by Adam Hamdy
“Thanks,” Ash responded awkwardly.
Harrell’s office was in the northeast corner of the building, overlooking Lafayette and Worth, and even though he was only four stories above Ash, the view seemed so much better. The East River and Brooklyn were laid out in one direction and the stickleback architecture of Manhattan in the other. Harrell was seated at his desk, his posture noticeable for the plumb alignment of his spine which was probably a throwback to his military days. He was tall and thin, and unfurled as Ash entered. His mop of salt-and-pepper hair danced as he crossed the room.
“I’m so glad you’re OK,” he said, shaking Ash’s hand warmly. “Take a seat.”
Ash sat in one of four low-backed chairs that were arranged around a small table, and Harrell took a seat next to her.
“Reeves and Miller say you saved their lives,” he told Ash earnestly. “Good work. But what the hell were you doing chasing down Haig without backup?”
“It was my call,” Ash replied. “I didn’t want NYPD spooking the guy,” she added, wondering whether Harrell would sense the half-truth. She’d always had trust issues, but the Pendulum case had pushed them into overdrive.
Harrell pursed his lips and studied Ash. “I would’ve brought them in, but you’re right, it was your call. We’re catching heat for his suicide, but from what I can see in Reeves’s and Miller’s reports, there wasn’t anything we could’ve done.”
Ash nodded, shuddering as she recalled the moment Charles Haig sent a bullet through his skull.
“Whatever the press say, you stopped a killer,” Harrell assured her.
“I think Haig found Pendulum’s base of operations, sir,” she told him, noticing his eyes narrow as she continued. “I found pictures of John Wallace and the other victims that were taken before Pendulum struck, which means Haig was either involved . . .”
Harrell gave a fatigued shake of the head, and Ash knew he was about to make another rebuttal of her conspiracy theory.
“. . . which I don’t believe,” she assured him. “Haig was too sloppy, too egotistical. Pendulum didn’t want people to know he existed—not until right at the end. Haig was an egotist who wrote to the papers. No, I think Haig was an obsessive fan, and I believe he stalked a trail left by Pendulum. A trail that led him to the base.”
“Can you piece it together?” Harrell asked, intrigued.
“Maybe.” Ash nodded. “I’ve got a place to start. Mountainhome, Pennsylvania.”
“Take a couple of days’ leave and then check it out,” Harrell suggested. “The trail’s cold anyway. It doesn’t need to be done now.”
“I’d like to get started right away, if that’s OK with you, sir. It won’t do me any good to be sat at home. I wasn’t made for downtime.”
“You can write your report on Haig. Give me something I can use to get the press on side,” Harrell told her.
“I know you’re catching heat, sir, but I’d rather just do my job,” Ash responded. “File my report when I’ve investigated every line of inquiry.”
Harrell gave a wry smile and nodded slowly. “One day you’re going to realize that you can’t run full throttle all your life. Something will break.”
“I appreciate the concern, sir,” Ash assured him as she got to her feet.
“Let me know if you find anything,” Harrell said.
Ash arrived in Mountainhome shortly after 10 a.m., having driven against the flow of traffic, following I-80 along its treelined route into Pennsylvania. The Mountainhome Diner was located on the southern edge of town, about ten miles off the interstate. She pulled into the parking lot that the diner shared with Jimmy’s Ice Cream Parlor, a tiny kiosk with a couple of counters and a drive-through window. The ice cream parlor was closed and the diner was quiet, with only three other cars and a pick-up truck in the lot. Ash climbed out of her Taurus and walked over to the southeastern corner of the building, where she peered into the second window, the one where Max Byrne had been sitting. She tried to imagine him alone in a booth, surrounded by families, couples, truckers, people just living their normal lives, unaware of the serial killer in their midst. She looked up and down Peterson Road, which ran north into town and south toward the interstate, and was wondering which way Byrne had traveled when she was suddenly startled by a loud knock on the window. Wheeling round, she saw a middle-aged strawberry blonde in a sky-blue polo shirt beckoning her inside.
Ash walked up the shallow ramp and made her way through the porch, which was plastered with flyers for local events.
“You look lost,” the strawberry blonde observed as Ash entered. “Need any help?”
A denim-clad man in a baseball cap with dirty blond hair and a droopy mustache was seated by the counter, while a dark-haired young mother sat in the booth in the far corner and fed her fat toddler a slice of cake. The air was rich with the aroma of griddled meat, a deep, savory smell that was sufficiently enticing to get Ash thinking about a very early lunch.
“Agent Christine Ash, FBI,” she said, showing the woman her ID. She followed up by producing her phone and opening a file photo of Max Byrne. “I’m looking for this man.”
“Tammy,” the woman introduced herself. She puzzled over the image for a moment, then shook her head. “Face rings a bell, but I couldn’t say why.”
“Hey, that’s the Pendulum guy,” a voice called from behind the counter, and Ash looked over to see a man in chef whites. His curly black hair was tied under a net, exposing pasty round cheeks and wide, happy eyes. “I seen him on the news.”
Ash nodded, and Tammy shuddered. “He ever been in here?”
“I woulda remembered him,” the cook assured her. “I’m Frankie, by the way.”
“What about this guy?” Ash asked, swiping to a photo of Charles Haig.
“That’s that Babylon,” Frankie told Tammy. “I told you! He’s been on the TV,” he continued. “I told Tammy he was in here a few months ago. Maybe September or October. He was asking questions. Just like you.”
“About Pendulum?” Ash watched Frankie’s excitement building, certain that he’d bore his friends with this story for years, his involvement growing with each retelling until he was solely responsible for apprehending both Pendulum and Babylon.
“No,” Frankie said, shaking his head. “He wanted to know about our camera system,” he explained, indicating the security camera in the corner of the room. “Asked if we kept our tapes. I told him I didn’t know, sent him on to Arlo, the boss.”
“Is Arlo around?” Ash asked.
Frankie and Tammy exchanged sorrowful looks.
“Arlo’s dead,” Tammy said at last. “Heart attack the day after Christmas.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” Ash offered.
“Well, you know, when it’s your time, it’s your time,” Tammy observed quietly.
“Chester, his son, runs the place now,” Frankie revealed. “He might remember something.”
“Where would I find him?”
“Eight-Fourteen Spruce Cabin Road,” Tammy replied.
“Thanks, you’ve been very helpful,” Ash said, turning for the door. She stopped in her tracks and pivoted. “I don’t suppose you recognize this?” She swiped her photos until she reached the pictured she’d discovered in Babylon’s lair: the hand-held selfie of a smiling Haig standing beside a dirt track, tall green trees crowding either side of it.
Frankie and Tammy studied the picture blankly, clueless, until Ash saw inspiration flash across Frankie’s eyes.
“That’s out by the falls,” he said excitedly. “Look, you can see the antenna there in the background.”
Tammy squinted at the photo and nodded. “I think you’re right.”
Frankie pointed at a tiny, thin line that was so faint that Ash had taken it to be a blemish on the image. “That’s the old radio antenna out by the falls—Spruce Cabin Falls. Right out in the woods. Tough country. Hillbilly country,” he added with phony menace.
“Frank!” Tammy elbowed him playfull
y.
“Can you tell me how to get there?” Ash asked, suddenly alive with the thrill of a lead.
23
They called the easy-going detective “Bunker,” and Bailey had watched the rangy blond man for the best part of three hours, diligently working at his desk, rising occasionally to query something with one of his colleagues, all smiles and back slaps. Bunker provided a window into the past and despite their physical differences, reminded Bailey of himself before the shooting: a man at ease. The comparison was emphasized by Bailey’s reason for being in the building. After showering, forcing down breakfast, and studiously resisting the urge to pour himself a drink or swallow a couple of pills, he had driven up to Stoke Newington Police Station, where he’d been told that Murrall was out. Bailey had asked to wait and had been shown to the second-floor detectives’ room, where he’d been offered a chair by the door, near the photocopier. He’d watched the detectives come and go, observed their camaraderie and grown jealous of what he saw and what had once been his.
The arched windows that filled the yellow brick building with light were small compared with the massive panes of glass at Paddington Green, but somehow the shabby East London station seemed brighter. Bailey suspected his maudlin mood was coloring his vision and returned his attention to the symbol that the Greene boy had found on his dead mother’s desk. Bailey had tried a variety of searches, but asking Google to look up “ball and rods” or “ball and spikes” returned millions of irrelevant and unsavory results.
He had clocked just over three hours in the detectives’ room when Murrall entered.
“Mouse! You’ve got a visitor,” Bunker yelled over to him, and Murrall turned to see Bailey.
“Mouse?” Bailey asked as he weaved his way around the maze of cubicles and offered Murrall his hand.
“Yeah, what with me being so small,” Murrall noted dryly. He left Bailey hanging for a moment, before taking his hand.
“I just wanted to say sorry,” Bailey confessed sheepishly. “I’ve been—”
“Don’t worry about it,” Murrall cut him off. “I know what happened to you. I’m surprised you came back after something like that. I’m not sure I could.”
Murrall’s sympathy made Bailey feel even worse and he started to realize that he’d misjudged the paunchy detective.
“I was just with the husband. Says he can’t face going back to the house, so he’s staying with his sister,” Murrall revealed, and Bailey caught him watching for a reaction. “I know you were there,” he added when none came. “And I know the boys gave you something. They told me.”
“Greene said something in confidence,” Bailey began.
“Confidence? This is my investigation,” Murrall protested without attempting to mask his frustration.
“The last time I broke a confidence someone was almost killed,” Bailey revealed.
“Pendulum?” Murrall asked.
Bailey nodded.
“That case has really fucked you up,” Murrall observed. “Can’t you see that? You want my opinion? We’re not dealing with a serial killer. This was a suicide. I’m guessing the husband was into some shady shit and it’s made him crazy with guilt. You don’t need to keep his confidence, you need to keep mine.”
Bailey tried to hold Murrall’s gaze as he struggled to cope with the truth of the East End detective’s words. He’d attempted to slot back into a life that no longer existed. Pendulum’s bullets hadn’t put him in the ground, but they’d killed the man he once was and left a fearful wretch in his place.
“So are you going to tell me what those kids gave you?” Murrall pressed.
Bailey found himself nodding and produced his phone. He opened his photos and swiped to a picture. “They found this on Mrs. Greene’s desk,” he said, showing Murrall the image of three balls with the pointed ends of the metal stakes almost touching them.
“Looks like some kind of symbol,” Murrall observed. “Let me have that.”
Bailey relinquished the phone, hoping that Murrall would not swipe the image and discover the photographs of the suicide note and the code. Whatever those numbers concealed was dangerous enough to get Sylvia Greene killed, either by her own hand or someone else’s, and until Bailey cracked the code, there was no way he was exposing the rest of the Greene family to any danger. Murrall knew the boys had given him something, so Bailey had to relinquish the strange symbol in order to protect the bigger secret.
“Hey!” Murrall shouted, his voice carrying across the office. “Anyone know what this is?” he asked, holding the phone out for his colleagues.
The dozen or so detectives and administrators clustered around Murrall and peered at the photograph, most of them studying it blankly.
“Looks Celtic,” Bunker told them, and when he noticed their surprised glances, he added, “What? I grew up in Cornwall. I’m pretty sure it’s Celtic.”
“Cooperation,” Murrall said pointedly, returning the phone to Bailey.
His colleagues went back to their desks, mocking Bunker for being a “country boy,” “yokel,” and “druid.”
Bailey didn’t bother responding to Murrall’s condescending remark. He searched for Celtic symbols on his phone and found a chart of common symbols in Google images. There in the bottom right-hand corner of the grid was what he was looking for.
“This is it,” he told Murrall. He clicked on the image and was sent to a page on druidism. He quickly scanned it, then explained, “It’s not Celtic. It’s the Welsh symbol for Awen, an ancient word for ‘inspiration.’ It also means ‘truth.’” He wondered why Sylvia Greene had chosen this particular symbol to punctuate her death.
24
The track lay to the west of Mountainhome, ten minutes’ drive from the diner. It branched off Creek Road and was so overgrown that Ash passed it twice. She finally noticed the narrow corridor on her third attempt and parked in the mouth just off the deserted road. She climbed out of the Taurus and checked the photo on her phone. The trees were slightly fuller, but there was no doubt that this was where Charles Haig had taken the selfie. She returned to the car and drove on down the bumpy trail, forcing her way into the dense forest. The trees seemed determined to repel her with branches that whipped at the windshield and scored the sides of the Taurus. Rains had purged the trail of most markings, but every now and again she could see the faint impression of tire tracks on a rise that had avoided the water’s erosion. It was obvious that the trail had not been used for weeks, possibly months, and she wondered whether Charles Haig had been the last person to travel this way.
After four slow miles winding through thick forest, the trail ended in a turning circle barely large enough to accommodate a car. Trees pressed in on all sides and there were no other tracks in any direction. Ash turned the Taurus around so that it was facing Creek Road, and then got out to examine the dead end.
The turning circle was bordered by trees and beneath them lay an unbroken, thick line of grass and bushes. Ash walked the circumference, examining it with patient care, but there was no way of knowing which direction, if any, Charles Haig had gone. There were no tire-marks, footprints, broken branches or trampled grass. She checked the edge of the turning circle again, this time crouching low to the ground. Her back started aching halfway round, so she stopped and stretched and immediately regretted doing so. Her neck burned painfully. High above her, the mid-morning sun emerged from behind a cloud and the forest came alive with dappled sunlight. Something caught Ash’s eye. Six or seven yards into the forest, directly west of where she stood, the grass glittered. She pushed her way beyond the edge of the turning circle, between tightly packed trees, until she reached the sparkling grass. Tiny droplets of what looked like dew clung to the tips of the longest blades. When Ash knelt down to examine one, she realized that it was set solid, and as it caught the sunlight she could see the faintest pink hue. Each neighboring blade of grass was home to at least one of these faint rubies. She pulled the biggest free and scratched at its hard surface, w
hich flaked like old plastic. When she smelled the nick she’d created, Ash recognized the scent instantly, and hurried back to the Taurus. She ran to the trunk and opened the field case she kept inside, then pulled out a spare Glock and holster, which she strapped beneath her jacket, but she was looking for something far more mundane, and after a few more moments’ delving in the case, stepped back with an LED flashlight in her hand.
Ash shut the trunk and hurried back to the spot where the grass sparkled in the sun. She turned on the flashlight, and the powerful bulbs emitted a directed beam of infrared light. The crystallized droplets became bright pink dots, aglow as though alive with their own bright energy. Ash swung the flashlight in an arc and saw that the forest had been blanketed with tiny droplets. She knew what they were. Charles Haig must have mixed a dye into a cyanoacrylate compound and sprayed the area until he’d found something specific. Now she saw what it was: a couple of yards up ahead, brought into relief by the colored droplets, was a latent footprint. Without the photoreactive chemical, the print would have been lost to the natural contours of the forest floor, but with it, the slight indentations of the shoe or boot’s sole were visible. The print would be preserved by the cyanoacrylate compound which had set solid and would not biodegrade for many years. As sick as he had been, Ash had to admire Haig’s resourcefulness and dedication. He’d gone to great lengths to track his twisted hero.
She followed the footprints further into the forest. Every so often she’d come to a patch of ground that was covered with droplets, where Haig had sprayed widely to rediscover the trail, but by moving slowly and methodically, Ash never lost sight of the tracks. The footprints led her into an open glade next to a small, three-tiered waterfall. The marks took her over stepping stones that crossed the creek, and once on the other side, she was enveloped by the thick canopy of the forest. She walked on for another forty-five minutes until the tracks suddenly stopped in a small clearing. The flashlight revealed that the area was well sprayed with the cyanoacrylate compound but the footprints came to an abrupt end at the edge of the clearing. Ash could not imagine Haig giving up, and her instincts told her that he’d made it to Pendulum’s base—the photographs proved that.
