The Sleepless (60 page)

‘Mr Hillary’
was
an angel. Or, at least, the very reverse of an angel. 

Patsy was biting her lips in pain, and sobbing. Michael said bloodily, ‘Let me up. In the name of God, will you please let me up?’ 

‘Mr Hillary’ ran the flat of his hand down Michael’s back, and across his buttocks. ‘First, Michael, I have to taste you. First, I have to contaminate you.’ 

Michael tried to wrestle free, but the lily-white boys were far too strong for him. He felt the tip of ‘Mr Hillary’s’ metal tube digging into the small of his back, and he clenched his muscles. 

‘You’re going to enjoy this,’ said ‘Mr Hillary’, in an odd voice. Then he slid the tube into Michael’s back and Michael felt pain like he had never felt before – so much that he writhed and struggled on top of Patsy, and the thorns tore into her breasts even more savagely, and criss-crossed his chest with bloody scratches. 

‘Don’t!’
he screamed, and he was crying like a child.
‘Don’t! Don’t! Don’t! Don’t!’
 

But ‘Mr Hillary’s’ ice-cold tube probed ever deeper, through muscle and connective tissue and nerve endings, until it prodded his left kidney, and then prodded higher, until it located his suprarenal gland. 

He felt its sharpness deep inside his back. He didn’t even want to die any more, because he could no longer understand what dying meant. He lay on top of Patsy like a dead weight, while ‘Mr Hillary’ sipped and sipped, and then stood straight, his face transformed, his chest filling with satisfaction. 

Jacqueline stood close beside him, stroking his arm, lifting her knee from time to time and caressing his thigh, touching him, nuzzling up to him.
Hurt me, too. Take me, too.
But he drew his metal tubes out of Michael’s back, and walked across the room, and stretched, and ran his fingertips down his chest, and down his stomach, and smiled, and looked complete. 

The lily-white boys carefully lifted Michael off Patsy, and carried him over to one of the armchairs. They picked up the wreath of roses, and dropped it onto the floor. Then they untied Patsy’s bonds, and helped her up, as solicitous and gentle as if she had been involved in an automobile accident, instead of a deliberate act of sadistic perversion. 

Patsy said nothing, except, ‘Clothes, please, get me my clothes.’ 

Without turning around, ‘Mr Hillary’ smiled, and said, ‘A true daughter of Eve. “Then the eyes of both of them were opened, and they knew that they were naked.” ‘ 

Patsy shrieked at him, ‘Don’t! Don’t! What kind of a monster are you?’ 

‘Mr Hillary’ swivelled around, his eyes on fire. But then he saw her, naked and scratched and bleeding, and he turned his face away. 

‘I’m not a monster, Patsy. There are no monsters.’ 

She dragged on her jeans, shaking and weeping. ‘You’re evil!’ 

‘Mr Hillary’ said, with infinite quietness, ‘ “The sons of God saw that the daughters of men were beautiful; and they took wives for themselves, whomever they chose. And they bore children unto them. Those were the mighty men who were of old, men of renown. Then the Lord saw that the wickedness of man was great on the earth, and that every intent of the thoughts of his heart was only evil continually. And God said, “The end of all flesh has come before Me; for the earth is filled with violence because of them.” ‘ 

He was silent for a long time, and then he said, ‘Genesis, chapter six. Three thousand years before the birth of Christ. And yet, it seems like yesterday.’ 

It was then that they heard a high, distant wailing sound. 

‘What’s that?’ ‘Mr Hillary’ asked Bryan. 

Bryan went over to the library window and looked out. ‘It’s nothing,’ he said. ‘I can’t see anything at all.’ But then – ‘Wait, it’s the police. Four police cars. Five. They’re coming this way.’ 

‘
Police
?’
said ‘Mr Hillary’, incredulous. 

Thomas banged on the door of the lighthouse and waited. ‘Can you believe this place?’ he asked David Jahnke. 

David was combing his hair. ‘It’s isolated, it’s cheap. What more could a homicidal maniac ask for?’ 

‘Don’t get smart,’ said Thomas. ‘This guy Hillary is a lot more than meets the eye.’ 

He looked around and checked that his six uniformed officers were in position, as well as the two Essex County deputies that his old friend Sheriff Protter had provided – partly out of courtesy and partly to keep an eye on what he was doing. Then he banged on the door a second time. 

‘There
is
a bell-pull,’ David pointed out. 

‘Bell-pulls are for salesmen,’ Thomas retorted. ‘Cops knock.’ 

His knocking seemed to have been heard, because the door silently opened and two white-faced young men stood in the doorway, both of them wearing dark glasses, both of them dressed in black. 

Sergeant Jahnke held up the search warrant. ‘Is somebody called “Mr Hillary” here?’ 

The white-faced young men shook their heads. 

‘Well, even if “Mr Hillary” isn’t here, we have a warrant to search these premises, and that’s precisely what we’re going to do. So if you’ll stand aside, please.’ 

Without a word, the young men closed the door in Thomas’s face. Thomas and Sergeant Jahnke stared at each other in total astonishment. 

‘They didn’t even slam it,’ said David. 

Thomas tugged the bell-pull and hammered on the door with his fist. ‘ “Mr Hillary”! “Mr Hillary”! Or whoever you are! This is the police! P-O-L-I-C-E, police! And I’m warning you now! Open this goddamned door before I kick it down!’ 

He banged and banged and then stood back, panting. He was just about to bang again when the door opened and a tall white-haired man stood in front of them, with dark glasses and a long grey coat. 

‘ “Mr Hillary”?’ asked Thomas. ‘I’m Lieutenant Thomas Boyle, Boston homicide squad. I have a warrant to search this house – uhnh,
light
house.’ 

‘May I see it?’ asked ‘Mr Hillary.’ Sergeant Jahnke passed it to him, and he studied it carefully. Then he handed it back. 

‘Well?’ asked Thomas. 

‘Mr Hillary’ smiled. ‘That warrant seems to be genuine. Unfortunately, I can’t let you in. We’re all quarantined here. Meningitis.’ 

He had almost closed the door when Thomas jammed his foot into it. ‘ “Mr Hillary” – meningitis or period-pains, we’re still coming in.’ 

‘You can’t.’ 

‘You want me to
force
my way in? I have a whole lot of backup here. I wouldn’t like to see anybody getting hurt; would you?’ 

‘Mr Hillary’ looked testy. ‘Lieutenant Boyle, this is my house and I’m entitled to my privacy.’ 

Thomas held up the search warrant. ‘There’s an Essex County judge who doesn’t think that you’re entitled to your privacy.’ 

‘Mr Hillary’ was silent for a moment, and stood quite still. Then he beckoned Thomas to come closer, so that he could whisper in his ear. 

‘Lieutenant,’ he breathed, ‘I have Michael Rearden and Mrs Rearden and young Master Rearden upstairs. I think they should stay alive and well, don’t you? So turn around, and go back the way you came. I’ll talk directly to Commissioner Hudson, and by lunchtime you’ll be able to drop this case, and carry on with something important, like who sprays all that graffiti on the Hancock Tower, and who’s been spitting into the harbour?’ 

Thomas looked at ‘Mr Hillary’ narrowly – looked him directly in the eyes, despite the fact that he was wearing dark glasses. 

‘Are you threatening me?’ he wanted to know. 

‘Mr Hillary’ smiled. ‘Yes, I’m threatening you.’ 

‘What proof do you have that the Reardens are here?’ 

‘Mr Hillary’ gave a nod of his head, over towards the north-west. ‘There’s Michael’s car. What more proof do you need?’ 

‘I’d like to see him, talk to him.’ 

‘I don’t think so, Lieutenant. I think the best thing that you can do is to go. Let’s just put this down to a little misunderstanding.’ 

Thomas stood in the doorway and said nothing. But then he turned and waved to two of his uniformed patrolmen and called, ‘Officer Wilson! Officer Ribeiro! Come on over here, we’re carrying out a search!’ 

‘Mr Hillary’ stepped back, stiffening. ‘This is not a good idea, lieutenant. You could ruin your career.’ 

‘Well, that’s a risk I’m prepared to take,’ said Thomas. ‘Sergeant Jahnke – a top-to-bottom search, nobody leaves.’ 

‘Yes sir, lieutenant,’ said David, springing to attention. 

But without saying anything else, ‘Mr Hillary’ closed the lighthouse door and locked it. Thomas looked at David, and David said, ‘Oh.’ 

Wilson and Ribeiro came hurrying up the steps with their guns drawn. Wilson was ruddy-cheeked and fat, Ribeiro sported a bushy black moustache. Thomas said, ‘We’re carrying out a search, okay, when we get this door open.’ 

‘We have a sledge in the car, sir,’ said Ribeiro. 

‘This is solid hundred-year-old oak,’ Thomas told him. ‘We’re going to need more than a sledge, we’re going to need dynamite.’ 

‘Maybe we can starve them out,’ Wilson suggested. 

‘Oh, yes? And how long is that going to take? They’ve probably got enough supplies to last them till winter.’ 

‘Maybe we should call in the fire department,’ said David. ‘They’re good at taking out doors. They’ll have ladders, too. We could climb up and take the roof.’ 

Thomas looked up and shook his head. ‘We have to think about this. If they really
are
holding the Reardens hostage, then we’re in serious trouble. Let’s take it a little at a time. Let’s set up phone contact first, and see where we go from there. There’s no point in trying a full-frontal assault: that lighthouse is built like a fortress.’ 

They retreated down the steps, and walked across the sandy grass to Thomas’s car. ‘Wilson, you set up a telephone link,’ said Thomas. ‘Ribeiro, call the fire department. Tell them we need high ladders and something for knocking out solid oak doors.’ 

‘You got it,’ waved Ribeiro. 

Thomas eased himself into his car and lit a cigarette. David said, ‘This is going to turn out to be one total waste of time, you know that, don’t you?’ 

‘Oh, yes? And why should it be?’ 

‘Because this guy “Mr Hillary” has the ear of everybody who’s anybody, including Commissioner Hudson. Even if we can produce videotapes showing his personal involvement in all of these homicides – even if we produce eight thousand witnesses, all prepared to swear on the Bible that it was him – do you really think we’ll get a conviction, let alone an arraignment, even?’ 

‘We’ll see,’ said Thomas, tightly blowing out smoke. 

It was at that moment that a huge black Lincoln Town Car came bouncing across the tussocks. It was an old model, ‘72 or ‘73, glossily polished up, with black-tinted windows. It drew up right beside Thomas’s car, and the door opened, and Matthew Monyatta climbed out. He was wearing a flowing green djellaba, and a tasselled green fez. He walked around the car, opened up the trunk, and produced a wheelchair. Then he walked to the passenger door, and opened it up, and there was Megan. Matthew helped her carefully into her wheelchair, his djellaba flapping in the sea breeze. 

‘Megs?’ said Thomas. ‘What the hell are you doing here?’ 

Matthew pushed Megan right up to Thomas, and Thomas couldn’t help noticing the look on both of their faces. Determined, serious – but inspired, too. 

‘Thomas, I know what’s happening here,’ said Megan. ‘I know who “Mr Hillary” is, and how to get through to him. I think I can destroy him, too.’ 

Thomas knelt down in front of her and took hold of her hands. ‘Megs, this man is a homicidal maniac. We’ve called for back-up, we’ll get him out. There’s nothing that you can do.’ 

‘Oh, yes there is,’ said Megan. ‘With Michael’s help, and with Matthew’s help, I can do anything I want.’ 

‘But Michael’s in there. “Mr Hillary’s” holding him hostage – along with Patsy and Jason, too.’ 

‘I know. I sensed it, right back on Lynn Shore Drive, over four miles away. It’s the aura, Thomas. It’s the hypnosis. It gave us a bond. It gave us a mental understanding. Matthew understands it, too.’ 

Thomas stood up and confronted Matthew and Matthew was impassive. 

‘Is this true?’ Thomas asked him. 

‘I think so,’ Matthew replied. ‘Just like God is true and Olduvai is true and the whole damned universe is true.’ 

‘So what do you propose?’ asked Thomas. 

Megan said, ‘Getting in touch with Michael, both me and Matthew, and then using our combined auras to flush “Mr Hillary” out of his lighthouse.’ 

‘Do you think you can do that without anybody getting hurt? Without
you
getting hurt?’ 

Megan took hold of his hand and squeezed it, and there were tears in her eyes. ‘Thomas, my darling, I would never do anything to hurt you. Not willingly, not ever.’ 

Thomas sensed that she was talking about something else, but he couldn’t think what. He took out his handkerchief and wiped her eyes. ‘All right, then,’ he said. ‘If you think it’ll work, then try it.’