Simon Beckett - Whispers of the Dead

He’d created his own body farm.

Paul’s voice was unsteady. ‘Over there. There’s a house.’

Beyond the pond the ground rose into a tree-covered hillside. Towards its top, the angled lines of a roof were visible through the branches. I grabbed hold of Paul’s arm as he started towards it.

‘What are you doing?’

He pulled free. ‘Sam might be in there!’

‘I know, but we’ve got to tell Gardner—’

‘So tell him,’ he said, breaking into a run.

I swore, the phone held in my hand. Gardner needed to know about this, but I had to stop Paul from doing anything stupid.

I set off after him.

The corpses were everywhere. They seemed to have been left with no pattern or purpose, as though York had simply dumped them here to rot. Dragonflies swooped and hovered as I ran through the garden, indifferent to the death all around. I saw a swamp darner gently fanning its wings as it rested on a skeletal finger, beautiful but alien. When another thrummed close to my head I batted it away in revulsion.

Paul was still ahead of me, heading for the building we’d seen through the branches. Built on the sloping hillside, it rose up like a cliff, a sprawling timber structure three storeys high. I could see now that it was far too big to be a house, more like an old hotel of some sort. It must have been imposing once, but neglect had made it as rotten as the bodies in its grounds. Its foundations had shifted, giving it a skewed, twisted aspect. Holes gaped in the shingle roof, and cobwebbed windows stared sightlessly from the weathered grey face. Leaning against one corner like a drunk was an ancient weeping willow, its branches draped over the walls as though to hide their decay.

Paul had reached a weed-choked terrace that ran along this entire side of the building. I was close behind him now, but not close enough to stop him as he ran to a pair of boarded-up French doors and wrenched on the handles. They didn’t open, but the rattle shattered the garden’s silence.

I pulled him aside. ‘What are you doing? Jesus, do you want to get yourself killed?’

But one look at his face gave me the answer: he didn’t expect to find Sam alive. And if she wasn’t, he didn’t care about himself.

Pushing me away, he ran towards the corner of the building where the old willow leaned against the walls. I couldn’t let him get too far ahead, but I daren’t wait any longer to call Gardner. I dialled as I ran, relieved to see that there was a weak signal even out here. It was more than I’d hoped for, but I swore when the TBI agent’s number went straight to voicemail. There was no time to try Jacobsen; Paul had already vanished under the willow’s trailing branches. Gasping out the words, I described where we were as best I could, then snapped my phone shut and sprinted after him.

Up close, the building’s rot was obvious. Its wooden siding was as soft as balsa, honeycombed with tiny holes. Thinking about the cloud of insects the dragonflies had been feeding on, I remembered what Josh Talbot had said: Swamp darners are partial to winged termites.

They’d found a plentiful supply here.

But I’d more pressing concerns just then. Paul was in sight again up ahead, running up an overgrown path along the side of the building. Chest burning, I made an extra effort and hauled him back before he reached the end of it.

‘Get off of me!’

A flailing elbow triggered a starburst of light in my eye, but I didn’t let go. ‘Just think, will you! What if he’s got a gun?’

He tried to throw me off. ‘I don’t care!’

I struggled to hold on to him. ‘If Sam’s still alive we’re her only chance! You want to waste it?’

That reached him. The frenzy died in his eyes, and I felt the resistance ebb from him. Still wary, I let him go.

‘I’m not waiting till Gardner gets here,’ he breathed.

‘I know, but we can’t just go charging in. If York’s in there let’s not make it any easier for him.’

I could see that everything in him wanted to tear down the walls until he found Sam, but he knew I was right. Even though York must know we were there by now, he might not realize there were only two of us. God knew, we didn’t have much of an advantage, but announcing our approach would lose what little we had.

Moving more cautiously, we went to the end of the path.

We’d obviously come at the building from the back; now we found ourselves at the front. The spring sun was too low to creep above the high roof, casting a deep shadow. Walking into it was like stepping into cold water. Even the trees on this side seemed darker; towering pines and maples rather than the ornamental varieties at the back. Woodland had reclaimed whatever gardens there used to be, branches meeting over the muddy driveway to form a dark, claustrophobic tunnel that disappeared out of sight.

At one side stood a warped timber sign. The lettering had faded to a ghostly blue that hinted at a long-ago optimism: Breathe Deep! You’re at Cedar Heights Spa and Sanitarium! It looked to date from the 1950s, and judging by its dilapidation it might have been forgotten ever since.

Though not by York.

Several cars were parked haphazardly on the driveway, stolen along with their owners’ lives. Most had obviously not been moved in ages, their roofs and windscreens covered with leaf mould and bird droppings, but two were cleaner than the rest. One was a huge black pick-up truck with darkly tinted windows.

The other was a blue Chrysler SUV.

The realization of how York had fooled us rose like bile in my throat. He must have been almost back here when he’d had the accident. So rather than risk the inevitable search coming too close to Cedar Heights, he’d driven miles out of his way before abandoning the ambulance.

Then he’d stolen a car and doubled back.

The SUV was parked at the bottom of crazy-paved stone steps that led to a roofed veranda. At the top was a pair of tall double doors that had once been grand, but were now as dilapidated as everything else.

One of them stood open.

Paul bent and picked up a wooden strut that had come loose from the veranda as we went up the steps. Through the open door at the top I could make out a large, shadowed foyer and the bottom of a wide staircase. Paul reached out to push the door all the way open.

And my phone rang.

It sounded shockingly loud. I grabbed it from my pocket and saw Gardner’s name in the caller display. Jesus, not now! I fumbled to answer it but it took agonizing seconds before the piercing trill was silenced.

Gardner’s voice crackled unevenly ‘Hunter? Where the hell are you?’

But there was no time to answer. No time for anything, because at that moment there was a cry from deep inside the house. It quickly cut off, but Paul’s restraint slipped.

‘SAM! HOLD ON, I’M COMING!’ he yelled, and barged through the doors.

Oh, Christ. But there was no longer any choice. Ignoring Gardner’s angry questions, I ran after Paul into the sanitarium.

You cock your head, listening. They’ll be here soon; you only have a few minutes. Adrenaline is tingling through you, but you’re over the worst of the shock now, able to function again. When you heard them at the French doors the disbelief was paralysing. You’d thought that leaving the ambulance miles away would’ve thrown them off, allowed yourself to relax.

You should have known better.

Your first instinct was to run, but that wasn’t an option. You forced yourself to calm down, to think! And gradually the panic subsided enough to let you see what you had to do. You’re better than them, remember that. Better than anyone.

You can still turn this round.

You have to hurry, though. The eyes stare at you from the bound figure, wide and terrified, as you make sure the gag won’t come out again. You don’t want any more screams to tell them where you are, not yet. A sense of waste rises up in you as you start. This isn’t how it was meant to be, not when you’d come so close… But there’s no time for regrets. No time for anything.