Whispers of the Dead - Страница 51

Paul seemed charged with an almost feverish energy as we began to pick our way along the boundary. A little further along a pair of old stone gateposts had been incorporated into the fence, now blocked off with wooden slats. The ground in front was overgrown, but deep parallel grooves were still visible.

‘Wheel ruts,’ Paul said. ‘If there’re gateposts there must’ve been a road of some sort. Could be the same track we were following.’

If it was it hadn’t been used in a long time.

The smell of decomposition was much stronger now, but neither of us made any comment. There was no need. Paul stepped over the sagging chain-link fence and took hold of one of the wooden slats. There was a splintering crack as the rotten wood came away in his hands.

‘Wait, we need to tell Gardner,’ I said, reaching for my phone.

‘And say what?’ He wrenched at the fence, grunting with exertion. ‘You think he’s going to drop everything and come running because we smelled something dead?’

He kicked at a slat until it broke, then began furiously working at another, prying it loose from a stubborn nail with a loud creak. Bushes poked through the gap from the other side, obscuring whatever else might be through there. Tearing away the last few splinters of wood, he spared me a brief glance.

‘You don’t have to come with me.’

He began to climb through the fence. Within seconds there were just waving branches to show where he’d been.

I hesitated. No one knew where we were, and God only knew what lay behind the fence. But I couldn’t let Paul do this alone.

I squeezed through the gap after him.

My heart jumped as something caught hold of my jacket. I tugged at it in a panic until I saw I’d only snagged it on a nail. I pulled free and carried on. Bushes crowded right up to the fence on this side. Ahead of me I could hear snapping and rustling as Paul forced his way through them. I followed as best I could, shielding my face with one hand as twigs clawed at my eyes.

Then I stepped clear and almost walked into him.

We’d emerged into a large garden. Or, rather, what had once been a garden; now it was a wilderness in its own right. Ornamental shrubs and trees had run riot, crowding each other in the fight for space. We stood in the shade of a huge magnolia, the scent from its waxy white flowers cloying and sweet. Directly ahead of us stood an old laburnum, heavy branches dripping with clusters of yellow.

Underneath it was a pond.

It must have once been the garden’s centrepiece, but now it was stagnant and rank. Its edges were slowly drying out and choked with reeds, while the viscous green water was filmed with scum. A cloud of midge-like insects danced above its surface like dust motes in the sunlight.

Feeding on them were the dragonflies.

There were dozens of them. Hundreds. The air hummed with their wings. Here and there I saw the iridescent colours of other, smaller species, but it was the tiger-striped swamp darners who ruled, eyes shining like sapphires as they darted in an intricate ballet above the water.

I shifted to get a better view and felt something snap under my foot. Glancing down I saw a pale, green-white stick in the grass. No, two sticks, I thought. And then, like a picture coming into focus, what I was seeing resolved itself into the twin bones of a human forearm.

I slowly stepped back. The body lay half hidden in the undergrowth by my feet. It was fully skeletonized, shoots of bright spring grass already growing through the moss-covered bones.

Black female, adolescent: the assessment came automatically. As though it had been waiting for that moment, now the smell of decomposition reasserted itself over the thick scent of magnolia.

Beside me, Paul spoke in a whisper. ‘Oh, my God…’

I slowly lifted my gaze. The dragonflies weren’t the only inhabitants of this place.

The garden was full of corpses.

They were in the grass, under the trees, in the undergrowth. Many were little more than stripped bones lying in the greenery, but some were more recent; leathery intestines and cartilage still host to flies and maggots. No wonder none of York’s earlier victims had been found.

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.