Питер Робинсон - No Cure for Love

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You think you do not know who I am, but you do. They took you away and Seduced you and stole you from me, just as the others did before. They have tried to blot out your Memory of me...  But everything is clear now...
At first, British TV star and recent Los Angeles transplant Sarah Broughton thinks the letters she has been receiving are from a typical fan — someone a little strange, perhaps, but harmless. But when her admirer — who identifies himself only as “M” — starts threatening Sarah and her loved ones, she turns to detectives Arvo Hughes and Maria Hernandez of the LAPD Threat Management Unit and experts in pursuing the most dangerous of stalkers. Pitted against a frighteningly twisted mind, the detectives test their expertise and experience to the limit in the desperate race to save Sarah’s life.

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His lips formed a smile that his eyes didn’t echo. “I doubt I could survive that there smog,” he said.

Sarah laughed. “Oh, come on. You’d probably be better off than the rest of us, what with your oxygen and all. Besides, it’s not so bad these days. There’s a lot of emission controls.”

He grinned, showing crooked black and yellow teeth. “Aye, who knows? Maybe one day. I’d like to see all them stars on the pavement there before I die. Ronald Colman. Greta Garbo. Charlie Chaplin. Jimmy Stewart. I’ve always wanted to see those.”

Sarah was surprised. “I’ll take you,” she said. “I’ll show you them. I didn’t even know you liked movies.”

He shrugged. “Used to go to t’pictures a lot when I was a young lad. Before I met your mother and went down t’pit. Never had time for owt like that when you were a kid, though. I were always on some bloody awkward shift or another. That or sleeping.” He paused and took several deep breaths of oxygen before going on. “And there weren’t no videos and the like back then. It’s a lot easier now. I can’t get out and about much these days so I watch at home. Paula’s a good lass, she goes and fetches them for me. Old ones mostly. Black-and-white. They’re still the best. You can keep your sex and violence.” He looked directly at Sarah as he spoke, and she blushed and turned away, remembering the row they had after he’d seen her do a nude scene in a Channel Four film. The beginning of the end. “Nay,” he went on, “I hadn’t time for t’pictures back then, had I? Your mother, though... now that were another matter.”

They fell silent for a moment, Sarah contemplating the times when her mother took her to the pictures. More stimulus for the budding actress. All kinds of memories came rushing back. She remembered the first film she had ever seen, when she was five or six — Walt Disney’s One Hundred and One Dalmatians — and how scared she had been of Cruella De Ville.

When she next looked at her father, his eyes were closed and his chin rested on his chest. At first, she thought something terrible had happened to him, but she could still hear his struggle for breath and the slow hiss of oxygen.

Slowly, Sarah crept upstairs and picked up the envelope. She had been in two minds about it all evening: half afraid of opening it and morbidly curious about the contents. Now, while her father and the children slept, while Paula was at work, she opened it and slipped out the two pages. Then she read the words with mounting horror:

My Darling Little Star,

Oh my Love, if only everyone could see what I see. Patterns of the most delicate intricacy. Patterns of Spirit stripped of Flesh and Muscle. Sometimes I see Fountains of bright Blood gushing across a hundred television screens at once. Sometimes I hear you speak to me over the Electromagnetic Waves, telling me what I must do to prove my Love.

Don’t you know who I am, my Little Star? You are the Detective now. Look into your past and find me. I am there, the dark Shape in the Shadows of your Memory. Find me, my love. Speak to me. Love me. Let me free you. Tell me you Know. I will rescue you. I will win you back from Them and we will look into each other’s eyes over the candlelight and hold hands beyond the Flesh for centuries through the Mirrors of the Sea where none can live but us.

Tell me you accept my simple Offering. Now do you see how I can provide for you, how I can Honor you as no one else can? With your Love, there can be no Fear. With your Love, there will be no Limits.

But you must not think I enjoy causing pain. No, that is not it at all, that is not my purpose, surely you can see? The boy wanted Death. Every night he cruised the Boulevard looking for Death, for someone who would deliver him to his Destiny. The Boulevard of Death. I put him to sleep like a kind Anesthetist before I performed my Operation. My Knives were sharp. I spent hours sharpening them. I was gentle when I bent over him. He didn’t feel a thing. Please believe me.

The disentanglement of Spirit from Flesh has a Scent and an Aura all of its own, my Love. One day I will show you, let you Smell and Taste it with me. We will disentangle our Spirits from our Gross Bodies and entwine forever, cut away the wretched excess. I will bury my head between your Milk White Thighs and drink the Blood and Baptize myself with your Menses. Outside our Skins we will know Eternal Love.

I must stop now. I am Weary and my Heart aches for you, my Love. Darkness falls and more Visions await me.

I am Yours, your Loving and Adoring Servant, unto all Eternity,

M.

Outside, Sarah could hear the waves crashing against the sea wall and the wind gusting and moaning about the rooftops. A shutter was banging somewhere. Inside, she was aware of the loud beating of her heart. My God, she thought, he did do it. She had seen the heart with her name in it drawn in the sand. It wasn’t an illusion. But who was he?

Down the street, the wind whipped a tile from someone’s roof and sent it smashing to the ground.

15

Arvo drove up the coast highway on Saturday morning with the top of his tan convertible open and the Allman Brothers singing “Statesboro Blues” on the radio. The ocean breeze ruffled his hair and forced its way deep into his lungs. He needed it to blow the cobwebs out of his mind and bring him back to life.

Last night had been a bad one, starting when he found that I Married a Monster from Outer Space had been delayed by a late-running hockey game, leaving him with only the first ten minutes of the movie.

As a substitute, he had dashed out and rented Ilsa, Harem Keeper of the Oil Sheiks, which was every bit as much of a turkey as the guy in the rental store had warned him.

He had woken just after four in the morning with a dry mouth and a pounding head, courtesy of the Scotch and Sam Adams chasers he had drunk after the leftover pizza. He hadn’t been able to get back to sleep again, mostly for thinking about the Sarah Broughton case. He had arranged to meet Stuart Kleigman in Santa Monica for lunch, but first he wanted to take a look at the crime scene.

The backs of the houses that faced the Coast Highway were nondescript. Mostly, they were simple flat-roofed rectangular boxes of varying heights and widths, some beige or white stucco, some wood-frame. Some of them had high windows facing the road, but most presented a blank façade. Because the houses were close together, the narrow gaps between them had been closed with high chain-link fencing.

A hundred yards or so west of the houses was a white three-story office building, with stairwells visible through the large plate-glass windows. Architecturally, it was nothing but a cube of white stone fitted with windows. The parking lot, with spaces reserved for ten cars, was empty, and Arvo pulled into the one marked “Dr S.A. Pedersen.” You wouldn’t catch a doctor or a dentist working on a Saturday if he could help it. Not as long as there were golf courses within driving distance.

He walked down the stone steps to the beach, the route Joe reckoned the killer must have carried John Heimar’s body parts, probably in a plastic garbage bag.

At the bottom of the steps, Arvo stepped into the fine sand and looked around. Gulls skimmed the water’s surface, looking for fish. The only people on the beach were two men walking a dog.

There were no signs left of the horror that had taken place here just a few days ago, nothing even to mark the spot where John Heimar’s body parts had been buried. Since then, the tide had been in and out a few times and washed everything away. The crime-scene techs had had to work fast. Like King Canute, even the LAPD couldn’t hold back the tide.

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