Xion Island Zero: Chapter 35

The fairy lights twinkled along the eaves of Nash’s house, and every bush in the front garden bloomed with a Christmas crop of diamonds. They’d chosen a classic purple, gold, and silver colour scheme this year, and a silver reindeer in a Santa hat glittered on the lawn like it had something to prove. It’d seen some shit over the years, and lived on, with a chipped ear, to sparkle.

Kelvin had insisted on the decorations going up on the first of December. ‘It’s time we brought some light into the darkness,’ he’d said, and Nash hadn’t argued. He welcomed Christmas in through the front door instead of hiding behind the blinds and watching it pass.

The kitchen smelled of cinnamon and nutmeg. Kelvin’s playlist was a mix of Ghanaian Christmas songs and crooning British carols that flowed through the speakers around the house. They clashed in tempo and tone, but White Christmas made Nash smile after another tense day.

Christmas was coming. It couldn’t be stopped, paused, or postponed. But that wasn’t the biggest thing looming on the horizon. They were twelve days from their Christmas Eve wedding, and everything was ordered, arranged, and confirmed, except Nash’s nerves. He was supposed to be getting married, and there was a madman on the loose with Nash’s name on his hit list.

Kelvin wanted to talk to him, and he had one of his endless lists in his hand. ‘Zola wants to know if we’re still doing white roses or switching to eucalyptus?’

‘White roses,’ Nash said.

‘She says they’re predictable.’

‘No, they’re dependable. But both. Sod it, let’s do Eucalyptus and roses.’

Kelvin gave him a look. ‘Okay, Grinch. I hope you’re going to smile for the wedding photos?’

Nash grinned. ‘No promises. You know I don’t like fuss.’

The doorbell rang, and they tensed. It was Renshaw, reporting in. There had been no sightings of Bernstein. Nash nodded, thanked him, closed the door and went through his new ritual of checking all the locks.

That night, he hadn’t relaxed. The TV was an irritant, and even a massage from Kelvin only took the edge off. The case had been playing on his mind for weeks, but with the latest threats being closer to home, the level of responsibility he felt was overwhelming.

Kelvin’s way was to blithely carry on. If they refused to be bullied into submission, nothing could hurt them in his world. Nash loved his optimism. At work, he was a stern criminal solicitor, always practical and dogmatic, but when he shed his suit, he had a small boy under his skin, who loved getting out. He was unbelievably hopeful about life, and if there was one thing Kelvin loved, it was a holiday. ‘Not even a crazed killer is going to put the mockers on either Christmas or our wedding,’ he said. Nash tried hard not to see it as a portent. There was no reason that they shouldn’t have the perfect day. They had enough wedding planners on the job, with Kelvin, Zola, Molly, and Keeley all mucking in.

 Nash had trouble sleeping, and when he did, Max came to him in a dream. Nash was looking down on himself at the McAlister graveside. In reality, they’d been cremated, but dreams were allowed to mess with the facts. The trees around him were sinister, whispering threats on the wind.

There was no birdsong coming from the branches, but there was a hiss, like the breeze rattling bones, or the tail of a rattlesnake warning off predators.

Max appeared beside him. As clear as he’d ever been, and Nash missed him. His heart hurt, but he also felt Max’s disappointment in him. ‘You let him in,’ he said.

‘I didn’t.’

‘You left the door unlocked. He walks through the forest every night. And now he’s here, too.’

Nash turned. ‘Now?’

‘Maybe. Maybe not. But he’s coming.’ Max’s eyes weren’t on him. They were locked on the dark edge of the forest that was attached to the cemetery in his dream.

Something moved in the green darkness of the dense trees.

‘He won’t stop,’ Max whispered. ‘Not until his mission is complete.’ Max touched his hand, but he couldn’t feel him—only his words. ‘It’s not you he wants. It’s the mirror you hold. He craves your order and control. He’s going to shatter you. But he isn’t your only threat. Young voices can be angry.’

A growl came from the woods. Max was gone, and Nash felt an overwhelming sense of being alone. Travis was coming for him in the form of a beast.

Nash woke, gasping and slick with sweat. He sat up in bed, but Kel was already there, reaching for him in the dark. ‘It’s okay, Si.’ Kelvin was calm beside him. ‘Bad one?’ he asked.

‘Yeah. I saw Max.’

‘That always heralds trouble. What did he say?’

‘He told me I left the door open.’

Kelvin touched Nash’s hand. ‘Then we’ll lock it tighter.’

‘I need to check.’

‘I know,’ Kelvin said. ‘We’ll go together.’

Conrad Snow arrived at the station early, and without an appointment the next morning. He was pale, which was unusual. He had a healthy, year-long tan and thirty-year-old surfer-boy looks. His scarf was twisted, and his eyes didn’t settle on anything for more than a second. Nash ushered him into his office, ducking under a garland of mistletoe that had appeared at the head of the corridor.

Conrad sat down without being asked. ‘He’s getting stronger.’

‘Travis?’

Conrad looked confused, as though it should be obvious who he was talking about. ‘No, Max.’

That made Nash pause.

‘He says the line is broken, and that you’ll be tested in a way you can’t predict or safeguard against.’

Nash leaned back. ‘I’m tested every day, Conrad. I need specifics.’

‘This one’s different. Max showed me a wreath. It was made from holly. But it was twisted with suffocating ivy and was burning.’

‘A funeral wreath.’

‘I’m not sure.’

Nash frowned. ‘What does that mean?’

Conrad stood. ‘It’s a warning to be careful around Christmas time.’

‘You do know I get married in less than two weeks, don’t you?’

‘About that.’

Nash groaned. ‘Go on.’

‘The roses are all black, Silas. It’s an omen and you need to see that.’

‘No, Conrad. The flowers are white, and everything’s going to go without a hitch. We’ll have more security than the King’s coronation. It’ll be fine.’ He wished he believed what he was saying.

The letters started that day. Handwritten, sometimes on wedding invitations, sometimes on Christmas cards, sometimes just on paper, but several times a day.

The handwriting was elegant, so careful. That was what made it so vile. There were no fingerprints, and they were delivered to the station in sealed manila envelopes addressed to Nash. They had to be scanned for explosives and foreign objects before being opened by a specialised team in hazmat clothing. Inside the messages were personal and intimate. Sometimes with scraps of poetry and childhood lullabies. Others were snippets of diary entries recounting the life Travis had with his adoptive family. It was a good life, he wrote, but I always felt slighted and not good enough. They were boring little Christians, unworthy of me. I should have been given away to better people. Some of the letters made Nash’s blood run cold. Among the twee and the self-pity, there were confessions, starting with his parents. ‘They said their tragic death was an accident. Of course, that made me strong, but it was more than that. It showed me that God was guiding me. He went on to list other killings and gave examples of evidence to pass on to the police in Texas to clear the cold cases.

Nash sat back. His throat was dry. This was more than bragging—it was closure, the kind a killer gives before signing off. The correspondence meant one thing: that the case was coming to a head. Santa was riding a black horse through the sky and carrying a scythe this year.

Each letter ended the same way:

Soon. —T

Kelvin was the sensible one this time. He wanted to postpone the wedding. Nash refused. ‘If we postpone,’ he said. ‘Bernstein wins.’

‘If he kills you, he wins bigger.’

Nash sighed. ‘We’ll take precautions, but we’ll carry on. I’ve waited all my life to marry you.’

The guard teams were alert. The patrols circled wider. And Travis’ reach and threats still crept in like ivy under the door.

At the station, festive cheer sat like an impostor beside police business. Nash swore at the mistletoe above the incident room door. It was breeding like a virus in a rom-com, and paper snowflakes danced above whiteboards listing fatal cases. Somebody had stuck a Santa hat on the corner of a photo of Bernstein and Nash reminded them that people were dead, and this was still a murder investigation. He stared at Bowes as he removed the hat and delivered his reprimand.

Keeley spoke up. ‘Sorry, boss. It was me.’

‘Good God, he’s rubbing off on you,’ Nash said.

Bowes had brought in a tin of mince pies. ‘My aunt made them,’ he said.

Brown took one. ‘They’re not poisoned, are they?’

Jay grinned. ‘No, that would be my aunt Travis’ baking, but you’re safe. Aunty Beth made this batch.’

Keeley laughed. She ate half a pie in one bite and talked around it, leaning on the desk. ‘My boyfriend’s aunt makes excellent pies. You’ll do for me, Bowes,’ she said.

Jay stared at her with his mouth open. It was as if she’d hit him with the punchline to a joke he didn’t get. And the rest of the team pretty much did the same. Nash guessed it was the first time the B-word had been used.

Molly passed with a smirk. ‘Get rid of that mistletoe, I’m not having these two virtually having it off all over the place.’

Keeley rolled her eyes. ‘Don’t encourage him.’

Nash thought it was cute that they were sharing a single coffee. Her body language was soft. She was listening to Bowes. He remembered the days when shared coffee was significant.

Outside the station, sleet blew across the car park. Christmas lights blinked through the gloom, and Nash stood at his office window, watching the world. He didn’t admit even to himself that he was looking for Bernstein. He wondered if he would be caught before Christmas Eve.

The latest message from him was a Christmas card. It showed a charming cabin in a forest clearing, with the message: Not long now. Soon. —T

Nash saw the shadow across the car park. But the man beneath the umbrella showed no signs of wanting to be undetected. He watched the building as Nash ran to get officers out there. But Bernstein was like a djinn slipping through clouds in the fog, and always just out of reach. He could vanish into the mist. Nash didn’t understand how he was getting away every time. Where was his lair?

 

Xion Island Zero is book 6 in the DCI Nash series. They're all on KU. Hush Hush Honeysuckle is Book One, and this is the Amazon link.

 

https://books2read.com/u/4EB0zg