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The
building looked just as bad inside as it had outside. He took a
last pull on the cigarette, more to mask the odor of urine, feces, and
rotten food, than from any real enjoyment. Exhaling through his nose,
his mouth pinched tight, he flicked the butt onto the body of a dead
mouse.
Then he stomped on the
mouse's head, wishing it were the head of the nameless voice on the cell
phone.
We've got your
daughter. Don't make any mistakes.
Penny!
He ground his heel, feeling
bone crunch, feeling the slipperiness of fresh blood and tissue.
Take that, you sick bastard.
If there were any other way
to save his daughter, he wouldn't be here. He knew enough about
Devyn Charles to know she wouldn't help him, but he had to try. He
was running out of time.
He took the stairs two at a
time. On the landing, he dodged a crack-head who reached out with
a skeletal hand.
"Money?"
He ignored the genderless
lump with its cocaine-bright eyes, and squinted at the faded numbers on
the doors. With fingers that already felt dirty, he turned the
knob.
Surprisingly, the door
opened.
The stairwell was that sickly
noncolor that old buildings get when too much dirt and not enough light
collects, but Devyn Charles' apartment was black.
Pitch black. Black
hole black. Bottomless black that spilled out of the doorway
to fill up the hall. He hesitated, afraid of falling into the
blackness.
"Your money's on the
table, Bobby. Toss me the cigarettes." Directionless in the dark,
the voice creaked like a rusty hinge.
He squinted, not that it
helped, and took a hesitant step, watching in fascination as the toe of
his shoe got sucked up by the dark.
"Bobby?"
He slid his hand over the
wall until it connected with the light switch and flipped it up, not
really expecting anything to happen.
Something did.
A sphere of light erupted in
the middle of the darkness.
She cursed.
It took a beat for his eyes
to focus. He closed the door and turned the deadbolt key, then
slipped it out of the cylinder and into his pocket.
Security. Then he turned around.
She lay on the couch, her
lanky body draped across it like a discarded shirt, one arm thrown up to
shield her eyes.
Damn. He'd
figured her to be in bad shape, but she looked worse than the
crack-head. Bone thin. Shrouded in black. Brows like
black cuts over a face pale as death. His insides twisted in
sudden fear.
Penny.
What if Devyn was too far
gone? What if she'd lost the songs?
Without really expecting an
answer, he called her name.
She didn't move.
His gut clenched, preparing
for panic.
Then she pushed stringy black
hair out of her eyes, and opened bleary eyes.
"Who the hell are you?"
It was rhetorical. She
didn't really care. One clawlike hand groped for a
cigarette. She lit it, then lay her head back and closed her
eyes. He could have been a murderer or a burglar. He could have
been the angel of death, for all it mattered to her.
Groping again, she curled
scabbed fingers around a glass. Her nails were ragged and bitten into
the quick. Red and brown specks dotted the cuticles where she'd
chewed.
"Cheers," she said,
then gulped the contents. She gasped.
The gasp surprised him.
In the six months she'd holed up in here, at least twenty bottles of
vodka had been delivered. And that was just from one store.
"Devyn
Charles." He said it quick, flat, certain, like the start of
an arrest. He knew who she was. He wanted her to know that,
even if she didn't recognize him.
The hand holding the
cigarette jerked, sending ash tumbling to the gray-streaked coffee
table. "Don't . . . call me that."
He recognized that
shake. Too many cigarettes, too much booze, too little fresh
air. It had taken a year to stop his own shakes, a year and a
whole lot of painful, lonely nights after his wife left and took his
baby with her.
Penny--.
He shoved away the shred of
compassion that tried to break surface at the sight of Devyn Charles'
trembling, ragged fingers.
Relief loosened his gut as he
saw the shadows of calluses.
Where was the guitar? A
quick glance told him it wasn't near the couch. His bowels
cramped. What if the booze and the cigarettes were working?
"Devyn . . .
." This time he made it a threat.
She opened her eyes to narrow
slits. Surrounded by black lashes and purple shadows, they were
dull and cold as lead. She pointed a finger at him. "I
-- said -- don't -- call -- me . . . that. Devyn Charles is
dead." She squeezed her eyelids shut and made a fist, pressed
it against her breastbone.
He'd gotten to her. A
thrill of victory flared weakly, and he moved in for the takedown before
she got her armor back up.
"Devyn, I need your
help." He clamped his jaw on the word again. Reminding
her of the last time probably wasn't a good idea.
The first time he'd seen her,
he'd been struck by her strange, exotic beauty. The straight hair
that hung past her hips, so black it looked dyed against her milk-white
skin. Her disturbing eyes, bright and fast as quicksilver, defying
anyone to hold their glance.
Her music, though. Her
music was magical. When had she first realized how magical it
was? He'd heard all her songs, but he'd only seen their effects
the one time.
Once was enough.
The Deathsinger, they
called her. She could recreate the entire scene like a courtroom
artist, but her palette was the real world and her brushes were her
voice and her guitar.
He'd been investigating one
of the most baffling murders in New York's history. The youngest
daughter of the mayor had been murdered in her bed as the household
slept.
Lifeblood Seeping, Child Lay Sleeping.
Devyn Charles put the
whole thing to music. Her haunting song pinpointed the crucial
piece of evidence that convicted the killer. It still played on
the pop stations once every few weeks or so.
It was the last one, laid
down on a portable tape recorder in the Thirty-Fifth Precinct
office. She'd refused to go into the studio anymore. She'd
long since broken her recording contract. It didn't matter.
The scratchy single track had sold twenty-four million CDs to date, made
a mint for the recording company.
She dropped out of sight
after that.
He knew where she was. He'd
made it his business to know. Maybe everybody knew. Maybe
they all just left her alone like they'd left Garbo alone, because that
was the way she wanted it. And because it was obvious even then
that the singing was killing her.
He jerked his brain back to
the present just in time to duck the water glass. It crashed
against the wall, upping the smell of bourbon in the room to about a
hundred proof.
"Get out," she said
flatly, as if she hadn't budged, as if she hadn't just thrown a glass
with a pretty good right arm. She reached for another cigarette,
but the pack was empty. Wadding it in her fist, she tossed it onto
a pile of similar red packages.
He stepped closer and dug out
one of his. The pack was old and crushed. He was trying to
quit.
"Thanks. Get
out."
"Devyn. I need
your help."
"Screw you."
"Thanks. Maybe
later."
He blinked. Had the
corner of her mouth twitched? A surge of hope streaked through him
like heat lightning in a hot summer sky. He grimaced. Hope
hurt. Hope dulled his senses.
I swear, Murdoch, you
screw up and we'll kill her. You give us Burgin and maybe you'll
get your daughter back in one piece.
Daddy? I'm scared.
Penny. My baby.
The sense of helplessness was
unfamiliar, paralyzing. What good was being Police Commissioner if
he couldn't save his only child?
Devyn coughed and sat
up. Smoke streamed from her mouth and nose. "Ugh, what
are these?"
"Devyn, I need you to
sing for me."
"I don't know what
you're talking about." She picked up a watch off the table.
"Where's that
damned delivery boy? I thought you were him." She
glared at me.
"A little girl's been
kidnapped."
She clapped her hands over
her ears. "No!"
He grabbed her wrists.
"Yes."
She struggled and he caught a
glimpse of quicksilver in her eyes. Then she went limp. He
let go, afraid her weight would dislocate her shoulders.
She crumpled back to the
couch, grabbing the whiskey bottle, but only a few drops clung to the
sides. She turned it up and shook it. "Damn you, damn
you, damn you," she whispered.
He ripped the bottle from her
hands before she could throw it.
"Who are you
anyway?" she asked, her voice dull and uninterested. But she
wasn't just making conversation.
"Murdoch. We
worked together once."
Her gaze finally met
his. The hopelessness in her gunmetal eyes terrified him.
"Lifeblood
Seeping," she whispered, then shuddered. It shook her whole
body, feet to head. "I can't any more. You don't know .
. . ."
"Tell me." Help
me. Save my baby. If she wanted to talk, he'd listen, as
long as he could.
You've got twenty-four
hours, Murdoch. Make 'em count.
"I can't . . . you don't
know . . ." Devyn shook her head back and forth slowly, her eyes
staring, dull.
Murdoch jumped when the knock
sounded.
Devyn didn't even
flicker.
He unlocked the door and
handed the guy a twenty. "Give me the cigarettes. Take
the whiskey back. We don't need it."
He tossed her the
cigarettes.
She caught them in midair,
surprising him. "I'll go into DTs," she warned.
He just laughed.
"Not on a fifth a week."
She shrugged and pulled the
string on the cigarette pack. Her fingers shook as she lit
one. She lay back, squinting through her black hair and the
blue curling smoke.
"Help me," he
begged. Penny.
She dropped her gaze to
the glowing tip of the cigarette, twirling it in her fingers like a
television detective. "I can't," she muttered.
"I can't watch them die any more."
She shook her
head slowly. "They all die. They all die. . . die. . .
die. . ."
Murdoch stared at her,
replaying her words in his mind. Something she said--
"Watch them die? What do you mean, watch them die?"
She threw an arm over her
eyes. "Go away." The words formed in blue smoke.
Murdoch's brain spun.
The Deathsinger. Her songs were about murders. Slowly,
through his grief-dulled brain, her words began to make sense.
"You watch them die. That means you see them before they
die."
Hope sucker-punched him.
"I don't have time for this," he grated between clenched
teeth. He grabbed her, surprised at her substance. Sunk into
the couch, draped in black, with only her thin wrists and ankles and
hollowed cheeks visible, she looked fragile.
Holding her by her upper
arms, he shook her. "Tell me!"
She didn't resist, went with
it, her hair whipping his face and hands like soft, punishing
quirts. He stopped, afraid her neck would snap.
Hanging boneless from his
grip, she whimpered. "Leave me alone. I'll call the
police."
"I am the police.
Now talk to me." He tossed her back onto the couch and sat on
the coffee table in front of her.
"What do you want from
me?" She dug frantically into the cigarettes, shoving one between
her colorless lips, lighting it with those pathetic, bloody hands.
"What the hell difference does it make whether I sing or not?
They die all the time."
His mouth went dry.
"This one is my daughter."
Devyn recoiled as if he'd hit
her. Her eyes went dull again, but her lips clamped into a thin
line. She whispered something too low to hear.
"What?" He
jerked her by her hair.
"Nothing. Get the
hell out of here." She pulled her hair out of his grasp and
buried her nose in the couch.
Disgusted, terrified, he left
her there and did a quick search of the apartment. The bed was
rumpled and the bathroom was filthy, a rancid pile of dirty towels
behind the door. The whole place looked and smelled like a crack
house, a mausoleum for someone who'd given up on life. The spark
of hope that had managed to stay alive flickered and died -- almost.
Something didn't fit.
Something about her, about the apartment, didn't mesh with the filth and
neglect. Murdoch returned to the living room.
It struck him like a fist in his
face.
The plants. Over
against the curtain-shrouded window, on stools and chairs and even the
floor, were dozens of plants. He jerked open the curtains,
squinting in pain as sunlight flooded the room. Behind him, Devyn
moaned.
Here it was, the proof that
she was still alive. He inspected a spider plant, a philodendron,
an African violet. Perfect. All of them. Not a brown
spot. Not a withered leaf.
He turned to stare at her,
hope flaring painfully. She hadn't given up on life. She
couldn't even stand to see a leaf wither on a plant.
"Can't watch them die .
. ."
Penny, hold on.
Disgusted by her self-pity,
he prowled the tiny apartment. Something still didn't add
up. Where was her guitar? If she hadn't given up on life,
had she given up on her music? He'd thought her music was her
life.
He opened a door. There
it was, propped against a chair, surrounded by piles of paper. He
flicked a string. A sour note shattered the stale silence.
Crouching by the chair, he picked up a few sheets and shuffled them.
Daddy's Bright Penny, scared in
the night . . . .
Oh God. His fingers
went numb. The paper fell.
A song, about his baby.
Hope and fear swirled around him like dueling cyclones. Was Penny
dead?
"No!" He'd
know. Flexing his lifeless fingers, he reached for the paper
again.
The words were shaky, scraggly, the lines uneven.
Daddy's Bright Penny, scared in
the night . . .
Daddy's Bright Penny, too
weak to fight,
Daddy's Bright Penny, water
laps at her breast . . .
That was all.
Shivering, he picked up a few more sheets, but they were
different. His head pounded. His ears roared. Several
recent murder cases were chronicled in the words scattered around the
room like fallen leaves. Devyn Charles was still the Deathsinger.
He confronted her, the guitar
clutched in his fist. She hadn't moved. The cigarette
dangled from her lips, ash almost an inch long, smoke undulating around
her like sinuous dancers. He jerked the cigarette out of her mouth
and stuck the guitar in front of her eyes. "Sing."
"No." She
tilted her chin defiantly.
"You've been
singing. You haven't stopped. Help me!"
She glared at him.
"No. I'm through watching them die. The songs still
come, but I'm learning to drink more."
Murdoch sank to his
knees. "It's my daughter. Please."
She closed her eyes.
"They want a scumbag
named Burgin. He's plea-bargained to testify against them, and
they want him back, probably to kill him."
Devyn's eyes darkened with
pain, but she spread her hands. "So, if she's your daughter .
. . ?"
He shook his head, his throat
convulsed. "My life, yours, you name it. I'd trade
anybody for that kid. But Burgin's in federal custody. They
don't play those games."
"Tell them."
He laughed harshly.
"You're mistaking these bastards for people who have hearts,"
he bit out. "There's only one choice. They get their
man, or Penny dies." His voice cracked. Since her
mother died, they had managed together. Buddies. Father and
daughter. He was a dedicated cop, but he'd trade it all for her.
He took a deep breath,
looking at his clenched fists. "You see them before they
die."
She reacted. Her
fear radiated like heat. Who could blame her? What a curse,
to know ahead of time about brutal murders, to feel death before it
happens.
"The first time
was my dog. Someone poisoned him." She shuddered.
"Then a friend of mine in junior high drowned, at the exact time I
was practicing my guitar."
"Swimming with the
Angels." He knew that song. He knew them all.
She nodded, her hair a
shredded curtain shielding her face. "It got so I couldn't even
write normal songs. My dad signed the record deal. Finally,
I couldn't do it any more. I just quit."
She laughed
harshly. "My dad's suing me," she said, her voice
sounding alive for the first time.
"Your father sold
you out?" Murdoch was surprised. He'd thought some
lowlife reporter had leaked the first song.
She shrugged and slumped
again. "Lifeblood Seeping was the last. I could have
saved her. I should have tried harder." A dry sob
escaped her lips. "I need a drink."
"You started Bright
Penny. Finish it. Help me. Together we can save
her." Did he believe that? Tears welled. He had
to. "Please. She's only seven. She's my whole
life."
Devyn met his gaze, horror
and resignation reflected in her weird, silver eyes.
"Don't ask me," she
whispered. "Don't . . . make me . . . ."
"Don't let her
die."
She squeezed her temples
between her hands. After an endless moment she pushed her fingers
through her tangled, matted hair. When she looked up, he saw every
death she'd sung etched in her face.
She took the guitar. He
sat back on his haunches. His hands hurt from clenching
them.
Her scabbed fingertips
strummed a haunting melody, more compelling than Lifeblood
Seeping. The notes tore at Murdoch's heart.
"Daddy's Bright Penny,
scared in the night . . .
Daddy's Bright Penny, too
weak to fight,
Daddy's Bright Penny, water
laps at her breast,
Daddy's Bright Penny drifts
closer to --" she stopped.
"Death," He
finished. "Closer to death. She's not dead."
Penny. Hold on.
Devyn stared into space, her
mouth slack, her body taut as a coiled spring, and strummed the haunting
melody.
"Devyn?"
She didn't acknowledge him.
"Devyn, what else?
Come on, Devyn."
"Daddy's Bright Penny
can't breathe in the air,
Daddy's Bright Penny can hear
foghorns blare.
She's hungry and frightened
but she'll never see
Her Daddy again if she's not
broken free."
Tears streaked her face and
her long, black shirt was soaked with sweat.
Murdoch whispered the words,
over and over. "Foghorns. The docks." His
heart crashed against his chest. He couldn't get a full
breath. "Come on. We've got to get to the docks."
"No . . . no . . . no .
. ." she said pitifully, pushing against his hands.
"Can't watch her die."
He jerked her up.
"Listen to me. You are not going to watch her die. We
are going to save her. Say it. We're going to save
Penny."
She shook her head, back and
forth, slowly. Her tangled hair slithered around her shoulders
like snakes.
"Say it, damn you."
"We're going to save
Penny." Her voice was toneless, unbelieving, but Murdoch let
it go. She'd said it.
"I need a drink,"
she whined, her whole body suddenly trembling.
"No way. Let's
go."
He dragged her down the
filthy stairs and stuffed her into his car, guitar and all.
Murdoch drove like a bat out
of hell. He called the dispatcher for backup.
"Covert. Have them at . . . hell, I don't know, Pier
Four. That's central at least. Unmarked cars, armed.
Don't move til I say so. You heard me, now do it."
Devyn hummed like an autistic
child. She stared out the windshield.
Murdoch glanced at her.
What did she see from the prison of her mind? "Out loud,
Devyn. Come on. Don't let me down. Don't let Penny
down."
We're coming, Penny.
Dear God don't let her die.
Softly, tonelessly, Devyn
continued. "She's hungry and frightened but she'll never see
-- her Daddy again if she's not broken free."
Over and over, until he
wanted to choke her.
. . . . she'll never see
her Daddy again . . .
Pier Four came into
view. Foghorns blared, faint and deep. "Devyn, more.
Give me more!"
She shook her head, her eyes
as wide and flat as half-dollars.
"Please."
Devyn's voice quavered.
"Daddy's Bright Penny,
she shivers and cries. Daddy's Bright Penny smells coffee and sighs. The
coffee reminds her of Daddy and she -- Is certain he'll save her, he'll
come set her free."
Coffee. Murdoch
jerked the wheel, lurching to the right, tires squealing. He
grabbed the microphone. He missed the activation lever twice
before he thumbed it to life. "This is Murdoch. Pier
Six, the Gutierrez coffee warehouse. Now!"
Devyn gasped and
choked.
"What?"
She shook her head, her hands
over her mouth. She whimpered like a kicked dog.
He grabbed a fistful of her
shirt. "What!"
"Hold on, little
Penny. Hold on and be brave. Your daddy is coming, he's
coming to . . ."
"Devyn? Talk to
me."
She just kept whispering
behind her hands. She wasn't talking to Murdoch. She didn't
even know he was there.
"Hold on . . . be brave
. . ."
He vaulted out of the car as
tires screeched in the parking lot behind him. Light footsteps
echoed behind him.
"Get back in the car
Devyn." Her footsteps never wavered. He couldn't worry
about her. Penny, hold on. Daddy's coming.
There were lights in the
warehouse, silhouettes moving inside. Murdoch vowed to blow off a
few heads before they got him. He pulled his gun just as something
caught the corner of his eye. A small power boat at the warehouse
dock, sitting low in the water.
A pleasure boat, here?
Devyn, coming up behind him,
pointed and moaned. "Oh, Penny," she breathed,
"Penny . . . ."
Murdoch switched directions
and sprinted toward the boat. When he stepped onto the deck, it
sagged ominously. It was almost completely swamped. He
pulled at the hatch covers. Padlocked. He shot the
lock. If he was lucky, the cars were his backup. If not--
He ripped away the hatch
covers and lunged into the cabin. Water was waist deep. He looked around
desperately. A muffled moan. A gurgle. Murdoch dove toward
the sound, and found a crumpled blanket in the corner of a berth.
He threw off the blanket.
"Baby. Oh God,
Penny!" Water lapping at her filthy gag. Her bright
eyes were wide with terror. She wailed and coughed.
He slit the gag and cut the
ropes.
"Baby!" He
hugged and rocked her and probably scared her to death by crying in big,
gulping sobs. "Oh, God."
"Daddy." Her voice
was hoarse. "Daddy, I knew you'd come. I knew."
"Murdoch . . .
." It was Devyn. She stepped down into the flooded
cabin. "They're coming."
He pushed tangled red hair
out of Penny's eyes. "Penny, this is Devyn. Can she
hold you for a minute?"
Penny had her little arms and
legs wrapped around his torso, but she went right to Devyn.
"Penny. Bright
Penny," Devyn said, rocking her back and forth. "Good
girl. You were brave. Good girl. I told you he'd
come."
Where was his backup?
"Stay down," he
warned Devyn. He moved toward the hatch just as a porthole
popped. He shot back.
"Give it up," he
shouted. "I've got backup."
"Dream on, Murdoch.
You let us down. You and your pretty little girl are fish
food."
"Don't move.
Police." It was the police bullhorn.
Murdoch sagged. His gun
hand shook. Tears of relief stung his eyes.
Then Devyn held out his
little girl. Grabbing her, he struggled not to cry. "Penny, my
little Penny," he muttered over and over again.
"We knew you'd come,
Daddy."
Suddenly, what Devyn had said
to Penny sunk in. I told you he'd come.
"Devyn?" He lifted
his head, but she was gone.
"Devyn," he
yelled. Water sloshed and the boat rocked. She'd stepped off
the deck.
Penny snuggled into his side
and turned his face toward her with her hand. "She sang it to
me, Daddy. It kept me from being scared. She sang 'don't
worry Bright Penny, your Daddy will come.'"
Murdoch stared at his
daughter. "She sang to you?"
Penny nodded, pleased with
herself. She always liked it when she knew something her dad
didn't know.
He climbed up to the deck,
cradling his daughter. The place swarmed with police cars and
uniformed officers.
"Commissioner Murdoch.
Are you okay?"
He nodded. His gaze
searched the distance. There. A movement. A
skinny black silhouette clutching a guitar disappeared into the
darkness.
"You don't have to watch
them die," he whispered. Thank you, Devyn.
"Daddy."
Penny burrowed deeper in his arms. "I'm cold."
"Let's go home, Bright
Penny."
The End |
