Silent Kills (31 page)

Read Silent Kills Online

Authors: C.E. Lawrence

BOOK: Silent Kills
4.44Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
CHAPTER SEVENTY-FOUR
Davey sniffed the air and wrinkled his nose in disgust.
Gardenias
. He hated gardenias. At times like this he wished he sense of smell wasn’t so acute, so finely tuned. He tried breathing through his mouth to avoid the despised aroma, forever associated in his mind with his sister’s funeral. It was the smell of death.
Well, fine
, he thought.
He would show them death.
He smiled grimly as he wove his way through the sea of bodies, snaking his thin form in between groups of people dancing, talking, laughing—pretending to be one of them, and yet apart from them. He was as aloof from the general merriment as an undertaker at a wedding, he thought with cold satisfaction as he surveyed the crowd. He noted many potential donors. That’s how he thought of them, as donors to his cause. They should be honored, really, ungrateful girls.... Ah, well, one can’t have everything, he thought as he circled slowly through the crowd, looking for his next victim.
 
On the other side of the room, Francois Nugent stood still, studying the crowd. He didn’t know what he was looking for, but felt that once he saw it, he would know. His heart thumped against his rib cage, and he took deep breaths to calm his nerves. He deeply wanted a drink, but didn’t want to slow his reflexes in case he managed to corner his prey. It was important to stay alert and focused. A skinny girl in an explorer’s costume kept eying him, until she finally had the courage to brush past him and bat her false eyelashes up at him. His impassive stare caused her to blush and skitter away.
Up on the stage, the band had started to play, and on the dance floor people were gyrating to the beat—some in couples and groups, a few bouncing along to the music by themselves. Normally Francois would be thrilled that the party organizers had managed to book the Calibrated Instruments, one of his favorite groups, but now he just found the music a distraction. He wasn’t even interested in ogling the keyboard player, sexy in her black lace bustier—he had bigger fish to fry. The rhythm of the bass guitar pounded in his ears, the lyrics distorted and scratchy on the inferior sound system:
The youth that time destroyed can live in me again
But I require blood—the time is coming when
I’ll come to you at night, as the owl hoots at the moon
I’ll be by your side to watch you as you swoon
On the far side of the room, Davey listened and smiled.
They’re playing my song.
He licked his lips as he slunk through the press of bodies. His palms itched and his throat was dry—a sign it was time for another feeding.
Be patient
, he told himself. After all, as his Aunt Rosa had told him,
all good things come to those who wait.
CHAPTER SEVENTY-FIVE
Hugging the entryway to the main room, Detective Leonard Butts was miserable. He felt like a plump little sausage in his ridiculous costume, and being in a room with so many young people made him feel old. He had never realized before how much he relied on his profession to give him a sense of identity. He was the guy who turned up at the crime scene, notebook in hand, deferred to by the beat cops and civilians, the authority figure everyone looked up to, the one who was going to solve the crime and bring the criminal to justice.
But here he felt useless and out of place. He wasn’t even sure this damn perp was going to show up—after all, Troy was a long way from New York. Hell, the damn UNSUB could be out killing someone in the city tonight, for all they knew, while they pranced around in these ludicrous outfits, trying to blend in with a bunch of nerdy young idiots. He glanced over at Campbell, elegant and dashing in his Victorian suit, his black curls shiny in the light reflecting from the disco ball. Sure, it was easy for him—he had the kind of lean build that looked great in anything. He liked Campbell, even admired him, but he was peeved at him for agreeing to this absurd field trip.
He stood on tiptoe and peered through the wall of bodies at Elena Krieger. He had to admit, the woman looked good. That long neck and hourglass figure, and all that damn strawberry blond hair. Not his type at all, of course—he disliked her intensely—but he had to admit she was a damn fine-looking broad. He sighed and loosened the top button of his aviator coat so he could breathe better. More like a damn straitjacket, he thought. Wasn’t it just like Krieger to choose this costume for him? No doubt she enjoyed this opportunity to humiliate him.
His hand moved to the revolver in the pocket of his coat. He wondered if he would have to draw his gun tonight. He wouldn’t have long to wait for the answer.
CHAPTER SEVENTY-SIX
Francois Nugent prowled the first floor, weaving in and out of groups of people, listening to snippets of conversation. He was convinced that he would find the killer he sought, not by sight, but by what he said. Surely such a man would give himself away by his speech—he would be obsessed with blood, unable to resist talking about it, perhaps even interviewing potential victims about their blood type. Francois focused on looking for single men engaged in chatting up young women—unfortunately, that description applied to a large percentage of attendees.
Narrow it down,
he thought. What aspect of the killer’s appearance might make him stand out?
Not goggles, Francois thought. They were everywhere—perched on top of outrageous hairdos, hung around people’s necks, and wrapped around every type of hat imaginable—bowlers, top hats, jockey helmets, aviator caps. The costuming was so ornate and imaginative it was hard not to be distracted by it. But there had to be something about the killer, something different, he thought as he slipped through a gaggle of steampunk girls who looked like Victorian harlots.
On the other side of the room, Lee Campbell was thinking much along the same lines. He tried to avoid a preconceived notion of what the UNSUB looked like. He was likely to be fairly young, but that described most of the people in the room. The steampunk subculture didn’t attract a lot of older people. Palatine had said the killer was tall, but he couldn’t count on the observation of a paranoid schizophrenic.
Lee, Butts, and Krieger had positioned themselves in different parts of the room, and there were several side rooms they were going to have to cover as well. Even though the main action was in the large central living room, others contained tables of food and drink, and people were coming and going from all parts of the first floor. The second-floor staircase had been roped off—thank God—but that still left the entire first floor. He looked over at Detective Butts, who was fiddling nervously with the buckles on his coat. Maybe bringing him along wasn’t such a good idea; he looked uncomfortable and out of place.
Detective Krieger, on the other hand, looked magnificent. Though she had chosen a costume considerably less flashy and less overtly sexual than a lot of the other women, it was impossible for Elena Krieger to look anything less than stunning. She had on an off-white floor-length skirt buttoned up the middle, over lace-up leather boots. She wore no blouse, only a tight-fitting leather vest, fastened with brass buttons, leaving her long, downy arms bare except for a pair of green elbow-length leather gloves. Around her neck hung a pair of binoculars, and on her head was a pair of goggles.
Lee caught her eye and raised an eyebrow, a subtle (he hoped) question:
Have you seen anything suspicious
? She gave the tiniest shake of her head and turned to speak to a young man who had been following her for several minutes. He was a soft, pallid fellow, completely innocuous looking. Lee figured Krieger could handle herself, and he continued scanning the crowd.
Then, on the other side of the room, he saw Francois Nugent. He hadn’t noticed the boy at first because he was actually wearing his goggles, which acted as a pretty good disguise, especially in the dim lighting. There was no mistaking him, though—it was definitely Francois. And Lee knew exactly what his costume was meant to be. He was dressed as a vampire hunter.
“Damn!” he muttered, striding in the boy’s direction. As he weaved through the crowd, Francois saw him coming, and alarm registered on his face. He didn’t waste any time, darting in the direction of the kitchen, down a short hallway. Lee headed through the parlor, cutting him off. They met face-to-face at the foot of the staircase leading to the second floor.
“Hello there,” Francois said, trying to sound casual. “Fancy meeting you h—”
“Knock it off,” Lee said. “What the hell are you doing here?”
“I might ask you the same thing,” the boy said, still pretending—but he wasn’t that good an actor. He was scared—though whether of the law or something else, Lee wasn’t sure.
“You know perfectly well what I’m doing here,” Lee said.
“And you know perfectly well that a private citizen has a right to be here as much as you do,” Francois said petulantly.
“I swear, if you try anything funny—”
“You’ll arrest me? I’m not the droid you’re looking for,” he said, imitating Alec Guinness as Obi-Wan Kenobi.
“If you get in our way—”
“I’ll make a deal with you. Don’t get in my way, and I won’t get in yours. How’s that?”
“You seem to think that this is a game,” Lee hissed. “Let me assure you, this is dead serious. We’re dealing with—”
“With a pervert who killed my sister,” Francois shot back. “You of all people should understand how I feel.”
“How you
feel
has nothing to do with it! We have a job to do—”
“So either arrest me or leave me alone,” Francois said, crossing his arms.
“You know I can’t arrest you.”
“Fine. It’s been really swell seeing you again—nice outfit, by the way,” he said, and ducked into the kitchen.
Lee stood in the hall with his fists clenched. There was nothing more he could do, but seeing Francois gave him a bad feeling in the pit of his stomach—a very bad feeling indeed.
CHAPTER SEVENTY-SEVEN
Francois stood at the back of the room watching as the lead singer of the band stepped up to the microphone, tapped it, and waited for the tinny feedback to subside. He was tall and lean and dressed in a natty brown Victorian suit with large brass buttons—sort of steampunk lite, Francois thought.
“We’d like to dedicate this song to Nikola Tesla, one of the great unsung heroes of science.” The drummer tapped the rim of his snare four times, and the lead guitarist’s hand swooped down over the strings of his electric guitar, bringing forth a resounding chord. Thrilled, Francois leaned forward to hear the lyrics as the people on the dance floor responded to the pounding beat by throwing themselves into even more vigorous gyrations.
Your genius was a lantern, a beacon in the night
But the world wasn’t ready for the shining of your light
The shadows fell upon you and your science in the end
Betrayed by the man who should have been your friend
Nikola, you dared to dream, but they did you wrong
In the end the truth will out, so for you we sing this song
Francois Nugent stood transfixed by the song to his hero. He hoped the rest of the crowd was listening to the lyrics, not just grooving to the song’s stirring rhythm. Behind him, a young girl erupted in a peal of laughter. Her high voice, besotted with alcohol, cut through the amplified music of the band.
“That’s silly!” she laughed. “Why do you want to know my blood type?”
Her words made Francois freeze where he stood. Icy sweat spurted onto his forehead as he turned to see who she was talking to. He tried to be subtle, to give the impression that his interest was merely casual, but Francois was not a gifted actor. His eyes blazed with an unearthly fury as he beheld the tall young man in the long black cape and elegant frock coat. In the look that passed between them, everything was understood at once.
I know who you are,
Francois’s eyes said.
Oh, really? Try and stop me,
was the stranger’s wordless response.
Francois took the challenge. Pulling a wooden stake from his vest, he lunged at his foe. A crackle of electricity sent a bolt of laser lightning across the room, bathing the two opponents in its unearthly white glow. But the young man moved with surprising speed. He grabbed Francois by the wrist, giving his hand a quick twist, and the stake clattered uselessly to the ground. Before Francois could pull out another one, he found himself in a choke hold, the steel blade of a knife pressed to his throat.
“Let’s go for a little walk,” his captor said, pulling him toward the exit.
All of this took place in a matter of seconds. It only took a few more seconds for Lee Campbell to push his way through the crowd after them—but in those few seconds lay a lifetime.
By the time Lee made it to the front porch there was no sign of them. He looked around, scanning the grounds for any sign of movement, but it was a dark night, and he could see nothing. Then, in the parking lot, he heard the sound of an engine starting up.
He peered into the darkness, hoping to spot the patrol car with the Troy officer and Detective Quinlan. Not seeing them, he made a quick decision. There was only one thing to do. He still had the keys to Butts’s jalopy in his pocket, so he dashed down the sidewalk to the parking lot. Hands trembling, he fumbled to open the driver’s side door of the big Chevy. His unfamiliarity with the door lock lost him precious seconds, and he got it open just in time to see a dark blue Ford Taurus sedan tear out of the lot, wheels screeching.
He threw himself behind the wheel and cranked up the big eight-cylinder engine, which started with a sputter and a pop. Fighting his panic, he backed up so abruptly he nearly hit an SUV. He twisted the wheel and peeled out of the parking lot, hitting the accelerator hard after making the turn. He followed the Ford sedan as it traveled east on 114th Street, gunning the engine to make up the distance between them. He kept his gaze trained on the car’s red taillights, staring so hard his eyes burned.
His cell phone rang and he dug it out of his vest pocket.
“Hey, what’s goin’ on?” It was Butts.
“Pursuing suspect east on One Hundred Fourteenth Street,” Lee said. “He’s got a hostage.”
“Damn! Krieger is callin’ it in now. Hang on—we’re comin’ after you.”
“In what? I’m in your car.”
“Shit! Wait—Quinlan and the Troy cop just pulled up. We’ll follow in the patrol car. Hang on!”
“Gotta go,” Lee said, tossing the phone onto the seat next to him as the road veered sharply to the left. The area was residential, and they flew past two-story clapboard houses with white picket fences and swing sets. The Ford picked up speed, and Lee gunned the engine to keep up. The big car jerked and lurched forward, and he cursed Butts under his breath for waiting so long to get a tune-up. He had eight cylinders to the Ford’s four, so at least he had engine size in his favor.
The landscape was more rural now, mostly trees and low-lying farm fields, partially obscured by a mist clinging to the ground. There was a road up ahead on the right, and the sedan took it, swinging sharply around the corner. Lee followed, tires skidding as the big Chevy slid into the turn, passing between white stone pillars on either side. Lee looked at the sign on one of the pillars:
OAKWOOD CEMETERY
.
“So that’s how you want to play it?” he muttered through clenched teeth. The heavily wooded entrance to the cemetery was narrow—just barely two lanes wide—and as he pursued the Ford down it, Lee briefly considered trying to run the other car off the road. He gave up on it as too risky—he ran the risk of injuring or killing Francois. He suspected that kind of thing looked easier in the movies than it was in real life.
The entrance road was long. It was a good half mile before they reached the grounds proper. He barreled along after the Ford, wondering what the UNSUB had in mind. What could he do with Lee in pursuit? His cell phone rang and he grabbed for it, but only succeeded in knocking it to the floor on the passenger side.
“God
damn
it!” he cursed, gripping the steering wheel with both hands. He couldn’t stop and get the phone, but without it he had no way of letting Butts know where he was.
They roared past gravestones and mausoleums, barreling through the landscaped grounds at nearly fifty miles an hour—way too fast. They zoomed past a small lake on the left and then a larger one, the road twisting and curving before flattening out into a straightaway, heading south. The Ford’s engine gunned and picked up speed. Lee pressed down on the accelerator, coaxing the big Chevy to keep up.
Just ahead was an imposing stone building. It resembled a cross between a church and a castle, with its stately flagstone walls and pointed turrets. He realized he was looking at the chapel and crematorium Butts had mentioned. A light rain began to fall, and Lee fumbled to find the windshield wipers.
Without warning, the car ahead hit an oil patch or a wet stretch of road. It spun around a hundred and eighty degrees, wheels screeching. Lee hardly had time to react, wrenching the wheel sharply to the left to avoid hitting the Ford. All four wheels of the big Chevy left the ground as it jumped the curb and headed straight toward a tall stone monument with an angel perched on top.
He grasped the steering wheel with both hands and wrenched it to one side, but the grass was spongy and wet and there was no traction beneath his tires, which sank uselessly into the soft earth. The big car barreled into the tombstone, the fender crumpling with a crunch as metal hit granite. There hadn’t been time to think about seat belts, and Lee pitched forward hard, his head rapping sharply against the steering wheel. The last thing he was aware of was the angel looking down at him with blank marble eyes.
Then everything went black.
He awoke not knowing how long he had been out—seconds? minutes? hours? His head ached, and his eyes had trouble focusing. He blinked hard and peered out the window. The Ford sat a few hundred yards away, in front of the chapel. The car was dark and looked deserted, but inside the building the lights blazed yellow. He struggled to open the door, throwing his weight against it, but the front of the car was crushed. The metal on the door had buckled out. Holding the handle down, he gave a mighty push with his shoulder, and the door gave way. He spilled out onto the ground, rolling onto his back with a groan. His chest and shoulders throbbed. They must have hit the steering wheel when the car crashed into the gravestone. He rose shakily to his feet, taking deep breaths, wiping moisture from his face.
The rain was coming down more steadily now, a soft sheet of thin droplets blanketing the graveyard. Lee took a few steps forward and sank to his knees on the wet earth, too weak to stand. But he knew he had to go on. He couldn’t expect help anytime soon. He was the only one standing between Francois and the killer. He didn’t know what the UNSUB was planning, but the lights blazing inside the building were an ominous sign.
Flailing for something to grab on to, his hand came in contact with rough stone. He grasped it and heaved himself to his feet, his legs shaky. As he leaned on the grave marker to steady himself, his eyes focused on the name carved into the rough granite.
LAURA CHESTER
DIED AGE 23
Forever Beloved, Never Forgotten
Laura.
Seeing his sister’s name on the tombstone brought him out of his stupor. It was as if a cold bucket of water had been thrown over him. The cobwebs in his head vanished and he snapped into cold, clear consciousness. He felt hyper-alert, aware of every sound and smell—the damp, moldy odor of earth, the sticky-sweet aroma of honeysuckle wafting from the surrounding woods, the clicking of crickets and chortling of bullfrogs nearby. Sucking in a lungful of air, he staggered forward on rubbery legs. Bats circled overhead as he raced through the tombstones as fast as his legs would carry him. Mist swirled about his feet, obscuring the ground beneath him, white and soft as cotton candy. It felt as though he were running on clouds. Behind him, high atop her lonely marble pedestal, the stone angel watched, her eyes mournful.

Other books

Lady Almina and the Real Downton Abbey by The Countess of Carnarvon
Leviathan by John Birmingham
Winter Kisses by A.C. Arthur
Prairie Gothic by J.M. Hayes
Alfred Hitchcock by Patrick McGilligan
Her Mistletoe Cowboy by Alissa Callen