A Litter of Bones

by J D Kirk

  Logan gave a shake of his head. “No, it’s Fisher. Dylan.”

  Saying the name in that context hurt him, made him flinch.

  “But I think Henderson might be egging him on. I think that Petrie told him Dylan was alive during one of his visits, and spilled the beans on where to find him. Henderson wouldn’t have the balls to kidnap a kid, but he’s enough of a weasel to convince some poor mixed-up bastard to do it for him.”

  Logan took a few steps towards the back of the block and peered over the top of the high fence, counting the gardens until he found the back of the house Henderson’s car was parked outside.

  “I don’t like the man, but I doubt he thought it’d go this far. He’s a publicity hungry parasitic bastard, but he’s no’ a killer.”

  “So, Fisher attacked Hamza?”

  “I reckon so, aye.”

  “And Fisher’s in that house?”

  “I think it’s a safe bet.”

  “Then what are we waiting for?” Tyler asked.

  “We’ve got back-up on the way,” Logan told him. “We should wait for them to get here.”

  “And in the meantime what, boss? What happens to the kid, if he’s in there with them? You said yourself, we’re fighting the clock here.”

  “I’m not going to let what happened to Hamza happen to anyone else,” Logan said.

  “Hamza was blindsided. We’re going in eyes open.”

  Logan sucked air in through his teeth, looked the DC up and down, then gave a nod. “Aye. Right. You take the back, I’ll go in the front. Wait for my signal.”

  Tyler bounced from foot to foot, becoming animated. “Alright! Nice one. Let’s do it. What will the signal be?”

  Logan took a pair of blue gloves from his pocket and slipped them on. The latex creaked as he flexed his fingers in and out.

  “It’ll be a big crash,” he told the junior officer. “And quite a lot of shouting.”

  Chapter Forty-Three

  The door was sturdier than it looked and took three good kicks before it surrendered. It swung inwards, banged against the wall of the hallway, then bounced back again.

  Logan shouldered it aside and stormed in, fists raised.

  “Fisher? I know you’re in here!”

  The smell hit him mid-sentence, knocking him back half a step and a whole decade.

  Rot.

  Decay.

  Things long dead.

  No. No. Not again.

  Please God, not again.

  Blood spotted the walls in the hallway. A slug trail of the stuff was smeared across the laminate flooring, leading from the living room on the left to what looked to be the kitchen up ahead.

  Logan followed the trail, picking his route so as not to contaminate the scene any more than was absolutely necessary.

  He didn’t know what he’d find at the other end of that streak. Didn’t want to know, but had to.

  Stopping at the door, he took half a second to compose himself, then leaned through into the kitchen.

  Henderson was on the floor. Face down, eyes open but seeing nothing. His skin was chalk-white, aside from a caved-in area in the side of his forehead. His life was a puddle on the floor beneath him. No point checking for a pulse. A day ago, maybe, but not now.

  There was a thud against the back door. Then another. Logan heard DC Neish mutter on the other side of if, then turned the key and opened the door just as Tyler let fly at it with another kick.

  “Shit!” the DC ejected, stumbling into the kitchen. He slipped on the blood, waved his arms frantically as he tried to find his balance, then caught Logan’s offered arm and steadied himself.

  “Thanks, boss,” he gasped. His eyes went to the floor. “Is that Henderson?”

  “What’s left of him, aye,” Logan confirmed.

  “Any sign of Fisher?”

  “Not yet. I haven’t—”

  There was a squeak from beyond another door in the kitchen. A faint cheep, like the wailing of an injured bird. Soft, but unmistakeable.

  Motioning for Tyler to open the door, Logan positioned himself in front of it, feet ready to move, hands ready to grab.

  With a sideways look to Tyler, he nodded.

  The door was pulled open, sharp and suddenly.

  A boy was revealed, all sobs and snot, bound and gagged and terrified.

  But alive.

  Connor.

  From out in the hallway there came a thump. Footsteps. The front door slamming hard.

  “Boss!”

  “Stay with the boy!” Logan bellowed.

  He dodged past Henderson’s body, skidded through the blood, all thoughts of preserving the crime scene now playing second fiddle to catching the bastard responsible.

  Logan made it into the garden in time to see the red Mokka roaring away from the end of the gate. He caught a glimpse of Tom Fisher behind the wheel, but then the car was speeding off down the street and hanging a left at the end.

  The Focus screeched to a stop in the middle of the road ahead of him. Logan vaulted the gate and hurried around to the passenger side. Sinead had already thrown the door open, and floored the accelerator before Logan could pull it closed again, rendering his shouts of, “Go, go, go!” completely redundant.

  Flicking a switch on the dash, Sinead fired up the car’s lights and sirens while Logan got on the radio. “All units, all units, we are in pursuit of a red Vauxhall Mokka, registration KT12 XOH, currently headed…”

  “South-East.”

  “South-East, along…”

  “Kilmallie Road.”

  “Kilmallie Road. We’re the ones with the flashy blue lights going nee-naw, nee-naw. You can’t miss us,” he said, then he scrabbled for his seatbelt as Sinead skidded off the side-street and onto the main road, drawing a prolonged honk from an oncoming Co-op delivery truck.

  “Christ, and you said my driving was bad,” Logan muttered. “We got Connor.”

  “You got Connor?”

  “I think he’s alright.”

  Sinead’s head snapped around, eyes wide. “He’s alright?”

  “Is there an echo in here?” Logan grunted. He stabbed a finger ahead. “Watch the bloody road!”

  Sinead faced front, catching sight of the back of the Mokka just as it powered around a bend.

  “What’s up ahead?” Logan asked. “Can he get out?”

  “They know he’s coming,” Sinead said. “They’ll block the road at the Farmfoods junction. It’s his only way out.”

  Logan punched the roof in triumph. “Yes!” he cheered. “Catch up with him, though. Get right up his arse, I’m not having him slip through our fingers.”

  Sinead started to respond, then stopped in a gargle of panic. The car decelerated in a sudden lurch, tyres smoking, brakes howling in protest. Logan swore loudly and creatively as he was slammed forward, the seatbelt tightening across his chest.

  “What are you doing?” he wheezed.

  “He’s there. He’s there,” Sinead cried, unbuckling her belt and scrambling out of the car.

  Logan followed her gaze until he found the Mokka. It was halfway through a fence, driver’s door open, engine running, abandoned in the small front garden of a house.

  No. Not just any house, Logan realised.

  Sinead’s block.

  The neighbour’s garden.

  Harris.

  Chapter Forty-Four

  Sinead was younger, fitter, and had a head start. Logan did his best to catch her, but she was through the hole in the garden fence and up the path before he’d hit top speed. The house’s front door stood open. Shouts and screams came from inside the house, all of it escalating when Sinead charged inside, baton extended.

  Logan’s chest was heaving with the effort when he barrelled inside behind her, almost knocking her off her feet.

  Tom Fisher—Dylan Muir—stood in the centre of the living room, a hand clamped down over Harris’s head, the retractable blade of a packing knife pressed against his throat.

 
Maureen, the woman Logan had seen on the doorstep earlier, knelt on the floor next to an old man—her husband, presumably—shielding him with her body. A deep gash ran across the side of his face, splitting his cheek from his ear to his nose.

  “Let him go!” Sinead barked. “I swear to God, let him go.”

  “S-Sinead?” Harris whimpered, then he gasped when Fisher tightened his grip, jerking the boy back by the hair.

  “Shut up. All of you, shut the fuck up,” Fisher hissed. His eyes were wild, the knife trembling in his grip. He was out of control, or on the brink of becoming so, at least. “Anyone tries anything, and I cut this kid a new mouth!”

  Logan raised a hand in a calming gesture and positioned himself between Sinead and her brother. Down on the floor, Maureen quietly comforted her husband and pressed a handkerchief against his wound.

  “Alright, alright. Let’s all stay calm, OK?” Logan said. “You’re fine, Tom. You’re fine. Just relax.”

  “I’m relaxed! I’m perfectly fucking relaxed!” Fisher practically screamed. He glared at Logan, eyes blazing. “You want me to kill this kid? I’ll kill him. I’ll do it. I’ll do it. Is that what you want?”

  “I don’t want that, Tom, no,” Logan said. “I don’t want anyone to die. Not him, not you, and certainly not me.”

  Fisher scowled, looking the detective up and down. “You think you’re clever, don’t you? You think you’re so smart. But you didn’t see me, did you? None of you saw me. Watching. Listening. That’s how I knew when to get the kid. Connor.”

  He shook Harris. “And this one. He took one of my cats, so I followed him. And I watched.”

  “I don’t think I’m clever, Tom, no. Far from it,” Logan said. “If I was clever, I’d be the one holding the knife, not you.”

  “Exactly. So back off! You hear me? Back off!”

  “I’m backing off, Tom. Look? Here’s me backing off,” Logan said, raising both hands and shuffling back a few paces.

  Sinead side-stepped out of the DCI’s path, and then took another shuffled sideways step that brought her out of Fisher’s immediate line of sight.

  “The thing is, it’s not me you have to worry about,” Logan said. “It’s the marksmen.”

  “What?!”

  “Windows, Tom,” Logan said, gesturing to the panes of glass at either end of the room. “Direct line of sight, wherever you go. If they think you’re going to hurt the boy, then they’ll take you out. They have to. They don’t have a choice.”

  Fisher’s gaze went first to the window behind Logan, then turned to look at the other window a few feet away at his back.

  Sinead shuffled a step closer, staying wide.

  “Bullshit. There’s no-one there,” Fisher spat. “You’re lying!”

  “I’m not lying, Tom. I wish I was, believe me,” Logan told him. “Like I said, the last thing I want is anyone dying today, but I’m afraid that decision is no longer in my hands, son.”

  Logan indicated the window with a thumb. “It’s not even in theirs. It’s in yours. You’ve got the power here, Tom. You’re the one making the decisions.”

  “Fucking right, I am! Fucking right, I’ve got the power!” Fisher barked.

  “I’m glad you understand that, Tom. And I’m sure you appreciate the responsibility that goes along with it.”

  Fisher’s face contorted, his eyes narrowing. “What?”

  “Well, decisions have consequences,” Logan told him. “And, unless you’re careful, one of those consequences is going to involve you getting shot through the head by a polis sniper.”

  Logan raised his hands again, fingers splayed, palms forward. “And, like I say, I don’t want that. I promise you, I will do everything I can to avoid that outcome. But you have to help me, Tom. You’ve got to give me a hand here.”

  Down on the floor, Maureen began to cry. “Just let him go. Let him go!”

  “Shut up!” Fisher seethed, tightening his grip on Harris’s hair. “I told you, everyone shut up!”

  “This situation isn’t as bad as you think it is, Tom,” Logan told him. “Connor’s unharmed. DC Khaled—the detective you stabbed—he’s alive.”

  “He shouldn’t have been there! He shouldn’t have come snooping around!”

  “Aye, I’m pretty sure he regrets that now,” Logan agreed. “But the point is, they’re both going to live. They’re both going to be OK.”

  For a second or two, Fisher almost looked like he might buy it, but then his face darkened and his voice took on a desperate, frantic edge.

  “What about Henderson? Henderson’s not going to be fine, is he?”

  “No, but he was probably asking for it,” Logan told him. “I’ve known him for years. It’s a miracle I never killed him myself.”

  Harris squealed as Fisher pressed the knife more firmly against his skin. “You’re joking. Stop joking! You think this is funny?”

  “No, Tom, I—”

  “You think it’ll be funny when I split this kid’s throat open? Will you joke about that, too? Eh? Will you?”

  “Relax, Tom. Relax. I was just—”

  “Stop telling me to fucking relax!” Fisher howled. He thrust the knife forward, waving it in Logan’s face. “Now fuck off before I—”

  The baton caught him on the wrist. Fast. Hard. Sudden.

  The room was filled with the sound of breaking bone, although this was almost immediately drowned out by Fisher’s screams. The knife landed on the floor at Logan’s feet. A sudden shove on the back sent Harris staggering forwards.

  Sinead dived and caught him before he could fall, blocking Logan as he tried to grab for Fisher. He missed, tripped, stumbled. Fisher was already racing for the door, his shattered wrist held close to his chest, sobs of agony bursting as bubbles on his lips.

  “Stay here. Watch them,” Logan instructed.

  He was out the door a handful of seconds behind Fisher, along the path in time to see the lad racing along the pavement and tumbling awkwardly over a fence that divided it from a narrow strip of overgrown wasteland.

  Fisher wailed with the pain the landing brought, but it drove him on, launching him to his feet and propelling him through the undergrowth.

  Logan ducked through the fence like a wrestler entering the ring. He didn’t have to catch Fisher, just keep him in sight. He could hear sirens somewhere close by. The place was going to be swarming with uniforms any minute.

  There was nowhere left for Fisher to run.

  Chapter Forty-Five

  “The dogs will be coming in a minute, Tom,” Logan announced, picking his way through the jaggy bushes and nettles that turned the waste ground into a maze of low-level suffering. “No point running. Not now.”

  Fisher stumbled up an incline, then stopped at the top. He turned back to Logan, swaying unsteadily, his arm clutched to his chest.

  “That bitch,” Fisher spat. “She broke my wrist. She broke my fucking wrist!”

  “You didn’t give her a lot of choice in the matter,” Logan told him. He stopped halfway up the slope and looked Fisher up and down.

  It was there, right enough, around the eyes. The similarity. The resemblance to the boy in those photographs. The boy he’d never found.

  The victim he couldn’t save.

  “Come in quietly, Tom. With me. We can talk,” Logan told him. “Given the circumstances… We can talk.”

  “What circumstances?” Fisher said, spitting the word out as if it left a bad taste in his mouth. “I know who you are. I know what you did.”

  He caught the look on Logan’s face and grinned. “Yeah! Didn’t know that, did you? I know what you did to my dad. You messed him up. You locked him away.”

  “Your dad?” Logan spluttered. “Who, Petrie? Petrie isn’t your dad, son.”

  “What? Yes, he is!”

  “No. No, I’m sorry, Tom. That’s not true.”

  “Yes, he is! He’s my dad, and you set him up. You threw him off that roof! You took him away!”

 
“That’s what this is about, isn’t it?” Logan said, inching closer. “You thought that you could make us doubt the conviction. If Mister Whisper was still out there, then we’d have to let Petrie go.”

  “Well, you would!” Fisher spat. “You’d have to. Henderson told me!”

  “No, son. That’s not how it works,” Logan said. “Did Henderson put you up to this? Was that it? Did he tell you we’d let Petrie go if you kidnapped Connor and sent the bear?”

  A jolt of pain shot through Fisher’s arm, making him gasp. He glanced behind him, then danced on the spot, nursing his wrist.

  “He was going to turn me in. After I stabbed the policeman. He said it’d gone too far,” Fisher said. “I couldn’t let him tell you. I could let him tell anyone.”

  “So, you killed him,” Logan said.

  “I had to! I didn’t have any choice. I just wanted everything to go back to the way it was. I just wanted my dad back!”

  “Whatever Owen Petrie made you believe, he is not your dad, son. I’ve met your dad. He’s a good man. He’s nothing like Petrie.”

  “Stop saying that! He’s my dad! He’s my dad and you took him from me! You took everything from me!”

  The way he said it – the twisted snarl, the clenched fists, the shriek of desperation – brought the terrible reality of the situation home for Logan.

  “Jesus. You’ve been alone this whole time,” he realised. “Since we caught him. You’ve been on your own.”

  Fisher—Dylan—said nothing. He just stood there, staring defiantly as he gulped back tears.

  “I’m so sorry, son. I tried to find you. For years. I really did, you have no idea,” Logan said, his voice thin and croaky. “But I was looking in all the wrong places.”

  The ground rumbled faintly. Fisher glanced behind him for a moment, then back to Logan. “You’re lying. You locked up my dad, and now you want to lock me up, too.”

  “You need help, son. Specialist help. You’ve been lost too long.”

  Logan held a hand out, bridging the gulf between them. “Come on with me, Dylan. Come on home.”

  Fisher blinked. Once. Twice. A series of expressions crossed his face. Surprise. Confusion.