End It With A Lie

by Peter M. Atkins

Wednesday 9.35 am

  Rodney Anderson knocked on Ben Preston’s door, and before he was acknowledged he walked in with a look of excitement on his face.

  “Boss, I’ve got a photo of the truck. It’s not the vehicle that was photographed for the actual traffic offence by the speed camera, but it got caught up in the picture. The really good news is that it is almost entirely visible.” Ben reached for the print out and looked carefully at it.

  The truck was plainly in view, but the resolution was not good due to the aberration caused by the poor peripheral view of the cameras lens. He could not make out the vehicles shadowed number plate, but he could see the fork lift truck parked at the rear of the load tray. With a concentrated peer he could see a small corner of the wooden box, prominent like an ear behind the cargo barrier.

  Ben’s eyes moved to the windscreen and through it, he could make out the blurry shadows of the trucks two occupants. One of whom had his arm resting in the sunlight on the window frame of the passenger’s side door.

  He looked back at Rodney as he handed back the printout.

  “Get the original down to the photo lab. Tell them we need to know yesterday, that number plate and as much as they can give us on the two blokes inside.”

  “Which way was it heading?”

  “Towards the city Boss.”

  “Right. While the lab people are playing with the photo, get onto traffic. Have them check all the speed cameras on the way into town?” Ben pointed to the printout, “This gives them a start point with the time, and an E.T.A at the next camera and so on. As soon as you get hold of the number plate, make it known to uniform. Remind them they should check the records of all previous vehicle random stops, with emphasis on this morning and yesterday. They may have already done a vehicle check on it and unknowingly let it go.”

  Rodney turned to leave, but propped and listened once again to his boss. “Rodney, compare notes with Allan. He’s found the previous owner of the fork lift truck. Get your heads together, and tell him that I complimented the both of you on your good work. Thank you.”

  Ben sat down at his desk again, and gazed through his office doorway as he scanned the mental impression left by the printout.

  His mind’s eye gazed at the shadowy figures who occupied the trucks cabin as he wondered. John Kane. You are a large man. Where were you on that day?”

  *****

  Larry walked the pavement to his parked car, where he stood for a moment undecided as to what to do next. The warmth of the morning sun drew his attention to the back of his scarred hand, and reminded him yet again, the necessity of his fair skins protection.

  He quickly sought the shade offered by the roof of his car. Noticing almost immediately the absence of the suns warmth, as his rear end settled into its driver’s seat.

  The placement of his hand on the steering wheel made obvious the scarring left by the surgical removal of four shin cancers. A grim reminder of his latest test results, and his mind wandered momentarily before he glanced at his wristwatch. It was three minutes to ten o’clock and a look at the parking meter told him he had ten minutes of parking time credit. Ten minutes of time paid for, and his to use as he pleased. Nothing’s for free he thought, as he gazed out through his cars windscreen.

  His eyes focused on a clump of people who spilled from a shop and onto the footpath. He thought that maybe the shop had a sale on, and he watched people as they carried away their purchases.

  Their vacancies in the clump were quickly filled by new arrivals. Who readily disappeared, as they were seemingly absorbed into the restless crowd.

  Suddenly the clump of people became still. For a moment they stood quietly, like meerkats who smelt trouble. Larry watched as some of the faces turned to look down the street past where he was parked. He turned in his seat to see what it was that they saw. Nothing out of the ordinary, he thought, as he wound his window down an inch to allow some fresh air to flow into his car. After sitting in the morning sun, it had become a little stuffy. It was then that he noticed the sound of a siren. Its cry carried to him as it approached from the city. Suddenly it became more muted as if it changed course. As it began to drift away he saw the clump of people lose its short term still form, and regain its shuffling sense of purpose.

  He watched one of the figures emerge from the clump, to walk the footpath towards where he was seated in his car. The man was carrying a cardboard box. As he passed by the passenger side window, Larry could make out part of the large lettered writing which described the boxes contents. Most of the lettering was obscured by the left arm of the man who held it, but the words ‘HAZ’ and ‘SUIT’ were all that he needed to see, to know the reasoning behind its purchase.

  Larry looked again at the clump of people, and then ran his eyes over the shop front. He could see plainly in yellow paint the words ‘ARMY SURPLUS’. His eyes shifted again, to another man who separated himself from the clump of people, this one carried in plain view a gas mask.

  It suddenly became obvious to Larry what was happening.

  It was the Anthrax scare all over again. He realized then why it had been difficult to get an earlier flight out of the country, as he remembered the words of the ticket sales lady.

  “I’m sorry, Sir, but we’re unable to book you a flight before seven o’clock tonight. It seems that everybody has decided that today’s the day to go to New Zealand.”

  Larry watched the unhurried walk of the owner of the gas mask. He wondered whether the relieved expression was because of his escape from the clump, or security in the knowledge that he was safe from the event promised by the web clock. Probably a bit of both, Larry thought. He watched the man make his way down the footpath. Suddenly another man, who had been leaning against the car parked two cars ahead of his, lunged away from his resting place.

  Larry winced as the second man’s fist cracked onto the side of the first man’s head, and then again as the first man’s head hit the footpath.

  The second man then wasted no time. He snatched up the gas mask and ran off down the busy street. In flight from an attack that was over almost before Larry realized what had happened. His grip on the steering wheel strengthened while the vision of violence lingered in his head. Suddenly that vision brought to mind Tom Lee. Lee’s potential in the art of violence would make the attack by the second man look pale in comparison. Larry looked at the first man who lay still on the concrete not four metres from where he sat.

  The man’s look of relief was gone. Replaced by the blank expression of one who slept, and Larry watched as a small crowd of passersby gathered. Some of whom held mobile phones to their ears to make calls for medical assistance for the man who lay at their feet.

  Their calls for help would no doubt bring to life the wail of a siren. This time it would not turn away in another direction. It would, for those who’d not seen the attack, arrive screaming into their immediate environment and heighten their fear of the unknown.

  Even if the web clock was some kind of cruel April fool type joke, it was working. It was also proof that threat potential was enough to fill the minds of ordinary everyday people with unreasoned thoughts of self-preservation.

  Larry fitted his car key into the ignition and drove off with the flow of traffic. Glad to be away from the place where people were beginning to show their darker sides. Knowing also, that he could expect to see those same signs at any given place in the city as the web clock countdown wore on. Signs that would undoubtedly become more evident as the mental infection spread.

  He turned his car radio on. Hoping the music usually played on his favoured city station might soothe him. He was disappointed. A reporter’s voice reminded him of the situation in an urgent voice with a revelation that police were causing traffic problems as they stopped and searched all small trucks. He tuned to another station only to hear a similar story. This time about emergency services switchboard congestion, as reports of wooden boxes and crates flooded in from all over the city. Larry t
ried three more of Sydney’s major radio stations before he turned the radio off.

  His finger hovered over the power button momentarily, almost as if he feared being disconnected. He put the thought aside, as he was sure that nothing would change until the web clock had counted down. The media would focus on speculation. Speculation based on guesswork, and that was information built on poor foundations in Larry’s mind.

  He thought of a clown’s gun, which when fired just produced a flag upon which was printed the word ‘bang’.

  As he waited at a set of traffic lights he noticed some cars that were laden with children and camping goods. The young faces that peered out of the cars windows did not wear the excited expressions of those who looked forward to a holiday.

  In one car, a station wagon, he could see clearly the collar cut and banded hats of school uniforms. They failed to blend in with the obvious sleeping bags and pillows piled high against the vehicle’s rear windows.

  Larry looked at the red traffic lights, and then at the brake lights of the car ahead. Suddenly his mind’s eye beheld the sight of the bright red digits of the web clock. A moment later he felt a cold shiver pass through him as if someone had walked over his grave. It dawned on him that his devil may care attitude had just evaporated, with the realization that he too had become infected.

  It was as if a he’d been enshrouded, and with it came an intense feeling of claustrophobia. He looked about at the surrounding cars which hemmed him in, and as his two white knuckled hands gripped the steering wheel, he suddenly had an overwhelming desire for wide open spaces.

  Larry wiped the back of a hand across his brow, and felt his wet sweat cool under the breeze of the air conditioner. As he wiped his hand dry on the thigh of his trouser leg, he was startled as the horn of the car behind urged him on under a green traffic light.

  After he’d surged through the intersection he gained a left lane, and then took the next left turn. It gave him a course for the nearest beach and he breathed deeply the fresh ocean breeze that swept in through his now open window.

  The sound of the surf and the sight of the seagulls cleared his mind of the events of the day, and he gratefully accepted the taste of a fresh cigarette. Expanding his lungs with smoke as he picked up from the passenger seat the set of photocopies of the documents which Lee believed he’d lodged.

  He double checked to make sure he’d put the right papers in the right pile, before retaining his own copies. After pushing them into an envelope he deposited them into the boot of his car. Where they would stay until he carried them as hand luggage upon his departure from the country at seven thirty-five tonight.

  A little over eight hours away, five of which he would have to spend in the company of, or at least in close proximity to Lee. That was something he was not looking forward to he thought. Partly because of his fear of the events that would immediately follow his possible exposure, but mainly for the lack of confidence he felt in concealing his guilt.

  Yesterday during his meetings with Lee, he had only to conceal the guilt of one who planned deception. Today he had crossed the line and would have to conceal the guilt of the deceiver. He knew he walked on dangerous ground and was scared of the consequences if he failed. As he watched freewheeling seagulls floating on a gusty sea breeze, it suddenly dawned on him that the web clock may be a blessing in disguise.

  After all, it seemed that many people throughout the city were acting out of the ordinary. Why should he be the exception?

  The seagulls squabbled over a small offering left behind by a frothy wave, until one of them disengaged itself from the crowd and flew out over the water with its prize. Its success reminded him of the man who’d carried the gas mask.

  Larry wished quietly that seven thirty-five would arrive quickly. Then as he noted a slight discomfort where his shoulder blade came into contact with the cars seat back, he humbly withdrew the wish. Instead he moved his body a little for access and slid a hand over his shoulder to allow his finger tips to touch a lump which rose like a small hill on the broad plain of his back.

  One should never wish away that of which there is a shortage he thought, as he turned the key in the car’s ignition. With a glance at the paper pile that sat on the passenger seat, he drove off to meet with Lee, where he would emphasize his concern over the web clock.

  Wednesday 1.15 pm

  Ben Preston had lunched at a small café just a short walk from his office. It allowed him some form of exercise, and in turn offered him an excuse to add the flavour of a custard tart to his midday diet. After which he’d felt almost compelled by way of penance to take the stairs to his third floor office. As he pulled himself up and over the last few remaining steps, he wondered if a custard tart in exchange for a minute in the stairwell was a fair trade.

  He noticed the way his hand wavered as he used his finger to poke the buttons of the electronic door lock. A definite sign that his body was well on its way to a use by date he thought, as he opened the door to the detective’s operations room.

  As he entered, he saw Allen intent on pressing the keys of his computer keyboard. Rodney stood beside him with one arm outstretched. His pointed index finger waggled once in the direction of the computer’s coloured screen. Ben watched as a grin suddenly grew on Allan’s face, and then again as Rodney stepped back a pace and punched the air.

  He pulled the door closed behind him, and its sound, as it clicked into place drew the attention of the two men. They both wore broad grins as they looked up from the screen.

  “We’ve got a lead, Boss.” Rodney called as he punched with his closed fist again, this time into the open palm of his left hand. Ben made his way over to them and looked at the screen that had captured their attention.

  For a moment he had little idea what it was he was viewing. It was a hazy picture of what appeared to be a double edged dagger with a ship’s anchor as its handle. The hooks of which acted as the daggers guard, and offered support to a snake curled loosely around the weapons length.

  “It’s a tattoo, Sir. The people down at photo lab were unable to get a good look at the faces of the two blokes’ in the front of the truck. They were too well shielded by the trucks cabin roof apparently. However, they were able to zoom in, and build a computer image of the passenger’s left arm, which was exposed as it lay in the sun on the door window. They found this tattoo. Boss, it’s great. Better than an eye witness.” Alan supplied.

  “Well, Kane was wearing a short sleeve shirt when we interviewed him, so he’s not the owner of the tattoo. The other bloke, Wild, was in overalls. We didn’t get a clean look at Walters, although I doubt it is his. It would have been recorded in his police file. Unless it’s new?”

  Ben rubbed his chin in his customary manner before he ordered.

  “Alan, get on to Hutchinson. He’s running the surveillance on those three. Ask him to keep a look out for snakes and daggers.”

  Ben was about to speak again, when suddenly a not so musical note of a mobile phone demanded attention. Rodney lifted a small electronic device from his pocket. Holding it for a moment before realizing it was not his personal phone that called. His right hand disappeared into another pocket. This time he was successful in retrieving the wailing culprit. Its sound seemed to be echoed by another, whose call was somewhat more distant.

  Ben looked up and away from Rodney’s phone, to where the second sound seemed to originate. The echo issued from the doorway of his office, and as he looked toward it, his peripheral vision caught sight of Laura who waited for some reaction to the noise.

  It immediately dawned on him what was happening. At the same instant that he spoke aloud the word.

  “Cooper.”

  Rodney called out in a coarse whisper.

  “Lee.”

  Ben looked for some seconds into Rodney’s glistening dark eyes. Focusing on their sparkle as it seemed to intensify with each passing second. He looked away from Rodney’s face to Cooper’s phone, and watched with keen
interest as a tanned thumb pressed its speaker button. Stillness seemed to descend upon the three men as they listened for connection confirmation. The seconds that drifted by, seemed to be slower and more drawn out, as if time itself was being in some way distorted.

  Ben was relieved when at last he heard Cooper’s voice. It came through to him in a calm controlled manner, offering evidence that she felt she was in no immediate danger.

  Things can change Ben thought, and almost as quickly as it took for that thought to dissolve, they did. Proof of the speed that a situation can change came at the end of Beth Cooper’s next sentence.

  “Any documents, such as the ones you are offering me have to be signed by at least three members of the Sarah Ray Foundation’s board. I don’t have the power to make decisions without their cooperation, Mr. Horton.” Ben was dumbfounded. He’d read all that there was to know of this man Horton. His army records, and of course the detailed police report on the savage intensity of the outback murders.

  The feeling in his gut told him that Horton was no ordinary street crim who would give up when his back was to the wall.

  No. This man would go out with all guns blazing and take as many with him as possible, man woman or child.

  Time was still slow, and he heard as if from the distance a voice.

  “Boss, are you O.K?”

  Ben looked toward the sound and saw Allan’s lips move. He felt a hand which rested lightly upon his shoulder before he took a deep breath and answered.

  “Yes, I’m alright.”

  He looked at his two colleagues and spoke again, this time with the voice of command.

  “Allan, get onto liaison and have them get Tactical over there. Point out that silent approach is of top priority. Let them know all issues, and that we might expect a hostage situation. Make sure they understand that Horton is extremely dangerous, and that he won’t give up. Radio comms to a minimum. This Horton is well trained; he might have a scanner. Rodney, you’re with me.” Rodney picked up Cooper’s phone and made his way to call up the lift. Ben followed close behind, until he detoured briefly to his office to collect his armour vest and retrieve Cooper’s second phone.

  As he left his office doorway he called across the room.

  “Allan. Use your memory to draw up a basic floor plan of Cooper’s office and pass it on will you. Also, see to it that photos of that tattoo are distributed.”

  They waited in the corridor for the lift, and as they passed through its now open doors Ben told Rodney, “This man Horton may well be the meanest bastard that either one of us is likely to meet, so you take extra care.”

  Anderson looked at his boss, realizing by the tone of Ben’s voice that the advice was given as a friend and colleague, rather than that of a superior officer. It caught him off guard to the extent that he was unsure how to answer.

  It seemed to him that he blurted out the words that finally came to his lips.

  “I’ve read all there is available on him Sir, just as you have.”

  “Just making sure you understand the situation that’s all.” The lift doors opened and the two men made their way quickly across the underground car park.

  As he went, Rodney could feel the situation in his bones. The adrenalin, which was already seeping into his bloodstream, told him in no uncertain terms that he had a perfect understanding.

  There was something else too.

  Something more like a sensation than a feeling in the back of his mind suggested to him that this day was going to be like no other, web clock or no web clock. Must be the adrenalin he thought, as he pulled the car into gear and surged toward the basement car park’s exit.

  CHAPTER 20