on the floor, a few drops of blood on the tile. She also saw the knife on the counter. It was the precise scene from that night twenty years earlier, a re-creation of the murder of Gabriel Thorne. Except that there was a new twist. There was a band of white paper and a red candle on the counter.
Jessica looked again at the kitchen floor.
Is this David Albrecht's body?
The horrors were piling up.
'Look,' Jessica began. 'Dr. Thorne is already dead.' She pointed to the kitchen.
Drummond glanced into the kitchen, at the body on the floor. He looked back at Jessica. His mind was gone, lost in some kind of vortex between the night of Thome's murder and now.
'It really is then?' he asked.
'Yes.'
Drummond began to nod rapidly. 'He was going to take her away, see,' he said. 'For good. That's why he had to die.'
'I understand.'
Drummond turned slowly toward the stereo cabinet behind him, touched the play button.
Christa-Marie seemed to return to the moment. She began to play a new piece, plucking one of the strings — the same note, twelve times.
'What is Danse Macabre without the chorus?' Drummond asked. He turned up the sound.
A moment later, beneath the resonance of Christa-Marie's cello, was a mix of sounds — street sounds, sirens. Beneath it all a chorus began to sing:
Zig, zig, zig, Death in cadence,
Striking a tomb with his heel,
Death at midnight plays a dance-tune, Zig, zig, zag, on his violin.
But somehow the loudest part of this new background was the sound of a baby cooing.
'The dead own the world tonight,' he said. 'Listen to them. I've been collecting their voices for years.' 11:56.
The voices began to grow in volume. Screams, shrieks of terror, death wails.
'Look,' Jessica said. She circled to her left. She had to get into the kitchen. 'My gun is down, Michael. I can't hurt you. The doctor is dead. Let the girl go. We'll talk.'
'It's not about me. It's never been about me.' Drummond began to sweat. He waved the razor around, bringing it perilously close to Lucy's face. The chorus of screams grew in the background. Christa-Marie's playing increased in volume.
The lady, it's said, is a marchioness or baroness
And her green gallant, a poor cartwright.
Horror! Look how she gives herself to him,
Like the rustic was a baron.
'She gave herself to him,' Drummond said, pointing at the body on the floor. 'She doesn't have long, you see. It had to be done.'
'Who doesn't have long?'
'Teacher. She's dying. That's why I had to write faster.'
Drummond took one step backward, into the kitchen, dragging Lucy with him. 'Listen to them all,' he said. 'Can you hear?'
'I hear, Michael.' 11:58.
Jessica moved forward.
'What about Gabriel Thorne?' she asked, gesturing to the body on the kitchen floor. 'Christa-Marie didn't kill him, did she? It was you, wasn't it? You and Joseph Novak?'
'Thorne was in love with her. He manipulated her.' Drummond shook his head, his eyes filling with tears. 'Joseph was weak. He was always weak.'
'But you let Christa-Marie take the fall.'
Tears ran down his cheeks. 'I've had to live with that for twenty years.'
Drummond backed to the center of the kitchen as Danse Macabre neared its final glorious section.
From somewhere beneath the cacophony came a man's voice: 'Michael.'
Inside, where the music lives, in that gilded hall, i watch and wait. Teacher knows what I must do.
There is one note left to play.
One final note.
At the sound of the man's voice everything slowed. Drummond held Lucy even more closely. Slowly, he lifted the straight razor to his own forehead and drew it swiftly across. Bright crimson blood washed his face, spilling onto Lucy.
Again, from somewhere: 'Michael.'
Drummond hesitated for a moment, his head cocked to the sound. 'Dr. Thorne?'
One more note.
One more voice.
Drummond looked at Christa-Marie, playing furiously in the music room.
They push forward, they fly; the cock has crowed.
Oh what a beautiful night for the poor world!
Midnight.
Michael Drummond lifted the razor high into the air. He pulled back Lucy's hair, exposing the white of her throat.
'Teacher…' he said.
As he brought the razor down Jessica saw the body on the floor move.
It was not David Albrecht.
Detective Kevin Byrne rolled to his right, raised his Glock 17 and fired, slamming a single bullet into Drummond's head, just above the man's right eye. Thick gobbets of bone and brain tissue burst from the back of Drummond's skull, onto the white-tiled wall.
Drummond collapsed face down onto the counter, onto the band of cloud-white paper, his bloodied face painting the sheet in a grotesque parody of a musical staff. His body slumped to the floor.
Jessica looked into the kitchen, the sounds of the discharged weapon ringing in her ears. As she stepped into the corner of the music room, and embraced Lucy Doucette, she met Byrne's gaze. He was covered with blood, not his own. He had been lying in wait. He looked at her, but his eyes saw something else, perhaps something that had happened in this room a long time ago, something that had just now come to a close.
The Echo Man was dead, his symphony now complete.
Chapter 101
For the second time this night, the Philadelphia Police Department processed a crime scene at this address. Dozens of personnel moved like silent ghosts through the now brightly illuminated spaces.
Outside, Jessica and Byrne stepped into the shadows. When they were alone, out of earshot, she turned to him, her anger at being left out of the loop seething within her. 'You've got about five fucking seconds to start explaining all this.' 'I know you're upset.'
'I'm way past upset,' Jessica said. 'When did you set all this up? Yesterday?'
'No,' Byrne said. 'Bullshit.'
She paced. Byrne gave her time.
'Jess, trust me on this. The arrest was real. Diaz and his team had evidence that the tattoos were mailed to my address. They also had hair and fiber evidence from my van. They came in hard to get me. I was completely blindsided.'
'What the hell were you doing here?'
Byrne looked at the house, then back. 'I'm not sure my answer is going to be good enough for you.'
