David Jackson - Marked

‘You know who she is,’ he says.

‘Like I said, who needs a whole corpse when you got me on the team? I cross-checked with the Missing Persons records. Found a girl who disappeared last Saturday.’

Yesterday was Tuesday, thinks Doyle. That’s a lot of time she spent in the company of her torturer before he finished her off. Jesus.

‘You sure it’s her?’

‘Positive. Photographs match. Dental records match. Fingerprints match. I even found an old fracture to her thumb, done when she was nine. I’ve ordered a DNA test, which we’ll have to wait for, but I’m certain we have the right girl.’

‘Okay, Norm. Thanks. That’s great work. So who is she?’

‘Name’s Hamlyn. Megan Hamlyn.’

Nicole Hamlyn sits in her house in Forest Hills, which is light years away from the East Village, and stares out of her window again. The clouds are black now, and appear to be hovering just feet above the houses. She imagines a black balloon being filled with water, stretching and straining as it fills, becoming more pendulous every second, threatening to burst at any moment. The expectation, the tension, as she waits for the explosion.

And then it happens. One huge deep rumble of thunder. A roar of relief as the heavens relent and release their unbearable load.

The rain comes not in droplets but in globules. Massive spheres that crash into the ground and throw up huge splashes. Rain that looks as though it could hurt.

She pictures her Megan. Frightened. Running for cover. Pulling her coat over her head as she hurries through the downpour, looking for somewhere, anywhere, that will afford her protection from this onslaught. She pictures her huddled under an awning or in a doorway, shivering and wet.

But, above all, she imagines her wishing for her home. Her family. Warmth and dryness and love.

And then Nicole sees the car.

It’s a sedan. It cruises like a shark through the waters. It is long and sleek and dark. Too dark. This is not a bringer of happiness. It glides like a predator, and as it nears her house she wishes for it not to notice her, not to see this house or the woman watching from its window. She prays that it will continue on its deadly prowl, that it will seek out some other unfortunate victim.

But then it slows, and she feels the terror start to build inside. Wishes that this house was not so stark and white, that it could blend into the shadows and the grayness. Wishes that her outline was not so clear in the window. Wishes that she could run and hide and cover her ears and wait for the outsiders to go away again.

But she finds herself transfixed. She cannot move from that chair she has spent so many hours in lately. It is as if it has taken hold of her and is forcing her to play this out, this most dreaded of outcomes.

The car stops, and it is directly in front of her house. Not even slightly to one side, so that she might imagine they are going to see one of her neighbors. No, it is here, lined up with her front door. They are coming to see her. Even in this rain, they are coming.

She sees the car doors open. One either side. Driver and passenger. They always come in twos. She sees them glance up at the sky, as if they too cannot believe what a backdrop nature has created for them on this fateful day. She sees them turn up their collars and make a dash toward the house. Her house. The house where she is sitting and watching and waiting for Megan to come home. Because that is who is supposed to be coming up her path now. Megan.

And, in a way, she knows that that is what is happening. She knows that Megan is here, in the form of these two men. It is the story of the Monkey’s Paw. She has wished for the return of a loved one and that wish has been granted, but in a way that is more horrific than anything she could have imagined.

When the doorbell rings, and its usually joyful notes sound like the solemn doleful tolling of a church bell, she cannot move. She stays glued to her chair at the window and pretends it’s not happening, even though she can feel the tears already starting to build.

She hears a noise behind her, and she looks. Steve is moving to answer the door. He glances at her, and there are questions on his face because he knows she has seen the people who have come to darken their lives, and all she can do is shake her head slightly, even though it is not enough to stop him, not enough to prevent this happening.

She hears the door being opened. Hears the voices. Officious male voices. Voices dripping with the promise of unbearable sadness, which Steve doesn’t seem to notice because he is allowing them in. He doesn’t know what he is doing. He is letting them in and actually closing the door behind them.

And now they are all trapped here together.

Now it is too late.

Doyle hates this. Hates being the bearer of the worst news possible. He particularly hates it when the recipient of his devastating message is a woman, and a breakable-looking one at that. What he dreads most is that they will go to pieces in front of him, because he never knows what to do. He’s relieved that, in this case, the husband is here too — someone to step in when the emotional waves get rough. It doesn’t always play out that way, of course. Sometimes it’s the man who falls apart and the woman who provides the comfort. For some reason he has yet to analyze, Doyle can cope better with that. Men he understands, women he doesn’t. That’s all there is to it, he thinks. Sue me.

The house is beautiful. Quiet. There is a peacefulness here. He imagines it to be one of those houses that would never be on the market for very long. You would walk into it and it would feel right and you would instantly want to buy it.

The decor and furniture are modern and tasteful. No dark colors anywhere. Doyle feels a little embarrassed at the rivulets of rainwater that are dripping from his leather jacket and onto the oatmeal carpet. A distance of only a few yards from the car to the house, and he feels like he’s just climbed out of a swimming pool.

There’s one thing out of place here. So out of place it hits you as soon as you walk in. It’s the chair by the window. Doesn’t belong there at all. But Doyle understands the reason.

He nods toward the occupant of that chair. Doesn’t smile. This is not a time for smiling. Wouldn’t want to send out the wrong message. What you have to do in these situations is be officious. It may sound cruel, but the message has to be clear and unambiguous. You can’t tell someone their daughter is dead with a stupid grin on your face.

The woman looks to be just shy of forty. She is good-looking, and is probably stunning when she tries. Today she hasn’t tried. Her long blond hair is tied loosely at the back. She wears no makeup. She is dressed in a baggy sweatshirt and blue leggings. Today is a ‘throw it on and leave it be’ day.

Her husband is of a similar age, but of a different disposition. He is clean-cut, has precisely preened hair and smells of aftershave. He wears a Diesel T-shirt and well-pressed jeans. He appears to Doyle like someone who is obsessed with looking after himself. Hitting the gym, eating all the right foods, not smoking or drinking — all that annoying healthy stuff.

‘Come in,’ says Mr Hamlyn. ‘Please.’ He turns to his wife. ‘Hon, these guys are from the Police Department. The Eighth Precinct?’ He looks to Doyle for confirmation of this, and Doyle nods.

Doyle hears the shakiness in the man’s voice. Sees the uncertainty in the woman’s eyes.

Doyle looks down at his clothes. ‘We got kinda wet out there. I wouldn’t want to ruin your furniture. .’

‘No, it’s okay. Please. Take a seat. Would you like some coffee? Tea?’

Doyle sees LeBlanc’s eyes light up, and quickly interjects. ‘No. Nothing. Thank you.’ He looks across the room. ‘Mrs Hamlyn? Perhaps if you came over here, next to your husband? We need to speak with both of you.’