The wail of sirens tore through the empty streets, each piercing cry like a needle of ice against Carl's taut nerves. The previous night's encounter was still a fresh wound in his mind, yet this morning's grim news had arrived in a relentless stream, leaving him disoriented. A call from Lansnat Medical College Hospital had come at first light: Henry Clark was dead, his neck snapped with savage force. A cold dread settled in Carl's stomach; his gut screamed it was Thomas's doing.
But why would Thomas inflict such brutality on a lecturer he scarcely knew? It was a conundrum Carl couldn't unravel.
Then again, perhaps they weren't complete strangers. Leaving the hospital yesterday, Clark's almost frenzied state and his cryptic, unsettling pronouncements still resonated: "The Divine Child… The Lord is coming…" For a college lecturer, such words were, to put it mildly, peculiar.
Even if they were simply the delirious ramblings of a dying man, Thomas's motive remained shrouded. And then there was Mrs. Clark's abrupt death this very morning – the coroner theorised a heart attack during the night. This succession of coincidences wove a grotesque pattern before Carl's eyes, as if an invisible hand were manipulating this deadly, seemingly random, charade.
At the junction, Carl broke away from the convoy of police cars heading for the hospital. He had a hunch there was more to Elizabeth's death than met the eye, and that Clark's home might yet harbour some unrevealed secrets. The crackle of Superintendent Alexander's voice on the radio was cut short as Carl switched it off, opting instead for the car stereo. A gentle melody filled the cabin, momentarily soothing his frayed senses. Even if it meant flouting a direct order, he was determined to dig out the truth.
The early morning streets were deserted, a city still wrapped in slumber.
The car ghosted along Winchester Street, like a silent predator in the gloom.
The fog, already thick, grew denser still, a palpable chill pressing through the car windows. Carl nudged the heating higher.
Without warning, a figure took shape in the swirling greyness, raising a hand to flag him down.
Special Agent Kevin. He looked as if he'd been there a while.
Carl briefly considered feigning ignorance and driving on, but after a moment's pause, he braked.
Kevin, with his usual nimble grace, pulled open the passenger door and slipped inside.
"If you're here to talk me out of this, you can save your breath and get out now," Carl said, his voice devoid of warmth.
"Got a light, old bean?" Kevin asked, a cigarette already between his lips, his hands rubbing together against the damp cold. Carl threw him a sideways glance, then produced a lighter from his pocket. Kevin inhaled deeply, exhaling a perfect O-ring of smoke that quickly hazed the small car.
"Detest these assignments in this sort of muck," he remarked, handing back the lighter. "Cuts right through you."
Kevin offered a cigarette to Carl. "Cracking invention, these. You know they're coffin nails, but that first drag… almost worth it." Carl declined, his gaze wary.
"Steady on, Inspector, I'm not your adversary." Another impressive smoke ring billowed out. "Some things are well beyond your remit, you understand. Best to let sleeping dogs lie. Poke around any further, and you'll find yourself in a hole you can't dig your way out of."
"Just tell me what in God's name is going on with this case. And who, precisely, are you 'Special Agents'?" Carl's brow was a tight knot.
"Who I am is classified, and the nature of this business… well, that's classified too. Inspector, the only wisdom I can offer you is this: curiosity killed the cat. And sometimes, it's not just the feline variety that cops it. There are times when ignorance truly is bliss. The more you unearth, the sooner you'll be pushing up daisies."
Carl didn't pursue it, merely uttering one curt word: "Out."
Watching the car pull away, Kevin flicked his cigarette ash onto the damp pavement and sighed. "Pity. Some chaps just won't be told."
The fog, if anything, intensified, and the chill bit deeper.
Carl felt as if his car were suspended in an infinite white expanse, his bearings utterly lost.
Even with the heater at full tilt, he couldn't dispel the cold that had sunk into his marrow – no ordinary cold, this, but something that clawed up from the very pit of his soul, a suffocating, profound iciness.
The fog obliterated his vision; anything more than a few feet ahead was an indistinct smudge. He'd lost all track of how long he'd been navigating this street; every turning, every tree, triggered a disquieting flicker of an Gorta vu.
He started to suspect he was hopelessly lost, or perhaps simply driving in an endless loop. In such a dense, disorienting blanket, he couldn't even be sure he was making any progress at all.
Abruptly, the engine gave a choked cough and died. Carl was about to step out to investigate when a fleeting movement at the edge of his vision snared his attention – a figure vaulting a low roadside wall with surprising agility. Police training kicked in, and he was out of the car, giving chase.
"Stop! Police!"
His shout echoed in the unnervingly silent street, but the figure ignored him, simply increasing its speed.
Even when Carl drew his sidearm, bellowing a warning, the figure remained stubbornly unresponsive.
As he pursued, Carl noted the figure's peculiar path, a deliberate weaving through the deepest shadows cast by the tall plane trees.
Almost without his noticing, daylight had bled into an early, unsettling dusk. A full moon asserted itself in the sky, and the jaundiced glow from the streetlamps bathed the road in an eerie, unnatural light. The fog seemed to have receded slightly, but the silhouette ahead maintained a maddening, teasing distance – when he quickened his pace, it matched him; when he slowed, it mirrored his caution; if he halted, the figure would gradually dissolve into the encroaching gloom.
After some fifteen minutes of this frustrating chase, an impenetrable bank of white fog materialised directly ahead. The figure plunged into it without hesitation. Setting his jaw, Carl followed.
As he pushed through the dense, vision-robbing vapour, the temperature nosedived. Carl could see his breath plume in the moonlight. The scene that greeted him was a shock – a naked couple, entwined in a frenzied, public coupling beneath a streetlamp.
The girl clung to the lamppost, her body bucking in time with the man's rutting from behind. Her knuckles were stark white, her breasts swaying in the lunar glow. One of the man's hands roughly cupped her breast, the other anchored her waist, his hips driving against her with a raw, animalistic power. The air was heavy with the cloying scent of sex and the reek of cheap alcohol.
Carl's eyes scanned the area: a girl's discarded miniskirt, handbag, and woollen jumper lay in a heap on a nearby bench, alongside a man's shirt and jeans.
The faint, heady perfume of night-scented stock hung in the air.
Suddenly, his vision sharpened with an almost painful clarity, as if a lifelong astigmatism had been miraculously cured.
The two young bodies shone with an unhealthy, flushed incandescence in the moonlight, sweat and condensation gleaming on their skin, almost seeming to steam.
A breeze sighed past, carrying a fresh, potent wave of alcohol fumes, and Carl's mind, perversely, felt a fraction clearer.
It was then he heard the footsteps behind him.
Carl spun, confronted by a sight that sent a jolt of pure dread through him: Clark, his expression chillingly impassive, was advancing, a wickedly curved hunting knife gripped in his hand.
Carl called out Clark's name, but the man seemed utterly oblivious.
He scrambled for his pistol, shouting for Clark to halt.
After several unheeded warnings, he squeezed the trigger.
Crack!
The report of the gun split the night, but the bullet passed, impossibly, straight through Clark's insubstantial form. Like a wraith, Clark continued his unhurried advance, passing directly through Carl's quivering frame.
When Carl whirled back, he was forced to witness the sanguinary act: Clark's blade arced, a movement almost too quick for the eye to register. The knife whispered across Dasco's throat, the cut as neat as a surgeon's incision.
A fountain of blood erupted, spraying Daisy's bare back with dark, glistening spatters. Yet, consumed by her climax, Daisy seemed entirely unaware, her moans not even faltering. Dasco's body, driven by its dying momentum, continued its grotesque rhythm as Clark, already stooping, drew the blade across Daisy's neck with precisely the same angle and force, creating a wound virtually identical to Dasco's.
His grim task completed, Clark turned with an unnerving calm and dissolved back into the mist.
Dasco's lifeless bulk slumped heavily against Daisy's back. Her legs gave way, and she sank to her knees. Blood still pumped from their gaping wounds, congealing into a dark, spreading pool on the wet pavement.
Carl felt a desperate urge to pursue Clark, but the thick, metallic tang of blood assaulted his senses, and his stomach heaved. He dropped to his knees, retching violently. Once the spasm passed, he forced himself, fighting waves of nausea, to approach the lamppost, deliberately averting his eyes from the horrific spectacle of the two bodies.
On the grimy surface of the post, he discerned faint traces of a white powder, not entirely expunged. The cloying, sweet scent of night-scented stock once again made his head swim.
Dr. Howard's words from the autopsy report slammed into his consciousness – an unidentified substance detected in the victims' tissues, which, when combined with alcohol and the essence of night-scented stock, could profoundly distort one's perception of reality.
It was all beginning to slot into place.
This was, beyond any shadow of a doubt, a calculated, premeditated murder. Clark must have meticulously observed the couple's habits for a considerable time, anticipating their presence at this exact location. His visit to the bar had been a final reconnaissance, to confirm his quarry was behaving according to plan.
The powder traces on the lamppost were further, damning confirmation. They were clearly the result of repeated applications – some old and discoloured, others appearing more recent. The powder, innocuous on its own, only unleashed its effects when it interacted with the night-scented stock or alcohol.
During daylight hours, the fragrance of the flowers would be faint, almost unnoticeable, and it was unlikely that casual passers-by would lean against a lamppost. Besides, any exposed powder would be susceptible to dispersal by the wind or degradation by sunlight. The yellowed, older traces were irrefutable.
Yet, a stubborn anomaly pricked at him: during his initial interview, Elizabeth had been adamant that Clark had remained at home with her on the night of the murders, conversing until the small hours. Her clear, unwavering gaze hadn't suggested deceit, nor did she strike him as the sort to be an accessory to such a crime.
According to Howard's forensic findings, the couple had met their end sometime between two and three in the morning, perhaps even later. Carl instinctively glanced up at the moon's position; his internal clock suggested it was currently around half-past midnight, possibly closer to one.
Though thoroughly disoriented and unsure of what unearthly realm he had blundered into, he knew, with a grim certainty, that he had to venture further into this suffocating fog to unravel the tangled threads of these contradictions.
When the fog finally thinned and swirled away, Carl found himself standing in a grand, sumptuously decorated ballroom. Crystal chandeliers hung like frozen starbursts, bathing the immense space in a soft, ethereal glow. The air was a rich tapestry of champagne, expensive floral perfumes, and the subtle, warm scent of beeswax from the polished floor. Couples, attired in formal evening wear, swept gracefully across the room, lost in the rhythm of an elegant waltz.
Carl extended a hand, intending to tap a young man on the shoulder, but his fingers passed through him as if through smoke.
A dry, humourless laugh escaped him. "Just as I suspected. A ghost at the feast, it would seem."
He moved among the phantom revellers, a silent observer in this strangely familiar, yet utterly alien, gathering. At the perimeter of the dance floor, a slim young man stood with a palpable air of unease, his brown hair slightly tousled, his fingers repeatedly adjusting a slightly crooked bow tie. There was an endearing awkwardness in his nervous posture that tugged at Carl's memory.
Across the room, a young woman in a diaphanous white ballgown danced with an almost otherworldly grace, each pirouette a study in fluid elegance. Her eyes, the colour of a summer sky, sparkled with vivacity; her smile was a gentle, radiant curve… Carl stopped dead.
A torrent of memories, sharp and vivid, washed over him – the faded black-and-white photograph displayed in Clark's drawing-room, Elizabeth's wistful recounting of their first meeting at just such a ball. This was it. The very scene, the very moment, their lives had first intertwined, decades ago.
The music swelled to a gentle pause. Elizabeth, detaching herself from her partner, began to make her way towards the refreshment table, each step a testament to her balletic training, a silent, graceful adagio. Young Clark, observing her approach, became visibly more agitated, his hands twisting together in a knot of anxiety.
Just as Elizabeth was about to glide past him, Clark, in a sudden, clumsy retreat, backed directly into the towering pyramid of champagne flutes behind him. The sharp, tinkling crash of breaking glass cut through the murmur of the room; champagne foamed and spread across the polished floor, instantly soaking Elizabeth's delicate satin slippers.
"Oh, heavens! I am so dreadfully sorry!" Clark babbled, his face flushing a painful shade of crimson. He flapped his hands helplessly, attempting to rectify the disaster, and in doing so, managed to slice his finger on a shard of glass.
To the astonishment of the onlookers, Elizabeth showed no sign of annoyance. Instead, she knelt gracefully, dabbing at Clark's bleeding finger with her own lace-trimmed handkerchief. "A student of medicine, I presume? One would think you'd be more adept at protecting your hands," she said, her voice as soft and soothing as a cool compress.
"You… how did you know I'm studying medicine?" Clark looked up, his initial mortification momentarily forgotten in his surprise.
"I often see you in the college library," Elizabeth explained with a warm smile. "Always with your head buried in those formidable medical textbooks. I'm Elizabeth White, by the way. I'm in the dance faculty."
"Henry Clark…" he stammered, his voice barely a whisper.
"Would you do me the honour of a dance, Mr. Clark?"
Before Clark could formulate a reply, Elizabeth had taken his hand. The orchestra struck up a fresh waltz, and she gently, but firmly, guided him onto the dance floor. Clark's movements were initially stiff and uncoordinated; he trod on her feet more than once, a self-conscious flush never leaving his cheeks.
"Don't be so tense," Elizabeth murmured, her voice encouraging. "Just feel the music… one, two, three… one, two, three…"
Under her patient and skilled tutelage, Clark's steps gradually became less hesitant, more assured. They revolved slowly beneath the glittering chandeliers, the hem of Elizabeth's gown billowing like a soft cloud around them. The expression in Clark's eyes as he gazed at his partner was a poignant blend of awe, nascent affection, and profound, disbelieving gratitude.
Carl stood on the periphery, watching this tender, innocent scene unfold, an unbidden smile touching his own lips.
Then, the image before him began to waver, the figures on the dance floor blurring and reforming. Suddenly, he was looking at his younger self, Margaret's slender waist encircled by his arm, the two of them swaying to the familiar strains of the same waltz.
Margaret, her dark hair then a chic, shoulder-length bob, her eyes alight with an unclouded, joyful radiance.
"Carl, you're miles away again," Margaret's voice, a gentle, teasing reproof from a time long past.
"Sorry, love," young Carl had mumbled, his gaze adoring. "I was just thinking… you look absolutely stunning."
Margaret had laughed, a light, musical sound, shaking her head. "You and your silver tongue."
The fragile bubble of memory popped, and Carl's vision snapped back to Clark and Elizabeth. He found himself unconsciously rubbing the faint, pale mark on his ring finger, a familiar ache of loss tightening his chest.
It was at that precise instant that an arctic gust of wind blasted through the ballroom's tall arched windows. The previously clear, starlit sky outside was instantaneously blotted out by a menacing bank of black, storm-laden clouds. The brightly illuminated hall was plunged into an eerie twilight. Carl felt a profound chill, as if his blood had turned to ice, as a ghostly white mist, appearing from nowhere, began to snake across the floorboards.
The mist billowed and spread with unnatural speed, converging on the assembled company from all directions. The vibrant, jewel-toned colours of the scene seemed to leach away, replaced by a stark, desolate monochrome. The dancers froze in mid-step, their joyous expressions arrested, transformed into the static, lifeless figures of a daguerreotype. As the spectral mist washed over these unmoving forms, a delicate, crystalline filigree of frost bloomed on their clothes, their hair, their skin, as if they had been instantly, utterly, cryogenically preserved.
Carl watched, a helpless, horrified spectator, as young Clark and Elizabeth, too, were caught in this icy, temporal suspension, their happy, innocent smiles forever locked in that frozen moment. The cold, now an almost unbearable agony, seeped into his very marrow, and he felt his own consciousness, his own tenuous grip on this strange reality, begin to fray and dissolve.
The last thing he saw, the final, indelible image seared into his fading awareness, was the sight of the young couple, their forms delicately sheathed in a shimmering shroud of frost. Then, an all-consuming blackness descended.