by A. S. French
Rosie had entered the brewery thirty minutes earlier, going inside on the pretence of working for her father. The idea was for her to enter the management office and commandeer it for her work. Astrid would meet her there and crack the computer’s security and search for anything relating to the accident or Caitlin Cruz. It wasn’t the greatest plan she’d ever designed, but it was all she had until something else turned up.
They weren’t outside the brewery’s massive front gates, but around the side where she gazed over to the hills and the forest at the bottom. If she went down to enjoy that spot of nature, she could continue on for a few miles and reach the point in the woods where she’d escaped from Eleanor Campbell’s house the night of the attack. Just the thought of Campbell made her think about her imprisoned in Benedict Sawyer’s oily grasp. And then the image of Jim Moore’s mutilated corpse flashed across her retinas.
Why maim the body like that?
Why would Sawyer kill Robbie Campbell and Moore? Did they discover something about the cover-up of the accident, or what had happened to Caitlin and her family? If either of them did, it would explain why Benedict Sawyer had them murdered. Framing her for it might just have been an added benefit for the old man.
She stared at the brewery. Everything started there, from the so-called accident to the murders and the Campbell house’s terrible events. If she didn’t get any answers now, what would she do?
The gates opened and a member of staff welcomed them in. Astrid paid her fee and followed the others inside. A young woman led them down a long corridor adorned with large photos of hops standing golden in the sun and glowing pints pulled into glittering glasses until they reached the start of the tour and the origins of the Bakerstown Brewery.
Their guide didn’t look old enough to drink in the US, although she would have been fine down the pub in Britain, but she seemed to know what she was speaking about. She spent two minutes explaining how the brewery had grown from its humble beginnings to its current position as the town’s hub. There was no mention of Benedict Sawyer or his family as she went straight into beer production mechanics.
Whole-leaf hops were their speciality and allegedly added extra flavour to their brew. Astrid didn’t want to dispute the young woman’s words, and her memories of drinking in the Ranch House that first night in town might still have been shaky, but she remembered how terrible the local brew was. Or perhaps that’s what had wiped some of what she did that night from her brain.
The tour guide took them past the laboratory where they peered through the window to admire the science on show. Astrid watched men and women pouring liquids into glass phials, and for a moment, she imagined she was inside one of the big pharmaceutical companies; or in a modern remaking of Jekyll and Hyde. As they moved closer to the brewing process, she smelt mashing grains and boiling wort. Then came the aroma of fermenting yeast, which always reminded her of sulphur. Some of her party gripped on to their noses and grimaced, but she liked the odour and pictured every murderous person she’d ever met suffering in Hell. Benedict Sawyer was one of them, flailing on his back like an obese turtle as a legion of demons stabbed at him with fiery pitchforks.
But the aroma must have been too much for some as an older lady gripped on to her stomach and threw up all over the bloke she was with. The group parted as the tour guide slapped a hand over her face. It was the perfect distraction for Astrid as she slipped from the back towards the office they’d walked past two minutes earlier. Nobody stopped her as she strode down the corridor to the sounds of the woman throwing up again.
She reached the room and entered. It was windowless with grey walls and smelt of roses, which was a relief with the stink of vomit flowing through the air. On the desk were a computer, a notebook, and a stack of papers sitting under a frog-shaped paperweight. An empty bookshelf stood against the far wall; next to it was a photocopier and fax machine. She was amazed people still used such things.
There was no sign of Rosie Sawyer.
Astrid went and sat in front of the computer. She touched the keyboard and the screen sprang to life, flickering through a moving image of Donald Duck. The mouse was in one hand while she monitored the entrance. She didn’t know how much time she had, so she scanned the files and folders for anything unusual. She searched for Caitlin’s name first, unsurprised to get no results. It was the same searching for Benedict Sawyer and any links to his surname. Then she tried for the day of the accident, disappointed to find no mention of it. It was a frustrating and fruitless twenty minutes, so when the door opened, she was ready to be thrown into the street.
‘Sorry for taking so long to get here, but I met someone I used to go to school with.’
Astrid stood. ‘You missed nothing, Rosie; there’s nothing helpful here.’
Rosie moved to Astrid and put a hand on her shoulder. ‘It doesn’t matter. I know what happened and it was no accident. Let’s head outside, and I’ll tell you all about it.’
They left the office together, Rosie seemingly unconcerned if any of the staff saw them. She led the way to the front of the building and the gates Astrid had entered earlier. Nobody spoke or looked at them. They tumbled out of the brewery without looking back, heading towards the car until halted by a crowd ahead of them.
Rosie bumped into her. ‘Shit! I’d forgotten about this.’
Astrid glanced at the flags and posters fifty feet away, but couldn’t work out what they said.
‘Forgotten about what?’
‘It’s the annual Bakerstown Eating Competition.’
A trolley of food trundled past them, pushed by two stressed-looking teenage boys. A roll of plastic covered the contents, a mountain of corned beef sandwiches and hot dogs stuffed with meat. The crowd parted, and the two women stuck to the teenagers in an attempt to reach the car.
‘People watch others stuffing their faces as entertainment?’
In a dingy hotel room a long time ago, she’d flicked across a hundred TV channels and found one where a man had sweated through eating a curry so hot, it could energise a nuclear power station. Was that what this was?
Rosie continued walking as she replied.
‘They’re competitive eaters. It’s a national sport in America.’
Astrid checked to make sure they hadn’t been followed from the brewery. ‘Then we better pretend we’re the same and follow this until we can get through the mob.’
They kept on going behind the trolley, observing the overexcited faces of the surrounding people, tourists and townspeople of all ages. As they pushed on, Astrid’s stomach grumbled as she caught the aroma of the food on offer: grilled cheese and bacon, barbecue pork ribs, deep-fried shrimp, and curried chicken. Rosie didn’t appear to share her growing hunger, her face turning greener with every step they made.
Their unsuspecting guards took a sharp left and disappeared behind the stage, leaving the two of them free. Astrid expected them to get to the car with no problems, but they found themselves blocked by a large group of people looking like they might be contestants, but who turned out to be part of a dedicated audience. She saw no escape without forcing their way through the throng and causing a commotion.
Rosie held on to her guts. ‘We need to wait until the crowd parts after the first event.’
Astrid was stoic about it, even though she was desperate to hear what Rosie had learnt about the accident.
‘What did your friend tell you inside the brewery?’
Rosie leant towards Astrid, but the throng roared around them as the contestants entered the arena. A beefy man with a punk haircut waved as he stepped on to the stage, followed by a young bloke with a beard as big as him, a guy dressed as Elvis in his Las Vegas pomp, a nervous-looking woman with Popeye tattooed onto her bare shoulder, a Prince lookalike who danced his way to his eating spot, a teenage girl with terrible acne, and a ragamuffin of a boy with long black hair. Astrid glanced at them all and wanted the teenage girl to win.
Rosie’s lips moved, but Astrid didn
’t hear a word. Then the noise reduced, and Sawyer whispered into her ear.
‘There was no accident. People died, and it was my father’s fault. They covered it up, but Caitlin Cruz discovered the truth.’
‘And what was that?’
The roar stopped Rosie from replying. The contest had begun, and Astrid knew she’d have to wait before getting an answer. The MC whipped the audience into a frenzy by reeling off the accomplishments of the competitors. Then he started a countdown from ten to zero, and the contestants began with the corned beef sandwiches.
Astrid watched transfixed as the eating started, with those on stage stuffing mountains of meat down their throats, munching on the bread as juice poured over their lips and stained their clothes. They lubricated their masticating between large bites of food with gulps of water or, in the case of the fake Elvis, swigs of Bakerstown Beer. The sight of that made her feel queasy. She pushed into her stomach, forcing the bile back while checking if her ribs were any better. They still ached, but not as badly as before.
As the competition continued beyond ten minutes, the table became drenched in juices and discarded food until it looked like a murder scene. Astrid didn’t know what the rules were for this orgy of digestion, assuming it wasn’t the last person standing, but who could eat the most in a set time. At the fifteen-minute mark, someone rang a bell, and the eating stopped. People then joined the competitors on the stage to raise numbers on large cards like the old-time glamour girls during rounds of a boxing match.
With sixteen corned beef sandwiches in fifteen minutes, Elvis was declared the winner, and he took the plaudits of the crowd as if he was striding down the street like John Travolta in Saturday Night Fever. The people in front parted as they and the competitive eaters prepared for the next contest, providing enough time for Rosie and Astrid to escape and get to their car.
‘I feel sick.’
Rosie’s face had turned a shade of pinkish green, which made it appear as if she was wearing a Halloween mask. Astrid grabbed her arm and dragged her away.
‘Do you want to throw up?’
Rosie twisted her neck, gargled, and then spat away from them. It flew and landed on a scraggy dog who howled and sprinted off with its tail between its legs. Astrid shook her head and laughed as Rosie wiped at her lips.
‘I had a bad experience at the competition when I was a kid.’ Astrid waited for more information. ‘I’d snuck away from Jimmy, and was at the side of the stage watching the contestants gorge themselves. There was a skinny woman who looked as if she hadn’t eaten in years, but she devoured two dozen burgers and plates of fries, and I was awestruck. She turned to me and grinned. And I smiled back. And then she threw up all over me.’
All the colour drained from her face and Astrid thought she might faint.
‘We better get you to the apartment so you can have a lie-down.’
Rosie sucked air into her lungs, and then let it out slowly.
‘I’ll be fine. I need to tell you what I discovered.’
Astrid placed a hand on her arm. ‘As long as you’re okay.’
‘Beth works in the accounts department of the brewery. I hadn’t seen her in ten years until I bumped into her in the restroom. She was scared. I guess she thought I was there to check up on her and the others.’
‘And you didn’t tell her otherwise?’
‘I never got the chance. I think what happened has been playing on her nerves ever since.’
‘So it wasn’t an accident?’
‘No. She only knew a few details, but two staff members died, and they weren’t the only ones.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Someone in the brewery killed two of their colleagues and maybe another six people in the town.’ The amazed look on her face was matched by what Astrid felt on hearing this. ‘And Caitlin discovered the truth.’
20 The Dog
Astrid drove them to the apartment, figuring Rosie’s pained expression meant it wouldn’t be beneficial to have her behind the wheel. She wasn’t feeling too good herself, but it had nothing to do with what they’d witnessed at the eating competition.
There was no accident at the brewery, but murder. And more in the town, including the ones since I arrived. So none of this has anything to do with me or the Agency.
But she was still in the dark regarding the brewery events, and only one man could help her with that: Benedict Sawyer. His veiled threat against Eleanor Campbell wouldn’t stop her from confronting him sooner rather than later.
How she’d do that, possibly including getting through a presidential security cordon, occupied her mind as she guided Rosie into her apartment. Rosie gulped and grabbed at her throat as they entered. Astrid thought it was a reaction to what they’d seen at the food eating competition until she saw the figure sitting in the chair.
She assumed Rosie’s shock came from finding an intruder there, and not because of the mask he wore. Astrid knew it was Guy Fawkes’s image, but it had long since transferred from having meaning only to British people. Because of its use in fiction and political protest, it was a symbol opposing fascism and tyranny. Yet she understood the man behind the mask didn’t represent any of that opposition.
Rosie shouted at him. ‘What the fuck are you doing in my apartment?’
Astrid touched her arm. ‘Don’t you recognise him?’
‘What? How could I when he’s wearing that crazy thing?’ Heat shimmered in her eyes. ‘Is this a protest against my father’s wealth?’
The man in the chair uncrossed his legs. ‘I told Pop to get rid of you years ago.’
Fear replaced her anger. ‘Jimmy? How…, how did you know I was here?’
‘How stupid do you think we are, Sister? We always know where you are. I don’t understand why Pop tolerates you, but he won’t any more when he hears about this.’
So Benedict Sawyer didn’t know his son was there. That was good.
‘Why don’t you show Rosie your face, Jimmy?’
He twisted his neck towards her, moving the mask so it seemed as if his head was about to fall off.
‘You know, English, I only killed the kids because of you.’
Something kicked her hard in the gut. ‘You’re lying, Sawyer.’
Rosie took a step forward. ‘Is that really you, Jimmy?’
Astrid pulled her back. ‘It’s your brother, Rosie. I gave him that mask.’
Back in Sugar Hill, after she’d finished her work with the screwdriver, she’d found the Fawkes mask underneath the pile of tools Sawyer had intended to torture her with. She knew of his intentions because he’d told her between his screams. Even the music turned up to eleven couldn’t drown out the worst of his howling.
Confusion replaced Rosie’s anger. ‘I don’t understand this. Why did you give him that mask?’
‘I thought it might provide some enlightenment to your brother, Rosie, and help him change his ways.’ She flexed her damaged fingers. ‘But I don’t think it worked.’ She stepped towards him. ‘There’s no need to worry, though. I’ll get rid of him.’
‘I wouldn’t if I was you.’ He removed a pistol from his pocket and aimed it at her. ‘You both should sit down.’
Astrid refused the order. ‘Only if you take the mask off, Jimmy.’
He moved his arm and pointed the gun at his sister. ‘I won’t tell you again.’
Rosie grabbed her and dragged them both on to the sofa. As they slumped down, Astrid noticed there were fewer photos dotted around the room. Then she fixed on him.
Distract him before rushing him. But how? Plead to his better nature? Impossible. Insult him like before, get him angry so he’s reckless and makes mistakes? But that risks increasing his fury, so he shoots us in anger.
‘What do you want, Brother?’ Rosie’s newfound calmness impressed Astrid.
He turned the gun towards Astrid. ‘When you were rolling around in bed, didn’t she tell you what she did to me?’
Rosie kept her focus on him. �
��You sent those Jones idiots to attack her. I know that.’
His fingers shook, but his voice never wavered. ‘That was just a bit of messing about, that’s all. It doesn’t account for this.’
With the weapon pointed at Astrid, he used his other hand to remove the mask. She knew what was coming, but Rosie gasped when she saw his face. Astrid was happy to see her work had settled in across his forehead because it had been difficult to get the tip of the screwdriver to cut through his skin as she’d wanted. But the word PERVERT stood out well enough; an experienced tattooist wouldn’t have done any better. Where her lack of skill became apparent was her efforts under the eyes. The PER on the right cheek seemed to say PEP, while the VERT on the other one now said VAPE. She couldn’t help but laugh at her clumsiness. Still, cutting into soft flesh never produces the best results.
Rosie gripped Astrid’s arm. ‘What did you do?’
She spoke through the laughter. ‘I’m sure it was long overdue.’ Astrid waited for him to explode, hoping it wouldn’t be by shooting either of them, but something rash so she could get the gun from him. But he was unmoving.
‘Laugh while you can, English, but you got those kids killed. In the short time you have left in this world, I hope you remember that and imagine their little faces melting off as I poured the acid over them.’
Astrid dug her nails into the sofa, knowing he wanted a reaction from her. But her calm matched his.
‘Are you admitting to killing Caitlin Cruz and her children?’
He dropped the mask on to the floor. ‘Why not? It doesn’t matter what you know now.’
All the life had vanished from Rosie’s face. ‘Why, Jimmy? Why would you do such a terrible thing?’ Sorrow seeped from her. ‘They were only kids.’