by Robert Clark
I drove slowly and passed the house by. Neither of the men inside would expect to see me rock up in a reasonably priced red Ford. To them, I was just another resident on their way home. I took the next turn, pulled up on the kerb, and got out into the rain. I slipped off my other shoe and held it in my palm. I left the Ford unlocked, keys still in the ignition, and walked back around the house.
The light over the front door was off, but I knew it was connected to a motion sensor. I didn’t take the path up to the gate. Instead, I ducked down by the wall of the property next over, and glanced inside. The curtains were drawn on both the downstairs front windows, and I couldn’t see any light escaping around the sides. But they were in there. I was sure of it. The upstairs windows were not drawn, and the longer I stared the more I was certain no one was looking out of them. They were making this easy for me.
I climbed carefully over the garden wall and, with my back pressed up to the adjoining wall that ran parallel to the two neighbouring properties, scuttled towards Marie’s house. I didn’t go for the front door. Didn’t want to cause a distraction. Instead, I picked up one of the gnomes guarding the front lawn and headed for the rear of the house.
If Marie had sprung for motion sensing lights at the front of the house, it stood to reason she did the same at the back. I’d seen the garden through the kitchen windows. I knew it was a magnificent specimen. She wanted to keep it safe, and lights were a frontline defence strategy.
And they were my new best friends too.
At the rear left corner, I stopped. The gnome I’d picked was a gardener, with a pointy red hat that looked too big for his head, and a large white beard, the gardener seemed pleased to have been picked. He leant his weight on a shovel, which was stuck into the porcelain grass, and provided me an adequate handhold to slip my fingers through. He would do the job, and he would do it right the first time.
I eased out and pressed my back up against the rear of the building. With the gnome in one hand and my shoe in the other, I sidestepped towards the back door. At each window, I glanced inside and saw nothing but darkness, then I continued onwards.
A couple of feet from the door, I held up my shoe, and threw it out into the garden. Instantly, lights came on above me, and the garden was bathed in a strong bright light. I pressed myself up against the wall and waited.
It took less than a minute for a reaction. I heard the sound of a key scratching hastily inside a lock, then the door to my right opened and a man appeared. It was Buzz Cut. In one hand, he held a kitchen knife. In the other, a flashlight. He made it two steps out of the door.
Then a garden gnome hit him square on the top of his skull.
Just like in the woods, he made a noise, this time like a wet balloon, and fell face first into the neatly trimmed grass.
One down. One to go.
That’s what happens when you mess with James Stone.
Twenty-Seven
I had to act fast. No telling what plan Buzz Cut and the Rent Boy had worked out in advance, and I wanted them on the back foot for the whole thing. Before the last light went out in Buzz Cut’s head, I slipped through the open door and into the kitchen.
The gnome had taken a battering. The lower half of his torso had smashed, making him look more like a wounded solider in battle. He was still smiling though, happy to have played a part in his owner’s rescue. I put him on the kitchen counter and promised him a purple star, then padded silently deeper into the house.
I figured I had about 2 minutes before the Rent Boy got spooked. Two minutes was enough time for a person to venture out into their victim’s garden and satisfy any doubts that the thing that had alerted the lights was a suburban fox or a neighbour’s cat. After two minutes, the doubt would begin to fester. He’d start wondering why his partner in crime hadn’t returned and start worrying that whatever had got to him might just be working its way inside the house.
Good. I wanted him scared. I wanted him pissing his designer pants.
All that was left to do was find the guy.
If it were me, and I was the kind of guy that murdered women then took their sisters hostage for shits and giggles, I’d take the victim upstairs. Because it wasn’t a case of revenge for them. They weren’t expecting to see me rock up anytime soon. The police waiting outside Amie’s house confirmed it. They thought they’d dealt with the problem. So this was something else entirely.
No doubt, at some point since this whole thing began, the Rent Boy and the Buzz Cut had seen that the two sisters were not alike. Sure, they shared genetics, and a fairly similar childhood, but that’s where the similarities ended. One had gone on to acquire a great fortune. The other had not. One had lived, for the most part, a happy, affluent life. The other had suffered and struggled. Rent Boy and Buzz Cut had dealt almost exclusively with the latter, then they’d turned their eyes to the former for one primary reason.
Greed.
So I’d have the hostage upstairs. Not for any tactical purposes. With only the potential of one guy coming after them, the downstairs rooms were, if anything, better suited for a defensive strategy. They’d stand a better chance of seeing me wander past the windows or activate the motion sensors. Then if one guy went out for a stroll, the other could watch his back. But these fools weren’t here to defend their castle to the very end. They were here to plunder it.
From what I’d seen of Marie Giroux over the last few days, she was a typical sort. Wealthy, but not audaciously so. Polite, but entitled. She knew her place on the social ladder, and it little behoved her to look down on others. Happy to display her wealth, but not carelessly. She was a shrewd woman, taught to be so from her upbringing. I had no doubt in my mind she would be the sort of person that kept some amount of valuables locked away in a safe. Hell, she’d parted ways with three hundred euros for a guy she’d just met. Money wasn’t an issue for her.
Rent Boy and his unconscious companion had probably come to the same conclusion, but they hadn’t thought it through very well. If their plan was to kill Marie and make it look like suicide, that story would only hold up for so long. The timeline was ruined now, part in thanks to my disaster back in Saint-Claude, and the fact Marie’s car was at the centre of the wreckage. Throw in a home robbery and the chances of any cop believing the horse painted with black and white stripes was a zebra went down to zilch.
But that wasn’t bothering them at that moment.
Above me, I heard floorboards creak. Not a lot. The house was too well looked after to even consider the possibility of floorboards getting old enough to complain. But it was just quiet enough in an impossibly silent house that it sounded like a distant horn trying to attract my attention. Even a mouse fart would turn a few heads.
I didn’t move straight away. With the gnome a wounded war veteran, I needed a new soldier for battle. The kitchen was replete with tools. Was a kitchen knife a little overkill? Perhaps not if Rent Boy had a gun up there with him, or a knife of his own. In damp socks, I padded across to the countertop and unsheathed a large knife from a stand. The stainless steel beast glistened in the moonlight. It would do the trick.
I paused at the kitchen door and strained my ears to hear if someone was nearby. Any low breaths or muffled footsteps. Nothing. That didn’t mean there wasn’t someone standing directly above me, looking out over the mezzanine to see where his buddy was. Unfortunately for me, I had but one way up, and he had the higher ground. But down to one man, his attention was split three ways between a lookout, a burglar and a hostage taker. A lot of work for one man.
The clock in my head told me the first of my two minutes had gone, and the lights out in the garden had died away with the lack of outdoor activity. So now Mr Rent Boy was thinking his friend should be on his way back in, or so far out in the garden that the sensors couldn’t detect him. Either or.
I inched out into the landing, head up and eyes alert. The further I moved, the clearer my view. Rent Boy was not there. I made it to the stairs, knife up like I was re
ady to fight or throw it like a damn tomahawk at the intruder. Each step was mercifully quiet, and I made it to the top with nary a sound.
Upstairs, the corridor was dark and quiet. I glanced both ways and saw no light coming through the cracks in the doors. I went left, because the corridor was shorter that way, which meant fewer rooms to check. With hardly any light, I channelled all my focus into my ears, desperately searching for so much as an exasperated exhale. Nothing.
The first door on my left was closed. I fumbled for the handle and opened it as quietly as possible. Through the light of a large bay window, I could tell the room was some kind of home office. A computer sat on a wooden desk, with a comfortable office chair tucked underneath. No one was inside, so I backed out and tried door number two.
Which was slightly ajar. I brought the knife up, ready to attack, and pushed the door open. The bathroom. Pristine porcelain sparked in the silver moonlight, all alone and undisturbed.
‘Brother?’ called a male voice from the other end of the house. It was unmistakably Rent Boy. I ducked back out of the bathroom and tried to locate the source of the voice. No one was in the corridor with me, but it would likely not stay that way for long. Not with Buzz Cut taking a long nap out on the lawn.
Without shoes, I felt lighter, so I ran silently across the corridor. Rent Boy called out again as I drew close, which gave me all the Intel I needed to know where he was. The room in question was behind a door which, like the bathroom, was half open or half closed, depending on your outlook on life and doors.
It meant I had a choice to make. try to sneak in silently, or barge in and go for broke. If Rent Boy had a gun, surprise could get either myself of Marie killed. But going for the quiet approach would mean diddly squat if he was looking at the door.
I made up my mind. All or nothing. Time for action.
I faced the door with my knife up ready to go, and raised the sole of my left foot up. I counted down from three, then I went for it. My foot slammed into the door with all the force of a kangaroo kick, and I launched inside. I had only a split second to register that the room was a bedroom, probably Marie’s and that the lady in question was sat on the bed facing me before a figure at the window jumped. Rent Boy had been looking outside. A cool breeze through the open window hit me as he spun around and looked at me. He was unarmed. What a rookie error.
I came at him like a fighter jet and shouldered him up against the window. The force knocked everything out of him, and I brought the knife up to his throat.
‘Bonjour, Rent Boy,’ I snarled. ‘What kind of strategy is this? You couldn’t arrange a piss up in a rehab clinic.’
Some of the vernacular was lost on him, so he didn’t reply. Instead, he let his fists do the talking. He swung a solid right into my stomach, which eased the blade away from his throat enough to sidestep me and back off. I swung the knife out at him, but he batted it from my hands like it was nothing more than a child’s toy. He was better than I’d pegged him for.
I let him soak up his victory for all of a nanosecond before I threw my leg up into his crotch. In the dim light, he didn’t see it coming, and made a noise like a distressed bird as I made contact. The force made him stagger back into a wall length wardrobe, so I repeated my earlier move and smashed him against it. I followed it up with three quick jabs to the stomach, just to make sure all the oxygen in his lungs got the memo about the evacuation.
Paralysed and out of breath, there was little Rent Boy could do to turn the tables in his favour, but he gave it a solid go, nonetheless. I took a step back to line up a powerful blow to the side of his face, which gave him the time he needed to pull out a gun.
The piece was small and slender. Not the sort of thing the army would use. It looked like a fashion statement. Maybe it was Marie’s. A little protection for a woman all on her own in a big fancy house. Maybe it was Rent Boy’s, to stop people taking advantage of him. He held it in his right hand, parallel to both him and me, pointed at nothing in particular. He kept it there.
‘Fils de pute,’ he spat. ‘You fight like a prisoner.’
‘Better than fighting like a grandma,’ I said. ‘In fact, I’ve seen some grandmas kick serious arse. So you’ve got nothing on them either. You’re worthless, Rent Boy.’
‘I am not a Rent Boy!’ He screamed, raising the pistol up.
He did it slowly, still suffering from his earlier beating. Too slow, in fact. I had all the time in the world to reach up and grab his hand and head butt him clean in the centre of his pretty little nose. He made another noise that would make his parents proud, then he did something less than ideal.
He squeezed the trigger.
The gunshot sounded like a cannon going off. It was followed almost immediately by a muffled scream from Marie, and another yelp from Rent Boy. I snatched the weapon and yanked it out of his hand, then I hit him square in the forehead with the butt of the pistol.
He deflated like a day old balloon and groaned. I kicked him once in the stomach, then something out the corner of my eye caught my attention.
Someone was standing in the door.
I turned to look, expecting to see Buzz Cut back for round two. But it wasn’t him.
It was Charles Neagley.
Twenty-Eight
He was out of breath. His face scrunched up into some mixture of unspent anger and overspent exhaustion. He had one hand clasped around the doorframe, and the other clutching at his ribs. For a moment, I thought the bullet had hit him, until I saw a neat little hole in the wall a few feet to his right. Neagley looked from Rent Boy, to me, then to Marie.
‘Son of a bitch,’ he groaned. His eyes did another lap, and he repeated the phrase once more.
With Rent Boy all finished on the floor, I turned my attention to Marie. She had a gag in her mouth that was tied behind her head, and her hands were bound with tape. I snatched up the discarded knife and undid both. Then I kneeled down beside her.
‘Are you okay?’ I asked.
She opened her mouth, but she couldn’t speak.
‘Let’s get you out of here,’ I said, helping her to her feet.
Neagley didn’t budge. He blocked the door with his tired frame and stared at me.
‘I think it’s high time we all sat down and talked,’ he said.
I pointed the gun at him.
‘I will shoot you straight through the skull if you don’t get out my way.’
He waited a moment, then he obliged. I helped Marie downstairs to the kitchen, switched on the light and put on the kettle.
Then I handed her the phone.
‘You need to call the police,’ I said. ‘Tell them what happened, all of it, from start to finish. I’m going to leave you with the gun, and I’ll get those fools together so you can keep them here until the police arrive. It shouldn’t take them long. Half the force is sat outside Amie’s house.’
She looked up at me, breathless, but didn’t speak. An information overload.
‘Did you get all that?’ I asked.
She nodded.
‘Good,’ I said. ‘Give me five minutes to get them all in one place, then make the call.’
She didn’t respond to that. I went outside and found Buzz Cut where I’d left him. It didn’t take long to drag him through to the kitchen. Then, armed with the pistol, I went up for Neagley and Rent Boy.
Neagley had taken a seat on the bed where Marie had sat while held hostage, his head in his hands. Rent Boy was awake, sat in the foetal position with his eyes throwing daggers my way.
‘Get up, the both of you,’ I said, ‘and follow me downstairs.’
‘We need to talk,’ Neagley said again.
‘And we will, downstairs, so Marie can know why you killed her sister.’
Neagley led the way, with Rent Boy in the middle and me at the back. I kept the gun pointed at Rent Boy’s head for fun, poking him in the back of the skull every few seconds. In the kitchen, I put the pair beside Buzz Cut and walked back to Marie.
&nb
sp; ‘Amie Giroux had terminal cancer,’ I said.
No one spoke. By now, I knew it was common knowledge.
‘Grade three Anaplastic Astrocytoma,’ said Charles Neagley, eyes on Marie sat at the counter. ‘She found out two months ago. Accounts for around two percent of all brain tumours, so I’m told. They caught it late and, well, they didn’t like her odds.’
‘She wanted to go out on her own terms,’ I said. ‘Like they do up in Switzerland. Euthanasia. I saw the emails, but they couldn’t accept her because of France’s strict rules. They wouldn’t let her go to a foreign country to end her life. She looked online for alternate solutions. Loopholes to get around the system, but there weren’t any, and she couldn’t afford to take them to court over it. She was helpless.’
I looked at Marie. She was staring at the counter.
‘I know,’ she said. Her voice was stiff. ‘I spoke to Ines. The woman she told her neighbour was her sister. She’s a cancer support worker at the hospital she visited. She told me about Amie, about her struggle.’
‘After she found out she couldn’t do it in Switzerland, she reached out to me,’ said Neagley. ‘It’s what I do. I help people who… need specific help, so to speak. I came out here to talk to her in person. It’s easier than via online chat rooms. Amie told me the situation. She told me what she wanted to do, and I promised I would help her.’
There was a long moment of silence.
‘It was her idea to do it up by the train tracks,’ Neagley said eventually. ‘She said she likes feeling the rumble of the trains. Said she goes up there from time to time to think.’
I could see tears running down Marie’s face. She said nothing.
