A bullet brushed past Rainer’s face, nicking the edge of his eye socket and blew the back of the pregnant girl’s head out. Rainer fired, killing him. He wiped at the blood flowing down his face and pushed forward, his hand going to his waist as another stabbing pain shot up his side.
The TV screens stopped playing pornography and every one was replaced with the face of a bruised and bloody Dina, stopping Rainer in his tracks.
A loud deep voice sounded over the speakers.
‘Hello Detective.’
Michael saw the face on the screen.
‘Dina.’
‘Keep moving,’ said Rainer, pushing away the pain at his side and the darkness threatening at the edge of his vision.
They approached another door. Out of the room came two teenage boys. Kamal pushed them in the direction of the others.
‘How many more are there?’ he hissed.
A Gothic ringed finger slid down Dina’s face on the television screen.
‘Feisty little thing. She put up quite a fight.’
Rainer struggled forward, his gun trained on the corridor intersection and double doors far ahead.
‘Turn around, leave, and I’ll let her live,’ boomed the voice.
Rainer made it to another set of doors on the other side. Michael opened them. Another masked man pumped a shotgun shell through the door. Michael ducked out. Again, the voice filled the corridor.
‘Real sacrifice, Detective, isn’t made by offering someone else’s soul. You must tear out your own, and not expect to get it back.’
Rainer nodded to Kamal. Michael put his gun around the door and fired.
‘Tell me, is that the man you are?’
Kamal swiveled in low and blasted apart the two men in the room.
The disembodied voice hardened.
‘You can’t go fucking around in other people’s business without consequences.’
The TV screens flickered back to playing pornography. Then the corridor was suddenly filled with men and the chaos of battle.
Holding onto the railing, taking one step at a time Rainer stepped over a masked corpse and made his way down the circular metal stairs to the basement. His right eye, bloody and closed, forced him to place his every step with exaggerated care. If he fell now, he didn’t think he could get up again. The wound at his waist had stopped bleeding but his gut now was an uninterrupted mass of pain. Every step stabbed a blade into him. His left leg was like a distant land. He didn’t know how many of the nerves had been shredded by the shotgun but he was now operating mostly by swinging his hip and pulling it forward by the perforated trouser leg.
Above and behind him he could hear Kamal keeping Michael talking as he pressed a field dressing into the hole that one of the masked men had punched in his waist.
Rainer reached the bottom step, this time his knee gave way tipping him forward. Three shots splintered the brickwork above his head. Letting his useless knee take him all the way down he lifted the MP5 and blasted the source of the fire and noise. A fat crouching shape fell forward. Another swiveled round above him. Rainer rolled, the bullets punching holes in the concrete beside him. He fired the MP5 inverted. The recoil driving a line of holes from the neck to the waist of the second one. He staggered up, the MP5 wavering in his grip.
He stepped past the two dead men and into a brick basement partitioned into a series of coves, each with a locked iron-bar gate.
They were all empty. At the far end a single steel door, dim light seeping from a gap underneath. Rainer drew a breath, steadied himself, aimed the Serbu and punched a fist sized hole into the lock mechanism.
He pushed the door open with his shoulder and looked at the woman that was his team’s psychological profiler.
Dina was gagged and tied to a steel table. The masked man from the screen, stripped to the waist, was working a knife down her belly, ripping it open. She screamed behind the gag, her eyes on Rainer. Rainer blew the man’s head from his shoulders.
Rainer staggered to Dina and pulled the gag from her mouth.
Dina coughed blood.
‘Sorry Boss.’
Rainer took her head in his hands.
‘Shhh.’
Dina coughed again then fitted, her entire body threatening to rip free of the bonds. Then she sagged in Rainer’s arms and her eyes rolled up in her head.
* * *
The room resolved itself around the surgeon. He shook his head only to regret it. He had been drugged. He remembered the chloroform-soaked rag that had been clamped over his mouth. He spat on the floor and took in his surroundings. A surgical theatre was the last place he expected to wake up. Momentarily believing that he’d somehow fallen asleep in his private practice theatre he sat up on his elbows and forced himself to focus. That was when he saw the restraints securing him to the cot.
A man walked in and the surgeon felt a surge of fear unlike anything he had felt in his life. A face so devoid of features as to be a mask came to stop before him and looked down. The eyes were a deep black, no discernible cornea, no iris.
‘How ya’ feeling, doc?’
His voice was deep, it belonged to a bigger body.
The surgeon coughed.
‘What the hell is going on?’
The faceless man held out his phone and swiped through the images of his wife and daughter bound and gagged as if he were sharing photos from a family album.
‘I need you to do something.’
The man swiped to an image of a blonde man in his late forties. The surgeon thought he recognised him but could not remember who it was.
‘I need you to make me look like him. Exactly like him’
The surgeon was one of the premier facial reconstruction experts in the world. He looked from the image to the man and back.
‘Can you do it?’ asked the faceless man.
Even if he couldn’t he wasn’t about to say no.
‘Yes.’
‘Spiffing! Just spiffing.’ The faceless man’s voice had now become effeminate and playful.
Another man who had been standing behind the surgeon came into view making him jump. How the hell had he not noticed him? The man was huge. He untied the straps holding the surgeon down.
The faceless man walked out of the room. Then a moment later dipped his head through the door.
‘Well what are you waiting for? Let’s get this show on the road!’
The surgeon got up, rubbed his wrists and followed the faceless man out of the room.
Masked, the surgeon drew lines over the face of the man laid on the operating table. He checked them against the image of the blonde man. He finished and set the pen down.
‘Oh, and look, I don’t want to pressure you but if you fuck this up then Tobias here will head over to where we’ve got your wife and daughter, along with a few of his less, err, salubrious associates and they’ll fuck them both to death. Clear?’
The surgeon nodded.
‘Good.’ replied the masked man cheerily.
‘Are you sure you want to be awake for this?’ the surgeon asked.
‘I’m sure,’ replied the man, his voice suddenly deep again.
The surgeon selected a scalpel and carefully placed the top against one of the many lines he had drawn. He paused.
‘The pain will be excruciating,’ said the surgeon.
‘Pain usually is,’ replied the man.
The surgeon cut into his face.
The faceless man didn’t flinch as the surgeon continued the cut. He could sense the man’s mind move from concern over his wife and daughter to a focus on the job at hand. Surgeons were notorious for displaying psychopathic tendencies hence his ability to detach. It didn’t matter anyway his wife and daughter had already died in exactly the way he had described. And he would die the same way at the hands of Tobias once he had finished. He felt the surgeon cut a slice of his skin away and place it carefully on a sterile steel tray. The dark thing inside Caldwell slept. It had only woken to observe the last of
the death throes of the surgeon’s daughter and wife. It had seen much during their time together and it would see much more. The faceless man withdrew from the surgeon and turned inward. Tobias would ensure the surgeon finished his work. The dark thing shifted at the inward gaze and uncoiled, rising up to meet him.
* * *
At the beginning of the 19th century Frederick Caldwell looked up from his small desk in the basement clerk’s office on the Verner estate and knew that if he did not leave, he would die here. The letter from his two friends lay open on his desk on top of the foodstuffs’ list for the upcoming Lord and Lady Verner annual banquet.
The letter said four words, ‘Come to Shang-ri La’ and included passage on a ship to India. He knew the British had been making inroads into the country, snippets picked up from the Verner dinner table talk as he served wine. Most of it was dismissive, some vicious, directed at the newly well-heeled arriving back bearing all manner of exotic gifts.
So, it was with a heart full of trepidation that Frederick told his employer he would no longer be working for them. Berated as a fool and an upstart at having turned up his nose at the opportunity to spend the rest of his life in a windowless basement managing his betters’ foodstuffs and told in no uncertain terms that he would never work again, Frederick Caldwell left the estate and boarded the next passage to India.
Upon his arrival, Frederick was greeted with a world and a people that was an assault to his senses. His friends were true to their word and met him as he disembarked. Frederick was taken aback at their lightly tanned faces shining with health and the splendor of their clothes and the myriad of dark men and women vying to serve their every need.
Frederick never looked back. He brought his administration skills to bear on the significant merchant holdings of his two friends. And soon he had enough money to set up on his own. He had initially balked at the naked exploitation of the native Indians. But he was powerless to do anything about it and it was the reason why so many of his countrymen were here. He told himself that once he gained enough influence and power, he would do something to correct the gross inequities. With his future conscience salved Frederick threw himself into the exploitation and monetisation of the country and its peoples.
Thirty years passed and Frederick eventually returned to his home, all thoughts of redressing any of the gross inequities long forgotten. Upon his arrival he bought a thousand acres of Surrey countryside and set about building the biggest country pile in the county. Five years later the Caldwell Estate was the talk of the country set. It dwarfed the Verner estate next to it. Yes, Caldwell had deliberately bought the land next to his former employer.
Caldwell then purchased himself the title of Lord much to the chagrin of the Verners and their peers but their voices of protest had been quietened by the astonishing number of palms Frederick had greased with equally astonishing amounts of money.
The ensuing century saw the Caldwell’s fortune grow exponentially. The adventurous spirit of Lord Frederick Caldwell seemed to infuse his heirs. Their business interests always searched for new waves and rode them hard. International trade gave way to finance, finance gave way to weapons of war, weapons of war gave way to technology and all along the way they strengthened their political connections.
The Verners on the other hand atrophied, unable and unwilling to change. And as the political landscapes changed and the subsidies and tax advantages faded, the Verners found themselves trading on their family history and ‘establishment’ credentials more and more.
And it was with a sense of horror at the cruelty of life, Lord Verner the heir to the father that Frederick had once served found himself agreeing to the marriage of his beautiful daughter to one Oliver Caldwell. A blonde-haired effeminate fop that made Lord Verner’s blood boil as he endured their wedding day with a look of a man whose daughter was wedding a plantation negro. His entire being screamed in protest, but they needed the money.
So, the marriage was sealed. Oliver Caldwell managed to sire one heir before he announced to the world he was gay and disappeared to the Americas only to be found dead in a Guadalajara whorehouse within the year.
His remaining heir, Paul Caldwell, had in turn surprised them all by turning out okay. A solitary boy, he remained close to his mother Lady Verner and grew into a sombre, solitary man. She never remarried, preferring to devote her time to her son. It broke her heart when one day he left to travel the world, leaving only a two-line note. Yes, he was right, she would have talked him out of it.
Seven years passed and now here he was, home again. It was him, but it wasn’t him. Lady Verner knew her son. And this man that looked like him, talked like him was most definitely not. The hairline scars were new, only visible when he smiled and more prominent after a polo game were the result of an exotic illness apparently. One that had scared him and forced him to return home. She did not believe that for a second. Her son was scared for much of his life. But this imposter was not. But she was the only one that saw him this way. Everyone else had accepted his return and resumption as the head of the family without hesitation and marveled at the change in him, the new found composure, strength, charm and an air of dangerous grace. Many ladies certainly had embarrassed themselves upon being mesmerised by him like cultists would their chosen one.
Lady Verner looked down the banquet table and felt so alone. They were all here to officially pay homage to the prodigal son ‘returned’. The ones seated either side of the table were the chosen; handpicked by Paul from amongst the other guests she could hear milling around to the music in the main hall beyond. If she could have selected the top twenty men and women who had caused her pain and suffering over the years, the bitches, the liars, the narcissists, philanderers, perverts, fraudsters, rapists, molesters she could not have chosen better. That her son had selected them made her feel all the more bitter and isolated. The final insult had been to make it a masked party. It was as if he was deliberately challenging her to say something to him. She fingered the costume mask he had chosen for her. It was particularly bland, not what she would have chosen for herself.
Caldwell, she refused to call him Paul, stood up and the room fell silent. A few of the guests kept looking at the two big men who stood guard at the doors. Both had come with him, along with a few others. They were strange, silent and utterly deferential to Caldwell in a way that she had not experienced before. She knew about deference achieved through wealth and influence but not this. It had occurred to her one night that it would not have surprised her that had Caldwell told one of them to slit their wrists they would have done without hesitation. She had gone out of her way to avoid them from that point forward but it had become increasingly difficult as Caldwell had placed them in key positions in the household. Much of the estate had become closed to her as locks appeared and vehicles came and went at night. She had demanded to know what was going on a few times and had been met with silence.
She had considered going to the authorities but realised that it was too late. If she had done so when Caldwell had first arrived then maybe, but now, she knew they would all close ranks around this imposter and would no doubt exploit her history of mental issues and drug abuse to diminish her and wrest what was left of her influence over their estate and business interests.
No, she would wait, bide her time and collect evidence. The first step would be the imposter’s DNA. She would get onto that immediately, though Caldwell’s new found penchant for wearing gloves and never leaving a trace of himself would make it more difficult. She would make it her mission as soon as this damned welcoming facade was over and done with and these swarming parasites were gone.
Caldwell raised his glass, silencing the chatter.
‘My apologies for giving you all such a scare and disappearing like that. I appreciate you joining me for this celebration.’
He smiled, straining the scars along his hairline.
‘To friends!’
Everyone raised their glasses. She didn’t, unable
to bring herself to join in with this farce. He turned to her. And slowly so did the others. She grew hot under their collective attention. Would she break here? Should she scream ‘It’s not him, can’t you see!?’
He smiled, ‘and family, of course.’
She felt the atmosphere shift around her. She knew what everyone was thinking. ‘Oh, he’s making her feel special and look, what an ungrateful bitch she is.’
Verner had no friends here. Any outburst would be another metaphorical cut on a body already bleeding out.
Slowly, unhappily, she too raised her glass.
‘Now let’s get our game faces on and join the others.’ he declared.
The guests dutifully picked up their masks and put them on. Caldwell’s men opened the doors revealing the hall beyond, filled with beautifully couture’d men and women, all masked. The guests filed past Caldwell, welcoming and nodding, almost bowing and curtseying much to Verner’s disgust. She waited until they were all out of earshot before approaching him. She knew she should keep quiet, but she could contain herself no longer.
‘You may have them fooled but not me.’
The imposter raised his hand to her face. She slapped it away.
He placed on his mask, adjusted it and winked.
‘You’ll not get away with this,’ she hissed.
The imposter gestured to the milling party behind.
‘Shall we?’
Verner picked up her mask and pushed past him and into the throng. One of the guests, concerned, tried to approach her. Caldwell watched as she pushed her away and disappeared into the crowd.
* * *
The moonlight filtering through the barred window set high in the cell wall provided the only illumination. An imposing man, bare feet, dressed in prison whites, sat at a floor bolted steel desk. At his temple a red raw birthmark. In one hand he held a cigarette, in the other a pen. The name stenciled onto his tunic spelled Nathaniel Winter.
He placed the tip of the pen on the paper and continued writing.
The Winter Man Page 2