The Disciple (47 page)

Brook looked at the faded picture of a happy and grinning Bailey family on the opposite page and nodded. The parents at the back, arms entwined, the girls at the front laughing at some remark from their father, oblivious to their destiny. Unfortunate indeed. He stared at the picture longer than he should, then turned back to the index for any mention of Victor Sorenson. It was fruitless but that was hardly surprising. There was no mention of Sorenson in Brian Burton’s book either, nor any of the hundreds of Reaper newspaper stories over the last twenty years – not even in Brook’s own police reports.

Victor Sorenson only ever existed between the lines. Like The Reaper, he was a ghost. Nothing proven, nothing recorded. For years Brook had thought himself the only living person who could connect Victor Sorenson to The Reaper – and only then because the professor had wanted him to know.

But now, despite Sorenson’s death, The Reaper was back. And a former FBI agent had moved next door to write a book about a fifteen-year-old case in California. Brook was starting to read between the lines and Sorenson was there.

He threw the book aside and left the cottage. Drexler’s car was in the drive but the house was in darkness. He checked his watch. It was nearly midnight. He walked down the side path and knocked. No reply. He tried the door but this time it was locked. He considered breaking in but thought better of it. As he turned to go, however, the outside light came on, the lock turned and the door opened.

Drexler stood before him, apparently unsurprised to see him. ‘Damen.’ He made no effort to invite Brook inside.

‘Can we talk?’

‘It’s late.’

‘We’ve found a suspect.’

Drexler’s head cocked to one side. ‘The Reaper? You’d better come in.’

McQuarry opened her eyes at the first ring. She craned towards the clock – three in the morning – then flopped back down with a groan. A few seconds later she flicked on a lamp and pulled the receiver to her ear.

‘Ed. It’s me.’

McQuarry rested her head on her spare hand. ‘Who else? What’s up?’

‘We got him.’

‘Who?’

‘Sorenson.’

McQuarry opened her eyes and sat up. ‘You’ve arrested him?’

‘No. Nothing like that. Listen, you have to come back to Tahoe.’

McQuarry looked around for her cigarettes but couldn’t see them. ‘Why, Mike?’

‘Because we can connect him to the cabin.’

‘How?’

‘You know that freshly dug hole near the cabin? The one we saw that night we searched the site.’

‘Vaguely.’

‘Well, there was a small tree in it. Same as the other ones in the row, remember?’

‘A tree … Mike, I don’t…’

‘Ed, that tree was taken and replanted in Sorenson’s grounds.’

‘How do you know?’

‘Because he invited me in for a drink and I saw it.’

‘He invited…’

‘Know what I think? That tree is some kind of natural source of those drugs Ashwell was using on tourists. Like deadly nightshade or something. That’s why we couldn’t find anything in the cabin. Ashwell must’ve told Sorenson before he died or maybe Sorenson worked it out – he’s an industrial chemist, remember – so he takes one of the trees for his own use…’

‘Mike. Slow down.’ McQuarry got out of bed and walked to a small table. She picked up a pack of cigarettes and lighter and put one in her mouth. She opened the double doors to her apartment balcony and stepped out in her pants and 49ers sweatshirt to light her cigarette. The cold air woke her up with a jolt and she glanced off to the blinking lights of Sacramento below. ‘That doesn’t mean it’s the same tree. You’ve no proof that he took it.’

‘That’s not all. I had a lip reader look at the film of Sorenson buying his gas at Ashwell’s garage. Ed, he lied about his name. He told Caleb his name was Brook…’

‘Brook?’ McQuarry took a large pull on her cigarette and tried to gather her thoughts. ‘So what?’

‘So, I thought I’d check it out. I’ve got a friend in the Metropolitan Police, the London … branch or district or whatever they call it, where Sorenson has a house. You remember those murders four or five years back? In England.’

‘Remind me.’

‘The Reaper murders in London. Serial killer. He ghosted into family’s homes and killed everyone, children included. It even made the papers here because there was talk of him being another Jack the Ripper.’

‘The Reaper … I remember.’

‘You remember he cut their throats? Like Caleb. One boy was hung though – the son of one of the victims. Yeah? Like Billy. And another thing, all the victims were petty criminals…’

‘Unlike Caleb and Billy.’

‘…and listen to this,’ Drexler continued, missing the objection. ‘One of the investigating officers was a Detective Sergeant Brook.’

McQuarry took another draw, her mind absorbing the information. ‘It’s a bit thin. Sounds like a common enough name.’

‘There’s more. Victor Sorenson was interviewed by this Brook in connection with the Reaper killings.’

‘He was a suspect?’

‘Well, according to my friend, no, but that’s still a connection. And apparently Brook became so obsessed with this Reaper…’

‘Sound familiar?’

‘…that he had to take a leave of absence. Mental problems. His marriage failed…’

‘Mike. Okay, okay, I get it.’

‘One more thing, Ed. Remember the Golden Nugget Motel? Sorenson booked all the rooms for the day after tomorrow, under the name Peter Hera.’

‘So?’

‘Peter Hera is an anagram of The Reaper.’

McQuarry looked across at her bags, already packed. ‘I’ll be there tomorrow afternoon.’

‘Should I open that bottle of champagne now, Damen?’

‘Not tonight, Mike.’

Drexler nodded. ‘No. The end of a case is never for celebrating.
It just frees you up for the next human train wreck. Who’s the suspect?’

‘A man called John Ottoman – a teacher. But he escaped to France. He’ll be caught soon enough.’

‘Did he do it?’

‘There’s a lot of evidence.’

‘I’m sure you were very thorough.’ Brook detected an undertone and narrowed his eyes to dredge up the inference. He was on the point of asking for a clarification but let it pass. He didn’t want to be sidetracked tonight.

Drexler indicated an armchair for Brook, opposite his own and facing a small but robust coal fire. A small chintz lamp gave out light to see by, but not enough to dispel the gloom. On Drexler’s chair sat a leaded glass, half-full of what looked like malt whisky. On the cushion was Brian Burton’s upturned book. Brook sat down while Drexler brought him a tumbler and showed him a green bottle.

Brook nodded and stretched his feet towards the fire while Drexler poured the whisky and handed him the heavy glass. Brook examined the bottom of the glass but could see no sign of anything untoward. He sniffed its intense peaty bouquet and half-smiled at remembrance of things past. Brook took a small sip, recalling the taste from his meetings in Sorenson’s London home. He looked up at Drexler who seemed at ease and Brook felt a tremor of anxiety. He was in the home of a man he would soon denounce as The Reaper but he feared that, like Sorenson, he was unlikely to be troubled by it.

‘Are you enjoying Burton’s book?’

‘It’s badly written. Though a fascinating subject,’ said Drexler, closing it. ‘But he doesn’t have a good head for those little details that make all the difference. The details cops notice and lose sleep over, but people like Burton can’t see.’

‘Such as?’

‘This kid, Jason something.’

‘You don’t even know his name.’

‘I know he’s still alive, against all the odds. He’s survived The Reaper not once but twice. Anybody but a cop could put it down to an oversight and move on. But we know better, don’t we? We know all too well why he was left alive.’

‘Do we?’

‘Sure we do – it’s called division of labour. Why kill someone when you can get someone else to do it? And when that someone else has killed for you, well, then there are two of you to work the next Reaper killing – and after that three of you. And before long…’

‘Before long there’s a whole Reaper network to do the killing,’ said Brook.

‘Many hands make light work…
a bit of a commie mantra but it fits. But here’s the mystery, the thing this Burton will never think to address. Someone has failed to deliver on this kid. Twice.’

‘Makes you wonder, doesn’t it?’ said Brook. ‘About some people’s commitment to the cause.’

Drexler grunted his amusement. ‘It does. But go careful, my friend. Even an untalented flatfoot like Brian Burton spotted one thing.’

Brook raised his glass and fixed his eye on Drexler. ‘Oh? What’s that?’

‘How many times you’ve failed to catch this guy.’

Brook took a sip of his drink. ‘He doesn’t rate me very highly,’ he said with a thin smile.

Drexler nodded. ‘Another of those details missed, Damen. That’s why Burton’s a fool. He actually thinks you’re incompetent. But he doesn’t know you at all. Personally, I think it must take a special type of genius to keep letting The Reaper slip through his fingers and still look like he’s doing his job properly.’

Brook eyed his host for a moment, trying to organise his thoughts. The gloves had been peeled off and he would finally get some answers. Time to throw his first punch.

‘Well, on this side of the pond, Mike, we have something called the rules of evidence. We’re not allowed to execute suspects just because they have a knife in their hand.’

Drexler smiled back. ‘I see you’ve been doing your own background reading. You’re referring to the Reverend Hunseth. Seems like a long time ago.’ He looked off into the fire, as Sorenson had all those years before. Then he looked back at Brook. ‘I got some grey hairs over it, sure, but I’m fine with it now. Nobody missed him. Nobody mourned him – ’cept maybe the local liquor mart. But you’re wrong, Damen. Even on my side of the pond they don’t like unexplained shootings. Questions were asked. People were interviewed. But I was a federal agent and my partner was in danger. I was able to answer them and that was enough. See, back home, the good guys have guns too.’ He laughed at a private joke. ‘I suppose that makes
me
The Reaper, Damen.’

‘You were for the Reverend.’

‘Hunseth got what he deserved.’

‘Did your father?’ Brook was pleased to see the icy expression infect Drexler’s face, his knuckles whitening for a few seconds.

Finally Drexler smiled and affected a slight nod, to acknowledge a blow well aimed. ‘Always go too far, because that’s where you’ll find the truth.’

Brook nodded. ‘Albert Camus.’

Drexler eyed him. ‘You know Camus. Why am I not surprised?’ He took a sip of whisky. ‘So tell me, Damen. Is this teacher, Ottoman, getting what he deserves? Is he The Reaper’s disciple?’

‘He didn’t do it, Mike.’

‘You amaze me,’ said Drexler in a monotone. He cocked his head and considered Brook as though anew. ‘What happened? Were they getting too close? Was it too obvious to your superiors? Did you have to throw them a bone? The professor wouldn’t be pleased. He’s not keen on civilians getting hurt in the crossfire.’

‘Sorenson’s dead.’

Drexler nodded. ‘That’s the rumour.’

‘That’s a fact,’ said Brook. ‘I was there.’

Drexler took another sip of his drink. He walked over to a small stereo and switched it on. He checked the disc then pressed play. ‘But he lives on through others, Damen. His will be done.’ A deep sonorous note sounded from the speakers and a choir took up the opening verse.

‘And what’s that exactly?’

Drexler swivelled to face Brook. ‘Cutting out the dead wood, Damen. So the tree can grow stronger.’

‘Is that what you’re doing here, Mike – strengthening the tree?’

‘I’m writing a book, my friend, for the good guys who already died. That’s why I’m here.’ He reached into the drawer of a nearby chest. He pulled a gun from it and placed it on the arm of the chair then looked away, remembering, a sudden sadness invading his features. He closed his eyes, but Brook resisted the urge to make a lunge for the gun. ‘Fauré’s Requiem. Imagine heading for the next world with this rolling around in your head.’

Brook’s eyes burned into Drexler’s death mask. ‘There isn’t a next world.’

Drexler grinned, his eyes still closed. ‘No, there isn’t.’

‘But I’d prefer the Debussy if I have a choice.’

Drexler opened his eyes. ‘I don’t have any.’

Brook nodded. ‘No, of course.’ He looked at the weapon and then at Drexler. ‘If this is my reward for breach of contract,’ Brook paused for effect, ‘then I’m ready.’