No Justice; Cold Justice; Deadly Touch

by J K Ellem

  “Please call me Al, young lady,”

  Shaw looked at Beckett and could tell he was under Emily’s spell.

  Shaw took over. “Al, we need to know where this person is hiding. You’ve been watching him. You know this town better than anyone else. You said you saw him in the graveyard behind the church. Do you think he’s in the forest behind the church? Hiding in there?”

  “It makes sense, son,” Beckett said. “As I said today, there’s a trail from the forest that leads to the back entrance of the graveyard. But it would be covered now with all this snow.”

  Shaw nodded. “If they are in that part of the forest, is there any place they could hide in? It would need to be something they could shelter in, but be away from prying eyes, away from any trails or hunting tracks. They don’t want to be found, so they will be some place hidden, maybe a cave.”

  “Do you have a detailed map?” Emily asked. “Something that has some old landmarks on it that maybe will show more detail of the area?”

  Beckett nodded in silent contemplation, rocking back and forth. When he finally spoke he had mischievous smile. “I can do better than that.”

  Shaw and Emily exchanged looks.

  Beckett stopped rocking. “I can show you where they are. Where they’ve been hiding out all this time.”

  36

  Alfred Beckett got out of his rocking chair and went to the bookcase. After much deliberation he chose a rolled up scroll, and motioned to a table with a brass banker’s lamp on it.

  Shaw and Emily joined him at the table and he unrolled the surveying map. He pinned down the edged with rock samples and a large magnifying glass. “When I was a lot younger, I used to hike up through the mountain, the foothills, the forest. Been nearly everywhere here.

  Shaw and Emily stared at the map. It was yellowed and cracked with age, like parchment. The map was beautiful and the detail was amazing. It was crammed full of notations, carefully drawn lines, arrows, measurements, directions, and detailed field notes all meticulously written in neat copperplate script. Pencil, ruler and ink nib had only ever been allowed to grace the map.

  “Beautiful handwriting, Mr Beckett,” Emily said. “All keystrokes and text messages today I’m afraid. As a schoolteacher I think we’ve lost the art of handwriting.”

  Al Beckett smiled. He hadn’t had the opportunity to smile much lately, and he was sure happy to have a pretty young woman to smile at once again. It made him feel young.

  He nodded at Emily appreciating the compliment. “Now let’s see what we have here.” He leaned over the map thoughtfully and ran his fingers like he was following an invisible groove along its surface. “Here we are.” His finger stopped on the landmark of Dawson’s Ridge. “This is us here.” His finger continued across the surface and settled again on another spot. “This is the church.” They all crowded over the map, under the pool of light from the lamp. The map was more detailed and more expansive than the Google Maps Emily and Shaw had been looking at. Beckett spread his fingers in an arc behind the landmark of the church, over an expanse of green marking the forest. There was a scatter of thin spidery dashed lines marking trails and thicker lines marking back roads. “It ain’t marked on no map, but I know it’s there,” he finally said.

  “What’s there, Mr Beckett? What’s on the map?” Emily asked.

  His eyes scanned the map and said without looking up, “I came across it maybe twenty years ago, when I was doing some prospecting.”

  “Prospecting?” Shaw said.

  “Mainly tin, some silver if I was lucky, some gold if I was real lucky. This mountain used to be riddled with mine shafts back in the day, dug out or blasted out with dynamite by wildcat miners.”

  “Gold?” Shaw said. “In these mountains?”

  Beckett said, “Don’t get all excited, son, didn’t find much and what I did find I kept.” He slid a lump of rock across the map towards Emily. “Take a look, Miss Bell.

  Emily picked up the rock and held it to the light. A thin vein of gold shone rich and alluring under the glow of the lamp. “Incredible.”

  “Not enough to make me rich, I just keep it for nostalgia.” Beckett turned his attention back to the map. He placed his finger on a spot. “Here. It’s an old hunter’s cabin. It’s deep in the forest. Nothing much there though. It’s probably about two miles off this back road. Nothing but thick forest and rock.” Beckett looked at Shaw. “Pretty run-down when I found it, probably worse now. But if it was me, that’s where I would hide, use it as a base.”

  Shaw looked closer at the spot where Beckett had placed his finger. “What scale is this?”

  Beckett grabbed a compass and calculated the distance between the two hinged needle points that he placed on the map. “I was right, my memory still serves me.”

  Emily smiled.

  “Just under two miles off this back road, almost perpendicular to it.”

  “How do we get to this road?” Shaw asked. The thick black line squiggled like a wild river until it met a main road.

  “It starts just past the church. I’m not sure if it’s ever been used in the last thirty or so years. It’s a dead end, used to lead to an old tannery that operated there back in the 1950s. The road may be overgrown and hard to find nowadays.”

  “An old tannery? Could he be hiding there? Seems like a good location,” Emily suggested.

  “The tannery is here, marked on the map.” Beckett pointed to a spot deeper in the forest where the black line ended. “It’s probably another mile or so further from the old cabin. No trail or anything, just thick woodland I imagine. I never thought of it, because you said some place away from the roads and trails.”

  Shaw studied the map, his mind ticking over. Where would he hide? It had to be close, but not too close. Within a few miles hiking distance factoring in the snow and cold, where actual distance felt like double the distance. If he was hiding up there then he would be boxed in. There was only one road in and out. He would need a means of making a quick escape, in case he was discovered. It would be too difficult to hike his way out of the forest on foot in weather like this, and too far.

  “Your man is here, Ben, it’s where I would be and it’s the only real location to hole up out of snow that’s back there, behind the church. That’s the direction I would see him walk. He came out of the forest there and then went back in that direction.”

  Emily turned to Shaw. “What do you think?”

  Shaw said nothing for a moment, thinking, try to strategize. He was used to looking for perpetrators, threats who hid in buildings, behind windows, lines of sight, ballistic telemetry, upclose faces in a crowd at a political rally or Joe Average standing in line at a soup-kitchen waiting to shake the Vice-President’s hand. The person they were hunting was comfortable where they were, it was their terrain, they knew it and thrived in it. It was totally hostile and foreign to Shaw. The odds were stacked against them, but then again, they usually were.

  “That’s where we look.”

  They gathered their jackets and made for the door, thanking Beckett for his help. Shaw paused before he opened the door, bracing for the cold and snow. He turned to Beckett. “Just one more thing.”

  Beckett nodded. “Yep?”

  “Have you seen anything else today? Anything odd, no matter how insignificant.”

  Alfred Beckett thought for a moment. “No, I haven’t seen the man again. You must’ve scared him off when you chased him up here. He’s gone to ground I’d say.”

  That didn’t sound good to Shaw. He didn’t believe the person had packed up and left town. The only other explanation was that he was getting ready to strike. He had done enough reconnaissance, measured the lay of the land. He was getting ready.

  Emily reached up and kissed Beckett on the cheek, “Thanks again, Mr Beckett, for all your help.”

  Beckett smiled, slightly embarrassed.

  Ben reached for the door.

  “There was one thing I thought was odd,” Beckett said.


  Shaw turned and cocked his head.

  “Come to think of it, it probably wasn’t important.”

  “Everything is important, Al. What is it?” Shaw asked.

  He nodded towards his telescope. “About an hour ago, I saw a pickup truck from the logging camp skirting around the town, heading out along the western road. I could see the company signage on the door.”

  Shaw shrugged. So what?

  “There were three men in the car.”

  That got Shaw’s attention.

  “They stopped at the intersection. I saw them clearly. I wouldn’t have noticed, but I just thought it was odd.

  “Why odd?” Emily asked.

  “You don’t usually see any vehicles from the logging company driving around this late at night. They have some sort of curfew over there with the workers and their vehicles at night. Prefer them parked up and secured.”

  “Al, which direction were they heading?” Shaw asked.

  “Like I said, out of town, heading west. I followed it, but then lost them.”

  It could be something. It could be nothing. Shaw felt a tinge of suspicion. He only knew three workers from the logging camp and his initial meeting with them didn’t go well, for them.

  “Emily, you know Molly Malone don’t you? The woman who owns the outdoor store downtown?” Shaw asked.

  Emily nodded.

  “Where does she live? Do you know?”

  Emily and Molly were good friends. She was at her place having a drink and catching up when the stalker broke into her house. Molly had told Emily everything about what happened in her store. “I know where she lives. Just a few miles out of town. West.” Emily gave Shaw a look that said I know exactly what you’re thinking.

  Emily checked her cell. “Still no signal.”

  “The landlines are down too,” Beckett said, looking at Emily with her phone. “I was going to call the Sheriff, but my phone’s been dead for a few hours. Looks like we’re cut off.”

  37

  Finding the pickup truck was easy. They hadn’t parked too far from Molly’s house, just down a side street. Cars lined both sides and the pickup truck was covered in the least amount of snow.

  It had taken Shaw twenty minutes to drive there with Emily giving directions. The snowplows had been out so the streets were clear and salted. The wind died down and the heavy snow had reduced to a light smattering. The air was cold and still, and Shaw crouched behind the rear of the pickup truck. He could feel the heat come off the twin tail pipes and the metal cowling cracked as it cooled. He scuttled towards the front and felt the hood.

  Still warm. It had been here maybe not more than half an hour, maybe less. He had to move fast. It was obvious to Emily and Shaw that they were clearing out, leaving town, but they were calling by Molly’s house to take care of unfinished business.

  Emily sat in the Bronco, parked a few cars back on the opposite side, lights off, in darkness. She had a clear view of the house and watched Shaw.

  Shaw reached up and unclipped one of the elastic ties that held down the cover of the rear tray. He looked inside for a few seconds then closed it. He moved back to the Bronco, keeping a row of cars between him and the house, opened the passenger door and climbed back in. “Any movement?” he asked.

  “Nothing. No shadows behind the curtains, no movement, nothing. What about the truck?”

  “The rear tray is full of supplies. Some heavy tool boxes in there too. Looks like they’ve taken a lot from the logging camp. They’re planning a long road trip.”

  “Ben, we need to get in there, into the house. God knows what they are doing to Molly while we just sit here.”

  “I know, but I want you to stay here. This isn’t your fight. It’s mine.”

  “But she’s my friend, I can help,” Emily protested.

  “I know, but this is what I’m trained for, you need to trust me. This is what I used to do.” It was too dangerous to have Emily come with him. She wasn’t trained in breaching a house or building. She was a civilian with a few hours training on a gun range. Paper targets don’t shoot back or try to stab you. It was a totally different ballgame when the lives were on the line and you were shooting at flesh and blood.

  Shaw turned to her. “Promise me you’ll stay here.”

  “Not if you need help, Ben.”

  “OK, if it all turns to shit, then do whatever you need to.”

  Emily nodded.

  Shaw grabbed the bag off the back seat and took out Emily’s spare Glock. He checked and ejected the magazine, thumbed out all of the bullets, then reinserted them one by one. He preferred it that way when it wasn’t his own handgun. He reinserted the magazine, racked the slide and slid the gun into the pocket of his snow jacket. He repeated the process with mechanical efficiently with two spare magazines and slid these into his other pocket.

  Emily watched him and noticed how his demeanour had changed. He was smooth and efficient, all business.

  “Emily, do you think I’m good-looking?”

  Emily did a double-take. “What sort of question is that at a time like this?”

  “I need to know.”

  “I’m gay, Ben, you know that. But yes, you are good-looking.”

  Shaw nodded. “Good.” Shaw opened the door and got out. Emily looked after him expecting him to elaborate.

  He held open the door, ducked his head down and looked in at Emily. “Just remember that if you need to pull out your gun and start shooting. The other three men inside that house are ugly. That should make it easier for you not to shoot me by accident.”

  Emily smiled. “You’re crazy, Ben Shaw.”

  He nodded, pulled up his hood so his face was obscured then said, “Someone has to be.” He gently shut the door and was gone.

  Emily watched him walk across the street. He made no effort to hide or be quiet. Emily swore he was actually whistling. Not too fast, not too slow, a moderate pace, hands in his pockets like a neighbour out on a late night stroll.

  “What the—?” Emily said, disbelieving what she was seeing. Shaw was acting brazen, obvious, not caring who saw him. He was crazy.

  Shaw reached the house, walked straight up the path and to the front door. He saw the peep hole and placed his palm over it. He pressed the doorbell and then stood waiting.

  Shaw turned and looked at Emily sitting across the street.

  “What the hell are you doing?” Emily muttered.

  He nodded to her then turned back to the front door. No answer. This time he thumped hard on the frame with his fist, solid, loud banging, the door fairly standard, cheap wood, low quality hinges.

  A moment later a voice came from behind the door. “Who is it?”

  Shaw still had his palm over the peep hole. He judged where the person on the other side of the door was standing from the location and clarity of their voice.

  “Special delivery, UPS.”

  A moment lapsed and he could imagine the person on the other side of the door was thinking what to say.

  “Just leave it on the porch.”

  “Can’t do that sir, need a signature. Won’t take a moment.”

  He heard cursing from behind the door, then the sound of the door lock turning.

  Shaw stepped back.

  The door opened half an inch and one suspicious eyeball peered out between the crack.

  There was no parcel to deliver, just a solid front kick into the door, full force, hip driving forward. The door swung violently inwards, one hinge ripped off the door jamb, the edge of the door hitting Mack flush against his face, smashing his nose and splitting his forehead. He staggered back into the hallway, blind with pain.

  Shaw stepped in, the door hanging almost off the frame. Once, twice, three times, rapid short punches, hardened knuckles slammed into Mack’s face, mashing it into a bloody pulp.

  Mack collapsed but Shaw grabbed him before he fell entirely to the floor. He spun him round so he was facing the other way, retrieved his gun from his jacket, pr
essed it against the back of his head and marched him down the passageway. “Where is she,” Shaw hissed. “What have you pigs done with Molly?”

  “She’s out the back, in the kitchen,” he moaned. He was nearly unconscious, but he still knew what the barrel of a gun felt like against his skull.

  “Move!” Shaw pushed him violently forward, holding him by the scruff.

  They reached the end of the passageway that opened up into a brightly lit kitchen. Shaw paused, his brain registering the scene, one shutter click at a time: Molly Malone tied to a kitchen chair, her face bloodied, mouth taped, one eye purple and nasty, swollen shut, blood from her nose, blood on the her shirt, blood on the white tiled floor. Freddy Myers standing behind her, a large ugly knife at her throat, a black case open on the table, more knives inside. Micky Dent standing to Shaw’s left. No smile, no expression, just a gun in his hand pointed at Shaw’s head.

  “And you started without me?” Shaw said, angling Mack’s body towards Micky Dent, prioritising the threat, shielding himself as best he could.

  “Don’t worry, we’re just getting started,” Freddy sniggered. He jerked back Molly’s head back violently, the sharp edge of the blade against her skin. She cried behind the duct tape, muffled and high-pitched, tears streaming down her face. “Aren’t we, Molly?” Freddy licked the side of her face, long and slowly, leaving a glisten trail of saliva from her chin to her ear, like some rabid hound. She squirmed some more. The groin of her pants darkened, then spread, a hot yellow liquid dripped down one leg of the chair.

  “Drop the gun or she dies,” Micky said, his voice calm and low.

  Shaw smiled. “She’s going to die anyway.”

  “So are you, if you don’t drop the gun,” Micky replied.

  Shaw pulled Mack closer to him pressing the gun harder against his head. “You go first.”

  Micky let out a laugh, “Kill him, I don’t care. Go ahead, he’s worthless.”

  Mack looked at Micky, his eyes in shock. “What do you mean, Micky? What the fuck do you mean?” he screamed.