PRELUDE TO A SCREAM by Jim Nisbet

Author:Jim Nisbet
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Bisac Code 1: FIC000000; FIC031000; FIC030000
ISBN: 9781468308143
Publisher: The Overlook Press
Published: 2013-08-11T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter Seventeen

A F IRE ENGINE EMITTED A PRELIMINARY WAIL AS IT LEFT THE STATION house on Stockton Street, two blocks away.

“That’s number ten,” Corrigan said, pointing to the eyeless head of Giles MacIntosh. “But it’s not meant as a statistic for the newspaper.” He shuffled the photos and chose one. “Have a look.” The ghastly photo displayed the trunk reopened, its sutures unzipped. Corrigan took a pen from his pocket and touched its tip to a small object resting inside the eviscerated cavity.

“See that?”

Stanley’s esophagus was surging with bilge. “No. What is it?”

Corrigan chose another shot, a close-up.

“Recognize it?”

“It’s a flower.”

“What kind of flower, Ahearn?”

“How should I know?”

Corrigan just perceptibly smiled. “You’d think a guy with your experience would know a purple aster when he saw one.”

He actually hadn’t recognized it. Or maybe he just hadn’t wanted to. For a guy Corrigan hadn’t yet laid a glove on, Stanley was feeling pretty worked over.

“But why?” he managed to ask.

“It’s meant as a warning.”

“To who?”

Corrigan’s eyes showed the certainty of death. “To you, of course.”

Stanley stared at the photo of Giles’ eyeless face. First Ted, now Giles. Come to think on it, the proper order must be the other way around — first Giles, then Ted. He felt sick. Should he tell Corrigan about Ted, soon to become number eleven? Maybe Corrigan knew about Ted already? If not, maybe there was still time to… Abruptly he dissembled: “A warning to me? Why me?”

“Come off it, Ahearn. You telling me you didn’t know this guy MacIntosh? Really? If you think these pirates are playing mumblety-peg for bottle caps, take another look at this kid’s eyes. Maybe, really, you don’t get it. Did your back heal so fast? There’re plenty more photos. Here’s a good close-up. Have a look.”

“No, I —.”

Corrigan gathered Stanley’s shirtfront into a bunch, twisted it until their faces came together, and said quietly, “Look at them, you spineless fuck.”

Stanley stared at Corrigan in disbelief. Weren’t there laws about police officers getting physical with crime victims?

Corrigan released Stanley just as suddenly as he’d grabbed him.

Stanley smoothed his shirt while Corrigan, breathing like an asthmatic, carefully redistributed the photos over the counter. It was a gruesome collage.

“The short version is this,” Corrigan said, adjusting the photos so that few overlapped. “Sometime Tuesday night your friends picked up MacIntosh and took him for a ride.”

“My friends?”

“His, too. It’s almost certain he knew who they were. His apartment showed no signs of forced entry or a struggle. No signs of chloral hydrate in what’s left of his system, either. There was an appointment time penciled in on his calendar. Just a time. No name.” Corrigan jerked his head toward the room behind them, not looking at it. “His crib was in much better shape than yours. He was expecting to be home in time to cook supper for his mother. When he didn’t show, she called us.”

The word guiro suddenly popped into Stanley’s head.

“A homeless guy found him in the park.”

Rebozo. Guiro and rebozo.

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