had this… sense that you recognized me despite the fact we’ve never met.’ A polite smile, and then she added, ‘I would have remembered meeting you.’
Then her expression changed, her eyes cursed by the same look he had seen in all victims of violence: that damnable need to know what she’d done to invite this horror into her life. Why she had been chosen.
‘Tell me why,’ she said, hot-eyed. ‘Please.’
Fletcher weighed the question on his cold scales. ‘Because they could,’ he said.
‘It has to be more than that.’
‘You lived in a nice home. They envied your possessions. You were available.’
She stared at him, wanting more.
He didn’t have anything else to give her.
‘Tell me they suffered,’ she said. ‘At least give me that.’
All three men had died the same way: wrists and ankles manacled and left alone to rot in the decrepit and soggy earthen belly of an abandoned mineshaft where their screams couldn’t be heard. Would knowing the details help her heal, or curse her?
‘I can assure you, they suffered,’ he said.
A moment passed. When he provided no further explanation, the woman nodded, then kept nodding, her head down at the last nod. She stared at the ground as though she had dropped something.
‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘Please take care of yourself.’
Fletcher got back behind the wheel of his car. The doctor continued to stare out at the water — a shell of a woman condemned to living in a grey-filtered daze, alone with a cemetery of memories and the ghosts of her loved ones whispering words she couldn’t understand.
44
Marcus De Luca had packed on a considerable amount of weight since the last time Marie had seen him. Short and stocky and cursed with a permanent five o’clock shadow, De Luca now looked like a former prizefighter who’d let himself go to pot. His shirt collar was unbuttoned to accommodate his multiple chins, and fat had crept into the thin, puffy and bruised skin beneath a pair of eyes that looked like raisins pressed into dough. He reeked of menthol cigarettes and dressed with the flair of an Italian mobster, complete with loafers with those god-awful tassels.
Like William Jenner, De Luca was a former Baltimore cop. The two patrolmen had been partners once upon a time. They had served together and, ironically, were about to be buried together.
At the moment, De Luca was sitting comfortably in the passenger’s seat of the Lincoln, mopping his brow with a handkerchief. They had just returned from setting fire to Gary Corrigan’s home. The former surgeon was now resting in the trunk, on top of the body bag holding William Jenner. De Luca had casually enquired about the second body bag. ‘Defective merchandise,’ Marie replied, suppressing a smile.
She hit the garage-door opener and backed into the funeral home’s wide loading bay, parking next to the hearse. Marcus De Luca, ever the gentleman, offered to perform the heavy lifting.
Marie held open the door leading to the funeral home’s basement level. Since the man had never set foot in there, she had to tell him where to go. ‘Take your first left and you’ll see the cremation unit.’
Marie stripped out of her coat as she trailed him down the hall. She ducked into a room, threw her jacket over the back of a chair and grabbed an apron on her way out.
‘Which one?’ De Luca asked, nodding with his chin towards the three separate doors to the ovens.
Marie unlatched the door to the first oven. De Luca swung the body bag off his shoulders and, cradling it in his arms, squatted a little and slid it inside.
‘Push him all the way back,’ she said. ‘That’s it, just a bit further… Good. Thank you. Are you sure you wouldn’t like some help with the last one?’
Marcus waved away the offer. He sucked in air, exhaling with a slight, crackling sound.
‘Put the other one in here,’ Marie said, and opened the door to the second oven. De Luca nodded and huffed his way back to the Lincoln.
She unlatched the door to the third and last oven but didn’t open it.
He came back with the body bag containing William Jenner slung over his shoulder. Since Jenner was considerably fatter, De Luca was grunting and sweating from the exertion.
She grabbed an end of the bag, feeling Jenner’s thick ankles beneath the plastic, and placed them inside the oven’s entrance. Then she stepped aside to give De Luca some room.
‘Same as before,’ she said, moving behind him. ‘Push it all the way back.’
De Luca ducked his head just underneath the oven’s door and gave the bag a good, hard push. Marie removed the concealed. 38 snub-nose revolver from her trouser pocket, pressed it against the back of his head and fired.
She threw herself up against his back, using her weight to pin him against the cremation unit as she dropped the gun on to the oven floor. With both hands she grabbed the man’s shirt collar and held him tight, his limbs jerking in protest and what was left of his head banging inside the oven as he bled out. She wondered if she’d have enough time for a quick shower. The funeral home had its own living quarters on the top floor; she and Brandon slept there during the week. A quick shower to wash away the smell of gunpowder, a change into something more comfortable and she would be on her way.
Mr De Luca had stopped his death dance. She dragged him over to the remaining oven. Christ, he was heavy. Thank God she had to drag him only a few feet.
Marie loaded him face first into the oven bay, gripping the back of his belt to keep him from falling out. Then she picked him up by the legs and pushed him inside. She was covered in sweat by the time she’d finished.
And she was covered in blood. It was on her hands and forearms, smeared on her apron and nice shoes and splattered across the floor and along the cremation unit itself. She gathered her supplies, cleaned up and threw the bloody rags inside the oven. Then she stripped out of her apron and clothes, threw them inside, fired up the ovens and walked upstairs wearing nothing but her birthday suit.
Showered and dressed in clean clothes, she headed back to the cremation unit. She smashed the bones and brushed out the ashes, collecting everything inside an ordinary plastic rubbish bag. The empty. 38 gun cartridge went into her trouser pocket.
Driving away in the Lincoln, Marie carefully paid attention to her side and rearview mirrors, searching to see if anyone was following her. She could feel the brass cartridge digging against her hip.
She had left behind two empty gun cartridges in Colorado. Normally, she would have picked them up, but there hadn’t been time — and she assumed the blast would have scattered them to Kingdom Come. She wasn’t worried about fingerprints; she had worn gloves as she loaded the bullets. Still, police crime labs could do all sorts of new and tricky things with evidence.
But the police weren’t involved — at least not yet. A cop wouldn’t have snuck into her house, tied up and then tortured Mr Corrigan. Someone else had done that. Someone had tortured Gary Corrigan for information before escaping with Nathan Santiago.
There were only two plausible scenarios. Either the man she’d shot in Colorado had, through some miracle of God, survived and was hot on her tail, hell-bent on revenge; or maybe the man he worked for, Ali Karim, had done the deed himself. If the mysterious Colorado man was alive, maybe he was working together with his boss on some secret agenda to find and kill her.
Then why didn’t he wait for me at the house? Why take Nathan Santiago and run? And how had he — they — found her house?
She had no idea, not even a working theory. The lack of answers made her feel cold all over.
Maybe Brandon was right. Maybe it was time to get out of Dodge while they still had time.
Then her thoughts turned to James Weeks and any idea of leaving vanished.
