No Justice; Cold Justice; Deadly Touch

by J K Ellem

  How could he have gotten it so wrong?

  Shaw was angrier with himself for going down the wrong path and thinking the killings were the work of one person, a travelling serial killer working alone. Maybe he wanted to believe it, to look at the facts and make them fit his lone wolf theory.

  But why would Marcus Eddleton lie? What possible reason would he have? Eddleton knew he was going to die, he had no motive to lie. Eddleton claimed he only killed one girl, the young student from the church. At first Shaw had no reason to believe him, but the more he thought about it, the less likely it seemed that Eddleton was lying. After all, the man was bleeding-out, dying in front of Shaw and Emily. He wasn’t going to jail, so why not come clean? Eddleton had spent two years tracking down Emily and the path finally led him to Lacy on Echo Mountain.

  If he was telling the truth, then Eddleton’s story didn’t account for the body of the young Syrian girl. Also, Shaw didn’t have any answers for the missing body—if there was a body at all—to explain the severed hand.

  Overlap. That was the term for it. Where you look at seemingly random events and you make the mistake of thinking they are all connected or linked to the one perpetrator. Your mind wants you to think it’s the same person committing similar crimes, even if they happen in different states during completely different time-lines. You want to solve multiple unsolved cases, so your mind makes you see links when in fact there are none.

  Lazy thinking.

  That’s what Shaw put it down to. It was too convenient, too easy to conclude Marcus Eddleton, the stalker, the ghost Alfred Beckett had watched through his telescope, was the only piece in a relatively simple puzzle. The truth was someone had tipped the pieces of three puzzles into the same box, making Shaw think they formed only one picture. Marcus Eddleton was hunting Emily Bell. That puzzled had been solved. But who had killed the Syrian girl, and who belonged to the severed hand?

  Clare had initially thought the three workers from the logging camp were behind everything, but she had discovered something that had changed her mind. Shaw knew now what that was.

  On the seat beside Shaw sat Eddleton’s backpack. Inside he found more things that would come in handy if Shaw was going to find the truth in the next hour.

  The turn-off sign appeared in the headlights of the Bronco and Shaw pulled onto the narrow road and drove on through thick woodland. Ahead in the darkness he could feel something malevolent, hiding in plain sight yet elusive, drawing him forward, towards a total pit of blackness.

  He wasn’t afraid. He knew his capabilities, but what concerned him was if it was as bad as he imagined, then he may not be able to keep his emotions in check. That had always been his problem. While a calm voice of logic in his mind told him to leave it alone, to let the authorities deal with it, he couldn’t help himself. It was in his DNA, the burning need to do the right thing, to speak his mind if needed, to right the wrong.

  A wide shoulder on the side of the road came into view. Shaw slowed and eased off the road. He killed the lights and sat in silence for a few moments watching the silhouette of trees, scrubs and branches materialise through the darkness around him.

  Mist rolled across the hood and curled around the flanks of the Bronco. The sky was pale in the east, totally black in the west. The forest around him offered enough darkness for him to move silently while being totally hidden. He checked his handgun one more time, grabbed the backpack and left the car.

  Outside he pulled out a pair of night-vision goggles from the backpack, slipped them over his head and powered them up.

  He looked left and right across the ghost-green landscape, everything clear and detailed.

  It was all uphill from here.

  Shaw slung the backpack on, tightened the straps and walked into the forest, the darkness swallowing him, the path to the top clear.

  Fifteen minutes later he reached the cusp of the hillside, near the summit. He crouched in the darkness, the pre-dawn air cold and damp. Ahead he saw the outline of buildings, straight lines amongst the random curves of foliage.

  A few external lights were on, bursts of green against a darker background of night vision wash. He had skirted the edge of the complex, staying away from the main gate and had emerged on the western side. It was seemed darker here, more shadows to conceal him.

  The wire fence that ringed the complex was a deception, made to blend in with the surrounding forest so it didn’t look like a barrier to keep its occupants in. Shaw had noted this on his last visit. He shrugged off the backpack and took out a pair of wire cutters, a tool that Marcus Eddleton never planned to use for their intended purpose. The fence wire was commercial-grade high-tensile steel, the kind used to ring maximum security prisons. Another deception not lost on Shaw. The people inside were more like prisoners. All welcome. But you can never leave. A real Hotel California.

  Shaw mentally thanked Marcus Eddleton. He may have been a sick, demented individual hell-bent on revenge, but everything in the backpack, like everything else he had equipped himself with, was either military spec’ or law enforcement quality. The wire cutters made easy work of the fence and soon Shaw had made a hole large enough to slip through.

  Inside the fence line, Shaw knelt behind a line of low bushes. He could see no security cameras. He broke cover, crossed a narrow road and reached a small utility landing at the rear of the building. He pulled out a thin strip of metal, probably the same implement Marcus Eddleton had used to break into Emily’s house. He slid it into the jamb of the door, a second later there was an audible click as the latch slid back into its housing and the door came ajar.

  Shaw went inside and closed the door gently behind him.

  He took off his goggles and returned them into the backpack. He found himself in a narrow passageway with a polished concrete floor and dull industrial lighting. A bundle of waste pipes ran the length of the ceiling, a single door at the far end.

  Shaw drew his handgun and silently and quickly made his way to the door. He twisted the knob and cracked it open an inch.

  No one. The place was quiet except for the hum of the heating vents above. He eased open the door further, gun first, and stepped into another corridor. There was a set of stairs off to the right leading downwards and another door ahead. Shaw chose the stairs and descended slowly.

  47

  The stairs ended at another passageway, minimal lighting, semi-darkness, low-wattage bulbs in wire-cage fixtures. The floor was coated smooth concrete, electrical conduit ran overhead, narrowing the clearance even further. The air was still, claustrophobic, no place to circulate, the space tight and confined. There was nothing down here. No doors, no rooms, no other passageways.

  Nothing. Almost a tunnel leading to nowhere, a dead end.

  It was twenty-two steps to the wall. Shaw counted them. He stood facing the wall and ran his fingers over it. It was smooth and seamless, blank, no cracks, lines or joints.

  Then he heard a sound behind him. Footsteps. The clang of boots on the metal stairs. Shaw turned and saw shadows moving off the walls above, getting closer. Someone was coming down.

  Shaw looked around, but there was nowhere to hide.

  Feet, shins, knees, a waist, dropping towards him.

  He stepped towards the stairs just as a man appeared at the bottom carrying a tray, his attention focused on the hypodermic syringes neatly laid out, making sure they stayed on. Counting and recounting them. Twelve in all. A busy day. Twelve deliveries.

  No need to look up. Why should he? He had been down here many times before by himself. It was his shift. No one else should be here until at least 6:00 a.m. when his shift ended and someone else would take over. They would make the deliveries, he just needed to get them ready.

  The man stopped dead when he saw someone in front of him. A man holding a gun, pointed at him. Confusion set in.

  Shaw smacked him hard on the side of the head with the butt of the gun, grabbing the tray of syringes just before the man collapsed to the floor, hit
ting his head on the edge of the bottom step.

  Out for the count. Not dead, just away with the pixies for a few hours.

  For a moment Shaw did nothing. He regarded the man, crumpled and unconscious on the floor. Then he studied the tray of hypodermic syringes.

  Where was he going? There was nothing down here.

  Twelve syringes, all safety capped but ready for use, a packet of alcohol wipes next to them.

  Shaw went through the man’s pockets. He pulled out a plastic card, no magnetic strip, no markings, just shiny green plastic.

  Shaw dragged the limp body of the man behind the stairs and pushed him as far back into the corner as he could where there was some shadow. If someone else came down the stairs, as long as they kept their head and eyes up they wouldn’t see the unconscious man.

  Something didn’t add up. Why was the man here? Where was he going? Shaw lifted one of the syringes and held it to the low light. Pale yellow liquid sloshed in the glass barrel. He carefully pocketed the syringe then looked at the blank wall at the end of the passageway. There was no receptacle or device to swipe the card through.

  Shaw walked towards the dead end, holding the card in front of him. He stepped up within a foot of the wall.

  Nothing.

  Then he pressed the card against the wall. There was a hiss and a sucking sound, and the wall slid upwards into the ceiling. A gush of cold air hit his face. Beyond was pure darkness and the start of another flight of stairs, blackened steel, leading downwards again. The air smelled metallic, recycled, manufactured. Shaw paused, his foot near the edge of the first step, like dipping his toes into a dark pit of nothing.

  He stepped on the first rung, the wall slid down behind him and puddle lights flickered on each side of the stairwell, illuminating the way down.

  Shaw descended the stairs, gun out in front, finger now on the trigger, the slack taken out of release.

  It was twenty steps to the bottom. He stopped.

  Shaw felt a creeping dread in the pit of his stomach, his mind slowly putting the final pieces of the puzzle together, the horrific picture was finally complete.

  A long passageway stretched in front of him, glass cubicles on each side, bright industrial lighting overhead. Prisons cells came to mind. Shaw lost count as he slowly walked. Maybe fifty cubicles. Maybe more. Each cubicle no bigger than four foot by four foot, a rudimentary bed, sink, and toilet in each.

  A spartan existence for each occupant.

  Heads turned from under bed coverings to look at Shaw. Sullen faces, hollow eyes, garish, fearful, trembling.

  Blankets came off, timidly at first. A girl sat up and stared at him, large brown eyes, olive skin, dark hair, distinct Middle Eastern features.

  All girls, some prepubescent, some older, no adults. Children, all of them. Identical clothing hugged growing bodies, girls made to look like women. Too soon. Innocence gone.

  Each cubicle had a swipe-card locking mechanism attached to a glass door, indicator lights illuminated red along both rows on each side.

  Next to this was a small display panel where an index card could be slotted. Most had no index card, twelve did. A name and address clearly printed on the card. Delivery instructions, a destination for each child, sometimes two children or more for the same address. Twelve girls to be drugged with the twelve syringes to make their transportation more co-operative.

  Shaw reached the end of the passageway, then realized he had been holding his breath. He turned around and looked along the length of where he had just walked. Sadness covered him, anger fed him. He forgot his name. He forgot why he was here, he didn’t know where here was. It was like he had stepped through a portal, a hole in the earth, and had fallen into an unearthly place, a place that shouldn’t exist, and a place born of the worst nightmares.

  There was a large open room at the end of the passageway and another door to his left. Shaw went inside. There were stainless steel walls, recessed light strips, bench tops, preparation counters, glass-fronted refrigerated cabinets, vials and bottles in neat rows, two operating-style tables in the middle of the room with thick leather straps—and buckles. Restraints.

  Shaw left and stood in front of the other door. He pressed the plastic card against its surface. The door clicked open, a thin line of blackness beyond.

  Shaw pushed the door open with his foot, gun pointing into the void, a glimmer of light in the distance, a faint pin-prick of yellow. He stepped through the gap.

  The air smelt damp, cloy, earthy, it had a grittiness to it, old, stale, scented with something else.

  Death.

  Water dripped somewhere. The texture of the ground was different. Gone was the feel of smooth concrete, replaced by cobbled stone, uneven, coarse. As his eyes adjusted to the gloom his surroundings came into focus.

  Dark walls rose around him, raw earth, columns of thick concrete, piles of broken brick and rubble, a vaulted ceiling of hewn timber. He was under the foundations of the building, an underground dungeon deep in the bowls of hell.

  Shaw came to a metallic grate, the sound of something flowing underneath, a stench rose to meet him, thick and putrid. He crossed over to the other side and continued towards the source of the light. It came from a series of chambers walled in stone, thick timber beams across the ceiling. The first one was empty, so was the second. The third was where the light was emanating from, a rectangle of ghostly light cutting through the darkness outside. He heard voices, someone humming, just beyond the edge of the doorway.

  Shaw raised his gun, imagined where the person was in the room and turned inside.

  Carl Jessup was standing in the middle of the room, his back to Shaw. As if sensing someone was standing in the doorway behind him, Jessup turned and looked at Shaw, his expression blank, his brain not registering the man holding the gun pointed at him.

  Jessup straightened and stepped sideways revealing someone sitting on a solid chair bolted to the floor. Above, a length of coarse rope dangled from a beam in the ceiling that was ringed and scored with numerous rope burns.

  The person in the chair wasn't moving, a hood over their head, their head pitched forward, chin on their chest, arms and legs restrained.

  Carl Jessup smiled. Shaw didn’t.

  Slowly he lowered his gun, slid it into his jacket and pulled something else out of the backpack Jessup couldn’t quite see.

  “She shouldn’t have come here,” was all Jessup could say.

  It was her fault she was like this, obviously.

  Shaw’s anger flared, his thoughts confirmed. He ran at Jessup.

  Jessup flinched as Shaw aimed the stun gun and hit him with a million volts.

  48

  Shaw pulled off the hood and lifted Clare’s head. She felt heavy, unresponsive, no muscle control, her eyes unfocused, drowsy. On the floor lay an empty hypodermic syringe, its contents spent.

  “Clare, Clare. It’s me.” Shaw gently slapped her face trying to revive her, but she was too heavily sedated. He checked her pulse and it was strong.

  He knelt down, found what he was looking for in the medical pack and injected her. It would take a while for the effects of whatever Jessup had given her to wear off, but he just needed her lucid enough to get her out of this place.

  Jessup lay on the floor, quivering, his fists clenched and eyes shut tight, moaning in agony.

  Shaw cut the cable ties around Clare’s feet and hands. She fell forward into his arms and he gently propped her back on the chair. He slapped her again, this time harder. “Clare, come on, we need to go.”

  Clare muttered something incoherent, dribble seeped from the corner of her mouth. Her wrists and feet were raw with deep angry gashes, weeping blood where the cable ties had cut into her. She was a fighter and had tried desperately to break free.

  “Ben …” her voice distant. She drifted in and out of consciousness.

  Shaw pushed her head back. “I’m getting you out of here.” Shaw packed up his gear, hauled the backpack on, took out h
is gun then easily lifted her over his shoulder in one powerful movement.

  Jessup tried to crawl towards Shaw, so he kicked him in the head for good measure as he went past, carrying Clare.

  * * *

  Shaw made his way back through the darkness carrying Clare. She mumbled all the way, the drug Shaw had given her was working, counteracting the effects of the sedative. It would still be another twenty or thirty minutes before she would be strong enough to stand on her own.

  Back inside the halls, Shaw found an empty cubicle, swiped his card, and placed her gently on the bed. He checked her vitals one more time. Her breathing was normal but her pupils told him she was still heavily under. She murmured as he covered her with a blanket. He left the cubicle, swiping the door, locking it behind him. Clare would be safe in there for the moment while the effects of the drug wore off. Shaw didn’t want to stay any longer than he needed, but he wanted more answers.

  * * *

  One girl was sitting up on her bed, the same girl who had looked at him doe-eyed when he first walked in. The index card on her cubicle was marked differently. It just had a single word on it.

  He swiped the door lock and entered. The girl didn’t flinch or move away. She just sat on the bed, a blanket covering her thin shoulders.

  Shaw knelt down. “It’s OK, I’m not going to hurt you.”

  The girl looked sheepish, but nodded.

  “Where are you from?”

  The girl said nothing.

  “Where are your parents?”

  Still nothing. Maybe she didn’t understand. Shaw looked around the tiny cubicle.

  “They are coming to take me away today,” the girl said, her voice tiny, accented.

  Shaw turned back to her. “Take you away, where?”

  “They said to a special place, a place because I’m tainted.”