Hunting Angels (Box Set) (The great horror writers (Masterton, Saul, Herbert) and now Jones)

by Conrad Jones

  I jumped into my truck and grabbed my laptop bag. I needed my notes from the research I had done the previous night and now I had dozens of questions to ask her. I was hoping to convince Peter to accompany me to the hospital to see her that day, but he was already dead, assassinated. That left Jennifer and me as their next targets.

  When I reached the asylum, the car park was full. There were three marked police cars in the ambulance bays and it soon became obvious that something was wrong. I gave up looking for a space and parked on the grass verge. I was in such a flap that I virtually abandoned the truck in the first available spot that I could find. The reception area was busy when I walked in and I sensed that the atmosphere was dark. I waited my turn for the reception desk to clear and then asked the desk clerk if I could see Jennifer Booth. On my previous visits it had been security guards who I spoke to, but this was within office hours and different protocol applied. The receptionist asked me if I was related to her.

  I stopped for a second and thought about the question. Why would she ask that? I lied and said that I was her next of kin, which caused a raised eyebrow from the woman, but I had my story mapped out. I had to talk to Jennifer no matter what. She asked me to take a seat at the side of the reception area and I sat nervously and waited. Policemen were coming and going, and in my mind I hoped that they had connected Peter’s death to Jennifer’s story. I was way off the mark, but at the time that’s what I wanted to believe. It was the longest forty minutes in history.

  Eventually, a young doctor in a white coat approached me and took me into a relatives’ room, which was down a corridor in the opposite direction from the interview rooms. We walked in silence and he opened the door and allowed me to enter first. He was a young man in his twenties and he looked harassed. He removed his glasses and rubbed his eyes before he spoke.

  “May I ask who you are?” he frowned, and looked me up and down. I’m the wrong skin colour to be related to Jennifer genetically.

  “I’m her stepfather,” I lied. “She’s been missing for months. I’ve travelled up from London overnight and I need to speak to her urgently,” I said sternly.

  “That won’t be possible. Take a seat.” He gestured to a couch beneath a window which looked out over the grass towards the new housing estate nearby. “Look, this will come as a shock to you and there’s no easy way of telling you this, but I’m afraid Jennifer took her own life last night.” The doctor put his hand on my shoulder and I felt my knees go weak. Tears filled my eyes and I could feel my lips quivering. Jennifer was the only person who could help and she was dead. It wouldn’t sink in to my brain.

  “What happened?” I stuttered.

  “She hung herself.”

  I don’t know whether it was the shock or the stress of the previous days catching up on me, but I began to faint. I literally felt my body sagging and slipping down the upholstery. I looked to the light outside and remember feeling the doctor’s hands steadying me. I could hear his voice, but I didn’t compute exactly what he was saying. As I looked out of the window, an image came into my mind. It was Jennifer in my head. I was looking at the world through her eyes, but everything was in black and white, like an old film. She was lying in a hospital bed. The room was painted white and the walls were bare. The smell of disinfectant drifted into my consciousness. I didn’t understand how it had happened, but they had restrained her.

  I sensed her fear as she lay there, helpless. She was scared and she couldn’t move. I could feel her fear. She was calling for help in her mind. She was calling for me. They had strapped her hands and feet to the bed and she called out for help repeatedly. Screams for help are commonplace in an asylum and they ignored her. I saw the shadow of a man looming over her and I felt a sheet slipping around my neck as if I was there inside her body. The cotton sheet began to tighten and cut off her air supply. I felt what it was like to be strangled to death and I felt her desperate struggles as the oxygen in her lungs became exhausted. I felt her eyes bulging out of their sockets, and the pressure in her brain felt like the blood vessels were about to explode. Death approached quickly. I sensed that despite everything she had suffered, she didn’t want to die. She clung on and struggled for as long as her body allowed before the darkness descended and her struggles became twitches. As the twitching finally ceased, I felt a flash in my mind and the image faded and disappeared.

  “Are you okay?” I snapped back into reality. The doctor looked into my eyes and placed a paper cup of water to my lips. I sipped it and waited for my head to clear. I must have been gone longer than I thought, as I didn’t see the doctor move to fetch the water. I was confused and frightened. The news of her death sapped my strength, and combined with the loss of my friend, it was a shattering blow. Experiencing her final tortured moments was the icing on the cake. The world had finally gone mad around me and I felt like I was drowning in a sea of confusion. Nothing made sense.

  “When did they find her?” She had been murdered. I knew that much for sure. Jennifer had shown me the last moments of her life, the moments when they sent someone to erase her. As I thought about her, I felt a tingle of static in the tips of my fingers where we had touched through the Perspex, and the hair on the back of my neck felt like a breeze was touching them. I was playing things over in my mind. Peter was dead – an accident. Jennifer was dead – a suicide. What would my death be? Would they find my body at all? Would I spend my final moments on this earth fighting for my life, or would it be worse? Would they make it slow?

  “Mr Jones?” A different voice disturbed my thoughts. I looked up and saw a policeman in the doorway. He was youngish and his spotty face made him look more like a student than a serving police officer.

  “No,” I lied. “I’m Michael Booth.” I didn’t know why I lied at that point but I did. It didn’t matter anymore who I was, relation or otherwise because she was dead. Maybe Jennifer put the name in my mind, a message from the other side to protect me, but it worked. It bought me vital minutes to get out of the hospital without being dragged into a complicated investigation. Later on, I discovered that her stepfather was indeed called Michael, but it could have been a fluke, who knows? The police officer frowned and was about to speak when the doctor butted in.

  “Do you mind, Officer?” He turned and walked towards him. “The man has just lost his stepdaughter. Please show him some respect, he’s obviously badly shaken by the news. Whatever you need to talk to him about, it will have to wait.” The police officer sheepishly closed the door and left the room, but he gave me a nasty look as he went.

  The doctor held his chin between his finger and thumb and gave me the cup of water to hold. “Are you feeling strong enough to hold this?”

  “Yes, I’m okay,” I replied although my hands were trembling.

  “Look, Mr Booth, I’m not sure what is happening here but the police have seized your stepdaughter’s body.” He lowered his voice as he spoke. “It is most peculiar and they are asking some unusual questions. I’m not sure if talking to them right now is good for you.”

  I didn’t want to talk to them for my own reasons. Trying to bluff my way into an asylum would take some explaining anyway, especially when the person who I was trying to see was dead. “Is there another way out of here, Doctor?” I asked. My spider senses were tingling. They had killed Peter and Jennifer in one night and what the doctor told me set the alarm bells in my brain ringing. I had to assume that the police were involved, or at least some of them were. I was guessing at that point that Officer Knowles was not the only one involved with the Niners. I was in trouble because they knew I was there. The officer had asked if I was Mr Jones. How would they know that I was there unless one of them had spotted my truck, and how would they know it was my truck unless they wanted to find out what vehicle I drove? Why would anyone want to know what type of vehicle I drove? The questions were rattling around in my head like a tornado in a tin can factory. “I really need ten minutes to gather my thoughts before I speak to the police.”


  “Of course, I understand. Come this way.” He led me through a door at the rear of the room, which opened into a toilet corridor. “There is a fire door at the end of the corridor. Take your time before you come back in, I’ll tell them you are to be left alone for a while.”

  “Thank you, Doctor.” I shook his hand and darted through the fire door. He smiled thinly as he pulled the door closed. He knew that I wasn’t going back through it. I ran as fast as I could across the lawns to the truck. When I reached it, there was a large box van stopped behind it. The driver was stood on the grass talking into his mobile phone. A police officer was talking to the driver of the car behind him and I realized that my truck was blocking the entrance to the car park. A saloon car could squeeze by, but the delivery truck was too wide.

  I stopped running and walked to the driver’s door. The van driver was open-mouthed as I casually climbed into the truck and slammed the door. Luckily, the engine started at the first ask. I heard a torrent of abuse though the glass, but I didn’t have time to swap insults. I wanted to be away from the asylum and the police. As I pulled off the verge, the police officer was shaking his head but made no attempt to stop me. I drove past two officers who were stood there near their patrol car on the car park, but they didn’t even look in my direction. I began to think that I was being paranoid. No one was chasing me, and two minutes later I was on the main road.

  I arrived home confused and frightened. As I said earlier, when it comes to physical conflict, I don’t have a fear gene as long as I can see who I’m fighting. But the Niners were not going to send someone to stand toe-to-toe with me. I wouldn’t know who it was or when they would come, but I knew it would be soon, very soon. Jennifer and Peter were already dead and that was too much of a coincidence. The dreams and visions that I’d had could be nothing more than my vivid imagination working overtime, but they added credence to my fears. Everything seemed real.

  I walked into the house and listened for any hint of danger. I heard Evie Jones burst through the dog flap into the kitchen and I could hear her claws scratching along the laminate towards me. She was excited but her behaviour was normal, which allowed me to relax a little. I went to the kitchen and put the kettle on. I needed coffee and a cigarette. I actually needed a drink, but the conversation I’d had with my partner that morning put the brakes on that idea. She hated me smoking, but I was tense and I needed the nicotine. I made a fuss of Evie while the kettle boiled, and for a few moments things seemed normal. I made my brew and unlocked the back door, lighting my last menthol in the yard. The caffeine and nicotine intake made me feel better. As I thought about things, I made a plan in my mind. I had to talk to my partner first.

  I called her at work again, which was a huge no-no, but this time she answered. I was expecting a frosty reception, but I was surprised how warm she sounded.

  “Are you okay?” she asked, concerned. “I’ve heard the news about Peter; it’s all over the office.”

  “I really need to talk to you properly. You need to come home as soon as you can.” I couldn’t tell her why she had to come home in a few sentences on the telephone. She would think that I’d lost all my marbles, so I waffled that it was dreadful news but that there was more to it.

  “You know that I’m working.” She used her business voice again. “I’ll see you later and we can talk then.”

  “Listen to me.” I was trying to remain calm. “We’re in danger. There’s more to Peter’s death than meets the eye, but I can’t explain it on the phone.”

  “What do you mean?” she sighed. I knew I was flogging a dead horse. How could I expect anyone to believe me? “Sorry, I’ll be back in a minute.” She covered the handset and called to a colleague in the background. “Look, they’re restarting the meeting. I’ll have to go.”

  “Peter was murdered,” I blabbed. I regretted saying it immediately, but I felt as if no one was listening to a word that I said. “They’ve made it look like a hit-and-run, but I know who killed him.”

  “And how would you know that, Conrad?” She was at her limit with me. I could tell.

  “Trust me, I know it’s them, and they’re coming for me next. It’s all to do with that policeman who beat me up and the murder investigation Peter took me on.” I was desperate to explain everything, but it had to be done face to face. I was concerned for our safety and I needed her help.

  “So you think that officer is coming back for you?” she sounded incredulous. “Why, what have you done? If you’re seriously worried then call the police, Conrad. I’ll have to go, they’re waiting for me.”

  “Look, it’s complicated,” I stressed “There’s more to it than just one policeman going off on one. There are thousands of the fuckers!” I was trying to communicate my point without sounding like a fruitcake, but I must have sounded pathetic.

  “Thousands of who, Conrad?” she snapped. “I hope you’re not rattling on about those satanic cults or whatever it was you were looking at with Peter. It’s one thing writing a storybook about them, but you’re beginning to sound deranged.”

  “Why won’t you listen to me?” I shouted this time, which just made matters worse. “Peter is dead and so is the girl we interviewed. She told me that they were coming after us and now they’re dead!”

  “Don’t raise your voice to me.”

  “Well, you’re not listening.”

  “I’m at work and you’re talking rubbish.”

  “Do you think the world of burgers, milkshakes and chips could survive without you for a few hours while we talk about this and sort out what we are going to do?” I was angry now. What did I have to do to convince people?

  “Sort what out?” she scoffed. “What do you think we’re going to do?”

  “We need to get away from here until everything is out in the open. They know who I am and they know where I live. We need to get away today!”

  “Have you been drinking?” she replied, ignoring my rant. “I’m going to stay at my mum’s tonight. I’ll call and grab some things tomorrow. I can’t deal with you right now. We need some time apart.” The call ended, but I held the phone next to my ear for a while before I put it down on the kitchen worktop. Evie Jones tilted her head and looked at me. She sensed that I was upset and she licked my fingers to let me know that she wasn’t leaving.

  I felt drained by it all, but I was almost relieved that my partner wasn’t coming home. I wouldn’t have to explain it all to her while she looked at me as if I was bonkers. She would be safe at her mother’s for now. I had to make sure that Evie and I were safe, too. By the time the kettle had boiled again, I was packed and ready to go. Snowdonia and the Lake District are two hours’ drive away. The Lakes are north on the M6 and Snowdon is west along the A55. They are both remote and there are plenty of campsites and guesthouses to stay in. Whichever direction I chose, I knew that I could become anonymous within a few hours.

  I dressed in my camping gear, water resistant cargo pants with large pockets on the sides and a Gore-tex jacket. They were green and brown, which wouldn’t catch the eye, especially up on a mountain. I had bought a neck knife and a belt knife a few years earlier from the Internet while researching a book about drug dealers and concealed weapons. The neck knife consisted of a black cord that looped over my head like a pendant chain, and dangling from it was a stainless-steel scorpion pendent about four inches long. It looked innocent enough at first glance, until you pulled the tail of the scorpion and a four-inch stiletto blade slides out of the body. It cost me nine pounds including postage and packing, and for an extra five pounds they included the belt knife as a bonus buy. It was an experiment to see how easy it was to buy lethal weapons on the net. I never thought I would wear them, let alone need them for protection. I have always been a keen clay-pigeon shooter and I owned a Remington pump-action shotgun, which I took from the lockbox and cleaned. Taking the shotgun in a case was perfectly legal as long as I had my licence on me and I wasn’t walking into a bank with it. There were ple
nty of farms who allow licence-holders and shotgun-owners to hunt rabbits on their land at night. I knew that I could take it with me without breaking any firearms laws.

  I was nearly ready to go when my partner walked in through the front door. She hated guns in the house, despite the lockbox. When she saw me sitting on the bedroom floor next to a rucksack, with a loaded shotgun next to me, she thought I had lost the plot. Can you imagine the conversation we had? It was surreal. I was explaining to my partner of eight years that a satanic cult was trying to kill me. I had interviewed a murder suspect who was psychic and had been sectioned into the local asylum. It was research for my new book, and now everyone involved was dead and I was next.

  She offered to call me an ambulance as she packed her bags. There was no way she was staying in the house while I had a loaded shotgun, especially when I was talking gobbledygook. The more I tried to convince her, the madder I sounded. How could I possibly convince anyone of sound mind that I was telling the truth? She left in a rush and I haven’t seen her since. I miss her terribly, but I don’t blame her for leaving me, how can I? Put yourself in her shoes, what would you think?

  As she walked out of the door I felt numb, but I was resigned to the fact that no one would listen to me until the police realized the deaths were linked to the Holmes and Stokes murders. I decided to take the Staffie and the truck and head for the hills, although I hadn’t decided which hills at this point. There is a Tesco garage five hundred yards up the road from me and I needed to fill the truck with diesel. I didn’t want to stop on the way. I took the gamble to fuel the truck up first and then come back for the gun and the dog. It was daylight and I didn’t think they would try anything in the open.

  I fed Evie Jones and then walked out of the front door while she was distracted with her food, locking both doors behind me. The roads were busy, which gave me some comfort, but the thought of police cars arriving spurred me to hurry. The Navara started first time and I drove as calmly as I could to the garage, although my nerves were at snapping point. I pulled in and waited for a pump to come free. The Tesco garage is a nightmare, as people fuel up and then go shopping for their tea while you wait for them to move their vehicles from the pump. It can be frustrating at the best of times, and today was not the best of times. I’d been waiting an age and I was tetchy. I wanted to honk the horn, but I didn’t want to attract attention to myself. It seemed like forever until the owner returned with his shopping and a stupid grin on his face.