Stolen Souls Page 17

  “Hiya, sweetheart,” he said.

  “Mm,” she said.

  “What you doing?” he asked, sitting on the couch opposite her.

  “Drawing,” she said. “Where’ve you been?”

  “At work,” he said.

  “You said you’d be off today,” Ellen said without looking up.

  “I know. I’m sorry. But there’s been lots of stuff happening.”

  “Are you going back to work?”

  Lennon scratched his chin, realized he needed a shave. “Yes,” he said.

  Ellen did not reply.

  “But I’ll be back tonight,” he said. “Maybe in time to tuck you in. If not, then I’ll be here when you get up in the morning. When you see what Santa’s brought you.”

  “Auntie Bernie’s been phoning,” Ellen said.

  Lennon brought his hands together, wrapped the fingers of his left hand tight around the fist of his right. “I know,” he said.

  “She wants me to go to her house for Christmas.”

  He swallowed. “Do you want to go to Auntie Bernie’s? Or do you want to stay here with me and Susan and Lucy?”

  Ellen thought about it for a few seconds. “Will you be here for Santa coming?”

  “Yes,” Lennon said.

  “Promise?”

  “Cross my heart,” Lennon said, making two slashes across his chest.

  “Say the rest.”

  “And hope to die.”

  “Okay,” Ellen said. “I’ll stay here.”

  “Thank you,” Lennon said.

  He slipped off the couch and onto the floor, crawled around the table to Ellen’s side.

  “What are you drawing?” he asked.

  “My dreams,” Ellen said.

  He pointed to the picture of a girl with yellow hair. “Is that you?” he asked.

  Ellen shook her head.

  He traced the line of reddish-brown footprints across the page. “Did she walk in mud?”

  “No,” Ellen said.

  The image of the girl stood at one side of the page. At the other stood what looked like an elderly lady with her arms outstretched, as if beckoning the girl to her. Between them stood a dark figure, drawn in mad swirls and jagged angles.

  “Who’s he?” Lennon asked.

  “Don’t know,” Ellen said. “He smells like milk.”

  He looked again at the figure of the girl. For some reason he couldn’t quite grasp, he thought of the passport in his pocket, and the picture of a young woman who looked something like the one he sought.

  Before he could question Ellen further, his phone rang. He looked up and saw Susan watching him from the kitchenette. The display said the number was blocked, just as it had before. He pressed the green button, brought the phone to his ear, and said nothing.

  After a while, a confused voice said, “Hello?”

  “Connolly?” Lennon asked.

  “Sir?”

  “Sorry, I thought you might be … someone else. You got anything for me?”

  “Might have,” Connolly said. “I’ve been through the ViSOR database, like you said.”

  “Okay,” Lennon said. The Violent and Sex Offender Register listed all those convicted of a sexual offense for anything from five years to life, and some who were merely suspected of being a risk.

  “I didn’t find anyone local,” Connolly said. “Nobody that looked anything like that sketch you sent, and nothing for assaults involving prostitutes. But there was one bloke stood out.”

  Lennon smoothed Ellen’s hair, bent down and kissed the crown of her head, and moved out of her hearing. “Go on,” he said.

  “A fella called Edwin Paynter, P-A-Y-N-T-E-R, from Salford, Greater Manchester. He was done seven years ago for assault and imprisonment of a street girl, served about eighteen months. Seems he was caught with this woman tied up in the back of his van during a routine traffic stop. God knows what he was going to do with her.”

  “Jesus,” Lennon said.

  “Anyway, going by the database, he registered in Salford and the local police kept tabs on him for two years, then he decided he was moving to Belfast to live with an aunt of his, make a new start, I suppose.”

  Susan handed Lennon a steaming mug of tea. He nodded his thanks and took a sip.

  “So he registers over here,” Connolly continued. “But after about a year, he drops off the radar. He’s not been heard of for more than two years now.”

  “You got a photo of him? And an address for the aunt?” Lennon asked.

  “Yes, but—”

  “E-mail all the info to me. I can pick it up on my phone.”

  “But I don’t think we’re supposed to send any data from ViSOR outside the network.”

  “Just do it,” Lennon said. “I’ll take responsibility.”

  As he hung up, Susan asked, “Did something come up?”

  “Possibly,” Lennon said. “We’ll see.”

  “Do you have time for something to eat? A sandwich?”

  “Okay,” he said, taking a seat on the couch. “Thanks.”

  She set about gathering the ingredients, layering bread, freshly cooked ham, and salad. His stomach rumbled as he watched her work. To distract himself, he took the envelope from his pocket and studied the sketch. He noted the flow of the pen strokes, the way they cut and slashed the paper until they took the form of a rounded face. His gaze went to the jumbled lines at the center of Ellen’s drawing, the madness of the shape.

  An idea edged into his mind, but he swept it away before it could take root.

  Susan brought a plate to the coffee table and set it next to his mug of tea.

  His phoned chimed as he took the first bite of his sandwich.

  46

  THROUGH HEAVY EYES, Herkus watched his boss snort up another line from the hotel suite’s glass-topped desk.

  “Do you want some?” Arturas asked.

  Herkus leaned back in the armchair and let his eyelids drop. “No, I had some already. Let me rest my eyes for a few minutes.”

  Arturas kicked his foot, jerking him awake.

  “When you track down that whore, then you can sleep.” Arturas paced the room. “I haven’t slept either. You don’t hear me complaining.”

  Herkus straightened in the chair. “Of course you haven’t slept. You’ve snorted enough of that stuff to keep an army on its feet. You know, you should—”

  “You should remember who pays your wages,” Arturas said, stabbing a finger at him.

  Herkus considered countering the argument, but the fog across his mind made it seem like too much effort. Instead, he held his hands up in acquiescence.

  “Give me some,” he said, rising from the chair.

  Arturas laid out a line, and Herkus leaned over the desk. It blasted the murk from behind his eyes, left a chill at the back of his throat. He coughed.

  Herkus recognized addict behavior: encouraging others to join in your weakness. He shouldn’t have indulged, but the weariness had been chipping away at him all day long.

  Arturas smiled.

  Herkus didn’t know why, but he straightened and returned the gesture anyway.

  “I don’t miss Tomas,” Arturas said.

  Unsure how to answer, Herkus said, “Oh?”

  “I think …”

  “You think what?”

  “I think I’m glad he’s gone,” Arturas said. His eyes made darting movements, like insects trapped in a jar.

  “You don’t mean that,” Herkus said.

  “I think I do,” Arturas said. “Tomas was … a problem.”

  Herkus took a step away. “Well, he kept things interesting.”

  Arturas snorted with laughter. “He was a fucking chain around my neck, choking me.”

  “You feeling all right, boss?” Herkus asked.

  “No,” Arturas said. “My brother’s dead. How the hell do you think I feel?”

  “You said—”

  “Shut up.” Arturas pressed the heels of his hands against h
is temples. “I wasn’t thinking straight. Forget what I said.”

  Herkus shrugged. “Okay.”

  “Good,” Arturas said. “Now get out of here and do what I asked you. Don’t come back until you’ve found that whore.”

  “Fine,” Herkus said. “But lay off that stuff. Get some rest.”

  “Just go,” Arturas said.

  Herkus stretched, walked to the door, and let himself out without saying good-bye to Arturas. He ground the heels of his hands against his eyes as he made his way to the lifts.

  Arturas had been a good boss for a long time, and Herkus had been glad of the work. But lately, maybe the last year or so, the cracks had been appearing. Had the decline coincided with the boss’s advance into Belfast? Herkus believed so. There was something about this place, the gray and the rain and the hate, that got under your skin. Made you resent the very air you breathed.

  He hit the elevator’s down button and waited.

  What could he do now? Nothing but wait for Gordie Maxwell to phone with some information. Until then, he’d go down to the car and sleep. He stepped into the lift and hit the G button. The doors swished closed. He leaned against the mirrored wall and let his mind drift.

  The phone chimed just as his eyelids sagged closed.

  47

  STRAZDAS WATCHED THE closed door as he listened to his own blood in his ears.

  He knew Herkus was right. He’d die before he’d ever admit it out loud, but he knew the hulking mass of knuckle and belly spoke the truth.

  “Fucking peasant,” he said, not caring that he was alone. “I gave him everything. If it wasn’t for me, he’d still be rolling around Vilnius, making a pittance from the loan sharks for beating the shit out of any poor bastard that was a day behind.”

  He caught the metallic edge to his voice, like a blunt and rusted knife, and bit down on the back of his hand to silence himself. Once the pain had flushed the madness from his head, he returned to pacing.

  Could he rely on Herkus to do what was necessary?

  Up until a day ago, Strazdas would have thought yes, absolutely. But then everything went to hell and Tomas died. Herkus’s fists could only get him so far. But there was still one other who could help.

  Strazdas retrieved his phone from the desk, blew away the white powder that dusted it, and dialed.

  “Who is this?” the contact asked.

  “Me,” he said in English. “Arturas.”

  “Why are you calling me? You don’t call me. I call you. Understand?”

  “Have you found the whore I’m looking for?” he asked.

  “No,” the contact said. “I’ve got better things to do. But Jack Lennon knows about her, and he’s working on it. If he comes up with anything, and I get wind of it, I’ll let you know.”

  “Do I pay you well?”

  “What?”

  “Do I pay you well?”

  “Yes, but I give you good service.”

  “Give better service,” Strazdas said. “Find this girl, or you will not be my friend.”

  “I’ve never been your friend,” the contact said. “If I hear anything, I’ll pass it on. That’s the best I can do for you. Now fuck off and don’t call me again.”

  The phone died. Strazdas dropped it back on the desk, letting it clatter and bounce on the glass, scattering the powder. He pointed at it.

  “I will not be your friend,” he said.

  48

  THE THING UPSTAIRS had been howling for an hour or more when Billy Crawford finally climbed the stairs to quiet it. His preparations were done and he was ready to start, but the incessant crying from above could not be tolerated while he set about his work. No, not at all. So he climbed to its room and opened the door.

  It gaped at him from the bed, its pale and wizened face raised to him.

  “Quiet, now,” he said as he approached it.

  Still, it wailed.

  “If you won’t be quiet, then I’ll make you quiet,” he said. No good, it would not listen to reason, so he took the syringe from his pocket. The thing shook its head, tried to shrink from his grasp, but it could not. He gripped its hair and pressed the needleless syringe between its lips. With no teeth to block its path, the plastic point slipped between the gums. He pushed until he felt the thing try to resist with its tongue, then he pushed harder. It gagged as the syringe reached the back of its throat.

  He depressed the plunger and listened to the gargle of the liquid in the thing’s throat. When the syringe was empty, he dropped it on the pillow and placed his hand over the thing’s mouth. Its body bucked, claws dragging across his shoulders, but eventually it weakened. Its pupils dilated, eyelids fluttering as its body went soft and pliant.

  He returned its head to the pillow and wiped the drool from his hand onto the blankets. The silence slipped over him like a cloak, and he relished it for a few seconds before leaving the thing to its slumber.

  He knew that one day the thing would not wake, that its body would no longer be able to cope with the sedative, but he did not mind. Sometimes he wondered why he kept it alive. Perhaps, in an odd way, he regarded it as a pet that has lost favor in a household. Like a hamster or a fish that has long since ceased to amuse the children of the family, but the parents continue to feed it, quietly hoping for its demise.

  Returning to the kitchen, he began preparations for his work. A large bowl for hot water, a kettle, washcloths, soap, a toothbrush, a box of sodium bicarbonate, several cable ties, his torch, and another syringe full of sedative.

  But this one had a needle.

  He had secured a good supply of barbiturates by breaking into a veterinary clinic almost three years ago. The place stood in the countryside between Lisburn and Moira. It smelled of disinfectant and dog feces. He had walked through its corridors and rooms, gathering the things he needed, until he found a room lined with cages.

  Dogs stared at him from their prisons. Three of them, their tongues lolling as they panted. He put his fingers against one of the cages, let the animal lap at his glove. It was an odd sensation, the wetness once removed by a thin membrane of rubber. It triggered an image in his mind that launched up from the black depths like a shark. He recoiled, closed his eyes against the memory before it could fully take form.

  Some things were best left forgotten to the waking world. They would come at him in his dreams, he couldn’t help that, but he found it best to keep a wall between his old self and his new self while in the present moment.

  He left the dogs there in their dark cages, made one last tour of the building to make sure he’d left no trace of his presence, and let himself out.

  The police had made an appeal on the news about the missing drugs, said they were dangerous in the wrong hands. But his were exactly the right hands, so no need to worry. He had put them to good use in his work, and would do so again this evening.

  God willing.

  He carried a chair—the same one he had found toppled when he returned home earlier—into the hall and left it by the door to the cellar, then went back to the kitchen to fetch the other items. When everything was in place, he put the syringe, its needle protected by a plastic cap, into his pocket. He took the torch in his right hand and put his left on the door handle.

  The door swung inward, and he felt the dark reach up to him. He flicked the torch on and shone its beam on the steps so that he could see his way down. Listening as he descended, he heard her panicked breathing somewhere below.

  Clearly she knew the time had come. He had to be ready for her to try something. But she was small and light while he was solid and heavy. She would not get the better of him again.

  He stopped at the midway point of the stairs and moved the beam around the cellar, touring its corners and crevices. To his surprise, he found her crouched by the open cabinet. She had not tried to hide, perhaps realizing it would be futile. Instead, she had spent her time attempting to open his toolbox, which lay on its side as her fingers worked at the lock.

  �
�Leave it,” he said.

  She looked up, her teeth bared like an animal caught feeding on a carcass. But she had such pretty teeth, and he immediately regretted the association.

  “Stand up,” he said, taking two more steps down toward her.

  She pulled at the toolbox’s lid, letting out a low growl from her throat, the cords of her neck standing out. She turned it on end, gripped it with both hands, strained to lift it from the floor as the weight of the tools shifted inside. She let it drop to the linoleum-covered concrete, trying to somehow break the lid open.

  “That won’t do any good,” he said as he neared the bottom step. “It’s a good box. You won’t break it.”

  As he stepped onto the linoleum, she hauled the toolbox from the floor again and tried to hurl it at him. It traveled only inches before it slammed and clattered on the ground.

  She hunkered down, curling herself into a ball balanced on tattered feet, covered her head with her hands. She muttered something in her foreign tongue, and he wondered if it was a prayer. The only word he could pick out was “Mama,” whispered over and over again.

  “Please stand up,” he said.

  Still she crouched, rocking on her feet, her head clutched between her hands, her mouth moving against her knees.

  As he moved behind her, he switched the torch to his left hand and took the syringe from his pocket with his right. He pried the plastic cap from the needle with his teeth and spat it on to the floor. “Please,” he said. “One last time. Stand up. Don’t make this any harder.”

  She wrapped her arms tighter around her head.

  He bent down and placed the torch upon the concrete, soft so as to make no noise, then straightened. The torch rolled a few inches, sending her shadow fleeing across the wall. He reached down, grabbed her hair, and pulled her upright.

  She screamed as the needle pierced the flesh of her buttock. He pressed the plunger before she could squirm away from him, then pushed her across the cellar. She hit the far wall and dropped to the floor, still crying.