murder, but then that might say something about the prissiness of the killers, mightn't it?”
“Perhaps, but I hardly call staking someone to a cross prissy.”
“I merely meant the killer or killers might feel squeamish about blood, that's all,” continued the man Jessica had assumed to be Chief Inspector Boulte. He stood fingering some of the artifacts on the death table and quietly introduced himself, shaking her hand.
“Then you gentlemen are of the opinion there is more than one Crucifier?”
“That has become, we feel, apparent.”
The Chief Inspector spoke in circles, Jessica realized. “But you are still surmising. No hard evidence of two DNA trails, two hair samples-nothing of a forensic nature to back your suppositions, I take it.”
“No, not as yet. But then, that's what you're here for, isn't it?”
Jessica nodded and said, “You won't be disappointed Chief Boulte, not by the FBI.” She was, after all, here on his buck. Still, forensic science did not set out to prove a previously established theory; it set out to prove the truth without any taint of preconceived notions. “I suspect that with each new kill, if he follows the pattern of most serial killers, our Crucifier will become more and more brash,” she suggested. “Stupid mistakes will follow, I assure you, Chief Inspector.”
Impressed by her assuredness, the man extended his hand once again, saying, “And when the killer's big mistake appears, you will be on him, or them, like a terrier, I'm sure.”
“You know me better than I'd thought. When it comes to murder I can be a Jack bull terrier, sir.”
The frank response took Boulte by surprise, forcing a nervous laugh from him, while Sharpe hid his own amusement. Jessica realized that Sharpe, who had stood aside to watch the sparks, had brought his superior to meet her here in order to show Boulte that Dr. Coran was already earning her keep.
Chief Inspector Boulte now smiled at her, finding her aggressive response to his liking, enough to take her hand hostage again amid his sweaty palms. He said, “I certainly meant no disrespect, nor to imply, Doctor, anything unsavory. Pardon my clumsiness with words. Are you finding London to your liking, Dr. Coran?”
“I hope to see a good deal more of it. I've only just come from the plane.”
“So Sharpe here tells me how eager you are to see the results of the Crucifier's maiming. Perhaps you will be my guest tonight for dinner? Allow me to show you the fairer side of our beautiful city, get your mind off this horrid business for a time, once you've finished up with Burton's body, of course.”
“Sorry, not tonight,” she said automatically. “I'm going to be quite busy tonight. I want to do my own examination of all three of the victims right away.”
“Burton, perhaps, but not the other victims, I'm afraid,” he replied. 'Two of them have been released. We don't like to hold on to them too long. Public opinion, PR, all that, you understand.”
“I thought they were pretty much without family.”
“Well, the first one, yes, but our freezer compartments are jammed this time of year, and she was getting fairly… ripe, if you follow.” He brought a guttural laugh from his larynx to spill out over his lips, but he didn't, thank God, drag it out.
Almost in apology for his superior, Sharpe said, “We do have limited space, and Whitehall hasn't seen fit to improve the situation for the past several years now, not to mention the problem with burial plot space, and true to form, division tells us that if we fail to use what space we have left, we shall lose it. The commonwealth will seize it, as it were.”
“Where did the body go for burial?”
“She was buried in a potter's field, ancient place in Southhampton owned by the city of London,” began Sharpe, his apologetic tone getting much work this morning. “Not one of your more exotic London walking tour cemeteries, I assure you.”
“We've got them buried in potter's fields here in layers,” added Chief Inspector Boulte. “Some burial plots house as many as four and five residences, one atop the other.”
Sharpe, paying little heed to Boulte's attempted thunderbolt of information, continued, saying, “Most A.N. Others are cremated, to save on space in the cemetery.” She liked the way he pronounced cemetery as cemel-tree. “Still, as chief investigator, I did insist we at least keep O'Donahue's body intact for the time being in case we need to review anything later.”
“Probably a wise move, Inspector,” she told him, holding the railway stake up to the men. “I'd really like to see what kind of a hole this made in her flesh. But, of course, we'll need more than my curiosity to get an exhumation order. I'm sure your government bureaucracy is at least as prickly as ours in America.”
“I'm sure we've got you Yanks won on that tally,” Boulte replied.
“Second victim's family had a burial plot in Hempstead,” explained Sharpe. 'Took the body there.” She allowed her surprise to color her features. “Really? I thought the family was estranged from him.” Again, Sharpe clarified for her, saying, “Funny how a crisis of this magnitude can break down those artificial barriers people impose on one another. Besides, the tabloid press gets interested and all sorts of roaches crawl out of the woodwork. The Coibbys were no different than the usual run of the mill. Still, blood is thicker than water, they say. And for having not seen the man in so long, the members of the family I spoke with were extremely and understandably shaken at how he met his end, dying as he did, you see.”
“So, do you have victim number three for me to look at, or has someone carted him off, too?” she asked point-blank. “He's here,” assured Sharpe. Then he looked at Boulte for reassurance of the fact. “Right?”
“Yes, of course, as I said earlier to Dr. Coran,” Boulte replied to Jessica even though he answered Sharpe, his eyes lingering as his hand had earlier done. “Knowing that you were on your way, we held tight to Mr. Burton, 'The Mole.' “ Boulte laughed again, annoying her. Then he feebly explained, “That's what the lab guys are calling him, not me.”
“And why are they calling him a mole?”
“His features suggest something of a cross between a ferret, a blind mouse, and a mole.”
“I see, then he was, as they say, a plain man?”
“In every respect, yes… Quite ordinary, really.”
'Take me to see your Mole Man, then, please.”
SIX
Evil sleeps and awakes at the tip of the human tongue, often benign, often not, but always present, in a place where deceit has found refuge over the centuries.
They were each and all clothed in robes, their faces shrouded in the manner of supplicating monks. They'd gathered to hear their leader and to determine their next move toward bringing on Christ's new Kingdom on Earth.
The walls were as dark and dingy as their robes; they might have blended into their surroundings had they not been animate. Nearby, the sound of trickling water beat a rhythm, and torches only created glowing circles of light that reached but did not penetrate the blackness of the tunnels all round them.
Like the approach of the year 2001 itself-so terribly long in coming-they shambled nearer, ever nearer with each passing day, hour, ticktock. They feared they'd begun this quest far too late, that there simply would not be time enough to complete the task and bask in the afterglow of accomplishment.
Still they held out hope-faith really-hopeful faith instilled on a daily basis through prayer and their leadership. For hope was ever extended to them, and all of mankind, by God the Father and the Son and the Holy Ghost.
Their leader also in deep cowl, now gripped the enormous pulpit which stood in the foreground of an ancient wooden cross standing upright, fixed and waiting, a cross empty and waiting for a new Chosen One to take the place of Christ. Some twenty-six followers paid rapt attention to the man at the pulpit, hoping his words would console and lift them up.
He cleared his throat and the sound of it echoed off the weeping walls here. Then he said, “The number four,
