by J. D. Weston
"They called me, you know," said John, "when they pulled Donny out. I heard mixed stories, none of them pleasant. But I knew you were involved. I'm not sure how, but I just knew."
"What did you hear?"
"He'd killed some young girls, or sold them or something. Something bad."
"Did you know about him and Sergio?"
John paused then said softly, "No. No, I didn't. I was his father, Harvey, but when I heard, I didn't disbelieve it. Not for one second. I knew he was guilty as soon as they told me. I'm so sorry."
"You watched me struggle for all those years?"
"You wouldn't understand."
"I do now. I've had what you might call a moment of clarity, John." Harvey took a lungful of the moist air. "You watched me struggle to find Hannah's killer for all those years, and never helped because deep down you always knew, didn't you?"
John looked at Harvey, pleading with his eyes. "I couldn't change it. The lies had gone too far."
"Tell me where Leo and Olivia are buried."
John stopped in his tracks.
"You see, John, what amazes me is how inhibiting you were. Not only did you fail to tell me who killed Hannah, who killed my parents and why, but you stopped me from finding out, didn't you?"
"No, Harvey, I-"
"Save it, John. I've been away for two years now, and not only have I found the men that killed Hannah, but I also found the man that really killed my parents." They walked on a few steps in silence. "It was there for me all along, John."
"Donny?" said John.
"I watched him die."
"Adeo?"
"He confessed before I killed him."
"So that's you done then, Harvey. You must be happy. That list of yours is all ticked off, and you can go sit on that beach of yours, eh?"
"Not yet, John. I still have a few loose ends to tie up."
"Yeah, I'd like to disappear somewhere hot," said John. "Sit by the pool and fade into old age in style. But..."
"But what?"
"I never could sit still. I'm surprised you can, to be honest."
"I like to read."
"What do you read?"
Harvey gave him a look to ask if they were really now talking about what books they read. "Books. Whatever. Anything that distracts me from reality."
They had completed a slow full circle of the house and stood at the bottom of the few steps that led to the front door.
"So you reckon you're going back to France, do you?" asked John.
"When I'm ready."
"Who are you looking for? What's the holdup?"
"Julios."
"Oh, I see," said John. "He was more of a father to you than I ever was, wasn't he?"
"You both played different roles."
"You mean I paid for everything, and he taught you everything."
"I'm happy, aren't I?"
"I don't know, Harvey. Are you? You've had a face like a slapped arse for as long as I can remember." John smiled. "I'm sorry it came to this, Harv. I really am."
John raised his handgun and pointed it at Harvey.
Park further down the lane, Jackson," said Melody. "We can walk back up. When was your last firearms refresher?"
"It's due again anytime."
"You feel comfortable with a weapon? It's your choice."
"Yeah, sure."
"Good. Denver tied a polycarbonate holster to the underside of your seat. You've been armed all along."
Jackson reached down, found the Sig P226 and pulled it out, smiling. "My choice, eh?"
"Nearly your choice."
Melody pushed the Diemaco's magazine home and chambered a round. She was satisfied with the smooth, well-oiled action and flicked the safety on. Pulling down her night-vision goggles, she stepped from the van, closing the doors quietly.
The grounds of the house spread out all around her. She'd always been impressed by the property, but in the mist and gloom, it had an eerie feeling about it. It held the memories of too much death.
Harvey had told her once how, as a child, he remembered the house being warm and full of the small things that made a home, vases, flowers, pictures, children, parties and the rest. But after Harvey's foster mother, Barb, had left, the house had grown cold. The cook resigned and the house lady began to fade away. Sadness enveloped the old wooden beams. Thick dust lay on the rugs and the window sills. John's office was clean and the bedrooms were clean, but the rest of the house began to fall into disrepair.
Melody and Jackson stepped quietly through the long grass, moving slowly and listening for the deep grumble of men's voices. They heard nothing. It was as if the mist retained the sound within. Melody used her night-vision goggles and found the two men stood at the front of the house. She remained motionless; she was two hundred feet from the big grand entrance. In the green, animated view of the NV goggles, Melody could easily see John's confident but smaller frame against Harvey's rigid and athletic posture. Though she couldn't hear them, the scene didn't look heated. They seemed to be having a normal, calm conversation.
Maybe Harvey had changed his mind. Maybe he couldn't go through with it. There was no shouting. No flailing arms releasing frustration. Just two calm men in control of their emotions. Father and son, almost.
And then John raised his gun.
20
End of an Era
John Cartwright held the shiny Glock tight with both hands.
"It didn't have to come to this," said Harvey.
"So why bring me here?"
"I changed my mind. I owe you more than that. You did raise me."
"I thought that we agreed that it was Julios who raised you?"
"Whoever it was, you're the one who fostered me."
John pulled the hammer back on the weapon. "You took away my only son."
Harvey was surprised at the statement. "He raped my sister, your daughter." He spoke the words with a distaste in his mouth.
"He was sick. There was always something wrong with him, only child stuff, I guess. But he was still my son, and you took him away."
"He was a monster. He was bringing girls in from Europe and selling their deaths with sex. It's one of the sickest things I've ever come across, John."
"No Harvey, you're sick. How many sons or fathers or brothers have you taken away?"
Harvey didn't reply.
"Tell me who the monster is now?"
"Tell me where they're buried."
"Who? Leo and Olivia?" asked John. He laughed. "They're buried right here, Harvey."
"Here? Under my nose all this time?" said Harvey, stepping towards John. "You gave the order, didn't you? You bloody killed them. All those times I asked you about my parents, and you told me that same old cock and bull story about-"
"Finding the pair of you in a booth in my bar in East Ham. We did everything ourselves back then, you know, even served drinks when the bar staff were busy."
"That's the one," said Harvey. "I was in a hamper."
"It was for your own good, Harvey."
"I was going to let you walk away."
"Then you're dumber than I give you credit for."
"Where?"
"In the orchid."
"Where we used to play?"
"They're not the only ones, Harvey," said John. "You'll be surprised at the secrets this place holds. Plus there's always room for one more in there."
"You're really going to kill me?" Harvey was incredulous. "Of all the people in the world, it boils down to this, does it? Killed by my own foster father."
"You killed Donny. I can't let it go."
"You killed my parents."
"Touché," said John. "You're a cop."
Harvey was stunned. He hadn't been ready for John to know the truth.
"That's right, I know all about it. How you left Donny here for the women to tear him to bits. How you brought Stimson down, and I know all about the terrorist. What was his name, Al Sayan?"
"Who told you about all of this?"
"It doesn't matter, Harvey. The fact is that you turned. You have to understand that, as uncomfortable as it makes me to say this, I can't have a foster son as a copper. Think of the damage it would do. One of us has to go and, as I'm the one with the gun, well..."
Harvey inhaled deeply through his nose and stared down at his foster father.
"I do love you, Son."
Harvey didn't reply.
"I love you enough to complete you before, you know."
"Complete me?"
"Julios, Harvey," said John, "or Edgar Parrish as he was known before he took the rap for his little brother. See Harvey, that's what brothers do for each other, help them, stick up for them. Not leave them in a basement to be torn to pieces."
"You know?"
"Who killed Julios? Of course, I know, Harvey. In case you've forgotten, I run the East End. You don't get to sit in my chair at my desk without knowing a few people in the right places. Even if some of those places are a little questionable."
"How did you find out?"
"I know people, Harvey," said John. "You get all sorts of information. Especially when one of your closest friends is shot dead during a gun deal."
"They're not friends, John. They're on your payroll."
"Well this guy is not on my payroll," said John. "But he was close with Terry Thomson before you shot him."
Harvey thought back to the night Julios had been killed. The black Range Rover that had sat in the clearing, watching.
"I wouldn't call him a friend as such, but we've both looked out for you along the way."
"You both?" said Harvey. "Who? Who was it?"
John's face curled into a tight smile. "Frank."
Harvey was winded, dizzied.
"Do you know how much it costs to keep someone like you out of prison, Harvey? Money. Lots of money and lots of friends in high places. So don't make this harder than it already is. You've got your closure. Now turn and look me in the eye."
Harvey turned slowly, still taken back by the shock. Frank. All along, it had been Frank. That's how he'd kept the noose so tight, because he had all the answers. Harvey had been played all this time. The one person left on his list had been stood beside him all along, just as Sergio and Donny had been.
Harvey straightened and turned completely to face John.
"Anything you want to say?"
"No. Just do it." Harvey held his arms out wide.
"Goodbye, Son." John's finger began to squeeze the trigger.
Harvey didn't reply.
Something metallic clicked far off in the mist to John's right. He glanced away momentarily.
Harvey raised his own weapon and aimed it at John's head.
John turned back to Harvey, his own weapon still aimed at his son.
"It's you or me, Harvey," said John.
Harvey squeezed the trigger, but his hand shook.
"You can't do it, can you?"
Harvey breathed through pursed lips, clenched tight against his teeth.
"If you're going to do it, Harvey. Now's the time."
Harvey brought his other hand up to steady the aim, but they both shook visibly. He lowered the gun and stared at John, who strengthened his stance.
"I can't do it," said Harvey.
"Shhh, you hear that?" whispered Melody.
Jackson nodded in the dim light and pointed to Melody's ten o'clock. She pulled the night-vision goggles towards her eyes and tracked a lone man creeping silently across the lawn from where Harvey's little groundsman's house stood derelict and graffitied. The man was trained. He moved well and was patient. He reached within one hundred feet of Harvey and John Cartwright then dropped to the ground. It was then that Melody saw the shape of the rifle. The man quietly folded down a bi-pod and moved into prone position, pulling the rifle into his shoulder. Melody flicked back to John and Harvey. Harvey held his hands up like he was welcoming death. John's silhouette aimed the gun like a man who had been around guns. His stance was strong despite his age.
"Who is it?" whispered Jackson.
"I don't know. But we can't disrupt the state of play now."
"Harvey is going to be shot."
"No," said Melody. "He wouldn't let himself get shot."
"He's looking pretty close."
"No," she said. "No, Harvey would at least try." She pulled the scope back to her eye and found the pair of men in the rifle's night-vision scope. John had straightened up. He was ready to fire.
The shadowed figure to their right slid the rifle bolt home. Melody heard the dull metallic click. She whipped the rifle to her right and saw the man taking aim.
Turning back, she refocused on Cartwright. "Do something, Harvey," she whispered. "Don't just stand there."
Relief washed over Melody as Harvey raised his gun. The two men faced each other, each with pointed weapons.
"Come on, Harvey," she whispered.
Then a sickening feeling clawed her gut as Harvey lowered his gun, and time stood still as John re-aimed his own. Harvey looked defeated. His arms hung limply by his sides. Melody watched like a voyeur. She aimed but begged silently for Harvey to move. Then the silence was shattered by the report of the stranger's rifle.
The green-hued night vision turned bright white as John's hand clenched, pulling the trigger on his handgun. The vision refocused in time for Melody to see John Cartwright drop to the ground. He seemed to fall backwards in slow motion as gravity overcame his body.
Melody snatched at the rifle and aimed at the stranger. She saw as he reloaded and shifted his aim onto Harvey, preparing to shoot once more.
"Harvey, get down!" she screamed.
The man's head popped up and searched the mist for her. Melody saw as his eyes must have found her, and his rifle began to swing around onto her location.
Melody had already aimed. She released the shot. The 7.62mm round rang out clearly in the mist, louder than the other two shots that had fired. The echo seemed to last forever.
She rolled to her feet, bringing the rifle up with her. Jackson followed as she made her way to the stranger she'd just killed.
She stopped and looked at the body of the man who lay on the ground.
"Oh god."
Melody and Jackson stood over the body, a dark shape in the mist that rolled across the wild, un-kept lawns of John Cartwright's old house. The body lay face down and still on the butt of the rifle. Jackson used the toe of his boot to raise the man's hip and roll him onto his back. Melody had the man covered should he pull a weapon from underneath him, but he was clearly dead. The side of his head had been ripped apart with the exit of Melody's round.
"Going to be a tough one to explain," said Jackson.
Melody dropped to her knees and fought to hold back her tears. She bent and rested her head on Frank's chest until a sob came from somewhere deep inside her. She didn't know if it was shame, guilt, or the death of a friend and mentor.
"Melody," said Jackson, "let's go."
"You didn't know him," she replied. "Not like I did."
"Melody, he was in up to his eyeballs."
She straightened and turned to face Jackson, who stood over her, unemotional with a hardened face.
"We were watching him," began Jackson, "for months now. He had calls with known suspects and perverted the course of justice to suit his own well-being."
"No, not Frank," said Melody. "He wouldn't-"
"Terry Thomson, Melody. We have audio recordings of the calls."
"But he'd never-"
"But he did, Melody." Jackson's voice softened. "I know it's not easy to hear, but-"
"What do you know? Who are you?"
"Let's just say that my transfer to Frank's team wasn't a coincidence."
Sirens grew louder in the still night air, and the mist seemed to try to cover the dead with its spreading wispy limbs.
Melody stared down at the body. Frank Carver's emotionless face stared back at her. There was no expression of surprise, anger or hate. Just p
eace.
"We need to find Stone."
"You don't need to do anything," hissed Melody. "I'll find Harvey."
"He's wanted, Melody."
"He was cleared. You can't. Leave him."
"Who cleared him?"
The question hung in the air.
"Frank."
"You think that's legit?"
"Let me find him. If anyone is going to bring him in, it'll be me."
Jackson nodded faintly.
"Goodbye, Frank," said Melody under her breath before she stepped away and headed to where she truly dreaded to step.
John Cartwright lay flat on his back with his arms outstretched like an extra in a low budget gangster movie. He stared up at the sky with an open mouth held in a grimace. Melody wondered what his last thought had been. He'd been about to kill his son. He'd betrayed his own, something that Melody knew wouldn't sit right with many of the old school firms.
Melody searched the area for Harvey, but he'd gone.
"You've got twenty minutes to find him and bring him in. I won't be able to hold them off any longer," said Jackson.
Melody walked around the spot where Harvey had stood. There were no tracks visible in the darkness, and the stone steps that led to the two large front doors were empty and cold. Melody turned to watch the headlights of two police cars burst into the grounds and follow the gravel driveway to where she and Jackson stood.
"What's that?" asked Jackson.
Melody followed his gaze to the house. A dim light came from inside. It was soft at first, but by the time the police had found them in the fog, the dim light had turned to a flickering flame. Just briefly, at the rear of the house where the stairs of the basement opened out into the kitchen, Melody thought she saw the shape of a man. Harvey. He stood there facing her, motionless as the fire grew, then vanished.
"Harvey," Melody called out. "Harvey, it's over."
Harvey didn't reply.
The small fire grew into a hungry blaze that chewed through the ancient wooden house, consuming its secrets of the past. Before long, the glow and heat of the fire held the mist at bay, and the spinning blue lights of police cars, ambulances and fire engines lit a riot of chaos and colour in the night.
The thump of helicopter blades suddenly became audible over the growing noise of the fire.