At the foot of the Land Window was an option to refresh the list of object owners. Doobie clicked on it, and two names appeared. The first was Maximillian Thrust, who was the owner of objects accounting for 582 prims. The second was the owner of an object worth 2 prims. The missing poseball, Doobie was virtually sure. And her eyes opened wide in confusion and disbelief as she took on board the name, and knew now with an absolute certainty who the killer really was.
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Michael left the door open behind him as he moved step by careful step into the profound darkness that smothered the interior of Angela’s house. He placed a hand against the wall to his right and used it to guide himself the seven or eight feet to the long hallway that transected the house lengthwise.
To the left, he knew, were the kitchen, bathroom, and utility rooms. To the right, a couple of bedrooms, Angela’s office, and at the far end of the hall, the sitting room where she conducted her sessions with clients, blinds drawn against the glare of the beach and the ocean beyond. A narrow staircase led up to a guest apartment with its own kitchen and sitting room.
As he turned into the hall, he saw a faint glow of ghostly light spilling from the open door of what he knew to be the office. He waited for a moment, listening intently for the slightest sound. But the silence was so deep it was almost suffocating. All he could hear was the sound of the rain that still fell outside, the tattoo of it on the roof and the veranda. He started moving carefully down the hall, eyes now fully adjusted to the small amount of available light.
He pushed open the first door he reached and could just make out the dark shape of a bed, a wardrobe, a dresser. He reached inside for a light switch. But its dull click produced no light, and the apprehension in him rose like the acid reflux in his digestive system.
Further along the hall, he found a panel of switches, none of which brought light to his darkness, and he wondered what was powering the light source he saw emanating from the office. He was driven on now by a sense of dread, of a growing certainty that he was going to find Angela dead, and of wanting to get it over with. But there was, too, the very real sense that the killer might still be here. Waiting for him. The fact that there seemed to be power in the office put the thought in his head that perhaps someone had deliberately disabled the lighting circuits. Simple enough to throw a few switches in the fuse box.
He passed a second bedroom and hesitated for just a few seconds before moving into the ghost light from the office. The door was only partially open. He reached out to push it gently inwards to reveal an arc of computer monitors ranged around the inside curve of a long, semicircular office desk. Six of them. Each one illuminated by a scene from Second Life, an AV in each, heads dropped, arms hanging at their sides, all with the Away text next to their names.
Michael realised with a shock who each of them was, as his eyes jumped from screen to screen. Laffa Minit, Demetrius Smith, Tweedle Dum, Tweedle Dee, Dark Daley. All of Angel’s patients from his group therapy session at The Blackhouse. The sixth and final screen displayed the Second Life welcome page that Michael had seen for the very first time at Arnold Smitts’ home the night of his murder. There were keyboards in front of each monitor, and a single office chair on castors. Speakers set behind the screens hummed with the familiar ambient sound of the virtual world.
Michael stood rooted to the spot, mesmerised, confused, until a sound from along the hall filtered through the myriad thoughts that choked his brain and reignited his fear. It was just a small sound, as if the leg of a chair had scraped on a carpet. But it crashed into his thoughts like the discordant percussion of a Peking opera. He wheeled around toward the source of it, eyes straining in the gloom. He listened carefully to try to catch it again. Nothing. But there was somebody there. Of that he was certain.
He resisted an urge to turn tail and run. The adrenalin pumping through his body was readying him for fight or flight. But he had come too far to run away now, into the arms of the mob who would kill him or the police who wouldn’t believe him. And so he prepared himself for the fight, tensed and ready, as he inched forward toward the sitting room.
Double doors stood wide. An electric clock display on the far wall cast the only light around the room and confirmed Michael’s worst fears that someone had deliberately disabled the lights. The drapes on the side windows were drawn against the night, thick velvet curtains that fell luxuriantly to gather on the carpet. And as he passed them, he caught a tiny movement out of the corner of his eye. He turned in time to see the faintest reflection of light catching the blade as it plunged into his neck.
The pain of it seared through his body, the knife cutting through sinew and muscle, missing vital arteries, but penetrating deep into the flesh of his left shoulder. He felt a disabling weakness surge through his body, and his legs buckled under him. As he fell to the floor, his head hit the carpet with a sickening thud. He felt the blade sliding out of the wound it had made, followed by a rush of his blood, warm and sticky, spreading over his neck and shoulder, soaking into the floor. A sense of panic almost crippled him entirely. It felt like his very life was flowing out of him.
A dark figure emerged from the folds of the drapes and stepped over him, moving across the room to switch on a table lamp. The sudden light hurt like hell, and Michael screwed up his eyes against it. He put a hand to his neck and felt his blood wet on his fingers. He rolled over on to his side, opening his eyes to peer into the light to get a look at his attacker.
“Get up, Michael.”
The shock of hearing her voice made his eyes open wide. He struggled to his knees, clutching at his shoulder, steadying himself against the wall with his other hand. “Angela?”
“Surprised?”
“I don’t understand.”
“Well, I wouldn’t expect you to. For a clever man you’re pretty stupid, Michael. Weak. Driven by your emotions rather than your intelligence. Which made you perfect, really, for what I had in mind.”
She slid open a drawer in her writing bureau and brought out a small handgun. She waved it at him, casually, almost relaxed.
“I said get up.”
So Detective Luis Angeloz was not, after all, Dark Daley or any of the others. They were all Angela. With a great effort of will, Michael managed to get to his feet. He felt the blood oozing between his fingers, and the pain was spreading down his back and across his chest. He felt giddy and took several staggering steps forward before dropping again to his knees. A bloody hand stopped him falling on his face.
“Good. That’s going to look very convincing. You see, after I heard the side door being forced I grabbed the nearest weapon I could find. A kitchen knife. When you attacked me I stabbed you with it. But you were only wounded and came after me. I ran in here, where I took my gun from the bureau and... well, I think you can guess the rest.” She sat down, perched on the edge of an armchair, and he saw how pale she was. For for all her superficial confidence, there was a tremor in her voice. “Oh, and you should know. When you broke into my house you triggered a silent alarm system. The police are on their way, even as we speak. Too bad they won’t get here on time. You’ll be dead, and I will be distraught. Attacked by one of my own patients. Of course, I’ll tell them I didn’t realise it was you until after I’d shot you. Not that it would have made any difference. You don’t stop defending yourself from an attacker just because you know who he is.”
“You killed Janey.”