every square inch of her skull. Her stomach hitched and she lay back against the pillow.