by Oliver Stark
At fifty-five years old John Stanhope was a family man, a Protestant who worked hard and believed in America. He was brought up very modestly in West Virginia, on a farm in the north-east of the state, and had worked himself into the privileged position of senator after becoming CEO of a pharmaceutical company. It didn’t concern his morality that this company was making millions selling drugs to African nations, that was just business. John knew how to separate business from private morality and the lessons of the Bible.
His second wife, Caroline, was a political lobbyist and she got on with his two daughters, Mary and Rose, who were twenty-one and nineteen. And all four of them got on real well. He was delighted with that. A real happy family.
It had been a busy day for him. It started with a run round the park at 6 a.m. and then breakfast with several newspapers before his briefing at 8.30 a.m. and his first committee meeting at 9.30. He was a member of quite a few committees so he was always back and forth from the State Senate to deal with aspects of Security, Education, Armed Services, Housing, Health and Urban Affairs.
It was amazing what you ended up dealing with, but you just had to listen closely, remember what you were there for and vote or decide accordingly.
Now he was whacked and ready for a whisky by the fire with Caroline and a cuddle from the girls.
His security men got out of his car and stood still, their eyes scanning around. Senator Stanhope climbed out and walked across the drive behind the tall electronic gates.
‘We’re okay, Bill, don’t fret,’ he said and saw Rose, his little girl, standing in her socks on the porch. ‘Bless her, still like when she was four years old running out to greet me.’
‘We’ll be here tonight, Senator.’
‘There’s no need, boys. Go home, see your wives.’
‘Even if we wanted to, Senator, we couldn’t. We’ve got orders. So don’t you worry. Go and see your family.’
‘I insist. I’ll see you at six a.m.’ Senator Stanhope shook Bill’s hand and thanked his driver, then strolled up to the house.
‘How you doing, honeybunch?’
‘Good, Daddy. How was your day?’
‘It was okay but I’m glad to be home with you. Is Mary here?’
‘Yeah, you know she is. It’s your birthday, you big fool.’
‘Oh, that. I forgot all about that.’
He went into the house and his small family was gathered by the open fire in the living room. His heart melted when he saw them. There had been years when he’d worried about the effect on Mary and Rose of giving so much time to politics, but they both seemed stable and settled.
There was a simple banner saying Happy Birthday Dad above the fire and a pile of presents on the table. Mary and Rose hugged and kissed him and Caroline brought him his favourite tipple, a twenty-year-old malt from Islay far away in Scotland.
He smiled. Life had been good to him.
Outside in the car, Bill and Adam flipped a coin to see who was going to do the perimeter one last time before they called it a night. Bill lost and he got out of the car. The thing was, the fence was high and electronically monitored so there wasn’t a lot of point in walking the perimeter.
Sebastian would have agreed: there wasn’t much point at all. He was already in the house.
Chapter Sixty-Eight
Senator Stanhope’s Home
November 28, 9.00 p.m.
Getting into a senator’s house, Sebastian had discovered, was a lot easier when no one but the maid and gardener were at home. Then it was fucking easy. You ring the bell, you deliver some flowers, you flatter the stupid bitch and tape the lock. She goes in, you wait. Count to five, go in after her and wham-bam, you’re in the house that John Stanhope built.
Of course, then you had to make sure you were able to wait it out, so you hid in the roof space and read books or just sat thinking.
You couldn’t turn the security system off either, even if you’d watched her punch in the eight-digit code, because it was a manual system linked to a company who had a pre-agreed list of times for locking or unlocking the system. If it varied by any time without a call, then they’d be there.
So it was best to hide and wait it out. He’d been there all day, as soon as he’d made sure Marty was too scared to tell the cops anything that Nick might have told him. Dee had taken the kids to visit her mother on that tedious retirement estate, but it was good because it freed up his time to hang around inside the senator’s house.
And there’s nothing more difficult than to kill a senator’s daughter and her family in their own home. It would strike fear in the heart of America. Rose was girl number seven. And that was all he needed for his sculpture; one more part and The Progression of Love would be complete. He had an idea about where he’d show it, too. The people who were going to look at it wouldn’t know what it was. The public were that stupid. They’d always underestimated him and now he was going to make fools of them all. Sebastian listened to the sound of family life emanating from below. Happy families made him want to exert his God-like power of life and death. He wanted to kill happiness and leave fear and pain in its wake.
And why shouldn’t he do it? Who said good is good and bad is bad? Who said anything? No one. The universe, as far as he was concerned, was silent, so you just did your own thing. Some worked at being senators’ daughters and some worked at killing senators’ daughters. That was the happy balance of the universe.
He’d been in the house half the day when Mrs Stanhope came home. She was pretty and organized with a hurried look in her eyes and a hatred of anything out of its place. The first hours after she arrived, he climbed out of the roof space when he heard her shower. He stood and watched her. She had a nice peaceful face. Nice long legs.
It had been hard to resist taking her there and then. It’d been too long since he’d had someone. The delicious Kitty in her own bed. He thought the desires had gone. He actually wondered whether the heat cycle had come to an end, but staring at Caroline through glass as it misted up he felt the surge of desire again - the powerful internal command to control her destiny.
But he resisted. It would be better with the whole family, with an audience to watch his depravity. It would make more of a splash. He had no idea what he was going to do with them all. It was going to be an impromptu party of his own.
That afternoon, he’d watched from a round window in the attic as Mary and Rose returned. Rose was all excited and full of life. She had a beautiful lithe figure that looked about as graceful as a flower. Mary looked a sullen academic type, staring with some deep disapproval at everything she saw. He would enjoy humiliating her. Rose reminded him of his sister, Bethany. Long time before. Sad times, too. He tried not to think of it again.
His golden princess with sunlight in her hair.
When Senator Stanhope returned, the killer was back in the roof. He needed to wait until they were all together; then he would make some theatrical entrance. He wanted to kill them in front of each other. He thought that would give him the sensation he craved. It was getting so difficult to feel anything at all. Each time, he felt the need to go one step further, cross one more taboo just to feel the same deep buzz of sensation.
He listened to the popping of champagne from below and heard the warm conversation of their party.
Enjoy the moment, he thought to himself. It will not last.
Sebastian’s plan for the Stanhopes was growing by the hour as he lay in that hot close loft. He was getting all horny too, reading about the thoughts and deeds of the psychopaths in a book called The Mask of Sanity. He liked to read about sexual murder and mutilation. He had never known why it made him excited. He’d never chosen it. He was just getting his inspiration.
He lay on his back as he read again about his hero Neville Heath. Heath was a good-looking all-star with a strikingly intense appearance who carried out a series of sexually perverse murders. They were remembered for one reason - they were horrifyingly brutal.
S
ebastian repeated a phrase from the book. Acts of memorable brutality and horror. Such reverence the writer had for the killer. The world was terrified of but half in love with killers. Heath had tortured, killed and butchered two young women, gaining obvious sexually sadistic pleasure from his acts. Sebastian read on, getting more and more excited.
Sebastian was about to try it out himself. He had used Heath’s methods before. Heath had used a poker, but Sebastian had not found a poker to hand in his own murders. Open fires were not as prevalent as once upon a time. He had used a knife instead. He intended to re-enact the Heath murder with Rose and Mary. Except he was going to go one better: he was going to let Mummy and Daddy watch.
It was five to eleven. Eleven o’clock was party time. Sebastian took up his book again. He had to go through Heath’s murder one more time. Just to make sure he’d got it all right.
After all, he wouldn’t have time to consult the cookbook when he was baking the cake.
Chapter Sixty-Nine
Marty Fox’s Home
November 28, 11.00 p.m.
Marty Fox was sitting at home waiting for his wife. The decanter of brandy was three-quarters empty. He stared from his window and looked at his watch. 11.00 p.m. His wife usually returned by 10.30 p.m. and Marty had been at the window for an hour.
He shouldn’t have let her go. He should have taken her and got in the car and headed to the hills. God, this was killing him. And what about Rose Stanhope? Marty felt the horrible sickness of guilt and inaction.
If Nick was right and Sebastian was more than a fantasy, then this girl was in danger, but so was he, so was his wife. Sebastian had shown that vividly enough. Those pictures constituted a threat, not to him, but to his wife.
Marty could still feel the vomit in the back of his throat. He loved his wife, didn’t he? He wanted to protect her, but protecting her meant that someone else was in danger. ‘I’m not an ethical man,’ he said to himself. ‘I’m a self-serving rat, a coward, a fucking liar and a cheat.’
He wanted to believe it. He wanted to stop the thoughts, the guilt, the terrible gnawing. He wasn’t a hero. No. And if he wasn’t a hero, then he had to stay quiet. Whatever happened to Rose Stanhope, happened. Right?
Right?
Come on, Marty! Am I right?
He drowned another quick brandy and walked to the front door. He opened it. The night was quiet, so quiet he could hear the wind in the high treetops. He stepped out in his socks and looked out into the darkness. ‘Come on, baby, please make it home.’
He walked further, out to the end of the pathway, and looked up and down the street.
Nothing - not a car anywhere. The world seemed deserted. He looked again. 11.06 p.m. Time was moving so slowly. He turned back to the house and walked towards it. He felt unusually tired. It was a mixture of drink and exhaustion. He felt his body slump as he walked two steps on to the veranda.
Something to his left moved. A sound. He looked across into the darkness.
On the porch, sitting there in the blackness, something.
Marty shook and looked for a weapon. He picked up a broom. Maybe it was just an animal of some kind. A squirrel or a cat. Marty reached his hand inside the porch and felt for the light switch. He clicked it on. The lights on the veranda blazed and blinded him for a moment.
He looked across. A squirrel darted along the handrail and into the darkness. Marty sighed. He was shaking, though. Behind him he heard a car, and holding the broom he ran to the end of his drive. He picked out a set of headlights coming down the street. He stood and waited. As he waited he prayed. ‘If it’s Christine, I promise, I’ll call the cops. Just let me have her back. Please.’
The car approached. It slowed as it neared the drive. Marty smiled as he made out the face of his wife in the dark of the car. It was her. He felt a shudder of joy. He opened the passenger door.
‘What is it?’
‘We’re leaving. We’re leaving right now. I’ve got a lot to tell you, but we’ve got to go. Drive. I’ve got to call the cops.’
Marty dialled 911.
Chapter Seventy
East 126th Street
November 28, 11.15 p.m.
Tom Harper was cold and wet through. He had been on constant vigil on East 126th Street since the rest of the team had headed off at dusk, but no one fitting Redtop’s description had been by. It was their best chance of getting some leverage on the case, but Tom was beginning to think that this guy Redtop might have flown.
At quarter past eleven, Eddie arrived with a burger and fries. He handed the food to Harper. ‘Still here? You’re committed, we can say that at least.’
‘I’ve spent longer looking for a lifer.’
‘A what?’
‘A lifer - a bird I haven’t ever seen before.’
Eddie nodded, but he didn’t get it. ‘What’s the attraction of looking at birds, Harps? I never did get that.’
‘What’s the attraction of anything?’
‘Well, the attraction of a beautiful woman is that she makes me tingle with pleasure and if I’m lucky . . .’
‘Well, seeing a new bird makes me tingle just the same.’
‘That sounds like a medical condition, Harps. You told Denise you got a feather fetish?’
‘It’s not that kind of pleasure, Eddie, not that I’m expecting you to understand that.’
‘Damn right I don’t understand,’ said Eddie.
Harper ate hungrily. He chewed through the processed meat, which offered no resistance and dissolved in his mouth. His eyes continued to look up and down the street.
‘Any movement?’ said Eddie.
‘Nothing at all. I got a feeling Benny Marconi gave the game away.’
‘You want us to get a warrant and blow the place apart?’
‘Yeah, I think we should.’
‘I think so too. That’s why I brought you this.’ To Harper ’s amazement, he saw that Eddie was holding out an NYPD-issue Glock 19. Bemused, he took it.
‘How the hell—’
Eddie looked solemn. ‘Don’t ask, my friend. Just don’t let me down.’
They watched the street together in the damp air. Eddie’s cell went off. He pulled it out and listened for a full minute before he put it back in his pocket.
‘What you got?’ asked Harper.
‘We got a call. Someone telling us the name of the next victim.’
‘Who is it?’
‘Rose Stanhope.’
‘Was it the American Devil?’
‘No, an anonymous call from a psychologist. It’s a long story. Seems he was treating a guy who had pictures of Kitty on his phone the day before she died and today he showed up with pictures of Rose Stanhope.’
‘What are they doing about it?’
‘Getting the Feds involved, checking out the story. They’ll send someone over but they’ve had quite a few calls telling us who’s the next blonde to get it, so they’re sceptical. The guy wouldn’t give his name.’
‘Is she blonde?’
‘Yeah, she’s blonde, twentyish and get this - she’s the daughter of a senator.’
Harper felt the tension kick in. ‘That’s his kind of girl, Eddie. He’s been going higher and higher up the food chain since the beginning, hasn’t he?’
‘Yeah, I guess.’
‘Come on, this would be his best yet.’
‘No one kills a senator’s daughter.’
‘Exactly. Let’s check it out. If it’s nothing, we lose nothing.’
‘You’re off the case. What do you want me to do?’
‘Fuck that. Give me the senator’s address, call his home, get a patrol on to it. If Sebastian’s there, we’ve got no time at all. You and me need to go now.’
‘You’re off the case, buddy,’ said Eddie again. Harper stared at him hard and held it. ‘Okay, Harps, I’ll go with it, but if you’re wrong, they’ll haul your ass out of the city. Listen, I’ll call Blue Team on the way. I hope to God you’re wrong, Harps.’
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‘Yeah, but I know what it feels like when you’re close to a killer and it feels just like this.’
Chapter Seventy-One
Senator Stanhope’s House
November 28, 11.20 p.m.
It had all gone to plan. Like clockwork, maybe even a little bit better. Downstairs, Sebastian could hear the tinkle of laughter and glass. He loved that sound. He emerged from his hiding place in the roof, took off his shoes and padded through the house. The very idea that he was there in their house excited the hell out of him. He stood at the top of the stairs. How strange for the intruder to come downstairs to greet the family.
By his side he had a simple cane and he used it carefully. With his suit on, he felt quite the man of the house. That was what he wanted. He was about to end Senator Stanhope’s ridiculous reign and take his last girl.
He arrived at the bottom of the curved staircase and could hear the senator telling his family a story. They listened to him. They laughed. It struck Sebastian as fake. He hated fakes. This whole house was fake. Senator Stanhope’s whole life was a fake. He was going to prove it to them all.
Sebastian stood outside the door of the living room. Conversation crystal-clear now. Smell of burning logs mixed with the scent of cigar smoke. Sebastian felt deeply alone. He let the strange feeling wash over him. He had never understood what he felt or why, but outside this room he knew that somehow that was what it was about. Feeling apart from it all.
