Dead Cold Mysteries Box Set #3: Books 9-12 (A Dead Cold Box Set), Blake Banner [reading in the dark TXT] 📗

of course!” and he hurried to a sideboard beside the fireplace and poured a stiff whiskey, which he then carried to Paul. Paul took it with trembling hands. He took a long pull and shuddered. He looked up at me and asked the same question as Don. “How…? Was it like…”

It was Dehan who answered him. “Like what, Paul?”

He frowned at her, sensing her hostility, sensing that something was deeply wrong, but not able yet to put his finger on what. Don exploded, “Goddamit! Was it like Danny? Was it them? Was it the Visitors? Did they kill her?”

I shook my head. “Oh, no. No, this murder was very human. Very human indeed.”

Eighteen

Jasmine, apparently recovered from her shock, stood and crossed the floor to us, gesturing toward the fire, to the sofas and the chairs. Her voice was a little unsteady when she spoke. “Please, Detectives, it has been a long drive, you must be tired and hungry. Please sit, can I get you something to drink? You will stay and eat with us!”

I glanced at Dehan.

She shrugged and almost smiled. “We’re not on duty, remember?” To Jasmine, she said, “I’ll have a martini, nice and dry, Jasmine, thank you. He’ll have an Irish whiskey, large, no ice.”

Jasmine went to the sideboard. We approached the fire and Dehan dropped into the chair recently vacated by our hostess. I stood where Paul had been standing, by the fire, and looked at Don. He was watching me and his expression was resentful.

“Is this part of your commemoration? A kind of tribute to Danny?”

He grunted and looked away. “In a manner of speaking.”

Jasmine brought us our drinks, then hurried into the kitchen as May came out with a cloth and a dustpan and brush to clean up Paul’s broken glass.

Colonel Hait spoke up, watching me keenly. “It was Jasmine. She had another communication.”

Dehan sipped her drink, watching Don as she asked, “Really? When was that?”

“After the conference. After you left.”

Hait added, “Right there, in the hall, in front of everybody. It was chilling.” He ran his hand over his arm. “It made my hair stand on end.”

I frowned. “There is something I don’t understand…”

May interrupted me. “How cold are you people? How frigid and heartless are you? You have just told us that Jane has been murdered! And you sit there, drinking your cocktails, chatting as though nothing had happened!”

Stuart went to her and knelt by her side, taking her hand in his. “Darling, they are just trying to do their jobs…”

She snatched away her hand. “Oh, leave me alone!”

She started to sob and I turned back to Don. “Your whole thesis seems to be that these Visitors, as you call them, are in fact hostile. That the big mistake of mankind is to view them as more advanced than us, benign, with our best interests at heart, when in fact they are no better than human beings, ruthless, heartless predators who view us as nothing more than game.”

Colonel Hait was nodding as I spoke.

When I had finished, Don said, “Yes, that is my thesis.”

“Yet,” I gestured at them with my hand, “Your wife goes into a trance, receives a message about having some kind of a reunion, and here you all are, dancing to the Visitors’ tune.” I shrugged. “Why? Your enemy tells you to jump and you jump?”

He shook his head. He still looked gray and drawn. “It’s not that simple.”

“Explain it to me.”

“How did she die?”

“It’s under investigation. I can’t discuss any details with you. She was murdered. Explain to me your relationship with these Visitors, Don.”

“We don’t know anything about them.”

Dehan said, “That’s your answer? We don’t know anything about them!”

Suddenly his face flushed and he was shouting. “For God’s sake! We produced both the Third Reich and Greenpeace! We produced Hitler and Gandhi! Mohamed and Buddha! Surely it is possible that an alien race would be as diverse as we are! We need to connect! Enter into a dialogue! Find out who they are!”

His bottom lip started to tremble. He looked away and covered his face with his huge hands. The kitchen door opened and Jasmine came running with short, quick steps. She embraced his head with her arms and pressed his face into her bosom. He clung to her hard and sobbed violently.

There was a generalized sense of embarrassment and everybody stared at the fire. Except me. I watched Don and Jasmine. “What do you think brought them back now?” I asked.

He took a while to stop crying. Jasmine dried his face with a handkerchief, then kissed his eyes and went back to the kitchen. He shook his head. “Forgive me, Jane’s death has come as a shock. All these ghosts seem to be rising up.” He looked at me and seemed to take a hold of his emotions. “I can only return, once again, to the simile of the game animals in Africa who are hunted by helicopter. To them, these sudden swoops out of the blue must seem incomprehensible. One day it is a Jeep or a Land Rover that comes, an animal is shot with a tranquilizer, rendered helpless, tagged and released. Another day an animal that is sick or injured is perhaps cured. And inexplicably, another day, six animals are shot, apparently at random. None of these events seems to make any sense when viewed from the animals’ point of view. But from the humans’ point of view, it all makes perfect sense, because we know about the game reserves, about the hunting seasons and the hunting licenses; about the poachers and the United Nations and about the preservation of endangered species. The animals don’t know it, but they are part of a vast society that both looks after their welfare as species, and sanctions their murder as