What the hell?
“… a lie stands on one leg, the truth on two…”
Her gaze focused on Solomon.
“Two times four is a lie, two times four is a lie, two times four is a lie, two times four is a…”
Then, with a cry of rage like Solomon had never before heard, she sprang up from the gurney and lunged at him.
Blackburn had never seen anyone move so fast.
One minute she was babbling incoherently, the next she was launching herself at the old homeless guy like a charge from a shotgun.
Blackburn immediately grabbed for her, but she spun on him, catching him off-guard, swinging a bloody fist at his head.
He stumbled back, and before he knew it she was out of the ambulance and running. Toomey and his partner and the EMTs all stood around with their heads up their asses as Blackburn regained his footing and took off after her.
She plowed through the crowd, screams and shouts erupting around her, then cut diagonally across the road, heading for a narrow side street crowded with parked cars and boxy, rundown houses.
Blackburn heard an engine start up behind him — the patrol officers finally getting their shit together — but the psycho bitch cut sideways, heading into the darkness between two houses.
Jerking his Glock out of its holster, Blackburn followed, picking up speed, then slowing as he reached the mouth of the passageway. He listened for sounds of movement, but all he could hear was the commotion behind him, the distant barking of a dog, and—
— what?
Psycho Bitch, babbling again. Barely a whisper.
“A lie stands on one leg, the truth on two, a lie stands on one leg, the truth on two, a lie stands on one leg, the truth on…”
Blackburn took out his Mini-Mag, flicked it on, and pointed it into the passageway.
Psycho Bitch sat huddled near the wall of one of the houses, next to an old, rusted bicycle, the blood on her face shining garishly in the light, her eyes alive and frightened.
“Two times four is a lie, two times four is a lie, two times four is a lie, two times four is a lie…”
Blackburn slowly moved toward her. “Easy now.”
One of her hands dropped to her side, fingers groping in the dirt, searching for something, then latching onto a small, dusty chunk of brick. Her inner arm was mottled with bruises. Needle tracks.
“Drop it,” Blackburn said. “Put it down.”
“Two times four is a lie, two times four is a lie, two times four is a lie, two times four is a…”
“Come on, now, nobody’s gonna hurt you. Put the brick down and step away from the wall.”
He knew it was probably pointless talking to her. She was deep inside her own head. But he kept trying anyway, wondering where the hell his backup was.
“Put it down,” he told her again. “Put it down and we’ll find someone to—”
There was a shout behind him as a car screeched up and—
— suddenly the fingers hurled the brick, forcing Blackburn to duck. Psycho Bitch sprang from her crouch with an animal-like agility and threw her arms around him, knocking him against the adjacent wall. The Mini-Mag flew out of his hands as—
— the shouts grew louder and then Toomey and his partner were there, pulling her off him and wrestling her to the ground as Blackburn got to his feet, struggling to catch his breath.
He stared down at them, annoyed.
“I can’t believe you morons didn’t cuff the bitch.”
Still rattled, Solomon edged away from the ambulance, watching as the crowd of onlookers moved across the street, then down toward where the cop car had screeched to a stop.
The EMTs had already followed on foot and now they were bringing her out — the woman who wasn’t quite Myra — carrying her between them, her hands cuffed behind her, her bruised and bloodied body exposed to the world.
Solomon thought about her face, about how different it had looked. And about those wild, terrified eyes.
A sudden thought occurred to him then — a memory of his childhood in St. Thomas and a grandfather who liked to tell tall tales.
Tales of darkness and death and resurrection.
And as he thought about those tales and what they’d meant to him, a single phrase crowded his brain. One that had given him nightmares for years:
Enfants du tambour.
Children of the drum.
TWO
The Man Who Couldn’t Let Go
4
Nothing good comes from a phone call at three in the morning.
Tolan had learned that the hard way, when he first got the call about Abby — exactly one year ago today. It had been a morning a lot like this one, chilly but not cold, and he’d been standing in an overheated hotel room instead of lying in his own bed.
He thought about that morning a lot. Especially when he couldn’t sleep. His frequent bouts of insomnia were the aftereffects of the tragedy, and the grief that accompanied them was as palpable and unrelenting as an electrical storm.
These days, however, that grief was shadowed by a twinge of fresh guilt. Not the usual feelings of culpability — those were a constant. But something new. Different. Because the woman who had been there for him, who had nursed him through those impossible first days, was now sleeping quietly beside him, the calm amid the chaos.
Tolan lay there, staring into the darkness, listening to the nearly imperceptible sounds of her breathing, feeling the warmth of her back against his, and tried not to think about Abby and how she had once occupied that very same spot.
Then his cell phone vibrated on the night stand.
He glanced at the clock: 3:05.
Scooping up the phone, he flipped it open and checked caller ID. Blocked. He thought about letting it buzz, but was afraid the sound might wake Lisa.
Climbing out of bed, he slipped into the bathroom to answer, catching it just before it kicked over to voice mail.
“Hello?”
“Dr. Tolan?” A man’s voice. Little more than a whisper.
“Yes?”
“Dr. Michael Tolan?”
“Yes,” he said, not bothering to hide his impatience. “What is it?”
“Today’s the day, Doctor. The day I’ve been waiting for.”
“I’m sorry, who is this?”
“You’ll find out soon enough,” the caller said. “I just wanted to wish you a happy anniversary before I slit your throat.”
Then the line clicked.
BY THE TIME his phone started vibrating again, Tolan had convinced himself that there was no reason to be alarmed. The caller was undoubtedly an old patient of his, playing mind games.
He’d dealt with a number of difficult cases back in his days of private practice, and this wouldn’t be the first to entertain himself at his expense. Such threats were a hazard of the profession.
There had, however, been something uniquely unsettling about the caller’s voice. That almost-whisper laced with a touch of menace.
And despite reassuring himself, he couldn’t help feeling his discomfort deepen as he watched the vibrating phone shimmy on the surface of the bathroom counter.
For a moment he wondered if it might be one of his current patients, someone from the hospital. But it was unlikely that any of them had access to a phone. Especially at this time of morning.
He reached out, picked it up. Answered it.
“Dr. Tolan?” Not a whisper this time, but forceful, self-confident.
“Look,” he said. “I know you’re having fun, but I’m really not in the mood. If you want me to recommend a new therapist—”
“Sorry, Doc, I think you’ve got me confused with somebody else. This is Frank Blackburn.”