Chapter Ninety-Three

The Catskills

December 3, 1.14 p.m.

Two black and chrome Federal vehicles sped up the last stretch of the hillside track towards the small fishing cabin. The wildlife hadn’t heard noise like that for a long time. The big tyres and wide vehicles ripped the path apart in their wake.

They found the cabin quiet and still. The two cars screeched to a halt and six black-suited FBI special agents got out in unison. The sight was strangely out of keeping with the romance of the small rural retreat. Tom Harper emerged from one of the cars in his long black overcoat. He instinctively looked into the woods and listened out for birdsong.

Special Agent Baines stared at the cabin. He hoped to God he was right. The heart of every investigation was detailed groundwork, nothing else, and they’d done the work on this one. After the kidnap of Denise Levene, they’d gone back to the phone call that tipped them off about the threat to Rose Stanhope.

The recording was clear enough. Baines could tell it was a male and not much else, but the techies at voice analysis could tell a whole lot more. ‘What you got, guys?’ Baines had asked. ‘This is our one and only lead, so it better be good.’

The two guys staring hard at the green EQ on the screen hadn’t even looked up. ‘Okay, it’s a male, in his late thirties to early fifties, probably mid-forties, but this isn’t exact. He’s a smoker, there’s a definite nodule or two in his vocal cords. You can hear it, right? The gruff throaty tone? Well, he’s a New Yorker through and through. Probably from Brooklyn. His parents, at least, are from Brooklyn and he’s educated. His vocabulary scores high. Degree and postgrad level study. He works with his voice too, by the sound of it. He’s got a high score on evaluative language. He’s probably science trained, so as he says he’s treating a patient, I’d tend to think of him as a psychiatrist or therapist.’

This agreed with what the guy had said on the phone. Baines had been pleased, but it was still a whole lot of nothing. A native New York therapist in his forties who smoked. They still had to find the guy.

Baines decided on a search on foot. Get into every practice, speak to the receptionist, play the tape. Meanwhile, if the guys looking through the professional databases scored a hit, they’d lost nothing.

Earlier that morning, two special agents entered Marty Fox’s practice and were told he was still on extended vacation. They played the tape and the receptionist smiled. That was Marty. In a few minutes they had the records of his meetings with a guy called Nick Smith. Dates, times and psychological analysis. He was treating this killer for Dissociative Identity Disorder. It didn’t take them long to find out that Nick Smith was another false name, just like John Sebastian.

They still had to find Marty and see if he had more information. That took only forty minutes. He had a cabin registered in his tax records. At that point, the hawks flew from the field office out to the cabin in the hills.

Tom Harper smelled the wood smoke rising from the stack. It was a beautiful place to hide out. They stood for a moment until the door opened and Marty Fox and his wife stood there, like the happy couple.

‘Martin Fox?’ called out Baines.

‘Yes, sir,’ said Marty.

‘Special Agent Baines of the FBI. We’re investigating the homicide of Senator John Stanhope and Rose Stanhope. We’d like to talk to you.’

Marty’s face crumpled. ‘Christ, no, really? They’re dead?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘He said it wasn’t real!’ said Mrs Fox. ‘He said he was just being cautious.’

‘You didn’t leave your name, sir. You could’ve helped us on this.’

‘I thought I had. I thought you’d be able to protect them. I didn’t know he was a killer.’

‘Sir, we’re taking you back to your offices,’ said Baines. ‘We need to know everything you got on this guy. This is Detective Harper, part of the task force. He’ll be in the car with you. You happy to talk to us, sir?’

‘I’m sorry,’ said Marty. ‘I gotta say, I’m sorry. Jesus. I didn’t know. I didn’t know he’d hurt anyone else. He threatened us, my wife, that’s why I left a message and came up here. I’ve got nothing here. No phone, no TV. Good God. Dead?’

‘Dead.’

Chapter Ninety-Four

Mace Crindle Plant

December 3, 1.30 p.m.

She woke up. She was sore but she was alive. How many hours had passed? She didn’t know if he had gone or was sitting with her. She couldn’t keep silent any more. She was close to breaking point. She didn’t want to speak to him, but she couldn’t bear it any longer. ‘Why are you doing this to me?’ she said.

There was silence for a moment, then the low whistle again. It started coming closer. Closer and closer.

Then she heard the sound of his shoes on the grainy concrete floor and the shuffling of a chair, the slight rustle of his clothes. Why was he staying so quiet?

‘Why are you doing this to me?’

Was this some kind of game he was playing?

She’d woken up on a chair. She wasn’t dead. That was her first thought. Why wasn’t she dead? She remembered dying, but now . . . she was here again. She wasn’t dead: there was too much sensation, too much pain, too much fear.

Her arms and legs were tied to the chair. There was a tight hood over her head and eyes, but she didn’t seem to have anything more than bruises.

‘I want to know why!’

The figure behind her stirred. It whistled. The same low whistle. Her body shivered. She couldn’t help it. It was recognition. The whistle was her scrap of sanity in the dark and now it was up close and dangerous. She heard him rise to his feet. Her body tensed in fear. His footsteps were coming round in front of her. What was he going to do?

He touched her. A horrified pulse ran through her spine. A finger on her lips. She went still like an animal playing dead. Dead, dead still. The finger was cold. It was pushing her bottom lip down. She was resisting opening her mouth. She didn’t want him to open her mouth. She didn’t know what he was going to do, but his finger pressed more forcefully.

He whistled low and long and continued to press.

Finally, her mouth opened obediently. Was he looking at her mouth? Was he thinking? An object moved against her lip, then her teeth. It was hard. No, not very hard. He pushed it in her mouth and closed her lips.

It was a half-moon shape and soon the taste registered on her tongue.

Apple!

She nearly whimpered. The simple pleasure of a slice of apple. She was being fed. Food was sustenance, sustenance was life - he was sustaining her. She sucked on the piece of apple, then crunched into it. The juices on her tongue felt so concentrated, it was almost painful. She chewed and swallowed.

What next? He didn’t do anything else. A minute passed. She wanted more. She wanted more apple.

Slowly she opened her mouth before him. As a bird would to its mother.

He pushed another piece of apple into her mouth. So this was what he wanted? He wanted her to need him?

She chewed the crisp, juicy flesh. It was heavenly. She missed the earth and its gifts. Air, sky, fruit, grass and fields. The simple horizons.

She felt him close. He was behind her. He was uncuffing her hands. Then he knelt and untied her legs. What was he going to do?

Suddenly, he turned on a water tap. She could hear it, but with her leather hood could still see nothing. The water ran to the top of a bucket. Then she heard it overflowing. They were both concentrating on the bucket. He with his eyes, she with her ears.