Текст книги "Dark City"

Автор книги: Christopher M. Colavito

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Текущая страница: 11 (всего у книги 13 страниц)

Kat covered her eyes, and when she dared to look again, she saw her husband sitting expressionless, bleeding from an open wound on his hand. She reached out and took his hand, examining the flow of blood. The cut was deep, too severe for her to tend to. Detective Knox could not feel anything, nor did he seem to notice the blood as it poured down his fingers, dripping onto the fake spatter printed on the covers of the books.

“This is bad. We need to get you stitched up.”

“What are you talking about?”

“This cut needs to be stitched. We're going to the hospital.”

“Do I have to?”

“This isn't an argument. Someone has to take care of you.”

Chapter 26

Human Machinery

Detective Knox never understood why hospital walls were painted white. They looked sickly, gave no comfort to the addled, and served as a canvas upon which every germ was visible. His only theory that made sense was that in better places, where care is taken, the cleanliness of pure white was supposed to convey a sense of pride and competence. But in the city, where nothing was ever as it should be, attempts to live up to standards only revealed how far short everything fell. In most places, doctors were sworn to an oath to help heal the sick, but in the city doctors were nothing but mechanics, who kept the human machinery running as long as they could, until replacements were brought in.

Anatomy drawings hung from invisible hooks, peeling back the layers and revealing the true nature of the beast. They were intended to be educational, to illustrate in detail the beauty and mystery making up every person. Detective Knox, however, remained unmoved. That webs of blood and nerve could organize into such exquisite networks, that a clump of cells could create the very nature of consciousness, was in a way a miracle. So much of the art was beyond the grasp of all but the most ardent devotees of the form that they hung like grotesques in the eyes of many of the souls unfortunate enough to sit in their presence.

Detective Knox could see the intricate wonder, as he traced his eyes over the route blood would traverse as it carried the nutrients of his liquor-based diet throughout his body, and ultimately flushed it through the wound he was covering. Rather than be awestruck by sights that went beyond his understanding, he looked at those illustrations as virtual autopsies. In them, he could see the mechanisms of murder, the limitless ways life could be ceased by human hands. His mind had been trained to see death, and even when he knew it was not real, the sensation was too familiar and powerful to ignore.

Kat paced the room, her shoes clicking against the tiled floor, the sound echoing off cold walls. She was more nervous than her husband, sharing his compulsion for control. Their circumstances were in the hands of the hospital staff, a reality that did not satisfy Kat. With each step she took, her husband was losing more and more blood, and in the back of her mind she wondered if he had enough of a heart to continue pumping that much of it to waste.

Those thoughts disturbed her, both because she should not entertain such topics, and because she could not deny there was likely to be some truth to them. She loved her husband, and she believed he loved her in return, but theirs was not a normal romance. While friends and fairy tales talked of whirlwinds, their relationship was more practical. She understood it did not make their love any less real, but it did make her wonder if there was an analogue to love they had discovered, instead of what is commonly known.

Kat's frustration grew as the hands slowly circled the clock, and the bandage wrapped around Detective Knox's hand grew a darker, richer shade of red. She ripped the door open, poking her head into the hallway, looking for anyone who could give them some attention. Kat thought about the alternative, of doing the job herself. She knew the basics of sewing, though it was a skill she seldom used. Her modest abilities should have been enough to make sure her husband did not bleed to death in what was supposed to be a center of healing, but she knew her husband would never let her take on the task. He was as stubborn as she, and preferred to let the professionals do what they were best at.

Time passed slowly, each second stretching out as it was counted, until the last strands of Kat's patience were frayed through. She felt the grasp she held on her composure slipping, and just as it was falling through her fingers, the door opened. The doctor entered. There was no sign of apology on his face. He looked down at the chart, scribbled something with a careless stroke of his pen, and turned his attention to the patient.

“It says here you need a wound stitched up. Let's have a look at it.”

Kat did not stand in his way, but she was not going to let him carry on as though he had not insulted them, nor wasted their time. Her conscience knew better than to get involved, but one of the things she had learned from her husband was to never get taken advantage of. Detective Knox had a penchant for making those around him into better people, often without his knowledge or effort.

“Excuse me, doctor, but my husband has been bleeding out here for an hour while nobody so much as checked on him to make sure he wasn't dead.”

“Ma'am, we do the best we can. If we thought his injury was that serious, we would have gotten to him sooner.”

Despite her age, nothing infuriated Kat more than the use of that title. It was not without merit, but the connotation made her feel either more matronly than her years, or akin to the stock characters from an old-time western movie. In either case, the term did not accurately describe Kat, and being so casually dismissed, even with a term of supposed respect, was a bone of contention.

“Maybe you don't understand, doctor. You can't just leave us alone in a room for that long without at least telling us that there's nothing to worry about. It's disrespectful, and I'm sure you would never put up with it, if you were in our shoes.”

“Like I said, I'm getting to your husband as quickly as I can. Now are you going to let me do my job, or do you want to continue lecturing me?”

“Go ahead.”

The doctor removed the bandage, pulling strings of congealed blood away, exposing the wound. The sight of his own blood did not disturb him, but piqued his curiosity. He was struck by the dedication of the human body to continue sending blood through the open floodgate, when it could have been put to better use elsewhere.

The doctor slid his chair over, scraping trenches into the tiles, spreading powdered remnants of the floor around his feet. He retrieved a small tray, gathering the needle in his hand as he slid back into position. His work was quick, his hands moving with the precision that came from supreme confidence and skill. Kat watched from the side, wondering if the fluidity of his stitching was nothing but careless abandon. The doctor bore none of the hallmarks of focus or effort, and looked as though he was going through the motions of a meaningless, mundane, task.

The needle fell to the floor as the doctor cut the string, racing a drop of blood to the landing point. It landed in silence, a small arc of blood rebounding, staining the dust. The doctor looked at his work, and, satisfied he had done an adequate job, turned his attention back to Kat.

“Your husband will be just fine. You had nothing to worry about.”

“I did, since none of you people saw fit to tell me that in the first place. It's a little bit of common courtesy to let someone who's obviously in distress know that everything will be fine. Wouldn't you agree?”

“I don't deal with patients, ma'am. I just sew them back up.”

“That figures.”

“We're doing the best we can. Look, there's only so many of us to go around, and in case you haven't noticed, this place is booked solid every night. There isn't always time to be nice.”

“That's a lousy apology.”

“Well, it's the only one you're going to get.”

The doctor was done discussing his conduct with Kat, and instead turned back to Detective Knox. He watched his patient as Knox examined the burgeoning scar that closed the wound.

“You're going to want to be careful for a day or two. Don't do anything too strenuous, or else you might rip the stitches out, in which case you'll be right back here. I don't think any of us want that, do we?”

Detective Knox did not respond to the question. The doctor's words had set off a firestorm in his mind, his thoughts racing faster than he could sort them. He stayed silent, letting the tidal wave of ideas tear down the doubts he had erected, eroding the fuzzy edges of the mystery. Clarity was coming, quickly, flashing before his eyes as he gave in to his subconscious.

The doctor had left without Detective Knox being aware of his absence. He saw only Kat when he lifted his head. She could see something different in him, not the frustration and resignation that had taken hold in the midst of his alcohol-fueled torment. For the first time since he had taken on the case, she could see her husband as she remembered him, his sharp eyes that saw through the masks and makeup that covered reality. He was himself again, and relief came over her when she realized he was not lost to her.

“Kat, I just had an idea.”

“I can tell.”

“I don't even know if it's possible, but I think I might know how George Hobbes was killed.”

“Really? How?”

“I don't think it's a real thing, but I can't jinx it until I know for sure. I need to call Lane.”

Kat picked up her husband's coat, patting down the pockets for his phone. She slipped her hand into the interior pocket, pulling it out with two extended fingers. She held it up, but didn’t hand it over.

“I'll give you your phone, but you have to promise me something.”

“What?”

“That if your idea is right, and you solve this case, you're not going to put yourself through this hell anymore. You know I love you, but I don't know how much longer I can put up with you when you're like this.”

“What, you want me to retire?”

“Of course not. That would kill you. I just want you to promise that you're going to try to let other people help you more, and you're going to realize you don't have to solve every crime that is committed.”

“Fine. I promise. Now can I have my phone, or do I have to go searching for the one pay phone left in the world?”

Kat handed over the phone, and Knox tapped two buttons before putting it to his ear. He listened to the ringing, impatient for Lane to answer him. Detective Knox had no idea of the hour, only that Detective Lane should not have been asleep, because there was a case that needed to be solved, and answers can come at any time. Five rings later, he heard the click of the line, and began talking before Lane could even offer a groggy greeting.

“Kid, I think I know how George Hobbes was killed. We've got a long day ahead of us, so get yourself down to the precinct. I'll meet you there as soon as I can.”

“What's going on? What time is it?”

“That's not important. Just do what I said, and you'll be able to sleep soon enough.”

“Whatever. Just make sure to bring coffee.”

“This time it's on me.”

Chapter 27

An Eternal Fire

The night was crisp, the air cold enough to freeze your lungs if you took too large a breath, the kind of night Detective Knox loved the most. It took a certain constitution to enjoy such nights, a masochistic streak that reveled in making the act of breathing difficult. Standing in that blackness, drawing that air into your lungs, required effort, and a desire to be alive. Life was wasted on the living, he often thought, because they did not understand that life was a precious gift, something that he saw taken each and every day, often without a thought given to the act, more often with no one noticing the absence.

To be alive was not a simple statement of fact, it was a cause to rally around. Whatever lay over the horizon, after this life was over, it was a mystery even Detective Knox did not want to solve. There was only so much time before that end came, little enough that every moment needed to have the happiness squeezed and extracted, to condense the feelings into an elixir strong enough to dull us from the inevitable. Most days, people were more than happy to stare ahead and put one foot in front of the other without considering what was to come, but frigid city nights were different. They required a choice to be made between life and death, between the easy way and the hard. That choice was why Detective Knox preferred the dark, gloomy season.

The painkillers in his system were wearing off, but he still felt nothing. Adrenaline was pumping, coursing a fiery energy through his body. For a moment, he felt like his younger self, before his body had begun its slow slide into the waiting grasp of gravity. Youth was not something he felt anxious to recover, but the feeling stirred in him memories of the past. He was a different man back then, but not a better one. What the physical had taken from him, the mental had given. There were advantages to being a broken-down wreck, not the least of which was being thrown aside and ignored, when the filter between mind and mouth had grown too thin to contain the ugly thoughts that filled the mind.

In the distance, between the squared-off foliage of glass and iron, the sun peered above the horizon. Why it would choose to rise day after day, given the horrors it would shed light upon, was a puzzle to Detective Knox. It was impossible to wash away sins when the blood stained bright red, rather than the eerily beautiful shade of black illuminated by the moon. It seemed to him that the sun was a tormenter, reminding people of the difficulties that lay ahead. Hell was said to be an eternal fire, which, to Detective Knox, was no different than the sun. Perhaps, he considered, everyone had been looking in the wrong direction all along.

He climbed the steps in twos, waiting for the clock to strike, and his body to turn back into a pumpkin. He reached the top without crumbling, without his joints leaking a critical amount of whatever hydraulic was needed to lubricate the gears. The interior struck him in the face, burning like a bird having fallen into a furnace vent. Warmth was connected with positivity, but Detective Knox could not see the sense in massaging away the aches and pains while hunting for the truth. Discomfort built focus, and the precinct was too tempting a retreat for the force to venture out into the city to do their jobs properly.

Out of the corner of his eye, Detective Knox could see Lane waiting for him, his head slumped on his shoulders like an anchor slowly pulling a body down to the depths of the sea. Two cups of coffee sat on the desk in front of him, steaming away, but failing to inject life into Lane's tired body. Knox slapped his hand atop the desk, rousing Lane from his sleep. His head jerked up, his eyes blinking to adjust to the light. They focused on Detective Knox, who had grabbed the other cup of coffee, and was pressing it to his lips.

“What did you get me up at the crack of dawn for?”

“I might have solved the case.”

“That's nice, but couldn't it have waited for morning?”

“The truth waits for no man, kid.”

“Are you on drugs?”

“A few, yes. But that's not important. What matters is that when that phone rings, Dr. Morse is going to tell me if I'm right. If I am, which I think I am, people will be calling us heroes by the end of the day.”

“Heroes?”

“I know it's garbage, but they're going to, and I'm not going to stop them, if it makes them feel better.”

“I thought you hated attention.”

“I do, but I also like the idea of getting this monkey off our backs.”

“Point taken.”

The phone rang, and Lane picked it up, knowing his partner would not want to. He pressed a button, turning on the speaker, letting himself in on the conversation.

“Doc, do you have some news for me?”

“I think I do. I got your message.”

“And what do you think about it?”

“I can't say I've ever heard of that as a way of killing anyone before. I've seen plenty of murders, but nothing like what you suggest.”

“Killers are always looking for new ways to kill. The question at hand is whether or not you think it's possible. Could someone commit a murder that way?”

There was a pause, as Dr. Morse gave it one last thought. Detective Knox knew he had an answer, or else he would not have called. The pause was either a dramatic flourish, or a bad omen.

“I was going to say that if you're asking if your suggestion is the method in which George Hobbes was killed, I'm going to need more time with the body to figure that out. But if you're asking an abstract hypothetical, I can give you an answer to that.”

“That's all I need.”

“In that case, I can tell you that yes, it is possible to commit a murder in such a way.”

“Thanks, Doc. You take a closer look at the body, and I'll go arrest the killer.”

“We could trade if you want.”

“No thanks, Doc. I don't think you could handle the living.”

“Of course not. Why do you think I'm down here?”

Detective Knox hung up the phone, a sly grin contorting his face. Solving a case, especially one that had seemed impossible, one that had taunted him from the very start, was the closest thing to ecstasy he could imagine. He could not remember ever feeling better about himself than he did at that moment, when he had overcome every obstacle to uncover a truth he wasn't sure existed.

Lane looked at his partner, wondering what thoughts went through his mind when he was supposed to be happy. The concept seemed foreign to Detective Knox, and Lane believed it could only be synthesized as a facsimile in his head. Knox was a mystery to him, and Lane was not yet awake enough to dare poke about for that information.

“Kid, we've got our work cut out for us today. I need you to . . .”

“Wait a second. Are you going to tell me your epiphany?”

“All in due time. It might be fun to see your reaction when everyone else finds out.”

“And you would do that to me, your partner?”

“Of course I would. Don't you know me by now?”

“I like to think you've gained a bit of respect for me.”

“I have, kid. That's why I'm not telling you.”

“That makes no sense.”

“I'm giving you a little more time to try figuring it out for yourself. You know everything I do, and now you know the Doc can find the evidence on the body, so what more do you need?”

“A new partner, for one.”

“Someday, you're going to think this is a great story to tell.”

“You're right. It'll make a great example of how not to treat someone.”

“I'll tell you what, if you come up with the right answer before I reveal it, I'll retire.”

“You have that little faith in my abilities?”

“It's called incentivizing you. I'm giving you a chance.”

“I'll take it.”

“Good. But first, I need you to make some calls. We need to gather together everyone involved in the case. I've always wanted to do one of those big reveals in front of all the suspects.”

“Something strange has gotten into you.”

“Maybe, maybe not. All I know is after the hell this case put us through, we deserve to have a little fun with it.”

“Fun? With a murder case?”

“A little black humor never hurt anyone.”

Chapter 28

The River Of Relief

Excitement filled the empty room, pulsing through the air, strong enough to be tactile to someone in tune with its frequency. Previous forays into the home of George Hobbes had been expeditions into a giant tomb, the feeling of death overwhelming. This time, Detective Knox felt something very different, an energy that tingled in the tips of his fingers. The pages of the book being written were turning over faster, the end racing towards him. The river of relief was flowing, the ice breaking up as rays of hope began to melt the barricades.

Detective Knox stood inside the doorway, leaning against the wall, imagining himself to be the cool outsider in a teenage movie. He was no rebel, but he could feel that sense of supreme confidence, and his posture could not contain his contentment. He knew he should be more careful, that his success was only made possible because of the darkest day of some people's lives, and that his own self-satisfaction was an affront to them, but he was unable to exert enough control over himself to refrain from being the callous person he so often projected himself as.

One by one, the surviving members of the Hobbes family entered, walking past Detective Knox without giving him more than a sideways glance. He could not tell if they saw his interior feelings, and were subtly disapproving of him, or if they were merely being antisocial creatures who wanted no part of reopening their wounds in front of him. Catching killers was more important than massaging feelings, so if some were to be bruised as a means of meting our justice, it was a trade-off Knox felt was more than worthwhile.

He was helped by his contempt for the three Hobbes relatives. All of them had revealed themselves to be people who did not deserve to be treated with the velvet gloves detectives were supposed to wear when handling the grieving. That they did not grieve at all did not strike Knox as strange, for he would do the same in all but the rarest of cases, but that they could not go through the motions of putting on an act when confronted with the possibility of their own responsibility in the murder was beyond his comprehension. Basic self-preservation should have kicked in, should have made them take any steps imaginable to pass the blame – to project it upon someone else. They did not do that, and all of them seemed perfectly willing to take on the mantle of killer.

Detective Knox saw this in them, and considered any damaged psyches that would come as a result of his actions to be collateral damage, possibly a beneficial shattering that would necessitate them being put back together by a professional.

Detective Knox would not intentionally cause them harm, even if he knew doing so would require them to get the help he saw they needed. He did not consider himself always a good man, but he was not an evil one, and deliberately bringing pain upon others was just that. Pain was unavoidable, but so long as it was accidental, he could not be blamed for being its cause. While he considered letting each of the family members tie their own noose, knowing none would grieve their loss, he would not have been able to live with himself if he had. His conscience, no matter how often he thought it was a vestigial organ that prevented him from being his best self, remained stubbornly tethered to his mind.

With the family gathered, Detective Knox kicked his heel back against the wall, scuffing the paint as though signing a masterpiece, pushing himself forward into the room. He entered slowly, surveying the frozen faces of the occupants, relishing the moment of drama as he pulled the hat from his head.

“I'm glad you could all join us here.”

Faith Hobbes was visibly impatient, her fingers tapping against her thigh. Detective Knox, in a different state of mind, would have stared and counted the beats, to see if she was unconsciously sending a coded message.

“Would you please tell us why you brought us all here?”

“You are gathered here because we know how George Hobbes was murdered.”

This revelation did not elicit the reaction Detective Knox hoped for. Those gathered did not appear shocked, or relieved. They gave no indication of any feelings at all, which fed into Knox's assessment of them. He judged people based on how he felt he would react in situations, despite knowing he was not what people would describe as normal. There were times when that fact was useful, such as when people displayed even less of a response than he would have. That level of abnormality was terrifying, and a sign of something more going on underneath the surface.

“Does it matter how he was killed? I thought the point was to find out who did it,” Tory Hobbes said.

“And does it even matter if we find that out? It's not like it's going to bring him back,” her brother added.

“Yes, it matters. Since one of you three killed him, I would think the other two would want to make sure we lock the killer up, if only to make sure you aren't next.”

Normally, Detective Knox would not have been so blunt, but he considered the circumstances special. Watching the three tear into one another with distrustful looks and snide comments was by no means necessary, but he thought if they were not interested in the solving of the murder, he should at least be able to entertain himself along the way.

“What do you mean, one of us killed George?” Faith asked.

“It's a fairly plain-spoken sentence. One of you is the murderer. I figured you assumed that right from the start. It was like each of you said, you couldn't imagine why anyone else would want to kill him. Therefore, it had to be one of you.”

“But that doesn't make any sense,” Tory said.

“Of course it does. You can protest all you want now about how much you miss him, and how heartbroken you are, but I saw you in the first moments after it happened. None of you showed the slightest bit of grief for your loss. That told me right there all I needed to know about whether any of you were capable of murder.”

“You really think all of us are potential murderers?” Emerson asked.

“I do, but only one of you could have actually done it.”

“Excuse me, but if I recall, you already interviewed us, and we all have alibis,” Faith said.

“Yes you do, but unfortunately for you, they aren't alibis for the murder anymore.”

“Wait. What?” Tory asked.

“I was hoping someone would ask that. As it turns out, our investigation has led us to a new realization. George Hobbes was not killed in this house.”

“Of course he was. You stood over his body,” Emerson said.

“I did, that is true. But he was killed somewhere else.”

“And just how do you suppose someone moved his body into the house, into that room, and locked it from the inside?” Faith asked.

“They didn't.”

“I'm confused,” Tory said.

“That's why I gathered you all here, to explain what happened.”

“I already know what happened. My no good drunk of a son killed my poor, beloved husband, because he's a greedy little sociopath,” Faith said.

“The hell I am. You probably killed him by stopping his heart, because you're so cold,” Emerson responded.

“Stop it, both of you. How can you think that any of us would have killed him? We're family,” Tory said.

“Exactly. No one hates quite like family. And since you said that, it was probably you,” Faith said.

Detective Knox took a step back, listening to the bickering with a hint of a smile on his face. A good show was hard to come by, and he was witnessing one here. The Hobbes family was boiling over, with Knox wondering how many years of therapy it would have taken to dredge up as much dysfunction as he had uncovered. He came to the conclusion that no amount of therapy could fix people who were fundamentally broken, because talking is not a solution. Talk can caress feelings, but it cannot rewire our brains, it cannot change who we are.

Transformations of the necessary kind, the ones that allow us to learn from our mistakes and never repeat them, require a hunger and desire for change. Speaking the words is not enough, it must be a belief that reaches the deepest recesses of our core, where it can be burned as a fuel to seep into every cell of our bodies. Detective Knox listened to the accusations flying back and forth, and what he heard were not genuine expressions of outrage and denial, but merely the facade being stripped off their communication. For the first time, they were saying what they truly thought of one another.

Detective Lane put his hand on Knox's shoulder, pulling him out into the hallway.

“This is getting ugly.”

“No, kid, this is getting real.”

“How long do we let them go on?”

“Just long enough to see if any of them realize just how screwed up they are, and how much they hate each other.”

“What's the point of letting them do that?”

“There isn't a point, really. I just think it might do them a little bit of good to get some of this out of their system before this is over, and they have no reason to speak to one another again.”

“That almost sounds like you care about them.”

“Don't speak of such heresy. My motives are still as selfish as ever.”

“Sure they are.”

“I swear. I'm getting a show right now, and then they hopefully won't kill each other when this is done, so I won't have to deal with them ever again.”

“That's what you tell yourself, but I know better. You want to help them, because that's what you do. You don't normally have the first clue how to do it, other than solving murders, but these are your kind of people. They're screwed up, just like you.”

“I can screw you up, you know.”

“Yeah, but you wouldn't do that to me. Not now. You'd never survive having to break in a new partner.”

“You're right. I'm too old for that.”

“So do you think they've had enough yet?”

“Yeah. It's time for the grand reveal.”