No Justice; Cold Justice; Deadly Touch

by J K Ellem

  “If you kill me you’ll end up strapped to a gurney in a lethal injection room.” Shaw kept his hands raised. “It will be first-degree murder. Do you really want that?”

  Emily pressed forward. “I’ll say it was self-defence, that you attacked me. I’ll stage it to look like that. Put a knife in your hand, say you took it from my kitchen.”

  Shaw looked at her in disbelief. She had thought about this before, killing someone who was unarmed, defenceless, then staging the crime scene to make it look like something other than murder.

  The towel slipped more, the opening revealing the inside of his thighs. He didn’t look down but could feel a draft. Shaw decided to risk it, take a gamble, but he was certain he was right. “Did he hurt you?”

  Emily’s eyes flickered slightly.

  “Did he hit you? Beat you?”

  The gun wavered slightly.

  “How often? Once a week? More than that?”

  Emily shifted her weight, the gun dipped as she considered the questions, then she brought it back on target.

  Shaw knew he was right so he pressed his luck. “What, daily? Did he beat you daily?”

  Emily said nothing but her expression changed, from one of cold hardness to hidden sadness.

  “So what happened? Was it because his dinner wasn’t on the table when he got home? Or maybe the house wasn’t always clean and spotless, just how he liked it? Or maybe you didn’t cut the crusts off his sandwich as he had shown you? Did he beat you or just abuse you for that?”

  Tears welled in her eyes, horrible memories flooding back. She lowered the gun slightly.

  “I bet you imagined killing him plenty of times. But each time you got the courage to do it, he would apologize, say he was sorry, promised you it would never happen again. Then he bought you flowers, or a piece of expensive jewellery and you went out to dinner in that new dress he bought you just for the occasion. You know, the type of dress with a high collar so it covers the bruises around your throat. The dress that has long sleeves to hide his hand marks on your wrists and forearms.”

  Emily kept the gun pointed at Shaw.

  “But you still went on imagining, imagining killing him if he ever touched you again. You made a plan, you had it all figured out. Maybe shoot him when he got home from work. Maybe shoot him in bed while he slept. You could still make it look like he had attacked you one last time, so you killed him. It would be easy to prove to a judge or jury. After all, you had all the evidence. You were clever, Emily, you had a plan, so you started taking pictures, photos on your phone after each time he hit you, collecting the evidence.”

  “You know nothing about me,” Emily snarled, wiping away the tears, anger cutting through.

  “I know more than you think, Emily. I’ve seen it before. I understand what you did. I understand why.”

  “You can’t possibly know what I’ve been through.”

  “You wanted your own justice, I can understand that. You did what you needed to do, to stop the abuse, to stop the violence. I accept it. I really do.”

  “Why did you break into my house?”

  Shaw shook his head. “I didn’t, Emily. But I know who did.”

  Emily pressed forward, “Tell me!” she screamed. The gun steadied in her hand.

  The instant Shaw took a step backwards, he regretted it. The towel opened completely and fell to the floor.

  Emily’s eyes shifted downwards from his face. They lingered there for a moment, her expression softened slightly. Then she looked back at him.

  Shaw stood his ground, hands up, towel down. Not embarrassed, just cold. “I can help you. I can. Please just put down the gun. I’m not the enemy.”

  Emily lowered the gun. “Tell me who it is. Tell me who has been in my house.” Her voice was more composed.

  He had no choice, but he wanted to know just as much as she did. He counted on her knowing who it was and telling him. “Emily, someone is watching you, watching your house. They’ve been watching you from up in the forest behind your house. Probably at night. They followed you yesterday all the way into town.”

  Emily tilted her head questioningly.

  “Because I saw them,” Shaw continued. “When you were walking to Annabel’s. I was inside, sitting at the window bench. I saw them, but not their face, but their shape, their build. They saw me looking at them and they took off.”

  Emily nodded. “Go on.”

  “They followed me this morning. I went up to the ridge to talk to someone who lives up there. I’m helping the sheriff at the moment. I chased them, but they were too quick. I think it’s the same person. I think the person is after you and maybe they see me as an obstacle, a distraction. I think the person arrived here a few weeks back and has spent the time watching you, your routines, your patterns, where you go, what you do.”

  “Why?”

  “I was hoping you could tell me.”

  He could tell Emily was thinking, digesting what he was saying. He wanted to test his theory. “You’re in witness protection,” Shaw continued. “Sheriff Decker knows your secret and I understand. You’re in hiding from a man who was violent, abusive and hurt you.”

  Emily took a deep breath, like a huge weight had been lifted off her shoulders. “You are very observant, Ben. But you are wrong.”

  Shaw did a double-take. He was certain he was right. He saw the clues.

  Emily lifted her sweater at the side, revealing an in-waist holster, slid the handgun back inside and covered it again. She looked at Shaw. “You’re partly wrong and partly right.”

  Shaw felt confused. He lowered his hands.

  “He was actually a she. We were married, had been for just two years.”

  Shaw’s mind was swirling at the revelation. But abuse was still abuse, it doesn’t matter who inflicts it.

  Emily nodded. “I know what you are thinking. A lot of people think that it doesn’t happen in a same-sex marriage or relationship. But it does. It’s the same. We aren’t any different as most people think.”

  “I’m sorry. I had no idea.”

  Emily nodded. “Honest mistake. The last straw was when she broke my arm in three places.” Emily rolled up her sleeve. An ugly scar wound its way up her forearm. “She threw me out of bed, kicked me while I was on the floor then stood on my arm while it was trapped between the bedside table. Stomped on it.”

  Shaw nodded, horrified by the mental image. “So she has found you, she has come after you.”

  Emily rolled down the sleeve and shook her head. “It’s not her, it can’t be.”

  Shaw looked puzzled.

  Emily stepped forward, picked up the towel then folded it neatly. “You were right, but I didn’t plan it. I hid a gun in the drawer on my bedside table. I practiced with both hands, left and right. Good thing I did too. When my arm shattered I took the gun out of the drawer and shot her dead. Three rounds into the centre mass as I had trained. She’s not coming back from that. She was well and truly dead before the paramedics arrived.”

  She handed Shaw the folded towel. “Get dressed then come downstairs. I have something to show you.” She looked unashamedly at Shaw’s groin, then added, “Seeing you naked does nothing for me.”

  29

  It was cold, but he had been in worse. He preferred being outdoors, living it rough, had done so nearly all his life. People were too soft these days. When it was hot they wanted it to be cold. When it was raining they wanted sunshine.

  It wasn’t that he was resentful of most people, it was just that he was tougher than the average person, had survived and endured what would have killed most people. It grounded him, gave him confidence when things got bad. And things were going to get bad, really bad. Not for him, for others.

  Snow swirled around him as he moved through the darkness, guided by instinct and memory. He had made the trek many times from his hideout to the town and back again—so much that he could do it blindfolded now. He left no trace, no footprints, no marks. He used the bleak terrain to
his advantage, cloaking his movements. It didn’t matter; snow, forest, desert, urban, he moved without people knowing he had been there.

  It was a featureless landscape, cold and blanched of most colors, leaving behind just shades of black and white.

  He entered the pine forest, a dark and mournful place, a labyrinth of trees and shadows. The buffeting wind abated and he increased his pace, watching the darkness and keeping his ear tuned for something out of place. Most people feared the darkness, would be scared of where he walked or had ventured. But he wasn’t most people. He thrived in the extremities, the rippling heat of the desert or the frigid wastelands of the Antarctic. He had endured the harshest environments and it had made him into what he was. He wound his way along a path that only he could see.

  Moments later the old hut loomed out of the darkness, a silhouette of hewn timber and rusted tin fashioned into a solid weatherproof structure that had been his home for the past two weeks. It was in a desolate location that no one would find, far off the common trails used by hikers and hunters. But still, each day he carefully checked the markers and snares he had ringed around the hut. If anyone by chance stumbled across the place, they would trigger one of the many improvised countermeasures, leaving a trace of their presence. He would know.

  Circling the hut, he took his time threading through the invisible path, stepping left and right, crouching now and then to check everything was still intact. Once he was satisfied that no one had breached the perimeter, he approached the front door that was secured with a large, old-fashioned lock. It was still intact. He pulled out a key, unlocked it and pushed the heavy door open.

  Inside, he switched on a low wattage lantern he kept on the wall next to the door. The hut had no windows, so there was no chance of any internal light being seen from the outside. He closed the door and slid the heavy bolt he had installed.

  The hut was a spartan existence, just a bed roll with a subzero sleeping bag on a dirt floor and heavy-duty backpack that contained spare clothing and enough food rations to last a month. There was no heating, no water, and no sanitary comforts. It was cold, dark, but protection from the elements.

  He placed the lantern down next to his bed roll, sat down on the sleeping bag and pulled off his boots. He looked around. His time here was over. He would eat a meal from his rations, check his equipment one more time, then he would pack up his gear and have it ready to go. Any trash has been bagged and deposited into various trash bins around the town, no one bin used twice. No trace.

  He would leave the hut, carrying only what he needed, and return later. Except this time he would have a companion with him. A companion whose life he would extinguish.

  If the man interfered, then he would be dealt with as well.

  Two holes had been dug, he just needed two bodies to fill them.

  * * *

  Shaw stood in Emily’s laundry. The floor dry and spotless, but he could see where the rubber strip around the base of the glass had been prised apart. Most people would have seen it and put it down to the normal expansion and contraction. But it was deliberate. It would have been done by some type of wire or flat tool, not dissimilar to what a carjacker uses to unlock car doors through the window seal.

  What puzzled him was that the swivel latch was closed, meaning the intruder had gone back out the window and had bothered to take the time to close the latch from the outside again.

  “He came in through here. Chose the only window that didn’t have a proper lock.”

  “I’ll replace it tomorrow.”

  Shaw turned and faced Emily. “It will make no difference. If they want to get in, then they’ll get in.”

  Emily stared at the window while Shaw looked around the laundry, noticing the bras and lace panties hanging from the drying rack. It was like someone had used a measuring tape to space the garments evenly on the rack. There was an obvious gap where an undergarment should have been hanging, like a missing painting on a gallery wall.

  Emily followed his eyes. “He took a pair of my panties and dropped them on the floor beside my bed.”

  Shaw didn’t know what to say.

  “So who is following me as you said? Who broke into my house and moved my things? Is it the same person you saw today?”

  “Moved your things? Did they take anything?”

  “No. They just moved stuff around. It was creepy having someone here, touching my things.”

  Shaw frowned. It seemed an odd thing to do, to break into someone’s house just to rearrange their things. Maybe the person was really a ghost. But ghosts don’t open windows, they just walk through walls. “Can you show me?”

  Shaw did a complete circuit of the ground floor then the top floor, checking windows and doors, Emily by his side. She seemed to be more relaxed now that he was here, checking on her security.

  “Does anyone else have a set of keys to your home?”

  “No.”

  Emily showed him what else she had noticed so far, her CD collection being messed up, certain lights switched off and others turned on, items on her dresser and bathroom shelf being swapped around.

  “Just stupid things, like a childish prank,” Emily said.

  For Shaw it was far more serious. It may sound stupid, but he almost wished the person had stolen something, cash, electronic equipment, anything of value. Then it would have made sense. But for someone to break into someone’s house, take nothing, but take the time to rearrange items, spoke of something far more sinister.

  “They are toying with you, playing games.”

  “But why? Why would someone do something like this?”

  “Because they know you or want to know you, and maybe you know them,” Shaw explained. “This is something very personal between you and them. It could be an infatuation or something much worse.”

  “Much worse?”

  Shaw nodded. “You need to tell me everything, Emily. You need to trust me. If you don’t, I can’t stop them from killing you.”

  30

  She told a story that was one of love and trust that turned into one of fear and violence.

  Emily had met Casey in Australia when she took six months off work as a schoolteacher and had decided to travel. They had met in a bar in Sydney, where Casey was with a group of friends celebrating her birthday.

  There was no attraction at first, but as they talked, shared stories and laughed together Emily soon realised there was something alluring about the tall, raven-haired young woman, something deeper than the usual directness that preceded lust.

  Casey had played water polo in college and her tall, lithe body drew its fair share of male attention, which Casey politely deflected. She came from a large family, three brothers and two sisters, who lived in a small country town in North Queensland. But she never really talked about her parents, or brothers and sisters. She was a nurse who worked in a Sydney hospital and leased a small apartment nearby, where she lived alone.

  Emily planned to spend only a week in Sydney before moving on to Melbourne. But as their relationship grew, a week became two weeks until eventually Emily’s urge to travel slowly faded. Lazy weekends were spent together at the beach swimming in the crashing surf then drying off, daydreaming under the warm rays of the summer sun. While Casey worked at the hospital during the day, Emily would busy herself exploring the city, taking a harbour cruise or catching a ferry to Manly Beach to stroll amongst the cafés and shops, or just sit at the jetty and watch sailing boats slice across the waves in the harbour.

  Warm balmy nights were spent in deep conversation, tucked away together at an intimate table in one of the many bistro restaurants that overlooked the Sydney Harbour Bridge and Opera House. They would drink red wine and eat too much delicious food before staggering home arm-in-arm to the small apartment in the early hours of the morning. Emily told Shaw she couldn’t remember a time when she had ever been happier. Casey was warm, caring and treated her like she was the only person on the planet.

  Soon after Emily m
oved in with Casey and was given her own key to the apartment, and a shelf in the tiny bathroom to store her toiletries, an affirmation that things were getting serious. Emily didn’t mind, she was in love.

  “Does this make you feel uncomfortable?” Emily sat on the floor in the living room, her back against a couch, legs pulled up under her, her sweater stretched over her knees, a glass of wine in her hand. Shaw sat on the opposite couch, holding a beer.

  “No, why would it?”

  Emily shrugged, “Some people get funny about it. But it’s who I am.”

  “It’s your choice, your body. If you’re in love, then you’re in love. Nothing else really matters. There’s too much ugliness going on in the world today to worry.”

  Emily smiled and took a sip of her wine. She liked him.

  A week in Sydney turned into several months. When her money ran out, Emily got a job behind the counter at the same bar they had first met. She had a twelve-month working visa so it was no problem.

  For Emily it seemed like bliss. At last she found someone she could have a meaningful relationship with on her terms.

  Summer came and went, and a week before Emily was due to fly back to the States, she came back to their apartment and found a small envelope on the table. Inside was Casey’s resignation from her position at the hospital. She wanted to come back to the States with Emily to start a new life together.

  Six months later they were married in a civil ceremony and they lived in Phoenix where Emily taught school and Casey got a job in a hospital.

  “Do you have a picture of her?”

  “No. I burnt all of them.”

  Shaw had noticed earlier that there were no photos at all in the house, not a single picture frame or happy snap stuck to the fridge. Nothing.

  “The first twelve months were great,” Emily said, gazing off into the past, thinking of happier times. “But then she changed. She became more possessive. She began questioning everything I did, who I talked to during the day, who I was texting. I had friends who met Casey, but she didn’t really warm to them. She kept her distance, wasn’t willing to get to know them.”