Pariah cd-1

by David Jackson

  Nadine cuts her off. ‘Cal. Come on. Let’s go.’

  In response, Doyle grabs the sheet that has been draped across the body on the table, then yanks it back, exposing the naked upper torso. The action elicits a gasp from Nadine and a glare of annoyance from the nurse.

  ‘Look at her, Nadine! Look at her ribs! She’s like a damn glockenspiel! And here. .’ He takes hold of the cadaver’s arm and lifts it. ‘You see those? Track marks. She’s a junkie. You see a wedding ring at all? You see any marks where there used to be a wedding ring?’ He turns toward the nurse. ‘You got her clothes? Her possessions?’

  Nurse Lynley glances at a red plastic tray on the counter by the sink. Doyle goes over to it. He lifts the scraps of material he finds there — a thin red blouse, a translucent black brassiere with red trimming — and shows them to Nadine.

  ‘You think Rachel would wear any of this stuff?’

  The tray also holds a small open purse. Doyle tips out its contents. He sees Rachel’s driver’s license, and also what looks like her cellphone, but the other items are unfamiliar to him.

  ‘Take a look at this lipstick, Nadine. And this perfume. You think this is Rachel’s style?’

  Nadine shakes her head. She looks like a child, upset and confused. Nurse Lynley appears even more dumbfounded, perhaps mortified at the thought that she has made a dreadful error.

  ‘I don’t understand,’ the nurse says.

  Doyle keeps the phone and ID, and tosses the rest back into the tray. ‘Don’t worry. It’s not your fault. You’ve been had. We’ve all been had.’

  He heads out of the room, Nadine once again following at his heels like an adopted puppy.

  ‘Cal, wait. If that’s not Rachel, then where the hell is she?’

  He has no answer. The relief he feels is tempered by the fact that he still doesn’t know that Rachel and Amy are safe. His mind races to come up with ideas for locating them.

  His cellphone rings. He removes it from his pocket and looks at it. It’s not a number that’s stored in the phone’s address book. He answers it.

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘Cal? Is that you?’

  He stops, Nadine almost crashing into his back.

  ‘Rachel? RACHEL?’

  ‘Cal, where are you?’

  ‘I. . I’m at Bellevue Hospital.’

  ‘Yes, but where? And why have you got your cellphone? Are you okay? You sound-’

  ‘Yes, I’m okay. Where are you?’

  ‘I’m at Bellevue too, but I can’t find you. I’ve had everyone looking for you.’

  Doyle brings his free hand to his forehead. This conversation is making absolutely no sense to him. Why shouldn’t he have his cellphone?

  He looks up at the people milling around him. A short bald man carrying flowers and trying to figure out which way to go. A young man pushing an elderly lady in a wheelchair. A small child in a fur-trimmed duffel coat, a pink balloon tied to her wrist.

  ‘Cal?’

  The little girl stares at him, smiles. .

  ‘Cal? Are you there?’

  . . and then she runs. She comes straight at him. Her face radiates sunshine and daisies and moonbeams and castles and fairies as she dodges around the short bald man and the old lady in the wheelchair, and she is opening her mouth and shouting something, one word over and over, a word that means everything to Doyle, a word that puts the world back on its axis and the stars in their rightful places, and that word is. .

  ‘Daddy!’

  He bends at the knees, ready to scoop up the incoming human missile, and as he does so he catches a glimpse of somebody else at the payphones. A woman, turning to check on her child, staring in disbelief at what she sees. Such a familiar figure to Doyle. Such a part of him.

  Rachel!

  And as he gathers Amy up into his arms and whirls her around, he checks his wife on each rotation, sees her come closer and closer, until she too becomes swallowed up in the maelstrom and they all spin around together, hugging and kissing and laughing and crying and oblivious to what is beyond their reach.

  When they settle, when they calm, and some of the love has been doled out to Nadine too, there are answers to be sought.

  Rachel says, ‘God, Cal, I thought you were dead. When they couldn’t find you-’

  ‘Who? Who couldn’t find me?’

  ‘The nurses. I was told you were in the ICU, but they didn’t know anything about you. They tried the operating rooms, and there was no sign of you there either. I didn’t know what to-’

  Doyle takes hold of her upper arms. ‘Slow down, Rach. Rewind this a little. Who told you I was in the ICU?’

  Rachel takes a breath. ‘I got a phone call tonight. It was a really crackly line, and the guy sounded foreign — Indian or Pakistani or something — so it was really hard to understand what he was saying. He said he was a doctor at Bellevue, and that you’d been brought in with gunshot wounds to the chest. He said you were in a pretty bad way, that it was touch and go whether. . whether. .’

  She breaks down then. Doyle wraps her in his arms, whispers reassurances to her as she sobs into his chest. Over her shoulder, he looks at Nadine, then nods toward Amy and the hospital exit. Nadine gets the message, takes Amy by the hand and starts to lead her out of the building.

  Amy says, ‘Why is Mommy crying?’

  Nadine answers, ‘She’s just happy to see your Daddy, sweetie. Come on, let’s go see if we can find the car.’

  When they have gone, Rachel surfaces again. ‘What’s this all about, Cal? Did someone make a mistake?’

  Doyle shakes his head. ‘It was deliberate. Somebody’s idea of fun. I was told you were hurt too. Bastard beat up an innocent woman and left these on her.’ He takes the cellphone and driver’s license from his pocket.

  Rachel gapes at the items. ‘I’ve been looking for those! I was convinced I put them in the car’s glove compartment this morning. When I went to get them later on, they were gone. I thought my mind was playing tricks on me.’

  ‘He must have broken into the car somehow, looking for things that belonged to you.’

  ‘Who, Cal? Who the hell would play such a cruel trick on us?’

  ‘I don’t know. I really don’t.’

  ‘What about the woman? The one who got beat up? Couldn’t she tell you anything?’

  Doyle looks at her, biting his lip. His vision suddenly blurs, and he blinks it away.

  Rachel says, ‘Oh, God, Cal! She’s dead? And you thought it was. . Oh, Jesus!’

  She latches onto him again, pulling herself as close as she can get. He savors the intimacy while he can. There are other things he needs to say to her.

  ‘Come on,’ he says. ‘Let’s get out of here.’

  They head toward the exit, his arm around her shoulders, keeping her safe against him, wishing he could be her protector forever.

  She doesn’t suspect yet, he thinks. She doesn’t know what’s coming.

  He hears footsteps hurrying along the corridor behind him.

  ‘Mr Doyle! Mr Doyle!’

  He turns, and Rachel turns with him. He takes her hand in his, and waits for the caller to catch up with them.

  Nurse Lynley stops in front of them. Her eyes slide to Rachel, then back to Doyle.

  ‘This is-’

  ‘My wife, yes.’

  The nurse nods at this final and undeniable confirmation of the mistaken identity. ‘Mr Doyle, I’m so sorry. We try to be as careful as we can about identifying victims. It’s just that-’

  ‘It’s okay,’ he says. ‘You’re not to blame. I don’t plan to file a complaint or sue the hospital or anything.’

  In gratitude, she flashes the briefest of smiles. ‘Mr Doyle, would I be right in thinking that you’re a detective?’

  Doyle stares back into her green eyes, looking for a hint of mysticism that helped her divine that particular piece of information.

  ‘Yes, I am. How did you. .’

  ‘There was something else on the victim.
It fell from her clothing when she was brought in. An orderly left it at the reception desk.’

  Nurse Lynley dips into a capacious pocket on her uniform. Doyle knows what her hand will contain even before it’s withdrawn.

  A white envelope. The words ‘Detective Doyle’ on its face.

  Doyle takes the offering, thanks the nurse. He feels the familiar turmoil in his stomach.

  She says, ‘I don’t understand what’s going on here, and maybe you’d prefer not to tell me. Maybe you’d prefer not to talk about this to anybody. But there’s a woman back there who is now a murder victim. The thing you need to know is-’

  ‘The hospital has to make a police report, I know. And you’ll have to mention my connection with all this. I understand.’

  She shows another hint of a smile, grateful to him for not making this difficult for her.

  ‘I’m glad you’ve found your wife. Goodbye, Detective.’

  She turns then, and goes briskly back to her business. Doyle gazes down at the envelope, knowing that he can’t delay in opening it.

  ‘What is it?’ Rachel asks.

  ‘The son of a bitch has been sending me anonymous messages. This is his latest. His chance to gloat.’

  Doyle rips open the envelope and unfolds the note it contains.

  Dear Detective Doyle,

  Fooled you!

  Did you like it? As practical jokes go, you have to admit it was pretty damn good. Go ahead, laugh about it.

  Next time it really will be your family on the slab. I can get to them, and there’s nothing you can do to stop me.

  You getting the message now, Detective? People just aren’t safe when you’re around them.

  Why don’t you go away and think about it? Far away. From everyone. Think about it real hard, and maybe then you’ll get some idea of what you put me through.

  Sweet dreams, Detective.

  ‘What’s it say?’

  ‘Crap you don’t need to hear.’ He folds the note over, then tucks it and the envelope into his pocket. ‘Let’s go.’

  His mind is made up now. All that remains is to figure out how to break it to Rachel.

  He worries about his plans.

  It seems to him that he plans things meticulously, knows exactly what he wants to do, but when it comes to implementing them he just gets, well, carried away. Like he starts off as the driver and suddenly finds himself in the passenger seat.

  He hadn’t set out with any intention of killing the girl.

  His objective was just to rough her up a little. Well, a lot, actually. Enough to keep her in the hospital for a while. Get her into the ICU, drips in her arm, monitors on her brain activity — all that shit. Long enough to get Doyle in there. Give him a little scare.

  He’d done his research. The hooker was roughly the right height and shape, her hair was long and dark, and she wasn’t too skanky-looking as whores go. Her face was nowhere near as attractive as the one on Doyle’s wife, but that wasn’t so important. When he was done with her, the face was the last place people would be looking for recognizable features.

  So he called her up. Told her he’d traveled all the way from Chicago for a business meeting and wanted to relax a little before heading back to the Windy City. Put her at ease by telling her to meet him at his nice hotel on Seventh Avenue.

  There were many things he didn’t tell her, of course.

  He didn’t tell her she would never make it to his hotel. Didn’t tell her that she wouldn’t even make it out of her own apartment building. Didn’t tell her that his call was just a ruse to get her out of the apartment without her feeling that, at that very moment, she was about to be attacked.

  He was waiting for her in the hallway. It was black out there because he’d removed the light bulb. He waited patiently until he heard her take the locks off. Waited until the door opened and a dirty yellow light leaked out and she stepped into the gloom and turned to lock up.

  And then he pounced.

  He rammed into her back, driving her through the door and into the apartment. She yelped, then whirled to face him. He saw first the shock and then the fear. He’d expected that reaction. He believed he cut an imposing, formidable figure. Although the ski mask and the baseball bat may have added to the effect.

  He expected also that she’d run. Maybe even put up a fight. This was a woman of the streets, after all. She would have learned something about how to handle herself.

  So he didn’t wait. Didn’t try to reason with her. He just let the baseball bat do the talking. Let it sing through the air on its way to connecting with her ribcage with such force that he heard bones crack. Let it whistle a little before bouncing off the back of her skull.

  And then he closed the door behind him. Stood panting over the woman who was now balled up on the floor, her blood-streaked hands spread across her head in a pathetic attempt at protection.

  So far, so good. He’d stuck to the plan. The next phase should have been straightforward: smack her around a little more, throw her into the van, dump her somewhere and then give the hospital a call.

  Except that’s not how it went, was it?

  What actually happened was that he got a little over-zealous. The old baseball bat became a little too verbose. Became a veritable chatterbox as it arced and swung and pummeled and smashed.

  Not how it was meant to happen. Not at all.

  Hell, why would he have bothered putting on a ski mask if he hadn’t intended the girl to survive? What would be the point in that?

  So why the deviation? Why the fuck didn’t he just stick to the sequence of events that he outlined at the beginning?

  Thinking about it now, he realizes that a part of him — a subversive element buried within his subconscious mind — has been having other ideas all along. It concocts its own, darker plans. It allows him to think that he’s just being businesslike, that he’s just taking one logical step at a time. And when the moment is right, it asserts itself and shows him as the monster he truly is.

  And right now, looking back on what he did to that wretched human being, ‘monster’ does not seem too strong a word.

  Especially since he enjoyed it so much at the time.

  TWELVE

  At Doyle’s request, he drives Rachel home in her car. He tells Amy to ride in Daddy’s car with Nadine, and waits for the whines. Instead he gets a ‘Yay!’ So much for being pleased to see him.

  Doyle takes his eyes off the road for a glance at Rachel. Little more than a murmur or two has escaped her lips since they left the hospital.

  No biggie, he thinks. She’s been through a lot. Me, I got plenty to say. I just can’t find the words.

  ‘You okay?’ he asks.

  She doesn’t look at him. Just keeps staring straight ahead.

  ‘This is hard for me, Cal. I haven’t experienced anything like this before. It’s scary.’

  ‘I know, babe.’

  ‘I don’t know what the hell is happening to us. Who could do something like this?’

  ‘I really don’t know. But I’m gonna stop him. Okay? I’m gonna get this sonofabitch.’

  They lapse into silence again. Doyle can sense a pressure building up in his wife.

  ‘You said you’d call me.’

  A few simple words, but Doyle knows there’s an avalanche of emotion waiting just behind them.

  ‘I know. I tried. I couldn’t get through to you. Obviously you had no cellphone, and-’

  ‘When? When did you try?’

  Be careful here, he thinks.

  ‘Earlier this evening. It’s been kinda hectic today.’

  ‘I understand. What with the death of Tony Alvarez and all.’

  Shit. This ain’t gonna work out well.

  ‘You heard about Tony, huh?’

  ‘Yes, I heard. Eventually. You want to hear how my day went? I spent the morning trying to come to terms with what happened to Joe. Then I spent the afternoon doing exactly the same thing for Tony. And for most of this evening it look
ed as though I would have to do it all over again. Only this time for you, Cal. For you.’

  ‘Look, I’m okay. We’re both okay. He was just trying to frighten us, that’s all.’

  ‘Well, he did a damn good job. I’ve been worried ever since you told me about Joe. And when I heard about Tony, you know what my first thought was after I got over the shock? I thought, Christ, I need to call Cal. I need to find out what’s going on, check he’s okay. Because that’s what wives and husbands do, Cal: they check on their loved ones when bad things are happening around them. And then I thought, No, why should I call? He should be calling me, just like he promised less than twenty-four hours ago. He should care enough to pick up the telephone and pass on a few reassurances to his wife and daughter that he’s not wearing wings just yet.’

  Her words are broken by sobs, and she brings a hand to her mouth to stifle them.

  ‘Hey,’ he says. ‘Hush. It’ll be okay.’

  ‘Don’t shut us out, Cal. Whatever happens, we’re in this together. Remember that.’

  He just nods then. He has an answer, but he knows she’s not ready for it. Not yet.

  They park the cars and congregate on the front stoop. It’s clear to Doyle that Nadine has detected a frostiness in the air that has nothing to do with the icy December weather. When Rachel invites her in, it’s voiced without conviction. Doyle can almost see the subtitle that says, Don’t you dare say yes to this invitation. Nadine reads it too, and declines despite Amy’s pleading. She says her goodbyes to each of them in turn, promising Amy that she will come to see her rabbit when she gets one, then gets in her car and drives away.

  In the apartment, all conversation is between Doyle and Amy, or between Rachel and Amy. Anxious to restore the third side of the triangle, Doyle follows Rachel into the kitchen. She keeps her back to him as she opens and closes cabinet doors.

  ‘Rach.’

  ‘I have to fix something for Amy. She hasn’t eaten yet, and it’s already way past her bedtime.’

  Her voice is flat, emotionless — her way of telling him how mad and upset she is.

  ‘Rach.’

  ‘Can you get Amy in the shower, please?’

  He stays in the doorway for a while, watching Rachel and wondering how she manages to keep her back aimed in his direction no matter where she moves to in the room. Eventually he slips away.