Read (2011) The Gift of Death Online

Authors: Sam Ripley

Tags: #thriller

(2011) The Gift of Death (10 page)

BOOK: (2011) The Gift of Death
10.34Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

 


But seriously, I’ve got to apologise,’ said Kate. ‘For not getting in touch. But what with the job, I just didn’t feel –‘

 


That’s all in the past,’ said Cassie, her voice softening now. ‘I don’t blame you.’

 


Really?’

 


Really.’

 

Kate sat next to her on the sofa and took hold of one of her hands. Her fingers felt cold. The thought of Cassie opening that horrific package made her feel nauseous. She felt an overwhelming urge to protect her.

 


Listen, I know I haven’t been a friend to you, but I want to make up for that.’

 


What do you mean?’

 


I know how you must be feeling at the moment, and I want to do something to help.’

 


I’m fine, honestly, I really am,’ she said, as Moisie jumped up on to the sofa next to her. ‘I’ve got everything I need here.’

 


I know you say you are – but I just want to make sure. Which is why I want you to come and stay with me. At my mom’s place.’

 


That’s really kind, Kate, but I –‘

 


Look, I didn’t want to say anything before, but I – I was sent something too.’

 


What do you mean?’ she whispered, suddenly afraid.

 


It was two weeks ago. A dead baby girl. I found her floating in the sea outside my house.’

 


Oh my God.’

 

The two women went silent.

 


But why? What’s going on?’ asked Cassie.

 


I’m pregnant.’

 

Cassie didn’t know what to say. Congratulations seemed inappropriate somehow.

 


You don’t think that –‘

 


The two are connected in some way? I think we’ve got to assume that they are.’

 

Neither woman wanted to be the first to mention the name. They sat in silence as they tried to understand what was going on. But finally, Cassie started to speak.

 


Kate, he is dead, isn’t he?’

 


That’s exactly what went through my mind at first, but yes, he is.’

 


You’re sure?’

 


There is no doubt that Bobby Gleason died in San Quentin on the morning of July 7 2000. One of the guards walked into his cell to find the walls streaked with blood. He’d cut his wrists and neck with a razor blade that must have been smuggled into the prison. The prison medics tried to revive him, but he’d already lost too much blood. There was nothing they could do.’

 


I can’t believe they even tried to keep him alive after what he did.’

 


I know,’ said Kate.

 

Tears began to form in Cassie’s unseeing eyes.

 


It’s starting all over again,’ she said. ‘The feeling that I’m being shadowed, haunted. It’s like – like he’s still here.’

 


All the more reason why you should come and stay with me at mom’s place. Just for a few weeks until all this is over.’

 

As Cassie ran her hand over Moisie’s head the cat started to purr.

 


And you know you could always bring this big guy here,’ said Kate.

 


Seriously?’ She thought for a moment. ‘No, it wouldn’t be fair. But I guess at the moment I would feel safer with some people around. I could always ask Ron, the guy from across the hall. He’s always offering to look after him.’

 


Well, what are you waiting for? Why don’t you give him a call now?’

 


And you’re sure you wouldn’t mind – if I moved in for a while? And what about your mom?’

 


I can tell you now my mom is going to adore you. She always said she regretted having only one child. You can pretend to be the second daughter she never had.’

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

11

 

 

 

Jordan Weislander switched his foot onto the brake pad as traffic on the freeway slowed and then stopped. Approaching the interchange was always like this, especially on Friday nights as people tried to flee the city for the desert or the coast. He looked down from the freeway onto another stationary line of traffic, and then another in the distance, the brake lights of the cars a river of blood flowing through the darkness. He hit the first number on the speed-dial on his carphone and waited impatiently for Nic to pick up.

 


Hi there,’ she said.

 


Hi, honey.’

 


Where are you? Are you nearly home?’

 


Still sitting on the freeway. Did you get the things?’

 


Yeah, it’s all there in the icebox. Went to that new deli that’s just opened? The one I was telling you about?’

 


Great. Listen, can you ring Lakeland and – what’s she called?’

 


Caryn.’

 


And Caryn - and say I’m running behind schedule. Don’t blame the traffic – God, I hate it when people use that excuse on me – but just say I was late working on a case.’

 


Okay. I’ll call them now. Do you want me to help with anything? Any preparation?’

 


No, honey. That’s fine.’

 


Okay. The table is done and I’ve made the desert, sort of like a key lime pie but with grapefruit. I’ve got everything, I think, but I might just give Marcie a call to see if I can borrow that CD she mentioned.’

 


Well you know how she can talk. Hope you make it back in time for dinner.’

 

He listened to his wife’s smooth, honeyed laugh. ‘Tell me about it. Send out the rescue party if I’m not home.’

 


No problem. Cavalry is on stand by. See you later.’

 

He cut the connection and started to ease the car forwards. He wasn’t particularly looking forward to the evening, but at least it would take his mind off work. What was it Dr Malcolm, his therapist, had told him? That he was using his job as prosecutor in the district attorney’s office as a form of displacement? That he was in danger of giving his all to his calling to the detriment of his personal life? Sure, he had already fucked up one marriage and screwed with the heads of his two teenage children. He didn’t want to mess it up again. Not with Nic. But it was hard to maintain that work-life balance shit when he knew that kind of sick fucks were out there.

 

He took a deep breath as the car picked up speed. Tonight he would try to relax. Enjoy himself. Forget. So what if Nic wanted to invite her boss at the real estate office and his wife? He knew the conversation wouldn’t exactly light up the sky with sparks, but if chatting about the problems of the realtor business made Nic happy who could argue with that? When she had first told him that she had fixed herself a job selling, as she had phrased it, ‘properties at the high end of the market’ he had not exactly been thrilled. But she had wanted to feel useful, she said. And it was for only three mornings a week. ‘Well done, darling,’ he had said finally, kissing the baby blonde hair at the nape of her neck. ‘Well done.’

 

He had wondered how long she would last at the company. Nic, he knew, was a woman who liked her little luxuries – her treatments at the upscale spa attached to that swanky new Beverly Hills hotel, her membership of the exclusive sports club where she claimed to spot top models and celebrities (names which, in truth, meant little to him). But she had been in the job almost a year now and was already earning quite respectable bonuses – $10,000 three months ago and $15,000 last month. Lakeland must really rate her, he thought. Lakeland. The name made the muscles on the back of his neck tense up. What was it about the good-looking bastard that he didn’t like? There, he’d answered the question himself. Under that thousand dollar suit Lakeland had a muscular physique, toned by hours of gym work at the sports club. He still boasted a full head of hair. And he was ten years younger than Jordan.

 

He turned on the radio and tried to banish thoughts of Lakeland from his mind. The words of
I Had Too Much To Dream Last Night
seemed to mock him, with their taunts of being haunted by a love lost. He switched channels, but automatically jumped to the next preset when he was assaulted by some god-awful pop, the creation of one of those horrendous reality TV programmes. He stopped his search of the airwaves when he heard something from his college days, a track – what was it called? -
The Golden Road
by The Grateful Dead. That name reminded him of something, a phrase someone had said during a case. He ran through some of the cases he had worked on over the years. The college shooting in which ten students and two professors had been killed and another twenty left with horrific injuries; unusually the gunman, a twenty-year-old student did not turn the weapon upon himself, and later had tried to plead insanity, a defence that Jordan had effectively destroyed. Today the killer languished in some godforsaken prison on the outskirts of the desert. Then there was the kidnapping of a two-year-old girl by a middle-age woman who had given birth to twins, only to have both of them die in the first few days of life. In that instance, it was clear she had been suffering from some sort of psychiatric illness brought on by the loss of her babies and, instead of going to prison, the state had ordered her to be sent to a secure hospital.

 

The phrase came back to him, more clearly this time.

 


I always think the dead are grateful – it’s the ones left behind who suffer, those are the people I feel sorry for.’

 

It was a woman’s voice, he was sure of that. Was it one of the victims’ relatives? The mother of one of those students killed in the college massacre? A therapist or counsellor who had seen the devastating effects of murder on a family? Just then his cell buzzed. It was Nic.

 


How’s it going? Still in traffic?’

 


No, it’s clearing now. So should be back in fifteen.’

 


Okay. I’m just going over to Marcie’s. Call me when you get back.’

 


Okay, hon.’

 


Bye.’

 

He was hungry now and looked forward to the supper of Osso Buco and Risotto alla Milanese. He pressed down on the gas and overtook a couple of slow moving cars and a Winnebago. The 110 freeway seemed to lose its traffic, lights changed from red to green at his approach and he turned into the complex of tree-lined streets that led to his house in Pasadena in what seemed like record time. As he drew up outside his home – a newly-built, double-fronted house with four bedrooms and a hot tub out the back – he was about to call Nic on her cell to tell her that he had made it back earlier than expected, but then decided to surprise her. He would get on with the cooking, so when she returned she could step into a kitchen rich with the aromas of veal, white wine and Parmesan. He was looking forward to the weekend. He didn’t have to drive over to see his children in Sherman Oaks - his ex-wife, Veronica, had taken the kids to see her mother in Washington State – and although he would have to put in some hours in his study he wouldn’t have to go back to the office. Tonight, he could enjoy a couple of bottles of that Margaux he had ordered from his wine supplier. Saturday morning he and Nic could laze around in bed – usually that was when they made love – and then they could go for a drive in the hills or take a walk down Rodeo, where he could buy her something special.

 

The doors of the carport opened automatically – and a light came on overhead - as he steered the car into the neatly ordered space. He unlocked the door into the laundry room, the smell of freshly washed linen reminding him of his dead mother, and into the kitchen that opened out into an enormous living space. He hit the lights - a dozen or so small spotlights set into the ceiling - that illuminated the dining room table, which had been perfectly and elegantly set for four. In the centre was a vase of pink peonies.

 

Taking a fat glass tumbler from one of the cupboards in the kitchen he walked over to the drinks cabinet and quickly made himself a scotch and soda, without ice. He took off his tie and jacket, flinging them over the black leather sofa, and flicked on the CD player. He always liked to listen to rock or alt country when he cooked; he selected a compilation album from the Austin City Limits music festival.
Jerusalem
by Steve Earle rasped through the house. He took another swig of the drink and reached for a chopping knife. From the vegetable store he took out a couple of onions, a bulb of garlic and a heavy bunch of tomatoes still on the vine. Quickly and expertly he skinned one onion and then the next, and then started to slice. As he opened the icebox and took out the butter he noticed a lumpy package on the third shelf down from the top. Inside the old-fashioned waxy paper would be the four pieces of shin of veal he had asked Nic to buy for him. He’d have to go and have a look at the new deli Nic was raving about.

 

He hadn’t cooked Ossobuco for a few months and tonight he was looking forward to it. The memory of that rich mix of veal, white wine, butter, tomatoes, onion and garlic, garnished with parsley, lemon and yet more garlic, made his mouth water. He could almost taste it.

BOOK: (2011) The Gift of Death
10.34Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

Other books

The End of Sparta: A Novel by Victor Davis Hanson
Claiming the Knights by S.E. Leonard
The Long Walk by Slavomir Rawicz
Our Game by John le Carre
Plaything: Volume One by Jade West, Jason Luke
Dark of the Moon by John Sandford
Room for More by Beth Ehemann