Whisper in the Dark (A Thriller) (3 page)

A couple of paramedics were loading a woman onto a gurney in the back of the ambulance, her bony bare legs hanging out of the blanket wrapped around her. She looked unconscious.

“Shit,” Solomon said. “We’re too late.”

“What?” Clarence squinted into the darkness. He’d broken his glasses a couple weeks ago and Solomon knew he couldn’t see worth a damn. “Is that Myra?”

“How many white women you know walkin’ around butt-naked at two o’clock in the A.M.?” He gestured for Clarence to follow. “But let’s go make sure.”

Clarence didn’t move. “I ain’t goin’ near no cops.”

“They got their hands full. They ain’t gonna be fussin’ with the likes of you.”

“That’s right,” Clarence said, “ ’cause I ain’t stupid enough to get that close.” He turned and started in the opposite direction.

“Come on, man. Why you always gotta run?”

“That’s what keeps me alive. I ain’t goin’ down for no junkie-ass whore. ’Specially a dead one.”

“If she was dead, they’d be loadin’ her in the back of a coroner’s van. Least we can do is find out where they’re takin’ her.”

“Be my guest,” Clarence said. “But count me out.”

A moment later, he was across the street and gone.

Solomon shook his head, wondering what Clarence’s tears had been about. Did he care about Myra or what? Then a sudden realization hit him. Maybe Myra hadn’t shot herself up, after all. Maybe it was Clarence who gave her the needle. She goes flatline, and it was panic, not grief, making him cry.

Solomon had always thought Myra was too good for the sonofabitch anyway.

He worked his way up the block toward the police cruiser and ambulance. There was a Seaside Cab parked several yards away, its driver leaning against the left front fender, quietly sucking on a cigarette.

By the time Solomon got close, a late-model sedan had pulled up to the scene, and a big guy in a suit and tie climbed out. A plainclothes detective.

What the hell did
he
want?

One of the uniformed cops called him Blackburn and they exchanged pleasantries that, to Solomon’s mind, weren’t all that pleasant.

A small crowd had gathered, a lot of folks standing around in their pj’s, and Solomon did his best to blend in. He still had Myra’s filthy clothes tucked under one arm. A coupla house hens took one look at him, crinkled their noses, and stepped aside, giving him wide berth.

So much for that plan.

The cop named Blackburn took a look into the back of the ambulance, then turned to one of the uniforms as he gestured toward the cab driver. “I hear she tried to stab him.”

Solomon’s ears pricked up. Myra?

“So he says,” the uniform told Blackburn. “Came at him with a pair of scissors.”

“Scissors?” Blackburn seemed surprised.

“That’s right.” The uniform went to the front seat of the cruiser and brought out a plastic bag carrying a bloodied pair of sewing shears.

Blackburn took the bag, studied it for a moment, then handed it back. “He say what direction she came from?”

The uniform pointed across the street, which was lined with apartment houses. “Over that way. Looks like she could’ve cut right through from Hopi Lane.”

Blackburn turned to one of the paramedics. “How bad is she hurt?”

“She’s got a pretty good knot on her cheek where the cab driver thumped her, but the blood isn’t hers, if that’s what you’re asking. Got some cuts and bruises, but nothing that would cause that much bleeding.”

Hearing this, Solomon felt relieved. If that was Myra in there, at least she was okay. But what was all this bullshit about her trying to stab somebody?

Not the Myra
he
knew.

He wished he could get a closer look.

“We’ve gotta sit on her until the assistant M.E. gets here,” Blackburn said. “I need a sample of that blood.”

“We should’ve been on our way to the ER by now.”

“And I should be in bed with a beautiful blonde, but that ain’t likely to happen anytime soon.”

Before the paramedic could protest, Blackburn turned and walked over to the cab driver, flashing his badge. They exchanged a few words and, from Solomon’s vantage point, it looked like Blackburn was trying to bum a cigarette.

Solomon turned his attention away from them and looked in toward the woman on the gurney, figuring now was as good a time as any to get a better look. He stepped forward, moving closer to the ambulance. He wasn’t halfway to it when one of the uniforms spotted him and came over.

“Hey, hey, what’re you up to?”

“I think she’s a friend of mine.”

The uniform looked him over, barely disguising his contempt. “You been drinking, pops? Figure maybe you can sneak a peek at a naked lady?”

Solomon ignored him. “Her name is Myra.”

“Well, what do you know.” The uniform turned to his partner. “You hear that, Jerry? She’s got a name and everything—and it ain’t Tina Tits.”

His partner chuckled and Solomon took an instant dislike to both of them, the way they were disrespecting Myra. He had the terrible urge to lash out, but kept himself under control.

The cop named Blackburn was coming over now, no cigarette in evidence, and he didn’t look happy. “Toomey, do us all a favor and shut your fuckin’ yap.”

The partner, Jerry, quickly averted his eyes, but the one called Toomey shot Blackburn a look. There wasn’t any love lost between these two. For a moment, Solomon thought they might come to blows, then Toomey backed off, joining Jerry over by their patrol car.

Blackburn turned to Solomon. “You say you know this woman?”

Solomon nodded. “I think so. I just need a better look.”

Blackburn gestured and they walked over to the ambulance. “Go ahead.”

Solomon glanced around, felt all the eyes on him, then stepped up into the back of the ambulance.

The woman had blood on her and some of it had soaked into the blanket. Her left shoulder was exposed and Solomon immediately recognized the faded Hello Kitty tattoo adorning it.

Myra had once told him that they’d called her that when she was modeling. Kitty. She’d walk into a studio and they’d all go, “Hello, Kitty.” Kinda laughing when they said it.

He let his gaze drift up to her face, but was surprised by what he saw—and it wasn’t the blood that startled him.

Taking a couple involuntary steps backward, he almost fell out of the ambulance.

The cop named Blackburn steadied him. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothin’,” Solomon said. “She . . . she looks different, is all.”

“Different? Is she your friend or not?”

Solomon was momentarily at a loss for words. How could this be? When he found his voice, he said, “I
thought
she was, but now I ain’t so sure.”

“What do you mean?”

Solomon swallowed. “That looks like her body, all right. But there’s something wrong with her face.”

Blackburn frowned at him. He looked as if he was about to respond when the woman’s eyes flew open, as wide and frightened as a trapped animal’s. Her mouth started moving, words tumbling out so rapidly they were barely intelligible:

“. . . a lie stands on one leg, the truth on two . . .”

What the hell?

“. . . a lie stands on one leg, the truth on two . . .”

Her gaze focused on Solomon.

“Two times four is a lie, two times four is a lie, two times four is a lie, two times four is a . . .”

Then, with a cry of rage like Solomon had never before heard, she sprang up from the gurney and lunged at him.

B
LACKBURN HAD NEVER
seen anyone move so fast.

One minute she was babbling incoherently, the next she was launching herself at the old homeless guy like a charge from a shotgun.

Blackburn immediately grabbed for her, but she spun on him, catching him off-guard, swinging a bloody fist at his head.

He stumbled back, and before he knew it she was out of the ambulance and running. Toomey and his partner and the EMTs all stood around with their heads up their asses as Blackburn regained his footing and took off after her.

She plowed through the crowd, screams and shouts erupting around her, then cut diagonally across the road, heading for a narrow side street crowded with parked cars and boxy, rundown houses.

Blackburn heard an engine start up behind him—the patrol officers finally getting their shit together—but the psycho bitch cut sideways, heading into the darkness between two houses.

Jerking his Glock out of its holster, Blackburn followed, picking up speed, then slowing as he reached the mouth of the passageway. He listened for sounds of movement, but all he could hear was the commotion behind him, the distant barking of a dog, and—

—what?

Psycho Bitch, babbling again. Barely a whisper.

“A lie stands on one leg, the truth on two, a lie stands on one leg, the truth on two, a lie stands on one leg, the truth on . . .”

Blackburn took out his Mini-Mag, flicked it on, and pointed it into the passageway.

Psycho Bitch sat huddled near the wall of one of the houses, next to an old, rusted bicycle, the blood on her face shining garishly in the light, her eyes alive and frightened.

“Two times four is a lie, two times four is a lie, two times four is a lie, two times four is a lie . . .”

Blackburn slowly moved toward her. “Easy now.”

One of her hands dropped to her side, fingers groping in the dirt, searching for something, then latching onto a small, dusty chunk of brick. Her inner arm was mottled with bruises. Needle tracks.

“Drop it,” Blackburn said. “Put it down.”

“Two times four is a lie, two times four is a lie, two times four is a lie, two times four is a . . .”

“Come on, now, nobody’s gonna hurt you. Put the brick down and step away from the wall.”

He knew it was probably pointless talking to her. She was deep inside her own head. But he kept trying anyway, wondering where the hell his backup was.

“Put it down,” he told her again. “Put it down and we’ll find someone to—”

There was a shout behind him as a car screeched up and—

—suddenly the fingers hurled the brick, forcing Blackburn to duck. Psycho Bitch sprang from her crouch with an animal-like agility and threw her arms around him, knocking him against the adjacent wall. The Mini-Mag flew out of his hands as—

—the shouts grew louder and then Toomey and his partner were there, pulling her off him and wrestling her to the ground as Blackburn got to his feet, struggling to catch his breath.

He stared down at them, annoyed.

“I can’t believe you morons didn’t cuff the bitch.”

S
TILL RATTLED,
Solomon edged away from the ambulance, watching as the crowd of onlookers moved across the street, then down toward where the cop car had screeched to a stop.

The EMTs had already followed on foot and now they were bringing her out—the woman who wasn’t quite Myra—carrying her between them, her hands cuffed behind her, her bruised and bloodied body exposed to the world.

Solomon thought about her face, about how different it had looked. And about those wild, terrified eyes.

A sudden thought occurred to him then—a memory of his childhood in St. Thomas and a grandfather who liked to tell tall tales.

Tales of darkness and death and resurrection.

And as he thought about those tales and what they’d meant to him, a single phrase crowded his brain. One that had given him nightmares for years:

Enfants du tambour
.

Children of the drum.

TWO

The Man Who Couldn’t Let Go

4

N
OTHING GOOD COMES
from a phone call at three in the morning.

Tolan had learned that the hard way, when he first got the call about Abby—exactly one year ago today. It had been a morning a lot like this one, chilly but not cold, and he’d been standing in an overheated hotel room instead of lying in his own bed.

He thought about that morning a lot. Especially when he couldn’t sleep. His frequent bouts of insomnia were the aftereffects of the tragedy, and the grief that accompanied them was as palpable and unrelenting as an electrical storm.

These days, however, that grief was shadowed by a twinge of fresh guilt. Not the usual feelings of culpability—those were a constant. But something new. Different. Because the woman who had been there for him, who had nursed him through those impossible first days, was now sleeping quietly beside him, the calm amid the chaos.

Tolan lay there, staring into the darkness, listening to the nearly imperceptible sounds of her breathing, feeling the warmth of her back against his, and tried not to think about Abby and how she had once occupied that very same spot.

Then his cell phone vibrated on the night stand.

He glanced at the clock: 3:05.

Scooping up the phone, he flipped it open and checked caller ID. Blocked. He thought about letting it buzz, but was afraid the sound might wake Lisa.

Climbing out of bed, he slipped into the bathroom to answer, catching it just before it kicked over to voice mail.

“Hello?”

“Dr. Tolan?” A man’s voice. Little more than a whisper.

“Yes?”

“Dr. Michael Tolan?”

“Yes,” he said, not bothering to hide his impatience. “What is it?”

“Today’s the day, Doctor. The day I’ve been waiting for.”

“I’m sorry, who is this?”

“You’ll find out soon enough,” the caller said. “I just wanted to wish you a happy anniversary before I slit your throat.”

Then the line clicked.

B
Y THE TIME
his phone started vibrating again, Tolan had convinced himself that there was no reason to be alarmed. The caller was undoubtedly an old patient of his, playing mind games.

He’d dealt with a number of difficult cases back in his days of private practice, and this wouldn’t be the first to entertain himself at his expense. Such threats were a hazard of the profession.