Authors: Jan Burke
Disturbance
Also by Jan Burke
Irene Kelly Mysteries
Kidnapped
Bloodlines
Bones
Liar
Hocus
Remember Me, Irene
Dear Irene
,
Sweet Dreams, Irene
Goodnight, Irene
Other Fiction
The Messenger
Nine
Flight
Eighteen
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This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2011 by Jan Burke
All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever. For information address Simon & Schuster Subsidiary Rights Department, 1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10020.
First Simon & Schuster hardcover edition June 2011
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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Burke, Jan.
Disturbance / Jan Burke. —1st Simon & Schuster hardcover ed.
p. cm.
1. Kelly, Irene (Fictitious character)—Fiction. 2. Women journalists—Fiction. 3. Serial murderers—Fiction. I. Title.
PS3552.U72326D57 2011
813′.54—dc22 2010041942
ISBN: 978-1-4391-5284-3
ISBN: 978-1-4391-5755-8 (ebook)
For Kathryn Moriarty Killeen, who elegantly blends class and sass
DISTURBANCE
S
ome people claim to be able to feel trouble coming, the way they might feel a storm approaching from a long way off. They sense a disturbance in the atmosphere, something stirs the hairs along the backs of their necks or makes them wary when old, slumbering injuries awaken and ache. My own sense of such things is not entirely reliable. Just as I am more likely to be caught in a downpour than I am to be the only one with an umbrella, trouble has blindsided me more often than it has announced its approach.
Hindsight being so sharp-sighted, when I look back on that June afternoon, I can say that my sixth sense, if it was working at all, was fully occupied by the distinct possibility that I would be out of a job within a few months. That didn’t make me different from ninety-nine out of a hundred of the country’s newspaper reporters.
So as I sat at my desk in the newsroom of the
Las Piernas News Express
, rewriting a city council story that wasn’t likely to excite anyone, my thoughts were taken up with trying to find a better angle on it. What I felt, when the phone on my desk rang, was not fear but irritation at the distraction.
“Kelly,” I answered, using my headset.
“Irene? Aaron Mikelson.”
Mikelson used to work for the
Express
, but he had moved up north to Sacramento several years ago. He covers California state government for a news service there, reporting on everything from the legislature to the prison system, and putting up with all the jokes about the inhabitants of both being similar.
“You hear about Nick Parrish?” he asked.
“No,” I said, and my next, exhilarating thought was
He’s dead.
“You know he regained the ability to speak, right?”
“Yes.” During the first months after Nick Parrish had sustained head and spinal injuries, he had gradually recovered speech and movement in his hands and feet, though he wasn’t walking. The speech impairment had cleared up as the swelling from the head injury was reduced. That he had fully recovered his speech wasn’t news to me, and Mikelson knew that—he was the one who had let me know Parrish was asking about me at the time.
“You haven’t talked to him?”
“Nothing has changed in the last few years,” I said. “I have no interest whatsoever in talking to him or in hearing what he has to say.”
“He tried to sue you, right?”
For a stunned moment, I wondered if Mikelson could possibly believe that my only complaint about Nick Parrish was a frivolous lawsuit. Aloud I said, “Tried. The courts rejected the suits he filed against me and the paper, so after that … well, that was more than enough of hearing from him.”
“Understood. He’s one sick bastard.”
“Yes,” I said, thinking that “sick bastard” didn’t come close to describing Parrish. Mere words couldn’t draw a line around him and hold the monster he was within.
“You know about the Moths?”
I sighed. “His online fan club? Yes. Almost too predictable that some group like that would form, right? If the Internet has given us anything, it’s some idea of how much psychosis goes undiagnosed.”
“Amen.”
“Look, Aaron, you cover a prison beat, so you know how this goes. Parrish has doubtless had a dozen marriage proposals, too.”
“That’s true. I don’t claim to understand it. I don’t know if I’ll ever figure out why anyone would want to marry a serial killer. How could anyone ignore what he did to those women before he killed them? And not just women, right?”
Images I’d rather not recall started flashing through my mind.
Body parts scattered over a rain-drenched field.
Parrish shoving my face into the mud, nearly suffocating me.
Photos of one of his victims found in the grave he had forced her to dig.
I could hardly concentrate on what was going on around me. As if from a great distance, I heard Mikelson’s voice in the headset. I was vaguely aware that he was saying something more about the women who wanted to marry Parrish. Asking me if I had read anything on the Moths’ blog or social networking pages lately.
I swiveled my chair, stood up, and looked out across the newsroom.
A normal Monday afternoon. Everyone else bent over their keyboards or on the phone, working toward deadline. Far fewer reporters than I would have seen even a year ago, but a normal day for these times. I took a deep breath.
As the rush of memories faded, my brain kicked into gear. Mikelson had news about Parrish, and Parrish wasn’t dead, or he would have told me that right off the bat. He wasn’t speaking of him in the past tense.
I thought about hanging up, letting voicemail catch the call if he called back, leaving my colleagues to wonder why I ran out of the building looking as if I had the devil on my tail.
I let the breath out, told myself to get a grip. I sat down again, turned to face the computer.
“Anyway,” Mikelson was saying, “you may not know this, but when he was first injured, the doctors didn’t realize he had something called central cord syndrome—they thought he’d be tetraplegic. But then some spine specialists were called in, and they started treating it differently. They stabilized his neck. He was on anti-inflammation drugs, and they did several surgeries. Then there was a long process of rehab.”