by Sam Millar
She held the struggling rabbit inches from his mesmerised face, its whiskers nervously capturing dust motes. Slightly twitching the blade, she slit the animal’s throat, releasing a leaf of blood that covered her fingernails like rose petals.
Instinctively, Jack’s hand moved to his throat while the rabbit jerked violently.
“Don’t pay it no heed,” advised Judith, watching Jack’s eyes skim over the dead creature. “It’s only a rabbit, a dirty, very ugly rabbit.” She wiped the sweat from her face, leaving a trail of skidded blood on her mouth. The blood glazed her lips, making them fat and obscene, like garden slugs captured by the sun.
Jack felt himself grimacing and tried to undo his face, but she’d seen it. Only now, so close to her, was he able to take in his surroundings. There were rabbit skins everywhere, festooned upon the walls and resembling leaves of tobacco. They retained their tiny faces, each adorned with a grotesque, posthumous grin.
His intuition told him not to take his eyes off Judith—not while she held the cut-throat. He studied her, afraid to blink or look away in case she vanished. But she remained firmly corporeal, staring at him with an arrogant expression of ownership, letting him know that this was her territory and that he was the stranger, the intruder.
She stepped out from the shadows, and he saw that she was completely naked, with the exception of patches of wet rabbit blood desecrating parts of her skin. It shocked him, her bloodstained nakedness, but as she moved slightly to his right he wondered if this had been a deliberate strategy, to shock him, make him take his eyes off the evil-looking cut-throat, its silver edge grinning wickedly with fresh rabbit blood?
“Well, thank you for pointing out the nearest town. It’s very much appreciated,” said Jack, edging slowly backwards. “My apologies if I startled you. It was never my intention to—”
His mobile phone went off, buzzing in his pocket like angry wasps. Only when he reached for it, did his mistake hit home.
Bluffing his calmness, he spoke directly into the phone, wanting to crush it with his hands. “Hello?” he asked, forcing a smile, trying desperately to keep his voice calm.
“Jack? Where the hell are you?” asked Benson, his voice panicky. “I’ve been calling your home for the last hour. Listen, I’ve some news. It isn’t good, Jack, I’m afraid.”
A throb was beginning to germinate in Jack’s skull. Ice fingers touched his stomach. He dreaded what was coming next from Benson’s mouth.
“Yes, I’m listening.” Where was Grazier’s wife? He hadn’t observed any movement from her, but she was gone.
“A group of campers, over near Barton’s Forest, discovered the remains of two bodies.”
Oh, dear God …
“Jack? Are you there, Jack?”
Jack’s mouth had dried up like cotton balls. He was finding it difficult to produce saliva.
“Yes … yes, I’m still here.” He could hear something—someone?—directly behind him. He felt the thickness of his gun, close to his ribs. It was reassuring. He listened to Benson while calculating his next move. Where the hell is she?
“There’s no easy way to tell you this, Jack, but initial inspections from Shaw and the clothing indicate that the bones belong to males.”
Jack felt dizzy. He couldn’t breathe. Everything seemed to be spinning.
“Jack? Jack, you still there?”
Stop the self-pity. Be strong. Be very strong; otherwise you are going to die in this filthy, wooden cave. He willed his mouth to move. “Yes, John. I … I had a slight accident, but I shouldn’t be long, John. I’m fine. I should be on the road, shortly.”
“Jack? Who the fuck is John? This is Benson. Jack? What on earth are you mumbling about? Did you hear what I just said about the two bodies being discovered over at—?”
Jack snapped the phone shut and listened to its echo along the wooden walls. In his mind, he tried to picture the door behind him, how many steps to it? Slowly, he eased the phone into his pocket, his right hand navigating it, while the left touched the holster. Releasing the button on the leather lip, he felt the warmth of the gun as he eased it slightly out.
Without warning, Judith suddenly stepped from the shadows and came within touching distance of Jack. The speed of her movement mystified him as she brought a double-barrelled shotgun to his face, pushing it tight, nipping his skin, chilling it.
“I dare you to even blink,” whispered Judith, pressing the gun tighter into his face.
Paradoxically, only when the muzzle was pressed further did the sensation of chillness disappear—his skin had warmed the steel. Now there was only a dull, invasive pain.
“What the hell is this all about?” said Jack, his fingers easing the gun from the holster.
One second. Just give me one second, prayed Jack, his index finger curling on the trigger of his gun.
“Don’t,” she hissed. “Don’t move a muscle. I wouldn’t want your brains splattered all over my floor, mingling with the guts of the rabbits—not yet, anyway. Now, very slowly, remove your hand from your pocket. Nice and easy. That other cold metal feeling, on the back of your head—that’s another double-barrelled shotgun. A sandwich, you could say, and you’re the meat.”
Jack didn’t need to be told what it was. Three years ago, he had allowed himself to be exchanged for a hostage in a failed bank robbery. He still got shivers and the shits each time he thought of the two ugly holes pressed against his skull.
Judith searched Jack’s pockets with one hand, finding both phone and gun. She tossed both items on to a bale of rags.
“Little phone has a big mouth. Exposed your lie, Mister …?”
“I’ve already told you. The name is Benson. Jack Benson.”
“The gun?”
“I’m a private investigator. I was hired to find a gang dealing in stolen credit cards. I was travelling, just like I said. I’m hoping to meet up with the local police to confirm some information sent my way. What’s all this about? I’ve already apologised for being on your land. What else do you want me to—?”
“Do not, for your own sake, be condescending,” hissed Judith, pressing the barrels tighter. “We wouldn’t like it.”
From the back, the other shotgun was pushed tighter against Jack’s head. Jack pictured Grazier standing directly behind him, grinning, his fingers twitching nervously on the gun’s double triggers, ready to pull them at the slightest movement.
“Now, for the last time, just who are you?” Judith’s voice trailed off. A puzzled look imprinted itself on her forehead as she leaned closer, sniffing the air. Her skin reddened as the nostrils flared, capturing something intriguing. She parted her lips in a crooked smile, as if remembering something particularly nice—or nasty—and her face suddenly became a holy revelation. “You … you’re the watcher.”
Puzzled, Jack replied, honestly, “I don’t know what you’re taking about.” He felt as if the shotgun at the back of his head was drilling its way through his skull, trying to find his brain. He tried not to think of the firing pin hitting home, sending an explosion into his head. He badly wanted the gun to be removed.
“When I was little, it was discovered that I possessed a gift, a sensitive olfactory gift,” said Judith. “Do you know what the olfactory system is, Mister Calvert?”
Jack’s lips barely moved but he couldn’t help showing his surprise as her mouth revealed his name.
“I’ve already told you. My name is Benson. Jack Benson—”
Judith pulled the hammers back on the shotgun. The sickening sound ran up the rail of Jack’s spine.
“One more lie, Mister Calvert, and you are dead. Now, I’ll ask you again: do you know what the olfactory system is?”
Wearily, Jack said, “I wouldn’t call myself an expert, but I know it concerns the sense of smell.”
Judith looked as pleased as a Sunday-school teacher. “The olfactory is like a light bulb transmitting signals to the limbic system in the brain, where memory is used to recognise different
odours. The limbic system is not only a memory storage area, but it also regulates mood and emotion. The average human’s bulb is a forty-watt, fifty if they are above average. Can you guess what mine is, Mister Calvert?”
Jack shrugged his shoulders. “Fifty?” Those eyes. What was it about her eyes? Where had he seen them before?
“Eighty, Mister Calvert. Eighty.” She reiterated the last word as if she had suddenly become Moses, climbing down from Mount Sinai, the Ten Commandments at her side. “At first, I didn’t comprehend the power of my gift—although I suspect it wasn’t nearly as developed in my youth as it is now.” Her mouth formed a sardonic slit. “It’s only lately I have begun to appreciate it more fully, using it to my full advantage.”
The rabbits were squealing again. Eerily silent for the last ten minutes, they had suddenly become more audible, more numerous, as if they were communicating with each other. The sound was making Jack’s skin crawl.
“When Jeremiah came back from the interview,” continued Judith, “I detected a combination of smells clinging to his oily skin. One of the smells had bothered me so much that I found it difficult to sleep. Jeremiah had been no help at all in finding its ownership. No, it was left up to me, as usual, to figure it out, and once I had determined that smell, I knew where I had encountered it before.”
She’s delirious. Jack now fully understood that she was an addict, hooked on some powerful, mind-altering drug. Everything pointed to that: from the emaciated body to the dilated pupils; even down to the lethargic voice and rambling incoherence of her words.
“Puzzled, Mister Calvert? At first, I was puzzled also. Your smell was irritatingly baffling. I had tasted it somewhere else, but couldn’t quite place it. Then I discovered it had been right under my very nose—literally. You carry the same smell as the beautiful boy at the lake, your son, Adrian,” she said, calmly. “The same smell I can detect from you at this very moment.”
Jack gritted his teeth, trying desperately to keep his voice calm. His heart was swelling with pressure.
“What do you know about my son? Where is he?”
“Know? I know everything about him. I know what you do not. I know what you could never imagine. I know his heart, his soul. More importantly, I know everything about you, Detective Calvert—or ex-detective, to be more precise. I know how you murdered an innocent man, leading to your early retirement.” Judith made a snorting sound. “Early retirement? A euphemism for being kicked out of the police force, disgraced.”
Jack’s eyes hardened slightly. “He wasn’t innocent. He was a drug dealer, selling to kids. He deserved all he got for the lives he destroyed. Now, what do you know about my son?”
“Lots. His eyes were pond-blue like his father’s, but set closer together and lacking the history only age and experience can bring. But here’s a kicker. Want to hear it?”
Jack didn’t reply.
“I know about your wife, how you murdered her, drunk as a pig—oink oink—at the wheel; how you covered it up, cowardly, like the hypocrite you and your ilk truly are.”
An invisible fist slammed into Jack’s stomach. His insides were a contradiction of heat and cold, competing against each other: hot shit, iced blood.
“You seem shocked. Why? Didn’t I tell you that I knew Adrian’s heart and soul, his tongue—that sweet-tasting piece of plum meat? He liked to use that, you know? A lot. And not just for talking, I should add.” She smiled. “He hated you for what you did to his mother, for ignoring him for years with your silent abuse, putting job before son, for fucking that whore from the gallery. Adrian was the perfect candidate for an Oedipus complex, and you helped him to achieve it.”
Inside, Jack was cringing, fully aware that she was speaking in the past tense each time she mentioned Adrian. “Where is my son? You can still get out of this with your life. Armed officers are heading in this direction, as we speak.”
“Are they indeed? Good. They’ll find a dead trespasser when they arrive. An armed trespasser into the bargain.” She removed the shotgun from his face, leaving two perfectly circled marks indented on his skin. The menacing looking razor was quickly brought back into play, inches from his clammy face.
Jack was trying to think, but his brain was going into overdrive. Too many things happening at once. Her breasts were swelling, obscenely so. They looked weird, but he couldn’t draw his eyes away from them, no matter how hard he tried.
“You like my breasts? So did Adrian.” She smirked, pressing the razor against Jack’s mouth, her lips touching his skin. He could feel air on his skin as her nostrils went to work, investigating. “If you only knew what your smell is telling me—all the apprehension and fear.” She removed the razor from his mouth, calmly placing it on the tip of his nose. The smell of dried rabbit blood filled his nostrils. It stank like a corroded penny.
“Don’t be foolish. You don’t want to do something now, only to regret it—”
“Quiet! Did I grant you permission to speak—to grunt?” Her hand was trembling as she clenched her teeth, pressing the razor against Jack’s nose, penetrating skin. “Sit yourself down—slowly. Don’t do anything silly.” She transferred the razor from Jack’s bleeding nose to his throat. “You even sneeze and I’ll pop your Adam’s apple like a cork in a wine bottle.”
Obediently, Jack sat down on a pile of rags, the other shotgun on the back of his skull following him.
“It’s not you, or your husband, we’re after. It’s Harris. We know he killed the little McTier girl.” If Jack believed that final revelation was going to make Judith panic, reveal all, he was very much mistaken.
“Harris?” said Judith, sniggering, her eyes darkening. “You know nothing. Absolutely nothing. Meeting people with identities other than your own can teach you all sorts of things, Mister Calvert. Did you not know that? The most valuable, obviously, is how to enjoy their company. The fact that they have a different experience may also introduce you to perspectives you had not encountered and challenge presumptions you never knew you possessed. There is darkness in all of us. What is your particular brand? I’m sure that would be very interesting indeed.”
“What have you done with my son? Where is he?”
“Shut up! Listen. Don’t talk.”
Jack remained silent.
“Good,” said Judith, easing herself into a battered seat opposite him. Her eyes were tunnelling right into Jack’s as she spoke. “I’m going to tell you a story. A bedtime story to scare. Are you sitting comfortably, Mister Calvert?”
Chapter Thirty-Nine
“You may house their bodies, but not their souls …”
Kahlil Gibran, The Prophet
“ANY MORE ON those two bodies, Shaw?” asked Benson impatiently, sounding slightly irritated. Jack’s remarks on the phone mystified him. He kept going over the short conversation, again and again, until he drew a blank. Perhaps all the strain of Adrian’s disappearance was beginning to take its toll. It couldn’t be easy, especially after Linda’s death.
Guilt was gnawing at Benson. He should have called on Jack more often, gone fishing like they use to do. But instead he had deserted him—just like the rest of his so-called friends.
Shaw was leaning over a table, his eyes firmly embedded in a microscope. He appeared deaf to Benson’s question.
Ignorant old bastard, thought Benson, standing at least six feet away from the cadavers stretched out on trolleys. To his nostrils, the distance felt like six inches. The stench was insufferable and the enclosed quarters only strengthened the smell. It was difficult to tell whether the bodies were adults or teenagers. The clothes were no help. They looked like painted-on tar, meshed with muck and rotted leaves.
Creatures had feasted joyously on the faces of the two bodies, the harsh winter granting the animals a wondrous appetite. Benson shuddered involuntarily, as if a million insects had just crawled over his body. The cadavers’ horrendous condition reminded him of his own mortality. Despite all his macho bluster, Harry Benson dreaded dea
th, the thought that one day that grumpy old bastard, Shaw, would be poking around his hairy hole, slicing and dicing like a chef preparing a banquet for Hell.
Boldly removing a cigarette from its packet, Benson placed it in his mouth. He fumbled in his pockets for his untrustworthy lighter. “How the hell can you stand the stench in here? Give me a good open-air killing any day.” The unlit cigarette jerked in his mouth. He couldn’t find the lighter, and was becoming more desperate in his searching.
If Shaw heard, he did not respond—not immediately. A few seconds later, he glanced up from the microscope and squinted his eyes, as if sunlight had touched them.
“Why are you always so hungry for conversation?” asked Shaw dismissively. “As soon as I find something relevant, you will be the first to know—oh, and don’t even attempt to light that thing. This is a no-smoking area.”
“Are you serious?” asked Benson, reluctantly returning the cigarette to its home. He knew he shouldn’t have come down here, into Shaw’s domain, to be spoken to like that, but something in Jack’s voice had bothered him—the entire conversation had bothered him—and if it meant humbling himself in front of Shaw for a lead, then so be it.
Shaw’s eyes returned to the microscope, much to Benson’s annoyance.
“Can’t you pull yourself away from that thing for one minute, you nasty old fuck?” said Benson. “I spoke to Jack on the phone, less than ten minutes ago. It just didn’t sound right. He didn’t make sense. He was incoherent. Kept calling me John.”
“That must have been nice for you,” replied Shaw, finally easing away from the microscope, rubbing his tired eyes.
“Have you checked dental records?” Benson cleared his throat with a loud, deliberate cough. “Do … do you think one of the bodies … do you think one of them could be Adrian?”
