Текст книги "Visions"

Автор книги: Kelley Armstrong

Соавторы: Kelley Armstrong,Kelley Armstrong
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CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

I scooped up TC and got the hell out of that house, not stopping until I was on the front sidewalk. Then I called Gabriel. It went to voice mail.

“Goddamn you,” I muttered, then said, “Gabriel? I need you to call me now. This isn’t a joke. Call me.”

I hung up and dialed 911. No more screwing around. I didn’t care if Ciara’s head vanished before the police got here. My conscience could no longer rest knowing that she was dead and I was carrying on as if nothing had happened. If Gabriel would have advised otherwise, well, then he should answer his damned phone.

My call went to the state police. I asked if I should report a problem to the local PD instead and they said yes. Did I want them to connect me? Just then my phone beeped with an incoming call from Gabriel. I asked the dispatcher for the number instead. Records would show that I’d placed this call. Better to speak to my lawyer now.

“I’m in town,” Gabriel said before I could speak. “I need the address. If you don’t know it—”

“Did you get my messages?” I said. “Any of them?”

“Messages?”

He waited patiently until I finished cursing him out and then said, “Is something wrong, Olivia?”

“My damned cat just found Ciara Conway’s head. In the house where he was trapped.”

“Do you have an address?” he said, less casually now.

I gave it to him. “It’s over—”

“I know where it is. I’m less than a mile away.”

“I’ll be waiting out—”

“Stay on the line, Olivia. Tell me what happened.”

I did. His car careered around the corner as I was getting to the part about calling 911. He’d climbed out and was closing the car door when TC zoomed past me.

“Watch out!” I said before he slammed the door on the cat.

TC jumped into the Jag and perched on the front seat.

“You might not want him in there,” I said. “He has claws.”

Gabriel closed the door. “At least we’ll know where he is.”

“Just don’t bill me for the damage.”

He took a flashlight from the trunk, then walked over. “As I was saying, yes, you were correct to call 911. It establishes a timeline, as does my call. I will handle contacting the local police, but I want to take a look inside first. Verify that the head is still there and keep it within sight. You can wait in the car with the cat if you like.”

“It’s not the head that sent me flying out of that house. It’s remembering what happened the last time. I got out before I was knocked out.”

“Good. Did you hear anyone inside?”

I said no, then explained about the attic door.

“That is odd,” he said as I led him into the yard. “But the basement door did something similar, and I don’t believe it ‘just stuck.’ Let’s see what we have.”

The head was still at the bottom of the attic steps. The head. That’s how I thought of it now. Disconnected from any formerly-living human being, because otherwise my gut started shouting, “It’s her head. Ciara Conway’s head. Severed from her body. Carted around. Tossed into a bed. Dragged by a cat. Pushed down the stairs. The poor girl’s head.” The horror and the indignity of that was too much. So it became “the head.”

Gabriel seemed to have no such issues. He crouched and examined it from all angles.

“It appears to have been preserved,” he said. “Most likely embalmed. That would explain the lack of rot and of scent, though TC still picked it up. A substandard job, then. Is it in the same condition as the last time you found it?”

I nodded.

He straightened, frowning down at the head as if it perplexed him. “You said you presume TC came in through the open basement window?”

“Yes. He’d been down there awhile. Fortunately, he had water and found food.”

“Meaning he could have been down there since he disappeared. Right before you found that head in your bed. Which he then found in the same house where he’d been trapped.”

“And that makes no sense, which means the head must have been planted while I was rescuing him. I was trapped in the basement just long enough for that to happen.”

“Possible, but that presumes the killer was either following you on your jog and took advantage—having the head conveniently nearby—or he was already in the house. I suspect TC didn’t jump through that window. He was brought and left here. That could mean there is no one in this house tonight. TC was being kept here, as was the head.”

“Which he smelled through two stories? Despite it being embalmed? And that doesn’t explain stuck and unlocking doors.”

“I know. It’s not a puzzle we’ll solve tonight. For now, we need to call the police. First, though, I want to take a look in the attic. Do you want to come or guard the evidence?”

“I’ll go. You can guard.”

“That wasn’t one of the options.”

“I know,” I said as I brushed past him.

Gabriel didn’t try to stop me, but he didn’t hang back at the foot of the stairs, either. He came up until he could see what I was doing, while keeping one eye on the “evidence” below.

“Don’t touch anything,” he said. “Try not to leave too many footprints.”

“I’ve been shedding hair lately. Is that a problem?”

“I will explain the footprints and any additional forensic evidence by saying you came up after the cat. I’m merely asking you to keep that evidence to a minimum.”

“I was joking about the hair.”

“I wasn’t. Quickly now. We’ve established a timeline, and the longer it takes to phone…”

Unlike the basement, this space wasn’t empty. It wasn’t exactly jam-packed, either, just dotted with covered furniture and storage chests. From the dust, none of it had belonged to the previous owners. Not unless they’d moved out fifty years ago. As I walked, I remembered what Gabriel had said about footprints, and I stopped dead, cursing under my breath.

“What’s wrong?” Gabriel’s head crested the steps.

“You mentioned footprints. If someone’s up here, that would be a sure sign of it.” I backed up a few steps and waved my light around.

Gabriel gave me 1.3 seconds before saying, “Anything?”

I took another five before answering. “Not even my own, because someone has swept a path. I can see a few of TC’s prints, but he seems to have stuck mostly to the cleared part. Meaning at the end of this path, presumably, is where the head was. Or where the killer is lying in wait.” I raised my voice. “Did you hear that? I know where you are!”

“And now he knows where you are,” Gabriel muttered.

“Like he wouldn’t have the moment we started talking. Also, it could be a she.”

“Olivia…”

“I’m moving. Following this handy path to my doom. Did I mention I had a vision down there? I think it was some kind of banshee. Which is—”

“I know what a banshee is, and I hope you’re joking, and that you would not venture up here after hearing a death knell.”

I said nothing.

“Olivia…?”

“Hold on.” A few more steps. “I think I see where…”

I trailed off as I shone the flashlight at the path’s end. It was a table. Covered in a sheet. With something under that sheet.

The rest of Ciara Conway.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

As Gabriel phoned it in, I moved around the table, illuminating every surface with the flashlight beam. The swath swept around the table left enough room for the killer to maneuver without leaving footprints. I couldn’t smell the body or the embalming fluid; the stink of bleach was too strong. He—or she—had washed everything down. Laid Ciara out here, covered her, cleaned up, and left.

When Gabriel finished his call, he came up for a look himself. He surveyed the area and then scanned the floor with the flashlight, until he was reassured I hadn’t messed up anything. We left the sheet in place.

“We should wait downstairs,” he said.

We went down to the second-floor hallway. As we waited, I told him about the banshee. I was showing him the owl triskelion when a voice called, “Hello!” from the back door. The police had arrived.

Gabriel handled things from there. I’d met the chief before. Eddie Burton. A quiet man in his forties, with a wife and two teenagers who’d come along to the diner with him for dinner once a week. Sending the chief wasn’t unusual. He was pretty much the entire force. There was a local college boy taking police sciences who worked during the summer months, and two of the elders—Veronica and Roger—who volunteered. That was it.

Burton gave absolutely no sign that he considered me in any way connected to this crime. That surprised me. I’d just found a dead body mutilated postmortem … and my parents were supposedly serial killers who’d mutilated their victims postmortem. Even I wondered if there was some connection. Yet when Gabriel explained what had happened, Burton accepted his account.

I supposed it was pretty damned unlikely that I’d call the cops if I’d killed Ciara. Paw prints in the attic confirmed my story, as did those in the basement, along with the dead mice and my cat’s condition.

While Burton seemed to know what he was doing, I expected they’d need to call in the state police for this. I was wrong. As far as Burton was concerned, this was just a dump site. The city would handle the murder investigation, picking up from the missing persons’ case, and they’d want to process the scene. Escorting them in seemed the extent of Burton’s duties. That and the paperwork.

“Gonna be a lot of paperwork,” he said with a sigh. Then he flushed. “No disrespect to Ms. Conway. Horrible way for a girl to go. Horrible for anyone, of course, but a nice girl like that…” He shook his head. “I hope they catch whoever did this.”

He said it with all due gravity, but with the distinct air of one who’d play no role in that “catching.”

“Won’t they at least consider the possibility she was killed here?” I asked.

“Doesn’t seem like it. Looks like some kind of sicko serial—” He stopped, his pale face flushing again. “Sorry, Miss Jones.”

“I meant, couldn’t she have been killed within Cainsville, if not necessarily in this house?”

He looked as if I’d suggested aliens had murdered Ciara Conway. “We don’t get that sort of thing here.”

“I’m sure Cainsville has a very low murder rate—”

“It has no murder rate,” he said. “Never been a homicide. Accidents, sure, but that’s it.”

I glanced at Gabriel, expecting a faint eye roll that said he’d dispute this—in private—later. But he nodded and said, “Chief Burton’s right. Which is not to say that I share his opinion that this murder absolutely could not have taken place within the town limits, but it seems unlikely. However, given the hiding place for the body, the killer may have a connection to Cainsville, as Ms. Conway did.”

“Hopefully an equally distant one,” Burton said. A rap sounded at the door. “That’d be Doc Webster. If you two would like to get on home, you can just let her in on your way out.”

“Thank you,” I said. “And thank you for making this easy.”

Another frown, as if he was trying to figure out why he wouldn’t have made it easy, and I was reminded yet again why I loved this town.

“Next time you come by the diner, coffee and pie are on me,” I said.

His frown deepened. “That wouldn’t be right, Miss Jones, but thank you for offering.”

Gabriel had gone ahead to let Dr. Webster in. I stopped partway to the door and turned back to Burton.

“I’d like to apologize to the owners for breaking in,” I said. “Are they local?”

“She was. Died a few years back.” He hastened to add, “Cancer. She was seventy. Had a husband, but I’m not sure if he’s around anymore. Alive, I mean. The house was hers, and he moved back to the city after she died. He never really got used to Cainsville. Left as soon as he could.” A note of wonder in his voice, as if he couldn’t imagine such a thing.

“So it’s owned by her children?”

“Never had any. They married late in life. Nephew owns it, I think. Maybe great-nephew. He’s never lived here, and there’s some reason it can’t be sold. Contested will, maybe? It’s complicated. Damned shame, too, place like this. Should have a family living in it. You leave a house like this empty and…” He waved toward the attic, as if to say harboring corpses was the fate that befell abandoned homes. “Damned shame.”

It was.

TC hadn’t scratched up Gabriel’s car, which was a relief because I had not failed to note that he’d never actually replied when I said I wouldn’t be on the hook for damages. I took him back to my apartment and he happily trotted inside. TC, that is—not Gabriel, although he did come in, without comment or request, rather like the cat, presuming he’d be welcome and making himself at home.

Gabriel watched TC settle into his cardboard-box bed. “He certainly seems happy to be home, which suggests he didn’t leave willingly.”

I got the lone can of tuna down from a cupboard. “Or he did, and he regrets it now.”

I opened the can. TC sprang up and flew onto the counter, purring urgently as I dumped the tuna onto a plate.

“I don’t know what happened,” I said. “And I’m not sure I ever will. Too many unknowns, which seems to be the story of my life these days.”

I pointed Gabriel in the direction of the files I’d brought home. While he fetched the pages he needed, I looked around the tiny kitchen.

“Can I make you a coffee? Tea? I’ve got a few Dr Peppers in the fridge. After tonight, they’d probably go down a lot better with a couple ounces of rum or whiskey, but I haven’t gotten around to alcohol stocking. Sorry.”

Gabriel waved the apology off. “Soda’s fine. I don’t usually drink.”

“I suspected that,” I said as I got out the pop. “No matter how bad a day we have, you’ve never said, ‘God, I could use a drink right now.’ I know I have. Silently. Many times.”

“Then say so. I’m not a recovering alcoholic, Olivia. Nor do I have any issue with others imbibing. I do have a drink sometimes, socially, but otherwise … it’s not for me.”

Because of his mother. I was sure of that. Whatever mistakes she’d made, he was determined not to repeat them or share her weaknesses. Which is probably why I’d known never to say, “God, I could use a drink,” in front of him.

“Rose has a liquor cabinet,” he said, rising. “Put those back and we’ll go over there, get you something.”

I shook my head. “I was kidding. I don’t need—”

“I saw her light on. We should speak to her anyway, about your vision.”

I sighed. “I’m not running to her every time something strange happens to me.”

“Why not? She enjoys the challenge. This isn’t like running to a fortune-teller every time you have a decision to make. You are experiencing events with a clear preternatural origin. You can’t simply ignore them.”

He looked impatient, a little annoyed, as if I was refusing to visit the dentist for a sore tooth.

When he checked his watch, I said, “Go on home. I’ll be fine.”

“That wasn’t what I meant.”

“You were reminding me that I’m being unreasonably stubborn, while you’re here, helping me, out of the goodness of your heart.”

A flicker in his eyes. My darts rarely pierce Gabriel, but every now and then they manage.

“You got my messages to turn back,” I said. “You didn’t come out here to help me. You came because I’m not sure I made the right choice agreeing to work for you, and you wanted to seal my employment, through obligation if necessary.”

“That’s ridiculous.” The words were said with the right degree of scorn and affront, but if you hang around Gabriel long enough, you learn to detect the tonal shifts that give lie to his words.

“I would like you to speak to Rose,” he said. “It’s not yet ten. Come along.”

I considered letting him go out the door first then locking it behind him, but that was petty. Besides, he could pick the lock.

“At least call her first,” I said. “She did have a date. Just because she’s home doesn’t mean she’s alone.”

He gave me a perplexed look.

“Call,” I said.

He did.

Rose didn’t have company. And she wasn’t particularly happy about it.

“Waste of my night,” she grumbled when I asked her how it went. “We’re still on the appetizers, and he asks if I know how to bake banana bread. Can you believe that?”

“First dates are awkward,” I said as we walked into the front room. “He was probably struggling to make conversation.”

She snorted. “Conversation, my ass. I can tell you why he was asking. Because his late wife baked banana bread and he misses it. For date number two, he’d invite me to his place, where I’d find all the ingredients and her old recipe. Widowers. They aren’t looking for companionship; they’re looking for a new housekeeper. This is why I should stick to women.” When I looked surprised, she shrugged. “I’m flexible.”

“Widens the dating pool,” I said as I sat.

“It does. I’m updating my profile tonight. Widowers—and widows—need not apply.”

“You found him through an online service?”

She scowled at me. “Ask me in that tone again when you’re no longer a skinny twenty-five-year-old, and we’ll see if your attitude changes, missy.”

“I wasn’t judging. I’m just not sure that’s safe.”

A grunt from beside me elicited a glare from Rose.

“Don’t start, Gabriel,” she said. “I’m well aware of your views on the subject.”

“Because I’ve defended two clients accused of crimes committed against women they found through an online dating service. Neither was guilty, of course—”

“Of course,” I said.

“But the fact remains that it does not seem a safe way to find a relationship. With either gender.”

She turned to me. “So you’ve stumbled into trouble again. Shouldn’t the omens warn you against that?”

“I don’t know. Shouldn’t the cards warn you against bad dates?”

She grumbled under her breath. “All right. Explain.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

Rose handled the discovery of Ciara’s body as matter-of-factly as her nephew had. To them, the point was what it meant for me—why the corpse was being used to threaten me, and whether tonight’s events were a continuation of that threat or mere happenstance.

I showed her the photos of the dining room and parlor friezes.

“Where is this?” she asked, her voice tight.

“Beechwood Street. It’s a Victorian with leaded windows—”

“The Carew house,” she said. “I wasn’t sure which empty house you meant. There are probably a half-dozen in Cainsville at any time, owned by the town. They aren’t an easy sell to newcomers between the commuting issues and the approval committee.”

“Approval committee?” I said.

“For new purchasers.”

“Is that legal?”

“It’s been challenged a few times,” Gabriel said. “But race, religion, sexual orientation, and socioeconomic status play no role in the process, so it isn’t discriminatory. It’s all about whether you’re suitable.”

“Which is a very nebulous determination,” Rose said. “As off-putting as it sounds, the average prospective home owner does pass, and those who don’t? Do you really want to live in a town that doesn’t want you? They move on. All that, however, means that sometimes houses don’t sell, and the homeowners won’t be happy if it’s because of local politics. So if a house is on the market more than six months, the town buys it. Then they keep it for someone from Cainsville. Usually a young couple who grew up here.”

“Chief Burton thought there was a legal issue holding up the sale.”

“There was. Years ago. But the town owns it now.”

So I could buy it? The words were almost on my lips before I realized how horrible they sounded. Ciara Conway’s body had been found there only an hour ago. And my first thought was, “Really? It’s for sale?” Yet there was something about the house, a pull I couldn’t shake.

Rose continued, “The reason I recognize the house is these.” She pointed at the photos I’d taken of the friezes. “I remember going there as a very young girl. My mother would take me for readings.”

“The owner was a psychic?”

“Not … exactly.” Rose’s gaze rose to meet my eyes. “She could read omens.”

I opened my mouth to say, “What?” but nothing came out and I sat there, goose bumps rising on my arms.

“You knew someone who could read omens?” That was Gabriel, a chill creeping into his gaze. “I think Olivia could have used this information sooner.”

“There wasn’t any information to give her. I vaguely recalled a woman in Cainsville with the same gift. I’ve been going through my old diaries, trying to remember details. I also wanted to speak to the elders, see if someone remembered her. When I had more, I planned to tell Olivia.”

“That’s fine,” I said, ignoring the look on Gabriel’s face that said otherwise. “This woman who lived there—she could do what I do?”

“I believe so. From what I recall, my mother would go to her for guidance. The woman would ask questions, interpreting omens that my mother had seen, and suggesting a course of action. A variation on what I do. She died before I came into my own power. Otherwise, I’m sure I would have had more dealings with her.”

“Then she’s not the woman who lived there last.”

“Oh, no. The one I knew was at least ninety, and I wasn’t even school age yet. As I recall, her husband built the house for her, which explains the friezes. I vaguely remember a grandson and his wife who lived there when I was growing up. At some point it was bought by the last owner.”

Gabriel cleared his throat. “The point is that this house was owned by someone with the same ability as Olivia. That is worth looking into, as someone using that house is threatening Olivia. Show Rose the triskelion.”

I did, and I told her about the vision.

“Bean nighe,” she said as she rose. “The washerwoman.”

“So not a banshee?”

Rose took a book from her shelf, flipped through it, and laid it open for me at a folklore encyclopedia entry on bean sidhe.

“Banshees,” she said. “Bean sidhe is the Irish Gaelic spelling of the word. It’s been anglicized as banshee.”

“And a bean nighe is a form of bean sidhe,” I said as I read. “It’s an old woman who washes the clothing of the dead. Which isn’t quite what I saw– No, here it is. Gwrach y Rhibyn. Is that how it’s spelled? That’s worse than bean sidhe. It’s the word from the vision, though, and the description matches. Ugly old woman washing in a stream while wailing death warnings. A Welsh cross between the bean nighe and the traditional bean sidhe. It’s not a fetch, though. She’s warning me of death in general. I’m guessing it was an omen telling me Ciara’s body was upstairs. As for why I saw it when I stepped onto the triskelion…”

“I’m presuming it has something to do with the original owner,” Rose said. “It seems to be some sort of conduit, possibly activated by those three lights. I’ll look into it. Now, tea?”

“Olivia was hoping for—” Gabriel began.

“I’m fine. I should get back home.”

“Not tonight, after what happened,” Rose said. “You’ll go back with Gabriel and pack an overnight bag while I make tea.”

I argued. It didn’t help. So I shut up and got my bag.

Gabriel left at midnight. I stood in the front room window as the taillights of his Jag vanished into the darkness. When I turned, Rose was there, watching me.

“He should have left when I got my bag,” I said. “He really didn’t need another late night like this. He’s tired. Overworked.”

“You’ll be helping with that.”

“With his workload, yes. But I’m the reason he’ll be getting home at one this morning when he has a court appearance at nine.”

“He’ll be fine. I don’t think he sleeps more than five hours under the best of circumstances. What you’re seeing isn’t exhaustion. It’s strain. The situation with you is part of it. Gabriel isn’t accustomed to personal drama. It’s untidy and it confuses him.”

“Uh-huh.” I turned back to the window.

“I’m serious, Olivia. He is accustomed to clients being angry with him. Furious, even. It’s part of the process—they’re fighting for their freedom and they never think their lawyer is doing enough. Gabriel knows he will be vindicated at trial, when they see him perform miracles. If they do remain angry—and I’m sure some do—he doesn’t care. It’s a business relationship. Yours is more than business. Your opinion of him—and your continuing relationship with him—matters. My nephew is not accustomed to that, and he’s struggling with it.”

Be patient with him. That’s what she meant. Except that, with Gabriel, excuses felt dangerous. Cut him slack and he’d haul in as much rope as he could, then think you a fool for letting him.

I thought of another reason he might be exhausted, another source of stress. One I was much more comfortable with, because it had nothing to do with me.

I turned from the window. “Has he identified the photos of his mother yet?”

“Photos of his mother?”

“At the police station.”

As a crease furrowed between her eyes, I realized he’d never told her.

“Sorry,” I said quickly. “I thought– You should ask him about it.”

I started for the stairs, mumbling about my morning shift. She stepped into my path.

“Olivia. What are you talking about?”

“I shouldn’t—”

“Yes, you should. And you will. What is this about Gabriel’s mother?”

I hesitated, but I could tell by her expression it would be cruel to walk away without explaining. So I told her.

“It might not have even been a photo of Seanna,” I said as I finished. “Will Evans was clearly trying to separate me from Gabriel and—”

She walked to her desk and opened a drawer.

I continued, “—Gabriel might have already established it wasn’t Seanna, which is why he never mentioned it to you, and—”

She handed me a small photo album, opened to photos of Gabriel. He couldn’t have been more than thirteen. He had his wavy black hair, pale blue eyes, and strong features—too intense for a gangly, acne-pocked adolescent. What I recognized most, though, was his expression. Wary, as if he was ready to bolt at the slightest provocation. But there was challenge there, too, a hardness already. As if he was hoping for provocation. An excuse to run. To escape.

The photo Rose wanted me to see, though, was in the top corner.

“Seanna,” I whispered.

“Is that who you saw?”

I nodded. Rose lowered herself into a chair.

“Dead,” she whispered. “All this time, she was dead.” Grief crossed her face, but she blinked it back. “This would explain some of the strain.”

“Maybe a lot of it.”

She shook her head. “It’s not as if this means he’ll now realize his mother was a good woman who didn’t abandon him. How much do you know about the situation?”

I told her.

“I suppose you’re wondering how I let it happen,” she said.

“No, Evans told me Gabriel didn’t let on Seanna had disappeared, and when you found out, he ran. He kept going until he was over eighteen. Too old for anyone to put him in foster care. Presumably you wouldn’t have gotten custody. That’s what Evans said.”

“I wouldn’t. I have a criminal record.” She glanced over, as if gauging my reaction. When I gave none, she continued, “I was also living with a woman at the time. I’d have given her up in a heartbeat for Gabriel, but the fact remains that I would not have been deemed a suitable parent. As for Seanna, I knew she wasn’t making an honest living, but for a Walsh, I’d have been more shocked if she was. There’d been drugs in her youth, but she told me she gave that up when Gabriel was born, and she hid the signs from me. I only knew she was not a good mother. She neglected him. Yet even there, I couldn’t prove anything. There was no obvious physical abuse or anything like that. She was just a lousy parent, and there are plenty of those.”

She fussed with the blinds before continuing. “Gabriel certainly wouldn’t give me more ammunition. He was as stubborn as a child as he is now. If I interfered, Seanna would refuse me access to him. So I told myself that being a good aunt was enough, that taking him when I could was enough. After she disappeared, I learned the rest, from the police. The addictions—to drugs, to alcohol, to men. And the disappearances. By the time she left, she’d been taking off for weeks at a time. Even now, Gabriel won’t confirm that. He doesn’t talk about it. Refuses. Push and I’ll stop hearing from him for a while.”

“So about this … confirming her death. I shouldn’t push?”

“No, he has to do it, which means he’ll need a push. You might be the only person who can get away with it.”