His first reaction was suspicion. A manila envelope, large in size, it bulged in the middle, promising to contain more than paper. A thick piece of duct tape held it in position and it had been sealed at the top with several staples.
He had used his bike the day before, which meant that the envelope had been put in place last night. But by who? Was it a gift from his mother? Was she reaching out to him from the darkness that had taken her? He quickly dismissed this idea. That wasn’t her style. She would have given him a gift face to face.
Ed was the only other person with access to the garage. But he could think of no good reason for Ed presenting him with a mysterious envelope.
The impulse to throw his bike aside and get help surged inside of him. But who was he to run to? Could he really go back into the house, rouse his mother and tell her about the package? The more he thought about this, the more he realized that no good outcome would come from such an action.
With the sense that he was ripping off a band aid, he pulled the envelope from the handlebars and tore it open. Three objects fell to the ground as he did so. But the piece of paper inside the envelope commanded his attention most. He pulled the page free and read. Small well-ordered type centered the A-4 sheet in several paragraphs.
Abn, if you’re reading this, then you may still have time to save yourself. Let me begin by saying that I know who you are. I know and have proof that you murdered at least one of the victims at Mary Potter Hospice. And I have the means to act on that proof. But I’m not going to do that. Instead, I’m going to give you a chance.
Inside the envelope you’ve opened, you’ll find a syringe, a vile of household bleach and a flash-drive containing a video, which I urge you to watch. I know you’re familiar with these items. I know you have used them before. I have the syringe you last used at the hospice. It has your fingerprints all over it.
Part of the video is a record of a dance class at the Newtown Dance Studio. You will note the exact time that the video was recorded.
To clarify things for you, the video shows Jeremy Thompson attending his ballet class. The time indicates that he would have been unable to be caught on video, unlocking his bicycle near the hospice on the day of William Tua’s murder. This proves that you lied about where you were that day. This proves that Michael Easton lied. If you want these facts to remain secret. If you want to remain free, I can help with that. But first you must help me.
There’s a man in Wellington Hospital’s Intensive Care Unit. His name is James Boar. You know him as Detective Boar. He was in a car accident caused by you. He is in a coma and has no chance of waking up because of you. He is suffering and you are going to stop that suffering.
Go to the ICU with the syringe and bleach from the envelope and inject it into James. If you do this, I guarantee that your secrets will be secrets forever.
You have until midnight tomorrow.
Abn’s blood froze in his veins as he finished reading. …The syringe he’d used on Henry’s son; how had it been found? How had he been so stupid as to leave his fingerprints on it? And who had found it?
The latter could be guessed. Although the addresser of the letter didn’t identify himself, he knew it had to be Detective Bell. Bell was the only man with the means and the motive to do this.
He scanned the letter again, making sure he hadn’t missed anything. Nothing really stood out, aside from the mention of the video, which the author had urged him to watch.
It felt like a déjà vu moment. Henry had cornered him into doing the same thing only days ago and now here he was again faced with the same choice. Only this time, the law had cornered him. The result was no different. The more he thought about it, the more he realized that he had no choice.
As if on autopilot, he picked the items up off the ground and made his way back to his bedroom where he inserted the flash-drive from the envelope into his laptop. Just as the author of the letter had noted, Jeremy came into view, wearing the full costume of a ballet student. The time indicated on the bottom of the screen was exactly as had been promised. Abn’s alibi was blown. There was no questioning this fact. If this ever got out, then Michael would be in just as much trouble as he was.
As he juggled the ramifications of this evidence in his mind, the video ended and a new video began. This time, the view showed a street corner, taken from what he guessed had to be a CCTV camera. He could tell this from the angle of the view. The camera had been high up, as if shooting from a power pole or something similar.
He recognized the location. Furthermore, he recognized himself as he rode his bicycle over the street. He remembered the moment well, the panic he’d been feeling after Ron’s death. The need to talk to someone. The emotions he’d let through that day had felt so alien to him. What he didn’t remember was the resulting car accident from him having crossed that street.
Despite not being shocked easily; he couldn’t suppress a jump as he watched the car crash into the trees. And his nerves didn’t settle quickly. If anything, he felt more on edge as he realized that the car had crashed in order to avoid him.
The words from the letter made sense now. He was in a car accident caused by you.
He had caused that accident. He was responsible for the suffering that followed. Detective Boar had been in that car. And now he was in a coma in hospital.
“I see you got that letter, Bro,” said a voice.
Jumping with fright, he turned to see Henry standing at his bedroom door, filling the frame as if had been specifically made just large enough to surround his generous dimensions. Even at a glance, he could see a multitude of emotion in Henry’s eyes. Pride was in there. Love was in there too. And so was a measured kind of rage. But the fluttering sparks of a psychopath’s thought pattern also showed. He knew that look well. During his childhood, he’d seen it many times before.
“What are you doing here? How did you get in?”
“You left the garage door open, Bro. You should be more careful. You never know what type of riffraff’s hangin’ around these days.”
“You should not be here. If my mother sees you, she will call the police.”
“That’s not very nice. I’m your friend,” Henry said, as he lifted a flask to his lips and took a swallow.
He noticed blood on Henry’s knuckles as he watched him drink. “What happened to your hand?” he asked.
“You see, you are my friend, Bro. Always looking out for me… for my safety. That’s what friends do.”
“We are not friends. I want you to leave. I want you to leave me alone.”
“So, you gonna do it, Bro?”
“Do what?”
“You know… do what the letter says.”
“Did you write that letter?”
“Shit no, boy. I just took a peek at it.”
“You took a peek? When?” he said, feeling more and more confused by the second and at the same time hoping beyond hope that his mother remained in her bedroom.
“After policeman Bell left it there. I wanted to know why he was snooping around your garage at three in the morning. So, after he left, I snuck in and took a peek.”
“You were watching my house at three o’clock in the morning?”
“Yeah Bro. You’ve got enemies. I already took care of one of them. He almost had you. And you don’t need to worry about the other one.”
“You took care of one. What does that mean? Who did you take care of?”
“Details… Names… You don’t need to know, Bro.”
“I do need to know.”
“No, you don’t. All you need to know is that I’ve got your back. You saved my son and I’ll do whatever it takes to help you.”
“I killed your son.”
“No, you saved him. You and I are the same. We’re birds of a feather.”
“I wish you would stop saying that.”
“It’s the truth.”
“Abn, are you there?” a voice called.
“You have to go. That is my
mother. She cannot see you here,” he said.
“Why not? You’re not allowed to have friends over?”
“Abn!” called the voice again, this time louder.
“I am here,” he called back.
The sound of footsteps thudded on the floor. She was coming and he knew he could do nothing about it. “Get behind my door. She cannot see you here,” he hissed.
He felt a wave of relief as he watched Henry do as he asked. And just in time. The moment Henry shuffled from view, Jane appeared in the doorway.
“You’re here. I thought you’d gone out.”
“I forgot my sketchpad,” he said, immediately noticing how washed out and un-kept she looked.
“You’re leaving again then?”
“Is that okay? I was going to go down to the waterfront and draw for a while.”
“That’s okay. I just wanted to know if you needed breakfast.”
“Thank you, but it is twelve o’clock. I already had breakfast.”
“Twelve o’clock… twelve o’clock… okay…” she said as if she were contemplating a complex math equation.
“Are you okay, Mum?”
“Yes… of course… What’s that smell?”
“What smell?” he said, as he watched her nostrils flare.
“Musty, stale, like a local bar on a Saturday morning.”
“I do not know what that smells like.”
“Oh…” she said before drifting from view again.
A sense of bewilderment enveloped him as she departed. She really wasn’t the mother he’d become used to. But at least he could be grateful she’d not discovered Henry’s presence. Who knew what effect Henry would have on her in her current state?
“Seems like a nice lady,” Henry said as he stepped out of hiding.
“She is my mother.”
“She American?”
“What does that matter?”
“Just asking. No need to get all sensitive on me, Bro.”
“You better leave now. She may come back.”
“Okay, Bro. I know when my presence is not appreciated. But if you need me, I’ll be around.”
He froze as he watched Henry walk from his bedroom like he owned the place. He waited for the scream he felt for certain would come from his mother. But after a couple of minutes, it became obvious that silence would ensue. As if by some mystical force, Henry had wandered downstairs and out of the house without being detected. He wasn’t sure what this meant. Could it mean that his mother was that far gone that she was now totally numb to her surroundings? Probably, it looked that way. Could it mean that Henry had powers well beyond that of a normal human being? Probably, he’d already proved that much.
As his nerves settled, the reality of his situation took hold. Indeed, Detective Bell had planted the envelope. And again, the more he thought about it, the more he realized he really had no choice. He had to go through with what had been demanded of him.
He stuffed his sketchpad into his backpack, along with the envelope and readied himself to leave. But as he turned to the door, he found his mother standing there again. She looked even more lost than she had earlier.
“What is wrong, Mum?”
“I just got off the phone with the police. Your uncle Ed was found unconscious on the side of the road in Newtown this morning,” she said.
“Drunk again, I assume?”
“He was taken to hospital. He’s in a coma. They don’t know if he’ll wake up.”
“Oh… What happened?” he managed, unable to hide his shock.
“They say he looks like he’d been hit.”
“Hit?”
“Yes,” she said, her voice little more than a whisper.
If he felt he’d get any further information out of her on the subject, then he was deftly wrong. Without another word, she drifted out of his bedroom just as abruptly as she’d arrived. He collapsed back onto his bed, his mind running in a dozen directions. He had no great love for Ed, but he didn’t wish anything like this to happen to him.
The memory of Henry’s bloodied fist entered his thoughts. Hit… Is that what his mother had meant? Had someone punched Ed?
“You’ve got enemies. I already took care of one of them…”
Is that what Henry had meant? Had Ed been an enemy? Had Henry taken care of him? He realized that anything was possible. Clearly, Henry was no longer in charge of his primal instinct for self-preservation. The man had probably spent any number of years in prison. A dangerous man without a reason to live was a man completely unpredictable; a man to be feared.
Ever the pragmatist, he tried to calculate the implications of the news. The more he thought about it, the more he realized that nothing had changed. The world continued to turn. Certainly, Ed was no longer a danger to him. But the threat of Bell remained. For the moment, he needed to put his concern for Ed aside and focus what had to be done with Boar.
* * * * *
Abn really had no idea how he would do what was needed as he exited the elevator onto the ICU floor. When Ron had been here, he’d had every right to visit. He could wander in and out as he pleased. This was different. This time, if he was questioned, he would have to come up with a good lie. Being a relative was the only explanation he could think of. He quickly decided on the distant nephew angle and he hoped that no one would recognize him from when he’d been here last.
No one so much as looked at him as he made his way onto the main floor. He tried to maintain the casual composure of someone who knew exactly where they were going as he scanned the area for Detective Boar.
As he reached the last bed without seeing Boar, a tall nurse with a kind face approach him.
“Are you looking for someone?” she asked.
“Yes, my uncle.”
“And what’s his name?”
“James… His name is James Boar,” he managed, only just remembering Boar’s first name in time.
“Oh… you walked right past him. He’s in the second bed from the entrance. He’s with his mother.”
“His mother is here?”
“Yes. I thought you’d know that. The only time she ever leaves is at 6:00 p.m. and even then, it’s only for an hour or so.”
He couldn’t help but notice the edge of distaste in the nurse’s tone as she spoke. He wondered for a moment what this meant. He also wondered how he would explain to Boar’s mother why he was there. Tension surged inside of him as he searched his mind for another cover story.
He approached Boar’s bed. Hesitation would provoke suspicion. He had no choice. He had to dive in and improvise.
The prone figure of Boar’s mother came into view as he reached the head of the bed. It was no wonder that he hadn’t noticed her on his way in. Her dress was the same color as the bed sheets. She lay halfway across Boar’s right bedside and she appeared to be sleeping. A set of rosary beads hung from her hand; the black crucifix draped over Boar’s lap.
He wondered if that was another way in which Christians prayed. But then he saw the tiny holes in her hands that dotted their way up the rest of her exposed arm. Evidently, Jesus wasn’t her only God.
He’d seen track marks before. Many of the soldiers he’d been surrounded by growing up had been constantly injecting themselves with something or other. He’d never know exactly what they were taking, but he’d guessed it hadn’t been conventional medicine.
Two bloodshot eyes rose from Boar’s drool-soaked bedsheet, as if detecting his presence through some superhuman act. He withered beneath the gaze.
“Who are you?” said the voice behind the eyes.
“I am a student from Saint Patrick’s college. I am here to pray for the suffering,” he said.
“You know my son?”
“I am here to pray for everyone in the ICU.”
“I don’t want you here. Get out!”
It wasn’t the answer he’d been expecting. Weren’t people of the same religion supposed to band together and support one and other in times of strugg
le?
“I only wish to help,” he said.
“My son has all the help he needs. He has me. He has Jesus. He doesn’t need you.”
“Can I sit and pray with you for a moment?”
“No, I don’t want you here. Leave now or I’ll throw you out.”
Something in her eyes told him that she was deadly serious with her threat. He didn’t tempt fate. And there was no point in attracting any more attention than necessary.
“God be with you both,” he said as he turned to the exit.
“Fuck off!” she barked.
With spirits sagging and his mind scrambling for ideas, he made his way out of the hospital. He hadn’t foreseen Boar’s mother being there. He hadn’t foreseen her formidable temperament. Then again, he really hadn’t known what to expect. It was just as likely that Boar would have been alone. But for the moment, Boar may as well have a Pit Bull guarding him.
It wasn’t until he reclaimed his bike from the stand and prepared himself for the ride to the waterfront that he realized what he had to do.
“You get it done, Bro?”
He turned from his bicycle and found Henry only a few feet away. The flask was gone. A beer had taken its place and he wore his normal sheepish grin.
“You have to stop following me,” he said.
“Not until you’re out of this pickle you’re in. Not until you’re safe,” he said, as he charged his bottle and took a swallow.
“You cannot help me.”
“I can. I will. I owe you. I have to help you. That’s how it works.”
“Why? I still do not know why?”
“Because that’s the law for people like you and me, Bro. Because we’re birds of a feather. And because this is all I have now. You’re all I’ve got.”
“You do not have me.”
“I have reason, Bro. You gave me that. Beyond that, I don’t really care what happens to me.”
THE LIFE LEFT: A GRIPPING PSYCHOLOGICAL THRILLER Page 23