Stone Fury: A Stone Cold Thriller (Stone Cold Thriller Series Book 2)

by J. D. Weston

  "We didn't have eyes back here, but look at the soil. It's freshly dug." There were four freshly dug areas. They stood at the one furthest from the barn. Melody presumed it was the first.

  She began to dig carefully. Denver joined in.

  Within twenty minutes, they saw a hint of blue come through the dirt. The smell of decaying flesh was stronger than the stench of the burnt barn. Melody gagged.

  "Okay no more," said Frank. “We're going to need forensics on this. Get the local unit to tape the whole area off, and get it guarded. I'll talk to the chief." Frank began to walk away.

  Melody's phone buzzed in her pocket. She pulled it out and saw a message from an unknown number. The message read, Gift, Aptmt 204, Loughton Heights.

  "Sir, it's Harvey," said Melody. She smiled broadly. "He's alive."

  "Stone?" Frank's mind ran through various scenarios. "Follow me." They walked away from the smoky graves towards the driveway where Frank's car was parked.

  "Where is he?" Frank asked.

  “I don't know where he is now, but he’s left us a gift, looks like Cartwright’s apartment.”

  “You think it’s Cartwright?”

  “No, sir. That won’t be a gift.”

  “Okay, get this place sealed off, and get a local cop to drive you down there. Denver, make the arrangements to have that chopper picked up please, so it can actually be used to go rescue people.” He climbed into his car and started the engine. “I have an idea of where Cartwright might be, I’ll call you if it works out.”

  Frank nosed his Volvo into the driveway of John Cartwright's old house in Theydon Bois. It was fifteen minutes from the farm in Pudding Lane and would be an ideal place for Donald Cartwright to keep a truckload of illegally imported prostitutes while he sought a new venue for his despicable enterprise.

  The long gravel driveway remained as Frank remembered it. The grass was unkempt and covered in leaves. When Frank had last been there, the lawns had been immaculate. The little groundsman's house near the entrance, which was where Harvey had lived, had been a delightful little cottage. The gardener had maintained the appearance as it was the first structure a visitor saw when entering the gates. When Frank had last been there, a man had also been boiled to death in the basement.

  Kids had since smashed the windows and spray painted graffiti on the door during its six months of being derelict.

  The media had reported the property as being the scene of horrendous crimes, which made it a highly undesirable for potential buyers, and a magnet for kids looking for a place to hang out.

  Frank saw no rented truck at the front of the house, so he pulled in and drove slowly up the smooth gravel driveway. He parked by the few steps that led up to the two huge front doors.

  The right-hand door had been left ajar. No doubt from the same vandal kids that had broken the windows of Harvey's little cottage.

  Frank unholstered his weapon and moved slowly inside. The house was deathly quiet and eerie. The door creaked when he pushed it open. Frank stood waiting for the noise to settle. Inside the great hallway stood two staircases, one on either side of the room, each leading up to the first floor in long winding arcs. Between the staircases was the doorway to the kitchen. On either side of the hallway was a room, each a mirror image in size and shape.

  Frank had been in John Cartwright’s office before. He had stood alone in there and smelled the history of the Cartwright family’s business plans, fueled by brandy and cigarettes.

  Frank wasn't interested in those two rooms. He stepped onto the hallway's parquet flooring and walked slowly and quietly between the grand staircases into the kitchen. The door to his right was closed. It was the door to the basement.

  Frank pictured the scene he had found six months previous. He had walked down the stone steps slowly with his weapon raised at it was now. The cast iron claw feet of the antique bathtub had come into view. A warm damp smell of steam had hit him halfway down the steps.

  The tub had begun to show itself as Frank descended the steps. It had been a large copper tub with several gas burners placed underneath it to boil the water. Far more than was necessary to heat a bath.

  Then he'd seen the hand. His initial reaction was that somebody was indeed taking a bath, but the hand was unnaturally red and fixed in a tight, gripping position.

  Sergio's pained death had been etched on his wrinkled face.

  Frank opened the door and listened. Hushed whispers silenced in the darkness below at the sound of the door. He pulled his flashlight from his jacket but kept it turned off, his gun was in his other hand poised ready to fire. He stepped down one more step then turned to check the door was still open.

  The sole of a boot caught him directly in his nose, and he tumbled down the hard stairs onto the concrete floor below. His torch rolled off into the darkness, and his weapon was gone, he'd dropped it on the stairs.

  He lay in the darkness and heard the footsteps grow closer on the stairs. Slow, deliberate steps. It was the steps of a man who had all the time in the world. Frank heard the tone of the footsteps change as they reached the concrete floor.

  The basement was pitch black. Frank silently fumbled for his weapon but all he found was the cold hard floor. He searched behind him and grabbed a naked foot, which flinched away at his touch with an audible gasp from somewhere above him. He crawled on his hands and knees away from the foot and the whispered gasp and was met with a hard blow to his face.

  He spat blood and searched frantically around for the source of the attack, but the dark was so pure, there was no variance in shades. Just blackness.

  He reached for his phone and pulled it from his pocket, but as soon as he hit the home button and the screen lit up, it was kicked from his hand. The phone scattered across the concrete floor and fell dark. Frank was sure his fingers had broken.

  "Cartwright," he growled. "You're not making this any easier on-"

  Another blow to his face. He felt his jaw move sideways, and he crumpled to the floor. The metallic tastes of adrenaline and blood mixed in the back of his throat; he panted with anxiety but forced himself to try and stand.

  A boot stood on his back and slammed him to the floor. He spat and sucked in the dust and stale air, his lips lay on the dirty concrete.

  Hands tugged at his arms, he felt the bind of zip-ties, and the bite of the plastic on his skin. He heard two of them being tightened, but his hands had lost sensation, he could no longer trust his senses. The darkness, the fall and the blows had disturbed his balance. His ears rang, or was it the sound of silence? His eyes saw only the darkness.

  A harsh white light flickered then burst on, filling the room with clinical white light and blinding Frank. He squinted but saw nothing. Hands dragged him across the room and pulled him to his knees. Then they pulled a rough and scratchy manila rope over Frank's head. Somewhere close by they pulled the rope tight and Frank was forced to his feet then up on his toes, gasping for breath.

  He tried to talk but the rope cut deeper, and his jaw shot pain into the side of his face from the kick. He growled with fear and fury.

  Frank’s vision settled and he opened his eyes. His sight focused on the wooden beam that his rope had been passed over, just like Sergio's had been. It was the same beam. The tight rope prevented Frank from looking down, but he could see many other ropes along the adjacent beam. He tried to count, but couldn't, it was too much. Thin slender wrists and limp hands were bound to the ceiling joints opposite him. He was central to them. More than ten, perhaps twelve, pairs of bound hands hung in the air at the bottom of Frank's eyesight.

  "You remember this place?"

  "Of course I do," he rasped.

  "I grew up here you know. This house. So many memories."

  Frank thought of the room. Hannah. Sergio. Shaun.

  "I used to play down here if it was raining outside. Cook used to bring me my lunch, and I'd play with my toys. I remember my train set, it was spread across three big long tables. Those things are a wo
rk of art, you know? The detail was incredible. I had a mountain with a tunnel, trees and grass-"

  "Sounds great, what every boy dreams of I'm sure."

  "Some of us dreamed of bigger things than train sets," said Cartwright. "Some of us dreamed of not having to share our families with scum like my foster brother and his little slag of a sister." Cartwright over-pronounced the Ts in the sentence.

  "So you were lonely?"

  “No, not lonely.”

  “And Harvey?” asked Frank. “Wouldn’t he play with you?” Frank was buying time.

  “No, I wouldn't let him. He’d go off with Hannah. They had their own games. Childish games”

  “You were older though weren't you?” asked Frank. “Didn't you have friends?”

  "I still am older, wiser perhaps," grinned Donny. Frank heard the grin in his voice. "I'm still Harvey's big brother you know."

  "I'm sorry to say, Donald," Frank used Cartwright's first name, he was easing him in. It was like the late night knocks on the doors of crying mothers and wives he'd had to do when he was starting in the force, "your brother was killed in the fire. There was nothing we could do."

  "What fire?" said Donny. "I don't believe a word you say. I'm not falling for-"

  "Murray burned the barn down, your barn Donald." Frank was drawing him in. "Smell my clothes, you can still smell the fire. The old wood went up in seconds. Took less than an hour for it to be burned to a pile of-"

  "I don't believe you," snapped Donny. "Keep your mouth shut, pig. Why would Harvey be there anyway?"

  Frank forced a laugh. "You won't get away with it, Donald. The police are on their way." The rope bit tighter into Franks' throat, and the last words trailed off.

  "The police aren't coming, you came alone, didn't you? You wanted the bust for yourself. Couldn't resist it could you?" Donny raised a handgun to Frank's temple. "I'll make it quick. As you can see, I have a lot of work to do tonight."

  "Is that the best you can do?" said Frank. "A bullet to the head? Your brother was far more imaginative."

  Donny slammed his fist into Frank's gut. The older man sucked air in through his teeth, as much as his constrained throat would allow. "You want imaginative? Why don't I show you how imaginative I can be?"

  A gunshot sounded, it was loud in the closed room. A chorus of muffled screams began.

  "Quiet!" shouted Donny and aimed the weapon at another girl. The girls were immediately quiet, only their heavy breathing could be heard.

  "Is that imaginative enough for you?"

  "I can't see what it is you've done, Donald. Why don't you tell me what you did."

  The rope went slack, and Frank dropped to the floor. The noose was still tight around his neck, but he gulped in air while he still could. Frank saw in front of him, the line of naked girls, the hands he'd seen. They had been bound by the wrists and hung from their bindings to the ceiling joist. Frank counted twelve girls. At the far right of the line, the last girl’s head slumped forwards, and thick gloopy blood dripped down her body to the floor beneath her.

  "One down," said Donny cruelly.

  "How many rounds do you have left?"

  "Enough," said Donny. "Do you like what you see? Pretty aren't they?"

  The girls were all below twenty years old and trim. Two of them looked almost starved, Frank could clearly see their ribs. They had all been bound and gagged.

  “You want to see some more?”

  “If you stop now, I’ll see to it that you’re looked after.”

  “Looked after?” Donny screwed his face up.

  “Inside, you’ll go to prison for sure, I can’t stop that, but I can make sure you’re looked after inside, you’ll be comfortable.”

  Donny laughed bitterly. “Is that supposed to entice me?” Donny breathed and composed himself. “You’ll need to do better than that, old man.”He paused. "What's your name?"

  "Me?"

  "Of course you. What's your name?"

  "It's Frank. My name's Frank."

  "Ah, you look like a Frank." Cartwright moved towards the girls in front of Frank and turned back to him. "This one's my favourite, Frank," he said, and ran his hand along the inside of the girl's leg. She twitched and squirmed but couldn't move away. Tears began to roll down her face. He traced the outline of her ribs with his fingers, softly and slowly, and then her breasts which were full and firm. He took one in his hand.

  "People pay a lot of money for this, Frank. Her skin is so soft," he traced the outline of the girl’s nipple, "and she smells so," he searched for the scent with his nose, "feminine," he finished. "Ahhhh."

  "Let her be, you sick son of a bitch." Frank looked away.

  "I thought you wanted me to be more imaginative, Frank. How am I doing?"

  Frank turned back slowly, he knew it, but his eyes confirmed. Donny gently nuzzled the barrel of his gun between the girl’s legs. He smiled at Frank whose eyes had begun to run. Then Cartwright turned the gun upwards.

  "What do you say, Franky?" Donny hissed. "Creative?"

  "You're sick, take it away."

  The girl's bladder released and a thin stream of liquid that ran down her legs. It pooled beneath her, so Donny stepped away.

  "She's dirty now, but it's okay, we have spare."

  "Is it worth it, Donald?"

  "Donny," said Cartwright. "Call me Donny. All my friends do."

  "You have friends?" asked Frank.

  "Some."

  "I thought your brother boiled your only friend?"

  Donny was silent.

  "Sergio," began Frank, "yeah, he was a coward too, wasn't he? No wonder you got on so well."

  Donny stepped away from the girl and yanked on the rope. Frank was dragged to his feet once more. The rope bit into his throat.

  "What do you know about Sergio?" asked Donny. He raised the gun to Frank’s forehead.

  "I was the unfortunate bastard that found him," said Frank, "right where I'm standing."

  "Found him?"

  "He was taking a bath. Didn't you hear about that?”

  “Sergio was dead long before I came home," said Cartwright.

  "Oh, so you aren't aware of Harvey's last great act then?"

  "His last great act?"

  "He works for me now, did you know?"

  "You lie, he would never work for the police-"

  "Truth," cut in Frank. "He came to me." Frank paused, then spoke calmly and softly, "and do you want to hear something very special?"

  "Special?" said Cartwright.

  "Special,” replied Frank. "He knows."

  “He knows what?”

  "He knows your secret."

  "What secret?"

  "The one you and Sergio were hiding all this time. All those years, with sleepless nights wondering what he'd do if he found out."

  "We didn't have any secrets, Harvey knows nothing."

  "Your father told him a few home truths, and I have to say, it certainly explains all this." Frank gestured at the girls. "You're sick and perverted, Donald. You need locking up."

  Cartwright looked interested. “What home truths?”

  “Let’s just say that John Cartwright let slip about Sergio raping Harvey’s sister.”

  Donny inhaled through his nose.

  “Harvey brought Sergio down here. It’s almost ironic that you hung me from this beam. It’s the very same one as… well, you know?”

  “As what?”

  “The one Sergio was hung from.”

  “He hung Sergio?”

  “No, not properly, that was just to stop the little weasel running away, Donald. Much like you’ve done to me.”

  Frank paused, timing his next sentence just right.

  “Harvey boiled Sergio alive.”

  Donny looked distraught and incredulous, “He did what?”

  "Remember the old copper bathtub that was here?"

  Donny did, he glanced around for it.

  "The police took it away a long time ago, Donald. Evidence. See wha
t I mean by his imagination? He's so much more creative in his work."

  Donny was silent.

  "Like I said, Donald. I had the misfortune to be the one who found him, Sergio that is." Frank moved his neck in the tight scratchy noose. "His skin was peeling off."

  “Stop it.”

  “His eyes had even boiled white, I’d never seen that before.”

  “Shut up.”

  “He was all puffed up like a balloon. Thought he’d pop we did.”

  “Lies.”

  “Truth, Donald. Truth.” Frank softened his voice. “I heard the recording.”

  “What recording?”

  “The one Harvey made.”

  Donny looked at Frank questioningly.

  “Harvey recorded it all you see. I found the dictaphone on the little table over there.”

  Donny turned to see the table, it was covered in dust.

  “You want to know what Sergio’s last words were?”

  "No," said Donny. His mouth had an upturned grimace of pure hatred. "I want to know what yours will be." Donny raised the gun and stepped back.

  "He cried of course, like a child," Frank continued, ignoring Cartwright.

  "He was weak," said Cartwright.

  "Yes, he was, Donald. He wailed and sobbed. Will you cry?"

  “When?”

  “When Harvey comes for you?”

  "You said he was dead."

  "Lies, Donald." Frank was running out of time. "His last words, Sergio's. You want to know what he said?" Frank spat. "You want to know what Sergio told Harvey as he hung right here from bound hands, with the boiling water waiting below, ready to take him, to swallow him and cleanse him of his sins?"

  "No."

  "You should know."

  "Don't say it."

  "He was your friend?"

  "I'll kill you right now." Cartwright's hands trembled.

  "It was Donny."

  Donny stepped back further.

  “You hear me, Donald?”

  “You’re filth. You lie.”

  "He's been hunting you, Donald," hissed Frank. "You're the last one on his list."

  "No, I know things, things he'll want to know. He won’t be able to kill me," said Cartwright, almost convincing himself. "He'll need me alive, I have the answers to his parents and Julios, I'm the only left who knows about Julios’ mistake. I’m the only one who knows about Adeo.”