Snow Burn: A thrilling detective mystery

by PT Reade

  That taught wire in my brain finally snapped.

  I grabbed Stoyanov around the throat and squeezed. The thought of this disgusting monster near my family burned hot in my chest. I wanted to shut the prick up. I wanted him to hurt. I suddenly didn’t care about the answers, I wanted him dead.

  I saw Stoyanov’s eyes start to bulge, and he thrashed wildly as I fumed with rage, squeezing ever tighter. His windpipe started to buckle under my palms. Darkness overtook me, and I could think of nothing but finishing this guy off.

  Then I saw them in my mind again. Sarah and Tommy looking at what Daddy was doing.

  A wash of shame overwhelmed me.

  Oh God. This isn’t me.

  I instantly relaxed my grip and almost slumped to the floor, overwhelmed. If not for the task at hand, I would have broken into pieces on the dusty ground. Instead, I took several steadying breaths, hands on my knees.

  I looked the bastard over carefully. His chest heaved in ragged gasps, head lolling to one side, face streaked with tears. I had come within seconds of ending his miserable existence like some low-rent angel of death.

  Who the hell am I?

  I slowly regained my composure and tried another tactic.

  “You’re probably right,” I finally spoke quietly. “Which brings us to the final option.” I paused and turned a hard look his way, pointing the knife. “Final for you anyway. What I think I’ll do is place a call to some specialist friends of mine and give them your location.”

  This seemed to stir him a bit. His bloodshot eyes grew wide again, and he struggled a bit against the chains, swinging slightly.

  “Here’s the kicker, though,” I said, pausing for effect, ashamed at how much I loved doing this to people. Well…not people. Just him.

  “I’m going to place this call to the ring leader of a…specialist establishment. Some big butch dudes, you might call them faggots. They are very much into tattooed men like yourself. In fact, I’ve already spoken with them. If I can deliver them a morsel like you, I get a nice little cash prize.”

  “You’re lying,” he coughed, voice rough and uncertain.

  “You think so?” I knew I’d touched a nerve. “Here’s the thing. They’ll bring a camera. They’ll videotape what they do to the chained man. They’ll put it online. And when they do, I’ll have them send me the link. And I will then send it to your employer, girlfriend, and mother.”

  “Fuck you, Yank.” Stoyanov croaked, sounding more and more desperate.

  “I believe you’re the one in that role. Real soon, in fact. That is, unless you tell me about the chemical found in Ashburn’s coke.”

  “I, I can’t,” he sighed.

  “If that’s what you want,” I said, turning to walk away. “I don’t think these guys have a safe word. But I did tell them to not do so much damage that the government men wouldn’t have anything left to wail on after.”

  I made it all the way across the room before he caved. “Wait!” he said. “Stop. I’ll tell you.”

  I stopped, but didn’t cross back over to him. I wanted him to see me by the door, just inches from leaving him to hang, exposed to my fictitious threats.

  “Yes?” I said, over my shoulder.

  “Okay, man. I stole the shit from work, but it wasn’t for me!”

  “Where do you work?” I asked. I knew the answer; I just needed him to confirm my suspicions.

  “Parkington Industrial” he said, sounding broken.

  “The Chemical Plant.”

  “Yeah. Man…but…but…Ashburn was the one who told me to do it.”

  “Ashburn? He told you to steal the stuff?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Bullshit,” I said. I brought my phone out and made sure that Stoyanov saw it.

  “No, it’s true. I swear! He paid me three grand.”

  “Why are you lying like this?”

  “I swear,” he said pleading with his eyes. “It’s true. I have an e-mail. You can see it on my phone.”

  “Where’s your phone?” I asked.

  “In my pocket.”

  I walked over to him and removed his cellphone from his pocket, trying not to wretch at his stink of sweat and urine. I went through the e-mails on his phone and sure enough, there was an e-mail. The message told Stoyanov the name of the chemical to steal, Beryllium, and how much. The e-mail even had the signature at the bottom that read From the Offices of Jonathan Ashburn.

  “This makes no sense,” I mumbled.

  “I know, fucker was crazy. But man…look, don’t let his men get to me. Or the other guys. Anyone! Just let me down.”

  I really didn’t understand this. Why would Ashburn ask this prick to steal the stuff that would kill him?

  “I’m going to borrow this for a second,” I said, showing Stoyanov his own phone.

  “Yeah, man. Cool. Whatever. But let me down, okay?”

  “We’ll see,” I said. Then, I added: “What? You don’t want to make your movie debut tonight?”

  He let out a whimper as I walked to the other side of the warehouse with his phone. I still had more questions than answers, but at least I had a place to start.

  ***

  Just outside the warehouse, sheltering from the snow under a tattered awning, I spent a few minutes sipping from my flask and looking through Stoyanov’s phone. I found an entire conversation between the two men, and as I read through, it became very apparent to me that Ashburn had been in some serious trouble during his last days.

  The story unfolded as Stoyanov’s cries echoed faintly behind me.

  The communications between Ashburn and Stoyanov were scant and short, but there was more than enough for me to get a picture of what was going on in the man’s life. As I read, a few things became painfully clear. First and foremost, that Ashburn regretted his choices. He was desperately trying to kick his cocaine addiction and failing miserably. Stoyanov had been keeping him hooked on the stuff and seemed to have an awful lot of leverage for a low-level thug.

  But just as soon as I found myself getting sympathetic for the man, I discovered something else in an offhanded mention in one of the e-mails. References to computer files in Ashburn’s office that would “reveal everything.” It sounded important.

  Blackmail, evidence, secret recordings?

  Hell, for all I knew they were a collection of Ashburn’s favorite funny cat videos but I had a feeling that amid the dead politician’s computer files were the secrets I needed to crack the case.

  I closed out the e-mails and walked back through the cavernous space to Stoyanov.

  “Thank you for the information,” I said. “By the way. Do I really look like the kind of guy with friends at some underground S&M club?”

  Eyes widened. “You bastard,” he seethed.

  “I suppose I am. And as a bastard, I’m going to leave you here to think about what kind of person you are. Maybe soon I’ll place a real call. I think the police would be very interested in having a long conversation with you about your activities lately.

  He shook in his chains and then spat. I suppose it was directed at me, but it missed by about two feet.

  “Enjoy your afternoon,” I said, glad to be leaving.

  He screamed vitriol at me, and it echoed through the empty warehouse. It bounced from the walls and was still in my ears when I walked outside to my car.

  I need those files from Ashburn’s office, I thought as I cranked the engine to life. As I headed back into the thick London traffic fifteen minutes later, I had the unsteady beginnings of a plan that might help me get them.

  If I was lucky.

  NINE

  Broken glass in my mind.

  I didn’t sleep much that night, and when I did, it was fragmented.

  I saw Sarah. She was in bed with me, breathing softly, her arm just barely draped over mine. I missed many things about her, but the way she slept was high among them. She never looked more beautiful than she d
id when she was asleep. The gentle rise and fall of her chest, the cascade of her hair.

  Then I looked down and saw my hands around her throat.

  No!

  As I started to squeeze, Sarah opened her eyes and screamed, but no noise emerged. I wanted to stop but I couldn’t. My hands were no longer mine. I looked down. My arms were covered in tattoos. I felt the fire growing and with it, the shadows. The shadows that would dance and sneer.

  I jolted upright, heart in my throat, pulse pounding in my ears.

  Moving against the sweat-soaked pillow, I instinctively reached for the glass near my bedside. But I misjudged the distance in the dim light and knocked the tumbler to the floor. It shattered with a stark crash, shocking me out of my reverie.

  A nightmare.

  I switched on a lamp and leaned over to clean up the pieces, then paused as I caught my reflection, twisted and deformed in the glass. Or maybe it reflected me perfectly.

  The thought of almost ending Stoyanov was clearly weighing heavily on my mind.

  To distract myself as I picked up the pieces, I ran over the plan I had devised to get those files from Ashburn’s office. I thought it could work. The police had to follow procedure and warrants. The red tape would slow them down, something I wasn’t burdened by. If I could get to those files fast, I might have a chance.

  But something at the very back of my mind whispered that the idea of what I was planning was stupid. It was almost like something out of one of those comedic movies where the bumbling hero is an idiot that just happens to get lucky most of the time.

  Luck, I thought. Sometimes Lady Luck turns out to be a killer.

  TEN

  Into the lair of the beast.

  The weather had turned for the worse overnight. The winter winds were now thick with falling flakes while ice blanketed the city under its ghostly weight. I felt the yearning for booze as the cold pressed against my skin.

  It was ten o’clock in the morning, and I was blending in with the braver tourists around the gated entrance as well as I could. I had showered, shaved, and dressed more smartly than I had in a long time. I had to if this plan was going to work. I’d also slung on a thick winter coat to help me to blend in with the rest of the wintry public. My hood was raised to protect my face from the watchful eyes of the myriad cameras. Like digital gargoyles, the boxy sentinels scowled down at us from all around.

  I was with eleven others, two Germans, a family of Chinese people, a few Canadians, and some others I had yet to identify. I made small talk and smiled pleasantly doing my best to be utterly forgettable. We were all preparing to take a public tour of the Houses of Parliament in Westminster. It was a quiet day; the blizzard had reduced the typical throngs of tourists to just a dozen or so. That also meant that there would be less security than usual since The House wouldn’t be in session and only a skeleton staff would be working.

  The plan made me feel like an amateur, but it was surprisingly easy and foolproof. Handy for a fool like me, I mused, as my group was led into the grounds by a pudgy, over-enthusiastic tour guide. From beneath his umbrella, the ruddy-faced man seemed to enjoy playing to the group, making jokes about our respective countries of origin. When the guide gave our group permission to take pictures, many of them did. Not wanting to stand out from the crowd in any way, I did the same, snapping the scenery with my phone.

  Eventually we entered the cavernous main building. I kept my eyes trained to the sides of the tour route, looking for an avenue that had lax security. The vaulted hallways were eerily quiet due to the weather outside and our footsteps echoed across the marble floor of the main lobby. Further along, the polished floors gave way to plush carpets while the archways and columns were broken up by huge oil paintings and solemn looking statues. Only a handful of guards stood alongside a few of the more important-looking doors. They nodded and looked politely professional when our tour group passed by them.

  We had made it roughly three quarters of the way through the tour when I saw my window of opportunity. As the guide led us down the hall, rattling on about Guy Fawkes, I saw a guard with his back turned to my left. I was already in the rear of the group — something I had gone to great lengths to accomplish — so when I slipped away from the others, no one noticed.

  I knew I wouldn’t have long so I dashed to the right. I considered coming up behind the guard and trying to put a sleeper hold on him. However, I was drained from the lack of sleep, and I hadn’t done that in quite some time. I didn’t want to run the risk. Instead, I ducked into the first door I came to. I was lucky in that it looked to be a small office, maybe for a secretary or assistant or whatever politically correct name they had for jobs like that these days.

  The room was all old-world power. Wood paneling, somber artwork, and a real fireplace filled with black briquettes. In the corner I found a desk with a nameplate “Susan Bridgewater.” The surface was littered with papers and files but other than that, the room was vacant.

  I moved to the desk and found a small office directory taped to the palm-rest of the laptop. I scrolled through it, looking for Ashburn’s name, assuming such a directory had not yet been updated in the twenty-four hours since Ashburn’s death.

  Sure enough, I found his name. The list told me that his office was on the third floor (one floor above me) in room 304. That meant all I had to do was get out of this office, past security, to the next stairwell, and into Ashburn’s office…which was probably locked.

  Sure, why not?

  I had a lock-pick in my inner coat pocket, concealed inside a pen, so it had not been picked up when I’d passed through the metal detectors prior to the tour. I knew I could probably pop just about any locked door, but the tricky part was to get it done without looking suspicious.

  That was hard enough…but I had to get to the office first.

  A connecting door to an antechamber on the right was locked, and the only other way out was past the guard out front. It wasn’t looking promising.

  I stepped behind the large desk and rummaged through the drawers, half hoping to find some booze. I settled on finding a pack of cigarettes next to a lighter.

  “Susan, you are very naughty.” I muttered to no one in particular as a plan formed.

  I knew the Houses of Parliament, like most government buildings, had sophisticated smoke, chemical, and pathogen detectors. They could pick up a hint of Sarin at 100ft, the tiniest traces of plastic explosives, and even a spike in carbon monoxide or other dangerous gasses. Of course, it made sense that the security office investigated all threats based on importance. After all, they couldn’t risk evacuating the entire central command of a country whenever a politician decided to sneak a smoke in his office.

  I sparked a cigarette into life and placed it carefully in the empty trash can on the floor. Like a slow burn fuse, it gradually started pluming wisps of blue smoke into the air. As it burned, I pressed up against the wall behind the doorway.

  Just like clockwork, I heard the squawk of a radio outside the door. It took about fifteen seconds before the guard’s responsibility got the better of him. He peeked into the room, taking a single step in.

  “Hello?”

  As he investigated the desk and smoldering trash can I slid out from behind the door. I heard the guard cursing the “bloody idiots” as I slipped into the hallway and moved up the stairs to the third floor.

  I figured it wouldn’t be too long before someone — maybe the guard’s superiors — noticed something was up. And God only knew how many cameras were in this damned place. In other words, I had to act fast.

  I threw off my overcoat, stuffed it under a table and revealed my outfit below. Dark blue suit, American lapel pin. To complete the look I attached a small visitor’s pass I had assembled last night, based on some images I found online. It wouldn’t have held up to much scrutiny but I hoped that it could work at a glance.

  I checked to make sure the coast was clear. There were no additional g
uards and the only evidence of my tour group came in the distant cheerful voice of the tour guide. I ran out into the hall and came to another smaller hallway. Here, I took my time. The American flag pin I was wearing signified that I was a visitor — an American diplomat. As I passed a couple of people, I was pretty sure I didn’t even need it. No one paid me the least bit of attention.

  The ignorance of self-absorbance.

  When I came to the third floor, I found it quiet. Three people were standing outside of an office door quietly talking about something. One of them gave me a look that might have been suspicious at first, but then he saw my appearance and gave a brief smile.

  I looked ahead, seeing that the hallway was straight with a single intersection up ahead. If luck remained on my side, Room 304 would be on one of those turns. I strolled along as if I had every right to be there and came to the intersection. Following the sequence of numbers, I was relieved to see that Ashburn’s office was along the hall to my left. And there was no one milling around the hallways.

  As soon as I was out of the eyesight of the conversing men, I trotted quickly to room 304. As I had assumed, the door was locked. I quickly brought out my lock pick and went to work. The lock was a very basic one, and I was able to get it opened within 30 seconds.

  Just as I heard the lock click open, I heard the slight ding of the elevators arriving at my floor several feet further down the hall. I spun into the room fast and softly closed the door behind me as I heard the mechanical whoosh of the elevator doors opening.

  Ashburn’s office was large, and it seemed to me, rather pretentious-looking. One entire wall was nothing more than a large bookshelf, crammed with leather-bound titles that no one would ever read. Along the opposite wall, a small, ornate fireplace was located perfectly in the center.

  Ashburn’s desk sat directly in the center of the room — a massive oak creature that had clearly not yet been cleaned off after his death. And then I saw something that made me think that luck was so much on my side that there had to be a horseshoe planted firmly in my ass.