The House of Broken Backs: A Joanna Mason Novel

by Amy Cross

  If I fuck this up, Jordan Carver's going to think he's beaten me. That alone should be enough motivation for me to come up with something.

  "Maybe this should be your last one," the barman says, sliding a shot over to me.

  "Do I seem drunk?" I ask.

  "No, but -"

  "I can hold my drink," I tell him, before taking a sip. "If I start swaying or falling over, feel free to kick me out. You might find this hard to believe, but while I'm sitting here, I'm actually working. I'm trying to get something done, and if this is the best way to do it, then what the hell, why not give it a go?" I pause for a moment as I stare at the homepage of the local planning authority. "It's not like I'm gonna need my liver for much longer anyway," I mutter darkly. "Might as well use and abuse it while I can still get something out of it."

  Trying to ignore the barman, I scroll down the homepage, looking for something that might help. I'm convinced that this guy we're looking for has got some kind of set-up away from the city, but it can't be too far away since his three families were all in the same state; the problem is, the burned-out facility we found when the girls escaped was a building that didn't appear on any maps, so the most likely reality is that we're looking for another place that was erected without permission, in which case we're searching for a needle in a haystack. Sure, we can probably find it eventually, but by that point it'll be a burned shell, the guy will be gone, and any people being held captive will probably be long since dead.

  There has to be a way to find this guy.

  I just need my head to start working properly again.

  "Hey!" a voice calls out from behind me. "Sunshine! Over here!"

  Sighing, I turn to see that a drunk guy is waving at me from his position slouched in the corner of a cubicle. My first instinct is to ignore him, but at the last moment it occurs to me that maybe this asshole could be useful. After all, a spot of righteous indignation might be just the spark I need to get my inspiration back up and running, so I close the lid of my laptop, grab my whiskey and head over to join the guy.

  "That doesn't normally work," he says, clearly unable to believe that I've actually responded to his drunken heckles.

  "So you're a serial killer," I reply. "In theory, anyway. Just imagine that you've been holding people hostage in a big building somewhere out in the middle of nowhere, and killing them from time to time, and you've got various false families dotted around the place. You're a real asshole. You probably managed to rationalize your behavior a long time ago. You told yourself that you're..." I pause as I try to put myself in the right frame of mind. "You told yourself that you're smarter than everyone around you," I continue, in a moment of clarity, "and so you figure you might as well cull anyone who gets in your way. It's harsh, but it works for you."

  He sits up straight.

  "You've killed your family," I add. "Most of them, anyway. Your daughter got away, and now you realize that the cops are onto you. Time's running out, but you've got an escape route planned. You probably had one set up from the start, and now you're going to put it into action. You'll take a whole new identity, one of the ones you were gonna sell, and you'll disappear into the crowd. It's actually a decent plan and you know that it'll work, but you also know that you need to stay calm and do things methodically rather than rushing."

  "Lady," the guy replies, "I just came in for a drink -"

  "It's a hypothetical situation," I continue with a smile. "Imagine you ended up having to kill your families and head somewhere safe. Quick, tell me the first thing that comes into your head: where the hell would you go?"

  He stares at me.

  "Come on," I add. "This is important. It might actually help. Just tell me what you'd do or where you'd go, or... anything. Even if you say something totally dumb, it might help me to think of a better answer. If you can't say something smart, just say whatever comes into your head. Believe me, I can tell from looking at you that you're not exactly a genius, so just do your best and I'll take it from there."

  "Are you for real?" he asks.

  "Deadly," I reply. "Come on. My usual sounding-board isn't available, but I still need to talk to someone. Try to imagine that you're a complete psychopath. Can you do that?"

  He opens his mouth to reply, but no words come out.

  "I can," I continue. "I can imagine that I'm a psychopath. Hell, maybe I am? Maybe that's..." I pause as it occurs to me that I might be onto something: maybe my so-called 'inspiration' is actually a way of accessing my inner psycho and thinking like the people I'm trying to catch. I guess that's probably something I should think about when I get a free moment. "So if you're on the run," I add, "and you've got a place out in the middle of nowhere, you'd go there, right? I mean, it makes sense. You'd be crazy not to, and anyway, you might have associates. You'd need to warn them and make sure they were going to leave too." I pause as the pieces start to come together. "Or you'd kill them. That's probably what you'd do. After all, you killed your families, so why not the guys you work with? A total scorched-earth policy."

  He pauses. "I guess..."

  "But how do you time it all?" I continue. "Imagine you're panicking. Would you lay low, or would you try to run for cover?"

  "I don't know -"

  "Try!"

  He takes a deep breath. "Jesus, woman, you're sobering me up pretty fast here."

  "Sorry," I reply, "but try to think. What would you do?"

  "I'd lay low," he says after a moment, "and I'd... I guess I'd wait until the heat was off before I made my move, and then I'd go find somewhere new to hang out. Somewhere no-one could find me."

  "And what about your daughter?" I ask. "The one you tried to kill... Would you bother trying to finish her off?"

  "Not unless she knows something," he replies. "I guess... Plus, it's his daughter..."

  "Take emotion out of it," I continue. "Ignore the fact that she's family. Would you bother?"

  "Probably not. I'd just, like, not wanna do anything that might attract attention, if you know what I mean."

  "That's what I thought."

  "But seriously, lady," he continues, "this is way beyond anything I know about, okay?"

  "Relax," I tell him. "I'm a detective -"

  "Fuck!" he shouts, getting to his feet. "I don't know anything about anything, okay? I just came here for a quiet drink, and now you're making all these accusations and shit, it's totally not on. I'm just a normal guy, okay? Don't go acting like I've done something, 'cause I haven't."

  "Calm down," I reply, "I'm just -"

  "I don't know anything about it. I don't even like gambling! I haven't been anywhere near that place! This is entrapment!"

  With that, he stumbles to the door, clearly filled with panic, and I'm left to frown as I try to work out what the hell he was rambling on about. I guess he thought I was after him for something specific, but I really can't be bothered dealing with the kind of lowlife scum that hangs around in this kind of place. Sure, I join them occasionally, but only because it helps me think.

  "He was a good customer," the barman mutters. "Did you really need to chase him out?"

  "Yeah," I reply, heading back over to the bar. "I did." Pausing for a moment, I can't help but feel that this John Benson or John Sutter guy is in the grip of full-blown panic. It's pretty damn clear that his little world is falling apart, so I doubt he's thinking clearly. Just like the guy in the bar a few moments ago, the guy I'm hunting is probably jumpy and ready to run at a moment's notice. If that's the case, hopefully it won't be too hard to push him into making a mistake sooner rather than later, and hopefully he'll be a little more cautious than usual.

  Feeling a shooting pain in my belly, I wince for a moment. I could really use some of those pills that Dr. Gibbs prescribed a while back, but they'd just cloud my head even more. I have to stay clear-minded, and I have to focus. If inspiration won't strike, I think there might be one other way to find this asshole before it's too late.

  "You want another one?" the
barman asks.

  Ignoring him, I grab my laptop and head to the door. It's time to go spend some more time on my new hobby.

  Part Eight

  The Man Who Disappeared

  John

  It's time.

  Standing in the office, I stare at my reflection and - I swear to God - I barely recognize the man staring back at me. I've spent the past few hours working on my appearance: I fixed my hair, I found a pair of glasses that alter the look of my face, and I fitted contact lenses to change my eye color from brown to green. Sure, I can still see my old face peering out from beneath the disguise, but I'm certain I can pass for Brian Cantard in public.

  A new name.

  A new face.

  A new life.

  I can't help but smile.

  Grabbing the bags of money, I start hauling them out to Leonard's old truck. Now that my plan is set, I feel much more settled. There's no way the police can track me down in time, and even if they one day stumble upon this place, all they'll find will be some bones and a set of burned ruins. I've spent the whole night here, avoiding all contact with the outside world, safe in the knowledge that I can't be found; now I just need to find somewhere else to keep low for a few weeks, until the search for my old identities dies down a little. Once the roadblocks have been lifted. I can just slip away in the crowd.

  There's still one final job to do, however, and I honestly can't tell whether I'm dreading it or looking forward to it.

  Grabbing the gasoline can, I head to the shed. Although there's a part of me that knows this is wrong, and that the poor unfortunate souls in the shed are going to die in horrific agony, there's another part of me that recognizes the importance of ensuring that I get out of this mess. It would be a crime against humanity for a great man such as myself to end up getting caught by this city's pig-ignorant police force. There's no reason why the strong shouldn't profit at the expense of the weak.

  It's just human nature.

  Once I'm inside the shed, I don't bother to turn on the lights. I can just about make out a dark, smudged patch on the ground near the walkway, which I assume is all that's left of Leonard. It wouldn't surprise me if these animals tore him apart and then ate whatever parts of him they could digest; sure enough, several bones have been scattered nearby, and I just hope that the bastard suffered as he died. Leonard was never much use, and that tracking device he put under my car was a bad move on his part. If he deserved to live, then he would have been smarter, but idiots like Leonard are ten-a-penny and I'm not going to waste any time mourning him.

  "Let's get this over with," I mutter, unscrewing the lid of the gasoline can and starting to pour its contents over the heads of the assets down below the walkway. They start to moan as they desperately attempt to get free of their chains, but of course they've got no chance. I make my way slowly along the walkway, taking care to ensure that the gasoline covers each and every one of them, and then when I get to the far end I turn around and do the same again. After all, I gain no pleasure from their pain, so I figure it's better to ensure that they die as quickly as possible. By the time I get back to the door, the whole place stinks and I pour the last of the fluid against the wall.

  Done.

  I step out of the barn and leave the door hanging open as I reach into my pockets and pull out a box of matches. In a strange way, I actually feel a little sorry about this situation. After all, this facility represents decades' worth of work, and now it's going to be destroyed in just a few minutes. I can't deny that there's a part of me that wants to preserve the whole place as a testament to my brilliance, and to maybe even invite people to come and take a look. Hell, in an ideal world it might even be preserved as a museum, but this isn't an ideal world, not remotely. Soon there'll be nothing left here but ruins, and my empire will be gone. Still, with millions of dollars in the truck and a new identity, I've got a damn good chance to start again somewhere far away.

  I light the match.

  From inside the barn, there's the sound of moans and wails. The effect is contagious, and it's as if they know what's about to happen to them. That's impossible, of course; these brutes can't possibly have any understanding of gasoline, so they're probably just mindlessly shouting their rage at the roof. Somewhere among their number, the real Brian Cantard is waiting to die alongside his fellow captives, with no idea that he and he alone will live on past this day, albeit with someone else assuming his identity.

  "Thank you, Brian," I mutter, reaching through to drop the match. "You've been very helpful."

  And that's when I hear it.

  Turning, I look across the yard, convinced that somewhere in the distance there's a faint rumble. I scan the horizon, but I don't see anything, and I try to tell myself that it's just an airliner passing high overheard. Suddenly, however, I spot movement far away, and I realize that a helicopter is approaching. My chest immediately tightens as I realize that there are also several dark vehicles racing this way, and this time there can be no question as to their purpose: I have no idea how, but the police have managed to locate the facility, and they're coming for me right now. I guess Claire must have somehow helped them after all.

  I don't know whether to laugh or cry.

  Still holding the match, poised to drop it and ignite the assets, I turn and look over at the truck. There's no way I can outrun a police helicopter, especially not in that old thing, and I don't have the necessary firepower to neutralize the threat. Momentarily unable to think, I stand in silence, watching the cars getting closer and closer until they screech to a halt just before the wrecked gate. Police officers swarm out and take position, and I'm soon being targeted by a dozen or more weapons.

  "Stop what you're doing and put your hands above your head!" shouts a voice, and moments later I spot a tall, determined-looking black guy heading toward the gate. He's clearly in charge, and I've already taken an instant dislike to him. He probably thinks he's got this situation all under control, but I have a feeling he's going to change his mind pretty damn soon.

  I stare at him for a moment as I try to decide how to respond.

  "Stop what you're doing," he shouts again, aiming a gun at me, "and put your hands above your goddamn head!"

  Turning, I look at the burning match and realize that I could just drop it right now and then either run or hurry into the building. The possibility of death suddenly seems strangely enticing, and I can't help but think that maybe I could be satisfied with posthumous glory. After a moment, however, I realize that I'm fooling myself. I want to live, and I want to know that these fools have recognized my brilliance. It's not enough that I know how great this empire has been; I need to know that the world understands too.

  "Insurance salesman, my ass," I whisper.

  "This is your final warning!" the black guy shouts, aiming a gun at me as he gets closer. "Put your hands above your head now! I will not repeat myself again!"

  "That would necessitate dropping the match," I reply, as the flame burns closer and closer to my fingers. "I think there are some people in the barn who wouldn't be very happy with that idea. They've taken a little shower in gasoline, and it wouldn't take much to set them off. Can you have that on your conscience? All those deaths? So many men, screaming as they burn? You'd have nightmares for weeks."

  I smile as I see the look of concern in the guy's eyes. He clearly knows that I mean business, and I imagine he has a rather deeply-ingrained aversion to mass murder. He'll do anything within his power to ensure that I don't set fire to this place and kill the assets, which means that although escape is clearly out of the question, I still have a great deal of power if I can use his humanity against him. Unfortunately, the match is already half-burned, which means I need to get on with this as quickly as possible.

  I never asked for a showdown, but if it has to happen, I'm damn well going to rise to the occasion. I've spent too long keeping my ego folded up in the shadows; it's time to let the damn thing out. My heart is racing, and I feel that maybe I'
ve been waiting for this moment my whole life.

  "I have certain demands," I say eventually, feeling the heat of the flame becoming more uncomfortable as the match burns shorter and shorter, "and you don't have very long to decide whether or not you're going to give me exactly what I want."

  Joanna Mason

  "He'll do it," I whisper, keeping a little way back as Carver continues to aim his gun at the suspect. "Don't push him too far. He'll do it if he thinks it's his only option."

  "We can negotiate," Carver shouts, "but first you have to put the match out!"

  "And why would I do that?" the suspect shouts back at us. "You've got your weapons trained on me. As soon as this match goes out, you'll take me down. I'm not an idiot; I know how this works, so I'd suggest that we hurry up. I doubt there's more than thirty seconds left."

  "He's got a point," I whisper.

  "My name is Jordan Carver," Carver calls out to him. "I want to help you, but I need you to meet me halfway. Can you start by telling me your name?"

  No reply.

  "What's so difficult about telling me your name?" Carver asks. "It's a simple thing. Everyone has a name, right?"

  "Brian Cantard!" the guy shouts suddenly.

  "Brian?"

  "Bullshit," I whisper to Carver. "That was way too easy."

  "As of this afternoon, anyway," the guy replies with a smile. "Before that, I was John Benson, and John Pierce, and John Sutter, and John this and John that and all the in-betweens." He pauses. "I hope that isn't too confusing for you. I can give you a long list, if you like. I've been quite a few people over the years, and none of you assholes ever even noticed."

  "I'd like to know your real name," Carver replies.

  "I just gave you a whole bunch of names," the guy replies. "Pick one and use it. I don't care; names are just temporary things, like identities and feelings. They can be dropped whenever they become inconvenient."