“Not wrong there, sir,” his partner agreed, already rising from his seat and leaning over the recorder as he wound up the rest of the reel in preparation for its removal. “Better get him on the blower straight away.”
Goulburn Valley Highway near Tocumwal
Northern Victoria, Australia
Brandis pushed the Ford V8 sedan to over 100 kilometres per hours as it hurtled along the single lane highway heading north, its headlights nowhere near bright enough to give him sufficient warning should a kangaroo or other dangerous obstacle be blocking the road ahead. Once again, as he had countless times that afternoon, he cursed the fact that a random lightning strike that afternoon had put the local telephone exchange out of action, leaving Tocumwal’s civilian residents effectively without communications.
The drive to nearby Cobram wasn’t a long one however the short notice he’d had in discovering the phones were down meant that he was desperately pressed for time on an evening he could ill afford to be away from the church for even a moment, particularly at night. It was still raining – albeit lightly compared to the heavy storms earlier that day – and the light sheen of water across the road made every corner a battle for control with the Ford as it skittered across potholes and irregularities in the road at a speed that was far greater than was safe under those conditions.
It’ll serve no one if you get us killed, the voice in his head pointed out slowly, almost sounding as if it truly were a little frightened (although he suspected that was no more than a projection of the anxiety he felt regarding other pressing matters).
“I sincerely doubt my death would affect you lot all that much...” Brandis muttered drily through clenched teeth as he struggled to turn the wheel into a particularly difficult corner and felt the tyres threatening to let go on the wet road. “You’ll just move on to the next poor ‘sucker’ in the queue...”
Be that as it may, we’d all still prefer you didn’t do anything... more stupid. None of us have any desire to go through all this again.
“Well I’m more concerned for Briony at this moment,” Brandis hissed in return, barely able to back off the steering wheel just enough to bring the wandering rear end back into line as the Ford powered out of the apex of the bend and hurtled on through the drizzling rain. “An hour wasted with this pissing about because of a freak lightning strike. You lot might have mentioned it...”
If this had happened before we would have...! Weather patterns shouldn’t change but it’s been known to happen on rare occasions. Blame an aberration in the temporal wave for that one: butterfly effect and all that...
“I’ll choose to assume you’re referring to the original Bradbury short story rather than that bloody movie,” Brandis snapped, trying to affect some forced humour but mostly failing as tension caused a waver in his voice.
It may not be tonight... the tone was hopeful but not really convincing.
“‘The Book’ lists tonight as being about ninety per cent likely, so I’d rather not take the chance.”
You’ll make it...
“I’d bloody well better...”
St Peter’s Church, Tocumwal
New South Wales, Australia
Three days had passed since the fire, and most of Briony’s waking hours during that time had been quite understandably filled with a continuous stream of tears and despair. Incapable of eating anything and barely even able to drink a glass of water or two, she’d remained shut away in the cottage behind the church, withdrawing to the spare room that by default had now become her only home. There was little more than a bed, desk and wardrobe inside that room – all small – and the only illumination that night was the faint, yellow glow of a single, half-burned candle that rested in a holder atop the wooden desktop.
The funeral had been held the day before, Briony, Brandis and Mrs Tuttle the only mourners present as Father O’Donnell had read the eulogy at the closed-casket ceremony. Maude Morris did not attend. Ostensibly she was too busy dealing with the destruction of the hotel to spare the time, and although others in the local community might have privately condemned her actions, no one else made any effort either.
In spite of her failings it would’ve been unfair to say Maude was happy about her sister-in-law’s death (over and above the obvious catastrophe that was the loss of the hotel, of course), however it was also true that she felt no real grief either. The situation was unfortunate – one she’d certainly not have wished upon anyone – but to her mind, her priority now was organising the rebuilding of the hotel and she was happy to leave ‘less pressing’ matters for others to sort out. That she was in the process neglecting the needs of her only niece while her brother-in-law was serving in North Africa never entered her thoughts, nor did the potential ramifications.
Briony herself couldn’t have cared less about the hotel, or about her aunt for that matter. Lying alone in that room on her small single bed, she pulled the blankets over her and curled up into a ball, tears welling in her eyes once more as the sobs began again, her entire body shaking as she tried unsuccessfully to stifle her own wails of despair. Her mother – her closest friend and the only blood relative – was dead and Arthur Morris - the only father she’d ever known – was thousands of miles away.
The War Department had been notified of Eliza’s death, but the situation in North Africa at that moment meant it was entirely possible he might not learn of it for some time yet. Mrs Tuttle knew the reality of that as she stood outside the door and listened in sadness, tears in her own eyes. She could remember all too well the agony of losing loved ones and the open wounds left behind in one’s heart and mind that never truly healed. Her own losses were deep in the past now but she felt the young girl’s pain and loneliness all the same.
Working hard to repress her own terrible memories, she wandered slowly off down the hall toward the kitchen. The curate would be back soon and he’d no doubt need a nice warm tea after being out on such an unpleasant evening. Keeping busy helped during moments of weakness and vulnerability, and keeping busy was exactly what Edwina Tuttle intended to do.
The church grounds covered a large square block on the south-western corner of Tuppal and Charlotte Streets that measured close to 100m or more a side. The church itself occupied just a fraction of that space – the cottage behind even less – and most of the southern half of the tree- and scrub-filled block lay currently unused and awaiting further developments that had been placed on hold by a rather inconvenient world war. Aided by thick rain clouds above, daylight had fled the town quickly that evening and left behind a darkness that was barely penetrated by the country town’s sparse street lighting.
Eddie didn’t care much about the rain. It was an annoyance to be certain, but little more than that as he watched the cottage and church surrounds from beneath the cover of trees at the rear of the property. His army-issue rain slicker kept him relatively dry and the olive-drab colouring help him to disappear completely into the surrounding night as he stared on, licking his lips faintly in anticipation.
Raping and murdering Eliza Morris had been his first for some months and he’d enjoyed it immensely, but in the end it had only served to whet his appetite for the innocent girl who was truly the current object of his dark desires. He’d sneaked away the moment he’d come off duty. It was dangerous to be caught off base without a leave pass but in his heightened state of excitement, the more sensible parts of his brain had been sublimated by a rising level of compulsion that had only been made worse by the murder-rape of three days before.
O’Donnell was in his own room near the front of the cottage. He was clearly visible, seated at his small desk, near a small side window at the far corner of the building as the old man went about whatever administrative or religious business a priest concerned themselves with at day’s end. He could also see Mrs Tuttle wandering about through the kitchen windows at the other end of the cottage, and that left just the faint illumination he could see behind the closed curtains of a window near the midd
le of the house. He couldn’t see inside that from his position, but his unnatural, animal cunning somehow told him that room was where he would find his prey.
There was the matter of Brandis to be considered of course, but the presence of everyone else and the absence of the parish’s Ford V8 suggested he was out somewhere. Certainly he might return at any time, but somehow the added tension that possibility created only served to increase Eddie’s excitement. That being said he nevertheless felt a faint, involuntary shudder as he thought about the curate. Their last, unsettling encounter had left a mark upon his psyche that had in no way diminished since. Brandis would have to die also – there was no avoiding that fact (even if Eddie had wanted do, which he did not) – but that would be purely for reasons of his own security; he gained no pleasure from the killing of men.
Deciding on the moment to act, Eddie moved out from the cover of the trees and moved as quickly as he could while maintaining a reasonable level of care and silence, his undetected progress aided significantly by the soft but insistent background patter of falling rain. He’d had no further combat or field training since his time at boot camp, but he was a predator after all and such things as stealth and cunning were instinctive as a result.
Halfway across the open grass behind the house he was forced to throw himself flat as a car suddenly turned into the bottom of Charlotte street and headed in his direction, the pale beams of the headlights through the trees casting eerie shadows across the landscape. He lay motionless on the wet ground, ignoring the dampness that instantly soaked into his clothes as the vehicle passed on through the intersection with Tuppal and pulled over to the kerb a few doors up.
His vision was obstructed by the main church buildings, but he could tell from the sound of the engine and the squeak of brakes that it had parked some distance away and was therefore of no further interest to him. Rising to his haunches, he checked Father O’Donnell and Mrs Tuttle through their respective open windows, confirming neither was paying any attention or looking in his direction before rising completely to his feet once more and crossing the remaining distance to the back wall of the house in just a few seconds.
With his back to the peeling weatherboards, he slowly moved along the wall until he reached the only covered widow that could be seen from the rear of the property. Thick curtains indeed hung behind the glass panes but there was a space of a few centimetres at one side of the frame where care hadn’t been taken to close them completely. As carefully as he was able, Eddie moved one eye slowly to the opening and peered in. Already laboured with tension and excitement, his breath momentarily caught as he immediately spied Briony curled up inside on her bed across the opposite side of the room, little more than her dark hair visible as the blankets heaved with her continuing sobs. His throat went suddenly dry as he glanced up and realised that beyond all his hopes, the window was not even latched and could be opened with just the press of his hand.
Eddie was stuck for a moment as to what to do next. He so badly wanted to throw that window open and fulfil his lust for violence and murder. He could hear Buddy talking to him now... pleading with him to slip his hands around her beautiful throat and force his way inside her. But to do that right then and there would also mean he would have to kill O’Donnell and the old woman, and as desperate and deranged as Eddie Leonski was, he most certainly wasn’t stupid or suicidal.
“I really was hoping you wouldn’t come,” Brandis hissed softly, words laced with venomous rage, “but I knew you would all the same...” That unmistakeable voice behind Eddie at that moment ultimately decided the matter for him.
He turned instantly, the fiery glow of insanity in his eyes as his body tensed in preparation to attack. Instead he was forced to pull back at the last moment as he was presented with the quite unexpected and unsettling sight of what at a distance of just a few metres seemed to be an absolutely huge automatic pistol pointed directly at his face. That an equally-large silencer appeared to be screwed to its muzzle was not lost on Eddie either, making it quite clear that this meant he could be shot dead in almost complete silence without anyone else being any the wiser.
It was also the first time he’d seen the man out of his church robes – Brandis was instead dressed in a pair of army-style combat pants and a ‘Howard Green’ jumper, although in this case both were as black as night itself. Even at such close range it was difficult to make out any detail save for the pale glow of his face and hands in the sparse lighting. His hair was lank and wet and hung heavily across his face in several loose strands, adding to his generally wild appearance.
“Now listen, padre…” Eddie croaked softly, his voice a little hoarse due in equal parts to his dry throat and the sudden and rather unpleasant fear of his life he was now experiencing – a sensation that was new and quite definitely unpleasant. Even so, like any cunning predator he was thinking on his feet and recognised that he needed to buy some time if he was to hope for any chance of escape.
“Shut the fuck up…!” Brandis hissed in return, cutting him off as the pistol remained rock steady. “You’ve nothing you can say to me that will make any difference, you murdering piece of shit. Just shut your mouth, turn around and start walking back over to those trees at the back of the property…”
“Why…?” Eddie demanded, voice still hushed but showing a little more resolve as he incorrectly deduced what he assumed to be the reason for the command. “So you can shoot me over there where no one will see? Not a chance, asshole…!”
“I’ll shoot you where you fucking stand right now if you don’t do what you’re bloody-well told…!”
“Shoot me here and the slugs will go straight through the house as well at this range – might hurt someone you do care about...” It was quick thinking on Eddie’s part to throw that back in the man’s face and he was particularly proud of himself for it.
“Fella, the slugs I’m using would be lucky to penetrate weatherboard by the time they’ve gone through you…” Brandis replied with conviction, a positively evil smile sliding across his features. “They’ll leave a hole the size of a dinner plate in you though…”
The ammunition in his pistol was hand loaded and he’d had the bullets made to his own set of specifications. With standard jacketed hollow-point rounds taken as the starting point, they’d been hollowed out further and filled with number-12 birdshot before being capped with a small plug of molten lead. The resulting round really would leave a plate-sized hole in a living target yet fail to penetrate anything much more solid than thin plywood. Brandis was pretty sure Eddie had never heard of Glaser Safety Slugs, which had been the inspiration for his own design – but he could clearly see the man’s resolve waver at the thought of having a hole blown in his chest that one could comfortably fit one’s fist through.
Shoot him…! Shoot the bastard now…!
“Shut up, for Christ’s sake…!” Brandis snarled softly as he turned his head slightly to one side. “I don’t need your shit right now!”
“I didn’t say anything…”
“Not you, dickhead…! Mind your own bloody business! You think you’re the only one who hears voices in his head? You think I’m like one of those poor, defenceless women you murdered back in Melbourne…? Or like Eliza Morris, for that matter?” The revelation that Brandis knew about what he’d done to Eliza, and about the killings in Melbourne made Eddie’s eyes fly wide with shock. “You have no idea who you’re dealing with...” He paused for a moment as if an idea had suddenly occurred to him, and a malevolent smile flickered across his features. “There’s a thought... why don’t I show you?”
The nearest streetlight facing them – positioned at the intersection of Charlotte and Adams – was visible above the roof of the next house along but it was some distance away and it cast a poor light at best across the proceedings. Even so, Brandis suspected there was enough illumination to suit his purposes.
It was a something Brandis had learned over many years: a trick of the mind that was quite sim
ple and yet at the same time had taken more than a lifetime to perfect. He’d spent most of his life pretending to be someone he wasn’t… or at least, someone he’d not started out being. Every day for the man answering to the name of Brandis was another day hiding behind the mask of an identity whose maintenance was ninety per cent psychological. Over the years he’d developed that necessity for disguise to the point that it was now almost a telepathic ability – a mental ‘shield’ the he kept raised at all times through pure reflex. In that moment, he fixed Eddie with a gaze more profound than the darkest ocean depths and consciously allowed the disguise to fall away.
For Eddie it seemed as if the man before him had suddenly grown several inches taller in an instant: his back seemed straighter and his shoulders seemed wider. And then he dragged his eyes away from those momentary distractions and instead attempted to match the stare he was being given.
“…No…” he breathed softly, momentarily rooted to the spot as he found himself gazing into eyes that were two ageless black pits whirling away into death and destruction. That was no harmless curate standing before him now; instead he saw a strong, powerful and – more importantly – incredibly dangerous individual who was quite clearly capable of anything if forced into a corner.
The two men stared at each other in silence for a long moment, and Eddie finally began to realise something of what he was truly dealing with in James/Phillip Brandis. Eddie was accustomed to the concept of hearing Buddy’s voice in his own head… accustomed to the myriad of twisted and perverse ideas that spawned there that he’d always been so eager to act out. That someone else also heard voices was an alien concept that left him feeling rattled to the core.
“What are you gonna do…? …To me…?” There was less bravado and more honest fear in that question, and it drew another predatory smile to Brandis’ lips.
“Well… first you’re going to walk back over to those trees like I told you…” he repeated the command, this time gesturing slightly in the specified direction with the muzzle of the automatic. “…I promise you that as much as it would make me feel so much better to drop you where you stand, if you do what I ask then at the very least you’ll not die this night.” He shrugged, and it was the complete lack of care or interest that really forced Eddie to make up his mind as Brandis added: “Try anything funny and there won’t be enough left between your ears to fit into a matchbox.” This time there was no amalgam of ‘mixed’ European accents in Brandis’ tone: now there was only his voice... his real voice... a voice that was loaded with such cold, hard indifference that it sent a chill through the American from head to toe.
Winds of Change (Empires Lost Book 2) Page 46
