by Wes Markin
The jaguar.
He broke into a run and flung himself through the door of the motorhome. Inside, he saw Riley collapsed forward, straining the ropes holding him to the chair, his open eyes fixed on the growing pool of blood at his feet.
‘Riley?’
The motorhome rattled around him under a sudden gust of wind.
‘Please Riley …’ He took another step forward.
A long line of drool extended from Riley’s mouth. Ewan knew that he was dead. He also knew that he needed to run. But first, where was his father?
‘Dad?’
He stepped around the pool of blood, shuddering when he glanced at Riley’s wide-open eyes. He switched on the first bedroom light and saw that his father was not there; he then tried his bedroom. He wasn’t there either.
Then he felt something press into the back of his head and knew that the jaguar had come.
‘Ewan, I have a gun to your head. I want you to kneel to the floor and put your hands behind your back,’ the beast said into his ear. The voice was clear to understand but felt very wrong. ‘I have your father, if you want to see him again, do as I say.’
Ewan kneeled. He felt Riley’s blood soak into his jeans and experienced a wave of nausea. Seeing Riley dead, and now hearing his father’s life was in danger, made him feel like he was in a plane spiralling out of control. He felt his wrists being lashed together, grimacing as the killer tightened the coarse rope.
‘Stand up.’
‘Where’s my dad?’
‘Stand up now, or I will do to you, what I did to your friend here, and to your mother.’
Ewan felt the world tilt underneath him.
Your mother. They used to be words of tenderness, but in the aftermath of her execution, they closed around his throat like a noose.
‘I want to speak to my father before I do anything.’
The killer scooped up Ewan’s backpack from the pool of blood. He shook it out and Freddy flopped to the floor. At first, Freddy looked stunned, but then he hissed and flicked his tail in the blood, splashing Ewan’s face.
‘Freddy …’
‘Your snake doesn’t have to die, you know, serpents are wonderful creatures. I would prefer your snake to live.’
From the corner of his eye, Ewan saw the monster’s rise its boot above Freddy’s head.
‘No … don’t, I’ll do what you say.’
Ewan rose to his feet.
‘Now, we need to go outside and Freddy will be fine.’ He scooped Freddy up and threw him back into the backpack.
Back outside in the cold, the monster marched Ewan through the trees. He wondered how far they would get, before his mother’s killer chose a suitable place of execution. If he died here, it would be days before they found him. Days in which nature would feast. He considered running, but that would condemn Freddy and his dad - if the killer wasn’t bluffing - to certain death; besides, he’d seen enough movies to know he’d definitely take a bullet in the back.
He wriggled his hands; they were firmly tied by rope. The wind whistled through the trees and Ewan felt like he was wading deeper into a sanctuary for tortured souls.
Eventually they emerged from the patch of trees onto the country road that turned into the caravan site. He looked around desperately, but no one was coming. He was led by his kidnapper to a threatening white van.
When he stepped around him to open the van door, Ewan got his first glimpse of his mother’s killer, and realised how grave the danger was. Riley’s blood speckled his pale face and his eyes seemed dead.
The killer waved Ewan into the van with his gun. When he climbed in, he saw an old woman gurgling in the corner. The man untied his wrists but then handcuffed them to the rail running around the van interior. He tried kicking out at the emaciated, white creep, but his feet were brushed away.
Maybe this is just part of the dream that began yesterday, thought Ewan.
‘Where’s my dad?’
‘I need you to cry, Ewan.’
‘What are you talking about? I want my dad!’
‘I said I need you to cry. The festival of Atemoztli depends on it.’ Ewan detected a little excitement in the bastard’s voice this time, as if it there were actually traces of emotions in him, which glowed occasionally like dying embers. ‘Think of your friend, the old man. Or think of your mother if that is easier. But I want you to cry.’
Ewan decided he’d had enough of doing what this vile beast said. ‘No – I want to see my dad before I do anything else you tell—’
‘Your choice,’ the killer said and emptied the rucksack on the floor. Freddy didn’t like being disturbed a second time; he tried to slide away from the madman and out the van door. But the monster was too quick. He ground Freddy’s head into the floor with his boot and Ewan started to cry.
16
IT WAS LATE, and Yorke’s mind raced. He was journeying home from yet another crime scene and he was verging on exhaustion.
He couldn’t wait to pull Patricia close against him and feel her skin on his. She would help him forget everything for at least a few hours.
His phone rang. It was Brookes, talking so fast that he was barely comprehensible; however, he got the gist of what he was being told.
As he changed direction, Yorke told Brookes that the man was called Terrence Lock, and that he believed he was an Aztec Priest required to initiate a Second Age. He also told him anything that he thought could help him if he was to bump into the killer before he got there.
He didn’t bother attempting to talk Brookes out of going. What was the point? He wouldn’t listen. Roles reversed – would Yorke have listened?
After the call ended, he phoned the station and then contacted Gardner.
Iain Brookes wanted his world back.
A world where he had known love, and the sharing, for better or for worse, of a warm embrace in the cold hours of the morning; of the hope in a child’s first smile; and of a passionate argument that would burn for days. He wanted the world where he had known life, and its taste, for richer and for poorer, of that jug of iced tea brewed on a summer’s day; of the crash of that first wave on an open mouth; and a tear drank from the eye of another.
Iain Brookes did not want this world. He saw loss as a cadaver with its heart cut out, hanging from a meat hook, spooling in the cold wind. He saw evil as a living corpse with a lifeless brain, dragging its decaying feet along the ground, scraping bloody lines into the bitter snow.
The white Ford Transit van, partially camouflaged by the swirling snow, burst from the night.
Brookes didn’t have much time to think, so he had to assume that his son was in the van with Jessica’s murderer.
He punched his brakes, let the snow suck him across the path of the van at a ninety-degree angle and braced himself. The passenger door of his car caved inwards, the wind was bashed out of him and the window imploded. His vehicle was dragged sideways down the road with the van lodged in its side like a spear.
The killer forced his van onwards, clearly desperate to plough Brookes’ car out of the way. The wind howled through the smashed car window.
Eventually, the killer was forced to concede defeat, and let his van grind to a halt.
Everything was still. Brookes glanced around the interior of his car, illuminated by the van’s headlights which were pressed deep into his vehicle’s bodywork. His front window was completely cracked, and no piece had been kind enough to break away, to allow him to see outside. He undid his seatbelt and then heard the clunk of the van door opening.
There was a loud gunshot and he felt chunks of glass pepper his face. He threw his hand out, grasped the door handle and pitched himself from the car. He hoped the snow would soften the blow. It didn’t. He attempted to climb to his feet, but it was too slippery, and he hit the deck again. Winded, it was even harder to rise the second time, but he did, and even made it into a squat—
Another gunshot. A white flash. He hit the snow again; this time, face first
.
When the cold ground started to burn his face, he lifted it from the ground and then groaned at the agonising pain in his shoulder. He rolled onto his back, looked down and saw blood seeping through his jacket.
His ex-wife’s murderer hovered above him, looking down at him like a predator, instinct-driven and emotionless. The killer stepped nearer, exhaled sharply through his nose, bared his teeth and aimed the gun at his head. With a shudder, Brookes recognised it as the gun from his motorhome. ‘Where’s my son?’
He didn’t respond.
‘Is he in the van? Let him go.’
‘I cannot.’
Brookes narrowed his eyes. ‘You feel at home out here in the wilderness, do you?’
‘What do you mean, Iain?’ He cocked his head from side-to-side as if to examine his prey.
‘Exactly what I said. Does the feral animal feel at home out in the wild?’
The bastard could pull the trigger at any point. It was either taunt him or beg him. And if he begged and then died anyway, he’d never forgive himself if there was an afterlife.
But the killer didn’t appear taunted, just inquisitive. A burst of wind rose his long hair up around him and when he took a step forward, he looked like he was stepping out of a black cloud. His ears looked like large, fleshy tumours.
‘It’s over, Lock.’
Terrence Lock paused and looked confused.
‘Sorry, did I pronounce it wrong? L—o—c—k.’ He paused, stressing the letters had caused him excruciating pain. He glanced down at the bullet wound and saw that he was bleeding a lot. ‘Wake up, Lock, we know who you are, it’s over!’
Lock shook his head. ‘No. It’s only just beginning.’
‘Are you not listening? We know your identity.’
‘We are not born with identities, we are given them, so I have given myself a new one.’
Despite his flimsy black gown, Lock wasn’t shivering. Brookes suspected that he thrived off the cold.
‘You murdered the mother of my child. It’s a shame you are the one with the gun,’ Brookes said.
‘She gave herself for a reason. One day, people will realise the significance of her sacrifice.’
‘Jessica never gave herself,’ He attempted to sit up; the pain was unbearable, so he eased himself back down.
‘You cry for Jessica, but what I have given to her was preferable to the life of slavery she was living. A life of slavery given to her by you, Iain. You are another perfect example of a slave to his own need. A need that has destroyed lives. First Jessica’s, then Ewan’s, and finally, yours.’
‘You’re insane.’
‘Where were you when she needed you? When her mother was sick? When your son was being bullied at school? I know all about you, Iain. I know what you denied them.’
‘I had a job, gobshite, helping people. Doing something about you will also help people. A lot of people.’
‘You are not in any position to do anything. All you do now is delay me, because what I have to do far exceeds the importance of this dialogue.’
‘Show me my son!’
‘It is over.’ He aimed the gun at Brookes’ head. ‘This is not what I wanted, or envisaged, but …’
‘Is it what your lord wants?’ Brookes said, thinking back to his brief conversation with Yorke and what he could remember from it.
‘You know a lot. Too much in fact.’
‘I know everything. And I’m telling you, Lock, you need to end this right now, before it is ended for you, and not in the way you’d wish.’
‘What if I told you I already offered to stop, and that Lord Tezcatlipoca refused? That He wishes me to continue?’
‘Come on, Lock, even if this Aztec deity was real why would he communicate with you?’
‘He has been communicating with me since I was fourteen years old.’
‘They’re delusions, Lock. My God—'
‘Your god, Iain?’ It was as if he’d hurled a stone at an approaching snake, causing it to hiss now with bared teeth. ‘Do you even know who He is?’ The hand holding the weapon had started to shake. Accidentally, or intentionally, that gun was going to discharge.
‘No,’ Iain said.
‘So do not speak to me of your false god. He is the delusion. A delusion created for profit. The Conquistadors looted our graves for gold, and what do the slaves do who turn to a Christian god? They hoard, they self-obsess, and they destroy in the name of personal enhancement.’
Brookes could see that Lock was losing control and sensed an opportunity to use this situation to his advantage. Brookes’ own hatred for this man was consuming him inside out, and the pain in his shoulder was excruciating, but he could still act rationally. If he didn’t, he would be dead within a matter of seconds and his son would quickly follow. He looked over at the van.
‘Okay … so show me, Lock, take me with you now.’
‘What?’
‘Make me understand.’
‘Why?’
‘I can be willing too, just like Jessica was, just like my son is.’
Lock sneered. ‘And you expect me to suddenly believe you?’
‘Probably not, but would you deny me the opportunity to understand? How would your lord feel about that?’
‘Your attempts to trick me are pathetic.’
‘Tell me why you do this Lock?’
‘It is not Lock, it is Tezcacoatl!’
‘Okay, so tell me, Tezcacoatl – you told me that you want people to understand.’
‘Isn’t it obvious? Our world heats up and we all melt. Around us, it’s brittle and it crumbles. Nature is changeable and angry. I watch the sun rise every day, but sometimes I expect it not to come.’
‘And how did you find out that this way works?’
‘Lord Tezcatlipoca showed me Tenochtitlan in my dreams. It is a glorious place. The people then knew about the cyclical nature of man and nature, and they understood the respect that had to be shown to the gods.’
Brookes remembered something else that Yorke had told him. ‘And this will happen again, with the Second Age? The one that you will lead?’
‘You really do know a great deal.’
‘Everything. Like I said to you already. And I’m interested, genuinely. Educate me.’
‘It would be quicker to just—'
‘Execute me? And how would your lord feel about you executing someone who desires to know? A non-believer looking for truth? It will be difficult for your lord to build a new following if the people cannot trust Him.’
‘I think that He would know, at this point, that it was completely necessary.’
‘Really? He wouldn’t consider it vindictive?’
Lock’s eyes darted both ways. Colour even crept into his pale face.
‘Educate me and then I will offer myself as a willing sacrifice,’ Brookes said.
‘This is nonsense,’ Lock said, but he took a step back, and the gun wavered in his hand.
‘Take me with you and Ewan. I am willing too, but not out here, not on the road like a dog. That is cold-blooded, Tezcacoatl. Even as a slave to need as you called me before, I deserve a good death.’
‘A flowery death?’
‘Yes, that’s right, a flowery death.’
Lock paused to think; meanwhile, Brookes shivered and chewed his bottom lip. The pain in his shoulder was intense, and his head grew lighter by the second.
‘Behave like a leader,’ Brookes said, ‘not someone who is vindictive and untrusting. Show your lord that you are worthy and give me this flowery death.’
Lock looked annoyed. He took a deep breath. ‘Get to your feet.’
Brookes used his left hand to push himself into a sitting position; he realised his entire body was drenched now from the falling snow. Lock backed away to allow him room to get to his feet. The killer’s eyes remained wide despite the flakes of snow melting on his irises.
‘If you make any sudden movements, you will lose any entitlement you have, and I will sho
ot you. Face the van and walk towards it.’
Brookes did as he was told, and they conducted the journey to the back of the van in silence. Shielding his eyes from the snow, he glanced at his shoulder; it was difficult to see the damage through his blood-soaked jacket.
Once they reached the back of the van, Brookes didn’t need to be told to open it. His son was inside, so he had to restrain himself from tearing the door off.
Inside, the air stank of desperation. An elderly woman stared at him from the back of the lit van. Her eyes were wide open and looked empty. A long line of drool swung like a pendulum from her chin. Ewan was curled up on his side, facing the door; he was handcuffed to a metal bar that ran the length of the van, about half a metre from the floor. It must have been uncomfortable. His eyes were that puffy he looked as if he’d been beaten.
‘Dad!’ Ewan said.
‘Son!’ Brookes forced back tears.
‘This man killed Riley and Freddy.’
Riley. Brookes clenched his hands; his nails dug into his palms.
Brookes noticed Freddy’s body on the floor in front of Ewan, glistening in the light. The monster had turned his head into a bloody pulp. Brookes longed to turn and face Lock but knew the risks of doing that were too great.
‘Get into the van, put your hands behind your back,’ Lock said, ‘and lie face down.’
Brookes forced his body to obey. The stakes had intensified because the possibility of him now dying in front of his son existed. He climbed into the van and lay face down on the floor, careful not to brush against Freddy’s remains.
The turbulent weather outside would, on any other occasion, have made the back of the van a blessed relief, but the despair inside made it as welcoming as a torture chamber.
As Lock knelt on his back, Brooke’s glanced at an icebox and large black duffel bag to his left and wondered what they contained. Out of the corner of his eye, Brookes watched Lock’s left hand disappear into the bag. He sensed an opportunity to buck and throw the bastard off but Lock still held a gun and if he failed, the outcome was unthinkable. Brookes heard Lock pulling tape from a roll, and then felt it being wound tightly around his wrists. He gritted his teeth at the pain in his shoulder.
