Slow Burning Lies - A Dark Psychological Thriller

by Ray Kingfisher

  So someone at VTA – or more accurately, OrSum – had been controlling his TV and internet feeds as well as doing something to his head with microwaves while he was sleeping.

  And there was one person he knew who was in on this game, one person who would know who was doing all of this and why.

  Beth.

  He grabbed his wallet and left the apartment.

  In the foyer he walked straight past security.

  “Sir?” the larger of the two men behind the desk said.

  “I’m sorry,” Patrick said. “I’m in a rush.”

  “Mr Leary?”

  “What is it?”

  “Could you come to the desk for a moment please? There’s something I need you to see.”

  Patrick glanced out of the large display windows either side of the door. The one on the left had a large ornamental acer tree on the inside to complement the manicured gardens outside. The other gave a clear view down onto the car park. All was calm.

  “Can’t it wait?” he said.

  “It won’t take a minute, sir.”

  Should he bolt or play it cool?

  Cool was always best. Marlon Brando would play it cool.

  He tried for a relaxed smile and approached the desk. “What is it I need to see?”

  “Could you come round to this side?”

  The relaxed smile now slipped away like a heavy paving slab he just couldn’t hold onto any longer. “Why?” he said. “Show me here.”

  The guards exchanged a glance. The one who’d been talking pulled out a gun and pointed it directly at Patrick.

  “You’re kidding,” Patrick said.

  “We’ve just been asked to detain you.” The guard sounded conciliatory, almost apologetic.

  “And do you know what for?”

  The guard shrugged. “I’m sure there are good reasons.”

  Patrick’s eyes hopped between the gun and the guard’s soft eyes for a few moments. Then he said, “And I’m sure you wouldn’t use that.” He took a couple of slow paces back, then turned and ran to the door.

  “Sir!” the guard shouted. “You’ll find that’s locked.”

  The words were unnecessary. Patrick was holding the door handle – turning it, pulling it, pushing it – more in anger than any realistic hope the door might actually open.

  It was then the security guard stepped out from behind the desk and started approaching. Patrick always thought the section of floor behind the desk was raised. It wasn’t – the man must have been six and a half feet tall, and broad-shouldered too.

  The other guard stayed behind, covering the other possible escape route – the walkway leading back to Patrick’s apartment. The guard stopped halfway to Patrick and all three men froze, considering their options.

  An engine noise cut the atmosphere. They all turned to see a car pull up outside. The second the car came to a halt, four very severe looking and sharp-suited men got out and looked around furtively.

  It looked like they had all eventualities covered.

  Except one.

  The acer plant by the other window was as pretty as hell. It was also set in an equally pretty large ceramic pot.

  Patrick crouched down, knees astride it, and up-ended the whole thing so the tree fell towards the oncoming security guard, holding off his advance.

  The plant and ceramic pot separated, and Patrick hurled the pot towards the display window. Both pot and window appeared to shatter in slow motion, yet the smash seemed instant and then there was silence. Patrick leapt over the large jagged remains of the window pane, and turned left, away from the four men who had got out of the car and were now bounding up the steps towards him.

  Patrick started running, and didn’t stop for two miles.

  42

  The last mile of Patrick’s run wasn’t essential as the men had given up when the chase reached busy streets and shopping malls. But Patrick wanted to run that extra mile. He knew he couldn’t change the things that had happened, but running away from them eased his soul a little.

  When he did eventually stop – in one of the small parks dotted around the city – he collapsed onto a bench and retched once or twice. All that running and the adrenaline rush of the previous few hours had rendered him hungry and exhausted. Also, by now the city was encased in the cold shadow of dusk. These were no streets for a desperate man already chilled from the clammy sweat of an escape.

  He checked into a cheap hotel using a false name – just in case this thing was even bigger than he thought – where he ate, drank, and best of all, rested in a hot bath.

  After the soundest, most uneventful night’s sleep for many days, he pondered on his next move over breakfast.

  Go to the cops? They’d laugh at him. Talk to someone at OrSum? They’d lock him away. And VTA? What they were capable of doing didn’t bear thinking about.

  There was only one realistic move: find Beth and talk to her, ask her what this whole thing was all about. Sure, she’d lied to him and misled him, but it was his only shot. She owed him that, and if she disagreed with that he’d just have to make her agree.

  And there was no way he was going back to the OrSum or VTA offices – ever.

  But he didn’t need to – he knew where Beth lived.

  The problem was, when would she get back from work? Moreover, had she even gone into the OrSum offices today? Okay, she was a strong-willed woman, but would she really be able to behave like it was a normal day at the office after what had happened?

  He checked out of the hotel and spent a restless morning wandering along the shoreline, his mind churning over more possibilities. If Beth was in on whatever was going on – and Patrick was as sure of that as he was of anything else in his life at the moment – would she want to be seen colluding with him after the event? There was always the chance of her denying everything, that she’d say it was all in his head, twisting his thoughts like she had about Rozita.

  Whatever her reaction might be, the unfortunate fact was he had no other option. And the sooner he acted the better. Even if she wasn’t home he could wait for her.

  He took a cab to her apartment block.

  He got the cab to drop him off some distance away and walked the rest, stopping on every street corner, watching for any surveillance that might have been set up. As far as he could tell there was nothing, so he approached the apartment block.

  He’d been there before, and knew exactly which one she lived in. Of course, that time she and her keys were there; this time he was on his own. The first stage to deal with was the communal access.

  He pressed the buzzer next to her name and waited.

  Then he tried again.

  And again.

  “You won’t find her in at this time.”

  Patrick turned to see an elderly man clutching a paper bag of groceries. He was wearing a bright white shirt, light blue trousers which stopped just below his knee, and flip-flops.

  “You know Beth?” Patrick said.

  “Pretty career-type woman lives up top?” the man said, fetching his keys from his coat pocket with his spare hand. “Yeah, reckon I do. Why?”

  “I’ve come to see her,” Patrick said.

  “And what makes you think she’s home?”

  “She isn’t.” Patrick pointed inside to the lobby. “Could I come inside and wait for her?”

  The man paused, and half of his mouth jerked to the side. “No offence, sonny, but I can’t let you do that.”

  Patrick looked the man up and down. He could have whipped the key from his hand and snapped the old boy’s arm without breaking sweat.

  “Sure,” he said. “I understand.” He stepped back to let him enter. As the old man opened the door and stepped inside Patrick twitched, suppressing the urge to ram into his back. He turned and walked away.

  He got two blocks before he turned back.

  No. He wasn’t giving up. He had to talk to Beth. His sanity was at stake here.

  He went back, now with a more consi
dered strategy, and waited a discreet distance from the entrance.

  Twenty long minutes later a middle-aged woman, somewhat overdressed in a plaid overcoat, approached the door. Patrick rushed up behind her and took out his keys.

  The woman turned to him and gave a polite, but slightly nervous, smile.

  Patrick returned the smile, said, “Hi,” and lifted up his own front door key, as if ready to use.

  She eyed the key in his hand, hesitated for a second, then opened the door.

  “You must be new here,” she said as she hooked her head for Patrick to follow her into the lobby.

  “Very much so,” Patrick said. “I’m David, David Smith.”

  She smiled again, this time without the nervousness. “I’m Josie. Most folk in this block know me and I know most folk in this block. Where have you moved here from, David?”

  “Texas,” he said with his warmest smile and widest eyes. “I’m from England originally, though.”

  And now every vestige of suspicion dropped away from Josie as her face exploded into life. “Really? England? Really? You’re from England? Are you from London?”

  “Yes,” Patrick said. “London.”

  “Oh, I do so love London. Buckingham Palace, Big Ben, The Houses of Parliament, The Tower of London. What a magical place. I’d just love to go there some day.”

  “Anyway,” Patrick said stopping outside an apartment chosen at random. “I’ll let you get on. Nice to meet you.”

  “You too, David English.” She giggled as Patrick fiddled with his keys. She took two steps up the stairs then turned. “Have a nice day, then.” She stood still.

  “Yes, you too.” Patrick held a hand up to her, then carried on fiddling with his keys. He picked one which looked about the right shape and size and held it up to the lock.

  Still, Josie was looking.

  Patrick slid the key in and suppressed a sigh as it went in. It stuck halfway, but Patrick guessed that wasn’t obvious from a distance.

  He looked back to Josie. “Bye then.”

  “Bye.” But still she stared.

  Fuck her. If she wanted a staring contest she was going to get one.

  “Bye again,” Patrick said, and kept a steady gaze on her.

  Patrick counted to seven before the woman’s sensible shoes shifted and she carried on up and out of sight.

  Patrick flopped his hair back with an itchy palm and quietly let out a sigh.

  He tugged on his key, then groaned – it wouldn’t budge. He pulled it, wiggled it, tugged again, then cast a glance to the stairwell, half expecting Josie to reappear.

  Then he heard mumbles and the click of a lock being unlatched from the other side of the door.

  If the door opened with Patrick’s key still in it he could always say he was new and had got the wrong door. But the mumbles became words, and Patrick thought he recognized the voice. He grabbed his key and gave it an almighty wrench, stumbling backwards and almost falling as it graunched out of the socket.

  As the door started to open, Patrick ran up the stairs and around the corner, getting out of view just as he heard the old man he’d met half an hour before moaning about who the hell was messing with his property, doubtless still wearing his light blue cropped trousers and flip-flops.

  Patrick sniggered to himself. Jesus, he’d jumped straight out of one crazy world into another, and the sooner he got out of it the better.

  He went up to Beth’s apartment and knocked on the door.

  Nothing. As expected. Strange as it seemed, she had gone back to work today after all.

  He checked his watch. It was two o’clock. If he waited for her to get back from work he might be waiting another four or five hours, more if she stopped off to eat somewhere. Then again, she might not be coming back at all.

  And what lay inside her apartment? Perhaps some evidence of what she’d been involved in.

  Patrick glanced left and right along the corridor, then pressed the face of the door with both hands. It flexed a little, perhaps a boot or a shoulder would deal with it.

  He took a step back, stiffened his torso, and faced his shoulder towards the door

  “Yoo-hoo!”

  It was an exclamation Patrick had only heard from old TV shows, never from the mouth of a living person. He turned to see a familiar face.

  Why couldn’t she mind her own fucking business?

  “Josie,” he said. “Good to see you again.”

  “Are you looking for Beth?”

  “Yes. We’re friends from work. I just wanted to say hello.”

  “You won’t get her.”

  “Still at work, I guess.”

  “Oh, no.”

  Patrick waited for her to explain, but she didn’t.

  “What do you mean?” he said eventually.

  “She’s had to go.”

  Patrick felt a tingle cross his face. “I’m sorry? Go? Go where?”

  “She told me late last night. An emergency, apparently. She said she’ll be gone some time. I look after her plants, you see. She has some succulents. They’re quite drought tolerant, of course, but she also has—”

  “Have you heard from her since?”

  Josie shook her head.

  “And what sort of emergency was it?”

  “She didn’t say.”

  “You know where she went?”

  “Didn’t say.”

  Patrick bowed his head and took a few seconds to chew his thumbnail.

  “You wanna come in for a coffee?” Josie said. “You can tell me all about London.”

  But Patrick didn’t hear, he was already past her and heading for the exit. The woman hadn’t told him much, but she didn’t need to. Patrick had a good idea where Beth had gone.

  43

  Patrick bought a large plastic bottle of cheap lemonade, and also a thick oversize coat, partly to keep himself warm on the cold night to come, and partly because it had pockets large enough to hold the bottle. He hired a car and headed out of town, south, on Route 57.

  It was almost midnight by the time he hit the Tennessee state border. The bottle was empty, and when he stopped at a gas station he took the opportunity to fill the bottle as well as the tank of the car.

  He hadn’t gone much further before he parked up and gave in to his urge to sleep. At first the car was warm from the heat of the engine, but Patrick was blessing his own foresight by the early hours as the coat became a blanket. He was so tired and warm that he slept until mid-morning, and now, in the daylight, he could start searching.

  At least, he could do so after grabbing a late breakfast; some strange concoction of catfish, chicken and a slush that was advertised as “slaw”, accompanied by cornbread and cola.

  These remote parts seemed like they belonged to a different country from any other place he’d been to in the US, so he was almost surprised to find that the internet had reached them. Even the café he’d chosen was “all wired up” as the sign would have it.

  It didn’t take long to find Lake Chikasaw, and he printed out a map of it and set off. Two roads led to the shore, and he tried those first.

  There was a boathouse at the end of the first – at least, if a bundle of driftwood that hadn’t quite made the break to drift counted as a boathouse. There was a larger one at the end of the other road. Patrick found three expressionless fishermen sitting on the edge of the pier, chewing gum and gazing out to the distance. He asked if any of them knew a woman called Beth who might be around. One spat into the lake then gave a single languid shake of the head. The other two presumably agreed. By the look of them they didn’t even know a woman, let alone one called Beth.

  Patrick studied the map again, and set off for the other side of the lake. There was no obvious road leading up to it so he stopped at a wooden house where an old man sat on a veranda on a rocking chair.

  “Excuse me?”

  “Sir.” The man nodded, and showed off half a set of rotten teeth as he smiled.

  “Do you know
of any boathouses along here?”

  The man spoke slowly, as if he had a whole lifetime left to answer and wasn’t going to be rushed. “We have two, although I’d say one’s a little run down these days. It’s the heat does it, see.”

  “Are these the two?” Patrick showed the old man the map.

  He laughed. “No way I can read that.”

  Patrick groaned. “Are you sure there’s only two?”

  “Sure as I’ve got old bones in me.”

  Patrick looked up and down the road, and for a second only saw trees and only heard birdsong.

  “There’s always the old one,” the man said, almost as an afterthought. “What’s it called again?” He tapped a twisted finger to his long chin. “More like a barn out of its place than a boathouse, most people would say, and there’s no driving to it neither.” His head and his twisted finger both jerked up in unison. “Now I remember. Caine’s Place they call it.”

  Bingo.

  Twenty minutes later Patrick parked up at the roadside and set off on what the old man told him was a mile-or-so walk. It took him along a gravel path built up on the marshland like a tightly twisting railway embankment. Were there tides on these lakes? He hoped not, or else getting back might be a problem.

  As soon as the boathouse came into view Patrick stopped. The birds that seemed so at home elsewhere on the lake were absent here, as though the water or the air were tainted. The lake had an eerie beauty about it, an almost funereal peacefulness, the silky smoothness of the water surface only disturbed by the gentlest of ripples and a million insects dancing on it, the silence only broken by the occasional lap of water on sandy mud.

  He set off again, and as he approached the boathouse he could see it was a rudimentary and run-down affair, with peeling paint running down to the base, where rot had set in and black decay had started to leach upwards. The roof had long since given up being worthy of the word, only rafters and the odd panel remaining, offering little protection from rain or sun. The design was as basic as the construction, with no entrance from the side directly facing land, and only two large holes at either side close to the water’s edge.