No Justice; Cold Justice; Deadly Touch

by J K Ellem

  Soon.

  Just two more nights observing her, just to make sure she was alone and that he had her routine figured out completely.

  Emily Bell had two more days of her young life left, then he was going to take her from the earth.

  How ironic, the man thought as he watched her. The seemingly calm and composed elementary teacher she was a cold-blooded murderer.

  * * *

  Clare parked her SUV at the end of the Reed property, got out, slung her rifle over her shoulder then followed the dirt road along the boundary and up towards the wall of huge pine trees that were caked with snow like icing sugar.

  She then spent the next twenty minutes searching the edge of the forest where Jack Reed had last seen his dog. The ground was hard, a mix of dirty ice and snow with patches of scrub and rock underneath.

  She turned back and could see the reassuring shape of her SUV in the distance, thinking that she should go back. She could see no tracks or evidence of the dog, or of anything else. Maybe the dog wandered into the forest? Maybe it was warm and safe, curled up in some neighbor’s house.

  Clare looked up at the imposing wall of trees in front of her and sighed, not wanting to go into the forest.

  It was cold like a morgue, and had the atmosphere of a crypt, dank, earthy. The distinct smell of decay and rotting vegetation enveloped her as she walked into the first row of trees. The ground was damp and muddy here, her boots squelched as she moved. Somewhere above a bird cursed, the noise breaking the eerie silence. The ridge was up ahead and the curve of the lower road would be another mile away on her right. Last night’s snowfall was light and had mostly settled on the upper branches of the trees high above.

  She could see no obvious tracks and the dog could have gone in any direction, if it had come in here at all. Really, she wasn’t here chasing a lost dog, she was after something more ominous.

  Clare paused for a moment. She didn’t want to go too far, the maze of tree trunks stretched away in all directions and she knew she could get easily lost. She moved on again, telling herself that she would only go another few hundred yards before turning back.

  Then she saw a shimmer in the distance, a discoloration in the pattern of tree bark and bracken, no more than a hundred yards away.

  She stopped.

  She squinted her eyes, making sure it wasn't the light or the shadows playing tricks on her.

  There it was again.

  She felt her gut twist.

  Something was moving towards her, slowly, stealthily, winding its way between the trees, almost blending in, partially hidden. She couldn't see it clearly, but it was low to the ground.

  She brought her rifle up and looked through the scope.

  Damn it! It was gone.

  She panned sideways, trying to locate the movement through the magnified aperture.

  The crosshairs of her scope overlaid a blur of pale bronze that slowly came into focus.

  Startled, she pulled her eye back from the rim of the scope. Two predatory eyes of yellowish amber with vertical slits regarded her from a hundred yards away. It was a lazy stare, focused, hooded, but supremely animalistic.

  A cougar.

  The big cat stopped momentarily mid-stride, sniffed the air then slithered forward again.

  Her finger worked inside the trigger guard of the rifle.

  From front-on the cat had a huge head and shoulder blades that rippled under its bronzed pelt. It had seen or smelled her—either way it was slinking towards her, crouched down, ears pinned back, slow deliberate steps.

  “Christ,” she muttered. She didn’t want to shoot the animal. It was majestic, powerful.

  Clare shifted her stance, bending her knees slightly and leaning forward, preparing for the recoil of the rifle, feeling the cold metal of the trigger on the pad of her finger.

  There was something in its mouth. Like a glove or shoe. Maybe part of the missing family dog.

  The animal kept coming.

  She could feel her heart beating faster, thumping in her ears, adrenaline seeping into her bloodstream.

  She was going to have to shoot.

  She held her breath and slowly applied pressure on the trigger as the cougar’s face loomed in her scope.

  The thing in its mouth became clearer.

  For a moment, Clare didn’t realize what she was seeing through the riflescope.

  The animal stopped, the crosshairs dead center on its head.

  The cougar opened its mouth, its muzzle blotched in red, and the object tumbled to the ground. The animal lowered its head and sniffed what it had dropped, its eyes never leaving Clare. Then it turned and bounded away, kicking up clumps of mud with its paws, its shape fading into the trees.

  Clare looked over the scope on the top of the rifle, but the animal was gone.

  She slung her rifle and trudged forward.

  When she got to within five feet of the object she knew her day had changed completely.

  “Oh shit.” She took another step and knelt down.

  The thing looked so out of place, surreal as it lay on the dirt. It wasn’t meant to be there, there was supposed to be more to it, more connected to it.

  It was a human hand. Small, ragged and torn at the wrist, doll-like.

  A child’s hand.

  4

  “Come on Molly, why don’t you come out tonight?”

  Molly Malone stood near a rack of snow jackets. She was surrounded by three men dressed in work clothes, down jackets and steel-capped boots. She was about to close up early and get home before it got too dark. She was looking forward to a quiet night catching her favourite reality-TV show. That was until Micky Dent and his two friends arrived. As usual they weren’t interested in buying anything, just hassling her to come to McKenzies for a drink. But Molly knew they had other plans in mind, maybe involving all three of them. She had already refused Micky last week—and the week before when he asked her out.

  “Like I said last time Micky, I’m not interested.” She began reorganising the jacket sizes on the rack, angry that shoppers found it so hard to put things back in the same size groups. Small belonged with small, not with the medium garments.

  Micky was big, barrel-chested and over two-hundred pounds of muscle and gristle, hands scarred and rough. His black beady eyes seemed to be constantly glued to Molly’s cleavage. On each side of Micky hovered two of his friends, not as big, but hardened workers from the logging camp. They just grinned as Micky tried his hardest with Molly.

  “Come on, Molly,” Micky nodded at the two other men. “It’s pay day, the weekend. Let’s have a little fun, just the four of us.”

  Molly shook her head. “I don’t want the kind of fun you have in mind. Why don’t you guys just go down the mountain, into the city, where there’s more girls there your type.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean? My type?” Micky was not happy at the insinuation. He had no type, just as long as they put out. Even when they didn’t, he made them.

  She gave him a sour little smile. “Women who you have to pay to open their legs. I’m sure there’s plenty in the city for you and your friends.” Molly moved to another rack and again sorted through the sizes. She muttered under her breath, “That’s the only way you’ll get laid, believe me.”

  The three men followed her like a pack of dogs on heat.

  Micky gave a little grin like a hyena, his teeth crocked and stained. “But there’s some special entertainment on the mountain you can’t get down in the city,” he replied, his voice slippery as he licked his lips. The other two sniggered, their eyes undressing Molly.

  Micky edged closer to her. He smelt of sawdust, stale sweat and garlic.

  “Well, you’re not getting any special entertainment from me,” she said. “I’d rather have sex with a racoon than end up in your bed.”

  The other two stopped grinning, their eyes darting to Micky. No one spoke to Micky like that.

  Micky thought he was a fine catch for any women and h
e didn’t take kindly to bitches who thought otherwise. Micky’s face turned hard. “Listen, you little whore, if it wasn’t for us and the camp your store would be broke. This whole town would be broke.”

  Molly backed up into another clothes rack as Micky pushed forward, inches from her, his face menacing. It was true. It was a windfall for the town when the logging company first came to Echo Mountain. They built living quarters to accommodate all fifty workers onsite. That meant the workers usually stayed on the mountain and spent their wages in the town, rather than making the trip to the city. But that didn’t mean the camp workers ruled the place, or took liberties with the mountain locals.

  Molly felt frightened. She looked around then remembered the CCTV camera in the corner behind the cash register. She nodded at it. “Smile asshole, you’re on camera. I don’t think Sheriff Decker would take too kindly to seeing footage of you and your goons threatening and harassing me.”

  Micky looked at the camera. He had seen it before in the store, but never took much notice of it. Most stores had fake CCTV cameras just to deter shoplifting. “Thanks for reminding me.” He nodded to the other two men. “Freddy, go out back. Find where that thing records to, probably a hard-drive.” Freddy nodded and threaded his way through the racks to the back room behind the cash register.

  Micky turned to the other man, “Mack, lock the front door, put the Closed sign up in the window.”

  Mack smiled at Molly. Showtime.

  Micky turned back to Molly. “The store is closed as of now, but that’s OK. We’re going to take you out back and open up a new store, our store, and then we’re going to collect the rent.” Micky’s eyes dropped towards Molly’s waist and below. She had on tight jeans that clung to all her furrows very nicely.

  “Don’t touch me!” Molly snarled. “I’ll scream.”

  “Scream? I like it when a woman screams. It means I’m hurting them.” He grinned and rubbed the bristles on his chin, contemplating what he was going to do. Freddy and Mack could go last, he wanted to teach the bitch a lesson first.

  Freddy came back holding a small black box in his hand with a wire dangling from one end. “Got it, boss.”

  Micky nodded.

  Freddy froze, looking past Micky towards the front of the store and the door. “Where’s Mack?”

  Micky grabbed Molly by the arm, his fingers digging into her flesh and making her wince. “He’s locking the front door, you idiot. We need a little privacy with Molly here.” His eyes focused on Molly. “Going to do you right, Molly, front and back. You won’t be able sit down for a week, that I do know.” He laughed as he pulled her towards the back of the store.

  The front door slammed shut just a little too hard and the latch twisted closed with a metal clunk.

  Micky turned and looked towards where the silhouette of someone stood, the late afternoon light behind them, the figure just a dark outline in front of the windows.

  It wasn’t Mack. The person was thinner, not as wide or as bulky.

  Micky let go of Molly and looked at the stranger. “Who the fuck are you? The store’s closed. Can’t you read, asshole?”

  Ben Shaw turned and peeled off the sign with its suction cup from the glass and dropped it on the unconscious body of Mack. Mack was on the floor, hidden from view by a clothing carousel, out cold, two of his teeth lay beside him.

  Shaw dropped his rucksack, stepped over the body and walked towards Molly, Micky and Freddy.

  “Sorry, I was in here before. I just wanted to get some gloves. It’s pretty cold out and my hands are feeling a little numb.”

  Micky and Freddy looked dumbstruck as Shaw approached.

  “And yes, I can read. I’m very good at reading.” Shaw stopped a few feet away, next to a carousel rack of snow jackets. “In fact, I can read the words written on your forehead from here.”

  Micky and Freddy exchanged looks. “What the shit are you talking about, asshole? What words on my forehead?” There was a large mirror nearby and Micky almost felt like taking a look.

  “On your head,” Shaw pointed at Micky. “There, just below your fringe.”

  Micky frowned.

  Shaw continued, “Just there.” His finger was still pointing at Micky’s head. “It says I have a small dick but my brother likes it anyway.” Shaw turned to Freddy and smiled. “I take it you’re his brother?”

  Micky charged at Shaw, spitting like a rabid dog, his fists balled, shoulders bunched, barging his way through clothing racks that tumbled over in his wake.

  It wasn’t a matter of size or determination. Shaw had faced opponents bigger and more determined than Micky Dent. Physics and biomechanics won fights, and utilising the surrounding environment. And for a street brawler like Micky, who never bothered to listen up in class, he was going to learn a very painful lesson.

  Shaw peeled to his right behind a clothes rack and kicked it into the charging man. Micky clambered over the fallen rack, his speed slowed and his movements cumbersome, his feet caught up in a tangle of clothing and tubular chrome.

  Shaw stepped in just as Micky threw a wild punch aimed at Shaw’s skull. He was off balance, but the punch came towards Shaw like a pile-driver. Shaw twisted clockwise, blocked the blow with the outside of his forearm and smashed his elbow into Micky’s jaw.

  Simple, clean, no mess.

  Micky began to collapse, his eyes rolling back in his head.

  Just to be certain, Shaw hit him again on the way down, point of the jaw, a left cross, lights out.

  Micky was unconscious before he hit the floor.

  The switchblade came out fast and low from Freddy’s back pocket, 440 stainless steel, stiletto style blade, black marble handle, sharp as broken glass.

  Molly screamed and fumbled out her cell phone, her fingers jittery across the screen, taking three attempts to dial 911.

  The odds had changed, but only in Freddy’s mind. For Shaw, the odds were still the same: they favoured him.

  Only the possible outcomes had changed dramatically. Before it was: take a few painkillers and have a day off work. Now it was the hospital or the morgue. Shaw adjusted accordingly. The morgue was too drastic, the hospital was just right.

  Picking a pair of thick canvas trousers off a hanger Shaw balled them around one hand. The tactic was simple; use the wrapped hand to defend against the blade while hitting your opponent from the opposite side with your other fist.

  Freddy edged forward, the blade glinting under the lights, eyes fixed on Shaw, twisted grin. “I’m gonna fillet you open like a fucking fish.”

  They danced for a few moments, Freddy stabbing forward, Shaw stepping back while all the time circling to the man’s right.

  It was only a matter of time before, out of frustration, Freddy finally lunged too far, over-extending, shifting from stabbing to swiping at Shaw. The blade would have opened up the outside of his forearm, but instead it sliced through the canvas trousers as Shaw battered it away. The blade snagged on the material and Shaw punched Freddy rapidly with three short jabs, brutal, fast, hardened knuckle bashing repeatedly into his nose, spreading it across his face in a mush of cartilage and blood.

  Shaw latched onto his opponent’s wrist as Freddy staggered backwards, twisting it up and back at an acute angle. Freddy screamed and let go of the blade.

  Shaw broke his wrist, wanting Freddy to remember while he lay in hospital that he had pulled a blade on him. There were consequences.

  Freddy collapsed, clutching his wrist, crying in pain.

  Shaw walked casually past Molly, went behind the counter and grabbed a plastic bag. He picked up the blade using the bag like a glove, careful not to touch the handle. Next he picked up the CCTV hard drive that Freddy had dropped. Molly stood wide-eyed, mouth open catching flies, her cell phone squawking a few inches from her ear. “Nine-one-one. What is your emergency?”

  Shaw placed the bag on the counter then looked at Molly. “It was self-defense, you saw it all.”

  Molly just nodded.
r />   “When they wake up, tell them the police are on the way. Hide the bag so they don’t find it. Give it to the police. Fingerprints will be on the knife and the hard drive.”

  “I won’t touch them,” she replied, still a little dazed.

  “Make sure you let the police know that when they arrive. Tell them everything.”

  Shaw looked at Molly. “I’ll come back tomorrow and buy the gloves.” He collected his rucksack, unlocked the door and stepped out into the fading light.

  5

  Reaching inside the SUV trunk, Clare opened the cooler box that she used for keeping her lunch whenever she was on the road. She placed the hand inside. The vehicle carried an assortment of evidence collection materials, but she had never used any of them before. There was no need, until now. She’d had to trek back to her car and grab a ziplock bag, then return to the scene. She then placed the hand in the bag, and scouted around until she scooped up three handfuls of snow to preserve the evidence.

  She was sweating under her heavy jacket by the time she put the SUV in gear and headed back towards town. She thought about trying to trace the tracks of the cougar to see where it had found the hand. She felt her gut slither at the thought of a dead child, the body frozen, somewhere in the forest. Clare had stuck a large branch into the ground to mark the exact location. Maybe the animal had dug up a legitimate grave, but the cemetery was three miles away on the town side. The cougar wouldn’t have travelled that distance while carrying a human hand in its mouth.

  The sun was starting to fade and it would be dark in a few hours. She was hoping there would be no large snowfalls tonight. She was going to have to return early the next morning and start a search. She would need to call it in and get some forensic help from Denver.

  As she drove, Clare tried to think back. There had been no recent missing person reports. The last one was about six months ago, a runaway teenager. She had been found safe and sound in Lakewood shacked up with her boyfriend. The girl was too scared to tell her parents that she was pregnant, so she ran from home.