Alex Barclay - The Caller

Duke let her panic run its course.

‘I’ll… what do you need, Duke? I’ll do it. I’ll… whatever it is.’ She saw how he was looking at her. She stumbled back, grabbing for the cell phone on the arm of the pretty pink sofa. She held it in her trembling hand. Duke’s right leg shot out and kicked it away.

Wanda screamed. ‘You broke something.’

‘So did you,’ said Duke.

Wanda sat with her back to her son’s chest. He sat behind her, taking the full weight of her body, his legs wrapped around her, pinning hers to the ground. With skills honed throughout his childhood, he quickly wrapped the tourniquet around her left arm, pulled out a syringe and shot the purest heroin to ever course through Wanda Rawlins’ veins. Her stricken face was quickly replaced by one he knew better: the slack one; the face that danced on shiny poles, the face that stood outside the school gate, the face that baked burned cookies, the face that opened his bedroom door to johns whose needs no woman could ever meet.

One hour later, Vincent Farraday arrived back from the grocery store and walked in on the wife he thought he’d saved – her body limp, her eyes dark and glassy. She gave a half smile and turned back to the TV.

Vincent turned to the twin teenage girls standing beside him.

‘Your mama is not feeling well,’ he said. ‘I’m thinking, let’s go on that vacation a day early. Go pack your bags.’

Vincent Farraday took off his hat and rubbed his head over and over. He pulled out a handkerchief and pressed it to the corner of his eyes.

The preacher’s voice rose from the television through the quiet. ‘And if a house be divided against itself, that house cannot stand.’

The audience cheered.

‘And whoever rewards evil for good, evil will not depart from their house.’

Joe sat at his laptop with the VICS file opened. The last time he used it, he had added the photo of David Burig. Now he added Dean Valtry. The faces of five murdered men looked out at him from the screen. And underneath was a photo of Mary Burig. He shifted the boxes around and made two sections that he separated with a thick red line. To the left were Gary Ortis, William Aneto, Preston Blake, Ethan Lowry. To the right were Mary Burig, David Burig and Dean Valtry. Joe drew a black border around Preston Blake and Mary Burig – the ones who got away. Then he focused on the three names to the right of the red line – the line that marked the point when the motive changed. He had no doubt that the killer knew Mary Burig, David Burig and Dean Valtry. Joe just had to figure out how. And who else could be next on that list.

The steps to Preston Blake’s house were edged with crisp brown leaves, blown by a wind that had whipped up out of nowhere in the warm afternoon. Danny and Joe stood waiting on the front step after ringing the doorbell.

‘I can just feel my retina being scanned,’ said Danny. ‘Or maybe my ass. He’s taking some kind of outline of my ass to make sure it fits with the groove I left on the sofa from the last visit.’

Joe leaned close to Danny’s ear. ‘Shut the fuck up, he can probably hear you.’

‘Yeah. Well. He. Can. Probably. Read. Our. Lips. Any. Way,’ said Danny.

They rang the doorbell and knocked again.

Joe pulled out his phone and dialled Blake’s number. It went straight to voicemail.

‘Mr Blake, it’s Detective Joe Lucchesi, here. We’re right outside. We’d like to talk to you about a few things. We don’t want to hold you up too long.’

One minute later, the door opened and Preston Blake stood in front of them, his face passive. He leaned out, glanced past them, onto the street, left and right, then looked at their badges.

‘Come in,’ he said. He brought them to the same room they had been in before, guided them to the same sofa.

‘We appreciate this,’ said Joe.

Preston Blake shrugged.

‘How have you been doing?’ said Danny.

‘Great,’ said Blake, his voice flat. ‘How’s your investigation?’ He smiled.

‘That’s why we’re here,’ said Joe, ‘we’ve a few more questions for you.’

‘Go ahead. For what it’s worth.’

‘Have you ever come across a David Burig?’

‘Why do you ask?’

‘Just connecting a few dots.’

‘No. I don’t know a David Burig.’

‘What about a Dean Valtry?’

‘No. Are these guys suspects?’

‘Like I said, their names have come up, we’re just cross checking things. We were looking to see if maybe you knew them or if there’s anything else you might have remembered.’

‘Look, about remembering stuff, no, OK? I told you that. This is something I’ve gone over in my mind constantly. I’m not going to start randomly remembering extra details later on. It just doesn’t happen that way.’

‘For some people, it does,’ said Danny.

‘Not me.’

‘Have you been reading the papers?’

Blake stared at them. ‘No thanks,’ he said. ‘Not any more. My reluctance probably started around the time my house was under siege.’

‘We didn’t leak your name,’ said Joe. ‘We gave you a promise. And it’s just not in the interest of the investigation.’

Blake frowned. ‘So it wouldn’t have helped to have me out there – just in case the killer wanted to finish me off.’

‘He would have known where to find you if he wanted to do that. Look, there’s no point in going over old ground…’

‘Maybe I believe you, Detective,’ said Blake. ‘And you,’ he said to Danny. ‘But what about the rest of your men? Do you trust them? All of them?’

Joe’s phone rang. ‘Excuse me,’ he said, standing up and walking a few feet away.

‘Joe, it’s Denis Cullen. I’m running a check on that Alan Noder guy and-’

‘Moder,’ said Joe. ‘M-O-D-E-R.’

‘Oh, shit, sorry. That’s why it wasn’t adding up,’ said Denis. ‘Someone wrote it down here-’

‘Danny’s scrawl. Not a problem.’

Joe sat back down. ‘My apologies. Back to the article – if it helps, I will call the journalist right now and try again to get his source. You know how they are about that, though, right? It’s not going to be easy. But if I do it, if he gives me that information, it will be dealt with.’

‘There’s no need to call him,’ said Blake. ‘I’m over it. It’s done now. I guess I’ll be forever linked in every article, website, whatever. I don’t think anyone gets how hard that is.’

‘I get it,’ said Joe.

‘That’s why I thought maybe it wasn’t you personally.’

‘Look, we need your help. I’m sure you can understand why. We’ve had years talking to people, just talking and you’d be amazed at what can come back to people when they have to tell a story more than once-’

‘A story,’ said Blake. ‘That’s how you see it. That’s how the press see it. A nice little story. An angle.’

‘Come on,’ said Joe. ‘You know what I mean. I’m not-’

Blake stood up suddenly. ‘I’m sorry. Would you excuse me, please? I just remembered. I’ve got a client coming to pick up a piece. Let me just bring it up.’

He left them sitting there.

‘He isn’t as pissed as I thought he’d be,’ said Danny.

Joe let out a long breath. ‘He’s hard fucking work.’

‘You have to watch what you say the whole time,’ said Danny.

‘He looks like shit,’ said Joe.

‘Why not get his teeth fixed?’

‘Dr Mak says he’s too scared.’

‘That’s what he says about everyone…’

‘Well because you’ve brought it up, you can be the first to know: I am scheduled for surgery.’

‘You what?’ said Danny.

‘Yes,’ said Joe. ‘Decision is made.’