The 8th Circle (12 page)

C
arrie Norton stood in the middle of her kitchen surrounded by the aroma of butter cookies and cinnamon candles. She swallowed the last of her chamomile tea, took a deep breath, and dialed Danny Ryan’s number. The phone rang and rang until the voice mail kicked in, and she hung up. She’d already left three messages. She’d tried his e-mail. Nothing.

He’d stopped by Gran’s house, and she’d missed him. Now he just wasn’t around.

Could he have gone on vacation? She didn’t hear his dog bark when she went to the door. Maybe he went away with someone.

Another woman? Gram told her that women were always visiting, dropping off food. Gram knew because she liked to use her telescope to watch out the window. Those women smelled money, she said. That’s what always happened when a man lost his wife.

“You better get down there if you want a shot,” Gram had said before she left for Florida. “Those women are worse than hyenas. Danny Ryan’ll be married again, and he won’t know what hit him. Mark my words. And for God’s sake, wear something that doesn’t look like a potato sack.”

Carrie had the dress all picked out. Something modest, but everyone told her that blue brought out her eyes. She just hoped
he’d notice. Poor Danny had seemed so distracted when she’d stopped by at Thanksgiving with grief counseling pamphlets and pumpkin pie. Overmedicated, Gram had said. He’d looked so gaunt. He needed someone to take care of him.

Maybe she’d wear some mascara and eyeliner with her lipstick. If only her hair were long and dark like his late wife’s. She shook her head and stared at her shoulder-length hair in the mirror. It was just so mousy. Maybe she could get a few highlights. Would that be vanity? Gram would approve, but she wanted her to get a bikini wax when Carrie would never ever wear a bikini. Reverend Gray would be appalled.

Carrie flipped through the stack of mail. No bills. Mostly Christmas cards that got mixed in with Gram’s and this package. She picked up the box. It was heavy for its size. There wasn’t a return address, and the brown paper wrapping was spotted and dirty. It probably wasn’t anything urgent, but she’d feel better handing it to him. Then she could give him the cookies and the Christmas flyer she’d just gotten from Church of Good News about the Christian singles’ night.

She’d mention it casually.

In the meantime, she’d see about getting those highlights.

U
ntil he ran the gauntlet for himself, Danny had hoped Novell had lied about the media. But they were waiting as promised, and he had to push through the jostling reporters and duck the cameras, microphones, and cell phones thrust into his face.

He tried to ignore their shouted questions as he walked between Novell and McFarland to Novell’s Crown Vic, careful to keep his head down and his eyes on the ground. He was grateful McFarland shielded him from the cameras. The young cop’s dark eyes were sympathetic, but lack of sleep left his face wan, his lips drawn tight with tension.

“You all right?” McFarland said.

Danny nodded. “Where are you taking me?”

“We can take you home to get your things, but you can’t stay until the CSU is finished.” McFarland exchanged a look with Novell. “Do you have a friend you’d like to stay with?”

“I’ll stay in a hotel.”

“You might consider buying a new bed,” McFarland said.

A new bed. A new house. Maybe a new life. Just as soon as he figured out who was behind this insanity. If they thought they’d scared him off, they were wrong. All he had to do was figure out who they were. Before they cut out his heart.

Danny wondered if Zach gave up Ivy to save himself or if he was tucked away in a freezer someplace just waiting to be thawed out and dumped in pieces. Maybe he’d find Zach’s liver in his shower next or his head on a platter with an apple in his mouth. The possibilities were endless, and the holidays added a whole new festive dimension.

Someone called his name, and he looked up. Stupid. Cameras whirled and clicked. McFarland gave him a gentle nudge.

Danny slid into the car and stared out the window at the crush of reporters who had followed them through the police parking lot. A thin, blond man lowered his camera and pushed against the car. He wore a black scarf that covered the lower half of his face, but he pressed against the window, his pale-blue eyes filled with a terrible longing.

A vulture. Or worse.

“Let’s move,” Novell said, and McFarland pulled out of the parking lot.

R
ain pounded on the roof of the church like giant fists, and Kate suppressed a shudder. The cold sunk into her bones.
Look, Ma. I’m in an Episcopalian church, and I haven’t been struck dead yet
. She summoned the thought as if bravado would fight off the persistent feeling of doom. She woke up with it, her mouth tasting of ashes.

Kate bowed her head and tried to concentrate on the priest and his sermon, but the words wouldn’t register. On Judgment Day, would the Lord reunite Congressman Powell with his body? He didn’t need to be cremated. He was already incinerated; now he sat on the altar in a silver urn, mixed in with parts of his Cadillac. Salon de Powell.

What an insane thought.

She wondered where Danny was. When she’d told him that Michael had been with her that last night, his face had turned the color of milk, and she’d thought he was going to be sick.

Someone close by was wearing cologne so intense, it made her eyes water, and in the raw, damp air, it smelled sweet and foul at the same time. Death sat here.

Dear God, he’s come for me
.

Kate glanced around. Dignified mourners filled the rows. She noticed the blonde woman on her left who clutched
a handkerchief and pressed it against her face, but the woman’s hands, those long, white fingers made her shiver. Kate had seen hands like that before.

Hinky dinky corny cup, how many fingers have I got up? She guessed three, but two it is
.

Kate could hear the screams echoing through her head, and she wanted to press her hands against her ears. She started when the senator put his hand on her shoulder and leaned close.

“Are you all right, Kate? You’re trembling.”

“I think I’ve caught a chill.” She couldn’t look at him, couldn’t let him see her panic.

“But why didn’t you say something? Come.” He linked his arm in hers and led her from the pew. She slid a glance toward the woman. All Kate could see was a sleek bob of blonde hair, the line of her cheek, streaks of dark gray shadow across her eyelids. The same, yet not.

“Senator, I’m so sorry,” she said when they reached the vestibule.

“You have nothing to apologize for,” his voice soothed. “You clearly weren’t feeling well this morning. We’ll slip out, and I’ll have Albert drop you home.”

“I’m sure I’ll be fine.”

“Nonsense.” His eyes were filled with concern now. “I hadn’t planned to return to the office today. It will do us both good to take an afternoon.”

“You’ve always been very kind to me, Senator. I’m grateful.” Kate knew she sounded stilted, but something about him demanded her formality and distance. Maybe it was the decorum of his office, or maybe there was something about the way he carried himself. If someone placed a crown on his head and draped him in robes of ermine and scarlet velvet, he would have looked perfectly normal.

In truth, he’d barely acknowledged her the first few years she worked for him, and she’d cringed whenever he did. But it had changed when his daughter died and she had left him that ridiculous healing stone. After she’d put it on his desk with the
sympathy card, she’d wanted so much to retrieve it, but it was too late.

She’d quaked when he’d called her into his office, and the gloom of the late December afternoon had filled the room with long shadows. Among the fruit baskets and flower arrangements, her offering had seemed both foolish and insignificant, and she hadn’t been able to look at him.

He’d said nothing for so long that the colors in his Oriental rug smeared into a blur.

“I’ve received many expressions of sympathy,” he’d said at last. “But yours may be the most heartfelt. And unique.”

His chair had creaked when he’d risen and walked to her. He’d placed his hand on her shoulder. “I believe I’ve overlooked you, Kate.”

From then on, he’d seemed to take a special interest in her. Kate couldn’t quite define it, but she’d understood that at least for the moment, she’d gained his favor.

Now the senator paused in the vestibule to slide into his coat. “I’ve always been grateful to you for your hard work and loyalty.” Did he emphasize the word loyalty just slightly?

He reached into his suit pocket and produced the green stone.

“You see? I still carry this with me. I never forgot. You’re very special to Mrs. Harlan and me. We feel protective of you.” He paused and took a breath. “Especially since we lost our Beth.”

“It was a terrible accident, sir.”

“I’m not sure it was an accident.” The senator’s voice was filled with such sorrow that she thought her heart would break, but his eyes were black tunnels. “I was foolish. I lost what was most precious to me because of my damnable pride.”

“I don’t understand.” The chill crawled down under the collar of her coat and spread over her like a fine web. She couldn’t stop shaking.

“My daughter was headstrong. Too much like me, I’m afraid. She made a very regrettable marital choice, and we fought about it. We never fully reconciled. I’ve never forgiven myself. Life is so short. You never think, as a parent, well, the worst will happen.”
He sounded so sincere, so melancholy, yet his eyes seemed so fathomless, so dead.

“I’m sorry, Senator.”

“My poor Kate. You’re trembling with cold, and I’m talking about myself. I’m afraid it goes with the territory.” The senator’s voice grew warm, and his eyes filled with life. Kate almost laughed. She was an idiot. Of course he looked solemn. He was talking about his daughter.

“Let’s get you home right away, dear. I happen to know there’s a restaurant near your apartment that makes excellent soup. Seventeen varieties. I’ll order you some and have Albert stop on the way to pick it up.”

The senator gave her shoulders one last squeeze. He opened the church doors and led her out into the storm.

S
ince he was officially deemed cured, Mason kept his exceptional treasures hidden in his special room, a place filled with wonderful things. An antique Aubusson covered the parquet floor, and the furniture, including the white divan, was Louis XVI. The eyes, specially preserved in acrylic cubes, glistened like rare gems in the clear medium. Most beautiful of all were the wings that hung from the arched ceiling.

It had taken a long time to perfect the art of preserving the skin of the wings. His first attempts had been so dry and brown. The trick, of course, was to maintain the fine grain of it so that once it was stretched and hung on a frame, it looked almost translucent. Irish, Scottish, and English skin had worked the best. So pretty and soft, as long as it wasn’t covered with freckles, though it was hard to procure. Mostly he had been forced to settle for the Eastern Europeans, but that skin had often been sallow and needed more decoration. Still he had learned to make do. It occurred to him now that skin the color of black coffee would have made a dramatic addition to his gallery.

Once the wings had been completed, he had decorated them with ink, sequins, and jewels. All were exquisite, and the sun pouring through the skylight made them shimmer with unearthly light. They fluttered with every puff of air, tiny motes of dust drifting
around them like the very breath of magic. His fairy wings. But then he was a fairy child. Hadn’t Mother told him?

Everyone always said he was such an exceptional boy. He didn’t understand why that had displeased Father so much. Why had an appreciation of lovely things made him so unpalatable?

Father had never understood when he built a garden in his bedroom and filled it with the butterflies and dragonflies he had collected. He’d tried to explain it was for the fairies. He hadn’t understood why Father was so upset when he saw the pretty white Persian cat curled up among the rocks. He’d broken its neck cleanly and done a magnificent job of hollowing it out and stuffing it. He’d learned taxidermy by reading about it. Didn’t that show his superior intelligence? “Jesus Christ. Is that Lissa’s cat?” Father’s eyes had turned as hard and cold as marbles. “Get that monstrosity out of here. As for you . . .” He’d never finished what he was going to say. Mother had stopped him, but from that day forward, he could feel the burn of Father’s cold eyes in his back. Accusing. Always accusing. Every time an animal had gone missing, Father would search his room. He had to start hunting in other neighborhoods, an inconvenience at best.

Mason ran his fingers over the photographs that covered the wall in front of him. “You’d understand, wouldn’t you? Your father treated you badly too.” Mason turned away. “Such a lonely little boy. Such a sad man.”

He pulled out a new black-and-white photograph from a manila folder. The man in the photo had been walking with his head down, but he looked up just before he climbed into the waiting car. Oh, that delicious face with its lovely cheekbones. Those eyes.

If the eyes were the window to the soul, this man’s soul was an ocean of pain. And he had captured it. In another life, he might have been a photographer or an artist—though in a way, wasn’t he already an artist? Someday, perhaps his talent would be recognized.

Mason unscrewed his jar of rubber cement and fastened the photograph to the wall. He stepped back, pleased with his handiwork. So pleased that he hugged himself. “We’ll meet soon. Very, very soon.”

D
anny pulled through the gates and parked in front of the Cohens’ house. Andy’s red cashmere scarf flapped in the wind, a gash of color against his whites. He carried two squash racquets.

Andy slipped into the front seat. “You didn’t come dressed to play. No matter. We’ll pick up what you need at the pro shop.”

“I didn’t come to play squash.”

“My partner canceled on me.” Andy glanced around the Mercedes and winced. “Damn it, Daniel. You’ve become a real old lady. Why the hell are you driving this? Nothing says stodgy better than one of these cruise ships. Well, at least I can warm my ass. Why don’t you trade it in for a convertible?”

“You have one.”

Andy laughed. “I only use it for funerals. How ’bout a Jag?”

“How ’bout you tell me about Michael.”

Andy fingered the racquets, as if buying time while he searched for just the right words. Funny that. Andy never took care before.

“What about him?” Andy said at last.

“Jesus Christ, Andy. Michael was looking at more than restaurants. Didn’t he talk to you at all?”

Andy gave him a tight smile. “Our relationship was less than cordial. You know that.”

He should’ve told Andy up front what Michael said that night. “It’s just that I think Michael stumbled upon some kind of sex club operation.”

“He said that?” Andy’s voice hitched. “Did he have proof?”

Should he tell Andy about his conversation with Alex? Danny figured it could wait. “I thought he might have discovered something, so I started to—”

“You started to dig into his death.” Andy pulled a slim, silver flask out of his pocket and downed the contents in one long gulp. “Turn here.”

Andy led him on a series of twists and turns through the streets lined with stately old Chestnut Hill mansions into the slightly more modest neighborhoods of Mt. Airy until they came to Henry Avenue.

“Isn’t this the long way?” Danny said.

“We’re making a little detour. Pull over.”

Danny maneuvered into a spot just off the road. Andy jumped out of the car and headed for the Henry Avenue Bridge, a massive stone-and-cement structure with graceful Roman arches that loomed about a thousand feet over Fairmont Park. Danny followed reluctantly. From where they stood, it just seemed like another stretch of road. Perspective was everything.

“Teddy Powell died down there the other day. Burned to a crisp. Who gives a shit, right?” Andy turned and grinned at Danny. “You know, they used to call this the suicide bridge. Does it bring back old memories?”

Danny looked away. He didn’t need to acknowledge the question. Andy already knew the answer.

June 30, 1996. His third week at the paper as a full-timer, Danny had been driving over this bridge when he spotted the girl who clung like a spider to the streetlight that protruded from the flat stone railing. Amy Johanson. Age fifteen.

“How long did you talk to her, Daniel?”

“Four hours, twenty-two minutes.”

“I remember that story. All those nice details. You always noticed those little things. The smell of the tar from the road being paved. The humid air. The heat shimmers. You had a gift for seeing the grim and the sublime. Misery and beauty. I used to let you get away with writing that shit because people seemed to like it.”

“About Michael . . .”

“Amy Johanson. How did she manage to hang on so long? She must have been part monkey.” Andy patted the streetlight. “I don’t think I could dangle for four hours. How do you really think she felt? Do you think she was scared? Or maybe she was having the time of her life.”

“It was seventeen years ago!” How could Andy bring him here to mock that of all stories? Did Andy believe for a second he’d forgotten her?

For those four hours, they had gone back and forth until he thought he had won her over, and then, just at the point when he was ready to pull her in, she had said, “Will you remember me?”

“Yes. Yes, I’ll write about you. Just come in. Let me help you.”

She’d smiled. “I’m free. No one can catch me now.”

She’d closed her eyes and tilted her head back then loosened her left hand. She’d held it in the air, and he’d watched the fingers of her right hand release their grip. For half a second, she’d seemed to hang suspended. And then she was gone, and he’d heard the screams of the people at the bottom. He didn’t know what haunted him more: the look in her eyes or the remembrance of her hand cutting through the air.

Danny had gotten drunk for the first time that night. He’d consumed ten shots of scotch from Andy’s special reserve. Andy had found him vomiting into his trash can.

Now Danny leaned over the bridge to stare at the Wissahickon Creek. It stretched like a slender, brown ribbon so very far below. If he closed his eyes and listened hard enough, he could still hear those screams, see Amy Johanson’s tiny body mangled on the rocks in the shallow creek. He had thought of her when he saw Jane Doe One and her mangled fingers.

Ghosts.

“Your first column, if I recall,” Andy said. “I put it on the Metro Page. You were still working the police beat.”

Danny felt the pressure of Andy’s hand against his shoulder. It took every ounce of forbearance not to shake it off.

“Do you remember what I told you that night?”

Danny turned to him. “You told me if I was going to puke, I should have the decency to do it in my own space.”

“After that.” Andy narrowed his eyes against the sun, and Danny could see the deep grooves in his face, the sagging pouches of tan skin. Andy looked every one of his sixty-whatever years this morning.

“You said my job wasn’t to save the world.”

“That’s right. Get the story. Don’t become it.”

“Michael came to me,” Danny said.

Andy pulled him to the side of the bridge where the guardrail was crushed down and crowded into him. “Why didn’t you tell me about Michael?” Andy clamped both his hands on Danny’s shoulders.

When he looked in Andy’s eyes, he saw sorrow and something else. It was dark and cold and made him want to pull away and run. “What was Michael into, Andy?”

“It got him killed. Isn’t that enough for you?”

“No. They kill people.” Danny tried to pull free, but Andy held him fast.

“They?”

“What the hell are you doing?”

Andy’s fingers dug into his shoulders. “Tell me!”

“Michael said something about the Inferno. The night he died, I think he was trying to bring me evidence about a group that operates sex clubs, among other things. They leave human hearts as calling cards, for fuck’s sake. I found the woman who went with the heart in my goddamn bed!”

“God almighty, listen to yourself. You sound like a fucking lunatic!” Andy shook Danny hard enough to make his jaw snap. “And even if by some fucking miracle what you’re saying is
true—” Andy took a deep, shuddering breath. “You can’t bring them back.”

“Are you saying there’s a connection?”

Andy dragged Danny over the crushed guardrail into the open space between the end of the bridge and the high shrubs that lined the road. He was on the wrong side of the bridge now where the ground sloped off, and the footing was treacherous. Kids cut down this way into the woods to drink, but one wrong step could send you over the precipice to the creek below. Dry leaves and twigs snapped, ominous in the early morning quiet.

Andy still gripped his shoulders. He leaned close until his face was inches from Danny’s. “How do you think she felt? Amy Johanson? What would make a fifteen-year-old girl jump off a bridge?”

“She ran away from home,” Danny said. “No one claimed her for almost six months.”

“A throwaway kid.”

The hair on the back of Danny’s neck rose. When he tried to pull away, Andy released him so quickly that he stumbled. He grasped for Andy, but he only succeeded in ripping off Andy’s scarf, which fluttered out of his fingers in a blur of red. Danny hung in the air like Amy Johanson before Andy grabbed his arm at the last second. Andy threw his weight backward and dragged Danny through the dead leaves to safety.

Danny’s breath came in painful gasps, and he could only sprawl on the ground next to Andy. He stared at the blue sky and wondered what had just happened. At last he glanced over at Andy, who lay heaving for breath. Danny touched Andy’s shoulder. His hand shook. “Andy . . .”

Andy hunched over, his face waxen. Bits of brown leaves and twigs stuck to his clothes and hair. His red scarf, caught on a tree branch twenty feet below, fluttered in the air. “It’s easy to die, Daniel. Now, get me the hell out of here. I need a fucking drink.”