Graham Masterton - Innocent Blood

‘I’m going to call the cops, what else?’

‘But you don’t know for sure that it’s Charles Lasser, do you?’

‘No, I don’t. But it’s still worth them looking into it. Think about it, Astrid, if it is Charles Lasser, he killed Danny, too.’

Frank could see himself reflected in the window, like a ghost. The ghost picked up the phone from the coffee table and waited while its call was connected.

‘Lieutenant Chessman? It’s Frank Bell, remember me? Listen, I’ve just heard the latest statement from Dar Tariki Tariqat. I may be wrong, but I think it contains a kind of a clue.’

‘Oh, yes?’ Lieutenant Chessman had his mouth full. ‘What kind of a clue?’

‘Well, first of all I think it’s a warning, personally directed at me. They said they were proud of killing the people who wrote Pigs , but they were coming after anybody who survived.’

‘I see. I haven’t heard that statement yet.’

‘I also think they might have given away the identity of the person who’s behind all of these bombings.’

‘They did what ?’

‘It’s not easy to explain, but I think it could be Charles Lasser.’

There was a very long pause. ‘I hope and pray that I didn’t hear you say what I thought I heard you say.’

‘If I can meet you, Lieutenant, I can explain.’

‘Listen, don’t say anything more over the phone. Where are you at?’

‘Sunset Marquis.’

‘OK . . . give me twenty minutes and I’ll call around and see you.’

When he came back into the bedroom, he found that Astrid was tugging on her black leather pants.

‘What are you doing?’ he asked her. ‘You’re not going? It’s almost midnight.’

‘I know. But if the police are coming around, I think it’s better if you see them on your own.’

‘I will see them on my own. You don’t have to leave.’

She brushed out her hair, and pouted at herself in the mirror. ‘No, I’ll see you tomorrow night, maybe. I’ll call for a taxi, if that’s OK.’

‘Astrid, you really don’t have to go. I can see the police downstairs in the lobby.’

Astrid stood on tiptoe and kissed him. ‘You know what they say. If you find yourself on a runaway train, you should jump off while you still have the chance.’

‘Astrid, two of my very best friends were murdered today. My son’s dead. If Charles Lasser had anything to do with it, I want to see him arrested, and tried, and executed.’

‘Of course you do. But what’s your evidence? Something you heard on the television news?’

‘Charles Lasser used the word “vermin.” They said “vermin” too.’

‘You can’t really be sure that they were referring to you.’

‘They bombed my fucking office! They killed my friends! They murdered Danny and he was only eight years old!’

Astrid buttoned up her jerkin. ‘Even if you’re right, and it was Charles Lasser, you don’t think that you could possibly prove it, do you?’

Frank frowned at her. ‘Is that a question, or is that something you know for a fact?’

‘It’s common sense. Charles Lasser has twenty-six lawyers.’

‘Oh, you know that, do you? That exact number? Listen, I really think you owe me some kind of explanation about this. What is it between you and Charles Lasser? He says he doesn’t know you, which I don’t believe for one moment, and as for you – well, you won’t say anything.’

Astrid reached out and touched his cheek. He took hold of her hand, tightly, and held it, so that she couldn’t get free.

‘I can’t say anything,’ she told him.

‘Can’t, or won’t?’

‘I don’t love you, Frank, you realize that, don’t you?’

‘Who said anything about love?’

‘You did.’

He released her hand. She collected her purse, then went through to the living area and picked up the phone. ‘I need a taxi. Sunset Marquis, room 217. That’s right. As soon as you can.’

Frank stayed in the bedroom. The television was showing pictures of his shattered office. Among the litter of scorched paper lay a broken statuette of three dancing pigs: one with its arms broken off, one without a head, and one without any legs. Embrace no more, think no more, dance no more.

Twenty-Three

Frank checked his watch. It was almost eleven twenty P.M. and he couldn’t think why Lieutenant Chessman was taking so long. He tried calling him again but his cellphone was busy. The shock of the bombing was wearing off now and he was trembling all over, as if he were running a fever. He watched the news again and tried to make a verbatim note of Dar Tariki Tariqat’s statement, but his hand was shaking so much that most of what he wrote was scribble.

He was about to give up and go to bed when there was a sharp rapping at the door.

‘Just a minute, Lieutenant!’ he called, and went to open the door.

He was about to draw back the security chain when a small hand reached up and stopped him. He looked down, and right beside him stood Danny, staring at him, his eyes very wide. He was wearing the coat and the shorts that they had buried him in.

Frank had thought that when he saw the real Danny – the real dead Danny – he would be overjoyed. But he was so frightened that he let out a kind of a whinny, and his knees gave way, so that he almost collapsed. Danny’s hand was ice cold, and his fingernails were blue. It looked as if there was frost sparkling on his eyelashes, and his breath was fuming around his mouth.

‘What . . . what are you . . .’ Frank started, but he couldn’t get the words out.

There was another knock, louder this time. ‘Mr Bell! Police! You want to open this door?’

Frank didn’t know what to say. Danny kept his hand on top of his, and gave him a solemn little shake of his head, as if warning him not to open up.

‘I . . . ah . . . I just stepped out of the shower!’

‘Come on, Mr Bell. We’re busy men. We don’t have all night.’

‘OK, two seconds.’

He stared at Danny, almost willing him to vanish, but instead, in a creepy, elderly sounding croak, he said, ‘Danger.’

‘ Danger ? What danger? Those are the cops.’

‘Danger,’ Danny repeated. He was obviously having difficulty in enunciating his words, but this convinced Frank more than anything else that he was the real Danny. Unlike his previous manifestation, he sounded weak and distressed, as any child would if he had died only recently and was still struggling to come to terms with it.

Another knock, and this one was thunderous. ‘Mr Bell! Open this goddamned door!’

‘Just a minute, will you?’

Without another word, Danny fell backward. It was a strange, slow-motion fall. Frank could see his mouth gradually opening, and his eyes blinking like a time-delayed camera exposure. He lunged forward to catch him, and as he did so he heard more banging. Five distinct bangs, as if the police were beating on the door with a hammer.

As Danny fell to the carpet, he disappeared. Melted, like a snowflake on a hotplate. Frank fell face-first on to the floor, jarring his shoulder and hitting his nose. ‘Shit,’ he said, and rolled over. It was only then that he saw five large holes in the door, and smoke, and realized what had happened.

‘Mr Bell!’ the voice repeated. ‘If you don’t open up this door, Mr Bell . . .!’

There was a kick, and the door splintered, and then another kick, and another.

Frank rolled over again, and again, until he had rolled himself across to the sliding door that led out on to the balcony. Thank God, he had left the catch unlocked. He dragged the door open and wriggled outside on his elbows. Below him, the British rock musicians were sitting around the pool, drinking and smoking. Three topless girls were splashing around in the water.