by Oliver Stark
American Devil
OLIVER STARK
headline
www.headline.co.uk
Copyright © 2010 Oliver Stark
The right of Oliver Stark to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
Apart from any use permitted under UK copyright law, this publication may only be reproduced, stored, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means, with prior permission in writing of the publishers or, in the case of reprographic production, in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency.
First published as an Ebook by Headline Publishing Group in 2010
All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Cataloguing in Publication Data is available from the British Library
eISBN : 978 0 7553 7011 5
Ebook produced by Jouve Digitalisation des Informations
HEADLINE PUBLISHING GROUP
An Hachette UK Company
338 Euston Road
London NW1 3BH
www.headline.co.uk
www.hachette.co.uk
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
PART ONE - November 15-21
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
PART TWO - November 21-24
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-One
Chapter Forty-Two
Chapter Forty-Three
Chapter Forty-Four
Chapter Forty-Five
Chapter Forty-Six
Chapter Forty-Seven
Chapter Forty-Eight
Chapter Forty-Nine
Chapter Fifty
PART THREE - November 26-December 1
Chapter Fifty-One
Chapter Fifty-Two
Chapter Fifty-Three
Chapter Fifty-Four
Chapter Fifty-Five
Chapter Fifty-Six
Chapter Fifty-Seven
Chapter Fifty-Eight
Chapter Fifty-Nine
Chapter Sixty
Chapter Sixty-One
Chapter Sixty-Two
Chapter Sixty-Three
Chapter Sixty-Four
Chapter Sixty-Five
Chapter Sixty-Six
Chapter Sixty-Seven
Chapter Sixty-Eight
Chapter Sixty-Nine
Chapter Seventy
Chapter Seventy-One
Chapter Seventy-Two
Chapter Seventy-Three
Chapter Seventy-Four
Chapter Seventy-Five
Chapter Seventy-Six
Chapter Seventy-Seven
Chapter Seventy-Eight
Chapter Seventy-Nine
Chapter Eighty
Chapter Eighty-One
Chapter Eighty-Two
Chapter Eighty-Three
PART FOUR - December 2-4
Chapter Eighty-Four
Chapter Eighty-Five
Chapter Eighty-Six
Chapter Eighty-Seven
Chapter Eighty-Eight
Chapter Eighty-Nine
Chapter Ninety
Chapter Ninety-One
Chapter Ninety-Two
Chapter Ninety-Three
Chapter Ninety-Four
Chapter Ninety-Five
Chapter Ninety-Six
Chapter Ninety-Seven
Chapter Ninety-Eight
Chapter Ninety-Nine
Chapter One Hundred
Chapter One Hundred and One
Chapter One Hundred and Two
Chapter One Hundred and Three
Chapter One Hundred and Four
Chapter One Hundred and Five
Chapter One Hundred and Six
Chapter One Hundred and Seven
Chapter One Hundred and Eight
Chapter One Hundred and Nine
Chapter One Hundred and Ten
Chapter One Hundred and Eleven
Chapter One Hundred and Twelve
Chapter One Hundred and Thirteen
Chapter One Hundred and Fourteen
Chapter One Hundred and Fifteen
Chapter One Hundred and Sixteen
Chapter One Hundred and Seventeen
Chapter One Hundred and Eighteen
Chapter One Hundred and Nineteen
Acknowledgements
Oliver Stark has been writing for as long as he can remember. As a teenager, he was an avid fan of American detective stories and made his first attempt at crime fiction at the age of sixteen. Needless to say, this never reached publication.
After trying a wide variety of jobs, from working in a bookies to managing a pub, he finally gave in to his passion for reading and went on to study and then teach literature. Oliver now lives in London with his wife and children.
American Devil is Oliver’s first novel, and the first in a proposed crime thriller series featuring Tom Harper and Denise Levene.
Praise for American Devil:
‘An impressive debut . . . written with pace and a delicate feel for the darker shadows of the American psyche . . . Stark is an exceptional new British talent. Let’s look forward to what he does next’ Daily Mail
‘One of the best thrillers I have read in ages, tightly plotted, intricately planned, not a loose end or an unexplained action or clue anywhere, great characters, great pace, twists and turns aplenty which will lead the reader completely off the track (well, it did this one), and an exciting and thrilling climax which had me on the end of my seat’ Elaine Simpson-Long, Random Jottings
‘American Devil is well written, paced steadily with a climactic finish and chock full of thoughtfully crafted characters . . . Stark delivers an aptly stark portrayal of the modern-day psychopath; drawing on those good old fundamental ideals as religion, love and betrayal. If this is how Stark starts out - we’re positively salivating for second helpings’ The Truth About Books
‘An assured debut, suggesting that Oliver Stark is a name we will hear a great deal more from’ Material Witness
To my wife
Prologue
West Virginia, February 14, 1982
He stood behind the white picket fence, hidden in the shadows of a beech tree. It was ten forty in the evening - enough time still to ask her the question. In his right hand, he held twelve red roses with velvet-soft petals. He wanted to give her something real special; after all, she was the girl of his
dreams.
Above the large timber-framed house, the moon was so bright that he could see the jumble of kids’ toys abandoned on the veranda. His nervous grey eyes rose to the first floor and scanned each window in turn. He stopped at hers and sweat formed instantly down his back. Her bedroom glowed with a soft pink light. The beautiful and untouchable Chloe Mestella, just fifteen years old and already way beyond the reach of him or any of the local boys.
He figured that she’d be fast asleep by now, so he’d have to steal up to her room without her parents seeing. He knew what he was going to say to her when she woke up. ‘Chloe, will you be my Valentine? I love you so much sometimes I want to die.’ He looked again to the pink-lit window. His head was throbbing as if a train was driving through it.
The boy stepped out on to the crisp cut lawn. The house itself looked like it was sleeping. He thought he could see the roof rising and falling like a breathing chest. What a place to grow up! What a fairy tale! But why couldn’t she just be a little bit nice to him?
The problem with these rich girls was that deep down they weren’t nice at all. They dressed in pretty clothes and smiled sweetly when they had to, but he’d been at the old log yard after dark and seen what they did in the back seats of borrowed cars, their innocent faces twisting and trembling in the shadows like they were in some kind of pain.
Even the untouchable Chloe had been ruined. Someone had taken advantage of her, rubbed her up in the dell, pulled her clothes about and rutted with her like a farm animal. Grunt, grunt, grunt, went the football star, with Chloe crying out for him to stop. But he carried right on to the finish line, just like he’d been taught.
Holding the roses close to his chest, he crept along the side of the house and lifted his head to the living-room window. Mary and Don Mestella were eating seafood linguine with a couple of friends. Upstairs their little girl was tucked up in bed - a snug warm curl of a body in soft pink pyjamas. It was the perfect family scene and he wanted to be part of it.
The boy pulled at each window in turn. The toilet window opened to his rough fingertips. He pulled himself in through the narrow gap and tumbled head first into the small room. He froze in fear and listened out.
He peered around the half-open door of the toilet as he checked the hallway. Glasses clinked in the living room, but his eyes were fixed on the stairs. It was a short dash across the open hallway. He eased the door further open and placed his left foot on the bright polished floor. From the other end of the hallway something clattered. The boy felt his body seize up. Then a voice called out. ‘Hope you’re all ready for dessert in there!’
Mrs Mestella. She was in the fucking kitchen. He couldn’t move. His breath shortened. She was already walking out of the kitchen with a big pavlova held triumphantly in front of her. He couldn’t risk shutting the toilet door and catching her eye. He held his breath, leaned back into the shadow of the dark room and hoped she wouldn’t look over. If she did, she’d scream, the pavlova would drop and he’d have a hell of a lot of explaining to do.
His whole body shivered as he watched Mrs Mestella pass by in profile, all her attention on the big white meringue covered in thin slices of bright red strawberry. The boy caught a gust of sickly perfume in his throat and nearly coughed. He held it until she was in the living room, then he darted across the polished wooden floor spluttering into his sleeve. His eyes rose to the top of the stairs. Little steps to his own private heaven.
At the top of the stairs he took off his shoes and padded down the corridor, edging open each door in turn. In the second room, he saw Chloe’s younger twin sisters radiating life. Next came the master bedroom with its double doors slightly ajar. He felt like some crazy Goldilocks but inside the fear and anticipation were leaping in his chest.
Along the corridor he came to her door and touched it with his fingertips. It was covered with pictures of fairies. There was a wooden nameplate saying Chloe’s Room - Be Nice. This was the room she had grown up in. It contained all her innocent dreams.
The boy looked down at his roses. He slowly repeated what he had planned to say. He wanted it all to be perfect but he was shaking like a leaf and the spit had dried in his mouth.
He pushed the door open. The walls were pale rose and there was a small night-light that gave the room that warm soft glow he’d seen from the garden. He took three small steps into the room and there she was - his own sleeping, perfect princess.
He felt as if his whole world had suddenly come to him fully formed from his dreams. His yearnings were so strong he felt fit to burst. He reached out towards the tanned flawless skin of her arm. As his fingers brushed her an electric charge shot right through him. Every nerve tingled.
Her pyjama top had risen up and her hip was visible like the curve of a stone statue. The skin was so delicate and pale. From downstairs, the chatter of voices and sudden bursts of laughter rose up through the house, but they sounded as though they were coming from the bottom of a deep well. He was way up above, in heaven.
The boy placed the twelve red roses on the nightstand, moved to her bed and took the flowered quilt in his hands. He pulled it slowly from her body and let it drop to the floor. He had only wanted a glance, that was all.
But he couldn’t help himself now. He moved his mouth to hers and kissed her. His lips were cold and hers so very warm. His hand reached down and slipped inside her top.
Chloe Mestella woke. Her eyelids flickered open. For a moment she was confused, her head still full of dreams. Was this real? The dark shadow above her? In a half second, she realized that this was very real. Someone was in her room. Some stranger was on her bed with his hands all over her. Fear caught fire and rushed wild through her limbs. She breathed in, about to cry out, but a hand caught her. A rough hand covered her mouth and pressed her jaw down firmly.
‘Shh,’ a low voice said in the pink light. ‘Your parents will hear us.’ Chloe’s eyes flicked left and right. His whole body moved quickly on top of hers and jammed hard against her - so hard against her chest that she couldn’t breathe. Her heart pounded; she was sweaty and icy cold in the same moment but her muscles felt tired and weak. It was terror clawing at her. Blind terror.
‘Chloe. I love you so much sometimes I want to die. Will you be my Valentine?’ She shook her head violently and tried to speak. There were tears in her eyes. She wasn’t thinking of the right thing to say, she was just giving him her answer, shaking her head. Please let me go, please don’t hurt me! The boy held her down harder, like some struggling animal.
He forced his whole weight on to Chloe’s mouth. Disappointment mingled with shame. Shame for having hope, for loving her - shame for being refused by the one person he’d hoped would save him. The devil had said it all along. Give her a chance, if you don’t believe me. See if I’m wrong about her. Give her a chance to prove me wrong. If I’m wrong, I’ll leave you alone. With shaking arms he pushed down on her body more firmly, feeling self-hatred squirm in his mind, mocking him. He shuddered with tears as he forced his bony limbs harder and harder against the girl he loved. Chloe couldn’t breathe any more. Her legs and arms and torso thrashed about under his weight. She was making too much noise. Way too much noise.
The boy was getting real frightened now. She needed to shut the fuck up and stop moving. If he got caught, that was the end of everything. He pushed harder and harder against her throat, pushing with every muscle on to her chest. Chloe thrashed and kicked more. Then she was still.
He looked down at her, his forehead creased in concentration. Chloe’s eyes took on a look he’d only seen in animals before, like when a cow was about to be slaughtered and its eyes grew big and white. They called it ‘crazy eye’ on the farm. The boy stared. Chloe had gone crazy eye and her arms and legs had stopped moving.
It was hardest to kill the ones you loved. But that’s what the devil wanted - he didn’t want you killing cheap. This was much more than murder - this was a rite of passage. The devil had been at the boy’s ear for years, whisper
ing and telling him things he couldn’t have imagined.
The boy was alone in the silent pink bedroom. The devil had delivered as he promised he would. He was finally alone with the girl he loved. And there was so much that he still wanted to do with her. This had been in his head a long, long time.
PART ONE
November 15-21
‘Better to reign in hell than serve in heaven’
John Milton, Paradise Lost
Chapter One
Police Headquarters, New York City
November 15, 1.52 p.m.
The deputy commissioner’s office at One Police Plaza was just across from City Hall in downtown New York. Eight minutes before the meeting was scheduled to begin, Lenny Elwood crossed his office and stopped at the view over Brooklyn Bridge.
His eyes followed the taut steel ropes across the East River. People died all the time, he thought. It was the nature of life. Forty or more people died building the very bridge in front of his eyes. But death these days was unacceptable: unpolitical even. People had the right to live. Especially young people.
At the best of times, Lenny Elwood was a man in a hurry for things to happen, but this wasn’t the best of times and he could feel his blood vessels constricting. He breathed deeply and reached to his inside pocket for his statins. On his dark mahogany desk, the week’s newspapers were laid out. Each headline jumped up at him as if it wanted to scream the words in his ear. But even they seemed muted next to the picture.
