Whispers of the Dead (5 page)

Tom dropped me off at the hospital "where I'd left my car. We
arranged to meet first thing next morning at the morgue, and after
he'd gone I
gratefully drove back to my hotel. All I wanted to do was
have a shower, get something to eat and then try to sleep.
Which was pretty much what I'd done almost every night so far.
I was on my way up to my room before I remembered I'd agreed
to go out that evening. I checked the time and saw I'd less than half
an hour before Paul was due to pick me up.

I sank down on to the bed with a groan. I felt less like company
than ever. I was out of the habit of socializing, and the last thing I
was in the mood for was making polite conversation with strangers.
I was tempted to call Paul and make some excuse, except I couldn't
think of one. Besides, it would be churlish to turn down their
hospitality.
Come on, Hunter, make an effort. God forbid you should enjoy yourself. Reluctantly, I pushed myself off the bed. There was just enough time
for a shower if I hurried, so I stripped off my clothes and stepped into
the cubicle, turning the jet on full. The scar on my stomach looked
alien and strange, as if it wasn't really a part of me. Even though the
ugly line of pink flesh wasn't tender any more, I still didn't like

I
touching it. In time I supposed I'd become used to its presence, but
I wasn't yet.
I turned my face up to the stinging spray, taking deep breaths of
the steam-filled air to dispel the sudden rush of memory. The knife handle protruding from below my ribs, the hot, sticky feel of blood pooling
around me on the black and white tiles ... I shook my head like a dog, trying to cast out the unwanted images. I'd been lucky. Grace
Strachan was one of the most beautiful women I'd ever known. She
was also the most dangerous, responsible for the deaths of at least half
a dozen people. If Jenny hadn't found me in time I'd have added to
that tally, and while I knew I should be grateful to be alive, I was
finding it hard to put it behind me.
Especially since Grace was still out there.
The police had assured me that it was only a matter of time before
she was found, that she was too unstable to remain free for long. But
Grace had been a rich woman, consumed by a passion for vengeance
that was as irrational as it was deadly. She wasn't going to give herself
away that easily. Nor was I her only target. She'd already tried to
kill a young mother and daughter once, and only been prevented at
the cost of another life. Since Grace's attack on me, Ellen and Anna
McLeod had been living under police protection and an assumed
name. While they'd prove harder to track down than a forensic
scientist who was listed in the phone book, the truth was that none
of us would be safe until Grace was caught.

That wasn't an easy thing to live with. Not when I bore the scars
to remind me how close she'd come already.
I turned up the shower as hot as I could stand it, letting the water
scald away the dark thoughts. Dripping wet, I towelled myself dry
until my skin was stinging, then dressed and hurried downstairs.The
hot shower made me feel better, but I still felt little enthusiasm as I
went down to the hotel foyer. Paul was already there, scribbling
intently in a small notepad as he waited on a sofa.
'Sorry, have you been waiting long?' I asked.
He stood up, tucking the notepad into a back pocket. 'Only just
got here. Sam's in the car.'
He'd parked across the street. A pretty woman in her early thirties
was waiting in the passenger seat. She had long, very blond hair and
turned to face me as I slid into the back, her hands resting on her
swollen stomach.
'Hey, David, good to see you again.'
'You too,' I said, meaning it. There are some people you feel
instantly at ease with, and Sam was one of them.We'd only met once,
earlier that week, but it already seemed like I'd known her for years.
'How are you feeling?'
'Well, my back hurts, my feet ache, and you don't even want to
know about the rest. But other than that I can't complain.' She smiled
to show she didn't mean it. Sam was one of the lucky women who
wear their pregnancy well. She fairly shone with health, and for all
the discomfort it was obvious she was loving every moment.
'Junior's been playing up lately,' Paul said, pulling out into the
traffic. 'I keep on telling Sam that's a sure sign it's a girl, but she won't
listen.'
Neither of them had wanted to know the sex of the baby. Sam had
told me it would have spoiled the surprise. 'Girls aren't that
boisterous. It's a boy'
'Case of beer says you're wrong.'
'A case of beer? That's the best you can do?' She appealed to me.
'David, what sort of bet is that for a pregnant woman?'
'Sounds pretty shrewd to me. He gets to drink it even if he loses.'
'Hey, you're supposed to be on my side,' Paul protested.

'He's got more sense,' Sam said, swatting him.
I began to unwind as I listened to their banter. It felt good to see
their happiness, and if I felt a tug of envy it was only a small one.
When Paul pulled up into a parking space I was disappointed the
short journey was over.
We were in the Old City, the one-time industrial heart of
Knoxville. Some factories and warehouses still remained, but the area
had undergone a genteel conversion, the industry giving way to bars,
restaurants and apartments. Paul had parked a little way up the street
from the steakhouse where everyone was meeting, an old brick
building whose cavernous space was now filled with tables and live
music. It was already busy, and we had to ease our way to a large
group sitting by one of the windows. The half-empty beer glasses and
laughter announced that they'd been there for some time, and for a
second I faltered, wishing I'd not come.
Then space was found for me at the table, and it was too late.
Introductions were made, but I forgot the names as soon as I heard
them. Other than Paul and Sam, the only person I recognized was
Alana, the forensic anthropologist who'd told me where to find Tom
in the facility earlier. She was with a brawny man I guessed must be
her husband, but the rest were either faculty members or students I
didn't know.
'You've got to try the beer, David,' Paul said, leaning round Sam
to see me. 'This place has its own microbrewery. It's fantastic'
I'd hardly touched alcohol in months, but I felt I needed something
now. The beer was a dark brew served cold, and tasted
wonderful. I drank half of it almost straight off, and set the glass down
with a sigh.
'You look like you needed that,' Alana said from across the table.
'One of those days, huh?'
'Something like that,' I agreed.
'Had a few of those myself.'
She raised her glass in an ironic toast. I took another drink of beer, feeling myself begin to relax. The atmosphere around the table was
informal and friendly, and I slipped easily into the conversations
going on around me.When the food arrived I tore into it. I'd ordered
steak and a green salad, and I hadn't realized how hungry I was until
then.
'Having fun?'
Sam was grinning at me over the top of her glass of mineral water.
I nodded, working to swallow a mouthful of steak.
'Is it that obvious?'
'Uh-huh. First time I've seen you look relaxed. You should try it
more often.'
I laughed. 'I'm not that bad, am I?'
'Oh, just wound a little tight.' Her smile was warm. 'I know you
came here to get some things straightened out. But there's no law
says you can't enjoy yourself from time to time. You're among
friends, you know.'
I looked down, more affected than I wanted to admit. 'I know.
Thanks.'
She shifted in her seat and winced, putting her hand to her
stomach.
'Everything OK?' I asked.
She gave a pained smile. 'He's a little restless.'
'He?'
'He,' she said firmly, stealing a look across at Paul. 'Definitely
he.'
The plates were cleared away, desserts and more drinks ordered. I
had coffee, knowing if I had another beer I'd regret it in the
morning. I leaned back in my chair, savouring the slight buzz of
well-being.
And then my good mood crashed around me.
From nowhere I caught a waft of musk, lightly spiced and unmistakable.
A second later it had vanished, lost amongst the stronger
odours of food and beer, but I knew I hadn't imagined it.
Recognition ran through me like an electric shock. For an instant I
was back on the tiled floor of my hallway, the metallic stink of blood
blending with a more delicate, sensual scent.
Grace Strachan's perfume.
She's here. I bolted upright in my seat, frantically looking around.
The restaurant was a confusion of sound and colour. I scanned the
faces, desperately searching for a telltale feature, some flaw in a disguise. She must be here somewhere. Where is she?
'Coffee?'
I stared blankly up at the waitress who'd appeared next to me. She
was in her late teens, a little overweight. Her perfume cut through
the cooking and bar-room smells: a cheap musk, heavy and cloying.
Up close, it was nothing like the subtle perfume that Grace Strachan
used.
Just similar enough to fool me for a second.
'You order coffee?' the waitress prompted, giving me a wary look.
'Sorry.Yes, thank you.'
She set it down and moved on. My arms and legs prickled, shivery
with the aftermath of adrenalin. I realized my hand was clenched so
tightly around its scar that it hurt. Idiot. As if Grace could have followed
you . . . Awareness of how brittle my nerves were, even here, left a
sour taste in my mouth. I tried to force myself to relax but my heart
was still racing. All at once there didn't seem to be enough air in the
room. The noise and smells were unbearable.
'David?' Sam was looking at me with concern.'You've gone white
as a sheet.'
'I'm just a little tired. I'm going to head on back.' I had to get outside.
I started fumbling notes from my wallet, not seeing what they
were.
'Wait, we'll drive you.'
'No!' I put my hand on her arm before she could turn to Paul.
'Please. I'll be fine, really.'
'You sure?'
I made myself smile. 'Certain.'
She wasn't convinced, but I was already pushing my chair back,
dropping a handful of notes on to the table without knowing if it
was enough or not. Paul and the others were still busy talking, but I
didn't stop to see if anyone else noticed me leave. It was all I could
do not to break into a run as I barged through the door into the
street. I sucked in deep breaths of the cool spring air, but didn't stop
even then. I kept walking, not knowing or caring where I was heading,
wanting only to keep moving.
I stepped off the kerb and jumped back as a horn blared
deafeningly to my left. I stumbled back on to the pavement as a
trolley car rattled past inches in front of me, its windows bright
splashes of light in the darkness. As soon as it had passed I hurried
across the road, taking turnings at random. It had been years since I'd
been to Knoxville, and I had no idea of where I was and even less of
where I was going.
I didn't care.
It was only when I saw the stretch of blackness beyond the streetlights
ahead of me that I finally slowed. I could feel the river even
before I saw it, a moistness in the air that finally brought me back to
myself. I was drenched in sweat as I leaned on the railings. The
bridges that spanned the tree-lined banks were skeletal arches in the
darkness, dotted with lights. Below them, the Tennessee river sedately
idled past, just as it had for thousands of years. And probably would
for thousands more.
What the hell's wrong with you? Running scared just because of a cheap perfume. But I felt too wrung out to be ashamed. Feeling as alone as
I ever had in my life, I took my phone out and scrolled through my
contacts. Jenny's name and number were highlighted on the
illuminated display. I held my thumb poised over the dial key, badly
wanting to talk to her again, to hear her voice. But it was the early
hours of the morning back in the UK, and even if I called her, what
would I say?
It had all been said already.
'Got the time?'
I gave a start as the voice came from beside me. I was in an area of
darkness between streetlights, and all I could make out of the man
was the red glow of his cigarette. Belatedly, I realized that the street was deserted. Stupid. All this way just to get mugged.
'Half past ten,' I told him, tensing for the attack that would come
next.
But he only gave a nod of thanks and walked on, disappearing into
the dark beyond the next streetlight. I shivered, and not only because
of the damp chill coming from the river.
The welcoming yellow lights of a taxi were approaching on the
lonely street. Flagging it down, I went back to my hotel.

The cat is your earliest memory.
There must be others before it, you know that. But none so vivid. None
that you take out and replay time after time. So real that even now you can
still feel the sun on the back of your head, see your shadow on the ground in
front of you as you bend over.
The soil is soft and easy to turn. You use a piece of wood broken off the
fence, a piece of white picket starting to soften and rot. It threatens to break again, but you don't have far to dig.
It isn't deep.
You smell it first. A cloying, sweet stink that's both familiar and like
nothing you've smelled before. You stop for a while, sniffing the damp soil,
nervous but more excited. You know you shouldn't be doing this, but the
curiosity is too great. Even then you had questions; so many questions. But
no answers.
The wood hits something almost as soon as you continue digging. A
different texture in the soil. You begin to scrape away the final covering of
earth, noticing that the smell has grown stronger. Finally, you can see it: a
cardboard shoebox, its sides soaked and rotting.
The box starts to disintegrate when you try to lift it, wet and sagging from
the weight inside.You quickly set it down again.Your fingers feel clumsy and
strange as you take hold of the lid, your chest tight. You're scared, but
excitement easily outweighs your fear.
Slowly, you remove the shoebox lid.
The cat is a dirty mound of ginger. Its half-closed eyes are pale and dull,
like deflated balloons after a party. Insects are crawling in its fur, beetles
scuttling from the daylight. You stare, rapt, as a fat worm coils and contracts,
dripping from its ear. Taking the stick, you prod the cat. Nothing happens.
You prod again, harder. Again, nothing. A word forms in your mind, one
you've heard before, but never really comprehended until now.
Dead.
You remember the cat as it was. A fat, bad-tempered torn, a thing of spite
and claws. Now it's . . . nothing. How can the living animal you remember
have become this rotting clump of fur? The question fills your head, too huge
for you to hold.You lean closer, as though if you look hard enough you'll find
the answer . . .
.. . . and suddenly you're jerked away. The neighbour's face is contorted
with anger, but there's also something there you don't recognize. It's only years
later that you identify it as disgust.
'What in God's name are you . . . ? Oh, you sick little bastard!'
There is more shouting, then and later, back at the house. You don't try to
explain what you did, because you don't understand yourself. But neither the
angry words nor the punishment wipe away the memory of what you saw.
Or what you felt, and still feel even now, nestling in the pit of your stomach.
An overwhelming sense of wonder, and of burning, insatiable curiosity.
You're five years old. And this is how it starts.
Everything seemed to slow down as the knife came towards me. I grabbed for
it, but I was always going to be too late. The blade slid through my grip,
slicing my palm and fingers to the bone. I could feel the hot wetness of
blood smearing my hand as my legs gave way under me. It pooled on the
black and white floor tiles as I slid down the wall, soaking the front of my
shirt.
I looked down and saw the knife handle protruding obscenely from my
stomach and opened my mouth to scream . . .
'No!'
I bolted upright, gasping. I could feel the blood on me, hot and
wet. I thrashed off the sheets, frantically trying to see my stomach in
the dim moonlight. But the skin was unmarked. There was no knife,
no blood. Just a sheen of clammy sweat, and the angry welt of the
scar just under my ribs.
Christ. I sagged with relief, recognizing my hotel room, seeing I
was alone in it.
Just a dream.
My heart rate was starting to return to normal, my pulse ebbing
in my ears. I swung my legs off the edge of the bed and shakily sat
up. The clock on the bedside cabinet said five thirty. The alarm was
set for an hour's time, but it wasn't worth trying to sleep again, even
if I'd wanted to.
I got up stiffly and switched on the light. I was beginning to regret
agreeing to help Tom with the examination of the body from the cabin. A shower and breakfast. Things will look better then.
I spent fifteen minutes running through exercises to strengthen my
abdominal muscles, then went into the bathroom and turned on the
shower. I turned my face up to the hot spray, letting the needles of
water sluice away the lingering effects of the dream.
By the time I emerged, the last vestiges of sleep had been washed
away. There was a coffee maker in the room, so I set it going as I dressed
and powered up my laptop. It would be late morning in the UK, and I
sipped black coffee while I checked my emails. There was nothing
urgent; I replied to the ones I needed to and left the rest for later.
The restaurant downstairs had opened for breakfast, but I was the
only customer. I passed on the waffles and pancakes and opted for
toast and scrambled eggs. I'd been hungry when I went in, but even
that seemed too much for me, and I managed less than half. My
stomach was knotted, though I didn't know why it should be. I'd
only be helping Tom with something I'd done myself countless times
before, and in far worse circumstances than this.
But telling myself that didn't make any difference.
By the time I went outside the sun was coming up. Although the
car park was still in shadow, the deep blue of the sky was paling, shot
through with dazzling gold on the horizon.
The hire car was a Ford, the subtle differences in style and automatic
transmission a further reminder that I was in another country.
Although it was still early, the roads were already busy. It was a
beautiful morning. Built-up as Knoxville was, this part of East
Tennessee was still lush and verdant. The spring sun hadn't yet
developed the shirt-sticking heat and humidity of high summer, and
at this time of day the air held an early morning freshness, unsullied
by traffic fumes.
It was an easy twenty-minute drive to UT Medical Center. The
morgue was located in a different part of the campus from the
facility, but I knew my way there from previous trips.
The man on the morgue reception was so huge he made the desk
look like a child's toy. He was quilted with so much flesh that he
seemed virtually boneless, the strap of his watch digging into the
dimpled wrist like cheese wire into dough. His breath came in a
faintly adenoidal wheeze as I explained who I was.
'Autopsy suite five.Through the door and down the corridor.' His
voice was incongruously high-pitched for such a big frame. He gave
a cherubic smile as he handed me an electronic pass card.'Cain't miss
it.'
I swiped the card on the door and went into the morgue itself.The
familiar olfactory punch of formaldehyde, bleach and disinfectant
greeted me. Tom was already in the tiled autopsy suite, dressed in
surgical scrubs and a rubber apron. A portable CD player stood on a
bench nearby, quietly playing a rhythmic drum track I didn't recognize.
Another, similarly dressed man was with him, hosing down the
body that lay on the aluminium table to sluice off the insects and
blowfly larvae.
'Morning,' Tom said brightly as the door swung shut behind me.
I tipped my head towards the CD player. 'Buddy Rich?'
'Not even close. Louie Belson.' Tom straightened from the
dripping wet chest cavity. 'You're early'
'Not as early as you.'
'I wanted to get the body X-rayed and send the dental plates over
to the TBI.' He gestured to the younger man who was still hosing
down the body.'David, this is Kyle, one of the morgue assistants. I've
had him helping out till you got here, but don't tell Hicks.'