by Mark Stewart
PATRICK SILENTLY marched out of the apartment. In less than a minute he had changed his appearance, stepped out of the lift on the first floor and walked casually down the stairs. Instead of exiting the building through the main doors he used the fire escape. Slipping behind the steering wheel of the white van he started the engine and eased the vehicle away from the curb. At the road block, he was waved through by a smiling cop. Patrick stopped the van three streets from the building.
“The female cop shot me. I’ll fix her,” Patrick groaned. He used a blue cloth to hurriedly dress the wound. “Lucky for me the bullet only grazed my arm.” He spied a man walking his way. His collar was turned up against the cool breeze. Patrick whistled for him to stop.
“Phil Mason, what brings you out this time of night?”
The man walked over to the van, opened the passenger door and slid onto the front seat.
“I’m walking to the hospital to talk to Dr. Ashlee Clarke. I want to find out what she thinks of the band’s latest CD.”
“I’ve some sad news. I lost the CD.”
“It’s okay. I have a copy.” Phil produced a CD identical to the one Kendal had found at the park. “I am determined my band ‘Split Theory’ will be famous one day.”
“Hey, I’ve an idea. Drive this van to the hospital, dump it in a car park and put the CD on the Doc’s desk.”
“Why don’t you drive?” asked Phil.
Patrick picked up two large paper bags, stepped down from the van and stared through the open window. “I’ve some business to finish. Can you give Dr. Clarke a message?”
“Sure,” said Phil.
“Tell her we’ll catch up soon.” Using his hand, Patrick banged the roof of the van and walked off in the direction of Melbourne’s red light district.
The long afternoon shadows from the buildings had long disappeared. Rodents were starting to come out of the back alleys looking for entertainment. Night Angels were busy scurrying for their usual haunt in shop doorways. Their half-naked bodies were fluorescent lights for males seeking affection in wrong places.
Patrick stood behind a tree to light his cigarette. A white Mercedes driven by a tall, thin man stopped at the corner two street lights away. A night angel wearing a black mini skirt and a see through top stepped from a doorway. She strolled seductively to the driver’s door. She squatted to talk to the driver. Eventually, the young woman stood and waited for the Mercedes to be parked. The driver locked the car. Collecting her, he escorted the prostitute across the road towards a dirty cheap hotel.
Patrick’s lips parted into a wide grin. He walked across the street and marched towards the hotel carrying the two brown paper bags. A crossbow handle protruded from each bag. He shadowed the couple to a small room where the prostitute always took her clients. The room was situated at the rear of the building a long way from the main establishment. The tall man paid twenty dollars to a short, plump man and received a key. They entered one of the rooms and shut the door.
From behind a wide, medium size bush, Patrick watched the short man escort the female prostitute into the room and shut the door. Patrick waited five minutes before walking up to the door and knocking.
“Who is it?” growled a muffled voice.
“Room service,” called Patrick. “Someone has ordered a bottle of Champaign to highlight the romance of the night.”
The lock clicked. The door opened a tad.
“I don’t want to be disturbed,” explained the man through the crack in the door.
“Tuff,” bellowed Patrick, kicking out at the door. He slipped both loaded crossbows from their paper bags and pointed two arrows at the man.
The naked man lost his balance and fell to the floor. The prostitute screamed and started to dress.
“What do you want?” barked the man. He struggled to get to his feet. “If it’s money, I’ll pay whatever you ask.”
“I need to borrow your car. When I’m holding the key, I’ll leave you to enjoy the night.”
The man gave a shaky nod, walked over to the bed and fumbled for the car key still in his trouser pocket. Staring at Patrick, he lobbed the key high in the air. Charging harder than a wounded bull the man rugby tackled Patrick, yanking the balaclava off his head. In retaliation for his disobedience, Patrick swiped the crossbow across the man’s face. The man resembled a discarded pile of rags on the floor. Hovering over the screaming man, Patrick wrapped his fingers around the second crossbow and leveled it at the man’s chest. Through swelling eyes, he looked up.
“I know you.”
“And I know you too Dr. Markovic. Things would’ve been alright if you’d have just given me the keys to your Mercedes.”
“I won’t tell anyone,” pleaded Markovic. He raised his hands to cover his face.
The young prostitute was now fully dressed and cowering in the corner. Patrick paced the floor.
“You have to understand if I allow either you or the female to live I’m positive you’ll confess my identity to Kendal.”
“Please, I have a family,” sobbed Markovic.
“You should’ve thought about them before you picked up the whore. Now I want both of you to sit on the bed.”
“Why?”
“Sit on the bed,” growled Patrick. “You can blame Kendal over your shortened future.”
The girl’s screams were quickly silenced.
“Goodbye Dr. Markovic,” said Patrick calmly.
Patrick left the room, spotted a dark lane twenty feet from the next corner and drove the Mercedes halfway down. At the end of the lane, a small globe directly above a pile of wooden pallets shone brightly. Flapping clothes hung out to dry on a rusty metal line was the only movement in the grimy, stinking lane. Graffiti covered everything from the cobble-stoned ground to the glass windows.
“Perfect place for rodents,” he mumbled, slipping the balaclava over his head. He stepped down from the car and walked to the edge of the car’s headlight beam carrying a readied crossbow hidden inside the paper bag.
Laughter echoed off the narrow lane’s wall as rodent after rodent flooded the lane. There were thirteen in total, nine males, and four females, ranging from twelve to seventeen.
“Look at what we have for dinner tonight, people,” taunted a brave rodent.
“It’s a masked creature,” snickered a young female street kid.
“A baker’s dozen,” snarled Patrick. “Perfect.”
“What’s a baker’s dozen?” asked a timid street kid. He stood in a doorway staring at the visitor.
“I won’t explain. You’d forget the answer by sun up.”
“I ought to knock ya block off,” barked the lead street kid.
“You the leader?” probed Patrick.
The boy made a fist and slammed it home in the palm of his hand. “Who wants to know?”
“Name’s Patrick,” he growled.
“Queer name. I hate Queers. I could stick you right here and now. You’d be dead before you hit the ground.”
A flick knife’s blade extended with a snap. Patrick curled his thin lips into a smile and raised the paper bag to chest height. The group broke out into laughter.
“You gonna use a paper bag to hit me?” questioned the bull rodent.
Patrick pulled the bag away. Twenty-four eyes widened. The whole group shrunk back into the shadows of the lane.
The bull rodent stood his ground staring at Patrick. He started to laugh.
“It’s the reason why I’m the leader. I’m not scared. You’ve only one arrow in the crossbow. If you take me down, I’ve twelve others who’ll make a mess of you. I can guarantee you’ll go home in boxes before sunrise; very small boxes.”
The shadows erupted in cheers.
“You’ll be dead,” instructed Patrick.
“I’ll go to a better place, queer.”
“Are you sure? The after-life mightn’t look too kindly on a rodent.”
The leader took up a karate stance. “Bring it on.”
“I’ve a friend.” Patrick produced the revolver from a back pocket. “I persuaded a cop to give it up.”
“I don’t fight a person holding a gun. What do you want?” The lad folded his arms.
“One or two brave souls,” hinted Patrick.
A pimple-faced girl dug her elbow into the boy’s ribs she was standing shoulder to shoulder with.
“This is our chance,” she whispered in his ear. “The group will accept us if we do what he wants.”
The boy’s hands started trembling. “Are you positive it’s safe?”
The girl bravely stepped forward.
“Come,” called Patrick.
The girl took hold of the boy’s hand dragging him three steps closer. The boy yanked his hand free and started drumming his fingertips together.
“You wanna shoot an apple off our head?” asked the girl.
Patrick lowered the crossbow. “Nothing could be further from the truth.”
Although the group made a loud sigh, no one took their eyes off the hooded figure. The boy kept up his fidgeting.
“I’ve a proposition.”
“A what?” the girl asked.
“I’ve a paying job for you two,” growled Patrick. He roamed his stare between the boy and the girl.
Wide-eyed both kids looked at each other before returning their stare on the hooded figure.
“How much do we get?” asked the girl.
“You’ll do the job?”
The boy intensified his finger drumming. He looked mortified at having the chance to earn money.
“Show us the money. When I see the bucks, we’ll decide,” taunted the girl.
“You learn fast. I’ve never believed the rumours about street kids.”
“What rumours?”
“That you’re all stupid. Before you get all huffy, I’ll pay you a thousand bucks.”
“We need your word in writing,” growled the girl.
“You’d make a good lawyer.”
“Who do you want us to kill?” squeaked the boy.
“Nobody,” replied Patrick.
After hearing about what had to be done to earn the cash bonus street kids swarmed the lane. In moments, twenty kids were crowding around Patrick eager to help.
“The amount isn’t enough,” advised the leader.
“I’m not talking to you. In fact, you’re too late.” Patrick reached into a pocket, pulling out a wallet of notes. He threw it at the boy’s feet. He quickly stopped drumming his fingers together and swiped the envelope off the ground. Patrick grinned as he repeated the sequence for the girl. “A thousand bucks each, no questions.”
Both kid’s eyes sparkled.
“What happens if we take the money and don’t do the job?” asked the girl.
Patrick pointed the crossbow arrow directly at her heart.
“I know where you live.”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
