The Ashes (The Rebecca Underhill Trilogy Book 2) Read online

  Interested in free books and other specials? Please join Vincent’s “For your eyes only” newsletter today @ WWW.VINCENTZANDRI.COM

  PRAISE FOR VINCENT ZANDRI

  “Sensational . . . masterful . . . brilliant.”

  —New York Post

  “(A) chilling tale of obsessive love from Thriller Award–winner Zandri (Moonlight Weeps) . . . Riveting.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  “. . . Oh, what a story it is . . . Riveting . . . A terrific old school thriller.”

  —Booklist “Starred Review”

  “My fear level rose with this Zandri novel like it hasn't done before. Wondering what the killer had in store for Jude and seeing the ending, well, this is one book that will be with me for a long time to come!”

  —Reviews by Molly

  “I very highly recommend this book . . . It's a great crime drama that is full of action and intense suspense, along with some great twists . . . Vincent Zandri has become a huge name and just keeps pouring out one bestseller after another.”

  —Life in Review

  “(The Innocent) is a thriller that has depth and substance, wickedness and compassion.”

  —The Times-Union (Albany)

  "The action never wanes."

  —Fort Lauderdale Sun-Sentinel

  "Gritty, fast-paced, lyrical and haunting."

  —Harlan Coben, New York Times bestselling author of Six Years

  "Tough, stylish, heartbreaking."

  —Don Winslow, New York Times bestselling author of Savages and Cartel.

  “A tightly crafted, smart, disturbing, elegantly crafted complex thriller . . . I dare you to start it and not keep reading.”

  —MJ Rose, New York Times bestselling author of Halo Effect and Closure

  “A classic slice of raw pulp noir . . .”

  —William Landay, New York Times bestselling author of Defending Jacob

  Other Novels by Vincent Zandri

  The Detonator

  When Shadows Come

  The Remains

  The Concrete Pearl

  Permanence

  The Scream Catcher

  Everything Burns

  Orchard Grove

  The Chase Baker Action/Adventure Series

  The Shroud Key

  Chase Baker and the Golden Condor

  Chase Baker and the God Boy

  Chase Baker and the Lincoln Curse

  Chase Baker and the Da Vinci Divinity

  Chase Baker and the Seventh Seal

  Chase Baker and the Dutch Diamonds

  The Jack Marconi PI Novels

  The Innocent

  Godchild

  The Guilty

  The Corruptions

  The Dick Moonlight PI Novels

  Moonlight Falls

  Moonlight Mafia

  Moonlight Rises

  Blue Moonlight

  Murder by Moonlight

  Moonlight Sonata

  Full Moonlight

  Moonlight Breaks Bad

  Moonlight Weeps

  Dog Day Moonlight

  The Ashes

  Vincent Zandri

  “I know you were there with me on that night two years ago when Whalen made his final move. I know you were there because I felt your presence with every one of my five senses. I smelled your skin, I heard your voice, I felt your touch. You entered my body and gave me strength. You made me fight my fear. You helped me survive.”

  —Rebecca Underhill in a letter to her late twin sister, Molly

  “Of all ghosts, the ghosts of our old lovers are the worst.”

  —Arthur Conan Doyle

  May 13, 2015

  Albany Police Department

  South Pearl Street Precinct

  The old homicide detective sits behind his metal desk surrounded by the cold quiet of the early morning, staring forlornly into the radiant screen on his department-issued laptop. He’s been using the laptop, which is integrated with the department’s web server, for years and years now, but he still fondly recalls the days when his desktop supported only a telephone connected to an old-fashioned landline and an IMB Selectric typewriter. And how could he ever forget the old two-tiered Inbox/Outbox?

  He glances at his inbox and the two dozen or so new emails that have come his way since he last checked it the previous evening. He scans the subject lines for their importance, relegating most of them to routine until he comes to one marked, “URGENT: Serial Murderer Hanover Escapes Custody.”

  Tall, wiry, white-haired Detective Nick Miller has been on the force for more years than a man should be. Or so he’s been told countless times by his peers in the department. But he’s a widower who can’t seem to get over the fact that his wife is gone, even years after her untimely death on an operating table after suffering a burst aneurysm. It also explains why he’s sitting behind his desk, suffering from the pangs of a whiskey hangover, on a quiet Sunday morning.

  He opens the email.

  “To Whom It May Concern,” reads the department-wide message. “The former cellmate of New York State registered sex offender and convicted murderer, Joseph William Whalen, has escaped from the Mid-Hudson Psychiatric Center in New Hampton, New York while en route to a routine medical review at an upstate facility. Lawrence Frederick Hanover, 69, Caucasian, was convicted on several counts of murder in the first degree and is considered extremely dangerous. Both guards who were assisting with the transfer were killed during an apparent violent exchange with Hanover, aka Skinner or The Skinner. His present whereabouts is unknown.”

  Miller exhales, sits back in his swivel chair.

  The email originates not from the FBI but from the state police, most notably, the Rensselaer County Division. He recalls Whalen as the maximum-security inmate who, not long after his release, attempted to abduct and kill the same woman, Rebecca Underhill, whom he’d abducted back when she was a little girl in 1977. Her twin sister, Molly, was also the target of his attacks. Although Molly has since died, Rebecca still lives in the area with her son.

  The email comes with several pictures of Hanover, including his most recent mugshots and psychiatric facility photo records. The small, bald, scraggly faced little man doesn’t seem like he could hurt a fly much less another human being. But Miller wasn’t born yesterday, and he knows that even a little man can kill as efficiently and quickly as a big, monster of a man. Perhaps even more quickly and efficiently.

  Sitting back up, he scans the rest of the email.

  “While state police have issued a state-wide APB and launched a task force to hunt for Hanover’s whereabouts, we are asking that police cooperate in every way possible to ensure the quick, efficient, and discreet apprehension of the serial murderer. All communications should be delivered directly to this office via the email/phone number listed.”

  Once more, Miller sits back.

  “The quick, efficient, and discreet apprehension of the serial murderer,” he whispers. “Somebody fucked up and that somebody doesn’t want the press to get ahold of this story.”

  Sitting there, alone in the quiet office, Miller feels a distinct and very unpleasant chill run up his backbone.

  “What would a schooled Statie or FBI pathologist have to say about this rather delicate situation?” he whispers quietly to himself. “That a killer as skilled and hungry as Hanover is gonna slip up and be found sleeping in some crappy hotel somewhere? That they can then slip him back inside his rubber room at Mid-Hudson Psychiatric like he’s some two-bit bank robber?” The detective laughs aloud. “I’ll tell you something right now. If The Skinner doesn’t want to be found, then no way in hell he’s gonna be f
ound. Simple as that. He didn’t escape to be free. He escaped to kill, to butcher, and that’s all.”

  His bloodshot eyes focus on the laptop screen once more; the old detective shifts the cursor so that it clicks on the Action Taken box beside the open email. He clicks on Saved Mail.

  Closing the laptop, he finds that his hands are shaking. He opens the bottom desk drawer, pulls out the bottle of Jack Daniels stored inside. Pouring a generous shot into his empty ceramic coffee cup, he drinks it down.

  “Skinner,” he whispers. “Who will you flay next? Whose flesh will you feast on?”

  October 2016

  Albany, NY

  “How long have you been hearing the voices coming from the cornfield, Mike?”

  The man speaking is a child psychologist by the name of Dr. Robert Cuther — an aging, semi-retired child psychiatrist who’s come highly recommended to me by my best friend, housemate, and blonde bombshell co-conspirator at The School of Art, Robyn Painter (her real name, no pun). So the story goes, Cuther has been conducting therapy on Robyn’s eight-year-old daughter, Molly (named after my late twin sister), after we found her hiding in a second-floor closet of the farmhouse that our two half-families share. The little blonde-haired, blue-eyed clone of her mom has convinced herself the Boogeyman lives in our basement (he doesn’t . . . we checked) and that any day now he is going to abduct her and drag her down into his underground lair.

  Truth is, I’m not sure what to expect from the man who — with his thick, curly gray hair, short stature, wrinkly pale face, and old wool suit over a black turtleneck — looks more like an over-the-hill Einstein than Freud. But I’m beginning to worry more and more about Michael, Jr. and the voices he claims to be hearing. Speaking to Dr. Cuther seems like the reasonable solution. He also agreed to see us on a quiet Sunday morning so as not to interrupt school and work schedules, which makes him not only reasonable but convenient.

  “Go ahead and answer the Doctor, Boo,” I say, sitting across from the perch he occupies on a long leather couch. “Dr. Cuther is our friend.”

  Little Mike peers at me with his smooth round face, little pug nose, thick head of dark brown hair that, even at eight years old, sports a lock that hangs down over his long forehead, just like his late dad. Sometimes, when he looks directly into my eyes with his big brown pools, I feel like I’m not only seeing his father but that I’m once more looking into my ex-husband’s soul.

  “He’s not gonna give me any shots, is he, Ma?” Mike says, his short blue-jeaned legs hanging off the couch, his blue Converse sneakered feet in constant motion like he’s jogging in place.

  Cuther laughs. It’s a genuine laugh. The kind of laugh a grandfather would make after a little boy made a joke about his gray hair or about the strange way his lips don’t move much when he talks. As though, at his age, it takes a grand effort to make facial expressions.

  “No shots here, young man,” Cuther says. “When you come here, you do only fun stuff.”

  “Oh yeah?” Mike says, folding his hands in his lap. “Like what?”

  “Well, for one,” Cuther goes on, “your mom tells me you are already quite the accomplished artist. That you can even draw a person’s face without having to trace it. That’s quite the rare talent you have there.” Then, his eyes shifting to me. “You must take after your mom.”

  “Michael Senior . . . that’s my dad . . . he’s a writer,” Mike says.

  Cuther’s forehead scrunches. “And who is Michael Senior?”

  “I just told you, silly. He’s my dad. He’s dead.”

  The mere mention of my ex-husband, Michael, followed by the word dead still throws a cold jolt down my spine. It also makes my stomach cramp, even more so than it has been of late.

  “Tell me something, young man,” Cuther goes on. “Why do you call him by his real name, and why do you refer to him in the present tense?”

  My boy turns to me. “What’s peasant tents mean, Mom?”

  Me, giggling, but somehow feeling the effects of anxiety kicking in. Aren’t I here to relieve anxiety?

  “It means, Boo, that you refer to your dad like he’s still alive . . . still with us.”

  I sometimes refer to Mike as Boo, just to differentiate him from his father, and not to remind myself of my long-gone ex every time I utter his name.

  “But he is,” Mike says. “Sort of, anyway. I just saw him out by the cornfield this morning.”

  My son’s admission hits me upside the head. I’m well aware of the voices he hears coming from the cornfield. Voices I can only assume he’s making up with his overactive imagination. But seeing his father out by the cornfield is a new one on me.

  A few moments pass before Cuther once more raises the question: “Mike, my boy, when did you first start hearing the voices?”

  “It’s not voices really,” he says.

  “Not voices?”

  “Well, I guess it’s voices. Or, like, a voice anyway.”

  “Can you explain more for me?” Cuther goes on, his deep brown eyes shifting from Mike to me and back again.

  “It’s music, Dr. Cuther. It comes to me through the corn.”

  The psychiatrist shoots me another quick glance.

  “Can you tell your mom and me what this music sounds like, Mike?”

  He nods. “I don’t have a very good voice. But I can try singing it.”

  “You’re very brave, Mike,” Cuther says.

  “Okay, here goes.” The boy sits up straight, his legs and feet suddenly very stiff and very still. “Ring around the Rosie, a pocket full of posies, ashes, ashes, we all fall down.”

  Yet another glance from Cuther.

  He says, “Is this the first time you’ve ever heard that song before, Mike?”

  The boy shakes his head, starts moving those legs again.

  “Nah,” he says. “We used to sing it in kindergarten. It was a game. The teacher would make us get in a circle. We’d sing the song about ringing around Rosie, and then as soon as we said the last word—”

  “—Down!” Dr. Cuther interjects, his voice booming, despite those stiff lips.

  “That’s right,” Mike says with a smile, delighted to have something in common with Dr. Cuther. “Did you play this game too, Doctor?”

  The psychiatrist nods. “Of course. Believe it or not, young man, I was a boy once myself. A long, long time ago. Before cable television even.”

  My son steals a moment to digest this information like it’s impossible for him to imagine the short, gray-haired, old man has been anything other than what he is at this very moment in time.

  “Well, as soon as we sing the last word, down,” Mike continues, “the last person to fall down was punished.”

  Another cold jolt shoots down my spine. “What do you mean punished, Boo?”

  He giggles. “Oh nothing bad, Mom. Mrs. Carter, that was my teacher, would make us do an arithmetic problem on the board. Or maybe spell a word. We were all it after a while. It was a lot of fun. You know, for school anyway.”

  Cuther nods.

  “Mike,” he says, “I promised you we’d have some fun also. So how about you draw me a picture of what you see out by the cornfield. Can you do that? In the meantime, I’ll have a talk with your mom.”

  Mike slips off the couch. “Sure, swell.”

  Dr. Cuther leads my son to a smaller room located off his office that’s outfitted with art supplies and kid-sized tables. He sets Mike up with some construction paper and crayons, then closes the door, just a little. When he comes back inside, he sits back down behind his desk and sighs heavily.

  “Ms. Underhill,” he says. “I think we need to have a serious conversation about your boy.”

  Cramps in my stomach.

  They’ve been getting worse as of late. It’s not pain I’m feeling, so much as a discomfort. I guess you could say I’ve never been more aware of having a stomach until now. But then, I’m two years shy of fifty, and changes are beginning to occur inside me that I should be exp
ecting. Or so my mom used to tell me back when I was young enough to blow her advice off. But I have to face facts: the end of the road for the reproductive cycle is upon me. What the fuck? I was just twenty-five like last year.

  Just the thought of female machinery entering this new, let’s call it a more mature phase, might reduce some women to tears. Women who feel as if they didn’t bear enough children maybe. But I’m jumping for absolute joy at the prospect. What I’m trying to say is, I’ve been seeing someone as of late. A banker who made a small fortune in New York City and who now is living the quiet country life on a farm. He’s a bunch of fun. He’ll be even more fun when we don’t have to worry about contraception.

  Screw you and the horse you rode in on, Ms. Menopause...

  While Michael creates his masterpiece in the room next door, Dr. Cuther reviews his handwritten notes.

  “I hope you don’t mind me bringing the subject up,” he says after a time, “but you were involved in quite the traumatic event a few years back.”

  For the third time since entering his office, the cold shockwave fills my spine with all the discomfort of an epidural spinal tap. Images run rapid-fire through my brain. A house in the woods, rust-colored blood spatter on the walls, bare lightbulbs hanging from the ceiling, worn mattresses on the floor, a basement with a dirt floor, something buried under it, a man who dragged me down there, and who dragged my twin sister, Molly, down there, did things to us.

  Then the evil man came back. Released from prison. He came after me again. Me and Michael. Chased us through the woods, up the mountain, over the falls. My next-door neighbor, Franny, the autistic savant and brilliant artist, saved me not only with his paintings — images that contained warnings — but also with his strength, his bravery. His life was cut short because of the episode. Michael’s life was cut short too. But I had his child in me. The boy who would become his namesake. And now, I’ll do anything to protect him.