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.
Chapter Twenty-Two
We have to warn them!” I swiveled back to face Jackaby, who looked remarkably composed for one who had just realized that a wholesale massacre was descending upon the town.
“You hear the keening, as well. Has it been of great help to you, knowing the sound is a portent of your impending extermination?”
I scowled at my employer, then deflated. He was right. I did not know how much time I had already lost, succumbing to the lilting wails. They had been possible to overlook when they were just a feeling in the back of my skull, an intangible sadness on the breeze—but knowing their full meaning had given the notes a dismal weight. I was going to die, and worse, I was going to squander my last minute thinking about the fact that I was going to die. “Ignorance is bliss, is that it?”
“That’s insipid. Happiness is bliss—but ignorance is anesthetic, and in the face of what’s to come, that may be the best we can hope for our ill-fated acquaintances.”