That was the only difference — the presence of monkey fur. Given time, the welfare of each set of monkeys was entirely different.
The baby monkeys with the fur bottle were happy, healthy and playful. Then you looked into the cage without the fur. The Rhesus monkeys were all rocking like psychiatric patients, some on their own like lost shadows, others clasped together in lines and rocking as one. And like her, they gnawed their little monkey arms right down to the bone.
Poor monkeys. For want of a scrap of comfort, a pretend mother, they’d started to destroy themselves with the anxiety. Like her, gnawing her thumb. She could taste blood. It was comforting to taste blood. Why was that? Was it food? Or was it company?
Then there was a noise. It was a different noise. Suddenly, she was alert. It was a clanking sound. Like metal on metal. Then a creak. Then a bang.
A door! There’s a door out of the Kingdom of Darkness. Hope swelled in her chest. Then fear pushed it back down to her stomach.
Footsteps now. They were definitely footsteps. It didn’t seem to matter to her then whether it was the killer or not. At that point, the killer was her saviour.
Someone was at the door of her dark cell. She scrambled her way to a corner. There was the sound of a key in a lock. Then the sound stopped.
Suddenly, a loud click and the room burst into light. Bright, bright light — as fierce as the midday sun. Her eyes burned and her hands rose to cover her eyes. Then he was there. In the same instant.
Something was put over her head. It felt like a tight fitted hood. She could smell it. It was made of new leather. Was he just going to kill her like that? Not a word. The hood was pulled tight and fastened below her chin. Then his hands moved away. She was so weak and disorientated that there was no fight in her.
He was behind her, lifting her to her feet. His hands found her bare neck. She was thinking about dying. She didn’t mind now. Best to go quickly and quietly.
How long can a body go without air? It’s a matter of minutes and seconds. There’s such a fine line between life and death, between the infinite variety of being and the singleness of non-being. Why was she thinking these poetic things? The stranger was lifting her off her feet. His forefinger and thumb pressed against her arteries. Her body fought for blood and air, desperate sudden lunges rising up through her muscles, the terrible clawing agony in her lungs, in her veins. Then she relaxed into his body. A scrap of fur, any fur, even pretend fur. Even killer fur.
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?
