What the hell did that mean? These men wouldn’t know evidence from cauliflower. “Take us through,” Wilson growled. “We’ve gotta see for ourselves.”
The patrolmen went with them, the whole crowd going floor to floor. Becky saw the empty rooms in better light, but her mind could not blot out those plaintive cries.
They looked carefully in all the rooms but found nothing.
When they got back to the basement Wilson was shaking his head. “I don’t get it,” he said, “I know you heard something.”
“You do?”
“I heard it too, you think I’m deaf?”
Becky was surprised, she hadn’t realized that he also had heard the sound. “Why didn’t you go up with me then?”
“It wasn’t a child.”
She looked at him, at the cold fear in his face. “OK,” she said, swallowing her intended challenge, “it wasn’t a child. What was it?”
He shook his head and pulled out his cigarettes. “Let’s get the shit to the lab for analysis. That’s all we can do now.”
They left the house with the clomping horde of patrolmen. With their meager evidence tightly enclosed in plastic bags they headed back to Manhattan.
“You think this will reopen the DiFalco case?” Becky asked.
“Probably.”
“Good, then we won’t be moonlighting on it anymore.”
“As I recall we got taken off that case. Or do you recall something else?”
“Well, yeah, but in view of—”
“In view of nothing. We’re going to be the scapegoats now. Neff and Wilson get case. Carbon monoxide and wild dogs. Neff and Wilson close case. New evidence comes in. Case reopened. Neff and Wilson scapegoats for closing it in the first place.” His throat rumbled in a suppressed cough. “Goddamn Luckies,” he said. “Goddamn, you know I could be resigning soon.”
“You won’t resign.”
“No, not voluntarily. But it depends on how hard Underwood wants to stick me with blame for misunderstanding the case.”
“But it’s only one damn case.”
“It’s police officers killed in the line of duty. If it gets out that Underwood himself closed the case he’ll lose his shot at Commissioner. Therefore you and yours truly are going to be blamed. Might as well relax and enjoy the fun.” His shoulders shook with mirthless laughter.
“Maybe there’s something more conclusive. If there is it’ll help a little.” She paused. The silence grew. “Who do you think is doing it?” she asked.
“Not who—what. It’s not human.”
Now he had said the words, words they had previously been unwilling to face. Not human. Could not be human. “What makes you so sure?” Becky asked, half-knowing the answer.
Wilson looked at her in surprise. “Why, the noise, of course. It wasn’t human.”
“What’s that supposed to mean? It sounded perfectly human to me.” Or had it? Becky remembered it now like something that had taken place in a dream, a child’s voice or… something else. Every few seconds it was as if she woke up and heard it again— horrible, inhuman parody full of snarling menace… then child again, soft, wounded, dying.
“Look out!”
She slammed on the brakes. She had been about to glide broadside into the traffic of Third Avenue. “Sorry. Sorry, George, I—”
“Pull over. You’re not in good shape.”
She obeyed him. Despite the. fact that she felt fine, there was no denying what she had almost done. Like the little cries were still taking place, but in a dream. “I feel OK, I don’t know what came over me.”
“You acted hypnotized,” he said.
She heard the noises again, feral, snarling, monstrous. Sweat popped out all over her. She felt cold, her flesh crawling. Her mind turned back to the stair, to the terrible danger that had been waiting for her, the same as the torn, bloodied corpses, the jagged bones and skulls.
With her hands over her mouth she fought not to scream, to give up completely to the terror.
Wilson came across the seat as if he had been waiting for this. He took her in his arms; her body rattled against his thick shoulders; she pressed her face into the warm, scruffy smell of his ancient white shirt, distantly she felt him kissing her hair, her ear, her neck, and felt waves of comfort and surprise overcoming and pushing back the panic. She wanted to pull away from him but she also wanted to do what she did, which was lift her face. He kissed her hard and she accepted it, passively at first, then giving in to the relief of it, and kissed him back.
Then they separated, propelled apart by the fact that they were in a car recognizable to any policeman. Becky put her hands on the steering wheel. She felt sick and sad, as if something had just been lost.
“I’ve been wanting to get that out of my system,” Wilson said gruffly. “I’ve been—” Then his voice died away.
