No Justice; Cold Justice; Deadly Touch

by J K Ellem

  With little effort, Beckett got up and hobbled over to the window and stood beside Shaw. “That I have. But no one believes me.” He shuffled closer and looked up at Shaw. “Have you ever seen a ghost, Mr Shaw?”

  Shaw shook his head. “No, sir. Never.”

  Beckett smiled. “Well, someone followed you up the ridge this morning.”

  It took about a split second for Shaw to understand what Beckett had just said.

  Al Beckett nodded when the look on Shaw’s face changed. “That’s right, son. I saw both of you along the road. You in front and then about a few hundred yards behind, a person following, dressed in white. Like a ghost.”

  20

  The fact that there were no rails along the veranda saved Shaw a few seconds. He flung open the front door, leaving Al Beckett gaping after him, and he leapt straight off the deck, landing softly in snow.

  Crouching low, he looked around. Old machinery in the foreground, a carpet of white on the ground, a curve of forest in the distance.

  To his right, three hundred yards away, something moved near the tree line, a shape out of place near the curve of tree trunks. There was a person, partially hidden, watching the house. Shaw had disturbed them with the speed he had emerged from the house. Then more movement against a backdrop of stillness. The person stood, turned and ran into the forest.

  Shaw pinpointed where the person had entered the trees. He burst from the snow, arms and legs pumping, kicking up tufts of white as he sprinted. The snow thinned as Shaw cut across the road. He sped up, pushing harder, determined to catch the person.

  Ghost my ass.

  What if they had a gun? It didn’t matter, he would deal with that if they took a shot at him.

  Up ahead the forest loomed. Shaw reached the tree line and plunged into the labyrinth of pines. He immediately stooped low, enough to see any movement ahead while shrinking himself as a target.

  In the distance, straight ahead, a shape ducking and weaving between the trees, growing smaller by the second.

  Whoever it was they were covering the ground like a jack rabbit with its tail on fire.

  Shaw bolted off, a sprinter out of the blocks.

  The ground in the forest was solid, a mix of frozen mud and dead foliage, the air heavy and thick. Shaw’s lungs burned as he ran, his eyes focused on the speck.

  Shaw was gaining. In the gloom he could see them ahead, but closer. He ran faster, jumping over fallen logs and twisted branches. Then the shape stopped moving and changed.

  Gun! Shaw’s mind screamed.

  Shaw cut sideways then dived to the ground just as a nearby tree trunk exploded in a burst of shredded wood pulp and bark. Moments later, the gunshot echoed through the trees. Shaw crawled on his belly to a large log, rotten and hollow, dusted with snow.

  A ghost that shoots? Hardly something paranormal.

  As he hid behind the log, Shaw tried to replay in his mind the last twenty seconds, individual frames of his memory played in reverse. The person was a blur against the backdrop of the forest, but snippets of detail stuck in his mind: a man, definitely, dressed in all white clothing, arctic camouflage, lightweight, not bulky clothing. He knew he may need to run so he dressed accordingly. That meant he was on foot and transport was not an option, or if it was then it wasn’t nearby, maybe at the bottom of the ridge, on the other side. He was prepared, not a random act. He had a gun, not a rifle, the gunshot gave that away—Shaw could tell the difference. And he had a planned exit route.

  Always have an exit. There was something ominously familiar about the clues.

  Shaw twisted off his stomach and pushed up, but kept low, his back against the log, keeping his head below the top.

  He listened. The forest was eerily still and silent. Then he heard a sound, a fluttering to his left. He turned just as a bird, wings beating, took to the sky from a nearby bush.

  Shaw had no weapons, no gun, no knife. The ground was covered with rotten leaves and forest debris. Shaw looked around for something he could use, a small log or large stick. But there was nothing close by, just a branch. He stretched low and picked it up. Slowly he raised it above the line of the log. Better the branch than his head. No shot came.

  He crawled along the length of the log, reaching its splintered end, and slowly looked around the edge.

  Nothing.

  He got to one knee and shuffled forward.

  The person had vanished.

  Shaw stood and scanned the terrain ahead, then cautiously threaded his way through the trees, his eyes fixed ahead, looking for any flicker of movement.

  Ten minutes later he found himself standing at a blunt edge, the ground falling away steeply through an almost vertical sea of jagged rocks before reaching the road below. Not impossible to traverse if you were careful. The person could have escaped this way or they could have circled back.

  One thing was for sure. Ghosts don’t carry guns and they certainly don’t shoot at people.

  * * *

  “I want you to tell me everything that you saw.”

  They sat in front of the window. Shaw was looking through the eyepiece of the telescope, panning it across the township. Beckett had pulled up another chair and was sitting next to him. He had stoked the fire and the room was warm and comforting. Snow swirled outside, and the wind moaned off the eaves of the house and through the rafters.

  The magnification through the telescope was incredible, the detail of the town exquisite. As he scoured the streets and buildings Shaw wondered how many hours Beckett had spent sitting here, perched like a bird atop a tree, spying on the people of Lacy as they went about their lives. Imagining what their lives were like, trying to unearth their secrets, looking into their privacy, seeing what they preferred to keep hidden, unaware that they were being watched, studied and even enjoyed by a lonely old man.

  “I first saw him about two weeks ago.” Beckett pointed east of downtown. “There, on the right, near the outskirts.” Beckett was resigned to the fact there was no ghost. Shaw had told him he had chased a man. It was flesh and blood, not a foggy apparition.

  Shaw swivelled the telescope to the right, keeping his other eye open, tracking the vista so he could pinpoint where Beckett was pointing.

  “There, you see the church steeple? Next to it, the graveyard. That’s where I saw him first appear. He was all dressed in white. It was past midnight. Almost didn’t see him.”

  The tall spire of the church came into view through the eyepiece and Shaw adjusted the focus. He panned downwards to a patch of ground at the rear of the church that was dotted with tombstones, cold smooth slabs crusted with snow. The church was located on the edge of town, in a bare and desolate place with no houses nearby. A gravel path bisected the graveyard and led to a gatehouse at the rear where there was a back entrance. Beyond the gatehouse a path wound its way towards the edge of the forest.

  “Where exactly did you see this person?” Shaw asked without looking up.

  “He was in the graveyard. Around midnight. Don’t know what he was doing. Spent about an hour in there. It was dark, but the church has a spot light on the far wall at the rear, cast enough light to just see him moving in the shadows.”

  What would someone be doing in a graveyard, in the freezing cold at midnight?

  “Then what happened?” Shaw asked.

  “He walked into town, skirted along the outer streets first, lost him a few times between the buildings. Then saw him again emerge downtown.”

  Shaw nodded and panned left. The township was small, compact and at night the streets were well lit. He judged that it would take about twenty minutes at a moderate pace to walk from one end to the other, maybe five city blocks in length. He searched until he found the café, Annabel’s, then navigated backwards until he found Emily Bell’s house. He could see it clearly. He could see everything clearly, including the Sheriff’s office.

  Shaw looked up and rubbed his eyes. “When did you last see him?”

  “Night before last,�
�� Beckett replied instantly, his memory sharp.

  “Two nights ago? Where?”

  A smile spread across the old man’s face. “He was watching you, son.”

  “Me?”

  Beckett nodded. “When you turned up at that house you’re staying at, the one with the room above the garage, he was right there.”

  “Where?” Shaw demanded. He felt annoyed that the person he saw following Emily Bell yesterday was watching him the night before and he didn’t notice a thing.

  “Up behind the house, on the hill, near the trees,” Beckett said. “Almost did not see him at first until he moved.”

  “Moved?”

  “Yep. He was heading towards the house, had made it halfway down the hill, all sneaky-like, keeping low to the ground, but then you and the woman came out and went to the garage, up the stairs.”

  “And?”

  “He stopped, froze, then scampered back up the hill like a rat. Hid amongst the trees, watching.”

  “Why were you watching me?”

  Beckett shrugged. “Don’t have cable and what’s on TV these days is crap. Nothing better to do, so I just watch people.”

  Shaw turned back and looked at the town. It seemed so peaceful, tranquil, pretty as a picture postcard, a place where people should feel safe, secure. But somewhere down there was a man who could be a killer. A killer who likes to beat and torture his victims before burying them in the snow.

  A killer who was watching him and Emily Bell.

  21

  It was midmorning by the time Clare picked up Shaw at the bottom of the road. There was nothing new with the crime scene so Clare had left the team from Denver and drove back.

  Shaw explained to Clare what Alfred Beckett had told him, and the person he had chased through the forest.

  “So do you have any idea who it was?” Clare asked.

  They were heading out of town, along the black line of the asphalt surrounded by a sea of white.

  “No idea,” Shaw replied. “Whoever they were, they moved faster than I could."

  “Could it be someone from Ballard, the logging company?”

  Shaw stared through the windshield and watched the rhythmic sweep of the wiper blades push the build-up of snow and ice to the sides. He knew the general build and make-up of the three guys in Molly Malone’s store, bulky, squat, and muscled. Micky Dent was fast for his size, but not as fast as the person Shaw had chased. “No, it wasn’t one of them. This person was different, smaller build, moved differently. Knew the terrain.”

  “Knew the terrain? Like a skier or hiker?”

  “Something like that. Maybe they spent time outdoors a lot, in the snow or Arctic environment.” Shaw couldn’t understand why someone was following him. He had only been in town for a few days. Who would be possibly interested in him or what he did? Was it the same person who had followed Emily into town?

  “What’s the story with Emily Bell?” Shaw asked. He needed to know more about her and he had a feeling Clare wasn't being completely honest with him.

  “Not much to tell you. As I’ve said, she’s a schoolteacher, been here for a few years. Tends to keep to herself.” They approached an intersection on the outskirts of town and Clare turned right. The landscape changed, buildings, roads and sidewalks gave way to a lonely stretch of road, tall pines rising up on both sides, the landscape cold and bleak.

  “Any boyfriend or husband, or ex-husband?” Shaw asked.

  “Not that I know of. She tends to keep to herself. She likes her privacy.”

  Shaw looked through the windscreen. Snowflakes stuck to the glass, building up quicker between the sweep of the wiper blades that struggled to cope.

  “But she had a room to let. She doesn’t mind strangers on her property?” Shaw wasn’t convinced.

  “She needs the money, I guess. Schoolteachers probably don’t earn much. I think the room has been vacant for a while. Plus I vouched for you. I told her to get a background check done with me, before she rents the room to anyone.”

  “You do that for everyone?” Shaw persisted.

  "No, just her. I wanted to help her out."

  “The weather is getting worse,” Shaw said, changing the topic. He didn’t want to turn the conversation into an interrogation.

  “The storm will hit by tonight, or maybe early tomorrow. It’s going to create a few problems.”

  A sign appeared through the haze, large black letters: The Church of Moral Servitude. All Welcome. Clare slowed and turned onto a narrow road.

  “Moral Servitude?” Shaw turned to Clare. “That’s what it’s called?”

  Clare just smiled.

  “Is this an official visit?” Shaw asked. “What will you tell them about me?”

  “I’m the sheriff, I don’t need an official invitation. I can go where I please. I’ll tell them that you are helping with my inquiries. Let me do the talking.”

  “No problem,” Shaw said. “I might say something you’ll regret.”

  The road wound through woodland for a mile then began to rise gently. Soon a mist began to roll in, blanketing the tops of the trees, muting the light in ghostly shades of gray. The further they drove and the higher they went the thicker and closer the mist crept, heavy and ethereal, surrounding the car. Clare slowed and flipped on the lights, but the visibility didn’t improve.

  “There’s a church up here?” Shaw said, looking around through the windows, the mist almost pressing against the car.

  “Yep.” Clare slowed to almost a crawl. “I hope no one is coming down the road the other way.”

  The atmosphere was suffocating as the SUV edged forward. Finally two huge columns of stone materialised out of the gloom, then the bars of an ornate iron gate. Clare pulled up next to an intercom and a security camera swivelled towards her.

  “All welcome, but we need to identify you first,” Shaw said in a sceptical voice.

  Clare powered down her window and pressed the buzzer on the intercom. She stated who she was and wanted to speak to Carl Jessup. Clare looked up at the security camera and could feel the hairs on the back of her neck crawl, like she was being scrutinised. She didn’t want to be here, but it was worth following up.

  A moment later the gates swung slowly open and Clare drove through.

  In the rear-view mirror she saw the gates close behind her with finality, like they were being cut off from the outside world.

  The mist seemed to lift and the snow had stopped as they drove along a stretch of thin smooth road. Finally dark squat shapes came into view ahead, a series of low buildings. Although partially shrouded by the mist Clare could tell the place had a large and sprawling atmosphere to it, a lot bigger than when she had last been here.

  "There must be money in moral servitude," Shaw said. It was like no church he had ever seen, the place reminded him of a university campus or research facility. There was nothing spartan, poor or humble about it.

  Clare saw a parking sign and turned into an empty lot marked for visitors, and they got out.

  The air felt damp, thick with moisture, a sheen instantly formed on Shaw’s jacket. It was not as cold as Shaw had felt in town, the surrounding trees and blanket of mist above trapped a layer of warmer air underneath.

  They followed a marked path that led past another parking lot reserved for staff. There were three vans, large and boxy, similar to the one Clare had seen at the logging camp, parked neatly in a row. The path curved past a row of buildings, modern industrial concrete, well built, expensive, plenty of flat edges and seamless glass.

  Finally they emerged onto a wide turning circle with a large wedge of flat stone steps that led up to a tall edifice of glass and polished concrete that mimicked a church spire.

  “This place would have cost a bundle to build,” Shaw said.

  Clare nodded. “They sure didn’t build it from the loose change in the collection plate each Sunday. The last time I was here it was just a series of rustic timber buildings.” She felt a little unsettled
at how this was all built so fast and right under her nose.

  Clare was not a religious person and Shaw lost his faith after realising there was no such thing as ‘God's Justice.' To him the church was one of the biggest sinners of all time.

  The place looked deserted as they climbed the steps and walked through two sets of glass doors. Inside it was warmer, Shaw and Clare unzipped their jackets. They found themselves standing in a large atrium with a wide polished stone floor that stretched away like the glass surface of a lake. All around were smooth walls of sandstone and granite, recessed soft lighting, a vaulted ceiling like a cathedral and the sound of running water and birds chirping. To one side was a small security walkway with a metal detector arch, not as imposing as an airport security checkpoint, but still a professional set-up. On the other side of the metal detector stood a man, tall, wide, physically imposing, He was dressed in a red robe with a simple rope belt around his waist, knotted at one end.

  “Welcome, Sheriff Decker. My name is Morgan. Welcome to our church.” His words were neutral, emotionless, almost robotic that echoed in the cavernous space. He smiled briefly almost as though he remembered that he had to end each sentence with one.

  Morgan gave Clare a cursory glance, assessing her as no real threat despite the fact that she was the one carrying a gun. His gaze settled on Shaw and stayed there.

  “And you are?” Morgan asked, but this time his face showed some emotion, if raising an eyebrow constituted displaying emotion.

  Shaw didn’t reply. He glanced at Clare. This was her jurisdiction, her town.

  “Mr Shaw. He is with me, assisting me.” Clare replied.

  Morgan nodded. “Assisting,” he repeated the word slowly like it meant something repulsive.

  “We are here to see Minister Jessup,” Clare said impatiently.

  Finally Morgan turned and faced Clare. “Our leader is a very busy person. He doesn’t normally see visitors, especially those who come unannounced.” Morgan turned his attention back to Shaw. “Especially strangers,” he added.