J. Robb - Bump in The Night

In Number Twelve, Eve stood in the area that had once held a stage. Where there had been sound and light and motion, there was silence, dark and stillness. She could smell dust and a faint whiff of the chemicals the sweepers used on-scene. And could feel nothing but the pervading chill that burned through the brick and mortar of an old building.

Still, the stage was set, she thought. If her hunch was off, she’d have wasted a lot of departmental time, manpower and money. Better that, she decided, than to play into the current media hype that the curse of Number Twelve was still vital, still lethal.

„You’ve got to admit, it’s creepy.“ Beside Eve, Peabody scanned the club room. There was a lot of white showing in her eyes. „This place gives me the jeebies.“

„Keep your jeebies to yourself. We’re set. I’m going up to my post.“

„You don’t have to go up right this minute.“ Peabody ’s hand clamped like a bundle of live wires on Eve’s wrist. „Seriously. We’ve got plenty of room on the timetable.“

„If you’re afraid of the dark, Detective, maybe you should’ve brought a nice little teddy bear to hold onto.“

„Couldn’t hurt,“ Peabody mumbled when Eve pulled free. „You’ll stay in contact, right? I mean, communications open? It’s practically like you’re standing beside me.“

Eve only shook her head as she crossed to the stairs. She’d gone through doors with Peabody when death or certainly pain was poised on the other side. She’d crawled through blood with her. And here her usually stalwart partner was squeaking over ghosts.

Her bootsteps echoed against the metal steps – and okay, maybe it was a little creepy. But it wasn’t creaking doors and disembodied moans they had to worry about tonight. It was a stone killer who could come for letters from the dead.

There were no letters, of course. None that she knew of, no vault to hide them in. But she had no doubt the prospect of them would lure Rad Hopkins’s killer into Number Twelve.

No doubt that killer was descended from Bray and Hopkins. If her hunch didn’t pay off tonight, she was going to face a media storm tomorrow – face it either way, she admitted. But she’d rather deal with it with the case closed.

Funny how Bygones had old-timey photos of the desert. Maybe they were Arizona, maybe not, but she was laying her money that they were. There’d been old photos of San Francisco, too, before the quake had given it a good, hard shake. Others of New York during that time period, and of L.A. All of Bobbie’s haunts.

Coincidence, maybe. But she agreed with one of the detectives in her squad on a case recently closed – a case that also included switched identities.

Coincidences were hooey.

She crossed the second tier, and started up to the old apartments.

Eve didn’t doubt Roarke had played his part, and played it well. With the bait he’d dangled, she was gambling that Radcliff C. Hopkins’s killer, and Bobbie Bray’s murderous descendent, would bite quickly. Would bite tonight.

She took her position where she could keep the windows in view, put her back to the wall. Eve flipped her communications channel to Peabody ’s unit, and said, „Boo.“

„Oh yeah, that’s funny. I’m rib-cracking down here.“

„When you’re finished with your hilarity, we’ll do a check. Feeney, you copy?“

„Got your eyes, your ears and the body-heat sensors. No movement.“

„You eating a doughnut?“

„What do you need electronic eyes and ears for, you can tell I’m eating a cruller from in there?“ There was a slurping sound as Feeney washed down the cruller with coffee. „Roarke bought the team a little something to keep us alert.“

„Yeah, he’s always buying something.“ She wished she had a damn cruller. Better, the coffee.

„You should have worn the beads, Lieutenant.“ Roarke’s voice cruised on. „I think they might have appealed to Bobbie.“

„Yeah, that’s what I need. Baubles and beads. I could use them to – “

„Picking up something,“ Feeney interrupted.

„I hear it.“ Eve went silent, and as she focused, the sound – a humming – took on the pattern of a tune, and a female flavor. She drew her weapon.

„Exits and egresses,“ she murmured to Feeney.

„Undisturbed,“ he said in her ear. „I’ve got no motion, no visual, no heat-sensor reading on anything but you and Peabody.“

So it was on a timer, Eve decided. An electronic loop EDD had missed.

„ Dallas?“ Peabody ’s voice was a frantic hiss. „You read? I see – “

The earpiece went to a waspy buzz. And the air went to ice.

She couldn’t stop the chill from streaking up her spine, but no one had to know about it. She might have cursed the glitch in communications and surveillance, but she was too busy watching the amorphous figure drift toward her.

Bobbie Bray wore jeans widely belled from the knees down, slung low at the hips and decorated with flowers that twined up the side of each leg. The filmy white top seemed to float in a breeze. Her hair was a riotous tangle of curls with the glitter of diamond clips. As she walked, as she hummed, she lifted a cigarette to her lips and drew deeply.

For an instant, the sharp scent of tobacco stung the air.

From the way the image moved, Eve decided tobacco wasn’t the only thing she’d been smoking. As ghosts went, this one was stoned to the eyeballs.

„You think I’m buying this?“ Eve pushed off the wall. But when she started to move forward something struck out at her. Later, she would think it was like being punched with an ice floe.

She shoved herself forward, following the figure into what had been the bedroom area of the apartment.

The figure stopped, as if startled.

I didn’t know you were up here. What’s it about? I told you, I’m bookin. So I packed. Don’t give me any more shit, Hop.

The figure moved as it spoke, mimed pouring something into a glass, drinking. There was weariness in the voice, and the blurriness of drugs.

Because I’m tired and I’m sick. I’m so fucking messed up. This whole scene is fucked up, and I can’t do it anymore. I don’t give a shit about my career. That was all you. It’s always been all you.

She turned, stood hipshot and blearily defiant.

Yeah? Well, maybe I have lapped it up, and now I’m just puking it out. For Christ’s sake look at us, Hop. Look at yourself. We’re either stoned or strung out. We got a kid. Don’t tell me to shut up. I’m sick of myself and I’m sick of you. I will stay straight this time.

The image flung an arm out as if heaving a glass against the wall.

I’m not humping some other guy. I’m not signing with another label. I’m done. Don’t you get it? I’m done with this, and I’m done with you. You’re fucking crazy, Hop. You need help more than I do. Put that down.

The image threw up its hands now, stumbling back.

You gotta calm down. You gotta come down. We’ll talk about it, okay? I don’t have to leave. I’m not lying. I’m not. Oh God. Don’t. No. Jesus, Hop. Don’t!

There was a sharp crack as the figure jerked back, then fell. The hole in the center of the forehead leaked blood.

„Hell of a show,“ Eve said, and her voice sounded hoarse to her own ears. „Hell of a performance.“

Eve heard the faint creak behind her, pivoted. Maeve stepped into the room, tears pouring down her cheeks. And a knife gleaming dully in her hand.

„He shot me dead. Dead was better than gone – that’s what he said.“

Not John Massey, Eve realized. The Bray/Hopkins legacy had gone down another generation.

„You look alive to me, Maeve.“