by Oliver Stark
Denise Levene’s Building
December 2, 10.50 p.m.
Denise Levene was about a hundred metres up the road, walking towards the apartment. Tom Harper was at her side. She felt they’d made a connection at the bar. Harper was lightening up. She’d enjoyed herself, too.
‘It’s nice to walk where there are no TV stations and microphones being thrust in my face,’ said Tom, looking around.
‘Well, you’re always welcome: my street’s nice and friendly.’ They reached the steps to her building. ‘This is me,’ she said and looked up at him. ‘I’d like to do that again sometime.’
Tom nodded. ‘Me too. I enjoyed it. Good to talk.’
‘Yeah, good to talk.’
Tom waved at her and wandered away down the road. Denise watched him for a second or two and then went up to the door. The concierge buzzed the door and waved, and Denise walked through to the lift. She stood there thinking about Tom. About how far he had come in such a short amount of time, and how far he had to go. Lisa or not, she knew that he was still a long way from being ready to move forward with his life.
Out of the lift Denise wandered down the hallway to her apartment. She stood outside the door and opened her bag. She searched for her keys for a moment, but she couldn’t find them. ‘Shit,’ she muttered. She was just about to walk right back down to the lift to fetch the concierge when she reached out for the door handle. It wouldn’t be the first time that Daniel had shut their apartment door without locking it. She turned the handle and it opened. She shook her head.
Inside her apartment, she switched on the light and winced at the mess. Daniel needed more housetraining. Another job for her list. There was an unusual smell in the air, faint but strange. Denise hung up her bag, took off her coat and placed it on a hanger. She pulled off her shoes and pressed the door shut with her backside. It clicked shut and she turned and bolted it. Daniel had taken Fahrenheit to keep him company up at the senator’s cabin in the hills. No doubt he’d ring later and say he’d lost his keys somewhere. She’d have to find them, but looking at the apartment she realized that would not be easy. Maybe tomorrow she’d find the time to clear up the mess.
Denise walked through to the bathroom and turned on the shower. She undressed where she stood, folding her suit on the chair and putting her blouse and underwear into the linen basket.
She stepped into the shower and closed the glass door of the cubicle. The water was as hot as she could stand it and cascaded in heavy, thick streams down her body. Her eyes closed as she flushed the city grime from her pores. It was the only way to end a long day.
Sebastian listened to the falling water. It made a lovely sound. Water was special to Sebastian. He’d grown up by the river. Water was his friend. He opened the bathroom cupboard and emerged from his hiding place beside a stack of towels and un-ironed clothes. He saw Denise through the glass, the water running down her body, her skin shining and clear. He felt a surge of heat and moved into the room. He took the wooden seat from beside the door and pushed her suit to the floor. Then he sat down to watch.
Maybe it was a noise, or maybe she saw shadows flicker across the ceiling. For some reason Denise opened her eyes and turned. The shock was like a well-placed thump to her solar plexus and she gulped, physically doubling up against the shower wall. Her whole body danced with the flood of adrenalin. The stranger from the bar sat just outside the shower cubicle on a wooden chair, his legs wide apart, leaning back as if relaxed and staring with wide eyes. He was staring directly at her. And he was smiling broadly. She cowered and tried to scream, but the sound was a trembling wheeze rather than a loud alarm. Her legs weakened and buckled and her arms covered herself as if it was her modesty that she needed to protect. It wasn’t. The man had one of her bath towels in his hand and was shredding it into long strips with a knife.
‘Ever been hogtied, Denise?’ said Sebastian. ‘I’m the American Devil, by the way. I think you already know me well.’
Chapter Eighty-Seven
East Harlem
December 2, 11.20 p.m.
Tom Harper had wandered slowly back to his apartment. He was full of thoughts and ideas, some of which were about the case, some not. The thing that really kept him thinking was the idea that Mo and Sebastian were somehow linked.
Tom walked up the steps to his building. He wanted to forget all about the case for a few hours. There was an envelope taped to his front door, with his name written across the front of it. His heart started beating. He pulled a pair of gloves from his pocket and put them on. Then he opened the letter.
Dear Detective Harper,
Are you afraid of dying, Detective? I’ve seen the look on their faces when they are about to die. If you kill them slowly enough, they reveal their secrets. Did you know that? They are at their most beautiful just as they die. What will your face look like, I wonder? Shit-scared like Williamson? Proud like Elizabeth Seale?
I’m after you, now, Detective Harper. Just you. Williamson never was good enough, but I’m going to make an example out of you.
All my girls died in their own particular way. I guess, Detective Harper, that I’m more afraid of dying than any of them. More afraid of loving too.
Artists are like that, unable to love, afraid to die, outcasts from life’s feast. We live for our work, nothing else. My sculpture is complete but for one thing and that’s you, Detective. I want your blood to mingle with theirs. We’ll meet soon, I’m sure of that.
I know you like Denise, Detective, I know you’re going to miss her and you are going to try to find her. I know what it’s like to miss them. It’s like nothing else in the world. I want you to feel pain, Tom Harper.
Think of my taking Denise as a necessary preparation for your ending. First, I will tenderize you with pain and guilt, then I will cut you up and serve you on a plate.
Yours,
Sebastian
Harper swallowed hard. He felt the crawl of fear over his skin. He had not felt this terror before. Not personally. Now he knew what it felt like. Sebastian was after Denise.
Chapter Eighty-Eight
Harper’s Apartment
December 2, 11.25 p.m.
The back stairway was painted dark green and echoed to the smallest sound. Harper sprinted down the stairs, jumping the flights of steps in one leap, his footfalls rebounding off the walls and climbing high into the building. He already had his cell phone in his hand and at the bottom of the steps he called Denise. He stood there, breathing heavily, listening to the phone ringing and ringing. ‘Please pick up, damn you. Pick up!’
No one did. Harper looked up the street. How was he going to get to Denise’s in time? He could get a cab, take a car, but the subway would be the quickest of all. It was a few stops. He tried to calculate quickly and was caught in a moment of indecision. Then he darted towards the subway, a look of panic etched across his face.
All the time he intoned her name like a prayer. Denise. Denise. Denise. Perhaps Denise didn’t know yet. Perhaps Sebastian hadn’t managed to get to her. God help her! As he ran towards the subway, he called Eddie.
‘No time for talking, Eddie. Sebastian’s gone for Denise. Get a patrol to her apartment fast.’ He knew Eddie would be on to the duty supervisor immediately.
He headed down into the subway and stood on the train, staring straight ahead and shaking in the bold yellow lights. There was nothing worse than fearing for someone you cared for, when your mind could hardly dare to admit that they were only in danger because of you. His shirt was drenched in sweat.
He was trying to think. Maybe it was not too late. Maybe Sebastian had made a mistake. Maybe, he should’ve seen this coming. Maybe, maybe, maybe, ran through his head with the rhythm of the train.
He couldn’t believe how slow the journey was. He couldn’t believe he was so impotent. He just tensed and tried to remain focused. She needed him focused. She needed him, period. A busker got on at the next station, carrying a guitar. He stood in the middle of the train and strumme
d and sang. Some John Lennon number about peace.
The doors seemed to remain open an interminable length of time and then drew together like drapes drawn by a geriatric. Thinking of the killer alone with Denise Levene, her pale skin, her gentle blue eyes, Harper strained to keep the anger and fear from boiling over.
The train finally drew into Denise’s station. Tom called out: ‘Police! Move!’ and started to shove people out of the way as he pushed his way up towards the street.
It wasn’t so busy that he couldn’t get anywhere, but he came up against more and more crowds. He was drowning in a sea of people. It felt like a lifetime before he made it above ground again and ran towards Denise’s apartment. As he turned into her street, he saw the blue and red lights flashing.
He raced to the building, through the doors, and up the stairs. In her corridor, there were cops all over. The rumble of distant voices on the shortwave, the hush of whispered conversations.
Harper burst into the apartment. ‘Where is she? Where is she?’ No one answered. Their eyes twitched and lowered. He’d seen that look so many times before. It was only ever used on the bereaved. God, please don’t let her be dead! Tom walked through the door into the bathroom, where he could see the backs of a group of broad-shouldered officers and detectives.
A uniformed officer turned, looked at him dead on and shook his head.
‘We got here too late,’ he said.
Tom felt as though he was falling down a black hole. His head was clouding over. He stumbled a few steps and looked at what the team was examining.
There was no body. No Denise. The shower cubicle was splattered and splashed with blood and Denise was gone. The monster had her.
Chapter Eighty-Nine
Mace Crindle Plant
December 3, 12.25 a.m.
In 1995, Elliot Crindle of Mace Crindle Corporation, a petrochemical giant, agreed to a settlement with the United States Department of Justice and the United States Environmental Protection Agency. In addition to a very lenient $2 million civil penalty for industrial pollution from leaking sewers and over 65 separate environmental violations, Elliot agreed to upgrade or replace over 18 miles of ageing sewers across the plant.
The ancient pumping centre occupied a large underground site with cavernous rooms formed by elaborate brick arches. The company had closed this unit and sealed it. It lay ten metres below ground, accessible, still, through an industrial elevator in land once belonging to the company and now derelict.
Into this abandoned underground room Sebastian walked, the still body of Denise Levene over his shoulder.
At the centre of the vast and labyrinthine old sewer complex was a large circular space. In it was a set of shelves upon which sat Sebastian’s curiosities and artefacts, his own small contribution to the grotesque. His women. He had the clothes belonging to all of them hanging on the walls. There were rows of photographs of each woman taken as they were stalked, then the grotesque shots of their murders and the still, posed bodies hit by the glare of the camera flash.
In the centre, a glass vitrine containing his sculpture of body parts in formaldehyde, The Progression of Love.
Behind his display was a dry shrivelled object in the centre of a small shrine. It was Chloe Mestella’s heart. Sebastian felt excited being there in the sewers with his girls, seeing evidence that it was real, that it had all happened. He often watched his objects by candlelight so they flickered as if alive. There were body parts from seven women in the sculpture he called The Progression of Love: Mary-Jane, Grace, Amy, Jessica, Elizabeth, Kitty and Rose. It was finished. Now he just had to deal with Harper, and Denise.
Across the room was a single bed. Sometimes he slept there, deep in the caverns below the city streets. He had food and drink in there that would last a good while. He could hide out for weeks, if need be, hidden away, sealed in his dark chamber.
He put Denise on the bed. He had time now. As much as he wanted. All the time in the world.
It had been a couple of days since he had seen his objets d’art and he crossed to them. He took Jessica’s sweat-drenched blouse out of its plastic bag, put it to his nose, savoured the memory, felt it snake through his mind. He could feel his excitement grow. He had planned to bring a body down here many times to play with over and over again, if he ever dared. Now he had dared.
He replaced Jessica’s blouse. He wanted the aroma to last. He sealed the bag and turned to Denise. Unlike the rest, she was not there as an object of his fantasy. He had never imagined her ripe in his hands, his fingernails bright with her juice.
She was there for a different purpose altogether. He looked down at her. Such a small, frail bird. He wondered what it would be like — not only to be loved, but to feel love. He knew from long experience that it was not ‘being loved’ that saved people, but loving.
Sebastian was not yet finished. He pulled Denise’s body over his shoulder and went further into the labyrinth, down the dark, lost passages of the chemical sewers, his feet wet with the rainwater that seeped in through the old brick walls. Her cuts had been superficial. Deliberately so. Not dangerous, just across the odd vein or two to create a lot of blood. Blood incited fear so well. He would’ve liked to have seen Tom Harper’s face when he arrived at Denise’s bathroom.
He came to the steel bars of the caged prison in the depths of the plant. In there, he would keep Denise. He barged the door open with his shoulder. It took him three attempts and then he took her into her new home, laid her down on her bed and looked down on her face. Like a sleeping princess.
He left her and closed the steel door. The heavy metal clunked in the darkness and Sebastian trudged back up the tunnels like the Minotaur of old myth.
But those old myths weren’t true, were they? Minotaurs taking young maidens into the labyrinth to devour them. They were just stories, right? Just old stories.
Chapter Ninety
Mace Crindle Plant
December 3, 4.00 a.m.
Every few seconds a drop of water hit the ground. In the brick cell, the hollow drip of the water on the wet floor echoed, and then silence returned. Silence and absolute darkness.
Denise woke. It was pitch black. She was lying on her back. Where was she? She lay still for a moment. The events returned to her mind. Her heart thumped and thumped. The evening with Tom. The shower. The American Devil. Fear. Horrible fear. A knife slashing at her. She sat upright. Was he watching her? She couldn’t hear a thing, just the dripping water. No, wait. There was something. There. What was it?
A mechanical sound.
Yes. A faint mechanical sound in the distance. She couldn’t make it out, though. It was so dark. So very, very dark. It was hard to focus, to get your bearings. There was no point of reference. She closed her eyes. That was better.
Her hands reached down. She was naked. She had bandages on her arms. She felt bruising on her lower back as if she had been dragged over something. Perhaps down stairs. And she was stiff all over. Arms and shoulders and legs. Very stiff.
She opened her eyes again. Still darkness. So much darker when you open your eyes. So dark it swallows you. It seemed to swarm about her. A darkness within the darkness. She listened. The mechanical noise had stopped. She was lying on a bed of some sort with a coarse blanket. A blanket like they used to give you at camp. She turned her head and smelled it. The dusty mouldy smell overwhelmed her. I may not be able to see but I have a sense of smell. I have memory. Yes, Denise, think about camp. Tell me what you can remember.
Past images swarmed through her mind. The drips fell again and again and echoed against the hard cold walls.
Her hand reached out to her right, but there was only space. She reached out to her left and felt a wall. Her fingers touched it gently. Cold. She felt the groove of mortar. A brick wall. Smooth. The water dripped again. The smell of damp rising from the stone floor filled her nostrils.
Slowly, she was piecing things together. She was in a building. A cold, wet basement. There was some
thing mechanical in the building. A dripping tap somewhere close. The brick wall suggested something industrial. But it might be somewhere that people were near. That comforted her.
She remembered all the tricks her father had told her. She had never imagined that his years in prison would be of use to her. All those hours and days spent chatting away across a scarred blue table.
‘Daddy,’ she said aloud into the darkness, ‘I will be all right, won’t I?’
She heard his voice in her head as clear as if he was right next to her.
‘Course you will, my little sparkler. I carry you in my cell and whenever I’m scared I light you up and you burn so brightly and so fiercely that I can see for miles and miles and miles. My fantastic sparkler.’
She could light a fantastic sparkler any time she wanted to. She would, too. When she needed to. And she would see everything and see for miles and miles and miles.
‘What’s the worst that can happen?’ he’d asked her.
‘I don’t know.’
‘The worst is they could hurt you, but the most hurt they can do to you is make you afraid. There’s no worse hurt than afraid. Hurt doesn’t last, but fear has you to himself all night long.’
Yes, she remembered it now. There’s no worse hurt than afraid.
Denise clenched her fists. She shouted at the top of her voice: ‘I’m not scared of you!’
Out of the near darkness, close enough to terrify, came a low, long whistle. The sound echoed around the room and into some spaces beyond.
The fear came rushing back.
Someone was with her down there in the dark.
Chapter Ninety-One
Blue Team
December 3, 9.40 a.m.
Newsflashes and breaking news bulletins over the networks and the internet talked in serious tones about the psychologist and profiler kidnapped by the serial killer. Tom Harper and the rest of the world watched the rolling tickertape at the bottom of the screen. American Devil returns… Serial killer kidnaps police psychologist… Victim feared dead…
