by J. D. Weston
That was the last positive thought he had that evening.
A strong hand reached from behind him and forced a chloroform-soaked rag to his open mouth.
Shaun struggled, he even kicked out at his assailant, but within a few seconds, his knees buckled and he fell limply to the ground.
14
Choices
"Whoa, Melody, we have action," said Reg.
Melody jumped up and reached for her binoculars. She saw the limp, unconscious body of Shaun Tyson being dragged into the side door of a black van.
"I see him," she said. "I knew it, Reg."
"Are you going to take him out?" asked Reg.
"No, not here, there'd be too many eyes. Let's tail him and see where he takes him."
Reg loitered, half standing and half crouching in the back of the camper.
"You drive, Reg," said Melody.
"I knew you were going to say that," replied Reg, grumbling as he climbed into the driver's seat. He started the camper's engine but kept the headlights turned off.
"Keep the lights off," said Melody from the back.
"Yeah, I remember," said Reg. "This ain't my first rodeo you know?"
The black van pulled away slowly and its headlights flicked on a few moments later when halfway down the street.
"This ain't his first rodeo either," said Reg quietly. He engaged first gear and pulled out into the quiet road.
The VW camper rode the tarmac smoothly, and Reg waited for the black van to turn out of the street before he gunned the throttle to reach the end of the road, where he saw the van disappear around a bend.
"Keep this distance," said Melody.
"Is it safe to turn the lights on now?" asked Reg.
"I thought you said this weren't your first rodeo?"
"Well, you know," replied Reg, "I don't want to upset my Jedi master."
Melody didn't smile at the joke. She was focused on the van in front.
Reg clicked the light switch on the dashboard and the headlights flicked on. He followed the black van in front, as it weaved through the maze of backstreets and onto Potters Bar high street.
"He's heading for the motorway," said Melody, seeing the van turn left.
"We can't take him out there," said Reg.
"No, but if he's going where I think he's going, we'll have our chance."
"I can't believe we're actually doing this," said Reg.
"What?" said Melody. "Saving lives?"
"Going after Harvey. He's still one of us."
Melody sat forward.
"That's how I was thinking, Reg," she replied. "But you have to remember that Harvey won't be thinking like that. He's ill, he must be."
"Like mentally?"
"How else would you explain it? You see what he's done, you know what he's been through. It would have broken most men, but Harvey pulled through. On the exterior, he's this tough, no-nonsense guy that's afraid of nothing."
"But on the inside?" asked Reg.
"On the inside, Reg, he's hurting. He knows it's not normal to do this. He knows he's not normal. I often wondered if he yearns for normality, or if he even knows what normality is."
"You don't think it's some kind of destiny?" asked Reg.
"I doubt he believes it's destiny. In Harvey's mind, things just are, or they're not. Things happen, or they don't. You plan for them, or you don't. You live-"
"Or you die," finished Reg.
"Exactly."
"We're approaching the motorway, Melody."
"Keep your cool and stay well back. The motorway is well lit and he'll spot the camper a mile away."
"Do you think he'll spot that BMW?"
"What BMW?" asked Melody.
"The one that's been following us all the way from Potters Bar."
"You're getting restless, George," said Harris. "Can you try and keep still? The way the car is bouncing around people will think we're up to no good in the back seat."
"I can't help it, sir," replied George. "I need to stretch my legs."
"What are you, a kid? Calm down. We're onto something good here. Just think of the glory, George."
"Glory?" said George. "Do you honestly think he's going to turn up just because-"
"He'll be here, George," interrupted Harris.
"I know, you can feel it your bones, right?" said George. "I just wish I could feel a nice pint of lager in my hand instead of cramp in my legs. Sod the bloody glory."
Harris gave him a sharp look.
"I asked you if you were up for this, George."
"I am up for it, sir," replied George. "It's just bloody boring is all. It would help if we could actually see the front of the house. All I can see is that van-"
"Which makes this a perfect position, George. We see everyone who comes and goes, and they don't see us."
"I'm bringing a book next time."
Harris looked across slowly with a frustrated look on his face.
"Here I am, trying to bring you on, help you climb the ladder, George, and yet all I hear is you moaning about cramp and boredom."
"I can't help it, sir."
"Think about that board in my office, George," said Harris. "Think about the faces of those men in the pictures."
"You mean the dead sex-offenders, sir?"
"I mean the faces of human beings, George," said Harris. "There's a man out there with a taste for blood. He's outwitted the police for twenty years. He cuts people to ribbons, burns and boils them alive. He's a twisted man. It doesn't matter if he's a vigilante trying to do good, to me, he's a killer, a madman. He's loose, he's dangerous, and he won't stop until someone stops him."
"And that someone is-"
"That someone is me, George." Harris spat as he said the words. He'd wound himself up. "We're going to take him down, and you can either carry on moaning about cramp and boredom, or you can help me catch him, and just maybe you'll learn enough to get a foot on that ladder."
George listened to his superior's rant with real affection for his positivity.
"You honestly think we can do this?" he asked.
"Yes, George," said Harris. "I honestly think that when, not if, but when our man comes walking down this street and gets into that house over there, we'll be on top of him."
A vehicle started its engine somewhere in the quiet street.
"What's that?" asked Harris, turning and looking through the rear window. "Look alive, George. Where's that engine coming from?"
"It's the van, sir," said Harris excitedly. "It's on the move."
Harris span back to face the front and watched as the large black van pulled slowly from its parked position on the side of the road and began to make its way up the street.
"Aren't we following, sir?" asked George.
"All in good time, Georgy," said Harris. He stared transfixed at the van. "All in good time, my friend."
Harris' hand moved to turn on the car's ignition.
"Hold on, sir," began George. "Look behind, there's another van pulling out."
"That's a camper van," said Harris. "That would explain how he gets about, but who's in the black van then?"
"You think he has help?" asked George.
Harris' eyes widened.
"We never even thought of that," he replied.
"What do we do?" asked George, suddenly sounding nervous.
Harris let the van pass, waited a few seconds, and then started the BMW.
"We let it play, George."
"But there'll be more than one of them."
"And there's more than one of us. What's the problem?"
"Well, what if there's three of them?"
"Then we call in backup, George," said Harris, as he edged the car away from the kerb. "This is a real find. If we need help, we'll ask for it. But if we can handle it, then we'll handle it."
"Righto, sir," said George, sounding unsure.
"Do you feel it George?" asked Harris.
"Feel what, sir?"
"The electricity
. Can't you feel it thundering through you?"
"Not really, sir," said George. "But my cramp's going away."
"Well, you might want to forget about your cramp, George, and start to tune yourself into this."
George stared at the van in front and saw the lights turn on once it was away from the house.
"Have you ever done this kind of thing before, sir?"
"Have I ever captured a serial killer, sorry, serial killers?" said Harris. "No, George, as it happens, no, I haven't. But you know what? All that is about to change."
"Looks like he's joining the motorway, sir," said George.
"Where's he taking us?" said Harris under his breath.
He reached under his seat and fumbled around, then brought out a small Glock handgun. He hit the little silver button on the left side of the moulded grip and let the magazine fall into his lap.
"There's a box in the glove compartment," he said, handing the empty magazine to George. "Load that."
"A gun?" said George. His voice rose a full tone. "Where the bloody hell-"
"George, load the bloody weapon and stop acting like a kid."
"But, sir, we aren't supposed to-"
"We aren't supposed to do a lot of things, George," snapped Harris. "But we do, don't we? Because it gets the job done, doesn't it? And right now, Georgy, we have two targets, both of which are prime suspects in a serial homicide investigation."
"Two suspects," said George, suddenly grasping something. "The camper, sir. It's the same one."
"Same one as what?"
"Rettendon, sir," said George. "I thought it looked familiar. It was at the crime scene. The uniform was questioning the driver, a girl with a dog. Remember?"
"George, you clever bastard," said Harris. "You're right. That, my friend, is far too much of a coincidence for my liking."
"It's turning off the motorway, sir."
"Where's she going then? Think fast, George."
"Okay, what if the van is an innocent and the killer is in the camper? Maybe Shaun Tyson got in the van without us seeing, and maybe the camper was waiting for him to pull away."
"Or, what if there really are two killers and one's leading us on a little magical mystery tour?"
"Gut feeling, sir?" asked George as he loaded the magazine with the brass rounds from the little cardboard box in the glove compartment.
The atmosphere in the car had grown thick as the drama unfolded, and the decision time had come from out of nowhere.
"Gut feeling, it’s the camper van," said Harris. "Are you sure it's the same one?"
"I'm positive, sir," said George. "But I'm sure I can see someone in the back window."
"So how about this?" said Harris. "There's two of them. It's a couple-"
"Like Bonnie and Clyde?"
"They'd blend in everywhere," said Harris.
"And who'd suspect a woman of being capable of doing those things?"
Harris began to pull off the motorway, following the camper at a safe distance. They both watched as the black van continued on its path and then was out of sight.
"I hope you're sure about this, sir," said George.
15
Old Times
"I hope you're sure about this, Melody," said Reg, as he pulled the camper off the motorway onto the slip road and watched the black van drive away.
Melody took a deep breath and exhaled through pursed lips.
"Only one way to find out, Reg," she said.
The slip road led down to a roundabout, where the right-hand exit led under the motorway and into London, and the left-hand exit led into Epping Forest and the countryside beyond.
"They're following," said Melody, gazing out the rear window.
"Which way?" asked Reg. "Left or right?"
Melody took a few seconds to look at the options.
"Left," she said. "We need to find a quiet road in the forest."
"What are you planning, Melody?"
"Something Harvey showed me once," she said. "It somehow seems apt right about now."
"Who are they?" asked Reg. "Why do you think they're following us?"
"Police," said Melody flatly. "I'm sure I saw that car in Rettendon with two men in the front."
"That particular car?"
"That particular car, Reg. They were detectives, plain clothes, and if they did their homework just like we did ours, then they must have come to the same conclusion, and knew Harvey was going to strike as soon as Shaun Tyson was released."
"So why's he following us?" asked Reg. "We're not the bloody killer."
"No, but they don't know that," said Melody.
"If they think it's us then we need to either lose them or finish this soon," said Reg. "They could have back up ready to block the roads. All they'd have to do is call it in."
"I don't think we're going to lose them in this camper van, Reg," said Melody, as she armed the rifle. "We're going to have to do this the hard way."
"Just hold on a minute, Melody," said Reg, turning in his seat. "You might be bleeding bonkers enough to shoot a policeman. But you know what? I'm not. I don't want to lose my job. I suddenly don't want any part of this. It's going from bad to worse."
"I thought you were talking earlier about Harvey being one of us?"
"I did, I was, he is, or was," said Reg in a panic. "But there's no way I'm being involved in shooting policemen, or anybody, come to think of it. You've gone nuts, Melody. You've spent far too much time with Harvey."
"And what's that supposed to mean?" snapped Melody. "Too much time? I love the man. Of course I spent time with him."
"And he's rubbed off on you. There's no way you would even consider shooting a policeman a year ago."
"Reg, just calm down and keep your eyes on the road," said Melody calmly. "Whatever happens, we're not going to let these detectives take Harvey down. If he's going to be stopped, it's going to be me that stops him, not someone who doesn't understand him. He won't deal with that well."
"So...?"
"So I want you to gently slow down, just a fraction, Reg, and I'm going to count down from three. When I say the number one, I want you to brake hard."
Melody crept beneath the rear window and loosened the locks on either side of the clear Perspex. She took a glance and placed the BMW at five hundred yards back.
"Slower, Reg. We need them closer."
"You're crazy, Melody," replied Reg. "I don't like this at all."
"Reg, do you trust me?"
Reg hesitated.
"Reg, I asked if-"
"Of course I trust you. I think you've gone nuts but I trust you. I'm still driving, aren't I?"
"That-a-boy, Reg," she replied quietly. "Now slow down a bit more, just ease off the accelerator a little."
The camper began to slow, just enough to allow the BMW to slowly close the distance.
"Okay, that's good," said Melody. "Now I want you to indicate left as if you're going to pull over."
Reg did as he was instructed, and the BMW grew closer still. Melody watched with a trained eye. She tried to think like the detectives. She had been one for so long, so it came naturally.
"They're going to pretend to pass slowly, and then cut us off. Are you ready for the hard brakes?"
Reg shook his head in disbelief. "Yes, Melody," he said. "I'm ready, but this is on you."
"Three."
Reg took a deep breath.
"Two. Easy now, Reg."
"I'm easy," he said, unable to hide his nerves.
"One."
Panic set in the moment the van took a corner at speed, sending Shaun sliding across the wooden floor into the side panel, waking him from his drug-induced sleep. The bag over his head was rough on his face, like Pop's beard had been, and his wrists were bound with what felt like gaffer tape.
Shaun struggled to control his breathing, trying in vain to see through the bag's material. But the van was dark and offered no indication of size, or even if he was alone.
"Is anyo
ne there?" he whispered.
No reply.
"Hello?" he said, slightly louder.
The rumble of the road noise and the van's diesel engine were the only replies.
He worked his way into a corner by sliding like a worm, and then pushed with his bare feet against the wooden floor and his face against the metal side of the van until he was sitting upright.
Then the tears came again.
Shaun thought of his mum. She wouldn't even know he was in trouble. She would find the note, she'd be upset, but Shaun had hoped she'd be happy that he was off on a quest to better himself, to be a better person, and to finally make a go of life.
Except he wasn't. His quest had ended after just one step. There would be no trip to Europe. No hitch-hiking, no fruit picking, no sleeping rough, no making friends, no meeting girls.
It wasn't the first time Shaun had been tied up and thrown into the back of a van, but he sensed it would be the last. The brutality of the attack flashed across his mind. Strong, practised hands had held him and forced the chemical-soaked cloth onto his mouth and over his nose. He'd tried to move his head away, to gasp at fresh air, but he'd been easily overpowered.
His nose ran, but all he could do was reach up with his shoulder and smear snot across his wretched face inside the bag.
He was helpless.
"Is anybody there?" he called out again, slightly louder than before. But again, no replies were offered. Just the rumble of the road and hum of the van.
The noise was constant. He gauged the speed at motorway speed. He hadn't felt a turn for a while.
Shaun was tired. Emotionally exhausted. The joy of being released from prison after three years had been tainted by the ever-present shame and guilt that had coursed through him as a reminder that he was a sick and twisted man. Then the feeling of control he'd felt in the kitchen had been wonderful, almost uplifting. He was leaving, he was heading off to Europe to better himself, to make his mum proud of him again, and now fear had returned and sunk its bitter teeth into his skin.
He'd taken one step and been cut down.
He began to shiver, from both the fear and cold, so much so that his torso began to ache. With his legs pulled up to his chest, he forced his bound wrists over his knees to hold himself and preserve any body heat he could. In doing so, he felt the gaffer tape stretch, just a little.
