No Good Comes When You Dig Up the Dead, page 29
“What about Theo?” Brody asks. “He’s obviously already at the hotel. Why don’t you and War head him off before he gets himself in trouble?”
“You go if you want,” I say. “I need to see this.”
“Erin,” Jack says. “If this were one of your clients, would you allow it?”
“I’m not your client, Jack, and my case has been dead for a long time. I’m not some fresh off the slab newbie, and I don’t need to be coddled.”
“No?” Jack looks pointedly at the smashed photo frame. “What was that, then?”
I eye the glass shards scattered on the floor. “That was me getting it out of my system.”
I didn’t. Of course, I didn’t. I want to get my hands on Leslie Burnden’s neck, squeeze it until the bastard’s lungs burn.
“Fine,” Jack concedes, even though it’s obvious I’m lying through my teeth. “But no touching anything.”
“You’ve got gloves,” I complain. “I want gloves.”
“No,” Jack says. “Hands off, or I’ll direct War to take you straight back to the office.”
War’s eyebrows are in his hair.
I scoff. “He doesn’t answer to you.”
“No,” War agrees. “I don’t. But I will if you don’t do what’s best for you. No touching.”
“Holy shit, fine. Let’s just get on with it.”
“I’m going down first,” Jack says. “Erin, hold onto me if you must, just don’t touch anything, not even the stair rail. You two, wait up here.”
I turn to War. “He said he left a note for me at the flat. Can you get it?”
“Yeah, alright.”
He’s gone before I can say another word.
“I’ll be fine.” Brody shoos me away when I give them a concerned look. “I’ve got a bunch of glass to clean up before the fuzz gets here.”
“Sorry,” I mumble.
“Come on, I don’t care about that,” Brody says softly, nodding at the stairs. “Do what you need to. I’ll be right here.”
I try to smile, but I’m not sure my face knows how to do that right now, so I follow Jack down the stairs, heart swelling in my throat. “Key’s on the ledge there.”
Jack reaches above him with a gloved hand and retrieves the key. “I hope this fucker left all his shit down here, or we’re in for a long night.”
“Light switch is just to the right of the door… hip height,” I say, as he unlocks it.
There should be a shrine in the dim red room, but despite hoping it will all still be here, I’m nowhere near ready to see it. Jack turns back to look at me as he grips the handle, and I nod.
In a blink, the room is suffused with red light, and a horror show flickers to life before my eyes.
56
Theo’s Date
POV: Theo
I raise my hood and let myself into Room 308.
As I close the door behind me, a silk rope slips around my neck.
“Why are you following me?” Leslie asks, tightening the rope.
He’s stronger than I thought he would be, but rage screams in my blood, and I can barely feel it digging into my skin. I slam backwards into the wall, the old man behind me grunting at every impact.
Thump, thump, thump.
The rope loosens, and Leslie gasps.
I tug the rope away from my throat, and turn, not looking at him as I gather his shirt in my fist and drag him across the room.
Fingers claw at my hands. “How are you stronger than me? Who are you? What do you want?”
I laugh. Nothing is funny, but I laugh anyway. “Did you really think I’d let you kill one more person, you sorry old fuck?”
My voice sounds deeper than usual, taking on the thick quality that only emerges when my fangs are about to drop, like there’s two of me talking at the same time.
I thump the side of his head, just as he did to me the night he killed me. It’s only when his head hits the ceiling that I realise my feet have left the floor.
Erin’s been trying to get me onto the roof of our building for weeks now, but I was never sure if she was taking the piss. Flying just sounded too far-fetched, and I’ve never seen her do it. This isn’t flying, though. It’s just… drifting… hovering. Still, it shocks me enough to let go of Leslie.
I land heavily on my feet. “You’re going to be so fucking sorry.”
He crumples to the floor, grunting on impact and holding his arm up to ward me off. “I don’t know how to be sorry. I’m not… not sorry for anything.”
“You’ve still got all your photos hanging up in the darkroom, haven’t you?”
He stares at me, eyes straining to see beneath the hood, but something about his posture is unsettling. “How do you know about the darkroom?”
It’s somehow gratifying that he doesn’t recognise me, like it makes me less a part of him. Less a product of his choices. I want nothing more than to keep toying with him, but I’m not sure how much time I have before Erin shows up.
“I know lots of things,” I whisper. “I know you used your position at the hospital to track down unfaithful wives. That you killed your own wife when you found out your son wasn’t your son after all. I know that you murdered a woman on a wildlife reserve and forced nightmares on your grandson when you arranged for him to find the body? What happened there? Did you mean to do that, or did the police take too long to find her?”
He shakes his head, tremors racking his whole body. “How do you know? How do you know this?”
“What’s in the bag, old man?” I nod at the duffel bag set under the small writing desk in the corner. “Get it, and tip the contents on the bed.”
His legs shake as he leans on the bed to drag himself around it. “Are you going to kill me?”
“Are you going to stop me?”
“I don’t want to die,” he whispers as he unzips the bag.
“You don’t deserve to live. You killed someone I love, and she didn’t want to die either.” I pick up the silk rope I dropped by the door and fold it in half. “Turn around.” I smile to myself as I get to work, tying his wrists with the knots he taught me as a boy, giving the rope a tug when I’m done. “How’s that?”
He struggles to free himself. “She said I couldn’t die… but she did.”
“What are you talking about?” I ask, eyeing the contents on the bed—spare clothes, more rope, duct tape, make-up bag. I sift through it quickly. No lipstick.
“You wouldn’t understand,” he says. “Why won’t you let me see your face? What sort of horror show have you got under that hood? I’ve seen it all, you know.”
“Have you?” I shove him up the bed, so he’s leaning against the headboard, hands tied behind his back. I grab the desk chair, setting it by the side of the bed, and straddle it. “I have questions.”
“You haven’t answered mine.”
“I will… when I’m ready. Why were Paula Johnson’s parents at your house?”
There’s no colour left in Leslie’s face, but he looks fascinated rather than scared. “You can’t possibly know—”
“I do know. Haven’t I already proved how much I know?” I lean forward, resting my arms on the back of the chair. “I’m sick of hearing you say the same thing over and over. Answer the question.”
“They thought it was me, but they couldn’t prove it, so they threatened to tell my son.”
“Not your son though, was he?”
Leslie’s face darkens, fury burning beneath his skin. “My wife was a whore, just like all the others.”
“Is that why you wrote those disgusting words on the underwear you dressed them in? Because words have meanings, and some words do not belong on the tongue of scum like you. What did Paula do?”
“She… She was just there… unfortunately for her.”
“Is that who they were looking for that night? They were asking where Evan was?”
“They got to him before I did.”
“So, they told Evan you killed their daughter. Did you know they were friends?”
“Not until that night.”
I’m calmer than I have any right to be. My heart has slowed to a deep, rhythmic throb as air washes in and out of my body like a cleansing tide. “Did he confront you about what they told him?”
“Yes.” He snorts. “He was high… Couldn’t say boo to a goose unless he was high.”
I swallow hard. There are things I never knew about my dad, things I was sheltered from as a child. My dad was always loving, but I can’t remember a single time, even with the benefit of hindsight, that my dad was high. Even Aunt Grace said he wasn’t one for drugs.
“Evan didn’t do drugs.”
“You’re right. He didn’t… not routinely. But that’s not what I said. Whenever he had something to say to me, he’d get high first. He didn’t like alcohol, see?”
“I know that. So, why couldn’t he just talk to you? Was it because you’re a monster?”
“If you think I’m ashamed of being a monster, you’re wrong. I’m not ashamed. He couldn’t talk to me because he was a bloody coward.”
I grip the back of my chair, so I don’t do anything stupid.
“As soon as he showed up on the doorstep, I knew they’d got to him… that he had some kind of ultimatum in mind. That he’d stop me seeing my grandson.”
“Not really your grandson either, was he?” I tilt my head to the side. “What would you have cared anyway? You traumatised the kid for kicks.”
“Traumatised? My Stephen wasn’t soft like his stupid father. He would’ve—”
“What? Grown into a killer like you if you hadn’t murdered him yourself?”
Leslie’s chest heaves as he struggles for breath, but his eyes are sharp.
I grit my teeth. “Don’t say it again. I already told you, I know lots of things. I know, for instance, that you dumped Pippa Copsey in a quarry, but that her murder wasn’t connected to your others.”
“The police are stupid.”
“And I know that Evan Palmer,” I say, relishing his flinch at the reminder that his son wanted nothing to do with him or his name long before he found out what he was truly capable of. “Was ten times the man you are.”
Leslie laughs. “He was weak… so weak.” His head flops forward, as he wriggles against the pillows. “He didn’t even put up a fight when I took him up to that car park… just sat there in the car, a pathetic shell of a man. He knew I’d put something in his tea.”
A whisper of unease shivers up my spine, and my chest burns from the inside out, an inferno of hate raging. He took everything from me. A grandmother I never knew. My dad. My life.
“He was never the same after his wife died.”
“Some men love their wives, Leslie,” I whisper, trying to get back on track.
He ignores my comment, carrying on as if I didn’t speak. “But it didn’t take much to make him jump at all… a few well-chosen words… a dig here and there.”
I leap from my chair and punch him in the face, bone cracking beneath my fist, and blood spurting from his nose. He cries out as he slumps sideways, and I drag him upright again by the front of his shirt, slamming him into the wall.
“Your grandson hated you,” I spit, ignoring the lick of fire across my knuckles.
“He loved me.” His voice is a nasal whine now, but the blood has already stopped flowing. “We had a special bond.”
“Because he didn’t know you were a monster then, but he learned, didn’t he?” I smile beneath the hood, feeling wild… reckless. “What did you do to Derek?”
“D-Derek?”
“Yes… you know, your lodger. Sweet man, lived in your house for years, lovely collection of boring jackets.” I shake my head as I pace. “I really regret not telling him to get out sooner.”
“He was… Did you put him in my house?”
I laugh, the sound high pitched and unfamiliar, like a pantomime villain just rocked up in my mouth. “Are you trying to ask if the man was my spy? You’re an idiot. Where is he?”
“In the garden.”
“So, he didn’t run away with the rent money and your favourite suitcase? As if you ever owned a suitcase in your dreary life.” I stare at him through my overgrown hair. “He called your grandson that night.”
“He shouldn’t have done that. It ruined everything.”
“Really? You’ve killed what… eleven women and three men, and that’s what you’re going with? That the lodger ruined everything?”
“My grandson found the evidence,” he whispers.
“Oh, I know. And the police are finding it right now. Carry on.”
“When I got home from…”
“Murdering Patricia Wells? Keep going.”
“Derek said Stephen had been round… that he went downstairs to the darkroom because he was worried I’d had a heart attack, and you know what the fool said when I asked him why he would think that? Because he called downstairs and I didn’t answer. He knew I’d gone out. He knew I needed more sometimes.”
“More what?”
He grins. “You’d like to know that, wouldn’t you? He was a good caretaker, you know. It was inconvenient to lose him… always there to clean up the house, to feed me.”
“I don’t need to hear about your domestic setup, you fucking bastard. I want to know what happened when you found out Stephen went into the darkroom.”
“Derek said he came back upstairs with a bag full of plastic things. He thought they were camera films, but I knew what they were.”
“Phones.”
He eyes me warily. “Yes. There was no need for him to bring Stephen into it. No need at all.”
“So, that’s when you went after him?”
“I didn’t mean to kill him. I just… just wanted him to forget,” he chokes out, but this feels like more of a performance of guilt. Because he doesn’t know how to feel guilt. “I wanted to knock him out. Not this.” He’s sobbing, and I could set my watch by the careful hitching of every breath. “I never wanted this.”
I don’t believe a word of it, watching in rapt silence until he fills it again.
“Derek told me he wasn’t wearing a coat. My Stephen never wore a coat. I was always telling him he’d catch his death. I told Derek I’d go after Stephen… check he was okay, and that he should go back to bed. He’d been off sick from work, see… I must’ve overdone it… promised I’d pop my head round the door when I got back. I grabbed one of his coats so Stephen didn’t freeze to death, but… after he fell, I remembered I had that coat, and that’s when I knew I had to set Derek up. He’d never know, so it wouldn’t hurt him… not really. I put the coat on Stephen, then when I got back, I suffocated Derek with his pillow. It wasn’t very satisfying. He was a nice man. My plan worked though… his disappearance coinciding with Stephen’s murder. The police are looking for him in connection with the incident.”
The incident? “Not anymore.”
“There’s nothing connecting me to Stephen’s murder,” Leslie says. “Nothing.”
“Nothing except the phone you used to set your trap for Patricia Wells.”
“The phones are all accounted for.”
I shake my head. “Your grandson was clever. He kept one for insurance… tucked it behind his knee brace. That’s where it was found, and that’s how all those other murders became connected to his.”
He doesn’t seem to care at all now, blurting everything like he’s wanted to talk about it for years. “I put all Derek’s stuff in my room in case anyone wanted to look in his, but they didn’t… not for weeks. The police were useless. I’d only just taken the last of his clothes to the charity shop when they finally showed up to do their job.”
“You planted a new rosebush where you buried Derek, didn’t you?”
He shrugs. “Like I said, he was a nice man. I was going to move him eventually.”
“Why did you take Stephen’s phone and keys back to his flat?”
“Didn’t want anyone stealing them,” he says. “It’s a dangerous area.”
I laugh, the sound so bitter I can taste it. “It was dangerous because you were there, and even knowing everything he did, your grandson underestimated the monster you are. He never thought you’d hurt him.”
“I would never… If he’d just kept his nose out…”
“Why would he let you get away with murder? He was better than you.”
“Yes,” he says, catching me by surprise.
He twists his body, and a bone cracks, making him hiss through his teeth. I watch his tears course over his cheeks, mesmerised by the sight of it.
“Pathetic,” I say. “You’re pathetic.”
“And you,” he says, jumping off the bed and lunging at me. “Are not the only vampire in the room.”
“Fuck!” I topple backwards off the chair, and he lands on top of me, lips pulled back in a snarl.
How can he be a vampire? He’s strong, but he’s not that strong. Why did he let me tie him up, then sing like a canary?
“You’ve been dying to get all that off your chest, haven’t you?” I lie beneath him, not fighting, not doing anything. “To tell someone how clever you think you are. Go on, ask me again.” I dig my nails into the hands pinning my shoulders to the floor. “Ask me what you want to know.”
His hand grips my neck. “Who are you?”
I chop at his ribs, knocking him off me, then drag him to his feet and slam him against the wall. “I’m the last witness.”
“Last witness to what?”
“To the murder of Stephen King.”
I pull my hood down, and for several seconds, I think he’ll never recognise me like this, but I see every fraction of recognition as the penny drops… the awareness dawning in his eyes as he takes in my appearance.
“Stephen?” The old man shakes his head, and I shove him across the room until he lands on the bed. “Stephen?”
The door crashes open, making Leslie jump. Even my heart flips at the sight in the doorway.
A furious woman glares at the man on the bed, a nail bat clamped in one hand, and her writhing hair silhouetted against the light from the corridor behind her.
