by Kihn, Greg;
Jukes looked away; a sour feeling blossomed in the pit of his stomach. He hated to be drawn into this conversation.
Will Howard spoke next, anxious to shed some light on the subject. “She sings, I think.”
“She?”
“Yeah. The Banshee is a woman. I thought you knew that.”
“The mysterious woman,” Jones said.
“The Banshee sings and brings death to her victims.”
“Just like some of those punk singers down in the Village,” Jones replied, deadpan.
Will flickered a smile; Jukes sighed. They drank coffee.
“This is very similar to another murder we’ve got on the books right now.”
“Like this? When?” Will asked.
Jones lit his cigar, the smell of burning garbage filled the air, and Jukes nearly gagged.
“Two weeks ago in the park,” the detective said, letting a great cloud of smoke escape. “We still don’t have a clue. The guy was turned inside out, ruptured outward.”
Jukes made a disagreeable face. “Inside out? That’s impossible!”
“Yeah, that’s what we thought. But there it was, plain as day. The lab drew a blank. The victim’s skin was split open in the front, and his internal organs were on the outside; portions of his skin were reversed like a coat that you pulled through the sleeves. Most disgusting thing you ever saw.”
“I don’t see how that could happen,” Will Howard said.
“Me neither, but it did. Damnedest thing. The guy just exploded from the inside out. The punch line is, there wasn’t a mark of violence on him. No knife wound, no gunshot, no incision of any kind, no trace of explosives or incendiary devices. Whoever did it must have been a magician. In many ways, it’s just like our friend here, Mr. Loomis.”
“How could you explode someone without explosives?”
Jones shrugged. “I don’t know. You’re the doctor; I thought you could tell me.”
Jukes waved at the smoke coming off Jones’s cigar. “Well, you can explode small animals inside a microwave oven.”
Jones wrote that down. “Microwaves, that’s good. Might be some kind of new terrorist weapon.”
“How come I never heard about that other guy in the park?” Jukes asked.
Jones had the practiced cynicism of a career homicide detective. His voice never changed. “I don’t know. The Daily News never returned my calls.”
Jukes gaped.
“I’m kidding.”
“Oh.…” Jukes looked at Will. Will snuffled.
“We kept it quiet,” Jones said, serious now. “It’s not the kind of thing the commissioner wants to see on the front page. Besides, the body was in unbelievably bad condition. What happened to him, that’s something you just wanted to forget about and hope to hell it never happens again. An aberration, a fluke, completely unexplainable.
“You guys are doctors; you know that every police department has a file of stuff like this, stuff nobody wants to admit ever happened. Unsolvable cases going back generations. In this city, you can imagine what our file looks like.”
Jones looked at his watch. “I gotta go. I’ll be in touch, gentlemen.” He got up to leave and shook both their hands.
“Who was the other guy? Was he identified?” Will asked.
“Yeah, eventually. He was an Irish writer, a poet, Brendan Killian.”
Jukes said, “Loomis told me he grew up in Ireland.”
Jones flipped out his notebook again and scratched a note. “That’s interesting; both these guys were Irish. The Banshee’s Irish, too, right?”
Will nodded. “Wasn’t Brendan Killian the guy who wrote about the IRA? I think I saw him written up in the Sunday Times, giving a reading somewhere.”
Jones laughed a short barklike laugh. “IRA, IRS, who knows? All I can tell you is he left a lot of people pissed off at him; seems he drank a lot.”
Jukes felt Jones’s bad breath on his face. The toadish man leaned over and whispered, “Killian was a radical; he had ties to terrorist groups.”
Jones straightened and stepped away. “Dr. Wahler, Dr. Howard, it’s been a pleasure. Here’s my card. I’ll be in touch.”
Jones left as abruptly as he had arrived.
“What a character,” Jukes said as soon as the cop was gone.
“They say he’s a brilliant detective.” Will turned to Jukes and said softly, “This is disturbing, Jukes. What do you think?”
“I don’t know what to think.”
They sat together in silence for a while. Then Will said, “I know this history professor over at Columbia; her name is Fiona Rice. Maybe you should go see her.”
“Why?”
“She’s an expert on Irish mythology. The Banshee’s right up her alley. I think it might be worth looking into, Jukes, just from a research viewpoint. I’m too busy to do it, and if I know you, your curiosity is already piqued.”
“And that’s all?”
“Well, there is one other thing … now that you mention it. She’s a knockout.”
A big man with a ruddy face entered the restaurant and approached Jukes’s table. Neither Jukes nor Will noticed Padraic O’Connor until he was standing next to them.
“Dr. Wahler? I’m Charlie O’Malley. I hope I’m not disturbing you.”
Jukes looked up to see an oversize outstretched hand. He reached for it with his own and felt a powerful, yet controlled, squeeze.
“We were just finishing up. What can I do for you?”
“I’m a relative of Declan Loomis—first cousin, to be precise.”
Jukes noted O’Malley’s accent. “You’re Irish?”
“Yes, that’s right. I happened to be here in New York on business when I heard about his tragic death.”
“Well, let me offer my condolences.” Jukes indicated for him to join them at the table. “This is my colleague Dr. Howard.”
O’Connor sat down. “Were you treating my cousin?”
“That’s right.”
“And you’re a psychiatrist, right?”
“That’s correct.”
“Was Declan crazy?”
“Oh, no. Nothing like that. He just had some conflicts and we were on the verge of working them out when … this happened.”
O’Connor nodded. “They wouldn’t let me see him. I don’t understand. Do you know why that is?”
Will Howard cleared his throat. “Well, it’s hard to explain, but his body … was in an unusual condition.”
O’Connor raised an eyebrow. “Oh?”
“Yes,” Will continued. “The police are looking into it.”
“Was Declan the victim of foul play?”
Will and Jukes exchanged glances. “I don’t think we’re in a position to answer that question. Maybe you should talk to Detective Jones.”
“Is he in charge of the investigation?”
Will Howard passed the business card Jones had given him to O’Connor. O’Connor read it, silently memorizing the number, then handed it back to Will.
“Thanks,” O’Connor said. “Let me be frank, gentlemen. My family is extremely upset about this unfortunate occurrence. If there was foul play, then we want it investigated.” He looked at Jukes. “But I’m confused about the way he died. No one at the morgue would say anything. Can you tell me?”
“I don’t think we should be discussing the case, Mr. O’Malley. While it’s true Declan Loomis was under our care, the police know more about his death than we do.”
O’Connor nodded. “Fair enough. But, Doctors, please … what in God’s name happened? The last time I saw Declan, he was in fine shape. Did he have medical problems I wasn’t aware of?”
“We’d be violating patient-doctor confidentiality if we told you that,” Jukes said.
O’Connor sighed. “Jesus, are all you New Yorkers this evasive? I haven’t gotten a straight answer since I got here. You can imagine my frustration. Look, I’m sorry to make such a stink, but I’ll have to tell the folks back home something, for G
od’s sake.”
Jukes shifted in his seat, suddenly uncomfortable. “He didn’t die of natural causes; I will tell you that.”
O’Connor locked his eyes on Jukes’s face, facial muscles setting his expression in stone. “He was murdered, wasn’t he?”
Neither of the two doctors spoke.
O’Connor shook his head. “It’s a sad day for my family.… I guess I’ll have to find out what happened on my own. I just can’t imagine poor old Declan gone.”
O’Connor let his eyes soften. “I’m sorry to bother you. I’ll be leaving now.” He pushed his chair back and prepared to stand. “Oh. Just one other thing.…”
Sirens wailed close by. Sounds of the city teemed through the windows of the restaurant.
“Someone said there’d been talk of the Banshee.” O’Connor’s eyes held Jukes’s, waiting for the answer, for any telltale signs that Jukes wasn’t telling the truth.
“The Banshee? Who told you about that?”
“Oh, one of the fellas in the morgue.”
“I guess it wouldn’t hurt to tell you … since you’re a relative. Loomis did claim to be stalked by the Banshee. He was obsessed with it, as a matter of fact.”
Somewhere, many blocks away, a keening wail rose above the sound of the sirens. Jukes and O’Connor looked out the window. The sound was faint and brief but distinct amid the ambient sounds of the city. It stood out, decidedly nonmechanical, sending a shiver down Jukes’s back.
When it faded a second later, Jukes and O’Connor faced each other again.
O’Connor nodded slowly. “I should have known. Yes, the Banshee, of course.”
Jukes blinked. “Are you familiar with it?”
O’Connor smiled a thin, dry crack. “I come from a very old Irish family, Dr. Wahler. We have many strange beliefs, some that go back centuries. The Banshee is a recurring figure. The answer to your question is yes, I am quite familiar with it.”
“Well, then maybe you can shed some light on this matter.”
“There’s no light to shed. Outside of a certain familial group, the Banshee is little more than a story told by old women to scare bad little boys.”
“But within that group?”
O’Connor snorted. “The Banshee is a curse.”
When Jukes arrived home he found Cathy asleep in front of the TV. Light from a game show flickered uselessly across her angelic face.
Watching Cathy’s steady breathing as she slept triggered memories in Jukes. Memories were something he explored like tropical islands.
He let his mind drift back to Cathy’s childhood.
He closed his eyes and saw her in the summer of her thirteenth year. She stood at the boat dock with a boy she’d met during vacation.
Jukes thought the boy too old for her and had told her so, but she just laughed and waved her hands, saying, “Oh, I can handle him. Don’t worry about me, Jukey; worry about yourself.”
Jukes didn’t have any girlfriends at that point in his life. He was shy and socially backward. A late bloomer, his mother said. A nerd was more like it, he would have admitted.
Cathy was the exact opposite. She began getting interested in boys as soon as she was old enough to ride her bike. Her body developed quickly and by the age of thirteen she was already straining at her clothes and attracting the attentions of boys much older than she.
Jukes didn’t like it. He thought it dangerous and foolhardy for her to act so carefree. Of course, she didn’t care a thing what Jukes or anybody else thought. She just went along her way doing exactly what she pleased.
While Jukes did medical school, Cathy did the town.
Every time he tried to talk to her about it, she turned the tables on him and pointed out his lack of social grace and the fact that, at the age of twenty-three, he’d never actually been on a date.
Those memories were not pleasant, but Jukes didn’t fight them. He let them come, searching for answers, looking for connections he hadn’t made before. He believed somewhere deep in the fabric of his memory the explanation for Cathy’s behavior lay hidden.
He visualized the small boat dock and the canoe Cathy had loved. The summer afternoon buzzed with insects. He’d just returned from fishing with Dad. While his father took the fish up to the cleaning table, Jukes doubled back to the dock to get the gear.
As he came over the hill he saw them.
The boy was older than she, maybe eighteen or nineteen, one of the tough-looking locals, with black boots and a white T-shirt. He smoked a red-tipped cigarette that glowed angrily even in the bright sunshine. Jukes had warned Cathy about the boy more than once, but Cathy just laughed.
Jukes hated the way the boy rolled the sleeves of his T-shirt up over his muscles. His jeans were way too tight. He reeked of delinquency.
And here he had Cathy by the arm.
She was shouting at him. Jukes couldn’t make out what they were saying, but he could see her face, distorted by anger. The boy pulled her roughly off the dock. She jerked her arm away defiantly.
Then something happened that Jukes would not forget for the rest of his life. The boy hit Cathy. He hit her hard with a closed fist, knocking her down. She tried to get up and run away, but he grabbed her and hit her again. She fought back, kicking and scratching at the boy, but he just swatted her blows aside, laughing.
The sight of it galvanized Jukes. He clenched his fists, heart pounding, not sure what to do. His first impulse was to run down the hill and defend his sister. But the boy looked so tough, so mean. Jukes, even though older and taller, felt afraid.
He stood there for a few seconds, indecisive, burning up inside. When, at last, his rage overcame his fear, he sprang into action. He ran down the field toward them, but it was too late; his few moments of indecision had cost him valuable time.
Cathy had broken away now.
She walked back up the hill with her head down, angry tears streaming, and brushed past Jukes. When he reached out and put his hand on her shoulder she knocked it away so hard it made him yelp.
“Get away from me!” she shouted, the venom in her voice as sharp as broken glass.
He looked down the hill at the boy, who stood there glaring up at him, daring him to come down.
“What are you lookin’ at?” the boy sneered. “You want some, too? Come on, tough guy.”
Jukes turned and followed his sister.
“I’m waitin’, you pussy!” the boy shouted.
But Jukes kept walking, flushed and frustrated.
That had been so long ago, but it still stung.
What if he had gone down and helped his sister that day? Would she have turned out differently? What if he’d stood up to the boy, win or lose? What if she could have seen that, seen him defend her against the bully? Would she have grown up the same?
Jukes often thought about that scene. It was a painful memory, one that never failed to embarrass and humiliate him. That afternoon by the lake had affected both his and his sister’s lives in ways that the boy at the dock could never have known.
Jukes changed the channel on the TV to the evening news, hoping to see some sports highlights. The picture tube faintly illuminated the room, and Jukes watched a series of commercials, each one more bizarre than the last. He walked quietly into the kitchen, opened a beer, and stared off into space.
The sound of the newscast droned on in the background.
“… the strangler is still at large. On the lighter side of the news, today in New York, man bites dog. That story after these messages.…”
There was a knock at the door and Cathy woke up. She sat up on the couch and rubbed her eyes. Jukes stepped back into the living room and indicated for Cathy to stay where she was. He tiptoed to the door and peered into the fish-eye security lens.
Bobby Sudden stood in the hall.
He’d shaved his head since the last time Jukes had seen him, but he looked every bit as depraved and mean. At six feet, he stood as tall as Jukes, but more muscular. He wore his usua
l black leather jacket and T-shirt.
Cathy came up behind Jukes; he could hear her breathing over his shoulder. Why couldn’t she stay on the couch like he told her? She never followed his instructions. “Who is it?” she whispered.
He waved her back, a look of disgust on his face. He didn’t want her to get anywhere near the door. “It’s Bobby,” he whispered angrily. “I don’t want him to know you’re here, OK? So, just keep quiet and stay back; let me get rid of him. I do not want you to talk to him; is that understood? Now go back into the living room.”
She gave him a disconcerting petulant look and took two steps back. She didn’t go into the living room, which made Jukes angry. She just hovered there, out of sight but not out of earshot. Jukes waved at her to get farther back.
He opened the door a crack, chain engaged. “What do you want?”
“Is Cathy here?”
“No.”
“I know she’s here, man; let me in.”
“Go away.”
“She needs me right now. I’m her man. I’ve got a right to see her.”
“Forget it; she doesn’t want to see you again, ever.”
“Why don’t you let her decide that?”
“She’s recovering from the brutal beating you gave her, which was a criminal act, by the way.”
“I just want to talk to her.” He tried to push the door open a little more, but Jukes held on firmly, his foot planted against the jamb. The chain snapped taut.
“Don’t you get it? She’s through with you!” Jukes shouted.
“That’s her decision, man.”
“Get the hell away from my door!” Jukes slammed it shut again.
Bobby stood his ground on the other side. “I want to see her!” he shouted through the door.
“I saw what you did to her, and I’ve got a good mind to kick your teeth in. That’s my sister, not one of your slutty models. I’ve already called the cops.”
“You what?”
“You assaulted my sister; I called the cops. What don’t you understand? I hope they put you away for a long time.”
