by Matt Hilton
Watched by the cat, I loaded both men into the rear compartment of their vehicle and then used a blanket from the back seat to cover them. I checked around, paying attention to the Seven-Eleven, but it seemed as if surveillance cameras weren’t deemed necessary out here in the sticks. Lastly, I brought a couple of handfuls of dirt from the weed-strewn boundary next to the forest, and scattered them over the pool of blood that had leaked from the stocky man’s neck. It wouldn’t fool a determined investigator, but that depended upon if anyone ever looked here and recognised it as a crime scene.
A single road led in and out of town, two lanes of blacktop that stretched arrow-straight back through the passes of the Allegheny Mountains. On the drive in, I’d noticed that the trails leading off from it had been disused in some years. Logging was a thing of the past here, and though the town got its share of tourists in the summer months, it wasn’t on the hiking trail map. The chances of anyone wandering up any of them in winter were probably negligible.
A mile out of town, I pulled into a rutted track that led up into the deep forest. It would have been preferable to take the corpses even further out in the wilderness but I still had to return to the Audi before the early shift arrived at the store. It was a given that I wouldn’t be bringing the SUV back.
Finding an offshoot from the trail, I turned down it, the branches of spruce and fir trees scraping on the paintwork. Two or three hundred yards in, I abandoned the vehicle and the dead men inside. With luck it would be weeks before they were discovered.
The trek back to town should have been a chore, but I welcomed the exercise. I jogged, and within minutes my blood was flowing freely and the ungainly limp — not to mention the residual pain from the kick I’d taken — were left somewhere in my wake. But I carried a new burden all the way.
I’d killed both those men with impunity.
I argued that given the opportunity they would have killed me, that my actions were pure self-defence. But now, with the heat of battle expunged, I couldn’t help feeling that perhaps I’d overstepped the line that I’d always drawn in the sand before now. The men had been dangerous enough, particularly the crazy one who seemed to know a thing or two about unarmed combat, but on reflection they were mugs. Nobody but a rank amateur shows their gun like that if he intends to use it. The mad one hadn’t even come with a gun. I got the nasty sense that the stocky man had been telling the truth. That they were there only to talk; to dissuade me from any further involvement and see me safely out of the way.
But the reason remained elusive: why did they want me out of the way?
They hadn’t just turned up by chance. They’d been watching me and waiting for my return to the deserted lot. Was there any truth in Don’s suspicions that Brook’s death was anything but a tragic accident? Had these men been involved? It was beginning to look that way.
If they were responsible for burning Brook alive then I’d no reason to regret killing them so savagely. In fact, if there was any truth in that, I’d have been happy that they were now dead and gone.
But a small grain of doubt remained.
I was running full-tilt by the time the forest opened up and I saw the town limit sign. I began to slow. If anyone had arrived at the Seven-Eleven in the interim, I didn’t want to turn up sweating and blowing and attract their attention. Better that I approach quietly, get in the Audi and drive away unobserved.
When I walked into the car park, only the car waited. I dug in my pocket and pulled out the keys, the largest still clotted with the stocky man’s blood. I grimaced, but then used the inside of a coat pocket to clean the mess. The coat would have to go, but there was no rush. The auto-locking mechanism had rearmed itself and I bleeped the locks open and climbed inside the car. As I was about to close the door, movement caught my eye.
The tomcat was sitting next to where I’d scattered the dirt over the blood. It was watching me while it lowered its head and sniffed at the floor. It nuzzled the earth once, probing with its tongue.
‘Hey!’
The cat jerked up its chin and scowled at me.
‘Are you hungry, boy? C’mon and we’ll see what we can find.’
The cat’s eyes widened and it stood up languidly. It began to pad towards the car. I held open the door and the cat came inside, surprisingly at ease with its new friend. It sat in the passenger seat and stared back at me, purring like an idling engine. Maybe the cat shared some kind of affinity with me. Maybe it simply wasn’t as feral as it looked. Or it was twice as hungry.
Holding out the back of my hand I allowed the cat to sniff it. Then it lowered its head and allowed me to rub the hair between its ears. At least there was someone in this godforsaken place who didn’t greet me with enmity. I’m a dog man and have never owned a cat — they seem too aloof and uncaring of the ways of humanity, but I saw now that perhaps I’d misjudged them. A bit like I was often misjudged.
Starting the Audi, I pulled out of the parking lot, trusting the arrival of customers’ vehicles to obliterate the proof of violence under their tyres.
The main strip was still deserted, as was the loop round the green. The wishing well, complete with peaked roof and ornamental bucket, stood proud at its centre, but hadn’t yet attracted any visitors. Not that it mattered even if there was a group of tourists hanging around. My intention of being gone from town before anyone noticed was redundant now. Even if I personally had not been expected, the two men I’d fought were proof that Don Griffiths’ house was under surveillance. Therefore it was pointless hiding; may as well drive up and park on Don’s driveway.
The tomcat allowed me to tuck it under my left arm. Idly scratching the cat’s chin I walked up the path to the front door. The cat purred louder as it enjoyed the unfamiliar contact, uncaring that I was actually scrubbing blood from its fur.
I leaned on the doorbell.
It took longer than the first time for the light to come on above me. While waiting, I peered back across the green towards the main road. No dark-coloured vehicles nosed out of alleyways this time. There was a heavy tread from within, and then the light above flicked to life. So did the one inside. The silhouette beyond the glass was too bulky to be Millie.
Don opened the door tentatively. When he recognised who was standing on the stoop, he jerked open the door and peered past me, checking all sides and then across the green. Finally he turned his attention to me. ‘You came back? You actually believe me?’
‘Something happened to make up my mind.’
‘So you’re going to help?’
‘If I do this I want something from you in return.’
‘I’ll pay you. Just name your price.’
‘I don’t want your money.’ I held up the tom. ‘Feed the cat.’
Don looked down at the ragged old thing. ‘You’re kidding, right?’
‘No,’ I said. ‘I want you to take him in. The old boy needs a home.’
Don shook his head in incredulity. But he reached out for the cat.
Immediately the tom hissed, and I felt its muscles bunching as it prepared to defend itself. I dropped the cat, expecting it to make a dash for freedom. To my surprise it swerved round Don and into the house. I smiled: the cat was evidently a good judge of character, but it also knew where it was well off.
‘Probably flea-ridden and has feline AIDS,’ Don muttered. He moved back allowing me to come inside. ‘But if those are your terms, you’ve got a deal. The grandkids will love having it around.’
Glancing down I saw a gun lying on the stand next to the door. It hadn’t been there earlier; Don had obviously brought it. Don caught me looking and coughed in embarrassment. He picked up the gun and tucked it into his trouser pocket.
‘I take it you weren’t expecting me to come back?’
Don shook his head. ‘You said something happened to change your mind?’
My head went down, a shadow flitting across my features that had nothing to do with the cap’s brim. ‘I just killed two men who were watching
your house.’
Don took a step back, a hand going to his throat. He tugged at his beard, pinching it between index finger and thumb. From the way he stared it was as if he was awaiting the punchline of a sick joke. When I didn’t deliver, he asked, ‘You’re not serious, are you?’
‘I don’t take killing men lightly, despite what you might’ve heard.’
Don moved for the front door, as if checking that the corpses were piled on his front lawn.
‘Relax, Don. I’ve got rid of them.’
‘Where?’
‘Out in the forest.’
‘Jesus!’ Don ran his hands through his hair. Sweat from his palms made his hair stand up. It didn’t take long for the truth to sink in. ‘So I was right all along? Hicks is after my family?’
I pulled off my cap and thrust it into a jacket pocket. ‘I killed two men. I’m just not sure that they had anything to do with whoever is threatening you.’
Like the tugging on his beard, and the chewing of his moustache, the way Don’s hand went inside his trouser pocket was an unconscious act. He folded his hand round the butt of the gun. Hopefully he’d had the presence of mind to lock the safety on. ‘Who else could have sent them?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘But you killed them anyway?’
‘It was me or them.’ There was no conviction in my voice. Don was no shrink, but he didn’t have to be to recognise the doubt in my mind.
‘Sometimes we all do things we regret, Hunter.’
I held the older man’s gaze. He wasn’t referring to the two men: he was trying to smooth over the act that had driven a wedge between us all those years ago. ‘It’s just a shame that people have to die for our mistakes.’
Don nodded slowly. No argument from him.
I touched the old man’s wrist and then gently took his hand off the gun. ‘Put that away before someone else gets injured.’
Don opened a drawer in the stand, slipped the gun inside. He locked the drawer and tucked the key into his back pocket, then searched my face as if it held all the answers. ‘What are we going to do, Hunter?’
‘Leave it to me, Don. You’ve a job of your own.’
Don had no idea what I was referring to. As a reminder there was a racket from the kitchen, a clatter of pans and dishes shifting as the cat rummaged for scraps.
‘He’s very hungry,’ I said. ‘Feed him. I’ll try to find out who those two guys were.’
‘And if they were sent by Hicks?’
‘Then we get ready for the next ones to come.’
Chapter 5
Daybreak came late to Bedford Well. The wooded slopes that surrounded the town blocked the sun’s march over the horizon, throwing jagged shadows across the green and over the rooftops of the houses on the western side. Those on the eastern side remained in darkness and people inside had to turn on lamps so they could see to eat their breakfasts. The wind had picked up exponentially, casting detritus and litter across the otherwise deserted street, adding to the grim outlook of the day.
Looking out of a window on the ground floor, I had my thumbs tucked into the waistband of my jeans. I was wearing a denim shirt, the sleeves rolled up to my elbows and the tail out to cover the SIG SAUER P226 tucked in the small of my back. Earlier I’d stuffed my leather jacket into the furnace to get rid of any trace evidence from the two men I’d killed. I was pretty sure that I was clean, even if the same couldn’t be said for my conscience.
Millie came into the room behind me. She’d dressed in navy trousers and a lilac blouse nipped in at the waist with a belt. Her dark hair had been pulled tight into a ponytail and she only wore the slightest dab of make-up — strategically placed to conceal the dark rings beneath her eyes. She looked exactly like someone who’d cried herself to sleep.
‘Here.’ She held up a large steaming mug of coffee.
Accepting it gratefully I inhaled the aroma and took a deep gulp. It hit the spot and I sighed. ‘Thanks, Millie, I need this. It’s about the only thing that keeps me going these days.’
She nodded at my words, but there was more to her gesture. ‘I was surprised to find you here when I woke up. When you left last night, I thought that was it.’
She thought they’d been abandoned to their fate.
‘I reconsidered.’ Neither Don nor I had told her about the two men I’d killed.
‘You don’t look particularly happy with your decision.’
I sipped the coffee. Watched her over the top of the cup. ‘I’ve a lot on my mind, that’s all.’
‘Want to tell me?’ There was little conviction in her offer. ‘A problem shared…’
Isn’t always a problem halved. In fact, if I told her what was on my mind it would only cause more concern for the young woman. It was enough that she was grieving the loss of her sister, without worrying about what my actions might bring.
‘It’s nothing I can’t deal with,’ I said with equal lack of conviction.
When I’d been demobilised from the Special Forces I’d been recalled to the secret base on the north-western Scottish coastline: Arrowsake — a code name derived from a mispronunciation of Arisaig, the fabled home of the Special Operations Executive, the forerunner of the modern MI5. There I’d undergone debriefing and what I’d come to understand as debugging. It was necessary that the military shrinks did their best to reintegrate me into society without any of the baggage associated with killing men for over fourteen years. The last thing the military wanted was to let me loose unhinged and with the capacity for ongoing slaughter. I suspected that they’d only partially succeeded.
Proof of that theory was my overreaction to the threat posed by the two men in the Seven-Eleven parking lot. I possessed the skills to disarm both and to put them to sleep for a short spell while making myself scarce. But the old reactions had kicked in unchecked and I’d dealt with the men in the same way as when hunting terrorists and enemy soldiers.
Now in the cold afterwash of battle there was no excuse for my actions. I could lie; argue that I was merely defending my life; that if I hadn’t acted that way then it would have been me who was dumped out in the forest for the wildlife to feed upon.
The truth of the matter was that I hadn’t been fearful of the men. In fact it was the exact opposite: I’d relished the confrontation. For three months now I’d been healing from my previous encounter with a genuine challenge. Luke Rickard — a professional contract killer — had almost ended my life. He’d shot me, stabbed me in the leg, pulled me off the roof of a building in his last moments. I’d been broken and bleeding to death; the medics had fought to save my life. Surgical intervention had saved my physical being, but what of my mental state?
Doubt had set in. I was lame and my hand wasn’t in full working order. What good was I to anyone in that frail condition?
Thinking on it now, it wasn’t disbelief of Don’s story, or even the old enmity that the two of us shared, that urged me turn the car round and flee back to Florida. It was the self-doubt; that I’d be unable to do anything to help. Subconsciously I’d killed those two mugs to prove something to myself. But at what price? Had it made a murderer of me? A bully? The very thing that I’d always despised?
I studied Millie, and decided. No. At the back of my mind I’d seen the men as a threat to her, and to her sister’s children.
‘Do you want more coffee?’
Millie reached out for the mug that I’d drained. I hadn’t been conscious of finishing it, or that I now held the empty mug to my lips. I handed it over. ‘I’d appreciate it.’
‘Breakfast? I could cook something for you.’
‘Coffee will be fine.’
‘You should eat.’
I should, I might need the strength. But I wasn’t sure that I could hold anything down for long. ‘Just coffee… please.’
Millie swung round, heading out the room.
‘Millie.’
She turned back. Her mouth was pinched and there were two red spots on her cheeks. I
said, ‘I’m sorry I didn’t come when your father first asked. I truly am.’
‘I’ll get your coffee.’
Following her to the kitchen would serve no purpose. Millie’s offer to cook breakfast was her way of breaking down the barrier her sister’s death had placed between us. By my refusal I’d done nothing to help the matter. Going in there would only make things more awkward. When she came back with the second coffee there would be an opportunity to try again.
Turning back to the window, I peered across the green towards the main road into town. There was movement now, people finally bracing themselves against the elements to get on with their lives. Kids were hanging out by the green, waiting to be picked up for school. On my walk through town last night I’d noticed a school house, but it must cater only for the younger children. These older ones were probably bussed to a high school in the larger neighbouring town of Hertford. The college-age kids maybe only returned to town during holidays, if they returned at all. There didn’t seem much here to hold them; other than the family businesses and occasional chain store I hadn’t noted much else in the way of industry.
Kids were pretty much the same wherever I travelled. Fashions in clothing and hairstyles, the colour of their skin, might be different, but the group fooling around as they waited for the school bus could have been standing on any street corner in the western world. Pennsylvanian kids weren’t so different from those I’d been familiar with back home in the UK.
The two standing by the wishing well were different though.
Not only in appearance but by the intensity with which they stared back at me through the window.
It was a boy who, when I studied his smooth features and gangly frame, didn’t look like he’d made twenty years old yet. He was wearing jeans and boots and a black leather jacket emblazoned with patches and flags. He’d an archaic quiff hairstyle, greased and coiffed to Elvis perfection. The girl with him looked older. She had a retro look about her too. But she was more punk rocker than greaser. She had on a tartan mini that was strategically frayed around the hem, over bright yellow stockings and pink shoes. A white T-shirt daubed with splashes of colour was only partially hidden by the leather jacket she’d decorated with studs and chains. Another thin chain looped from her right nostril to her right earlobe, and her platinum hair was spiked high and then tipped with pink.
