The Unknown Beloved(121)

“Nettie,” Malone moaned.

“What?”

“That’s Nettie’s quilt.”

“I don’t know who Nettie is, Mike. Who’s Nettie?” Eliot kept his grip on his shoulders. Malone was grateful; he couldn’t feel his legs.

“Check those remains, Cowles,” Malone barked. “That woman in the quilt was already dead when Sweeney got to her. He didn’t kill her, he just took her body and hacked it up. He’s messing with us, Ness. He’s toying with us.”

“What are you talking about?” Eliot begged, still not following.

“Remains were taken from the indigent morgue on Mead Avenue where Dani works. Back in April. I saw that quilt wrapped around a dead woman’s body months ago. Dani said her name was Nettie.”

Sweeney took Nettie. Oh God. Oh Dani. But taking the body was just theater, one of Sweeney’s merry stunts. The theft itself wasn’t what shook Malone. It was the realization that Francis Sweeney, the Butcher of Kingsbury Run, had been using Dani’s morgue all this time.

“That’s where he’s killing them, Ness,” Malone insisted. “Where he’s killed . . . all of them.”

Eliot dropped his arms and stepped back, understanding lighting his raccoon-rimmed blue eyes, and Malone turned toward the door.

“Get a team to the morgue on Mead, Ness. We’re all at the wrong goddamn morgue.”

“But, Malone, what about Dani?” O’Shea shouted, trailing behind him.

He had to keep moving. He had to. He pushed out of the building, knowing Ness wouldn’t be far behind him, but he couldn’t wait.

“Malone?” O’Shea persisted, wrenching the passenger door open and climbing inside as Malone started his car.

“If we don’t find Francis Sweeney, we won’t find Dani,” he said, and the words were like hot coals on his tongue.



Someone was calling her name. Michael. Michael . . . and someone else. Many voices. Many voices and pounding feet. Calling her name. Calling Frank Sweeney’s name.

The voices got closer, and the stool was wrenched free and tossed aside, clattering against the concrete floor.

“Dani. Where are you, Dani? Are you here?” That was Michael. That was Michael’s voice, right outside the locker.

She tried to answer, but she suspected he wasn’t real. It was probably the rattling of the refrigeration starting up. She would be freezing before too long. She didn’t know if she could bear it again. She was so thirsty. So tired.

The door rattled.

Sweeney was back. He would unlock the door.

“No,” she gasped. “No.” She dragged herself up and clung to the bolt. “Go away.”

“Dani?”

“Michael?” she cried.

Her mind was playing tricks on her. Sweeney was playing tricks on her.

“Dani,” he shouted. “Are you in there?”

“Michael?” she moaned. Not Sweeney. Michael. It was Michael.

“It’s me, Dani.” His voice cracked over his words. He sounded as though he was weeping. Or exulting. “Dani . . . can you open the door?”

Michael was telling her to let go. And she’d promised him she would. She’d promised him that when she felt the cold, she would let go.

She turned the lock and let him in.



Dani’s skin was drawn across her pale face, and her eyes were huge and darkly rimmed. She was there among the empty drawers and shelves that should have held the dead but instead housed her, wilted and wan, but alive and looking at him like she didn’t trust her sight. She was wearing the same dress she’d worn the day she came to his room with a stack of his undershirts and a glazed expression, having realized exactly how he felt about her. Her dress was streaked with sweat and dust, and her curls were corkscrews around her face, but she was still standing. Standing and . . . swaying . . . and then she was in his arms. He lifted her up against his chest and carried her from the room.

Oh God. Thank you. Thank you, God.

“He took their names,” she moaned into his neck. “And he knew me. He knew you too, Michael.”

“I know, sweetheart,” he said. “I know. But I’ve got you now.” He brought her to the sink and laid her gently on the table where she sorted clothes, resting her head on a pile of laundered shirts. O’Shea, Ness, and a dozen others crowded around them.

“Who was it, Dani? Who did this?” Ness asked, needing her to be clear and unequivocal.

“Francis Sweeney,” she answered. “It was Francis Sweeney. He’s the Butcher.”

“Search everywhere,” Ness yelled, directing the milling officers. “High and low. It wouldn’t surprise me if he has a hidey-hole somewhere nearby.”

“I saw him go. I saw him leave. He took my wagon,” Dani rasped. “I don’t think he wanted anyone to know I was still here.”

Malone found himself unable to think or speak and left that up to Ness. His rage and his relief were too big. He busied himself bathing Dani’s face with a wet cloth, and O’Shea produced a tin cup filled with water. Eliot waited for Dani to drink deeply before he proceeded with his questions.

“I need to know what happened,” Eliot pressed. He was bristling with impatience, yet his voice was mellow and unhurried.