by Wes Markin
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 de
lay 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 shoot 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.
His son, here. With this killer. How the hell had he allowed this to happen?
‘Dad, you’re bleeding—' Ewan said.
‘It’s nothing to worry about.’
He saw Lock reach into the bag again and take out a rope. He felt his legs being lashed together. The killer was quick and clearly skilled with knots.
‘Is this how you treat all your willing sacrifices?’
Lock didn’t answer; rather, he lifted himself from Brookes’ back, slammed the door and left them to the darkness.
The elderly woman moaned, and Brookes said, ‘Who are you?’
She moaned again.
‘She doesn’t talk,’ Ewan said, ‘I think she’s sick.’
What was going on around here?
; Brookes rolled onto his back and sat up. He fought the pain in his shoulder while trying, unsuccessfully, to wriggle his wrists free of the tape. He managed to shuffle ninety degrees and then manoeuvre himself to the side of the van, so he was sitting upright beside his son. He sighed when Ewan put his legs across his own and he leaned over to kiss him on the head. His soul warmed.
He looked at the handcuffs fastening his son to the rail. ‘They on tight?’
‘Yes,’ Ewan said.
‘Shit.’ Brookes kept his voice low in case Lock heard. ‘Why did you come back?’
‘Because you would’ve come back.’
The van rumbled into life. At first, it reversed, and Brooke could hear it ripping itself free from his car. Lock then drove, slowly, which was good, because their last hope was that Yorke was close. Yorke would have been fifteen minutes away when Brooke’s crashed. After delaying Lock out in the snow, he must now only be five minutes out; if Yorke saw the white van, he would jump to the right conclusion and intercept.
While he continued to wriggle his wrists, he stared at Ewan, desperately wanting to, but unable to, throw his arms around him.
‘I had a dream about the jaguar you asked me about,’ Ewan said.
‘And that’s why you came back?’
‘It ate me and you,’ Ewan said.
Brookes kissed his head again. ‘It was just a dream.’
‘It felt real.’
‘Sometimes dreams do.’
‘The jaguar that ate us felt very real.’
‘It wasn’t—'
As if someone had grabbed his legs and yanked him, Brookes slid forward and banged the back of his head on the metal bar. Ewan also yelped in pain. Lock was becoming more erratic behind the wheel and had taken a sharp turn.
After the van had stabilized, Brookes worked his way back into the same position next to his son. The back of his head throbbed but that was nothing compared to the pain in his shoulder.
