Chapter Twenty-One

The following hours, during which the stormy winds continued to harass the station-house walls, felt like days. We were half a mile from the Emerald Arch, but, like currents against a sinking ship, the banshee’s wail continued to wash over us in rhythmic waves. I recalled the image of Mr. Henderson, pillows belted to his ears to drown out the sound, and his actions seemed much less like madness now.

The song was a whirlpool, powerful and disorienting, and pulling me ever deeper. At times it was melodic, sung with beautiful, sweeping tones of exquisite sorrow—but then it would collapse into the wretched discord of a woman in the throes of anguish, and back again. There was no break between the two, and the further into the lament I fell, the more I saw them as one and the same. It was my mother’s voice, and it was my voice, and it was no voice at all. No words in any language could have more precisely conveyed the sadness and foreboding flooding through my senses. It was the last song I would ever hear.

With great difficulty, I pulled my mind back into the dim police station. I looked into the next cell at Jackaby, who was standing by the thin, high window, looking out into the tempest. How long had he been there? Minutes? Hours? It was a blur. He looked inexplicably calm.

I pulled the scratchy, woolen blanket tighter about my shoulders, wondered briefly when I had received it, and walked over toward him. His breaths were deep and even. His storm gray eyes flashed for an instant with the brilliant reflection of lightning outside.

“What do you see?” I asked through the bars.

“Nothing,” he answered softly. “Just the rain.”

“Aren’t you afraid?” I asked, wiping my eyes with the wooly corner of the blanket.

He looked at me for a moment and smiled gently. “Of course I am.”

“You don’t look it.”

“I suppose I am curious, first. I’ll let myself be afraid when my curiosity is satisfied—and as my curiosity will only be satisfied when I’ve looked our murderer in the face, it is unlikely I shall need to spend much time in fear.”

“Ah,” I said. “That’s convenient.”

“Quite.”

I followed his gaze out the window. “So,” I said, “we’re going to die.”

“Well, of course we are, Miss Rook. Don’t be dense. Everyone dies.”

“Tonight,” I said.

Jackaby sighed. “Yes.”

“Any thoughts about what sort of creature we should be expecting?” I asked.

“Many thoughts, yes.”

“Any conclusions?”

Jackaby’s eyes narrowed, and he glanced my way. There was a glimmer of something in his eyes. Madness? Excitement? Hope? The banshee’s melancholy melody howled through the trees and I shivered, holding my attention on that glimmer like a hot ember in a pile of cold ash.

“There is someone who has aroused my curiosity,” he mused, turning away again. “Just a theory. Suspicions with no proof.”

“Someone—a suspect? Who?”

Jackaby’s answer, if he had intended to give me one at all, was interrupted. The banshee’s wail came to a crescendo as the wind picked up. Icy chills danced up my back, and even the detective winced. The door at the far side of the room swung open, and Junior Detective Charlie Cane stepped inside.

He nodded to the portly policeman on duty, who had abruptly tucked a slim dime novel into his top drawer and was now making a show of shuffling through important-looking paperwork. Charlie made his way directly toward the holding cells. His shoulders were damp from rainfall, and his eyes were even more tired than when last we’d seen him, red-rimmed and hung with heavy bags.

I glanced at Jackaby, who was following the young detective’s approach intently, as a cat on a windowsill might follow the movements of a stray dog below. Charlie? Could the sweet man whose intentions had felt so earnest really be the villain we were hunting? The villain hunting us? He had lied about the claw marks on the door, I remembered. Jackaby was right; the detective was keeping secrets. I fixed him with my steeliest gaze and waited for him to speak. Charlie did not seem to notice. He stopped near the bars of Jackaby’s cell, heavy shadows collecting beneath his brow, his head hung down. He breathed deeply for several seconds, and a few drops of rain plunged from his damp hair to spatter the pointed tips of his polished shoes.

“Well, Miss Rook, Mr. Jackaby,” he said at last, “this is it.” His voice was grave and ominous, a tone only amplified by the wailing winds and icy air, but it was not menacing. It echoed the weariness written across his face. With a heavy sigh, his head finally rose, and those bloodshot eyes looked into mine.

He read my expression silently for several seconds, and I read his. Confusion, at first, crept in, crinkling his eyebrows as he glanced between Jackaby and me. Then some dawning comprehension smoothed his brow.

“You can hear her, can’t you?” he asked.

“That’s right,” I answered, my trembling fear turning to indignation. “Just like Bragg. Just like Henderson. So we’re next, are we?”

Charlie nodded, still without the menacing countenance of a killer stalking his prey, but with a resigned and genuine sadness. “Yes, Miss Rook, it seems we are.”

It was not the taunt of a hunter, but rather the lament of prey. My suspicions wavered, and then fled like shadows from the light of dawn. “ ‘We’? You mean you can hear the cries as well?”

He nodded.

Of course. How selfish Jackaby and I had been to think we endangered only ourselves by sticking our noses into the case. If the killer was a cornered animal, lashing out as we attempted to close in on him with each new clue, then we had brought Charlie right with us into range of the beast. Publicly, he had been as much a part of the search as either of us.

Jackaby stepped up to the front of his cell, closing the distance until he was nearly nose to nose through the bars with Charlie. My employer’s expression had not changed, and he continued to scrutinize the young detective, peering into his reddened eyes and tactlessly surveying the state of the man’s hair and clothing.

“Jackaby,” I said, “it’s coming for him, too. He can hear the banshee’s wail. Whoever—whatever that monster is, it’s coming for all of us.”

He ignored me, finally ceasing his examination to fix Charlie with an aggressive stare. “Are you in control?” he asked in a hushed but forceful whisper.

Charlie looked momentarily confused by the question. “I won’t allow my emotions to get in the way of my duty, if that’s what you mean, sir,” he said. “I can face death.”

“That is not what I mean. I mean, are you in control?” Jackaby repeated the phrase with intensity. Charlie’s eyes widened in surprise. He glanced at the officer in the desk behind him.

“You know?” he whispered in alarm, then shook his head and laughed softly at himself. “Of course you know. Yes, Detective. I am always in control, I assure you.”

“Don’t go getting any big ideas, Cane. I’m still running this show,” barked a rough voice from behind Charlie.

He spun to face Marlowe, who had entered from the hallway. The clanking handcuffs still hung from his belt, but it seemed that when he wanted to, the chief inspector could tread remarkably quietly for a man of his stature.

“You’re coming with me. Back to the Emerald Arch. Now.”

The inspector did not slow his pace to wait for Charlie to keep up, but continued straight on through the entryway, jamming his navy blue uniform cap onto his head as he moved.

Charlie gave us one last pitiful glance, and then drew himself up, jogging after Marlowe and out the door. I turned to Jackaby. “I don’t suppose you’re going to tell me what that was all about?”

“No. I don’t think I will. Don’t worry, I’ll keep you apprised of anything urgent.”

I slumped back on the bench, lacking even the energy to argue. “Not that it matters. All three of us will be dead by morning.”

“I’m afraid it may be even worse than that,” Jackaby said flatly.

“Worse than death?”

“Worse than the three of us. Or didn’t you notice? No doubt he hurried out to avoid our taking notice, but the chief inspector’s eyes were as puffy as yours. He’s been crying.”

“Then—Marlowe hears it, too?” I said. “But that’s terrible! He and Charlie are both running straight back to the scene.”

Jackaby cleared his throat and nodded for me to look around. In the cell beyond Jackaby’s, our inebriated neighbor in red suspenders had awoken and was sullenly picking at the crumbs of a piece of cake. Between nibbles, the man sniffled and wiped his nose on his sleeve. Tears had cleaned twin trails down the grime of his cheeks. I whirled around. At his desk, the portly policeman wiped his eyes with a handkerchief and then leaned heavily on his elbows, his hands sliding up to cover his ears.

They could hear the banshee’s wail. All of them.