(2011) The Gift of Death (39 page)

‘
Ryan – do you mind if I address you by your first name?’

Gleason shrugged his shoulders.

‘
Their’s not to make reply,’ he replied. The lines came from a poem his mother had taught him.

‘
What? Who are you? Why do you always wear that thing over your face?’

‘
Their’s not to reason why.’

‘
What is it anyway – a ski mask?’

‘
Their’s but to do and die.’

He opened the door for him to leave. As he watched Gleason step out into the sunlight he said under his breath.

‘
Into the valley of death.’

Like he said he should always have been a writer.

60

Susan Gable stared at the letter and thought of her daughter. Sara-Jane had been dead for seven months now, but the passing of time hadn’t made it any easier to bear. If anything it was harder than ever.

Last week it would have been Sara-Jane’s second birthday. She had even bought her a cute puppy, a cuddly toy called Biscuit, and had got as far as the check out before she remembered that Sara-Jane wasn’t around to enjoy it. She had just put the gift down, along with the rest of her shopping, and walked out of the store quietly. By the time she had got back to her car she was sobbing hysterically. She had driven home through a veil of tears. She had let herself into the empty house. She had gone into her bedroom and opened the drawer where she kept some of Sara-Jane’s things. A lock of her dark hair. A photograph of her taken soon after her birth. A couple of her romper suits that she had brought up to her face and which still smelt of her. Or was she imagining that?

She reread the letter again for what must have been the tenth or eleventh time. Could she take it seriously? The fact that she had not thrown it in the trash when she first received it meant something, she supposed. She had typed the name, Carl Reckard, into Google, but nothing came up apart from an entry about a West Virginian insurance salesman and some genealogical information about a German family. She had typed in the address in the Fernando Valley into the search engine and saw the layout of the street. One day she had driven past it – just out of curiosity, she told herself, nothing more than that – and had seen that the house had been cordoned off by the cops. She had slowed right down, had thought about asking one of the officers guarding the police seal what had happened there. But when one of the cops stared straight at her, almost as if he recognised her, she put her foot on the gas and sped off.

Perhaps the cops had got this guy. But surely she would have heard something. She scoured the news and the internet, including the LAPD’s own web site, but nothing came up.

She placed the letter on the table and decided to call Joe. Perhaps he had some information. She took out her cell from her purse and dialled his number, her hands shaking. The last time she had spoken to him she had called him a fucking bastard. She had told him she blamed him for the death of their daughter. If he hadn’t have wanted to fuck her that night her little Sara-Jane would still be alive. They had been having the same argument for months now. In the end he couldn’t take it any more. He had moved out. He had called her a psycho bitch. She had called him a murderer. Words had been said that could not be unsaid.

‘
Hi, Joe, it’s Sue,’ she said softly.

‘
Hi.’ He sounded distant. ‘What do you want?’

‘
Listen – I know you’re still angry with me –‘

‘
What would you think if you’d been blamed for the murder of your own daughter?’

‘
I know, I know. I’m sorry.’ She wasn’t actually, but she knew she had to say that to get him to listen to her. ‘I didn’t meant that. You know how hard it’s been for me.’

There was silence on the line.

‘
Anyway, I just wondered if you’d heard anything from the cops? If there were any nearer solving this thing.’

‘
What do you think? ’

‘
I don’t know. I was just –‘ She thought about telling him about the letter. No. He’d just tell her to throw it in the trash. ‘Okay. Not to worry. Maybe see you soon?’

‘
Yeah, that would be good. I’ll call you.’

Both of them knew that their marriage was over. That there was no way back. That these were empty words.

She was about to say something else when the phone in the hall rang. ‘I’ve got to go, but if you hear anything, will you let me know.’

‘
Sure, will do.’

‘
Bye.’

She cut the connection on her cell and ran to the phone. Perhaps it was the cops. Perhaps they had been questioning this Reckard guy for a few days and had only now managed to wrestle a confession out of him.

‘
Hello?’

‘
Is this Susan Gable?’ The voice was polite, authoritative. In fact, it sounded like a cop’s voice.

‘
Yes? Is that the police?’

‘
In a way. Yes. I suppose you could say that.’

‘
What do you mean?’

There was a pause on the line.

‘
Did you get the letter I sent?’

‘
Who are you?’

‘
Did you get the letter?’

‘
Yes. What’s going on here?’

‘
I’ve got some more information about the person who killed your daughter.’

She felt her throat tighten. She could not speak.

‘
Do you want to hear it?’

She desperately wanted to respond, but she was paralysed by a feeling of – what was it exactly? An anticipation, something much more powerful than sexual desire, an emotion more terrifying than anything she had ever felt before.

‘
I take that as a ‘yes’. Carl Reckard is no longer at the address mentioned in the letter.’

She swallowed, moved her lips, cleared her throat.

‘
So the – the cops have him, right?’

‘
No, not exactly. He left the house before the cops arrived.’

‘
So they’re on his tail?’

‘
If you mean do they know where he is? Well, no, they don’t. But you see. I do. I know where he is.’

She felt that delicious thrill again.

‘
Tell me. Where is he?’

‘
You sure you want to know?’

‘
Yes.’

‘
And?’

‘
And what?’

‘
What will you do with the information? I don’t want to waste it.’

‘
I won’t waste it.’

‘
You promise?’

‘
I promise.’

‘
Okay. Do you need a pen a paper?’

‘
No, just tell me,’ she snapped. She felt her head swimming, her brain burning.

‘
No need to loose your temper, now.’

She bit her tongue, tasting blood.

‘
Let’s see, yes, here we are. He’s staying in a motel, the Grand. Unfortunate name, I admit, as I’m not sure it ever was. Certainly isn’t now.’

She took a deep breath. She had to try and modulate her voice.

‘
The address?’

‘
1437 Bundy Drive, West LA.’

She was about to cut the line.

‘
Aren’t you forgetting something?’

‘
Sorry?’

‘
Aren’t you going to thank me?’

‘
Yes, of course,’ she said. ‘Thank you. Thank you very much.’

61

Kate stared at Cassie as she slept. God, she hoped she would be okay. She had always thought her friend’s recovery had been too quick, too easy. At first she had put it down to Cassie’s remarkable ability to fight back against all the odds, her extraordinary will to survive. After all, she had been forced to toughen up, refusing to be beaten first by the onset of blindness and then by Gleason. And, for a while, it looked as though, once her physical injuries had healed, she would be fine. But then, however, on the day she was due to leave hospital to be transferred to a secure location everything changed.

It had begun with a few silent tears, then her body was attacked by a constant wave of trembling until, finally, her whole being was wracked by a series of sobs. Kate had tried to calm her down, reassure her that she was safe, that neither Gleason nor his monstrous offspring could harm her, but it was no use. She seemed certain that the killer was in the room with her. She said that he was so close she could taste his foul breath on her lips. The touch of him was so alive in her fingers, she said, that it felt as though he was raping her. She could not see him, of course, but somehow he had inveigled his way into her very being. The medics had said she was so in danger of mental collapse that they had been forced to tranquilise her.

Kate ran her hand over Cassie’s brow and watched her eyelids flutter as she dreamt. Her only fear was that, on awakening, Cassie would not be able to escape the nightmare.

62

He never thought he could gain so much satisfaction from observing one person watch another. It was as if the man and the woman had sprung fully formed from his imagination and transformed themselves into real people. Flesh and blood.

He was sitting in his car with a pair of binoculars raised to his face. Through them he could see Susan Gable in her car, waiting outside the single-storey West LA motel. Inside room 47 was Ryan Gleason.

What would she be thinking right now? Had she already formulated a plan, he wondered. How would she do it? Would she use a gun, a knife, her bare hands or what? And what were the odds of her killing him? A mother’s rage was certainly not to be underestimated. But she was a small, slight woman. And her target was a ruthless psychopath with a wide range of particularly cruel tricks.

What would he do in her position? Try and surprise him. Yes, that would be best approach. Simply tap on the door and pretend she was looking for her friend. Was this not room 46. Gee, she was sorry, she must be mistaken. Then she could quickly take out her gun from her purse and blast his brains out.

Or would she make him suffer? Would she want to luxuriate in her revenge? Stretch it out over a period of time so she could really feel the full benefit? She might shoot him in the shoulder, disarm him, tie him to a chair in the motel room and then inflict a number of subtle tortures on him.

Just what was she capable of? Was she made of the same stuff as him? He genuinely hoped so. He was looking forward to the entertainment.

63

Kate was by her bedside when Cassie opened her eyes. She stroked and soothed her forehead, held her shoulders gently, and listened to her cries.

‘
It was awful,’ she repeated. ‘The dream.’

‘
I’m here,’ said Kate. ‘You’re safe. The nightmare’s over.’

She continued to hold her in her arms as Cassie went back to sleep, peacefully, naturally. When she awoke again, her eyes still wet with tears, she was able to drink a little water.

‘
How long was it that I slept for?’ asked Cassie, her voice still groggy, her throat dry and sore.

‘
Just a little while,’ lied Kate. She said nothing about the worries of the medics or the tranquilisers.

‘
I’m scared, Kate,’ whispered Cassie.

Kate looked towards the two police guards stationed either side of the private room. Downstairs, at reception, there were another couple of cops. And at the entrance to the ward were a clutch of undercover detectives.

‘
Cassie, you’re safe. No-one is going to get to you here. The place is full of cops.’

‘
I’m not worried about myself.’

‘
What do you mean?’

‘
I’m worried about you.’

‘
Why? I’ve got round the clock protection, just like you. Just like Weislander, just like Hoban. All of us should be safe.’