Текст книги "Best new zombie tales, vol. 3"

Автор книги: James Daley

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Irene thought she had the tears under control, but now they came again. "How do you know all these things?" she asked him.

"I thought we'd been through that. I'm your son."

At the risk of repeating herself, she said it again; this time the last word was more emphatic. "My son is dead."

He thought for a second or two. "Then who am I?"

"I... I don't know."

He put the jumper back inside the wardrobe and his eye caught something on the floor inside. Stooping, he picked it up; it was a small red racing car. Irene stood in silence as he brought the toy up to his face, turning it over.

There was a knock on the door downstairs, much the same as the one she'd answered earlier that morning. The 'stranger' in her home didn't appear to notice; he was too transfixed by the car her son had once played with and which had been left, forgotten, in the bottom of the wardrobe. The knock came again and Irene made for the door of the bedroom. She thought at any moment he would try to stop her from answering it, but he didn't. There was no hand on her arm this time, no sharp words. He–whoever he was–seemed to be in a world of his own.

She ventured down the stairs, more quickly than she had ascended them. Another shadow was visible through the frosted glass, but this time she knew exactly who it was. And for a moment, when she opened the door, it was like déjà vu. Irene was back in time, seven years ago, the two policemen standing at the door waiting to tell her the news. Except this time it was the uniformed officers waiting for her to speak, not the other way around. She'd known instinctively that Matthew had passed on even before she saw the Police Constables, just as she still knew he was dead– shouldbe dead. Now it was a case of how to explain it to the policemen without sounding like she was on some kind of medication.

"Mrs. Irene Daley? We've had a report of a disturbance," said the first copper, a young black man.

A disturbance? That was one way of putting it.

"That someone was in your house," chipped in the other officer, a much older man with a graying beard.

"Y-Yes," she said, not really knowing where to begin. "He's... upstairs."

"Right," said the younger man, entering the house. The older man put a hand on his shoulder and gestured up towards the top of the stairs. Irene followed their gaze and saw 'Matthew' standing there. It sent a shiver up her spine.

"Sir, would you mind coming down here?" said the bearded officer. "Hands where I can see them."

He started to descend, a disappointed but resigned expression on his face. He held his hands palm outwards, and there was nothing in them.

"Now," continued the older man, "perhaps you'd mind explaining to me what you're doing in Mrs. Daley's home."

The man said nothing.

"Mrs. Daley... have you been hurt at all?"

"No signs of forced entry at the doorway," the younger PC confirmed.

"I... I opened the door and..." Irene was still crying and they took this as a sign to proceed.

The young black officer turned the man around and handcuffed him, just to be on the safe side. Their prisoner stared at Irene, half in disbelief, half resentment.

"So, perhaps we can get a few things sorted out now," said the bearded PC. "Who exactly are you and what are you doing in Mrs. Daley's home?"

"I'm her son," he said at last.

"Her son, eh? Mrs. Daley, is this true?"

She hesitated for a second, then shook her head.

"My name is Matthew Daley," stated the handcuffed man as he was patted down. The young PC found nothing, no ID, no weapons–nothing, save for a small toy car in the man's pocket, which he handed to his colleague.

"So he's not your son?" pressed the bearded policeman.

"He... he looks like him, but..."

The police officers exchanged glances.

"I am him," insisted the man.

"You can'tbe!" screamed Irene, finally reaching the end of her tether. "My Matthew has been dead for seven years!"

The bearded man sighed. "There's obviously been some kind of misunderstanding here. I think the best thing we can probably do is take you down to the station for a little chat. Valentine, stay here and get a statement from Mrs. Daley." He tugged on the intruder's arm and tried to lead him out of the house. For a fraction of a second he held fast, refusing to move, and it looked like they were going to have a struggle on their hands to shift him.

Then he spoke again before allowing the bearded PC to take him. "Dad would have believed me."

Irene leapt forward, all her trepidation forgotten, her hands turning to claws ready to rake this intruder's flesh. Luckily the black officer saw this coming and was able to hold her back before she could do any injury. "Let PC Wilson take it from here," Valentine said.

"You'll see me again," 'Matthew' told her.

"All right, that's enough," said Wilson. The bearded copper led the man out the door and down the path. Irene watched with the other policeman standing alongside. A small crowd of people had gathered now, attracted by the police car at the front of the house. A man with ginger hair and a potbelly was leaning against his open doorway, scratching himself and eating a sandwich. The kids who'd been playing on the road had picked their football up; one held it under his arm like a headless ghost.

All paid attention now, all noticed. The handcuffed man was bundled into the back, PC Wilson slamming the door after him. Then the policeman climbed into the front and started the engine again.

The car drove off, away from the scene, and Valentine started to close the door. Something flew past them and out through the gap.

It was a small brown bird, a sparrow.

They watched it climb up into the air and join the others overhead, circling the house. Neither of them said anything. But as Valentine finally shut the door and took out his notepad, Irene couldn't help noticing the hallway was empty.

"So then, Mrs. Daley," Valentine said hopefully, breaking into her daze, "perhaps you could explain to me what all this is about."

Chapter Three

"Tell me again just why we're holding him?"

Detective Chief Inspector Robbins, a long thin streak of a man with cropped hair and a chin that was so lantern shaped people expected to see a flame flickering in his mouth whenever he talked, was leafing through PC Wilson's notes on their new arrival. He'd been woken early that morning by a phone call from his third ex-wife asking him if he'd taken the hedge trimmer with him when he left the previous summer, and if so, could she please have it back as her new boyfriend would quite like to make a start in the garden that weekend. There were several cases waiting for him on his desk when he arrived, which looked in no rush to solve themselves. And his acid indigestion was playing up again, making it feel like someone was stirring his guts around with a red-hot poker. So he was not in the best of moods, and definitely not in the mood for his time being wasted.

"We're not exactly holding him as such, sir," replied the bearded man, "I just thought it best to place him in an interview room before coming to you with it... while we figured out exactly what had happened."

"So?"

"Looked like a simple case of forced entry, except he claims he was let in, and even made Mrs. Daley a cup of tea."

The DCI's eyebrows shot up. "Your average hardened criminal then. Why are you bothering me with this?"

"Also claims to be her long lost son."

"Long lost, as in Australian soap opera plot?" said Robbins with a sarcastic smirk.

"No. As in deceased, sir."

Robbin's smile faded. "All right, you've got my attention. Maybe we should bring up a few records on our..." He read from the notes. "...Mr. Matthew Daley. Where's the mother now?"

"Valentine's with her, going over what exactly happened." Wilson opened his mouth, then shut it again.

"Go on, you looked like you were about to say something."

Wilson nodded. "It's just that there's something funny about this whole thing, that's why I came to you with it. There's something about him that gives me the creeps."

"How do you mean?"

"I can't put my finger on it," Wilson scratched his beard. "He just doesn't seem right to me." The veteran policeman had come across many people in his time, from all walks of life, and Robbins knew this. You got a sense about them, whether they were lying, whether they were about to punch you. When he said something wasn't right about this business, Robbins would be a fool to just dismiss it.

"You think he might have a screw loose, that it?"

"I don't know."

Robbins shrugged. "All right, what the hell. Let's see what we can find out about him. Then we'll have a nice little talk with our deceased friend."

~

The chair was uncomfortable, nothing like those in the house earlier. In fact this one was designedto make people uncomfortable, ill at ease. But if hefelt any discomfort at all he didn't show it.

Police Constable Frank Wilson stood by the wall as Robbins took a seat opposite the man. Wilson thought about the drive over to the station, how he'd kept looking in the rear view mirror, how the man had seemed to stare right back at him in the reflective surface. He hadn't said a word until they were halfway there, and then it was only to reiterate that he was Mrs. Daley's son, that he had made her a drink to calm her nerves, and he couldn't understand why he had been taken away. It was a thread that was picked up again when Robbins sat down, placing a manila file of papers on the table between them, and turning on the tape recorder to the left of him.

"Why have you brought me here? Am I being charged with something?" His words were even and considered.

Robbins turned it back on him. "Why do youthink you're here?"

The man sighed. "My mother rang you."

"And why do you think she did that?"

"She couldn't accept–"

"Accept who you are," Robbins finished for him.

There was no reply.

Robbins took off his jacket and hung it on the back of his chair. "And who exactly are you?"

"Her son."

Robbins shook his head. "According to her, and..." He tapped the files in front of him. "...according to this, Matthew Daley died seven years ago. With the best will in the world, you can't be him... trust me."

"How do you know?"

"It was before my time here, but I've read the medical reports, seen the photos," Robbins said, narrowing his eyes.

"Photos?" asked the man.

"From when they brought him in. You don't know, do you?" Robbins looked back over at Wilson.

"Know what?" asked the man, leaning forward.

"That's interesting." The DCI faced him again. "You don't know how Matthew Daley died. Why is that?"

The man said nothing for a moment, then, "I can remember some things, but... others are a bit hazy."

"Well, there is no way on Earth that you can be him, I assure you. There's a resemblance, I'll give you that, but Mr. Daley..." Robbins stopped himself, unable to continue. "You can't be him; simple as that. Which begs the question, who are you? Who are you really? And what did you want with Mrs. Daley? Money, was that it?"

"Money?" The man seemed confused by the accusation.

"Yes, were you hoping to get money from her?"

"Why would I want her money?"

"You're telling me her money wouldn't interest you?"

"Course not."

"Were you hoping she'd be so confused and upset that she'd just hand over whatever savings she had to you?"

The man shook his head violently, slamming his fist on the table. "I didn't want her money," he insisted. "I... I just needed to see her. She's my mother."

"I don't think we're getting through to him, Wilson," said Robbins. "As I said before, Mr. Daley is dead. He's been in Westmoor Cemetery, in the ground, for seven years. You, sir, on the other hand, appear to be remarkably spry." Robbins folded his arms and sat back in his marginally more comfortable chair. "Surely you can see how we–and Mrs. Daley–would have a problem with that?"

"I can't explain it, I just know that–"

"Listen to me!" shouted Robbins, "I don't know what your game is, but in this station we don't take very kindly to men who scare little old ladies out of their wits for kicks."

"I never meant to frighten her. I just–"

"You just needed to see her, yeah you said."

The man was wriggling about now, agitated. "Isn't there some kind of test you can do? You said you had medical reports there–"

"The reports from the autopsy," clarified Robbins.

"Isn't there something you can–"

Robbins laughed. "Why should we, when we already know the answer? You're not Matthew Daley, sunshine. Live with it." He realized the significance of what he'd just said and a mocking grin creased his face again.

"But–"

The DCI took something out of his pocket and placed it on the desk. "Care to tell me why you had this about your person when you were picked up?"

The man went rigid. His eyes were glued to the little red car now on the table.

"Thought it might be worth something?"

"It's... It's mine. Or at least it was."

The man reached out to take it from the table and Robbins grabbed his wrist. "You'd better start giving us some answers, whoever you are or..." He let the threat tail off, letting go of the man's hand as he did so. Ignoring him, the man carried on reaching out for the car and picked it up.

"PC Wilson, would you escort our 'guest' to a cell. Maybe some time alone will help loosen his tongue."

Wilson walked over to the man, hesitating slightly before taking him by the arm as he'd done when he led him out of Irene Daley's house. The man didn't look at Robbins as he left.

When they'd departed and the door closed; Robbins let out a long, slow breath. He rubbed his chin and opened up the file again, flipping through the reports and statements, notes from his predecessor DCI Croft. The same bloody Croft whose shoes he'd had to fill when he moved to this district. Hadn't been able to solve this one last murder, though, had he? Robbins was drawn again to the pictures, the photographs of Matthew Daley. He screwed up his face at the sights before him: the blood, the deep gashes, the plump bruising of the skin that had turned the flesh a dull violet color.

He slammed the file shut again and leaned back in the chair once more, arms behind his head this time. "No way," he said to himself in a whisper. "No way in the world."

~

PC Wilson placed the man in cell number thirteen, the only one free. It could have been worse, he thought, could've been a Friday.

"Here you go," he told him. "Now I suggest you think about what DCI Robbins said and drop the act, mate."

The man ignored him. His shoes and socks had already been taken off him, and now Wilson thought about asking for the toy as well. Prisoners weren't meant to have any personal effects in the cells. But something stopped him from doing so, and he left the man be.

"If you come to your senses, shout," said Wilson.

Then he shut the 'dead man' away, all alone in the small, dark, confined space. And as Wilson locked up and walked down the corridor he had the strangest feeling.

The feeling that this wasn't the first time the guy been shut away. That the last time it had been an even smaller, and even darker space.

Chapter Four

It was dark.

A blackness so overpowering, so unbearable it was like being drowned in pure liquid night. It was hard to gather his thoughts, but he felt sure he was walking, placing one foot in front of the other, just trudging on towards something. And he was granted a sense of where he might be–the walls of this place closing in on him, but they were round rather than flat, a roundness that stretched out into the distance. A tiny speck of light appeared at the far end of this tunnel. He felt compelled to look in its direction, an urgency to head towards it for some reason.

The light was growing stronger; it changed from a tiny speck to a bright glaring ball, meaning he was getting nearer to the end, although he didn't feel like he was walking at all anymore. Yet the light was still growing nearer. Perhaps he was floating; he had no idea, but it was a strange sensation. The light was getting bigger and bigger. Soon it would all be over, soon he would find out what was at the end of this conduit, what the light meant.

He put up his hands to stop it from blinding him, but it shone right through–such was its intensity. Then, suddenly, the light was upon him. He was a part of the light and it was a part of him.

All the answers, the things out of reach would soon be revealed.

Just a few more seconds, just a few more–

~

The hand shook him awake and gave him a start.

"Dead to the world." Inspector Robbins' face hovered above him in the cell. The man sat bolt upright on the bunk. "Time to wake yourself Rip van Winkle," he said in a snide voice.

The man swung his bare feet onto the cold tiled floor.

"We have a visitor for you."

"Mum?"

Robbins shook his head, grinning. "Afraid not. No, I thought about what you said–about checking you over. You're right; we have to make sure you're not whacked out on something that might be making you delusional. Wilson?"

The PC stepped into his field of vision, bringing someone with him–a woman in her late thirties, early forties. Her hair was a light shade of bronze, with the merest hints of grey beginning at the temples. She wore a beige trouser suit with an off-white blouse beneath the jacket. And she was carrying with her a black leather case.

"This is Doctor Preston," Robbins informed him. "She's going to examine you. Now, PC Wilson is going to be just outside, so don't give her a hard time, okay?"

Dr. Preston came further into the chamber, looking around her as she did so. Then their eyes met, only severing contact when Robbins said something to her.

"I'm sorry?"

"I said: twenty minutes all right?"

"Fine," she told him.

Robbins gave a satisfied nod. "All right then, we'll leave you to it."

The DCI exited the cell, with Wilson hanging back a few moments longer before leaving the door open a crack and waiting outside.

"So," said Dr Preston to break the silence that had descended, "what's your story?"

The man stared at her blankly.

"Not one for idle chit chat, I understand. Okay, well if you wouldn't mind getting undressed, we'll make a start."

He did as he was told, unbuttoning the shirt and shrugging it down over his shoulders. Then he took off his trousers; there was no underwear beneath. Preston opened her bag and took out the tools of her trade, listening to his heartbeat–steady and strong–looking in his ears, taking his temperature, testing his reflexes. It was there that she caught a glimpse of the birthmark on the top of his leg. It was dark red and shaped like a map of some unknown land. But she got on with her job, not giving it another thought. Everything seemed in working order. "Now this won't hurt much," she told him, taking out a needle, "I just need to draw some blood."

He nodded vaguely, looking down as she shoved the needle into his upper arm, pulling back on one end and filling it with redness.

"There, all done. You're in pretty good nick, if you'll pardon the expression," she said.

"I'm alive," he said as he got dressed again, and the sound of his voice startled her. She wasn't quite sure whether it was a question or a statement.

"Er... yes, in my professional opinion. Why, don't you feel very well?"

He laughed softly and caught her eyes again. "They haven't told you yet, have they?"

Preston's eyebrows creased. "About?"

"It doesn't matter, you'll find out soon enough."

"I don't like mysteries Mister–?" She waited for him to give her his name. When he didn't she said, "My first name's Bethany, by the way. Beth for short."

"Matthew," he told her. "My name's Matthew."

"There now, see–that wasn't so difficult. Right, well, I think we're all done here Matth–"

He shot out his hand so fast she didn't have time to move away, and his fingers were around her wrist seconds later–not tight, just enough to draw her face in closer. "What're you..." She was just about to call for Wilson when he said:

"Don't blame yourself. You did everything you could." His hazel eyes were intense, piercing, and she felt a shudder go through her entire body. " Shedoesn't blame you."

"What?"

"You have to let it go, all of it. All the guilt."

She wrestled her hand free, moving back sharply as if stung. Beth grabbed her bag and raced for the door.

"Sarah's happy," said the man plainly.

She closed her eyes and opened them again, looking back at him. "What... what did you just say?"

"You heard me."

The doctor was gazing at him in disbelief. "You... you can't..."

He turned away from her. "I'll see you again."

Beth yanked open the door and virtually walked into the PC who was standing guard there. She motioned for him to lock the cell again.

"Are you all right, Dr Preston?" he asked her.

But she didn't hear him. She was looking through the slit in the door, watching the man in there as he held up a toy car and stared at it.

"Dr Preston?" His fingertips brushed her arm and she jumped back. "I'm sorry."

"Take me to Robbins," she said. "Take me to your DCI right now."

~

For the third time that day there was a knock on the door.

This time it was PC Valentine who answered it, welcoming in the visitor Mrs. Daley had called at his suggestion.

"Is there anybody who could sit with you? Anybody you could ring?" said the black policeman once he'd finished taking her statement–a statement that made about as much sense as the rest of that morning's events.

Mrs. Daley had nodded, and he'd handed her the cordless phone.

Now he was here, standing at her door. And just as the dark uniform that Valentine wore betrayed his profession, so too did the dark shirt and suit that this man had on. But the most significant piece of attire was the dog collar at his neck.

"Father Lilley?" asked Valentine of the priest who was only marginally younger than Mrs. Daley herself.

He bowed his head in greeting. "Where's Irene... Mrs. Daley?"

"Through here." Valentine took him to the dining room; he hadn't been able to get her back into the living room at all. She was sitting at a small round table with her hands clasped together, bible to the right of them.

"Thank you, my son," said Lilley to the PC, noticing the woman flinch at those last two words. Then she got up and fell into the priest's arms.

"Oh father, I'm so pleased to see you."

"There, there," said Lilley, patting her back. "Whatever's the matter, Irene? I couldn't make head nor tail of your call." He looked to Valentine for an answer, but he was asking the wrong person.

"Some... something terrible. Matthew..."

The priest's expression changed and he cut short the embrace. "Matthew? I don't understand. I thought you'd had an intruder?"

"She did," Valentine reported, "of a kind."

"He... he looked just like Matthew, Father," Irene added.

It seemed like Lilley didn't know what to say, then he talked slowly as if to a child. "Irene, haven't we talked about this before? Matthew's gone. He is with Our Savior the Lord where he has found his peace. 'His kingdom isan everlasting kingdom, and his dominion isfrom generation to generation.' The Book of Daniel, Chapter Four, Verse Three. Matthew wouldn't want you upsetting yourself like this, now, would he?"

"He said he wasMatthew."

"The man in your house?"

She nodded.

"Said Arnold would have listened, would have believed him."

"Irene, Matthew's no longer with us. I buried him myself."

He saw that she remembered all too well that day: the angry clouds had gathered as if in sympathy, looking down at the patch of grass behind the church. A group of mourners, dressed in black, standing around the hole in the ground as the perfectly polished coffin with the brass handles was lowered into it.

Ashes to ashes. Dust to dust.

Irene had broken down on that day too. At one point he thought she might even stagger forward and follow the coffin into the ground. But instead she had held back, tears pouring from her eyes for a son who had been taken prematurely.

"Officer, who was this man?" Lilley asked Valentine.

"That's what we're trying to find out, Father. But he's insistent that he's Matthew Daley."

"That's impossible."

"I know," said the PC, a little offended that he had to explain that to the priest.

"I'd like to see him," said Lilley.

"Perhaps, in time," Valentine told him. "But for now..." He nodded towards Irene. "I think Mrs. Daley needs you here."

The priest's eyes flashed momentarily, as if he didn't like being told his job. Then the kindness returned to them and he said, "Of course." He led his charge back to her seat, pulling out the chair nearest to her for himself. "Don't worry, Irene. I'm sure this will all be sorted out soon. Everything that happens is according to God's design and purpose, even if we can't see it at the time. 'Trust in the Lord with all your heart, and lean not on your own understanding; in all your ways acknowledge Him, and He shall direct your paths.' Proverbs Chapter Three, Verses Five to Six." He held her hand in his and patted it. "Trust in the Lord, Irene, and He will show you the way."

~

"I don't like being hung out to dry, Steve."

Dr. Bethany Preston paced up and down in DCI Robbins' office, arms folded. He was sitting back behind his desk, watching her, like a member of the audience at Wimbledon.

"I wasn't hanging anyone anywhere," he said, after telling her repeatedly to calm down. He'd never seen her so agitated.

"You deliberately withheld information from me about that prisoner, didn't you?" As she said this last bit she jabbed her finger in his direction.

"I didn't want you walking into there with any preconceptions. Besides, you never asked."

Becky threw her hands up in the air. "And what exactly was I supposed to ask... oh and excuse me, but by any chance was this guy picked up for impersonating a dead man?"

"I told you everything you needed to know at the time."

"Bullshit. You told me he was a weird one, that he might be on something, and to try and get him talking if I could."

"You've done it before. You have a good... bedside manner."

"People tell me things, Steve. They trust me. I don't abuse that trust. Unlike some." Now she was standing with her hands on her hips.

"Let's not make this personal again, Beth."

"If I recall rightly, it was you who made things... 'personal' the last time."

He winced at that remark. "No need to dig up the past. What exactly did he say to you in there? What's really got you like this?" Robbins rose from his chair and leant against his desk.

She avoided his eyes. "Nothing."

"I don't believe you."

Beth raised her head, but her eyes were far from warm. "Your prerogative. But you're right about one thing."

"What's that?"

"He is a weird one. In fact, in all my years as a Doctor, and the last few years working for you lot, I don't think I've ever come across anyone quite like him."

Robbins folded his arms now. "No, me either. But he isn't Matthew Daley."

"You sound very sure of that."

"Oh come on, Beth. You've seen the photos and the report now, what that fucker did to him. It's just not possible. He was dead by the time they loaded him into the ambulance. The paramedics called it on the way to Accident and Emergency. They buried him for Christ's sake."

Beth rubbed her forehead. "I should be going," she said.

"Wait."

"Look, you want me to test the blood, Steve, I'll test it." She picked up her bag and left, shutting the door behind her.

Leaving Robbins to stare at the space she'd occupied only moments before.

Chapter Five

He saw things as he waited in his cell. More quick flashes he wished he could slow down, more images–this time accompanied by smells and sounds too. A burning, acrid aroma, a scream that turned rapidly into a yelp. The stink of faeces, a thudding. And there was music, a rock band belting out their latest hit for all they were worth. All of this mish-mashed into a nonsense as he sat there.

He'd been given his meals by Wilson, but the man couldn't bear to be in his presence for more than a few minutes. Not that it really mattered, not that any of this really mattered. The important work was still yet to be done; he felt that, knew it somehow. He knew what some of it should be, too, while other parts were still hidden. Just like his ragged and torn memory, some bits perfect, others barely more than fuzzy blurs.

As day passed to night and dawn broke again, he explored the confines of his cell more fully, discovering a spider's web in the bottom corner. There was no sign of the spider itself, but there was the carcass of one of its victims caught there on the fine gossamer strands. He felt exactly like that fly, stranded here. Trapped with no means of escape.

When Wilson next came in to bring him breakfast, he asked if there was any word yet from Dr. Preston. He also asked when he would be released and whether they were intent on charging him with anything.

Wilson could answer neither.

So he had to be patient. Wait until it all started to fall into place.

~

"It still doesn't prove anything," Robbins said as he gripped the phone tighter, bringing his other hand up and almost wringing the plastic.

"No it doesn't. But the man in your cells and Matthew Daley definitely had the same blood type," Beth told him down the line.

"Along with how many other millions?"

"Granted. But here's the thing: I noticed yesterday that the man you're holding has a birthmark on the top of his left leg."

"So? The autopsy reports don't mention anything about a birthmark," Robbins snapped.

"That's because the thigh was a bloody mess, Steve. But according to Matthew Daley's local practice, he didhave a birthmark on the upper part of his leg."

"All right, so they've both got birthmarks."

"Same blood type, same birthmarks, same height, hair color, eye color..." Beth continued.

"All right, all right," Robbins said. "But they can't be the same person. What're we talking here, twins?"

"I think Mr. and Mrs. Daley would have noticed if there was a baby missing at the birth," said Beth.

"A fluke, a look-alike?"

"I don't know what to tell you, Steve. None of this makes any sense to me. Not really."

Again he wondered just what had spooked her in the cell yesterday.

"But there were certain... anomalies in the blood itself," she said after a pause.