Act of Vengeance

by Michael Jecks

  Here there was no panic. He listened attentively and although he could make out some quiet conversation, there was nothing else. Where was he? What was this? Where were they taking him? The aeroplane was well furnished, surely. Now he was sure he could discern leather in the upholstery through the hood. He sniffed, the only sense other than hearing and touch that he could use to the full.

  His hands and legs were bound with painful, thin restraints. Not metal, more likely plastic. He pulled at them experimentally, and in response he heard a muttered grunt. Soon there was a step, and he felt a hand on his throat. It was so unexpected that it made him recoil and jam his head back into the chair.

  ‘Keep still, fucken asshole,’ a voice muttered, and he was suddenly still. It was a woman’s voice. He remained there, listening with every nerve tingling, and felt her hands at his neck again. Now, he realised, she was untying a lace or some other fixing under his chin; he waited patiently until he found that he could begin to see again. The fabric was opened down towards his chest, and he could vaguely discern a woven pattern. And then the hood was dragged from him, and he snapped his eyes shut in pain at the brightness of the light.

  ‘There you go, honey,’ the woman said. She was short and solid, with a mousy bob, and had a hard, shrewd, oval face. She surveyed him without compassion through dark brown eyes. ‘Don’t want you to die before we get there, eh?’

  ‘American?’ he said. He was startled by how rough his voice sounded, as though he had not used it in years. ‘Where are you taking me?’

  ‘Aw, honey, that would take away the surprise, now, wouldn’t it?’ she said with a throaty chuckle.

  *

  07.42 Whittier; 16.42 London

  Tony Burns, Whittier’s Police Chief, was tired that morning. He had already been up for some hours. A bear had gotten close to hikers and their screams of terror could be heard for miles around.

  ‘Morning, Chief. How’s it going?’

  ‘Gimme a coffee, Suze,’ he said, slipping his backside onto one of the stools at the bar counter.

  He was shortish man, wiry, with an amiable face, brown eyes behind thick glasses, thick brown hair and perpetual shadow on his jaw; he pulled off his thick plastic spectacles and eyed the menu with a sneer.

  Suzie Parker passed the mug to him.

  ‘You want to complain about it?’

  ‘Shit, no. It looks great,’ he said.

  ‘But you want your special?’

  ‘Nope, not today. Today, Suze, I’ll have two eggs over easy and a little toast.’

  She set her head to one side.

  ‘No bacon? No pancake? No syrup?’

  ‘OK. You sold me. Some bacon too.’

  ‘You’ve had a bad night.’

  ‘Worse’n you’d believe.’

  ‘Didn’t hear of trouble.’

  ‘Two hikers up near the glacier. Damn fools left their garbage out.’

  She winced.

  ‘Bears?’

  ‘They thought they’d be OK. They had a handgun – forty-four. Reckoned they were Dirty Harry or something.’

  Suzie rolled her eyes.

  ‘Don’t they listen when they’re warned?’

  ‘I guess they just thought a forty-four was big enough to pull down even a grizzly.’

  ‘You know what Earl used to say? He saw a guy with a gun like that once, and he said "What’s that?" The fool said to him, "It’s a forty-four magnum, the most powerful handgun in the world." Earl said, "What you got it for?" "It’s in case of bears." Earl just looked at it, and said, "You’d best file down that foresight, then." "Why, to give me a faster draw?" the guy asks. "Nope. Because it’ll be less painful when the bear shoves it up your ass."‘

  Tony chuckled, ‘Yeah. I miss old Earl. Used to like yanking the chains of the tourists.’

  ‘Yeah. But he’d been here long enough, he felt entitled,’ Suzie said.

  ‘One of the good guys,’ Tony agreed.

  Earl Wallace had arrived with the construction crews in the ‘60s, which helped to rebuild the town after the earthquake all but destroyed the place, and had chosen to stay.

  ‘So what happened to the hikers?’ Suzie asked.

  Tony Burns pulled a face.

  ‘Assholes must’ve got a cub, I guess. Some reason the little brute didn’t attack. All I can say is, they’re damn lucky.’

  ‘Neither of them hurt?’

  ‘Nope. I think they let off their guns and the noise scared the bear off. Didn’t hit the bear. Just good fortune that there wasn’t some other guy up there who got shot, I guess. Could have been spraying slugs all over Portage Glacier from where they were. What the hell city boys were doing up there at this time of year, I don’t know.’

  ‘Well, I’ll thank God no one was hurt,’ Suzie said. ‘I don’t want news like that getting out and scaring off all the tourists.’

  ‘Yeah. Fair enough.’

  ‘Excuse me, are you the chief of Police here?’

  Tony glanced over his shoulder and nodded, ‘That’s me.’

  ‘Could I have a word with you?’ Jack said. ‘My name is Hansen – I am a lawyer from England. My client was Dan Lewin, who lived in a cabin near here, but died last week?’

  ‘From England, eh? You’ve travelled a long way.’

  ‘He was a good client.’

  ‘Really?’ Chief Burns nodded pensively. It would be a surprise if the man out there had been a good anything. Millionaires tended to come here for the fishing in the summer, but they were all gone with their boats before the first frosts. And men who rented little cabins and then committed suicide were rarely wealthy. ‘I wouldn’t expect him to be much good to you. Didn’t look the kind of guy to have too many dollars. Not for long, anyhow.’

  ‘May we talk?’

  ‘While I’m eating my eggs, you can have any spare attention I can afford,’ Chief Burns said. ‘But if it’s official, let me finish eating first, eh?’

  There was a screech of tyres out in the road, and Tony turned quickly to gaze out.

  ‘Who’s that?’

  Suzie returned from the cooker, peering through the thick glass and answered, ‘Bob, I think. Who’s lit a fire under his ass?’

  The door was thrust wide and heavy-set man with a heavy, padded, red fleece jacket leaned in.

  ‘Chief, you gotta come quick.’

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘My cabin out on Shotgun Cove? Some mother’s burned it down, God dammit!’

  Chief Burns turned a face of tragedy to his eggs. ‘Bullshit,’ he muttered, and shovelled eggs onto toast, ramming it into his mouth. Grabbing rashers of bacon, he stuck them into a napkin, took another bite of egg and toast, slurped his coffee, and glanced at Jack. ‘Mr Hansen? This is the place your client used to live. You want a ride?’

  *

  08.11 Whittier; 17.11 London

  Tony Burns started the engine as soon as he sat in the seat and methodically pulled the seat belt around and snapped it into the lock. He shot a look over at the lawyer.

  ‘Mr Henson, I’d like you to do up your safety belt too, sir. I wouldn’t have a man’s death on my conscience, not with my driving.’

  ‘Oh, yes. Sorry. And it’s Hansen.’

  As soon as the other seat belt had clicked, Chief Burns reversed out of the parking bay, and pulled the shift down. ‘Strange this. You arrive here yesterday, and today the place goes up in smoke. Quite a coincidence.’

  ‘Perhaps so. But the place didn’t look as though the fire department had much of a say in the building of the place.’

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘I only mean that the place was potentially a fire risk. It wasn’t a modern apartment, was it?’

  ‘Strange for it to go up just after you visited, though.’

  Jack nodded and added, ‘By the way, did you investigate his death yourself?’

  Chief Burns glanced across at him.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘It looks strange to me.’

  ‘You
have experience of murder investigations?’

  ‘No. I am a lawyer – my realm is more probate.’

  ‘Oh. But you reckon you can question me about investigating a murder scene?’

  Jack sat back in his seat. This guy was a redneck cop from a town of maybe two hundred people. He was hardly going to appreciate questions about his methods from someone who came from another country and had no experience. He should have kept his mouth shut.

  ‘What struck you as odd?’ Chief Burns asked.

  ‘It’s probably nothing.’

  ‘What is?’

  Jack did not look at him. ‘The guy shot himself, but the bullet ended in the floor.’

  ‘Yeah. We reckoned he was lying on his bed and the bullet went down into the planks.’

  ‘That makes no sense – the bed was too far from the gunshot mark.’

  Chief Burns looked across at him, and then swung the wheel to go up the track to the cabin. ‘The bed was moved when the room was cleaned.’

  ‘Oh.’

  Jack winced and looked away. He had not thought of that. Suddenly his desire to pursue this as an enquiry fell away. Perhaps he hadn’t killed himself. Maybe the fire was a mere accident. It didn’t matter, anyway – no one in England would know or care. He could wind this up and get back to Anchorage. There was no book, no journal, and the idea of waiting around here was ridiculous. Soon he would be back home with Claire. If she was still waiting. He prayed she would be.

  ‘There was one thing strange, though,’ Chief Burns mused, breaking into Jack’s thoughts. Burns expertly took the track at speed, and then lifted off the gas as he hit some scree. Stones and gravel shot off to the right as he gunned the engine again, traction restored.

  ‘What?’

  ‘He used a hollow-point to kill himself. But I couldn’t find the ammo in his cabin. All he had there was round-nose, full metal jacket.’

  That made Jack frown. Full metal jacket bullets were military style, with a copper casing that covered the whole bullet so that when it hit flesh or bones it punched a neat wound, rather than expanding and tearing a ragged hole in the victim. Expanding ammunition, especially hollow point, was designed to balloon as soon as it hit flesh, so that it would rip a man’s body apart.

  ‘Seems odd.’

  ‘Yeah,’ Chief Burns said. He swung the wheel and the car came to rest at the parking bay. ‘I thought that, too. Then I reckoned, if I was desperate and wanted to get out, I’d probably want to have one bullet I could rely on. I’ve seen a guy took the top of his head off with a solid slug. Missed almost everything, but it tore his head and face around. Just the pressure of a handgun bullet can do real damage.’

  Jack nodded and said, ‘Could he buy a single round like that?’

  Chief Burns opened the door.

  ‘Hey, he could’ve borrowed one from a guy at a range, could have stolen one from a club – one bullet, who’s going to care?’

  The two walked up the path, and before long both could smell the charred building.

  ‘Ah, shit!’ Chief Burns muttered. ‘We used to get a few artists and the like up here. All brought good money. Looks like we’re going to have to get a new cabin built for next season.’

  Jack walked to the door and peered about him. The roof was burned away, and the interior was ruined. Most of the walls had gone, but the mess was still smoking, and he could see a red glow in among the blackened logs when the wind gusted gently about them.

  ‘Can you smell anything?’

  The police chief gazed at him, puzzled, and joined Jack at the door.

  ‘What, Mr Hansen?’ he began, but then he frowned. ‘That smells like an accelerant.’

  Jack peered at him. It was a technical term for a redneck local cop, he thought so he added, ‘Smells like petrol.’

  ‘I reckon you got a suspicious mind,’ Chief Burns grunted as he walked in, stepping gingerly among the mess. ‘If I had to guess, I’d reckon that this was an electrical fault, or maybe the water heater had a failure. It happens on occasion. And many homes will have a gallon of gas somewhere. For running a leaf blower or chainsaw. Don’t think this’ll be any different.’

  Jack entered, but kept away from the chief. With the heat from the fire, he wasn’t sure how badly the floor would have been scorched. He saw that the picture of the tree was ruined, and stood staring at the burned mess. The picture had been painted on a board of wood, and it had burned fiercely where the oil paints and varnish had lain.

  ‘Shame about the picture,’ he muttered.

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘Nothing. He had a picture here of an old tree. It had been hit by lightning or something,’ Jack said, stepping towards the table in the kitchen which, by a miracle, had survived the collapse of the main beam overhead, although all the books on the surface were now burned and black.

  ‘Must have been the Shotgun Pine,’ Chief Burns said absently. He pulled up a beam of wood and peered under it. Stepping through the opening where the bedroom door had been, he continued. ‘I know he used to go that way to paint.’

  ‘He painted?’ Jack said.

  ‘Yeah. Saw him myself a couple of times, sketching and scribbling. He had an old book. Leather cover to it, but never let anyone see inside it.’

  ‘How big?’

  ‘You seem all fired up again, mister. Something you want to tell me?’

  Jack smiled and took his passport from his pocket.

  ‘This shows I am who I say I am. If you want, I have my driving licence, photos of the children, everything here in my wallet, too.’

  ‘There’s no need for all that,’ Chief Burns said, taking both and looking at them carefully. ‘But thanks. Yeah, they look good, Mister Hansen.’

  ‘Where is the tree?’

  ‘Shotgun Pine? Out near the point. You just take the Shotgun Cove road and keep going. It’s rough, though. All a Jeep track. You’d best keep your Ford off it. The rental firm wouldn’t like to see it all scratched and dented.’

  ‘You knew I had a Ford?’

  ‘This isn’t a big town to take care of, and the most dangerous folks tend to be visitors,’ Chief Burns said.

  ‘I’ll take a walk out to see this pine,’ Jack said.

  ‘Okay. You do that. And then, when you’re back, do you want to view his effects? All the stuff that looked valuable I took back to the station and kept in the safe.’

  ‘What was there?’

  ‘Cash, his watch, just personal effects.’

  ‘His sketchbook?’

  Chief Burns looked at him. ‘I wouldn’t take up my safe’s space with that. It’s not like it was valuable, eh? Or was he a famous painter?’

  ‘Nope,’ Jack smiled. ‘Only a soldier who’d gone to ground.’

  ‘Yeah, we knew that. He came into town a couple times. Drank in Suzie’s bar. Seemed alright, but a live wire. Know what I mean? He was always wired, like he was ready to go off the deep end any time soon. Guess it was true, too. Poor bastard.’

  Jack walked through into the bedroom. It was wrecked. The mattress had gone up quickly, and the smell of burned foam rubber was an assault on his sinuses. Jack scuffed the rugs from the floor, but the fire had burned well here, and the floor had only a dimple to show where the bullet had finished in the planks.

  Chief Burns watched him with narrowed eyes.

  ‘For an attorney with an interest in wills, you spend a lot of time looking at bullet holes, Mr Hansen.’

  ‘It strikes me as strange that the man came all the way here to commit suicide. Why didn’t he do it at home?’

  ‘Good question. Why was he here, Mister Hansen? It’s a long way from home.’

  Jack considered. There seemed little need to conceal much. It was likely that Lewin had spoken of his time in the army, and if he didn’t, people would guess from his carriage.

  ‘He was with the British Army in Iraq and Afghanistan. I think he had a bad war, and wanted to hide from the world.’

  ‘Uhuh. And he reckoned t
his’d be a good place, I guess. Yeah, that’s what I reckoned when I spoke to him. Reckoned he wanted peace and quiet, with his painting and drawing, but then the black dog came down on him. Know what I mean?’

  ‘Churchill used to call his depression his black dog.’

  ‘That’s right,’ Chief Burns chuckled. ‘I used to think of him as my greatest hero. Other kids thought Superman was the one: me, I preferred the hoary old fighter.’ He grew serious again. ‘Think that’s what got to your client. He was alright when he first got here, two months back. About three weeks or so, he looked good. But then something happened about four weeks ago. He was real jumpy all of a sudden. Wanted to keep an eye on the doors all the while, like he expected a felon to walk into the bar when he was there. Then he stopped coming into town. Just turned up once in a while to get supplies, and then he was kind of watchful, you know? Like he didn’t trust anyone any more. Not even Suzie, and everyone likes Suzie.’

  ‘Did anyone keep an eye on him?’

  The police chief looked at him.

  ‘I said I saw him sketching a fair amount, eh? I was up here often as I could be, and when I wasn’t, I tried to get one of my guys to drop in. We did what we could. We’re a small community here, we don’t get too many problems and, as police officers, we take our pastoral care seriously. But I wouldn’t have him arrested and checked by a shrink just because he seems kind of depressed. That’s for him to decide.’