Linger: Dying is a Wild Night (A Linger Thriller Book 1) Read online

  The house itself matched its environment, looking much like an elaborate mountain cabin, an A-frame with knotted pine siding and a rustic, early pioneer vibe. But there was an attention to detail in the trim and deck rails and window treatments that revealed its owner’s skill with wood, and Kate had no doubt that he’d been a terrific cabinet maker.

  She opened her door and got out, looking past the yellow crime scene tape toward the deck and large bay window that dominated the front of the house. The glass reflected the moon and it was hard to see inside, but there was no sign of movement, and she saw no flashlight beams illuminating the blood spattered walls.

  So maybe she was alone out here.

  As a precaution, however, she unsnapped the holster at her hip for easy access to her Glock.

  Better safe than sorry, as her mother used to say….

  With this thought, a jumble of images filled Kate’s mind—crime scene photos of her mother’s battered corpse. When she first made detective, she had hoped to reopen what was now a very cold case, but she’d never been able to get beyond those photographs, a woman she loved more than anything, beaten and strangled and left between two Dumpsters. Over the years, she kept promising herself that she’d take another look one day, but that day had yet to come.

  Shaking the images from her mind, she ducked under the tape and started across the drive toward the front deck, but stopped short when she caught sight of the door.

  The lockbox attached to the knob hung open—the door itself ajar.

  Kate was the one who had formulated the combination for that lockbox, and only the members of her team knew it.

  So how had it been breached?

  Feeling her heart kick up, she glanced back at the Rambler, knowing now that her hope that it was abandoned was nothing more than that. Someone—undoubtedly a reporter—was inside poking around in her crime scene, looking for something to juice up the story. As if it needed juicing.

  But then another thought entered her mind.

  What if it wasn’t a reporter at all? Or even a curiosity seeker? What if it was the killer himself, doing what few perpetrators actually did: returning to the scene of the crime?

  Was there something inside he wanted?

  Something he hadn’t found five nights ago?

  A trophy?

  Some evidence they’d missed?

  Kate unholstered her Glock and hoped she hadn’t been spotted, although the sound of her engine had been a pretty good indication that someone was outside.

  Whoever was in there could be watching her right now, waiting for her to make a move. And common sense dictated that she turn around, get back in her car and call for help.

  Stupid cops were often dead cops.

  And Kate wasn’t stupid.

  She was about to start back to her SUV when something in the bay window caught her eye. She was at a different angle now, and the glare of the moon was less pronounced, shining light inside instead of back at her.

  She thought for a moment that she must be seeing things, that her mind was mistaking shadow and light—and maybe a piece of furniture—for something other than it was.

  But no.

  A boy stood in the Branford’s living room.

  A boy in a hooded sweatshirt.

  Crouching low, Kate pointed her Glock toward the door, then moved closer to the window, and peered inside.

  The boy was small, maybe eleven or twelve. He stood square in the middle of the room, on a carpet stained with dried blood, an evidence marker at his feet—the spot where Alicia, one of the twins, had been found. He was rocking back and forth, staring straight up at the ceiling as if he were studying a crack or some water damage.

  And his eyes. Even in the pale light, there was something unearthly about them. Dark corneas covered by a fine milky film.

  Was he… blind?

  Kate quickly scanned the rest of the room and saw nothing but furniture and shadows. The boy couldn’t be the driver of the Rambler, so who was with him and where were they?

  Knowing she should go straight back to her car, she decided that maybe she was stupid after all, because something about this boy compelled her to move forward.

  Something… unexplainable.

  And then it happened.

  She heard a voice inside her head—a child’s voice—like a distant, nebulous radio transmission from some other planet:

  … Etak, olleh …

  The sound stopped her cold. What the hell?

  She glanced around, saw no one else in the vicinity.

  … Etak, olleh … Diarfa eb t’nod …

  Tightening her grip on the Glock, she turned, looked at the boy again, then closed her eyes and shook her head.

  She knew she’d been working too hard, but this was insane. This voice… this… whatever it was… had to be a product of stress and sleep deprivation and she needed to pull herself together.

  Keeping the Glock raised, she opened her eyes again and waited, afraid for a moment that whatever she thought she’d just heard might return. Then she stepped past the window, put her back against the wall and sidled up to the door, nudging it with her toe.

  As it swung inward, she shifted her weight and pivoted, quickly taking in her surroundings as she eased into the living room.

  The place was empty and quiet, except for the boy standing in a pool of moonlight, still rocking back and forth, those unearthly eyes staring at the ceiling, his quiet breaths barely audible in the stillness.

  Hyper alert, Kate studied him, wondering if she was hallucinating. “Who are you? What are you doing here?”

  The boy said nothing. Showed no indication that he even knew she existed.

  Was he deaf, too?

  “Are you alone in here, or is there someone here with—”

  “He won’t respond to you when he’s like that,” a voice said.

  Startled, Kate whipped around, training her Glock on a dark doorway to her right. The shadowy figure of a man stood facing her, and her skin prickled with surprise and sudden fear.

  “Police,” she told him as a spike of adrenalin shot through her body. “Don’t you move. Don’t you fucking move.”

  4

  _____

  “I’M NOT ARMED,” THE MAN said. “I don’t even own a gun.”

  A vague hint of the South tinged his voice, a barely-there Appalachia that reminded Kate of an attorney she’d met years ago in one of her criminology classes.

  Heart pounding, she unclipped the mini-mag from her belt and shone it at him.

  Early to mid forties. Graying. A rugged, lived-in face. Hands tucked into the pockets of a faded Burr jacket. He squinted slightly against the light, but she noted a haunted quality to his dark eyes, and sensed they’d seen many of the same horrors hers had.

  “Hands,” she said tersely, gesturing with the Glock. “Show me your hands. Slowly.”

  He didn’t resist, taking them out to show her they were empty.

  “Now lift the jacket and turn around.”

  He lifted his jacket and spun slowly around, revealing no signs of a weapon. A pencil and a spiral bound notepad protruded a good four inches from his back pocket and Kate now thought she knew what she was dealing with.

  She glanced at the boy, who was still rocking quietly and staring at the ceiling. Grabbing the back of the man’s jacket, she shoved him up against the nearest wall, held the flashlight with her mouth, and gave him a quick pat down.

  When she was done, she said, “Who are you? Are you a reporter?”

  The man laughed softly. “No.”

  “Then what’s with the notepad?”

  “I always carry it with me.”

  That wasn’t an answer, but she let it go. “What’s your name?”

  No response.

  “I didn’t find a wallet. Don’t you carry one of those too?”

  “I left it in the car.”

  “Of course you did.”

  She knew she should slap some cuffs on this guy and cal
l for assistance, but something compelled her not to. She felt off her game and slightly disoriented and couldn’t explain it.

  Instead she released him and stepped back, keeping the flashlight and Glock trained on him as he turned around. “Move to the center of the room. Get next to the boy.”

  The man did as he was told as the boy continued to rock and stare at nothing.

  Was he autistic? In some kind of trance?

  He was really starting to creep her out.

  They both were.

  She gestured. “What’s wrong with him?”

  “Nothing. He’s doing what he always does.”

  “Which is what?”

  The man hesitated. “Gathering.”

  Kate had no earthly idea what that was supposed to mean. “What the hell are you talking about? What kind of fruitcakes are you two?”

  She heard her father in that remark and didn’t much like it.

  “We don’t want to cause trouble. We didn’t expect anyone to be here.”

  “So you see the place is empty and decide to break in? Did you know the Branfords? Are you a friend of theirs? Family?”

  The man shook his head. “I’ve already said too much.”

  “You haven’t said a goddamn thing. Just tell me what you’re doing here.”

  He didn’t respond.

  She kept the flashlight beam in his face. “What’s your relationship to this boy? Are you his father?”

  “Guardian,” he said.

  She’d heard that one before, and the creep factor multiplied exponentially.

  She needed more than this damn flashlight. She needed the overheads on, and maybe the added light would bring the kid—and her—back from planet What-the-Fuck.

  “Don’t move,” she said, then went to the wall and tried the switch. Nothing. She stepped past an overturned lamp stand, then crossed to an end table, tried the lamp there and got the same results. Either the power company had prematurely pulled the plug or these two had tampered with the electrical panel.

  But to what end?

  “Are we under arrest?” the man asked.

  “What do you think? You’re contaminating a crime scene.”

  “We haven’t touched anything.”

  “Except the lock box, right? How long have you been here?”

  “Maybe ten minutes or so.”

  “And does your little friend ever snap out of it or is he suffering from some kind of brain damage?”

  The man made a face. “Why are you so hostile?”

  “Gee, I don’t know. Maybe because you don’t belong here?”

  “Look,” he said, “I appreciate your caution, but I’m unarmed and I’ve done everything you’ve asked.”

  “Except answer my questions.”

  “Could you at least quit pointing that gun at me. I’ve seen what they can do too many times.”

  “Meaning what? Are you a cop?”

  He laughed again and shook his head. “No.”

  “Then who the hell are you?”

  “Nobody you need to be concerned with. I can promise you that.”

  “Forgive me if I don’t feel reassured, Obi-Wan. You saw the yellow tape out there, yet you chose to ignore it. You know exactly what happened here. And if you don’t tell me who you are and what the hell you’re…”

  The boy suddenly moved his head, shifting his sightless gaze from the ceiling to stare straight into the flashlight beam.

  Straight at her.

  … Etak, yako s’ti …

  And there it was again, that strange, nebulous radio transmission inside her mind—an odd foreign language that was impossible to translate.

  … Diarfa eb t’nod … Uoy rof gnitiaw neeb ev’i …

  What the hell was happening to her?

  Kate took a step backwards and then the boy’s entire body started to quake, shimmying and shaking as he stood in place. The overhead lights flickered on, then went out again as his knees buckled and he fell to the floor, his back arching, his feet twisting, his body bucking wildly.

  Shit.

  A seizure. He was having a seizure.

  The man dropped to a crouch beside him and began loosening his clothes.

  “A towel!” he shouted. “I need a hand towel or a wash cloth—quick.”

  Kate was at a loss. “For what?”

  “I don’t want him to swallow his tongue. Check the bathroom—please!”

  Kate didn’t need any further prompting. Tucking her Glock in its holster, she rushed through the side doorway into the hall, using the mini-mag to light her path. She’d been in this house enough times to know exactly where the bathroom was—at the far end and to the right.

  She got to it and barreled inside—a cavernous place with double sinks and a Toto toilet and wood everywhere, with the same attention to detail as the outside trim and window treatments. This was one of three bathrooms in the house and stood adjacent to the two younger daughters’ bedrooms, and Kate could see them in here, getting ready for school every morning, fighting over who got to shower first—a ritual that had ended five nights ago in the most brutal fashion imaginable.

  She dashed to the linen closet in the corner and threw it open, using the flashlight to illuminate the stacks of towels, searching until she found the shelf holding the wash cloths.

  She snatched one up and as she turned to leave, it suddenly struck her— Wasn’t that whole swallowing your tongue thing a myth?

  Emergency response was part of every officer’s training, but that had been a long time ago and she’d be damned if she could remember. She was a major crimes detective, used to dealing with burglars and rapists and dead bodies, not victims of epileptic seizures. But she had a feeling she’d just been conned, and conned good.

  Fuck.

  Stupid cops were also often embarrassed cops, and she had just won the gold medal for morons.

  Yanking her Glock free again, she lit out, nearly bouncing off the walls as she hurtled back down the hallway, ready to open fire if that creep or his kid tried to intercept her.

  But they didn’t.

  To nobody’s surprise, when she got back to the living room they were gone, nowhere to be found, and Kate heard a car engine firing up outside.

  The Rambler.

  She glanced toward the window, saw its headlights go on, then dashed through the front doorway and onto the deck, raising the Glock with both hands.

  “Stop!” she shouted. “Stop right now!”

  But they didn’t stop. The Rambler lurched forward and made a quick U-turn as Kate ran into the drive and blew past the yellow crime scene tape.

  “Stop, goddamn it!”

  She was tempted to fire, but knew she couldn’t, not with a kid sitting in the back seat.

  How would she explain that?

  Instead, she focused on the license plate, which was barely legible in the moonlight. It was an original from NORTH CAROLINA, black and yellow, the words DRIVE SAFELY stamped across the top. She committed the tag number to memory, trying one last shout for good measure— “Stop!”

  But she was wasting her breath. The Rambler came perilously close to burning rubber as it dug out and disappeared down the road.

  Kate lowered her weapon, letting loose a string of angry curses. She was a veteran cop, for Christ’s sake, the head of her squad, yet she’d felt out of sorts from the moment she got here and had handled herself like a ham-handed amateur.

  And she could almost hear her father cackling with glee.

  5

  _____

  IT WAS THE BOY, SHE decided. The boy who had thrown her off. Those eyes and that odd, rocking trance and that nebulous radio transmission that had filled her head—which she knew was impossible—yet felt as if it had come directly from him.

  Etak, yako s’ti.

  There had been more, but that was all Kate could remember, and she wasn’t sure she even had that much right.

  Etak, yako s’ti.

  And the sound of it—that sound—a l
anguage that seemed so familiar, but was impossible to place.

  Jesus—was she losing her mind?

  Easy, Kate. Take it easy.

  You’re fine. You’re golden. You aren’t losing anything.

  Stress. That’s what this was. From the case, and her father dying, and her guilt over hating him… And then there was her failed marriage, and the thoughts of her mother’s battered corpse—

  —and that boy. That strange, yet compelling boy.

  Even the best cops have an off day, and while she was better than most, she didn’t come close to being the best. She knew that.

  Though she tried. God knew she tried.

  Come on, Kate. Man up, pull it together, grow some gonads. You blew the play, so quit your whining and make it right.

  Sitting in her car now, she took a deep breath, reached for the mic on the dash and radioed the dispatcher, giving him a description of the vehicle and its occupants and the number of the North Carolina license plate.

  A decrepit old Rambler should be easy enough to spot. And before long, she’d have the boy and his evasive creep of a guardian in custody, and then the real interrogation would begin.

  It might not solve her case…

  …but it was bound to be interesting.

  6

  _____

  IT PROBABLY WASN’T A GOOD idea to be playing games with the police.

  As they drove out of Oak Grove and headed back toward the city, the man thought about their impromptu bit of theater, and part of him admired their quick thinking. But it wasn’t wise to mess with law enforcement. They needed to be careful. To stick to the shadows. To fly low and stay off the radar to prevent any impediment to their progress.

  He and the boy had spent the last ten months managing to avoid confrontations. And now, thanks to an overzealous detective, they would have to go underground for awhile. And stay there until they were little more than a forgotten entry in the Santa Flora law enforcement database.

  Which meant ditching this wagon, of course, the car Anna had so loved.

  But maybe it was time for a change. The man had done his best to keep the Rambler running, but the road had begun to take its toll. It killed him to give it up—one of the last links to the life he’d once known—but he’d do what had to be done. He and the boy couldn’t afford to be caught. They were sharks, who could not slow down, could not stop until they had their prey in their jaws. Until they had devoured him, just as he had devoured their past.