Double Visions Part 11

"Oh, give it a rest," Jane smiled pleasantly.

The old man's face was almost all skull by now. Only a few patches of skin and hair remained. He paused quizzically, with his mouth still stretched absurdly wide as his lower jaw had unhinged like a python swallowing its prey. He put his hands on his hips and looked around as if not sure what to do next.

"I know it's you, suns.h.i.+ne," Jane said, still smiling. "An NHS hospital ward with empty beds? Please."

"You've grown so much stronger in such a short s.p.a.ce of time," an admiring voice said, emanating from out of the old man's skull.

"Why don't you show me your real face and we can talk."

"Don't push your luck," the voice responded good-naturedly.

"I'm guessing that this isn't a social call?"

"This is our business, Jane ... our private business. You have no right to involve outsiders, and you should know better," the voice echoed.

"I think that you might be on shaky grounds discussing just who has the right to do what, you know, considering that you're butchering people." She was trying very hard to keep the conversation light, but given the circ.u.mstances it wasn't easy.

"You will see in time, Jane, that everything I do, I do it for you."

"Wasn't that a cheesy Bryan Adams' song?"

Her attempt at humour was met with a stony silence.

"You shouldn't be aligning yourself with the police, Jane. It only makes things more difficult. I mean, how are you going to feel with another dead Meyers detective on your conscience?"

"f.u.c.k you!" she spat.

"Ah, there's my girl. So much pain in there, Jane - you reek of doubt and cowardice. But I'm going to change all of that, Jane. I'm going to watch the caterpillar blossom again into the beautiful b.u.t.terfly and every time that you flap your wings you will think of me."

"I don't know who you are or why you're doing this, I can only think that you're nuts." She felt him bristle at the insult. "But I can promise you that I will find you and I will catch you."

"Didn't you try that once before?" The voice laughed.

"Rather successfully, if I remember correctly."

"Oh, really? Doesn't look like it from where I'm standing, or indeed where a new bunch of families are grieving."

"Arthur Durage is dead."

The voice stayed silent at that.

"What is it that you want from me?" she asked wearily.

"I want you in tiptop shape, Jane. I want you playing in the majors, going pro, and breaking all records."

"Why?"

"Oh, now ... where's the fun if I just give you all the answers?"

"I will find you," she stated with firm conviction.

"Janey, my dear, I'm counting on it."

The voice left as quickly as it had arrived and Jane found herself sitting upright. A nurse hurried over with concern in her eyes after spying her through the room's window and Jane wondered what she must look like to the woman. She could feel her forehead caked in sweat and her armpits were sticky, making her pyjama top cling to her skin.

"Are you okay, dear?" the woman asked, worriedly.

Jane nodded and smiled broadly. "Just a bad dream," she said, knowing that it was nothing of the sort. "Just a bad dream."

"Holy s.h.i.+t, is that him?" DC Selleck said, in awed, hushed tones. "This is just like the movies."

Danny grimaced inwardly as Superintendent Chalmers trotted the FBI profiler around the office like a prized pony. "b.u.t.ton it, Magnum," he said out of the corner of his mouth and the young DC visibly wilted.

The office had been sealed off from the rest of the station as the smartly dressed American agent would have attracted too much attention. The man was tall at around six foot two or so, and he exuded supreme health and vitality. His hair was shortish with a sprinkling of silver amongst the chestnut brown and a side-parting sweep. Danny pegged him somewhere in his early forties and he carried himself with a natural air of confidence and authority. Even Landing had become uncharacteristically tongue-tied around the American, which was saying something. He had long labelled his sergeant as as.e.xual when it came to affairs of the heart as he had never known her to be in a relations.h.i.+p of any denomination.

"I'd like to introduce you all to Special Agent Tom Bradshaw," Chalmers announced grandly to the room. "He has graciously agreed to help us in the..., um Crucifier case." The superintendant whispered the last bit as though afraid of being overheard.

Danny watched on as the agent remained impa.s.sive.

"Agent Bradshaw has a wealth of experience in such matters, and we are very lucky to have him here. I expect you all to afford him every courtesy and take advantage of his knowledge."

"Thank you, Superintendant," Bradshaw said when he was sure that Chalmers had finished. "I do find it helpful to speak to the team in private," he said to the senior officer in a quiet voice. "I find that a superior officer such as yourself can often overshadow and dominate a room."

Chalmers took the compliment as a genuine one and swaggered out of the room with a supercilious grin etched across his face. Bradshaw watched and waited until the superintendant had left the room. "It would appear that a.s.sholes are a.s.sholes the world over," he said, shaking his head to a rumbling of subdued laughter.

The man's accent was pure southern cowboy and Danny couldn't help but look for a Stetson and s.h.i.+ny badge. His suspicious mind couldn't help but wonder if the line was a well-used one to gain an 'in' with rooms such as this one, but it worked regardless and the rest of the team seemed to warm to him in that instant.

"First off, folks, apologies all round," Bradshaw started. "I am fully aware of the territorial nature of investigations and the last thing that I want to do is step on any toes. Regardless of why I'm here, I'm here now. In my experience, most suits like your boss are about as useful as t.i.ts on a bull, but one thing that your Superintendant Chalmers was right about is that I do have a lot of familiarity in cases such as this one. I am a resource to be used by you however you see fit."

"Well, we are happy to have you aboard," Danny offered pleasantly. "I'm sure that you can only be an a.s.set. This is DC Bryan Wilson," he pointed. "He'll bring you up to speed on the investigation and where we are now."

"And the older case?" Bradshaw asked.

Danny baulked a bit at that. The last thing that he wanted to do at the moment was to give any credence to a link between the cases, especially to an outsider. Both Barrett and Chalmers had made it crystal clear that the "Crucifier" angle was to be buried by order of Alfonso Ramsey. He still found it hard to fathom just how a private citizen seemed able to dictate police procedure, but here they were dancing on strings. "Perhaps a word in private, Agent Bradshaw?"

Danny led the man into his office and closed the door behind him. "Have Chalmers or Barrett spoken to you about this case?"

"I have received instructions," Bradshaw replied, which wasn't exactly a straight answer.

"Look. I don't know what you think your job is here, or who exactly you're working for, but this is my case, Bradshaw. Mine," Danny growled.

"Danny, buddy, you've got me all wrong," Bradshaw said, holding his hands up in mock surrender. "I'm here to do my job, not yours. You've got a maniac on the loose and I can help you catch him. I don't give a d.a.m.n about the credit or the glory."

"And where does Mr Ramsey figure in your presence here?"

"As I'm sure you're aware, Danny, Mr Ramsey is an influential man. I was lecturing at a conference in Amsterdam. By the way, did you know that they sell pot out in the open? You can just head into a cafe and no one bats an eyelid ... craziest d.a.m.n thing I ever saw."

"They are a progressive bunch."

"Anyway, I was there for a few days when I got a call that I was being rea.s.signed to a case in Faircliff. No offence but I had to look your town up."

"Do you get sent to consult on many cases?"

"A few, but never with such speed. My boss back in San Francisco told me that some guy with a tonne of juice had pulled more strings than he'd ever seen before and here I am. Look, Danny, I'm in no one's pocket, I can a.s.sure you of that. I'm an agent in the FBI and we don't screw around taking orders from James Bond villains. This Ramsey guy may have pulled a few strings to get me sent here, but I can a.s.sure you that's as far as his influence goes, Danny. I'll work this case with you, Danny, and I'll help you solve it too. Just tell me where to start and we'll worry about the politics later."

Jane was getting ready to throw the remote control at the TV due to its stubbornness to perform the simplest of functions, when a man stepped into her room unannounced and uninvited. She could tell immediately that he wasn't a doctor as his suit, even to her amateur eyes, was far beyond the salaries of any NHS staff member. "Can I help you?" she asked, hoping that her tone was suitably irritated.

"Miss Parkes, my name is Alfonso Ramsey; perhaps you've heard of me?"

She watched his pudgy smug face waiting for her to comply with her confirmation of his fame, but she didn't want to give him the satisfaction. She knew his name and that his reach was large; he was a man reportedly with an ego as big as his empire. "Sorry, no. Are you a doctor here?"

If he felt annoyed at her question, he hid it well. "No matter. I am here on private..., personal business, Miss Parkes. I understand that you were at my daughter's apartment with the police."

Jane knew that he wouldn't be here if he didn't know the facts already and there was no point in lying. "Yes I was."

"I also understand that you have certain..., abilities shall we say. I may be a man at the forefront of modern technology, Miss Parkes, but I am also a man from the old country where superst.i.tions are adhered to like religion. I have no doubt that such abilities exist, the only question is whether or not you are indeed in possession of them."

"What is you want, Mr Ramsey?" she asked, guardedly.

"In short, answers, Miss Parkes. Answers."

Jane watched the short man standing at the end of her bed. There were several silhouettes standing outside the room, presumably keeping their conversation private, but she didn't feel threatened - at least not physically. Normally she would have expected to be almost overwhelmed with the waves of grief emanating from a distraught father, but whatever Ramsey was feeling it was kept locked deep inside and not for her consumption.

"I'm afraid that there aren't any, Mr Ramsey, at least not yet. I take it that our conversation is not for your media outlets?"

"You a.s.sume correctly, my dear."

"Then all I can tell you is that I'm trying to work with the police and that they are doing everything possible to find your daughter's killer."

"What I would like from you, Miss Parkes, is a little... shall we say ... forewarning."

Red warning lights went off in her head at that point. "You mean you want his name before the police arrest him, don't you?"

"You would be handsomely rewarded, I promise you." Ramsey smiled with all the warmth of a hungry shark.

"I understand that you must be grieving, Mr Ramsey, but I don't think that I could do that. I want this man caught and stopped but I believe in justice."

"Justice!" he spat, and for the first time she saw a flash of his real self. He was a man who had been wronged, a man whose possession had been taken away and someone had to pay the price. "You really believe that your cushy prison cells equal justice for me?" he growled, jabbing a stiff finger into his own chest hard.

She suddenly felt uncomfortable as the full weight of his considerable personality bore down upon her.

"I want this man, and I want his blood on my hands. That is justice, little girl," he snarled, leaning forwards.

Jane managed to hit the nurse call b.u.t.ton at the side of the bed and blissfully heard the commotion from outside as someone was temporarily blocked from entering. Ramsey's face cleared of its thunder in a flash and he stood up, smoothing down his suit and calming himself in the process.

"Perhaps when you've had a chance to consider my offer," he said, smiling again - the public face of the man plastered back on. "Jonathon," he called towards the door and it opened.

A handsome and well-groomed man in his thirties stepped inside and stood next to his boss.

"This is Jonathon Banks, my a.s.sistant. Give her a card," Ramsey ordered and the man complied silently in a well-rehea.r.s.ed fas.h.i.+on. "You can call him any time of the day or night whenever you have some news or simply wish to discuss the matter further."

Jane tried to offer a small smile to the a.s.sistant, but his face remained set in stone as he handed her an exquisitely engraved business card. Then they were gone, leaving her eager to follow in their footsteps and get somewhere where she wouldn't be so easy to find.

Randall watched as the summer sun finally fell away and the day was plunged into darkness. He was parked about a quarter of a mile away from the cemetery and hoped that it was far enough to not be noticed. The old groundsman, whose name had turned out to be Abel Arany, had spun him a story about Arthur Durage, one that he found too hard to swallow.

According to his new friend, Arthur Durage had never been buried at his cemetery. They had simply dug a grave for an empty pine box that had been lowered into the dirt. Randall had asked why anyone would do such a thing and Abel had merely shrugged his shoulders in reply. Abel had told him that there had been a small police presence at the burial and he had been sworn to secrecy. He'd asked Abel how he'd known that the men had been police, but Abel had merely smiled knowingly and Randall a.s.sumed that the man had a long experience with authority figures. Abel had kept his promise until Randall had made him another one, one that might save the man's sister.

Scepticism ran deep in Randall's veins and the tale sounded too fishy to take seriously. According to every report that he'd read over the years, Arthur Durage had been shot dead by Karl Meyers. Tom Holland, Meyers' old partner, had a.s.sured him that Durage was dead and he'd believed the man. But there had been something deep in Abel's eyes that had left him feeling uncomfortable and he was sure that whatever the truth, Abel believed his own words. So here Randall now sat with a pick and a shovel obtained from a nearby DIY store. His palms were sweaty as he contemplated his night's upcoming exertions.

He slipped out into the warm night and was disappointed by the still humid air. He headed carefully back to the cemetery, hugging the shadows and keeping his ears alert for any sounds. The cemetery railings ran alongside him, rusted black metal that kept people both out and in at the same time.

Eventually he found a gap in the fence where the metal had worn away from its moorings and he pried a metal spike free. His body was now so skinny that he was able to squeeze himself through the hole and as he did so, he pushed away the thoughts about his health.

Once through and onto the dampening gra.s.s, he crept around as stealthily as possible. Abel had shown him the small shack where he lived on the grounds but Randall had noticed a mult.i.tude of empty and cheap alcohol bottles strewn about the place. Hopefully, Abel would have fallen into a drunken stupor by now.

He found the gravesite in question quickly; it was as though he was somehow drawn back to it. Invisible hands were guiding him now and his heart rate was rapidly increasing as he stood over the headstone. He used the small keyring torch to light his way and wondered if it was just his imagination or if the gra.s.s seemed dead around the edges of the grave.

The pick sank quickly into the ground on the first swing and he switched immediately to the spade. The earth was loose and eager to be free and he ignored the aching muscles in his arms as he threw the dirt aside.

He worked tirelessly, digging the spade deeper and deeper until the black hole spread its legs wider and wider. His mind was miles away as the earth flew over his shoulder and he sank deeper into the grave. At some point he started to wonder if he was already dead; perhaps he was digging his own final resting place. His heart fluttered worryingly but he ignored it and pressed on as cold clammy sweat ran down his face.

The spade struck something hard and sent a reverberating shudder up his arm. He knelt down in the hole and brushed the dirt from the top of the coffin. He shoved handfuls of earth aside until the pine box lay bare. With trembling hands, he forced the spade's edge into the gap between the coffin and lid, prising it open. He braced himself for the smell to explode, but there was none. He knew what he had found, but he followed through anyway, ripping the lid free. The coffin was empty.

Jane signed herself out of the hospital, caring little for the warnings from the staff. Alfonso Ramsey's visit had but paid to any lengthy stay. The man was powerful and his offer had sounded more like an order than a proposition.

There was too much history of the dead painted upon the white tiled walls and all of it was clouding her mind. She was already carrying enough spirits around with her and she had no room for anymore.

She caught a taxi from outside of the hospital and gave the driver her address. Mercifully, he didn't seem in any more of a mood to chat than she did and the journey pa.s.sed quickly and silently.

Her cottage was dark when they arrived but it was still a welcoming sight, nevertheless. After handing the taxi driver a fistful of money, she climbed out and wandered up the path.

Her head still ached a little but at least here, on home turf, she was better in control of her mind.

"Well come on if you're coming," she snapped at the a.s.sembled spirits who loitered at the top of the path.

They were as silent as ever. For some reason, the dead never spoke directly to her or anyone else. She didn't know if they could not or would not talk, or perhaps they simply had nothing to say.

She looked at them, puzzled, as black pits instead of eyes stared back at her, motionless statues marbled in death and frozen in time. For the first time she wondered if they were trying to tell her something, even warn her perhaps.

Eventually she grew tired of their games and left them to spend what remained of the night outside. She had the key in the lock and the door halfway open before the sense of fear struck her hard. She knew every inch of her home, every floorboard squeak and every creaking beam. She knew the flow of her cottage and right now there was someone else inside.