Mirror Image (19 page)

“The doctors have kept her sedated. We haven't really had a chance to talk to her.”

Margaret Haaren nodded.

“And your men, Detective?” he inquired. “How are they?”

She shrugged. She had just been in to see both men and while José seemed to be improving, the younger officer in ICU was now in a coma.

“Detective Pérez will pull through, but the other officer…” She let the sentence trail, and then stopped, her hand on Frazer's arm. “Are you sure there is nothing you can tell us about the man who did this?”

“I've told you before. I don't know the man. I never met him before … and even if I did know him, don't you think I'd tell you? I've seen what he's done and I'm scared to think what'll he do to me and my family if he doesn't get what he wants.”

“And that's the mirror,” she stated flatly.

“That's what he said he wanted. But you don't believe me.”

“I do,” she said, surprising him.

“But you don't even believe I bought the mirror in London.”

“Actually, I do. I believe the scarred man may have intimidated the auctioneers in London to say that they had never dealt with you and possibly bribed the couriers to say the same.”

“Thank you,” he breathed. “That you for that. For a moment, I thought I was going mad.”

“Mr. Frazer,” Haaren said seriously, “I want your assurance that you'll contact me if you see or hear from this man again.”

“You have my word,” he lied.

Margaret Haaren looked into his eyes, knowing he was lying to her, desperately wondering what he was trying to hide. “Give my regards to your daughter, Mr. Frazer.”

“I will. Thank you, Detective … and … I am sorry, truly sorry, about what happened to your officers.”

“There was nothing you could do, was there?” she said, almost in an aside. In her experience people usually apologized when they had something to hide.

“I suppose I feel responsible because it happened on my property.”

“Well, I'm sure you are already aware I've placed a twenty-four-hour surveillance on your house, Mr. Frazer,” she said. “That should give you some measure of security.” What she didn't tell him was that as well as the unmarked police car parked in front of the house, there was another very discrete watch being kept on the house from across the road, where the owner—a retired FBI agent—was a personal friend of the Chief of Police and who had been only too delighted to do his friend a favor.

Jonathan Frazer watched the woman stride down the corridor, her gait long, quick, and decisive, almost like a man's. But there was something else about it—and then he realized that she was moving in complete silence. She was wearing rubber-soled shoes that made no sound on the linoleum floor.

A squeaking sound made him turn and he saw Manny in a wheelchair pushed by a nurse. Celia walked by their side. “Dad, they think I'm a child. I can walk to the car by myself.”

“Hospital regulations,” the nurse said primly, “we have to see you off the premises safely.”

Jonathan stared into his daughter's large blue eyes. “Are you sure you're fit enough to come home? I really would prefer if you would stay another day or so.”

“I'm fine Dad, really I am. And I know if I stay here another hour, never mind another day, I'm going to go insane.”

“Let's get you home and to bed,” he said sternly.

“To bed,” she agreed. “I'm looking forward to sleeping in a comfortable bed,” she added, glancing up the nurse, who ignored the jibe.

*   *   *

T
HEY DROVE HOME
in virtual silence. Manny dozed in the back of the car and Celia—for some reason unknown to Jonathan—was giving him the cold shoulder. He had more than enough on his mind at the moment and ignored her, and this only served to infuriate her even further. When they drove past the unmarked police car before turning into the driveway, her reserve finally collapsed.

“This is stupid!” she snapped. “What do they think this is—a police state? I'm going to call the sheriff's department and talk to the chief straight away.”

“I'll bet you don't even know who the chief is, do you?” Jonathan teased her. “And anyway, the police are there for our own protection. In case that maniac comes back.”

“But what must the neighbors be thinking?” She glanced out at the houses, clearly visualizing the neighbors gossiping over the sudden police activity around the Frazers'. “We'll never get a dinner invitation again.”

“To be honest, I don't give a flying fuck what people are thinking!”

The obscenity stopped her cold. Jonathan rarely swore; he prided himself that he didn't need to resort to foul language. “Three dead bodies have been taken from this house,” he said coldly, glancing in the mirror, checking that Manny was still asleep. “Two men have been very seriously injured, one may not make it, a police dog has been butchered and I've been attacked. Oh, and our daughter almost lost her life.” He had been speaking slowly and clearly, but it suddenly rose to a shout. “So don't give me any fucking shit about the neighbors!”

“Jon … Jonathan … you're tired, you're overwrought…”

“And don't fucking patronize me,” he snapped, standing hard on the brake, bringing the car to a stop in a shower of pebbles, gouging long straight lines in the gravel. He swiveled in the seat to face her, his face pale, sheened with sweat, eyes sunk into his head. “I'm tired, very tired. Unlike you I didn't sleep very well last night, nor did I sleep the night before. I've got things on my mind, it's been hell for me the last few days.” He took a deep breath and visibly controlled himself. “Leaving aside everything else, let me put this in a context which you may be able to understand: Tony Farren, Diane Williams, and Robert Beaumont are dead, I'll repeat myself: dead! Dead on our property. I'm going to have to close down the store, I have no one to do the repairs and now I have no sales assistant. No store means no money. It's as simple as that. And need I add that we've a lot of money tied up in stock in the store, and even more tied up in the guesthouse. And what you have failed to realize, is that I do not have bottomless pockets…”

Celia bit her lips and turned to look out the window.

“So you see, dear, I do have one or two things on my mind at the moment.”

“Mom … Dad…” Manny Frazer came groggily awake. “What's wrong?”

“Nothing's wrong dear, we're home. And you, young woman…”

“I know,” she smiled, “straight to bed. You'll get no argument from me. I really need to get some sleep.”

“You slept in the hospital,” Celia said.

“It wasn't good sleep,” Manny said quietly.

“Why not?” Jonathan asked.

“Filled with nightmares.”

 

40

I
T WAS
great to be home. Manny walked around her room, drawing strength from its peaceful familiarity. Jesus, but that hospital—even though she'd been in a private room and all that—it had been grim. And the bed; that bed was unbelievable. And she couldn't get the idea out of her head that other people had slept in that bed, that they had died in that bed. That had been her one abiding thought in the hospital during her lucid hours. She'd been troubled by extraordinary nightmares in which she actually heard the voices of those who had passed away in that room, crying out to her, calling her name, begging her to help them, to ease their suffering, to help, to help them, to
helptohelptohelptohelptohelphelphelphelp …

She could rationalize it away; she was tired, distressed, filled with sedatives and she'd just seen her first dead body, or what was left of it. Robert had been her friend, her lover. It was only natural she'd think of death, especially now, in a hospital, but the dreams had been frightening.

She needed a shower and bed and in that order. Stepping into the large en suite bathroom, she undressed quickly and dumped her clothes into the tall wicker basket. They stank of the hospital, and she imagined she could smell the same sharp odor of chemicals and disinfectant from her own skin. Stepping into the shower, she turned it up as hot as she could bear and allowed the water to run off her shaven head and down onto her body. Rotating her head, she could feel the knotted muscles in the shoulders and at the back of her neck finally relaxing. She scrubbed at herself with a harsh sponge, bringing the blood flushing to her skin …

 … the rasp of pumice stone against her skin, across her sensitive breasts …

 … and then rubbed in supposedly odorless shower gel, but the air was abruptly flooded with the sickly sweet scent of a heavy perfume.

Manny stopped, head tilted back, smelling the moist air. What was that smell? Like dead flowers or beeswax.

A cold wind suddenly wafted across her moist body, as if a door had been opened, and she shivered. She peered through the frosted glass door of the shower, trying to see if she'd left the bedroom door open, but she could see nothing. She blinked moisture from her eyes and rubbed at the glass door …

 … a tall, red-haired, red-bearded man, cruel faced, green eyed, in a heavy snow-capped cloak …

The scream caught in her throat, and she floundered backwards against the icy tiles, hands automatically covering her breasts and groin. The figure seemed to be looking directly at her through the glass, his mouth opening and closing as if he spoke. Water splashed into her eyes and she blinked rapidly. When she could see clearly again, he had gone.

Manny flung open the door and stared wide-eyed out into the empty bathroom. The door leading into the bedroom was still locked, the bolt thrown across from the inside.

Hallucinations … the residue of drugs in her system.

Shivering almost uncontrollably now, she staggered from the shower and wrapped herself in a thick chenille bathrobe, rubbing at her head with a towel, hearing the lengthening hair rasp against the cloth. She opened the door and stared out into the bedroom, feeling like a child checking for the bogyman beneath the bed. Three quick strides and she jumped in, and scrambled beneath the covers, only tossing away the dressing gown when she was safely tucked in. She snuggled down beneath the duvet, luxuriating in the feel of the fabric against her naked skin. She was tired … overtired. That was all. A good night's sleep was what she …

*   *   *

M
ANNY AWOKE ONCE
during the night, and that was close to two in the morning. Moonlight streamed in through the window, the harsh light turning her skin alabaster. Eyes blinked open, and they were featureless silver discs, then she turned over and closed her eyes against the glare.

And her dreams were terrifying.

 

41

J
ONATHAN FRAZER
settled back against the chaise longue, folded his arms across his chest and stared at the mirror. This time he knew what he was doing. This time he was conducting an experiment.

Twice before he had experienced something in front of this mirror, he had dreamt dreams, seen images, learned
something—
clues perhaps—to the mirror's past. This time he had come prepared.

He had positioned a camcorder on a tripod directly behind the chaise longue facing the mirror, and he had set it to shoot one frame every five minutes. A digital voice recorder was on the floor beside the mirror. It was voice activated and would start recording as soon as it heard sounds. His Canon digital camera lay on the chair beside him.

Tonight he would have some answers. And proof. Tonight, he would have proof.

But proof of what…?

 

42

“S
HE IS
magnificent,” the tall gray-haired, gray-eyed man agreed, turning to look at the woman.

“And she desires you, lord,” Edward Kelley said eagerly in a thick brogue. Gone was his previous air of authority and learning; now he was nothing more than an Irish servant, fawning, ignorant, and ill-educated.

They were sitting in a smoky tavern on a side street just off London Bridge—the bridge that was much frequented by alchemists and others who dabbled in science and the occult. It was often used as a meeting place by those wishing to join a Circle or by a master looking for a servant with arcane knowledge. Doctor John Dee had met Edward Kelley here, four years previously, in 1569. Dee's previous assistant, Barnabas Saul, had turned out to be nothing more than a charlatan, foisted on Dee by his enemies, jealous of his privileged position with the Queen. Saul had promised much and delivered nothing, and come close to destroying the doctor's reputation in the process.

Dee considered himself fortunate indeed in stumbling upon Kelley, an itinerant Irishman fleeing the grinding poverty in his homeland with nothing to his name except some skill as a medium. The Irishman had been hoping to find his fortune in the big city, but had found a similar poverty in London. But London—inhabited by some of the brightest and most dangerous men of the age—had something which Ireland had not: opportunity. Kelley's natural talent as a medium and scryer, enhanced by some less scrupulous additions, soon attracted the attention of several of the city's wealthiest men and women. Within six months of arriving in the city, he had become Doctor John Dee's assistant, and very quickly an integral part of Dee's life and work. The man's knowledge of the occult was extraordinary, far surpassing Dee's, although curiously, this knowledge was only in evidence when Kelley was in a trance, under the influence of his spirits.

“Tell me about her,” Dee said, glancing sidelong at the woman again. It was not unusual to find beautiful women in this tavern, though women of such beauty and presence were certainly rare indeed.

“She is a natural talent, neither witch nor sorceress, a practitioner of some natural magic. Look at her, lord; tell me her age,” Kelley urged him.