On Harrow Hill

“I’d say it doesn’t matter how many delusional witnesses might claim to have spoken to him. It wouldn’t change the fact that the young man was struck by lightning, fell off the roof of St. Giles Church, and was killed instantly. If you’ve managed to lose his body, I suggest you find it. If you’re claiming that the man I pronounced dead is wandering around Larchfield, you’re making a serious mistake.” He checked his watch again. “If you have no other questions . . .”

“Just one,” said Gurney. “Did you by any chance have anything to drink the night Tate fell off the roof?”

Fallow stared at him. His voice tightened. “If you’re suggesting my professional judgment was in any way impaired—”

“I’m not suggesting anything. I’m asking a simple question.”

Fallow stood up from the conference table and glared at Morgan. “If this absurd confrontation was your idea, you’ll live to regret it.”

“Before you leave, Doctor,” said Gurney in a matter-of-fact way, “we have a security camera video you might be interested in.”

“Video of what?”

“Billy Tate’s resurrection in Peale’s embalming room.”

18

The video, which Fallow watched with increasing distress, deflated him. He insisted that what he’d witnessed on the screen was impossible, but the strength of his conviction was gone.

“There was no doubt whatever in my mind that he was dead. I don’t understand. There’s no way he could have been alive.”

“I understand what you’re saying, Doctor, but there’s another piece of the puzzle that supports the likelihood of Tate’s survival. Two pieces, in fact. Two murders.”

Before Gurney could go on to explain it, he saw the connection suddenly dawning on Fallow—beginning, no doubt, with the neatly sliced throats of Mary Kane and Angus Russell.

“The scalpels . . . Oh, my God . . . the scalpels he took from the mortuary cabinet.”

“We also have Tate’s fingerprints and DNA at the Russell murder scene.”

Fallow swallowed hard.

Gurney continued. “We’ll be issuing an APB today for Billy Tate, followed by a public statement, which will trigger a media explosion—including the inevitable Dead Man Rises stories. Things may get ugly, especially for you personally. Be prepared for that.”

“Can’t you control what details go to the media?”

“To some extent. But it’s public knowledge that Tate was declared dead. Now it will be public knowledge that he’s wanted for questioning in connection with two new murders. That’s not something we can conceal.”

Gurney didn’t need to mention that Fallow’s alcohol-related arrest was also a matter of public record. He could almost see the panic wheels turning in the man’s brain as he imagined the career-smashing way that fact was likely to be covered by the media: MEDICAL EXAMINER WITH HISTORY OF ALCOHOL ABUSE DECLARES UNCONSCIOUS MAN DEAD.

Fallow turned to Morgan. “You were there. You saw him. How could anyone in that condition have survived?”

Morgan said nothing.

Fallow began shaking his head. “Newspapers, television . . . God, what a horror!”

Gurney spoke calmly. “I’d suggest you refer any media inquiries you get to the Larchfield Police Department. It will be better for everyone if that function is centralized.”

After a long moment, Fallow departed, still shaking his head.

Morgan gave Gurney a deer-in-the-headlights look. “When you say Larchfield Police Department, you mean me?”

“Unless you’ve got a spokesman on staff that I don’t know about.”

Morgan sighed. “I’d better get working on a statement.”

“If I were you, I’d get the APB on Tate out first. The Mary Kane murder suggests he has no qualms about killing anyone who could be a threat to him.”

Morgan nodded. “I’ll get right on it.”

“Sir?” Slovak was in the conference room doorway. “Sorry to interrupt, sir, but I just got back from Selena Cursen’s. Should I fill you in now?”

“Fill Dave in. I’ll catch up with him.” He hurried out.

Slovak joined Gurney at the table and starting talking. “It was totally weird. She kept smiling and saying weird shit. He’s the Dark Angel who rose from the dead. Beware the Dark Angel who rose from the dead.”

“Did she let you into the house?”

“No. She must have been outside and heard my car coming. You approach her place on this long, narrow dirt road through the woods. You have to drive real slow, with all the ruts. It’s like a tunnel, with thick pine branches meeting over the top, so there’s hardly any light. Then you come to this black iron gate that separates the woods from the grounds around the house. You look at that house, you can’t help thinking bad shit goes on in there. When I got to the gate, she was standing there, all in black. With those shiny stud things in her lips. Smiling, like she was waiting for me. I had to force myself to get out of the car. I told her we were trying to get a better understanding of Billy Tate’s accident, and would she mind if I asked her some questions.”

“What did she say?”