Authors: Peter James
‘I think you need to be vigilant. The police don’t know whether this organization is for real or whether it’s the work of some copycat sickos. This whole genetics issue brings out some strong feelings in people, for sure. It’s good that you aren’t in America any more, but my advice to you is to make your home as secure as possible. Keep your head below the parapet and keep out of the press.’
‘Can you do me one favour, Kalle. Can you get your secretary to find me a phone number for a Mrs Betty O’Rourke, in Scottsville, Virginia? I need to speak to her very badly. She may be unlisted – if so, could you try to pull some strings?’
Kalle rang back an hour later. It was an unlisted number, but he had managed to obtain it.
John thanked him, then dialled it.
After five rings he heard a mature-sounding woman’s voice. ‘Hallo?’
‘Could I please speak to Mrs Betty O’Rourke?’
‘That’s me.’ The voice, cracked with grief, sounded guarded.
‘Mrs O’Rourke? Forgive the intrusion, my name is Dr Klaesson, I’m calling from England.’
‘Dr Gleeson, did you say?’
‘Yes. I – my wife and I – we met your son last year at a clinic.’
‘Clinic? I’m sorry, what clinic are you talking about?’
John hesitated, unsure how much she knew. ‘Dr Dettore. Dr Dettore’s clinic.’
‘Dr Dee Tory?’ The name sounded like it was a total blank to her. ‘Are you a newspaper man?’
John felt increasingly awkward. ‘No, I’m not. I’m a scientist. My wife and I knew your son and – and his wife. I’m very sorry about your sad news.’
‘I apologize, Dr Gleeson, I’m really not up to talking with anyone.’
‘This is important, Mrs O’Rourke.’
‘Then I think you should talk to the police, not me.’
‘Please let me ask you just one question. Did your son intend to have twins?’ Realizing he hadn’t phrased it well, he tried to recover the situation. ‘What I mean is—’
‘How did you get this number, Dr Gleeson?’
‘This may have some bearing on what has happened. I appreciate it must be difficult for you to talk at the moment, but please, believe me—’
‘I’m going to hang up now. Goodbye, Dr Gleeson.’
The line went dead.
Shit.
He stared at the receiver for some moments. Then he redialled. The line was busy.
He tried again, repeatedly, for the next half hour. The line remained busy.
Finally he gave up. From a drawer in his desk he pulled out a thick, heavy
Yellow Pages
, and turned to the heading marked Security Services and Equipment.
Chopin tinkled on the Saab’s radio as John drove along the country road. It was eight o’clock. The wipers thud-thudded, smearing the drizzle into an opaque film. Headlights burst out of the darkness towards him, then, in his mirror, became red tail lights shrinking into the distance. Darkness in front of him now, and behind him.
Darkness, also, in his heart.
He drove at a steady sixty miles an hour, the headlamps picking out the familiar landmarks. Inside his head he pricked at thoughts, trying to grab them, grasp them.
They had moved from America to here. Was there any point in moving again – and if so, to where? Sweden? Would they be any safer there, any further from the reach of these crazies? A few years back the Swedish Prime Minster had been shot in a busy street. Where in this world could you be safe from fanatics?
He passed a brightly illuminated pub on the right, followed by the sign for a farm shop. Then a long stretch of dark road again, bordered by hedgerows. In a fortnight the clocks went forward. Summertime would begin. He would be able to drive home in daylight. Daylight gave more protection than darkness. Didn’t it?
His mobile rang. Glancing at the dial he could see it was Naomi. Jamming the phone into the hands-free cradle, he answered. ‘Hi, honey, I’m almost home. Be there in five minutes.’
‘You’re so late – I’ve been worrying about you.’ Her voice sounded strange, very strained.
‘I’m sorry, I did try to call back a couple of times but you were on the phone.’
‘You said you’d be home at six.’
‘I got stuck in a staff meet—’
Then the line disconnected.
He cursed. Reception was always bad in this area. He tried to call her back but there was no signal. Minutes later he saw the lights of a garage forecourt and pulled into it.
The selection of flowers was poor. The best was a small bunch of red roses, wrapped in cellophane. He bought them then drove on. Five minutes later, he turned off the main road onto the narrow lane that led to the village.
Caibourne was ten miles east of Brighton and four miles from Lewes, the ancient historic county town of Sussex. It was more a hamlet than a village. There was a pub, used mostly by locals rather than tourists, a church badly in need of a major roof restoration, a tiny Post Office that doubled as a general store, a thriving primary school, a one-court tennis club, and a community that was mostly farm and estate workers in tied cottages that were owned by the nearby stately home of Caibourne Place.
John drove past a row of labourers’ cottages, the schoolhouse and the church. A mile and a half beyond the village, he turned onto the single-lane farm track that led up to their house. A rabbit ran across the road in front of him, and he braked sharply as the creature darted back across his path again, then loped for some yards up ahead of him before finally diving through a gap in the wire fencing and into a ploughed field. Beyond his headlights was total darkness.
Slayings.
Mutilated.
The second couple this had happened to.
There was a ton of stuff on the internet about Dettore, and what was particularly concerning was a series of anonymous blog posts by someone claiming to be a former employee from the clinic. God knows what information from the clinic had been leaked.
If this organization – sect – bunch of crazies – whoever – or whatever – they were – if they had taken over Dettore’s clinic, if they had enough information to find George and Angelina, and the Borowitzes, then almost certainly they had enough information to find everyone else.
He negotiated a sharp right-hand bend and could see the lights of the house a few hundred yards ahead of him. He drove over a cattle grid, onto the gravel drive and pulled up next to Naomi’s Subaru station wagon.
As he climbed out of the car, Naomi opened the front door, looking pale. He grabbed his laptop bag off the back seat and the flowers, shut the door, and strode over to her. Barely acknowledging the flowers, she put her arms around him and held him tightly.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I did try to call you back, but—’
Her face was wet and her eyes were red from crying.
‘What’s the matter, darling?’ he said, although he could tell what it was from her expression.
They went in. Naomi closed the front door, locked it and clicked home the safety chain. ‘Lori rang, from LA.’
John heard a roar of laughter from the television in the kitchen. He dumped his bag on the tiled floor and wriggled out of his coat. He hung his coat on a hook on the mahogany Victorian stand. There was a good smell of cooking meat in the house. ‘How are they? How’s Irwin?’
She looked at the flowers, but said nothing.
They went through to the kitchen. The playpen was on the floor, a mess of toys lying beside it. John saw a half-empty bottle of red wine on the table and a glass that had a small amount left in it. ‘How’s Luke? Did you call the doctor?’
‘I have an appointment for him tomorrow. He said he doesn’t think it’s anything to worry about, but to take Luke to him if he’s still not well in the morning.’
‘Is he still throwing up?’
‘He stopped.’
She put the flowers in the sink and ran the tap. ‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘These are beautiful. You used to buy me flowers all the time when we first went out. Remember?’
Guilt tugged at him. ‘I did?’
‘Yes.’
He went over to the baby monitor and listened. Silence. ‘Are they asleep?’
‘I think so.’
‘Just quickly take a look at them.’ He sprinted up the stairs, treading as softly as he could, went down to their room and gently pushed the door open. Both were sound asleep, Luke with his thumb in his mouth; Phoebe, her fists balled, had a tiny spot of drool running down her chin.
He blew each of them a kiss, then went back downstairs and into the kitchen.
She poured herself some more wine, then turned to face him, her eyes wide, full of fear. ‘Lori said there’s a big story in the press – all over the news. There’s been another killing. Another couple who went to Dr Dettore and have had twins, just like us, John.’
‘Kalle rang,’ he said. ‘He told me. That’s what I was calling you about.’
She walked over to the window. ‘Does Kalle have a suggestion about what we should do?’
‘He said to be vigilant.’
He did need a drink, he realized, so he took a fresh bottle of white wine out of the fridge. ‘We need to get an alarm system that goes through to the police. Get lights that come on if anyone approaches the house. Window locks. Stuff like that. And he said we ought to maybe think about getting a guard dog. And—’ He hesitated.
‘Yes?’ she prompted.
‘He thought we ought to have a gun in the house.’
‘This is England, John, not America.’
‘I thought I’d apply for a shotgun licence – could be useful for keeping down all the rabbits.’ He pulled the cork out.
‘You’re too absent-minded. I don’t think it’s a good idea to have a gun in the house, and certainly not with young children. Maybe a dog, when they’re a little older – we could get a guard dog of some kind.’
When they’re a little older.
Her words repeated in his head.
When they’re a little older.
There was something innocent in her remark that struck him as almost childlike. Two families had been butchered. A bunch of crazies were out there, somewhere in the night, maybe in America, maybe even in Sussex. They didn’t have the luxury of time to wait until Luke and Phoebe were
older.
‘I’ve taken tomorrow morning off,’ he said. ‘I’ve got a couple of security firms coming up to give us their suggestions and prices.’ He poured himself some wine.
Naomi nodded. ‘Good, let’s do that. I’m sorry, I got myself in a state with the kids, and with the call. I want to stay here, John, I want us to make a life here in England. We can’t just go on the run – spend our lives in hiding.’
He kissed her. ‘I was thinking the same, driving over.’
‘These people will get caught – no one can get away with what they’ve done for long, can they?’
Privately, John thought,
They’ve got away with it for over a year, so far. Totally away with it.
But he didn’t say this to Naomi. Instead, putting his arms around her, holding her tightly, he said, ‘Sure. Kalle said the FBI are throwing a lot of resources at this. They’ll find them.’
She looked at up him, with total, utter trust in her eyes. ‘He said that?’
‘Yes,’ he lied.
‘Kalle’s a good man.’
‘He is.’
Holding her even tighter, he nuzzled her ear and whispered, ‘Luke and Phoebe are asleep. Why don’t we take advantage of that?’
For an answer she took his hand and led him up to bed.
A pitiful shriek pierced the silence of the night. Naomi shuddered at the sound as she lay awake, too damned awake, eyes wide open, brain racing, the room bathed in ethereal moonlight through the open curtains. With no neighbours, they never bothered to draw them.
‘A fox taking a rabbit,’ John said quietly. He slipped an arm around her, pulling her closer to him.
‘It’s the most horrible sound.’
‘Just nature at work.’
She rolled over and stared at him. There was one more outburst of shrieks, a long squeal, then silence.
‘You study nature in your work,’ she said. ‘You simulate it in computer programs. Do you have rabbits squealing in your computers?’
He smiled. ‘No.’
She kissed him. ‘You’re a kind man. I’m sure you wouldn’t want to hurt even a
virtual
rabbit. I don’t want you buying a gun. I don’t want us to live in an atmosphere of fear, like we’re under siege or something. We mustn’t lose sight of why we’ve done what we have, John. We haven’t done anything wrong or immoral, we haven’t done anything to be ashamed of – have we?’
‘No,’ he said quietly.
‘I am scared. There hasn’t been a day since – since the news about Dr Dettore – when I haven’t been afraid. I have dreadful dreams, I wake confused and exhausted and sometimes, when the sun is streaming in, or I hear birds singing, or just you breathing, I get a few precious moments when the dreams have faded, a few moments of private blue sky, of peace. And then it all comes back and I think – think – that maybe there’s a car down the end of the lane with a bunch of religious freaks in it, and they have guns and knives, and they don’t even have hatred in their hearts, they have some kind of deep inner peace because they know they’re doing the right thing, that they’re acting out God’s will. Does that scare you, John?’