Cole Perriman's Terminal Games Read Free Page A

lost it.
    Nolan watched as Smitty’s team manipulated the body, folding its arms and generally preparing it for the bag. The corpse was remarkably pliable. It almost seemed to shift consciously and give here and there to assist the team. Corpses at this stage were really quite cooperative—like well-behaved pets.
    A word crossed Nolan’s mind …
    Tremendum.
    That was a word Nolan’s one-time mentor, Syd Harper, had used. Nolan wasn’t sure whether it was an actual clinical term or just one of “Crazy” Syd’s numerous coinages, but it had always struck him as a useful word. It described that uniquely self-conscious, uniquely human horror and awe at the sight of a corpse— any corpse, even that of a total stranger. It was the ghastly mortal comprehension of the fact of death—and the awareness that death came to all.
    Animals couldn’t feel it.
    Experienced cops couldn’t either.
    Nolan certainly didn’t feel any tremendum right at the moment. As far as he could tell, he didn’t feel much of anything.
    It was supposed to be that way, of course. You were supposed to get inured to it. Nolan could remember a time when he could still feel it, though—particularly the first time. It was at the scene of a three-car accident on a New Year’s Eve some fifteen years ago, back when Nolan was still a rookie. Four dead teenagers were stretched on the pavement awaiting body bags. There had been another collision, fortunately minor, between two drivers who couldn’t keep their eyes off the wreckage.
    Nolan had looked at those drivers and realized that they felt it, too. At that moment, he had understood that it wasn’t grim curiosity that slowed those cars. It was a kind of religious terror that seized even the most determined atheist. It was tremendum.
    As Smitty’s team delicately hoisted the body into the bag, Nolan contemplated his own lack of terror and awe …
    He had been through a time of terror, and also of mourning.
    It wasn’t very long ago.
    But had he mourned enough?
    Had he felt enough? Could a cop feel enough?
    “At times like now,” Smitty mused elegiacally, “I’m reminded of the words of the poet: ‘To die, to be really dead—that must be glorious!’”
    “Nice,” Nolan said.
    “Thank you,” Smitty replied.
    “Who was the poet?” Clayton asked.
    “Dracula,” Smitty told him.
    The body bag was closed with a noisy zip.
    *
    Marianne Hedison approached the house through its elegant formal gardens. Morning sunlight washed across the scene, accentuating the stucco texture of the facade and giving it a yellowish tint. She briefly considered exchanging the bright sunlight for a dusky twilight or even a midnight full moon, just to observe the variation. But then she thought better of it.
    Trivialities. Better stick to business.
    She moved directly across the terrace and up to the front door. She peered through a leaded glass window, a contemporary design through which she could vaguely glimpse a cheerfully lit interior. She laughed slightly at her fleeting impulse to ring the doorbell.
    Who do you expect to find at home?
    The door swung open, and she moved into a stately entryway with an upstairs gallery looming above her along three walls. There was not a stick of furniture in the place or a painting on any of the walls. An eerie feeling of cavernous space swept over her.
    How large an unfurnished house always seems!
    For a moment, she thought she heard the sound of an orchestra echoing through the empty space, slow and gentle but punctuated by an odd discord.
    Rossini again. Why can’t I forget that tune?
    Marianne focused her attention on the room, shaking her head to make the music go away.
    It didn’t.
    She thought about ascending the stairs on her left in order to gaze over the majestic room from the gallery. But it seemed best to poke around downstairs a bit first. She passed on into the empty living room with its monumental fireplace, then into the vast dining room.
    She noticed that she