The Thirteen Hallows by Michael Scott, Colette Freedman Page B
Authors: Michael Scott, Colette Freedman
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the bag.
She reached into the bag and touched the chunk of iron, and suddenly she remembered the phone call to the office, the coolly insistent voice.
She gave you something rather important that belongs to me.
The mysterious caller’s representatives had killed her family looking for the artifact, and Judith had died protecting it. The sword, Judith had called it. Sarah peered into the bag. It didn’t look like a sword, it looked like something you’d find in the trash. But her family had died for this metal. Judith too.
Sarah ran her fingers along the metal and they came away rust red, bloodred. What made this so special?
And the police…What had they been doing there? Looking for her or Judith?
And why had she run?
Sarah knew she should have stayed and spoken to the police, but the skinhead and the others had been waiting and she hadn’t been thinking clearly. She should go back and talk to them before they got the wrong impression. Sarah bent her head, her forehead touching the cold metal in the bag on her lap. She should not have run….
“SO THAT’S why she ran,” Tony Fowler said tightly, pinching his nose, breathing only through his mouth. He was standing on the stairs, looking down into the cellar, trying not to inhale the noxious odors. The puddle of yellow light shed by the naked bulb highlighted the mutilated body. Victoria Heath stood behind him, a scented handkerchief pressed tightly to her mouth, eyes swimming.
Tony and Victoria backed up the stairs. He closed the cellar door on the terrible scene, took a deep breath, held it, and exhaled sharply, trying to drive out the pervasive stench of death. “She must have come straight here from the hospital.”
“Why?” his partner mumbled, swallowing hard.
The detective shrugged. “Who knows? We’ll ask her when we catch her. But we were right the first time. Her reaction in the hospital was obviously nothing more than an act. An Oscar-winning performance.”
“I believed it,” Victoria whispered. “She fooled me.”
“She fooled me, too. And now she’s on a spree. First her family, and now this poor woman. God knows who’s next.”
“I honestly didn’t think she’d done it,” Victoria mused. “She just didn’t seem the type.”
“Trust me—they never do.”
21
They were coppers,” Skinner justified to Elliot as he leaned into the car, feeling the cool rush of the air-conditioning against his sweaty skin. “She ran out the front door, smack into their car. There was nothing we could do.”
“How do you know?” the small man asked coldly. They were several blocks from the old woman’s house, and Elliot could smell the metallic odor of blood radiating from the skinhead’s flesh and clothes and realized that he would have to get his car detailed again. Elliot’s sleek BMW hardly blended into the bleak, desolate wasteland of brick and rubble that was being converted into a car park. Behind him, Elliot could see Skinner’s three accomplices sitting on the ground, passing a joint back and forth. They were laughing in high-pitched excited squeals. “How do you know they were police?” he repeated.
“They had that look,” Skinner said defensively. “I know police.”
“Describe them.”
“Man and a woman. Big craggy-faced bloke and a blond dyke.”
Elliot sighed. The detectives from the hospital; they hadn’t wasted any time. “Was Ms. Miller carrying anything when she ran?”
“She had the old lady’s bag, which was on the table in the kitch…” Skinner stopped, realizing he’d said too much.
Elliot pulled off his Ray-Bans and dropped them on the seat beside him. He hit the power switch on the car window and the glass slid up abruptly, trapping Skinner’s head in the opening, the edge of the glass biting deep into the pale flesh just below his protruding Adam’s apple. Robert Elliot put his two hands on the wheel and stared straight head, and when he spoke, his voice was remarkably composed.
She reached into the bag and touched the chunk of iron, and suddenly she remembered the phone call to the office, the coolly insistent voice.
She gave you something rather important that belongs to me.
The mysterious caller’s representatives had killed her family looking for the artifact, and Judith had died protecting it. The sword, Judith had called it. Sarah peered into the bag. It didn’t look like a sword, it looked like something you’d find in the trash. But her family had died for this metal. Judith too.
Sarah ran her fingers along the metal and they came away rust red, bloodred. What made this so special?
And the police…What had they been doing there? Looking for her or Judith?
And why had she run?
Sarah knew she should have stayed and spoken to the police, but the skinhead and the others had been waiting and she hadn’t been thinking clearly. She should go back and talk to them before they got the wrong impression. Sarah bent her head, her forehead touching the cold metal in the bag on her lap. She should not have run….
“SO THAT’S why she ran,” Tony Fowler said tightly, pinching his nose, breathing only through his mouth. He was standing on the stairs, looking down into the cellar, trying not to inhale the noxious odors. The puddle of yellow light shed by the naked bulb highlighted the mutilated body. Victoria Heath stood behind him, a scented handkerchief pressed tightly to her mouth, eyes swimming.
Tony and Victoria backed up the stairs. He closed the cellar door on the terrible scene, took a deep breath, held it, and exhaled sharply, trying to drive out the pervasive stench of death. “She must have come straight here from the hospital.”
“Why?” his partner mumbled, swallowing hard.
The detective shrugged. “Who knows? We’ll ask her when we catch her. But we were right the first time. Her reaction in the hospital was obviously nothing more than an act. An Oscar-winning performance.”
“I believed it,” Victoria whispered. “She fooled me.”
“She fooled me, too. And now she’s on a spree. First her family, and now this poor woman. God knows who’s next.”
“I honestly didn’t think she’d done it,” Victoria mused. “She just didn’t seem the type.”
“Trust me—they never do.”
21
They were coppers,” Skinner justified to Elliot as he leaned into the car, feeling the cool rush of the air-conditioning against his sweaty skin. “She ran out the front door, smack into their car. There was nothing we could do.”
“How do you know?” the small man asked coldly. They were several blocks from the old woman’s house, and Elliot could smell the metallic odor of blood radiating from the skinhead’s flesh and clothes and realized that he would have to get his car detailed again. Elliot’s sleek BMW hardly blended into the bleak, desolate wasteland of brick and rubble that was being converted into a car park. Behind him, Elliot could see Skinner’s three accomplices sitting on the ground, passing a joint back and forth. They were laughing in high-pitched excited squeals. “How do you know they were police?” he repeated.
“They had that look,” Skinner said defensively. “I know police.”
“Describe them.”
“Man and a woman. Big craggy-faced bloke and a blond dyke.”
Elliot sighed. The detectives from the hospital; they hadn’t wasted any time. “Was Ms. Miller carrying anything when she ran?”
“She had the old lady’s bag, which was on the table in the kitch…” Skinner stopped, realizing he’d said too much.
Elliot pulled off his Ray-Bans and dropped them on the seat beside him. He hit the power switch on the car window and the glass slid up abruptly, trapping Skinner’s head in the opening, the edge of the glass biting deep into the pale flesh just below his protruding Adam’s apple. Robert Elliot put his two hands on the wheel and stared straight head, and when he spoke, his voice was remarkably composed.
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