Bad Thoughts (6 page)

      
The body lying on the floor was Janice Rowley’s. She was naked, her hands and feet both bound. A red rag had been stuffed in her mouth. There were cuts all over her body, small lines of blood everywhere and one big puddle under her neck. The glint came from the steak knife that had been pushed into her throat.

      
Shannon removed the rag from her mouth and then put his fingers against the side of her neck. He was able to detect a faint pulse. She was still breathing, barely, but still breathing. He covered her with his jacket and told her everything was going to be okay, that help was on the way. He squeezed her hand but got no reaction.

      
He checked the door to the building and saw he needed a key to unbolt it. Swearing to himself, he kicked it once and felt something crack in his shin. He clenched his teeth and kicked the door again and felt the wood frame give way. The third time the door kicked open. At least the EMV guys would be able to get in . . .

      
Whatever he did to his shin hurt like hell. He hobbled back to Janice Rowley. Her breathing was fainter. He knew she was slipping away. A heaviness welled up in his chest as he pleaded with her to hang in there. He didn’t know what to do with the knife in her throat. The blade had been pushed in about an inch. He got on his knees and gave her mouth-to-mouth resuscitation. She was gone before the ambulance arrived.
 
 

Chapter 4
 

      
Later, he found that John Roper had committed suicide in his cell. Roper had wrapped his jail-issued blanket around his head and had asphyxiated himself. It would’ve been a painful way to kill yourself. A difficult way to kill yourself . . .

      
DiGrazia arrived at the station after six in the morning looking hung over, his eyes bloodshot, his skin pallor not quite right. He admitted with a sick grin that he had hit the scotch hard before going to bed. He asked Shannon how he knew where to find Janice Rowley. Shannon couldn’t answer him because he really didn’t know. When he woke he had a grim realization of what he was going to find, but it wasn’t until he had gotten in his car and started driving that he had any idea of where he was heading. It was as if something had taken over, as if something had delivered him to that warehouse and to Janice Rowley.

      
He told DiGrazia that he woke up knowing he was going to find her.

      
“Just something you dreamed about?” DiGrazia asked dubiously.

      
“I can’t remember what I dreamed about,” Shannon said.

      
DiGrazia gave his partner a long look. “I’m thinking of a number between one and a hundred.”

      
“Yeah, so?”

      
“Come on, you’re psychic, guess.”

      
“Go fuck yourself.”

      
“But you knew where to find Janice Rowley.”

      
“Yeah, somehow I did.”

      
“Too bad you didn’t wake up a couple of hours earlier.”

      
Shannon didn’t say anything.

      
“It’s also too bad I didn’t try a little harder to beat the truth out of that piece of shit,” DiGrazia said. “Damn it. It shouldn’t have had to end this way. We had that piece of shit. He knew we had him. Why couldn’t he have just told us where he had her? Especially if he was going to check out anyways?”

      
Shannon shrugged. “Hell if I know. I have to get to an emergency room. My leg hurts like hell.”

      
“What happened to it?”

      
“I hurt it kicking down a door. Look, I’ve got to get going.”

      
“You haven’t notified the husband yet?”

      
“Not yet. It’s too early. I thought I’d try to let him have a decent night’s sleep.”

      
“I doubt he’s been sleeping too well.”

      
Shannon grabbed a bottle of aspirin from his desk, shook out three pills and swallowed them. He then pushed himself to his feet, grimacing. “I’ve got to get to an emergency room. Could you talk to the husband?”

      
DiGrazia nodded. “Sure, what the fuck. You need a ride?”

      
Shannon shook his head. “Just talk to the husband.”
 
 

Chapter 5
 

      
January 5. Evening.

      
The cast had been taken off his leg a few days earlier. Even though his fractured shin had healed, it still felt stiff and Shannon showed a slight limp as he made his way across the street.

      
Throughout the day he had a tough time concentrating. DiGrazia had lost patience with him several times before finally telling Shannon he had enough of his bullshit. Red-faced, he informed Shannon he’d better get his act together and then stormed out, muttering how he wasn’t going to waste any more time with a useless asshole. Susie called a little before five to see if he was coming home for dinner. He told her he would try. She told him not to bother on her expense and hung up on him. He knew from the iciness that had crept into her voice that she sensed something was wrong with him. Shannon couldn’t help it, though. He couldn’t help the pounding in his head. He couldn’t help how damn dry his mouth felt.

      
He hung around the precinct until seven o’clock. It was cold out, both windy and sleeting. Central Square was mostly empty; partly because of the weather and partly because the students were still away on Christmas break. Shannon stood in front of O’Leary’s, trying to find the strength to move on. The little resolve he had faded and he opened the door and walked in. Before he knew it he was sitting at the bar, staring at a bottle of bourbon.

      
The bartender looked at him, knew he was a cop from the way he was dressed, and asked him what he wanted. Shannon had to clear his throat before he could say that he wanted a shot of bourbon. The bartender poured him a double and left it in front of him.

      
Shannon’s hand felt unsteady as he picked it up. He tried to put it down, but he couldn’t. His head was pounding too much to put it down. He drank it in one gulp. It didn’t help any.

      
The bartender filled the glass again.

      
Shannon stared at the glass and found himself getting angry. It was too early for this. February tenth was still over a month away. He never started drinking this early. There was no reason for him to be starting this early.

      
Except he wasn’t sleeping well at night. It was almost as if he were afraid of falling asleep, afraid of what he would dream about.

      
The first week after Janice Rowley’s death, he would wake up with vague images of her haunting him. He would wake up wondering how he knew where to find her, wondering why he couldn’t have woken up that night a few hours earlier so he could have saved her. Sometimes he found himself wondering about that dream he had.

      
After a week the images stopped. The last few days it was something else. Something much worse. He just wished he knew what it was.

      
Shannon pushed the glass away. He sat for a moment, his body trembling, and then forced himself onto his feet.

      
It was too damn early to start drinking.
 
 

Chapter 6
 

      
January 30. Twilight.

      
The pillow muffled his screams. Shannon almost fell out of bed as he jerked himself forward. After a minute he realized where he was.

      
He was so cold. He couldn’t stop shaking, he couldn’t keep his teeth from rattling. Slowly he put a hand to his forehead. His skin was soaked with sweat.

      
Goddammit, he swore to himself. He clenched down hard on his teeth to try to keep them from rattling. Goddammit. He looked over and saw with a small sense of relief that Susie was still sleeping. At least he didn’t wake her, at least he could be thankful for that.

      
The last few weeks things had actually gotten better. He was starting to believe his therapist that this year was going to be different. But now it was starting just like it always did.

      
Shannon crawled out of bed, trying to keep from waking his wife. He made his way out of the bedroom and to the kitchen. There, he put on some hot water for coffee and lit the first of many cigarettes. He tried to pull some comfort from them.

      
He sat at the kitchen table, his head in his hands, a cigarette hanging from his mouth. He had no idea what he dreamed about. The whispers, though, were still buzzing in his head, but he couldn’t make them out. Just like all the other years.
 
 

Chapter 7
 

      
February 6. Morning.

      
“Enough! Stop it!”

      
It was a pointless thing to say to himself. He knew he could yell it until he was blue in the face and it wouldn’t help any, it wouldn’t change that February tenth was only four days away. And as bad as it was now, Shannon knew it was going to get worse. A lot worse. Trying to psych himself out of it was about as useless as anything he’d ever tried in his life.

      
He’d been lying in bed since nine last night making it over sixteen hours flat on his back. Every time he’d try to move he’d feel his strength drain out of him like blood from an open vein. Susie had left hours ago, her face hard and cold. She was too pissed to say a word to him. Maybe more scared than pissed because she knew what was coming or at least had a good idea of it. She didn’t know why, though. She had given up trying to find out why a long time ago, but as much as he’d promise her otherwise she knew it was going to be like all the other years.

      
Shannon started to think about February tenth, and as he did a dull ache radiated through his body and inched its way through his legs and to the heels of his feet. He took a deep breath and forced his mind blank. Then he pictured a mountain brook among golden aspen trees. He held that image in his mind. It was a technique his therapist had been urging him to use. He slowed his breathing, concentrating on keeping the scene intact. It was difficult, though, and the picture changed as other images danced in and out, scurrying every which way and perverting the pristine landscape he had built. Then they took over, pushing themselves to the front and playing themselves out in all their glory. There was so much blood in them. Shannon squeezed his eyes shut and shook his head until the images dissolved into a blur of redness. As he lay in bed listening to the uneven rhythm of his heart he realized his breathing had sped up dramatically. Not quite the effect his therapist had promised.

      
It was funny, but some days he actually thought he could beat it. That this year could be different. Then it would hit him how ridiculous the idea was and the realization of it would sap the strength out of him.

      
He became aware of the phone ringing. The answering machine clicked on and then his partner, DiGrazia, his voice muffled with frustration, left an address in East Cambridge that Bill had better meet him at. That they had a homicide to investigate.

      
Shannon thought about it for a long moment as he listened to a soft buzz running through the back of his head and then found the strength to push himself out of bed. He dressed without bothering to shower or shave.

* * * * *

      
The address DiGrazia left was typical of East Cambridge. A ratty, four-family house crammed between a street full of similarly ratty structures. Each front yard about the size of a large burial plot. Thin layers of sludge and dirty snow covered the ground. Neighbors and other passersby were standing in the street, gawking at the house. A few uniformed officers were keeping them at a distance.

      
There were a half dozen patrol cars and an ambulance at the scene, all left in the middle of the narrow street, blocking off traffic. Murders were unusual in Cambridge. Shannon dumped his car in line with the others and held the collar of his coat shut as he stepped outside. The wind had picked up, making the cold even more unbearable. Up ahead, Shannon spotted Gary Aukland’s white minivan with the vanity plate, “GUTS.” Aukland was the Boston coroner and was contracted out to Cambridge when needed. For some reason Aukland thought his license plate was funny.

      
Two ambulance attendants were standing by the doorway of the house enjoying a smoke. Shannon nodded as he walked by them. One of them warned him that it was a grisly one.

      
The murder had taken place in the second-floor apartment. DiGrazia was standing by its front door talking to one of the patrolmen. He eyed Shannon slowly and shook his head, not bothering to disguise his disgust. “Nice of you to show up,” he said, his tone flat and without any feeling. His small, red eyes continued to stare at his partner, the disgust in his face deepening.

      
“You look like a goddamn disgrace,” DiGrazia muttered softly, pulling his partner aside. “You couldn’t even shave, huh? Why don’t you at least go into the bathroom and run a comb through your hair?”

      
“Nice to see you, too.” Shannon forced a smile, glanced at DiGrazia’s thick, ham-hock hands. “And if we want to talk about personal hygiene, those knuckles of yours could use a trimming. Want to go fifty-fifty on a razor?”

      
“Very funny.” DiGrazia edged closer. “We’ll talk later. Don’t worry about that, buddy boy.” He paused. “Let me show you what we got.”

      
He led Shannon through the apartment and to a bedroom. Lying on the bed was a woman, fortyish, her eyes wide open and staring at the ceiling. She was dressed in jeans and a white turtleneck sweater. There were long, red gashes through the sweater that ran from her chest to her belly. There were other stab wounds along her torso and legs, and a deep one in the middle of her throat. She was long dead, her skin already turning a dull blue.