Harper had looked up the word Abaddon - it was a name for the angel of destruction and he’d thought no more about it. Now he looked down more intently at the word.
I’m Abaddon, that’s where I am . . .
It was a curious phrase. Tom had taken Abaddon to be a person, an incarnation of the devil.
The cogs in Harper’s mind turned and clicked. A gear shifted.
He’d gone to Maurice’s room. Harper recalled it in slow motion, trying to picture it in his mind. Yes, he was sure. There was a photograph. Two boys. Obviously connected, maybe even family. The sign was obscured. Just the letter A was visible.
Abaddon, that’s where I am
. . .
What did it mean? And now, again, he’d written it near the corpse of a woman whose identity he dared not think about. As a reminder, maybe? As a clue?
Abaddon, the name of the angel of destruction. Was that all it meant? What was Sebastian trying to tell him? Then it came all at once. Elaine’s voice. Elaine Fittas. Just before he heard the news about the body in his basement. What did she say?
‘Maybe he loved him.’
Abaddon wasn’t a name, was it? It was a place. It was the place where he and Mo started all this. They knew each other all right. They knew each other damn well!
Suddenly, the only sound on the vast dock was the heavy slap of Harper’s running footfalls.
Chapter One Hundred and Seven
Blue Team
December 4, 2.28 a.m.
H
arper arrived back at Blue Team and ran up to Mark Garcia. ‘Garcia, how far have you got on Macy’s background?’
‘Nowhere beyond a few names,’ said Garcia. ‘No address as yet.’
‘Come on, I need to know where he lived in West Virginia.’
‘Why does it matter right now?’
‘Maybe Mo had a partner in crime back then, someone who also fucked up.’
‘What are you saying?’
‘I’m saying that I think Sebastian and Mo knew each other back then. If I can get Mo’s details, then I can get closer to Sebastian’s, you understand?’
Garcia was nodding. He got it all right. ‘I’ll make the calls.’
‘What about these names? Is Macy his name? Is it his original name?’
‘No. He took the name of whatever family he was with, as far as I can tell. I’ve got six names in his file.’
‘Let me see them.’
Garcia handed over the file. Harper looked down the list of Mo’s surnames: Foster, Hummel, Dresden, Doberman, Quiller, Ash and Macy. ‘You got any details on any of these?’
‘Not yet, but I can ask. Thing is, no one’s going to be at work now. It’s the middle of the night.’
‘Call the local police, go county by county, see if you can get to the files that way,’ said Harper.
‘Okay, I’m on it.’
Harper paused for a half-second. ‘Any more on the girl in my building?’
‘Sorry, Harper, but they don’t know. Her prints are being checked against the database as we speak.’
Harper nodded and headed off back to his computer, trying not to think about the report from Latent Prints that would soon tell him the identity of the latest victim. He started to search again for Abaddon. Every web reference was to some thrash metal band or some images of the dark destroyer. He wanted something else: a meaning beyond the obvious. He knew this was a message from Sebastian. He found an original definition soon enough; Abaddon meant ‘a place of destruction’ not a person. That made sense. Sebastian was the American Devil and wherever he was was Abaddon. That’s what he meant. He was re-creating Abaddon again, collecting parts of his destruction in one place. But where was the original Abaddon?
Harper stared at the screen. Mo and Sebastian. If they had known each other and they were bad news, then there might be a quicker way to find them than calling every local sheriff’s office in West Virginia.
Harper called the West Virginia State Police. A gruff trooper answered and Harper explained who he was and what he was doing.
‘What’s the American Devil case got to do with us?’ said the trooper.
‘A girl called Chloe Mestella was murdered in West Virginia in 1982. That murder could have been the American Devil’s work. It might be his first kill, back when he was a kid. Listen, I’ve got a lead on a guy I’m trying to trace. He was arrested for attempted rape in New York but he grew up in West Virginia, and I’ve got no records for him. My guess is that he might have got in trouble a lot back then.’
‘Give me his name. I can see if our database can drag anything up for you.’
‘Thank you,’ said Harper. ‘Okay, his DOB is December 8, 1969. He was twelve at the time of the Chloe Mestella murder. His first name is Maurice or Mo, but I’ve got six possible surnames.’
‘We can run them all through,’ said the trooper.
‘He went under the following: Foster, Hummel, Dresden, Doberman, Quiller, Ash and Macy.’
‘I’ll try them all, Detective. Give me your number, I’ll call you back.’
Harper gave his number and thanked him. Like with everything in life, he’d have to wait. He sank back into his chair and started to trawl again through the details of the Chloe Mestella murder. The online archives gave the story he already knew. Another unsolved murder, a cold case.
Twenty minutes passed before the trooper called back. ‘Sorry, no arrest records for any of those names.’
‘None of them?’
‘Nothing. Sorry.’
Harper was about to hang up but he was desperate for a break and panicking at the thought that Denise might be dead. He looked at his notebook in front of him, the word
Abaddon
scrawled across the page. He threw out the line.
‘Does the word “Abaddon” mean anything to you?’
‘Can’t say it does. You want me to run that through our local database?’
‘That would be great.’
‘Okay, stay on the line, it’ll take a moment.’
Three minutes passed. Five. Then the trooper returned.
‘You still there, Detective Harper?’
‘I’m still here.’
‘We got nothing on record for Abaddon. It’s not a name or a place around here.’
‘Shit,’ said Harper.
‘Hold on, feller, listen up. The word threw up a link through to the local Cold Case Unit, but I can’t tell from this what it’s for. You want me to put you through?’
‘Yeah,’ said Harper.
The ringing tone went on and on. The trooper came back on the line. ‘Sorry, buddy, looks like you chose the wrong time of day, but you can take a look yourself.’
‘How?’
‘Well, the system’s showing a hit, Detective. Take a look on the cold case website and call me back. The details are up there. I’ll give you the link.’
Harper quickly typed in the link and the case came up before his eyes:
The Cold Case Unit of the West Virginia State Police is seeking information concerning the murder of Bethany Hummel, aged 14. The murder occurred on February 6, 1982. The victim was murdered in an abandoned fishing cabin on Abaddon farmstead in Pendleton County, West Virginia. Bethany was one of three sisters. The other two girls, the girls’ father, Mr Ned Hummel, and his two adopted sons were not hurt in the attack.
Mr Hummel became a farmer after retiring from business after the death of his wife. The Cold Case Unit is seeking anyone who may have information concerning Mr Hummel’s daughter and this investigation.
If you have information, please contact Sergeant John Eigen or contact your local State Police Detachment. If you wish to remain anonymous, you may submit a tip by clicking on Submit Online Tips on the main page.
Tom Harper’s head was spinning with the possibilities.
Abaddon!
Fucking Abaddon. It was the farmstead. It was a message and Harper had found it, right at its source. The American Devil had killed before Chloe Mestella. This was his first kill.
The whole case clicked together in his mind like a jigsaw puzzle that’d been keeping him at work all night. He saw it with crystal clarity. Harper called the state trooper right back. He wanted to know exactly what had happened to the girl. He wanted to know if the images in his head had any substance.
The trooper fetched up the full report. His gravelly voice came back on. ‘Bethany was hooded and taken to a fishing cabin by the river. She was kept there for a day and a half, they reckoned. Seemed the killer kept her and petted her. Then the murder was real violent.’
‘Thank you,’ said Harper. He was also thanking Elaine. Mo and Sebastian had killed together. Maybe Mo had taken this girl and Sebastian had just been unable to resist the temptation of a helpless victim. ‘Did they look at the Chloe Mestella case alongside this one?’ he asked.
‘Sure they did. There were reports of an itinerant farm hand. Both murders were close in date. They figured someone came through town, murdered these girls and moved on.’
‘The Hummel girl was held in a fishing hut, right?’
‘Yeah. All three girls went to bed and someone must’ve broke in and taken Bethany from her bed.’
‘Without raising the alarm?’
‘He probably threatened to kill her.’
Harper doubted it. The truth was harder to imagine than the story the cops had used to paper over the cracks. A crazed out-of-towner who blows in like a bad wind and takes your children. No, the truth was closer to home.
‘Do you have the names of the two Hummel boys?’
‘I can look them up. Hold for a moment.’
Harper waited on the line, listening to the sound of the officer clicking away on a keyboard. His heart was racing now. He tapped his fingers impatiently.
Come on! Come on!
After a minute, the voice returned. ‘Here we are, Detective. Mr Hummel had delusions of grandeur, it seems. The two boys were called Maurice and Sebastian.’
Chapter One Hundred and Eight
Dresden Home
December 4, 7.30 a.m.
T
he family sat round the big kitchen table. Dee, Nick, William and Susan. Breakfast was spread right across the table - cereals, fruits, toast. A ceramic pot sat in the centre full of hot bacon and eggs. A low rise of steam was visible just over the rim. The children were eating in silence, their heads bent down to their food. Nick tried to smile. Such a beautiful family. Perfect. If only it wasn’t all a dream.
Endings are always hard, reflected Nick, as he watched his family eat. The end was coming because it had to. He had to end it. He had to get rid of Sebastian.
Dee was picking again. She always picked. What was it with Dee and food? She never enjoyed it. It was a constant struggle. Nick sat without eating. He was listening to the clinking of stainless steel on the china plates and bowls. The clinking always irritated him.
Dee had read the latest profile released by the NYPD. She’d seen the cleaned-up photograph they were publishing of the killer. She noticed that the four days had been taken out. She kind of recognized the man in the picture and she knew that Nick hadn’t come back until nearly half past one that morning. But it still seemed to be a story that she could close like a book. She still couldn’t believe that the killer might be her husband. The paper was lying face down on the couch.
Nick looked up slowly.
‘Can’t you two stop scratching your plates,’ Dee said quietly.
The two children tried to eat quietly. Nick was not looking good. He was dark and brooding. He’d showered for over an hour when he got home. Dee had been scared all night long. And now they could all feel the atmosphere. They had grown to fear it.
‘Why don’t you go and relax and watch the TV news or something,’ Dee suggested.
‘You want rid of me?’ asked Nick.
‘No, I don’t want rid of you. I just thought you might be more comfortable.’
‘Stop eating,’ Nick said. His voice was too serious to ignore. His children both stopped and looked up. They were waiting now. What would happen? What would he do next?
‘I got something to say,’ said Nick. He didn’t know what it was, he just felt there was something. Something he needed to do. ‘I love you all, you know that? But I gotta go somewhere. I gotta do something. I love you.’
The headache came as usual with the suddenness of a shaft of sunlight from behind a cloud. It shot through his mind and his head screamed with pain.
They all looked at him closely.
‘I think Sebastian’s here. You got to go. You all got to get out of here.’
When they stayed frozen, he struggled to stand, but the pain knocked him sideways. He stumbled, pulling the table and dinner plates to the floor.
Dee’s eyes widened. ‘Nick, what’s wrong?’ She rushed over. Nick was prostrate, his hands pressing against his temples. The children came close. Susan was looking terrified, but William hugged his father.
‘Speak, Nick. Is it a stroke? Should I call an ambulance?’
Nick’s eyes closed and his head shifted suddenly. The pain had gone. Clarity again. Beautiful clarity. Bethany Hummel had been put back in the glass cage. He couldn’t hear her screaming any more, or Chloe. There was just beautiful silence.
‘Nick? Nick? Should I call an ambulance? What’s wrong?’
But it was Sebastian’s eyes that turned to hers. ‘Frontal lobe atrophy, Dee. That’s what the neurologists say. Brain is not quite what it should be. It’s kind of broken. Been broken a long time.’
‘Nick.’
‘Thing is,’ his eyes rose to the three of them, ‘Daddy’s going away now.’
‘What?’ asked Dee. ‘What do you mean?’
‘He’s got something to finish. He’s got to go and sort this thing out.’
Sebastian stood and picked up William, who was still hugging his neck.
‘What do you mean, Nick?’
‘Come here, darling,’ he said to Susan. She approached him and he picked her up, too.
‘Nick, I’m not sure what to do ...’
He held the two children and smiled at Dee. For an instant he looked like her husband again. ‘The thing is . . . I’m here to protect you. I want to know you’re all looked after, you know. I said I’d look after you all, didn’t I? Made you all that promise. He’s just got to go away.’