Face of Evil Read online

  I should start writing, or Donna will be on my back again. Lydia’s own words come drifting back to her, and she pops open her word processor. Maybe if she orders events on the page, the links will become clearer. She rests her fingers on the keys and begins to type, remembering her arrival at Mortem that first night in as much detail as she can, her impression of the building as a living, breathing organism with a malevolent spirit, the people inside of it; Charlotte, the receptionist and Gretchen, both women drained of their youth and vitality by a force more potent than age or exhaustion. It was that place. As if it was feeding on them.

  Lydia’s fingers skim the keys rapidly, the soft clicking soothing her like raindrops on a windowsill. She renders the events, the descriptions, the feelings as vividly as she can, but tiredness is pressing on her mind and she begins to slow, to struggle. I need coffee. And food. She glances towards the phone. Room service? No, they won’t have what she’s craving. Then her eyes slide to the door. We’ll be right outside if you need anything. A slow smile creeps across Lydia’s face. May as well make the best of this.

  An hour later, Lydia crumples the greasy, empty wrapper of a double cheeseburger and tosses it into the trash before picking up a massive cup of coffee and taking a big gulp. That’s better. Junk food has healing properties. She sets the coffee down and turns her attention back to the screen.

  Her tale has stalled on the second day, because every time she tries to recall her meeting with Dorothy Eagle, she relives the horror of seeing her mutilated corpse. Only in Lydia’s mind, the severed bird’s head turns to stare at her, its eyes accusing, its mouth screaming a silent curse. Was it her fault? If she had never come here, never met with the teacher, would Dorothy still be alive? Would Cecil Sprinkler be at home right now, making himself tea and toast in his musty kitchen or polishing those green apples for the hundredth time? Is she the catalyst for what’s happening? What is happening?

  In search of distraction, she checks her phone. Nothing. Should she try calling again? If Alex gets out of Mortem and sees a dozen missed calls, he might think something’s wrong. Leave it. He’ll call when he can. He does care. She picks up the remote that’s lying on the table and flicks it at the television on the wall, scanning the listings for a local news channel. Are they covering the murder? Nope, nothing. The citizens of Decanten have no idea that the Krimson Killer Mark Two is on the loose. Maybe they’re better off not knowing.

  Lydia mutes the TV and turns her attention back to her computer. The cursor blinks at her impatiently, right where she left off. She begins a new sentence just to make it stop, but the words are all wrong and the ring finger of her right hand stretches for the backspace key. Why is this so difficult? Just write it like it happened. But her own brain is fighting her now, stubbornly refusing to finish a thought, drowning in ideas and theories. And fears. That’s new. She flexes her fingers, and her ruby ring glimmers darkly, catching her eye. And then she is lost in it, drawn right into the gemstone, its interior an endless, shapeless expanse of deep reds that flow and shift like the clouds of blood in the snow globe. It speaks to her in a language no human being ever uttered, but she understands. She is not a victim. That’s not her role. This is wrong. She needs to be out. She needs to hunt.

  Her head snaps back, eyes wide as she frees herself violently from the creeping tendrils of sleep and tries to focus again upon the words on the screen, forcing her mind to seek the thread of the story and pick it up again. But it is elusive. So much of writing is momentum. Once you lose it, you’re lost.

  Idly, Lydia’s fingers slide the cursor over to her browser icon. She pops it open and navigates to her Facebook page. She rarely posts herself, but the lure of other people’s lives is irresistible. She begins to scroll, every photograph an opportunity to silently judge somebody she once knew for their life choices. He married her? Talk about settling, that won’t last. Or maybe it will. Easier to make do when you’ve given up. Everyone reaches that point eventually. Even me. I wonder when that will be. Picture after picture of identical babies with their stupid, blank expressions. Why are people so proud of these things? It’s hardly a challenge to make one; they cost a fortune, shit themselves and wake you up in the middle of the night. Of the human minds’ many quirks and intricacies, the desire to have children is perhaps the one she understands the least.

  Lydia taps in the search box and enters Alex’s name, scrolling the profiles until she sees his picture. Like her, he doesn’t post much. Just a handful of pictures; first day in uniform, a vacation in Mexico. That must be his wife. Ex-wife. She’s pretty. Not as pretty as me. Lydia smiles and takes another sip of coffee. After the shock of the last twenty-four hours, her confidence is returning. She’s remembering who she is, and what she’s capable of. A strange warmth spreading into her fingers, she swaps back to her manuscript and begins to type.

  *

  It’s hours later when the sharp beep of a text message breaks Lydia’s trance, yanking her abruptly out of her story. For a second, as she reaches for the phone, she even forgets that she was desperate to make contact with Alex, but seeing his name on the screen brings a rush of excitement with it. She slides her finger across to read the message.

  Hope you’re okay. Done here soon. Meet you at the hotel.

  Hmm, she thinks, with a sly smile. That’s nice, but I have a better idea. Alex may be the law, but he isn’t in charge of her. This weak sideshow has gone on long enough, and a plan is hatching in her devious mind. She opens her contacts and taps the ‘AAA’ right at the top.

  “Hello? Yes, my car broke down. I need it towed from outside of the Decanten Museum of Modern Art to Mortem Asylum as soon as possible. It’s a red Mustang…” She crosses to the door as she gives the details, picking her coat up from a chair on the way, and opens it to find the two police officers leaning against the hallway wall, mid-conversation.

  “You need something, Miss Tune?” the old man asks, noticing her first. Lydia holds up one finger while she finishes her call.

  “Okay, great. Thanks.” She hangs up. “I just spoke to Detective Gilbey,” she tells them, straight-faced. “He wants me to meet him at Mortem.”

  The police officers exchange doubtful looks. “The detective gave us strict orders to stay here,” says the plump woman. “I don’t think—”

  “Call him.” Lydia bluffs. The officer looks at her, shrugs and takes out her phone. “Voicemail,” she says a moment later to her colleague, and they both look at Lydia again.

  “It’s important,” Lydia says, pulling on her coat and closing the hotel room door behind her. “Shall we?”

  The older officer puffs out his cheeks with a sigh. “I guess…”

  “Wonderful.” Lydia heads towards the elevator, making sure that she’s past them both before she allows herself a smirk.

  Twenty-One

  Creature of the Night

  “Is Doctor Engel here?” Lydia asks in a hushed voice, leaning across the reception desk.

  “Yes,” Charlotte replies, “would you like me to call her down?”

  “No, that’s okay. I know my way to her office.”

  “Guests aren’t really allowed—” the receptionist begins, frowning.

  “She’s expecting me.” Lydia looks back into Charlotte’s face, trying to gauge her reaction. “You could let her know I’m on my way up, if you like.” She turns away before the girl can answer, and crosses to the two officers waiting by the door. “You’re off the hook,” she says, with the air of someone presenting a generous gift. “I’ll get a ride back with Alex.”

  Again, they exchange looks. “We should really wait,” says the female officer.

  “How long have you been on duty?” Lydia asks the man, who looks the more exhausted of the two. He checks his watch.

  “About eighteen hours now.”

  “And how much overtime do you think they’re going to kick out for sitting around here waiting for me?”

  “She’s got a point,” says the woman. />
  “Alright,” the man agrees, somewhat reluctantly. “If the detective changes his mind, he can call us. We have to go back to the station first anyway.”

  “Thanks again,” Lydia calls over her shoulder, already on her way to the elevator.

  Gretchen’s office door is closed, but there’s light spilling from underneath. Pressing her ear gently to it, Lydia can hear muffled voices within; one male, one female. The warden again? No, a younger voice. It’s Alex. She listens hard.

  “It’s the same shit all over again,” Alex complains. “I can’t tell whether he knows anything or not.”

  “How could he?” asks Gretchen, sounding quite exasperated. “He doesn’t have contact with the outside world, no newspapers, no television, letters, phone calls, nothing.”

  “What if someone here is passing messages for him?”

  “What are you suggesting?” Gretchen’s voice rises. “That one of our staff murdered this woman?” Alex doesn’t reply, at least audibly. “Do you think I killed her? Because I have a witness who was with me all night.”

  “That’s true.” Lydia opens the door, knocking on it as an afterthought. “She was with me yesterday evening when you called.”

  “What the hell are you doing here?” Alex rounds on her at once. “I said I’d meet you at the hotel. Where are the officers who were supposed to be watching you?”

  “I sent them home,” she replies coolly, stepping into the room and perching herself on the corner of Gretchen’s desk, facing him.

  “What do you mean you sent them home?” Alex looks incredulous. “They’re supposed to take their orders from me, not you. I swear—”

  “They’ve been on for eighteen hours, Alex, they need to sleep.”

  “So do I, but I’m not about to just wander off and abandon my responsibilities.” He’s practically yelling now.

  “They didn’t abandon anything,” Lydia says, calmly. “I said I sent them away. I’m not under arrest and I’m not a prisoner, and you need to calm down.” She turns to Gretchen before Alex has a chance to reply. “Can I see Jason?”

  “He’s been in the interview room for hours already today,” Gretchen replies, eyeing Alex warily. Is he giving her a warning look? Lydia feels a rush of contempt for him. “I don’t know how far we should push him.”

  “It won’t take long.” Lydia moves towards her, looking directly into the doctor’s eyes and summoning as much earnestness as she can. “Please. It’s important.”

  Gretchen sighs. She looks from Lydia to Alex and back again as though trying to decide who she least wishes to anger, then says finally, “Alright. Ten minutes.”

  “Thank you.” Lydia beams.

  “Do I get a say in this?” asks Alex, brusquely.

  “Why would you?” Lydia gives him a cool look. She does like him, but the macho protector routine is kind of a turn-off.

  “Because it’s my investigation.”

  “Oh, is he a suspect?” Lydia turns towards him, arms folded. “I’m sure we’d both be interested to hear your theory about how he broke out of here, murdered a woman, staged a display of frankly pretty sloppy taxidermy and then snuck back in completely unnoticed.”

  Gretchen covers her mouth with her hand and looks away quickly.

  “Fine,” Alex replies, spreading his hands to signal that he’s had enough. “Get yourself killed. You’re all as stubborn as each other.”

  “All who, exactly?” Lydia glares at him dangerously, but Alex seems to know better than to answer that. Instead he leaves the room without another word, slamming the door behind him.

  “Speaking of stubborn,” Gretchen murmurs.

  “Seriously.” Lydia turns to her. “Thank you for this.”

  “No problem.” Gretchen smiles. “But let’s get on with it before Shade finds out.” Lydia frowns at her, confused. “The warden,” Gretchen explains, fetching her keys from a drawer. “He’s not happy about all this attention. I think he’d rather like to see the back of you.”

  *

  Jason Devere tugs restlessly at his chains as Lydia enters the cold, white room. He stops when he sees her, that familiar wolf smile creeping across his face. “Well well,” he growls softly. “Here comes the good cop.”

  “Why would you think that?” Lydia asks, taking the seat opposite and looking calmly back at him.

  “Because that cop doesn’t have the temperament for it.” Lydia grins before she can catch herself. She looks away, but it’s too late. “Aha,” Jason’s voice is smooth and gleeful, “you two know each other.” He leans forward over the table and whispers, “How well, I wonder?”

  “Don’t play the shrink, Jason.” Lydia gives him a pitying look. “You don’t have the training.”

  “How do you know?”

  “I know all about you.” She leans forward, knowing by now that his chains aren’t long enough to let him reach her. “I spoke to your teacher, remember? The one who was killed last night.”

  “Not by me,” he shows off his manacles, “if that’s what you’re implying.”

  “Of course not. But you do know who did it.”

  “How would I?”

  Lydia looks placidly back at him. She doesn’t know that yet, so the question is best left unanswered. “I presume Detective Gilbey told you what happened to her?”

  “Do you call him detective in the bedroom, too?” Jason sneers.

  “Jealous?” Lydia smirks.

  “Don’t flatter yourself.”

  “You didn’t answer the question.”

  “Neither did you.” Jason stares her down, defiantly.

  “You were fond of her, weren’t you?”

  “Not especially.” He slumps back and looks around, his foot tapping on the smooth, grey floor. He is tired. “Besides, that was a long time ago.”

  “What about your friend, Cecil?” Lydia watches him closely for a reaction, and she gets it. For a split second Jason’s pupils dilate. Fear. He’s worried about his old friend. He’s not directing this show. She knew it. But he does know something he’s not telling.

  “What about him?”

  “I went to see him this morning,” Lydia replies, casually.

  “So what?”

  “He wasn’t home.”

  “That’s a great story, Lydia, truly. No wonder you sell so many books.”

  “It’s a little odd, actually,” Lydia presses on, ignoring the sarcasm. “Because I got the distinct impression that he’d hardly left his house for years. Did you know that?”

  “I didn’t know, and I don’t care,” Jason replies, irritably. “Listen, if you’re the good cop aren’t you supposed to offer me a drink, or a blowjob or something?” He leers at her.

  “I’m not a cop,” Lydia replies with her sweetest smile. “If you’re thirsty, you should let a guard know.”

  “I like you less every time we meet,” he growls.

  “I have that effect on people.” She smiles, getting to her feet. “Goodnight, Jason.”

  “Hey,” he calls after her as she heads for the door. “Tell your boyfriend I don’t know anything.”

  “That makes two of you,” she replies, without looking back.

  *

  Lydia makes quick time through Mortem’s maze of haunted corridors, back towards the cavernous foyer where she finds a man sitting in the waiting area. He is wearing a smart grey suit and his posture is upright and elegant. An immaculately groomed moustache that harks back to the turn of the century; cigarette cases and old sepia photographs. As she passes, he lifts his head and meets her eyes with his pale blue ones. His gaze is powerful, so much so that it causes Lydia’s breath to catch in her throat. She returns his polite smile, and continues on her way outside.

  Sheet ice covers the car park under a thick, grey sky, snow falling heavily as Lydia picks her way carefully to the car that she is relieved to find has arrived safely. The lamp posts that line the drive are flickering, and the vines coiling and grasping around the building seem to be pulsi
ng, shifting, tightening their grip. The world is on edge. A shape at the very top of Mortem catches her eye, something shifting atop the roof, a figure she can’t quite make out in the darkness. Its shadow ripples and expands, like a vast bird stretching its wings, and then in a moment it is gone.

  Do you ever feel like you’re being watched?

  Jason’s words echo in Lydia’s mind and she glances around, fishing in her pocket for her keys. But her hands fumble in the cold and she drops them next to the front wheel of the car.

  You’re being paranoid, she scolds herself as she feels her fight or flight reflex kick in, her heart race, her breath quicken. She bends down and reaches for the keys with quaking fingers, when something heavy cracks her hard around the back of her head. Her brain lurches. Her eyes darken. Deep within her core, sparks fly briefly, then fizzle and die.

  Twenty-Two

  Her Handsome Hero

  Light filters slowly through Lydia’s heavy eyelids, her own personal sunrise, penetrating gradually, painfully, cruelly all the way into her skull. She tries to turn her head away from its source, but her neck is stiff, frozen. Then suddenly the pain retreats. The light blocked. She senses a presence looming over her.

  “Awake at last, Miss Tune,” says an unfamiliar voice. “How are you feeling?”

  Lydia blinks, and the room swims into view. Bare, white, stark. A hospital ward. The man standing over her in his long, white coat waits patiently for her to get her bearings.

  “What happened?” Lydia croaks finally. Her mouth is so dry, the words cut on their way out and she winces.

  “I was hoping you could tell me,” the doctor replies, making a note on his clipboard and then dropping it to his side. “Doctor Engel found you lying face-down in the car park and brought you inside. Lucky she did, too. Another couple of hours and you would have been completely buried by the snow.”

  “I don’t…” Lydia swallows painfully. She tries to reach for the pitcher of water on her bedside table, but her arms feel too heavy to lift. She feels like a bird with broken wings.