by J G Alva
Two police cars were parked out front, their emergency lights making the shadows jump and flit in the bushes surrounding the property…but other than that, the night was quiet. The garage door was open, and there was a car inside, and space for two more.
Pat pulled up to one side of the small dirt forecourt and got out.
He looked around. A sprinkling of stars dotted the night sky. To his left, tyre tracks had raked an otherwise trim and well-tended lawn. Trees ran the length of one side of the property, while a row of low bushes covered the other side. Beyond them, Pat could see lights from another house hidden amongst the trees.
Darren appeared in the front door then, a notebook in his hand. He waved, and Pat joined him.
“Darren,” he said. “What have we got?”
Darren raised his eyebrows comically.
“Come inside. I’ll show you.”
The interior of the house was just as ostentatious as the driveway, in its own way: parquet flooring, split levels, and a ridiculously large fish tank dominated a back wall. Small box rooms were visible through multiple doorways.
“The call came in from the neighbour,” Darren explained. “She heard shouts, and then saw four cars racing up the drive.”
“And we don’t think it was just a party?”
“No. Take a look at this.”
Darren indicated one of the large windows beside the front door. It was broken, and glass was scattered inside.
“We think they gained entry through here,” he said.
“Hm.”
“There’s more. Let me show you.”
Pat followed behind Darren as he led the way further into the house.
Bob was in the kitchen recess. He was busy consuming a pack of Mini Cheddars.
“Hi, Pat,” he said pleasantly.
“Bob.”
“Nice night for it,” he remarked wryly.
Bob’s physical decline was sad to see, but Pat was aware of the reason behind it, and forgave him his current condition: overweight, unshaven, long hair unkempt.
Beside him, the refrigerator had been attacked, its door pocked and dented, its contents scattered and sprayed around the interior and on the floor in front of it.
“What happened here?” Pat asked.
Bob shrugged but Darren said, “it looks like someone took an axe to the refrigerator.”
“Probably upset about how much interest they were paying on the HP,” Bob quipped.
“Do we know who owns the place?” Pat asked.
Darren referred to his notebook.
“Uh…a Gregory Matheson.”
“What does he do?” Pat asked.
“Millionaire,” Darren said. “Or so I gather. He runs and owns a big conglomerate.”
“They’re into a lot of bits and bobs,” Bob said. “The conglomerate. But primarily it’s a tech company. Computers, mobile phones, that sort of thing.”
“Well,” Pat said, and indicated the refrigerator. “I suppose this makes some kind of sense. At least in their eyes.”
“There’s more, in the garage,” Darren said, indicating a door at the far end of the kitchen.
Both Bob and Pat followed Darren as he went through it.
Inside the garage, plastic sheeting had been laid on the floor, and underneath an impressive array of power tools a collection of medical bottles had been arranged. Incongruously, a hospital gurney resided in the garage section; it looked as if it had been discarded in a hurry. It lay against the side of an impressive sports car, as if seeking comfort.
Bob pulled gloves on and looked at the bottles, reading out their labels as he went through them.
“We have Flucloxacillin – which is for infections – we have Coumadin and Marevan – which is to stop blood clots – we have Lexapro – which can be used for anxiety, I think…”
“What was going on here?” Pat asked.
He went to the gurney. A sheet was pooled at the bottom, and the pillow had been dented. Someone had been lying on this gurney. But who? And why?
“It gets better,” Bob said, holding up a finger. “Take a look at this.”
Pat followed Bob as he walked to the open garage door. He stopped directly beneath it, and then pointed at the ceiling.
Pat looked up, and to his surprise, saw an arrow stuck in the woodwork.
“So it’s them,” Pat said, satisfied, at least to an extent.
“The woman who called it in also said something interesting,” Darren added, looking at his notebook. “Her name is Joan Fisher. We can over and talk to her, if you want. She said she’ll still be up.”
“What did she say?” Pat asked.
“Uh…she said she saw a car driving away at high speed. She didn’t know what the make was. But” – and here he paused dramatically – “the other cars – also driving at high speed – that went after it, she said there was a picture on the door, of the front one.”
“What do you mean, a picture?” Pat asked.
“A painting,” Darren explained. “You know. A mural. On the passenger side door.”
“What was the mural of?” Pat asked.
“Mrs Fisher said she only caught a very brief glimpse of it, but it was of a child in chains, with a sort of halo around his head.”
“That’s it then,” Bob said, nodding his head emphatically. “It’s the Artisans.”
“But they’ve never been violent before,” Pat remarked. “Or even shown any tendency towards violence.”
“That we know of,” Darren interjected.
Pat looked around at the garage, at the plastic sheeting on the floor, at the drugs lined up on the work table against the back wall, at the hospital gurney.
“What in God’s name was going on here?”
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