Dead and Gone

by Tina Glasneck

  A storm porch jutted one metre from the front wall, its brick-built sidewalls solid—no windows. A closed front door, sun-bleached, red faded to pink, offered the only access. As a place to lie in wait, the porch couldn’t have been designed any better.

  Time passed with the flowing speed of cold molasses.

  C’mon Alex.

  The welcome sound of static clicked in his earpiece. “In position, boss,” Alex whispered. She breathed heavily. “And there is a white campervan inside the barn. We found them. What now?”

  Jones considered asking her to look inside the camper, but couldn’t risk setting off the vehicle’s alarm. The thought gave him an idea. He filed away for later.

  “Can you make it to the rear of the house, unseen?” he asked.

  “Yes. There are no windows on the north face of the cottage. Dark shadows here, also.”

  “Okay, stay there for the minute. I’m going to break cover. Don’t move until I call.”

  The overgrown garden between him and the cottage’s gable wall left him exposed and vulnerable, but a direct approach was his only option. He couldn’t spare the time to follow Alex’s trail. Jones skirted as far to the right as he could, and drew level with the end wall. He’d be invisible from the cottage unless Flynn decided to step outside, or poke his head through one of the windows.

  Crickets chirruped in the fields around him; the stream, the breeze disturbing the foliage, and the flutter of low-flying sparrows, all offered a background wall of sound to mask his approach.

  On all fours, Jones spider-crawled down the hill towards the building. Insects scattered in his path.

  The tall damp grass soaked through his khaki trousers. Every ten metres or so he paused, held his breath and listened. Silence, save for the comforting and intermittent sounds of nature.

  He edged to the left and aimed for a quiet corner where the gable wall dived back towards the barn. A water butt, fed by a down-pipe from a sagging gutter, offered a half-decent hiding place. Firewood stacked against the wall beside the barrel offered more cover.

  The sun scorched his exposed neck. Sweat formed on his scalp and trickled down to form a drip on the end of his nose. He wiped the droplet away with the back of his moist hand.

  A flat concrete yard, mottled with dark green lichen, separated the edge of the overgrown garden from the cottage. The next part was even more risky, but with no alternative, Jones jumped to his feet and darted across the gap, grateful for the rubber-soled silence of his hiking boots.

  He raced past the woodpile, juddered to a back-jarring stop against the rough wall, and dropped into a crouch behind the barrel. His heart raced fit to explode.

  A film of slime and dead insects covered the surface of the water in the barrel. The damp smell of rotting firewood attacked his sinuses. Jones pinched his nostrils together to stifle a sneeze.

  He whispered into the microphone. “In position. Make your way to the rear of the house. Tell me when you find a window.”

  The double click of static told him Alex had ‘received and understood’.

  Jones stood and rounded the water butt, scraping his back against the wall. He shuffled sideways to the corner of the house.

  A mosquito’s strident whine stopped. A sting on his cheek told him where the damned thing landed. He resisted the urge to slap, and brushed it away in silence.

  Move, move now!

  The window broke into the front wall about two metres from where he stood. He edged around the corner of the house and pressed flat against the wall. He kissed the hot stonework and prayed Flynn didn’t take that moment to open the window and air the cottage.

  Jones edged sideways and peered into the window recess.

  Damn it.

  Bright sunshine bounced off the rippled glass forming a mirror reflection of the garden.

  He couldn’t see inside!

  9

  Friday midday - Pepper and steel

  Time since abduction: twenty hours, seven minutes

  Ellis swung his arm in a slow arc. Pale yellow torchlight skipped over damp walls blackened by decades of grime.

  “Take a good look around, my pretty.” He allowed the light to rest on the anchoring points let into the stonework. The beam moved left, alighting on leather straps and whips hanging from hooks on the ceiling.

  Black stains on the straps reminded him of earlier guests, now departed. They never stayed long here. He and Arthur, sorry, Jenkins, used the cellar as a taster, tenderising the guests for the next place. The clean place. The well-lit place.

  Windowless and airless, the cellar’s single access came from the wooden ladder propped against the wall below a trapdoor. “This will be your new bedroom, if you don’t behave. Get used to it.”

  The Hottie stared at him through swollen, tear-stained eyes and shook her head. She pleaded in silence. Her hands reached out in supplication.

  “You can speak, if you wish, but don’t scream. I’m the only one that will hear you and I won’t be happy."

  “Please don’t l-leave me down here. I’ll be good, I p-promise,” she whispered and raised a hand to brush back a strand of matted blonde hair.

  The chain, one end manacled to her wrist, and the other gripped in Ellis’ hand, rattled on the concrete floor.

  “You’ll stay here until you’ve learned how to behave properly.”

  The Hottie moaned. Her glistening face crumpled. “P-please! It’s so c-cold down here.” She shuddered and shied away from a rustling sound in the far corner. Mice had joined the party. “I-I’ll be good, I will.” She tried a smile, but it looked more like a grimace.

  Ellis grinned, the morning’s warm-up session did nothing but stiffen his desires. And ensured the sound levels were set right. Wouldn’t want to spoil the show with bad sound quality.

  “You cried the whole way through our little game earlier. What fucking use could you be upstairs? Hey?” He lunged towards her and she cowered away. “See? You’re scared of me. You can’t come up and stay with decent folk until you demonstrate you’re worthy of the comforts we provide.”

  The Hottie stepped close and threw her arms around his neck. “Please,” she begged. “I’ll learn to be a good girl. I-I promise.”

  Ellis prised her fingers apart and pushed her away. The Hottie sank to her knees and cried in silence.

  He smiled. He’d won and he knew it. The subjugation didn’t take as long as with the others. Goes to show, take them young enough and they’re putty. That’s what Arthur had told him from the beginning.

  “Promise?” he asked.

  The Hottie looked up at him. Her eyes pleaded. “Yes, yes, I promise. Please sir, don’t l-leave me down here.”

  She never looked more beguiling. Battered and bruised, and sexy as all fuck. Ellis couldn’t have been happier. He wanted to take her there and then, but Arthur wouldn’t have liked that. The cameras weren’t set up yet. He sneered to keep up the pressure. “How do I know I can trust you?”

  The Hottie scrambled to her feet, her chin trembled. “W-what do you want me to do, s-sir?”

  “That’s better. Treat me with respect and we’ll get along fine. You’re learning your place.”

  “Yes, sir.” She reached a trembling hand to Ellis’groin and rested it against his pulsating cock. She looked up into his eyes. “Is th-that okay, s-sir.”

  “It’ll do. For now.”

  She lowered her eyes and reached for his zip. He pulled away. “Not down here, you can come upstairs. Move back while I climb the ladder.”

  He could never do it in the dark, not with a girl. He needed the light, and the warmth, and an audience.

  The Hottie took an obedient step back, head lowered. He clambered up the steps and climbed into the lounge, ducking to avoid the stairway.

  “Please don’t leave me here,” she wailed from the dark.

  He yanked the chain. “Okay, up you come but take care. One slip or complaint and I’ll leave you down there. Right?”

  “Yes,
sir,” she whimpered.

  She sounded ever so grateful. Ellis beamed and anticipated the delights in store for the next few hours and—if she played nice—days.

  Jones scuttled back to the relative safety of the end wall. “Alex, I can’t see inside the house. The sun’s too strong. What’s it like your side?”

  He wiped the sweat from his forehead with his shirtsleeve. He tried to calm his breathing but it kept catching in his throat.

  “I found a window at the side. Wait one moment.”

  Jones tapped his earpiece. “Alex? Are you there? What is it?”

  “Ellis Flynn. I see Ellis Flynn!”

  “And Hollie?” Jones held his breath and prayed.

  Please be there!

  The thunderous silence stretched to infinity.

  “No sign of her.”

  Damn!

  “What’s Flynn doing?”

  Another pause and more crushing silence.

  “Climbing out a square hole in the floor.”

  “A cellar?”

  “Yes. It might be where he is keeping Hollie, no?”

  “I hope so.” Jones’ spirits lifted. “What’s he doing now?”

  “Cannot look. He is too close to my window.”

  “Hold on. Don’t do anything.”

  Jones dropped to his hands and knees and crawled past the rosebush under the first window. He rounded the storm porch, passed under the second window, and stood with his face millimetres from the stonework, shrouded in shadow.

  He inched across until the corner of his right eye cleared the window’s reveal. The warm stonework smelled of dry moss and grazed the tip of his nose. He took one lightning fast look and pulled his head away.

  Open-plan room. Bare walls, stone. Dark beams on the ceiling. Fire in the hearth, far right of the room. Two old sofas soaked up the heat of the fire. To the left, an open-tread staircase. Between the window and the staircase, a big oak dining table and chairs.

  He risked another peek.

  Flynn stood near the staircase, his back to Jones, peering into the cellar. The bastard clutched a chain and a lit torch in one hand. The other held a knife with a wicked-looking six-inch blade, serrated on one edge. A drop-point hunting knife.

  The chain led down into the cellar.

  Jones risked everything to stay at the window. If Flynn turned, his element of surprise would be lost but he needed to be certain. Flynn yanked on the chain. A moment later, someone emerged.

  Hollie!

  Relief flooded through Jones, but the damage—psychological and physical—had aged the girl ten years. The sight chilled his blood.

  A dark bruise coloured Hollie’s swollen left cheek. A split in her lower lip looked raw and painful. Long blonde hair, lifeless and greasy, hung around her neck and shoulders, pale and wispy as a shroud.

  Jones gritted his teeth and grasped the stone window edge with both hands. He wanted to move, attack, but the safety mechanism in his head demanded caution. He hadn’t come all this way to screw things up now.

  While Flynn remained within striking distance of the girl, Jones could do nothing. Without a firearm, or sniper support, he needed to separate Flynn from his captive.

  As Hollie climbed out, Jones stayed in the window, framed and exposed.

  When she spotted him in the window, she did nothing more than raise her arm in front of her face. Hollie, God love her, still had some presence, some steel behind the apparent defeat.

  Jones flashed his warrant card and a light behind Hollie’s eyes sparkled bright.

  Flynn punched her in the chest. Hollie recoiled and stumbled to the floor.

  Bastard. You’ll pay for that.

  Hollie looked up and Jones mouthed the words ‘I’ll be back’, praying she understood. He pulled away from the window, leaned against the wall, and took a breath.

  What now?

  The campervan!

  “Alex?” he whispered, and heard the double click of static. “Don’t ask any questions. Run to the camper right now. Smash the windscreen. If nothing happens, lean on the horn and make it sound like a car alarm. Keep going until I tell you to stop. Have you got that?”

  Two more clicks of static filled his ear. How long did he have? Jones crawled under the window once again. A thorn from the rosebush tore at his cheek. He ignored the pain and stood with his back to the storm porch wall, close to the front edge, and waited.

  One elephant … Two elephants …

  He reached fifteen elephants before a piercing, cacophonous wailing shattered the silence. Startled birds flew from the canopy of trees and rippled into the blue.

  How would Flynn react? He surely couldn’t ignore the din.

  Jones shuffled forward and risked another cautious glance through the other side of the window.

  He watched Flynn loop the chain through one of the staircase steps and snap a padlock through the links. He touched Hollie’s cheek. She pulled away.

  Not long now, Hollie.

  Jones wiped sweaty palms on the front of his jacket and retrieved the two black cylinders from his pockets, one for each hand. He stood, leaned against the porch wall, and waited. He tried slowing his breath. There was one chance to end this clean.

  His fists shook. How long had it been since he last tackled a criminal hand-to-hand? Did he still have the strength and speed?

  Timing and surprise were essential.

  The cottage door burst open. Footsteps crunched on gravel.

  Jones lunged forward, raised both arms, and pressed a button on the black device in his left hand.

  Pepper spray shot into Flynn’s face.

  The kidnapper howled in agony, hands reaching up to clutch at stinging eyes, an action that served to drive the caustic chemical deeper. Flynn squealed again and retched. He bent double.

  Jones pressed a release on the second object and the telescopic truncheon sprung to its full, one-metre length. He swung the shiny metal bar through the air and it whistled down in a vicious arc, connecting with the back of Flynn’s head.

  Blood exploded from the wound, and warmed Jones’ hand. He followed up the blow with a kick to Flynn’s groin and felt as much as heard a satisfying crunch as the pelvis shattered.

  Flynn collapsed and fell face-first into the concrete path with a sickening, bone-snapping crump.

  Jones could not have cared less.

  With his breath rattling hard in his chest, Jones raised the baton again. It took all his self-control not to snap the bar down on the back of the bastard’s head again. He counted to three, and lowered the weapon. He’d never come so close to losing control.

  Hollie Jardine screamed. “Hit him again!” She tugged at her chains. “Help, me!” She pointed to a small bunch of keys lying on the kitchen table.

  “Don’t worry, Hollie, I have him,” Jones yelled above the din from the camper. “Won’t be long.”

  With his knee in the small of Flynn’s powerful but flaccid back, Jones dropped the pepper spray into his pocket and raised the comms unit. His hand trembled.

  “Alex,” he shouted. “Cut the noise and come give me a hand.”

  The alarm ceased its incessant wailing, but the after-echo rang in his ears. Peace returned slowly.

  Alex sprinted around the side of the house and skidded to a halt. She took one look at the prone Flynn, and broke out the biggest, brightest smile Jones had seen in a long while.

  “Nice one, boss.”

  “Go take care of Hollie, but pass me the cuffs first. I don’t think this sick fuck is getting up any time soon, but I want to make sure.”

  Alex’s jaw dropped. “Boss,” she said.

  “What?”

  “You never swear.”

  “Sorry,” Jones mumbled. “Won’t happen again.”

  Adrenaline coursed through his body, his stomach churned. He sucked air through his mouth and waited for the nausea to subside and his hands to steady. He dragged Flynn’s limp arms behind his back. The bracelets closed around his wrists with
a satisfying ratchet click. He over-tightened the cuffs.

  Try getting out of them, you sick bastard.

  He patted Flynn down and took a switchblade from the back pocket of his jeans. He couldn’t find the serrated knife.

  Jones thought about putting the creep in the recovery position, but didn’t bother. He didn’t want to touch the animal any more than absolutely necessary. He brushed dust from the knees of his trousers and entered the cottage. Without thinking, he rushed to the kitchen and ran cold water over his hands and face. He searched, without success, for a bar of soap, and refused to dry his face on the foul-smelling dishcloth hanging from a hook on the wall. He wiped his filthy, blood-splattered hands on his handkerchief and turned to face the room.

  “Boss?”

  “Yes?”

  Alex, with Hollie on one of the sofas, pointed to the sink. “Crime scene.”

  Jones nodded and stuffed the handkerchief back in his pocket.

  Alex released the shaking girl, took a throw cover from one of the sofas, and draped it over Hollie’s shoulders.

  Jones closed the gap between them, smiled, and adopted his most avuncular tone—the one he used when speaking to Jamie and Paul Cryer.

  “Good afternoon, Hollie. So nice to meet you at last. My name’s David, David Jones, not Davey though. Never Davey,” he smiled wider and shrugged. “Don’t have a locker at the bottom of the sea either.” He knew it was pitiful, but hoped it offered a little comfort. “We’re from Holton Police station. This is Alex, but I suppose she’s already introduced herself?”

  Alex nodded and placed an arm around the girl’s shoulders.

  “Your mother and father asked us to come and get you. I take it you’d like to go home?” He smiled again.

  Hollie raised her head. Her whole body trembled and she tugged a lock of hair away from her face. “Yes … oh, God. Y-yes please,” she said between racking sobs.

  Hollie cradled her stomach and bent double. Tears flowed down her battered cheeks.

  “He cannot hurt you anymore,” Alex said.

  Hollie buried her face in Alex’s chest. Her shoulders heaved.

  “Alex,” Jones whispered in her ear. “I’m going to secure Flynn and take a look around.”