Chris Mooney - The Dead Room
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- Название:The Dead Room
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- Год:неизвестен
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- Рейтинг книги:3 / 5. Голосов: 1
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'Give me your phone.'
'What for?'
'Just give it to me.'
'I've had enough of -'
She ripped the phone from his belt clip, opened it and checked the log of outgoing calls.
Coop hadn't called her.
'Why are you lying to me?'
He looked away, across the street to the apartment building.
'That cop Baxter was talking to,' Darby said. 'You know who he is, don't you?'
He didn't answer.
'Baxter told me this guy is a ghost,' Darby said. 'She said you'd tell me the same thing. How do you know him?'
'Just drop it, okay?'
'I'm not going to drop it. If you know something – Coop, if you're deliberately keeping something that's interfering with this case, you need -'
'I want to be removed from this case and your unit. I want out of CSU.'
Darby opened her mouth but couldn't speak. She had heard Coop clearly – his words were echoing inside her head.
'I'll head to the station to start the paperwork,' he said.
'What reason are you going to put down on the transfer form?'
'Conflict of interest.'
'About what? Kendra Sheppard? Or do you know the names of the women we found in the basement?'
'I don't know their names.'
'But you have an idea, don't you?'
'I don't.'
You're lying. She could see it in his eyes.
'Why were you in such a rush to get inside Kevin Reynolds's house?'
He didn't answer.
'Why don't you trust me?'
'It's not a matter of trust,' he said.
'Then what is it?'
'The paperwork will be on your desk when you get back.'
'I'm not going to sign it.'
'Your choice,' he said and walked away.
Darby was still staring after him when her phone rang. She unclipped the phone from the holster and looked at the screen. Randy Scott was calling.
'The fingerprint Coop lifted from the hollow-point round rang the cherries on the database,' Randy said. 'IAFIS says the print belongs to a man named Francis Sullivan from Charlestown, Massachusetts.'
'That's not possible. Frank Sullivan is -'
'Dead, yes, I know. It says here he died in July of '83.'
'Then there's got to be some sort of mistake.'
'IAFIS says it's a 92 per cent match. I don't think there's a mistake.'
Darby looked down the street at Coop and saw him talking to Artie Pine. 'What about the prints from the house, have any come back?'
'I checked. Nothing yet.'
'I might need your help here, both you and Mark.'
'That's fine. We've almost finished processing the evidence.'
She hung up and shoved the phone into her pocket. She wanted one more run at Coop. He knew something, and she didn't understand why -
The house exploded. Splintered wood, debris and bodies flew through the air with a terrifying force and speed. The crime scene vehicle, the Ford Explorer, blew up next, and Darby felt a pair of invisible hands pick her up off the ground and hurl her backwards through the air. She clawed at the air and then slammed against a parked car, her head slamming against a window, shattering it as she blacked out. Day 3
41
Jamie sat behind the wheel of the minivan, its windows rolled up and the air-conditioning left on low to keep her from sweating underneath clothing more suited to an early-autumn morning – jeans, her beaten and battered Timberland work boots, and one of Dan's baggy sweatshirts. It hid her breasts and the Magnum's shoulder strap nicely, the cotton a bit more breathable and much more comfortable than the windbreaker she'd worn inside Mary Sullivan's basement.
Jamie had also helped herself to Michael's knockoff Ray-Ban Wayfarer sunglasses and one of his favourite baseball caps – a ridiculously bright yellow one with the phrase LADIES MAN stitched next to a patch of a barely awake Homer Simpson dressed only in a saggy pair of tighty-whities. She wore the brim pulled low to hide the surgical scars on her forehead. She had used the clippers to shave her hair down to a crew cut. From a distance, especially in this ashy predawn light, she could easily pass for a man.
She leaned forward in her seat and for the second time this past hour checked her reflection in the minivan's rear-view mirror. Up close she looked like a lanky man – one with slightly effeminate features, sure, but the visible scarring along her jaw line, coupled with the fresh bandage slapped across the raw skin on the side of her face, would balance that out.
A skinny guy who got his ass kicked, she thought. Perfect. She needed to look the part of the driver Ben Masters had hired to take Kevin Reynolds to safety.
Jamie checked the minivan's dashboard clock: 4.45 a.m. Fifteen minutes until show time.
She grabbed the bottle of Gatorade. A fine white residue had settled across the bottom. She had taken six of her Xanax pills, crushed them with a spoon and poured the fine powder into the bright red water. One pill mellowed her out; an elephant like Reynolds would need at least three or four. Six, she figured, should probably put him to sleep. After he went nighty-night, she would tie him up, cover him with a tarp and then drive ten minutes up the road to a secluded spot on the other side of these woods.
If Reynolds didn't cooperate, she'd have to take him down here.
She wasn't particularly concerned about being spotted or heard. Unless someone had an avid interest in studying or weeds, there was no reason to come to Waterman Park. Her father, back when he was alive, had told her how the recession of the eighties had hit Belham hard, and the first thing on the chopping block was funding for the city's Department of Public Works. Waterman Park's fountain, jungle gyms, swings and slides had all been removed. All that remained was a long, wide field of tall burnt grass and bald patches of sun-baked dirt. And the bridge.
The bridge was the main reason she had selected this spot. One way in and one way out. You could walk across the bridge but you couldn't walk through the woods – not unless you wanted to fight your way through the thick brush. No way for Reynolds to sneak up on her.
Leaning back in her seat, her thoughts drifted back to Michael.
You thought you could save only one of us, he had told her, and you chose Carter.
Michael was right. She had chosen Carter. Wilfully, maybe even deliberately. And, while she could tick off a list of logical reasons why she went to him first – Carter was the youngest, her baby – she couldn't escape the truth that had lived inside her every waking thought since the day Michael was born. Michael was difficult. He had been a colicky and fussy baby who had grown into a stubborn young boy who took a peculiar delight and satisfaction in fighting her at every turn. She recalled one particularly nasty fight inside the grocery store when Michael was six. She had refused to buy him a sugary cereal he'd seen on a TV commercial and he responded by knocking the boxes off the shelf and stomping on them. She carried him out of the shop kicking and screaming.
By the time she reached the car she had lost her cool, yelling at him until her throat was raw, and when he smirked at her with grim satisfaction she had wanted to hit him. She later confided to Dan that Michael was an emotional vampire, a creature that fed off her anger. Dan told her that she was being too harsh. Dan could say those things because Michael didn't act that way with him, just her.
Carter was the polar opposite. Carter was easy. Carter smiled and enjoyed people. Sure, he could be fussy and yes, he had his moments like any other normal kid. But even at almost seven Carter was remarkably empathetic. He felt bad when he did something wrong and apologized. Michael never did. Like Dan, Michael lived inside his skin, didn't show emotion or let anyone get too close to him.
Not true. Michael had allowed Dan to get close to him.
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