by Steven Dunne
When Sorenson said nothing, Drexler felt compelled, he didn’t know why, to fill the silence. ‘For a while she’d gotten away from him. She was wailing in the corner. Her face was all beat up and the man of God was three-quarters through a litre of vodka. Ed tried to talk him down, but she must’ve got too close, I don’t know. He went for her. Then it all turned to shit.’
‘So it was your partner’s fault.’
‘No! It was my fault. The thing is … I should’ve been talking to Hunseth not Ed. The profile of a wife-beater is never wrong. A strong woman trying to reason with him, talk him down – that was always gonna rile him and we knew it. It’s just that I … I guess I just froze. So when Hunseth lunged at her, she cut her hand pretty bad and damaged her tendons. She had to have rehab. She tried to get away but when he went for her again, I fired.’
Sorenson smiled and sat opposite Drexler. ‘And after that, there wasn’t enough rehab in the world to save the Reverend Hunseth.’
‘No.’
‘Not with four bullets in him.’
Drexler managed to hide his surprise. How did Sorenson know? How could he zero in on all his weak spots so unerringly? It was probably in the transcript but even so, only a professional would raise an eyebrow at that. ‘What do you mean?’
‘You’re a very fine shot, Mike. Two in the heart and two in the head. The Reverend took some stopping. Is that why the Board took so long to clear you?’
Drexler’s heart began to beat a little faster. ‘I don’t understand.’
‘Did they ask you off the record, because it doesn’t say in the file?’
‘Ask me what?’
‘At whom you fired the third and fourth bullets.’
‘They were fired at Hunseth.’
‘Physically, yes. I know that, Mike. Forget who you were firing at and just tell me one thing. Why fire the third and fourth bullets at all? If your first didn’t stop him, the second must have done. One in the heart, one in the head. But you fired two more.’ Sorenson cocked his head to one side, to deliver his payload. ‘Who else were you killing that night?’
Drexler smiled now. Of course. Never ask a question you don’t know the answer to. The end was in sight. But then what? What purpose was this serving? What did he want from him? ‘Don’t stop, Professor. It’s just getting interesting.’
Sorenson stood. He seemed satisfied with Drexler’s reply. ‘I’m glad you’re not taking this personally, Mike. I think we can be friends.’ Drexler raised an eyebrow at that. Sorenson caught it. ‘In time.’
He moved over to a large walnut cabinet and opened a door. ‘First some Beethoven … and a glass of malt whisky.’ Sorenson pressed a button and music began to play – beautiful and lingering piano notes swaying dramatically against the worsening weather gathering on the lake. He poured two generous measures into heavy tumblers and handed one to his guest. Drexler prepared to refuse. He hadn’t touched alcohol for nearly three months and hadn’t missed it.
‘Don’t worry, Mike. It’s not drugged.’
Drexler smiled and took the glass. This had to be part of the game. He accepted his whisky and sniffed at it without drinking. It didn’t smell like ordinary whisky and he was tempted to take a sip but needed his wits about him if he were ever going to get a crack at his agenda. He felt the need to occupy himself and stood to stroll as nonchalantly as he could manage across to the large glass doors which were being pounded by wind and snow now driving across the water.
He turned to look around. Everything about the place was expensive and tasteful. The room was sparsely furnished as befitted the single man, indicated by all the information they held on Sorenson. The space was large and open and smelled of pine, though there was a slight chemical edge in the air that reminded him of hospitals.
A mezzanine balcony, serviced by a generous wooden staircase, ran along one wall and seemed to lead off to other enclosed rooms. The fire, framed in wood and stone, dominated another wall and arranged to face it were a polished oak coffee table and the two comfortable dark leather sofas on which Drexler and Sorenson had been sitting.
There was no TV but across an end wall stood a large walnut chest holding a few weighty books. There was a music centre that fed the speakers, which were placed discreetly under beams at the four corners of the room. The chest also housed the drinks cabinet from which Sorenson had produced the two glasses of whisky. The darkness was gathering and Sorenson switched on a pair of lamps.
‘Cheers.’ Sorenson raised his glass to drink and Drexler decided to follow suit with a minute sip which burned his tongue with its smoky fire.
Drexler returned to his seat, leaving the toast unanswered. ‘What do you want, Professor?’
Sorenson seemed a little surprised. ‘What do I want? I want to know who you are and I want you to know who I am. I’d like you to think of me as a friend.’ Drexler pulled a face. ‘Or at least as someone who can help you.’
‘Help me? How?’
‘Make you realise you’re not alone in your pain, Mike.’
‘Pain?’
‘With me it was my twin brother – with you a drunken, abusive father. Families cause such pain. I don’t know why.’
Drexler glared at Sorenson, determined not to react to the constant probing, though each pick at the wound made it harder. ‘Makes you just want to wipe them out, doesn’t it, Professor?’
Sorenson smiled faintly. ‘Yes, it does. For instance your father, James Drexler, was also a religious zealot, Mike. A drunk too. And as you saw with the Reverend Hunseth, religion and alcohol can be a dangerous combination. Did he quote the scriptures at you as he beat you? Did he beat your mother and call her the devil’s harlot? Did he call damnation on your sister after her suicide?’
Drexler dropped his glass and lunged towards Sorenson but froze a few yards away. The 9mm M9 automatic had appeared in Sorenson’s hand as if from nowhere. ‘Sorry, Mike.’ He gestured the gasping Drexler back to the sofa and sat down on the other. ‘Truly I am. I push too hard sometimes. But I had to be sure.’
‘Fuck you. Kerry would never do that. It was a traffic accident,’ panted Drexler, still breathing harshly.
‘There were no skid marks, Mike. She wasn’t wearing a seat belt. She drove herself into that ravine to end the torture of life with your father. Her love for you couldn’t conquer the pain he caused, so she snuffed out her life and left you and your mother to pick up the pieces.’ He paused to assess Drexler’s willingness to lunge at him again before lowering the gun. ‘Now that is information I did have to pay for. I’m very sorry. But I have to know why you’re still coming at me so hard. It’s the same reason you put four bullets into Reverend Hunseth, isn’t it? Am I really the same as him?’
‘An authority figure with power over life and death. And not afraid to use it. What do you think, Professor?’
‘I think whoever killed Caleb and Billy is more like you than you know. An avenging angel, removing those who abuse their position, those who torment and kill the innocent to satisfy their basest urges. With your father and the departed Reverend, it was a twisted religious mania and a love of the bottle; with Caleb Ashwell, carnal pleasure and financial gain. Face it. You didn’t have to kill Hunseth. You could’ve disabled him. The Board knew that but gave you the benefit of the doubt. But you get more than that from me and Hunseth’s tortured family. You get their gratitude. You ended the tyranny of his life and saved those close to him.’
‘Saved?’
‘As surely as the killer you seek saved other families from the tyranny of Caleb Ashwell.’
‘And Billy?’
Sorenson put down the gun and took a sip of his whisky, eyeing his guest. Drexler wondered briefly whether to make a grab for it but decided against it. ‘Of course. Stupid of me. You see me as Caleb and yourself as Billy – as much a victim as George Bailey and his family. And do you know something? You’re right, Mike. Billy was a victim. But it was too late for rehab. Billy could never be that child again. The cl
ay had hardened.’
‘Clay?’
‘That’s right. He was moulded by his father. You see, Billy didn’t have your strength.’
‘My strength?’
‘Mike, when will you embrace what you’ve become? Those four bullets have bestowed a power on you that you weren’t aware of before. You were moulded just as Billy was, but did you become Billy? Did you help your father beat your mother? Did you help drive your sister to despair? No. You conquered the urge to find safety under his cloak. And to do so kept you a victim. You chose the hard path. But not Billy. He took the hand that led him to oblivion. He would’ve become Caleb. No power on earth could’ve stopped that.’ Sorenson got up with his glass and picked up the gun by the nozzle. ‘Terrible things, guns.’ He threw it to Drexler who caught it.
Drexler checked the magazine. It was full. He flicked the safety off and caressed the weapon in his palm and looked over at Sorenson who was at the drinks cabinet, his back turned.
‘Another drink, Mike?’
Drexler contemplated for a few seconds, then put the safety back on. He put the gun in his pocket and picked up his spilled glass. He walked over to Sorenson and held out the glass which his host refilled. Then he drank the whisky down in one swallow and held his glass for a further refill.
‘So what do you want, Professor?’
‘What I said, Mike – understanding.’
‘You want me to understand you?’
Sorenson smiled and shook his head. ‘No, Mike. I want you to understand yourself. You’ve studied philosophy. Apply those skills. Make friends with your past. You’re not Billy Ashwell. Billy raped and tortured people.’
‘So you killed him.’
‘Caleb Ashwell and his brother Jacob killed him. They killed him as surely as if they’d put the noose round his neck. Your father didn’t drive your sister over that ravine. But he killed her just the same. And he tried to kill you. But you won that battle.’
‘I didn’t kill my father if that’s what you’re implying. He left us after Kerry died. Ashamed, he said. The ultimate sin before God, to take your own life. I haven’t seen him since.’
‘Yes, you have, Mike, remember. You put two extra bullets into him and saved your partner’s life. You killed your father that night. In absentia, as it were. Tell me, Mike. How did you know I called at every gas station? They can’t all have had security cameras.’
Drexler took a sip of his drink, brooding over the value of that information. ‘You could only get ten bucks’ worth of fuel in your tank. I figure if you drove up 89 looking for George Bailey’s killers you’re going to need a reason to stop at every station. So you filled up each time.’
Sorenson seemed puzzled for a second. ‘I’d say that was good police work, Mike – especially as there was no record of the sale. I’m amazed that Ashwell’s camera was good enough to pick out the ten dollars.’ He took a sip of whisky.
Drexler returned Sorenson’s gaze. He said nothing. No more free information. No more showing Sorenson his hand. He wouldn’t ask about Brook. He wouldn’t ask Sorenson what was to happen at the Golden Nugget on Tuesday. He knew. The wait was over.
‘Thanks for the drink. I have to go.’
‘Stay a little longer. I have a proposition for you. How would you like to earn what you’ve always wanted?’
‘What’s that?’
‘I think you know.’
Drexler stared at Sorenson for several minutes. ‘And you know where he is.’
Sorenson smiled back and patted his pocket.
‘Where?’ asked Drexler.
Sorenson’s smile remained while the black eyes did their work, poring over every detail of Drexler’s countenance as if he was some kind of behavioural experiment. For a moment Drexler considered taking out the gun and ramming it into Sorenson’s mouth to force him to reveal his father’s address, but somehow he sensed that that would be a variable that Sorenson had already assessed and included in his calculations.
Drexler couldn’t hold his eyes and stared off into the fire. ‘What do I have to do?’
* * *
‘Not joining your colleagues for a knees-up, Brook?’
Brook, preparing to get behind the wheel of the BMW, turned to see Brian Burton’s yellow grin. ‘Aren’t you getting a bit old for all this, Brian? Up all hours, filing your copy when the rest of the world is enjoying life.’
‘I could say the same about you. Why did you walk out of the press conference?’
‘No comment.’
‘Have you got a problem with the investigation?’
‘No comment.’
‘Or maybe you’re having another breakdown.’
Brook swung onto his driver’s seat and pulled at the door but Burton grabbed it. ‘Get off or you’ll get hurt.’
‘My photographer would love to see that. He doesn’t like me!’ he shouted at a thin-lipped man hovering with a camera a few yards away. ‘You don’t like me, do you, Inspector?’
‘I don’t ever think about you. Now get away from my door.’
Burton held on. ‘I’ve interviewed the Ottomans before. Or tried to. After the Wallis thing. Charlton and Hudson don’t know them like we do, Inspector. If Mrs O trod on a spider she’d cry herself to sleep. And now we’re meant to believe that the pair of them murdered six people. Nine if you include the Wallis family.’
‘What do you want?’
‘I want to know if you’re happy with the result. That’s all.’ Brook held onto his driver’s door but stopped pulling. ‘Just a couple of words.’
Brook took his hand off the door and stared off into the darkness, resisting the temptation to deploy the two words that entered his head.
Burton seemed temporarily wrong-footed. He took his own hand from Brook’s door and straightened up. Brook made no move to close it or start the car.
‘Okay. You don’t want to talk to me. But if I ask you if you think John and Denise Ottoman are innocent and you don’t reply that’s what I’ll be putting in tomorrow’s paper.’ Brook looked up into Burton’s red-rimmed eyes and held his gaze. After thirty seconds he raised an eyebrow and reached for the door handle. A smile spread across Burton’s face.
Drexler pulled up his collar against the biting wind and trudged wearily along the tree-lined drive, his mind still in turmoil from the psychological battering he’d suffered at Sorenson’s hands. Andy Dupree was right. He should have left it alone, walked away. Now Sorenson was in his head, had insinuated himself into his very DNA. Sorenson had read between the lines of the report and worked out what had happened.
But one thing Sorenson couldn’t change. In shooting Hunseth, Drexler had killed his father; he didn’t need to do it again. Not if it meant pawning his soul, his freedom, to Sorenson. The Ashwell case was over, Sorenson was untouchable. He knew that now. To continue would be to surrender his own will, to risk losing himself, to become Billy. Drexler made a decision. He’d get in his car and drive back to Sacramento that same night. He wouldn’t kill again at Sorenson’s behest.
He quickened his step, keen to be away. The lamplight was barely adequate and the moon cowered behind angry clouds, which made walking difficult. He stepped gingerly over sodden, slippery leaves and hopped over puddles. He gazed up at the bare branches of trees swaying in the wind. Their striptease done for the year, they tried to hide their blushes behind the modesty of the evergreens, but Drexler registered nothing.
Halfway back to his car he stopped cold. He peered at a patch of newly broken ground where the dusting of snow seemed lighter. He stepped a couple of metres off the tarmac for a better view. He wished he had his flashlight but had to manage with the pale yellow glow of the avenue’s lighting. He stared at the freshly-planted sapling in the gloom and touched the deep-green leaves, which were large and oily. He ran his thumb over his finger and sniffed the sappy resin on his hand. Then he rustled the horn-shaped creamy white flowers with the back of his hand.
He stood and made his way back to t
he car, a grim smile spreading slowly across his face.
Brook got home forty-five minutes later and turned on his computer. After clicking onto Wikipedia, he typed in ‘scopolamine’ and read for ten minutes, jotting down several alternate names for the drug. Then he jogged up the stairs to fetch The Ghost Road Killers. He turned to the index to check for hyoscine and got a hit on his first attempt. He turned to the page and read with a quickening pulse:
Victims, predominantly the adults who were driving the vehicles, were found to have ingested quantities of hyoscine, combined with traces of morphine, which would render the recipient drowsy, malleable and prone to hallucinations. It is believed that the drug was introduced to victims in the coffee provided at the gas station.
Inevitably drivers became somnolent and, if unable to pull to the side of the road, were liable to crash their vehicles. Several of the motor homes recovered from the gas station had been involved in a collision, though not usually with other vehicles and in only one case was damage more than minor. However, damage to the bodywork of their vehicles was the least of the worries for the unfortunate occupants…
Brook looked at the faded picture of a happy and grinning Bailey family on the opposite page and nodded. The parents at the back, arms entwined, the girls at the front laughing at some remark from their father, oblivious to their destiny. Unfortunate indeed. He stared at the picture longer than he should, then turned back to the index for any mention of Victor Sorenson. It was fruitless but that was hardly surprising. There was no mention of Sorenson in Brian Burton’s book either, nor any of the hundreds of Reaper newspaper stories over the last twenty years – not even in Brook’s own police reports.
Victor Sorenson only ever existed between the lines. Like The Reaper, he was a ghost. Nothing proven, nothing recorded. For years Brook had thought himself the only living person who could connect Victor Sorenson to The Reaper – and only then because the professor had wanted him to know.
