Under Dark Skies (Five Crime Stories Book 1)

by John Moralee

  Under Dark Skies

  A collection of crime stories

  By

  John Moralee © 2012

  All rights reserved.

  The moral right of John Moralee to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Design and Patents Act, 1988. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system, without the permission of the author.

  This book is a work of fiction. All names, characters, businesses, organisations, places and events are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locations is entirely coincidental.

  Contents

  The Good Samaritan

  The Pledge

  The Enigma of Lucy Ash

  A Deadly Prelude

  The New Boss

  The Good Samaritan

  Fletcher could see two figures standing next to a silver car shimmering in the desert heat. They were waving at his truck. A big figure and a small one. A man and boy.

  Normally Fletcher would have driven on without slowing down – letting someone else be a Good Samaritan - but in Australia’s Red Centre nobody else would come along for days. He’d been driving his eighteen-wheeler for hours through flat and endless desert without encountering any traffic in either direction because this road was in a remote area, hundreds of miles from civilisation in every direction.

  He was their only hope of rescue.

  Grumbling to himself, he slowed down his vehicle and brought it up behind the silver car. He stepped out of his air-conditioned cab, feeling the heat.

  “Got a problem?” he asked.

  The man nodded. He was tall with smooth black hair combed neatly in a left parting. He would have looked like a handsome Hitler if he had worn a small moustache. He was in his late thirties, wearing a Hugo Boss suit that was dusty and sweat-stained. His shoes were coated with red dirt. His nose and forehead were sunburnt and peeling. “We – uh – broke down. I think it’s the electrics because I can’t see anything wrong with the engine. I tried to get it going six or seven times.”

  “Have you called for help?”

  “Initially,” the man said, shaking his head. “Same old story. My cell phone’s not working.”

  “It wouldn’t. Not here. Nearest cell tower’s about a hundred miles that way. You’ve really picked the wrong road to break down. I’m not bad with engines. Want me to take a look?”

  The man hesitated. “I’d prefer it if you could just give us a ride.”

  “Are you sure?”

  The man nodded. “I’ll get a professional to fix it later.”

  Fletcher would have felt insulted if he had not been keen to get back on the road. “Okay – I’ll give you a ride to the next town. It’s about ninety miles away.”

  “Thanks,” the man said. He turned to the boy and said something Fletcher couldn’t hear. The boy was small and skinny with very pale skin that made him look sickly. He was wearing a baseball bat and a long-sleeved T-shirt as big as a tent - at least it looked it on his small frame. “You heard the man. He’s going to give us a ride, son. Do you want to get in his cab?”

  The boy nodded and ran towards Fletcher’s truck while his father picked up their bags. Fletcher climbed in the cab and leant across to open the passenger door. The boy climbed in, looking around nervously. He slipped into the back of the cab, where there was enough space for him to sit down on Fletcher’s fold-up bed.

  “Hello,” Fletcher said.

  The boy said nothing.

  “I’m Fletcher. What’s your name?”

  The boy answered in a barely audible whisper: “David.”

  “Don’t worry, David. I’ll get you and your dad some help.”

  “You can’t,” the boy said, very quietly. He looked like he was going to cry.

  “Why not?” Fletcher asked him.

  “Because he’s not my dad.”

  Fletcher frowned. “What do you mean?”

  The boy’s voice trembled. “He killed my dad.”

  Fletcher thought it was a joke. “He killed your dad?”

  The boy nodded. “And my mum and my little sister. He’s got a gun and a knife. You’ve got to help me! You’ve got to get us out of here before he -”

  The boy fell silent.

  “What?” Fletcher said, but it was too late. The man was there. He was only a few feet away from the cab, carrying two sports bags that looked like they weighed a ton. The boy looked terrified as the man reached the cab and started climbing aboard. The man tossed his bags into the back with the boy, then sat in the front of the cab with Fletcher. He slammed the door and wiped his sweating brow with a hand.

  “Thanks for stopping. We really appreciate it.”

  Fletcher’s head was reeling from the things the boy had said, but he didn’t show his fear. He grinned.

  “No worries, mate,” Fletcher said. “Lucky I came along. What on earth were you doing out here?”

  “Just on holiday,” said the man defensively.

  “I’m Fletcher.”

  “Steven O’Shaunessey.”

  The name sounded Irish, but the man didn’t have an accent. “You’re from Ireland?”

  “Initially,” the man said. “Same old story. We’re travelling around the country, looking at all of the sights, like Ayer’s Rock. My son David loved seeing that, didn’t you, son?”

  “Yes,” David said meekly. In the rear-view mirror Fletcher saw the boy’s scared eyes locked on his – pleading for him to do something. The boy chewed on his lower lip and sat as still as a statue, hands folded over his chest.

  Fletcher started driving. The road ahead and behind was straight and endless. It cut through a landscape of red rock baked under a hard white sky. “I’ll take you to the next town – it’s called Rock Point. It’s n-ninety miles away.”

  Fletcher hated himself for stuttering, but the man was making him nervous. Fletcher was aware he had already said something similar already about the distance and had repeated himself, but his mind was racing with thoughts of what he should do. He could behave as if nothing was wrong and take the man to the next town, dropping him off like he wanted, but what would happen to the boy if he did that? Even if he contacted the police afterwards, the boy could get killed in a hostage situation. No – he had to help the boy before they got there.

  Fletcher slyly looked at his new companion, trying to assess the danger. The man wasn’t physically a threat – Fletcher reckoned he could easily beat him in a fair fight – but he had two weapons concealed on him that could easily kill him.

  Fletcher wished he had a weapon handy. There were some tools in the back, but nothing useful in the front of the cab. What could he do unarmed? Maybe he could elbow the man in the face and push him out of the door …

  Fletcher thought of the horror movie starring Rutger Hauer called The Hitcher. That was one scary movie because it could happen. You could pick up a complete madman, but what could you do?

  He had to act like he didn’t know the man was a killer. He had to wait for the right moment. He concentrated on his driving, increasing his speed until a plume of orange dust was streaming behind the vehicle. The man didn’t say anything. He just looked ahead, staring at the road. The silence was uncomfortable.

  Rock Point was about an hour away, but he didn’t want to wait to get there before doing something. He could see the dead desert turning into scrubland. It always amazed him how plants could live in such dry c
onditions. Flashes of green went past the dusty windows.

  “How much longer?” asked the man.

  “No long now,” Fletcher said. He thought of the tools in his box. If the boy could pass him one of them ... “You both must be thirsty. Does anyone want a drink?”

  “David?” the man said. “Do you want a drink?”

  “Yes, Dad.”

  “There might be a Coke or something in that box under your feet,” Fletcher told him. “Just see if there’s anything in it you want.”

  There were no drinks inside the box. Just tools. Weapons. Fletcher hoped the boy would understand what to do with them.

  Fletcher reached across to the glove compartment with the man watching him closely. “I don’t drink beers when I’m driving, but I do have some in here, Mr O’Shaunessey. You’re welcome to have one.”

  There was a six-pack inside the compartment. The man took one and thanked him for it. He popped it open and took a long drink, gasping at the pleasure of it. While he was distracted, Fletcher saw David opening the toolbox. He removed a large and heavy wrench, slipping it up the sleeve of his shirt with Fletcher nodding his approval. Fletcher was sure the man was too occupied with quenching his own thirst to notice.

  “You find anything in the box?” Fletcher said to the boy.

  “No, sir. It was empty.”

  “Oh – sorry, kid. Did you look in the yellow one or the red one?”

  “The red one.”

  “That’s the wrong one. Why don’t you look in the yellow one, then pass it to me so I can get one, too?”

  Fletcher watched the boy lift up the yellow cooler, which did contain several cans and bottles of water. The boy took out a Coke, slipped the wrench inside, then passed the cooler to him.

  The man pretending to be David’s father looked at the cooler, saying, “Maybe I should hold that for you since you’re driving?”

  Fletcher couldn’t give him the cooler with the wrench still inside. He would know immediately if it weighed too much. “I’ll – uh – just get a bottle of water out first.”

  He started opening, wishing the man would stop looking at it for a second, but his eyes were on the cooler as though he suspected something.

  Fletcher could see the wrench inside the cooler. His fingers wrapped around it -

  That was when the boy shook the can and pulled the ring-pull – aiming the Coke at the man’s head. The dark liquid sprayed all over him.

  “Jesus!” he cried out.

  Fletcher grasped the wrench and yanked it free, turning to face the man, his truck swerving as he let go of the wheel. He brought the wrench up and swung it at the drenched man’s head, but his aim was off and he just hit him a glancing blow on the shoulder. The man grunted in pain, but he wasn’t stunned. He saw the next blow coming. Before Fletcher could hit him again, he fumbled the passenger door open and flung himself out of the moving vehicle. The door flapped crazily as the truck veered off the road into the scrubland. The boy yelled and pointed at a gulley ahead. If the truck hit it, it would crash. Fletcher grabbed hold of the wheel and regained control. He steered the truck back onto the road, but didn’t dare slow down. His heart was thudding like a fist against his ribs. The passenger door stayed open, wind blasting into the cab.

  Looking back, he could see the man lying on the road, not moving. “I think he’s dead.”

  He hoped the man was dead.

  He slowed down enough to reach across to grab the other door and pull it shut. The man was just a dot on the horizon now. Alive or dead? He wasn’t sure – but he didn’t want to go back to check.

  The boy crawled forward into the passenger seat. He wound down the window and poked his head out. Looking back.

  “He’s not dead,” he said, with a certainty that sent a shiver down Fletcher’s spine. “You can’t kill him that easy. He’s just pretending. You have to go back. You have to make sure. Please.”

  Fletcher shook his head. “No, I’ll just contact the police when we get to Rock Point.”

  “He’ll be gone before they get here. Someone will stop to pick him up. That’s what happened to my ...”

  Fletcher sucked in a deep breath, wanting to say no again, but the boy was right. What if someone else did come along before the police? The man would escape.

  He slowed down the truck and stopped. “Listen, David, if I go back and he’s not dead, we could be putting our lives in danger.”

  “You can’t let him get away,” the boy said. “Look in his bag. See what he did. See what he did!”

  Fletcher had almost forgotten about the man’s bags, but they were in the back. He unbuckled his seat belt to get out of his seat, then went back to open the bag David was pointing at. It was a long black sports bag. Fletcher didn’t want to open it, but he was curious to see what was making the boy so agitated. The bag had a zip, which he grabbed and pulled, releasing a foul stench. There were at least a dozen things inside wrapped in plastic bags.

  They were human heads.

  Nine of them.

  He zipped the bag closed before he was sick.

  His hands were shaking.

  “W-what’s in the other bag, David?”

  “His other stuff.”

  “More heads?”

  “No. The things he uses to hurt people. A saw and a drill and more knives.”

  Fletcher opened the second bag. It looked like a DIY enthusiast’s collection of tools.

  “Okay – I’ll go back – but you stay here. Lock yourself in until I come back, okay?”

  “Okay,” the boy said.

  Armed with the wrench, Fletcher exited his truck. The heat blasted him in the face. He looked down the road - but he was too far away to see the man. He decided to go back just to the point where he would be able to see if the man had moved since jumping out. If the man wasn’t there, he would run back to the truck as fast as possible.

  Vigilantly looking in all directions, Fletcher walked on the road as far as the point where he had lost control of his truck. He stopped next to the tracks made by his tyres. There was still a cloud of dust in the air, slowly settling. It stung his eyes.

  From there, he could see the body of the man had not moved from the roadside, a distance of roughly a hundred metres. Fletcher swore. He would have to check on the killer’s condition, but he wasn’t going to be careless. The man could be laying a trap.

  Fletcher left the road and crept up on the man’s position in a wide circle, keeping himself low, crawling closer only when he was sure he would not be seen. The desert provided good cover. He approached the man’s position from the opposite direction, pausing when he was about ten metres away.

  Fletcher’s new position made him see something not obvious from the other side – that the body was not a body at all. It was the man’s jacket filled with rocks to make it look human-shaped. There was some blood on it and the ground around it – but no trail to follow. At least the man had injured himself during his escape. That was something.

  But where was he now?

  Fletcher turned around, expecting the man to have crept up behind him, but there was nobody there. Fletcher decided to take a calculated risk. He slowly stood up and looked around with a better view. He could not see tracks near the fake body. The man had not gone into the desert – at least not on his side of the road. The man must have crossed to the other side – but where was he?

  Fletcher got an answer a second later.

  In the distance he heard a noise:

  RRRRRRRRRRRRR!

  It was the scream of his truck’s horn.

  RRRRRRRRRRRRR!

  The man had left the jacket as a diversion. Hoping Fletcher would come back – so he could get to the truck and the boy while Fletcher was busy.

  Fletcher ran towards the blaring horn, praying he would get there in time to save David.

  *

  RRRRRRRRRRRRRR!

  Sweat rolled down his forehead and the nape of his neck as Fletcher neared his truck. He could see it wa
s parked where he’d left it. He could not see the man anywhere – but he slowed down before he got to the rear. He looked at the left and right sides – seeing nobody – then lowered himself to look underneath. Beyond the black underside of the truck he could see daylight. It didn’t look as though the man was hiding there.

  RRRRRRRRRRRRRR!

  Fletcher ran to the back of the truck, which he could see remained locked with his large padlock, then edged around the side, moving quickly and stealthily to the driver’s door. Just then he heard a click as the door unlocked. The door started opening. Fletcher raised his wrench to strike the man’s head the moment he appeared – but it was David.

  “Hurry up!” the boy shouted. “I saw him. He was coming, but I beeped the horn and he disappeared.”

  “Where is he now?”

  “I don’t know!”

  “Okay, okay! Let’s just go.”

  Fletcher climbed into the cab. David moved into the passenger seat and struggled to belt himself in, while Fletcher locked the doors and slipped his key into the engine and turned it, making the engine kick into life with an angry growl. His eyes darted to the mirrors, looking for any signs of movement. He wasted no time putting his vehicle into first gear. He pressed the pedal to the floor and felt the truck straining to increase its speed from zero to ten kph, but once the wheels were turning it became easier to increase the speed to twenty, then thirty, forty and fifty. He shifted gears again and again, getting the speed up to a hundred kilometres per hour. He was pushing the truck a little too fast for comfort, but Fletcher didn’t care as long as he got away from the madman.

  “I’m sorry,” David said.

  “What for?”

  “I shouldn’t have asked you to go back.”

  “No worries, kid. It was the right thing to do – it just didn’t work out, that’s all. We’ll have to let the police go after him. That’s their job, not ours.”