Double-checking the sample code and identification number, it looked like they had processed the right sample. I read farther down to see what the determination was.
SAMPLE TYPE: BLOOD.
DETERMINED: INORGANIC OR INERT.
That couldn’t be right. The sample was organic; it had showed up as organic under the ALS light; that’s why I had taken it. The pattern was consistent with the spatter from a gunshot wound. It had to be blood.
“I must be losing it,” I said, skipping to the end.
SUBSTANCE: UNKNOWN.
“The report says it’s not organic, that it’s some kind of silicate or something.”
“It’s an error at the lab,” Shanks said. “Let it go for now, and forensics will find something.”
I put the wineglass down and crossed over to the computer terminal. Originally, I had planned to wait until I was alone to look at the contents of the data card that I copied from the Craig house, but suddenly I didn’t want to wait anymore. I wanted to see who I was dealing with; I wanted to see his face.
“Faye—”
“This will only take a minute.”
The footage came up and I saw Rebecca Valle, still alive and sitting facing the camera as, presumably, she typed on the keyboard, which was out of frame.
“What’s that?” Shanks asked, leaning forward.
“I grabbed it from the computer at Craig’s place.”
On the screen, Rebecca’s face looked pale in the glow of the monitor. She glanced at the camera every so often, sometimes smiling, sometimes frowning. There was no sound to go along with it.
“Score one for me,” I said, “and zero for the voice in my head.”
“Huh?”
“You say I’m not losing it, Shanks, but I don’t know. I think I am.”
“You’re not, Faye. It’s not your fault.”
There was something strange about the way he said that, but I didn’t pick up on it right away. I was too busy watching the woman on the video screen as she wiled away the last moments of her life. It was so mundane, almost like watching someone watch television, that it was eerie in a way. She had no idea that her life was about to end. She had no idea that this was how she would live the last sane moments of her life, sitting in front of a computer screen.
“I got a pass on my last psych evaluation,” I said, “but I’m coming apart, Doyle. You see it. You pretend you don’t, but I know you do. I’m on too many chemicals and my body is getting too old for this. My mind is getting too old for it. I want to slow down just a little bit, but I can’t.”
The footage continued to stream by as I watched, and Shanks had gotten quiet. I wasn’t looking at him, but I guessed he was probably trying to figure out the shortest path to the front door. When I agreed to have him come up, I was pretty sure I had no intention of dumping all this on him, and I wanted to stop—I knew I should stop—but the relaxant I had taken along with the wine had loosened my tongue.
“There really is a voice in my head. I’m not even kidding about that, and the worst thing about it is that this voice, this inner me or intuition or whatever it is, makes half of my decisions for me, it feels like.”
Shanks sighed, and I thought he might leave. Instead he spoke again in that odd tone of voice.
“It’s not your fault, Faye,” he said. “This hasn’t been fair to you. I haven’t been fair to you.”
“What?”
He was quiet for a minute, and I could see he was struggling with something.
“You don’t know how important you are,” he said finally. “What you do, I could never do. I realized that after I got assigned to you and I’d worked with you for a while.”
“Shanks, that’s not—”
“Sometimes I think we forget that. Sometimes I think we forget that people like us will always need people like you.”
Slowly, my mind was refocusing. I realized that Shanks was behaving more strangely than I had ever seen him before. Something about his tone of voice had become very disconcerting.
“What do you mean, ‘people like you’?” I asked.
He looked me in the eye then, and for a minute I thought there might be tears forming in them.
“I’m really sorry, Faye.”
“Shanks, what—”
“You deserve to know.”
“Know what?”
“The truth.”
On the screen, Rebecca Valle turned as she heard the sound that lured her to her death. She got up and left the room.
“Wait,” I said, watching. The image stayed static for several seconds.
Shanks stood up and moved next to me, but I couldn’t look away from the screen. As I watched, the killer walked into the computer room. There was a little blood on his right hand, but he wasn’t carrying a weapon. He sat down in front of the camera, not realizing it was there, and I looked right in his face.
“Oh,” I whispered.
His skin was pale and waxy. He had a heavy brow and a wide face, with some kind of scar in the middle of his throat. He was wearing a dark coat with the hood up over his head, which appeared to be bald. At the bottom of the frame, around chest level, I could see what appeared to be explosives strapped around his torso, but that wasn’t even the strangest thing.
His eyes, looking down at the screen as he typed, had irises that were pale and silver, like moonlight. In the darkness of the room, they emanated a soft glow. I realized then that the scar on his neck came from the entry wound of a bullet. It was a revivor.
“We suspected,” Shanks said.
The blood that showed up under the ALS but wasn’t human blood, the complete absence of trace hair, skin, sweat, or saliva at the crime scenes, the lack of any detectable breath or heartbeat on the phone recordings; it all made sense. The killer wasn’t human at all. These people had been killed by a revivor.
“Doyle, no offense, but what are you talking about? Who the hell is—”
On the screen, the revivor turned and looked over its shoulder, as if something startled it. It started to get up, and disappeared.
I rubbed my eyes and checked the video, backing it up. When I replayed it, I got the same thing: the revivor turned, started to get up; then the area around it flickered and faded away until it was gone. It was as if it had turned invisible. For just a second, there was a distortion in the shape of a man in the air, then nothing.
Sometimes a single detail caused a series of others to suddenly fall into place, and what I saw on the footage was like that. The killer was wearing some kind of suit that cloaked him or camouflaged him. At the truck fire, I wasn’t seeing things. The human outline in the smoke that I thought was my imagination was real. The revivor that killed the Valles had been there; it stood right there in front of me. What was it doing there? Was it following me?
Standing up quickly, I felt the blood rush from my head and I stumbled back into the chair. Shanks started to catch me, but I had righted myself. What had he been talking about?
“Doyle, what did you mean, ‘we suspected’?”
The killer couldn’t have followed me to the truck; even if it was unable to be seen, it was far too big and the train was too crowded for it to go unnoticed. There was no way it could have been waiting there for me, because I didn’t know I’d be there myself.
The only explanation was that it was already there for reasons that had nothing to do with me. It was responsible for the attack on the truck. It was up to something bigger than a string of simple murders.
Shanks held out his hand like he was going to touch my arm, and when I pulled away, he looked hurt. The way he was looking at me made me very uneasy, like he had dropped some kind of facade. The things he was saying and the way he was acting seemed out of character. Had he been working for some other department this whole time? Had they had him watching me for some reason?
I thought of what the revivor had said on the phone.
