Jackaby (Jackaby #1)(46)

“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.”

The howling wails of the banshee were becoming more distinct from the wind and rain with each passing minute. The storm seemed to be abating. Wisps of rain, rather than heavy sheets, struck the small, barred window. The mournful cries, however, had not diminished in the least. They were, in fact, becoming unbearably intense. I had just crossed to peer out the window when another wave of sadness slammed into me. My eyes clenched shut, and I felt my knees give out and crack into the floor. With my hands clamped over my ears, I forced my eyes open and peered around.

In a muffled semivacuum of sound, with the echoes of the last cry bouncing about my head, I tried to reorient myself. The man in the far cell had curled into a fetal position and was rocking slightly. Jackaby was shouting something about his tuning fork at the desk officer, but the portly man had slouched back in his chair, keeping his hands clapped to either side of his head. I took my hands tentatively away from my own ears, only to be caught by another terrible wail.

I forced my eyes open again, my vision swimming slightly. Jackaby had abandoned his efforts with the policeman, and looked as though the task of simply standing upright was commanding all of his willpower. There was no noise at all now, save the sorrowful voice of the banshee in my ears. As the song and scream entwined, the painful beauty of the melody came into focus.

On the crest of the building wave, a few last thoughts—tumbling wishes and regrets—breached the surface. I longed to see my parents one last time, and tell them that I loved them—that I was sorry. I imagined my mother, scooping me into a deep hug, as she had done when I was small. The image changed, and she became my father, and he held me still more tightly in his big broad arms. Again the vision gently shifted, and now he was the handsome Charlie Cane, and I could not be bothered to shy away from the thought of his embrace. Gradually my mind cleared until nothing but the mournful sound remained.

So, this is it, I thought. I am about to die. A strange peace washed over me. The harrowing song reached its peak and came toward a lilting end, the melody drawing at last to one elegant final note. I breathed in deeply and let my hands fall to my sides, opening my ears to the long, sustained finale. The tones of pain and fear subsided, and it was a sound of pure release and relief. As if on cue, a beam of sunlight cut past the last dwindling raindrops and through the little window. Then, just as the trembling note began to soften, the voice abruptly stopped.