Authors: Christopher Golden

Dead Ringers (40 page)

“It's gone,” she said quietly.

Audrey glanced at her. “So now you're the psychic one?”

Tess shuddered. “No, thanks. I don't envy you that.”

“You need to get that stitched up,” Audrey said, gesturing at the bloody cloth wrapped around Tess's hand. “And start hoping the police don't trace any of the blood down here back to you.”

Tess frowned. “Thanks. I needed something else to worry about.”

Audrey kept talking after that, a quiet but steady stream of words perhaps meant to comfort them both as they left the cellar behind. Tess barely heard Audrey, her mind racing ahead to the moment when she could be reunited with Maddie. All she wanted was to hold her girl in her arms and let her know that all was well, that they were all safeâdaughter, mother, and father.

Whatever happened in the future, whether Nick went to London with Kyrie or not, the bond the three of them shared had been made unbreakable in the past couple of days. Tess had no interest in being married to Nick, but they would do anything to keep their daughter safe, would stand shoulder to shoulder in that battle forever. They were allies, and as far as Tess was concerned, that was more than enough.

“Let's go,” Audrey said.

Without another word, as the last crimson light of the road flares guttered out, Tess led the way up out of the darkness.

TWENTY-ONE

Frank Lindbergh sat in a chair in the restaurant at the back of the Nepenthe Hotel, wrists cuffed behind his back. A little bubble of madness kept floating up inside him, making him want to laugh out loud at the fact that he'd been cuffed again, but he kept his expression blank and impassive. A lot depended on it.

Nearly an hour had passed since the police had first arrived. The initial response had been a pair of uniformed cops but that had quickly blossomed into nearly a dozen officers, two detectives, and several crime scene techs who spent their time lifting fingerprints off the weapons the vandals had used to demolish the psychomanteum. There was no point in dusting the rear door for prints, since there would no doubt be hundreds to choose from.

They had already bagged his gunâhis father's unregistered gunâwhich they had found in the wreckage of broken glass, wiped clean of any prints.

In the center of the room, one of the detectives engaged the hotel manager in conversation. Both women looked profoundly disturbed, and the detective kept taking deep breaths and working her jaw in frustration. At a table, the other detective sat speaking to a young blond guy named Spencer, who wiped tears from his eyes. His face was flushed a bright pink and he threw up his hands.

“I already
told
you!” Spencer yelled.

The detective hushed him, but Frank didn't need to hear the words to know what was going on. Of the three hotel employees who had witnessed the events concerning the destruction of the psychomanteum, Spencer was the only one who had told the truth. The kid had fallen apart, terrified and jumping at shadows. The other twoâincluding a security guard named Clydeâhad wrestled Frank to the ground as the others had fled to pursue the raggedy man.

“The cops are on the way, asshole,” Clyde had said.

Frank had sighed, a headache coming on. “And you're gonna tell them what? I only ask because in your shoes I'd want to still have a job tomorrow morning, and I'd be wondering what hotel management would think of the story you're going to tell being quoted in the media. âCops say ghosts vandalize hotel restaurant.' Not the publicity your bosses are hoping for, I'm pretty sure.”

Clyde had cussed for a few seconds, and then let him up. His pupils were widely dilated and he seemed unsteady on his feet. No doubt he had a concussion from the way Not-Nick had slammed him into the wall, but he still had enough of his wits about him to know they needed a better story than the truth.

The detective who'd been talking to the manager broke off suddenly and strode over to the corner where Frank sat in his cuffs. After the past week, he felt more at home with cuffs on than off.

“Mr. Lindbergh,” she said, dark skin gleaming in the bright overhead lights.

“Detective Nunnally.”

“You're going to stick with the story you've been telling?”

Frank eased back in his chair, ignoring the way the cuffs bit into his wrists. “No simpler story than the truth, detective.”

“Tell it again.”

Frank shrugged. “I was on my way to meet a friend for a late dinner when I saw three guys waiting around by the door over there.” He nodded toward the rear door of the restaurant, the one that opened out onto the sidewalk. “The door popped open and I saw they had, like, golf clubs and stuff. One had a gun. I was maybe thirty feet away when they went inside and I hurried over. I heard glass shattering and their voicesâlaughing, y'know? I pulled out my phone, figured I'd just call you guys, but then I heard someone else shout and a scuffle and I ran in through the same door. One of the guys was fighting with the security guard over there. I tried to help and got my ass kicked for it. When I shook it off, the guys were gone and all the mirrors were shattered.”

Detective Nunnally stared at him. “And you didn't hear any of these men say anything that might suggest why they decided to break in here and vandalize thisÂ â¦ whatever it is?”

With a sigh, Frank rolled his eyes. “I don't know, man. Maybe one of them got a bad omelet for breakfast one day or something. Are you going to take these cuffs off now?”

She sat down in the chair beside him. “You going to tell me why you've got those abrasions on your wrists? You're obviously no stranger to handcuffs.”

Frank gave her a playful grin. “Come on, detective. Don't tell me you haven't used your cuffs for extracurricular activities now and then. Why don't you check the damn surveillance videos and see for yourself what happened? Then you can go back to work and I can go and call my date and explain why I stood her up.”

Nunnally rubbed tiredly at her eyes, a little smile at the edges of her mouth. Frank suspected that she knew that
he
knew there were no cameras in the restaurant. There would be cameras out on the street, of course, but it would take them time to examine that footage. He had no idea what it would show. If they found video of him entering with the others, he would keep spinning lies until he ran out of breath. At worst, they would charge him with destruction of property.

What else could they do? Believe the crazy kid shouting about twins trying to kill each other and people vanishing into mirrors?

Detective Nunnally stood. “You're not going home yet, Mr. Lindbergh. We're going to have this conversation again, somewhere quieter.”

Frank got up and the detective took him by the arm. He had let his life unravel to the point where it had ceased to matter to him. When his double had imprisoned him, that had begun to change. Dead bastard or not, the other Frank had shown him that a better version of himself was not out of reach. He intended to become that better version.

Just as soon as the police let him go.

Nunnally marched him toward the sidewalk door, right past a hotel employee who had at last been allowed to begin sweeping up the shattered mirror glass from the psychomanteum. The detective pushed open the door and a cold autumn breeze blew in. In the same moment, Frank paused, frowning deeply. For half a second, he thought he'd heard someone calling his name, the voice panicked but muffled, as if it came from far away.

The detective jerked him by the arm. “You gonna give me a hard time now?”

Frank glanced back at the broken shards of mirror lying on the floor. In some of them he glimpsed his own reflection, but there were fragments of other faces there. He cocked his head and bent a little closer, trying to make them out.

Detective Nunnally groaned in aggravation and dragged him forward, propelling him out through the open door and into the fresh air and the darkness.

Frank shivered, but not from the autumn chill.

He didn't look back.

TWENTY-TWO

Trapped inside a pile of razor-sharp slivers of mirrored glass, the faded soul of the real Lili Pillai screamed for someone to save her.

No one heard.

They swept up the glass and threw it away.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

CHRISTOPHER GOLDEN
is the
New York Times
bestselling author of such novels as
Snowblind, Tin Men, The Myth Hunters, The Boys Are Back in Town, The Ferryman, Strangewood,
and
Of Saints and Shadows.
His novel with Mike Mignola,
Baltimore, or, The Steadfast Tin Soldier and the Vampire,
was the basis for the continuing graphic-novel series
Baltimore
. Golden's original novels have been published in more than fifteen languages in countries around the world. You can sign up for email updates
here
.