by Mark Stewart
KENDAL, WEAK at the knees, stumbled towards a garden seat built for two. Instead of sitting he drummed the back of the seat wondering if he’d done the right thing by hanging up. For several heartbeats, he doubted how well he knew Patrick. After all, he was psychotic to the bone and liable to do anything. Glancing over his shoulder, he saw Marg still watching him. Resisting the urge to vomit he looked away.
“Come on Patrick,” he mumbled. “Ring me back. I know you want to.”
Kendal distracted his thoughts by picking at the loose paint on the seat. The wooden slats and cast iron frame looked older than the house. Marg’s father had the seat positioned under a large oak tree when she was fourteen. The seat faced the house much to his wife’s disgust. Marg helped her mother rearrange it to face four large one-hundred-year-old grape vines. An imaginative new world was conjured up in the brain of Marg’s father. He used to sit on the seat under the old tree all day every day studying the growing grapes and watching the panoramic view of the lake, allowing dementia to have its way. Two years ago, he was forced to move into the Garden Lodge, a home for the elderly. Marg’s mum was going down the same path. She unknowingly skipped entire meals then insists she’d eaten. It was a constant worry for her daughter.
Kendal decided to sit on the seat to reminisce about his life before he married Marg. He lifted his arm and slid his hand along the top wooden slat. This spot was the exact place where he and Marg first kissed. He smirked. Mr. Minx was the name of Marg’s tortoise coloured cat. It didn’t like strangers. While he and Marg kissed, it hissed and dug its claws into his ankle. He kicked the cat away and watched it climb the tree. Marg was forever grateful when he rescued the cat. Three weeks later he buried it.
Their engagement party happened to be a small affair. Claire Ambroso and a few close friends attended. Their wedding took place next to the seat. Detective Philips was sixteen then. He was the son of his first partner, Ray Philips. Tragically Ray died in their first shootout two weeks after Kendal graduated. Ray had arrived at work drunk. His reaction time was too slow. He died at the scene of the armed robbery.
Two weeks later Kendal was given his first assignment to see if he could cope on his own. He’d worked solo ever since.
On the far side of the lake, sunlight glistening off glass caught Kendal’s attention. Unblinking, he steadied his gaze on where the flash occurred. He saw a figure standing next to an early model white van. The person was looking directly at him through binoculars. The hair on the back of Kendal’s neck prickled. He had a bad feeling he might be looking straight at Patrick.
The figure kept the binoculars trained on the seat. If the person happened to be Patrick, it was a standoff. To reach the other side of the lake before the figure disappeared was impossible. Kendal felt helpless.
To walk the perimeter of the lake took a shade less than an hour. Joggers, bike riders and the like used the shared path. Kendal caught a glimpse of a pushbike rider approaching from the left where the trees thinned. He sprinted through the scrub towards the red brick path to cut him off. He took the right fork when the path split.
“Hey you, on the bike,” Kendal yelled.
The undulating narrow path through the trees didn’t appear to be long however low rainfall in the area had seen a considerable drop in the water level, taking the lake further away from the two-seater bench. The old woman’s private jetty was the only one remaining in the water. Judging by all the boys fishing, it looked to be the most popular place on the lake.
Kendal was thankful the boat hire shed obscured his actions as he pounced on the bike. Grabbing the handlebars, he forced both bike and rider to fall into the scrub.
The mid-teen rider, wearing a yellow and black striped riding outfit yelled at the man standing over him.
“What’s your problem? If you wanna pinch me bike, I’ll be glad to give ya a knuckle sandwich.” Jumping to his feet, the lad clenched his fists.
Kendal flashed his police badge in the boy’s face.
“I done nothin’ wrong, Coppa.”
“How long does it take you to lap the lake?”
“Why should I tell ya?”
“I’ll give you twenty dollars if you do.”
The boy relaxed his fists. His red coloured cheeks faded.
“I haven’t broken one law in three years; I’m not about to start now. I can do it in twelve-minutes flat,” he boasted.
“Can you do me a favour?”
“Maybe,” the lad replied.
Kendal handed the lad a twenty dollar note.
“I want you to remember the number plate of a white van parked on the other side of the lake. If you can describe the person driving the van, there’s an extra twenty.”
“How do you know I won’t piss off?”
“You look like an intelligent boy. If you return in ten minutes, I’ll give you a bonus of another twenty dollars.”
Displaying a confident grin, the young bloke checked his watch.
Kendal stood watching the lad ride at speed past an old woman walking her dog. He grinned at the old dear as she stood shaking her fist in a swirling cloud of leaves. The boy returned after thirteen minutes looking a little disappointed.
“Did you remember the number plate?”
“By the time, I got to the van it was moving too fast. I chased it for as long as I could. I have to report the van didn’t have number plates. Before you start yelling at me, I saw a sticker. It read, ‘save the elephants.’”
Kendal stared directly at the boy, shook his head and started to walk back towards the house.
“What about me money?” called the lad.
“You were late getting back. I told you ten minutes.”
“Arsehole,” yelled the boy shaking his fist.
Hearing his mobile phone ringing, Kendal picked up his walking pace. Lifting the phone to his ear, his voice sounded void of all anxiety.
“Yes, Patrick.”
“How did you know it was me?”
“I’ve been expecting your call.”
“You shouldn’t have upset the boy. He’s devastated.”
“How did you know about the lad?”
“I’d been watching you, watching me. Isn’t this game of cat and mouse exciting? How does it feel to know you could almost see me and you couldn’t do anything about it?”
Kendal knew he needed to change tactics to force Patrick to lower his guard.
“We’re sitting at a different table. We’re playing my game now.”
“It doesn’t matter whose game it is; you’ll get what’s coming and soon,” growled Patrick.
“Bring it on. Give my game your best shot. You’re going down.”
“At last, a worthy challenge. What will the stakes be?”
“Let Tegan go. Let her go, and you can have me.”
The phone went quiet. In the silence, a bird squawked as it sat on a branch in a nearby tree. Kendal could feel his blood pressure climbing.
“What do you say, Patrick?” Kendal stopped walking and stared at nothing in particular.
“I’m willing to play your game only if I keep the girl and you keep the dinner date.”
Kendal screamed inwardly. Patrick still had the upper hand. Somehow Kendal needed to think of a plan so he could move the pyromaniac into checkmate.
“Do you remember the club named Miss Finns? Does it hold vivid memories of long ago?” questioned Patrick.
“Is this a clue or another game?”
“Call it what you like.”
“I haven’t been there in years.”
“Remember the fight between you and your father?”
“The incident happened a long time ago.”
“Think carefully about the fight. I was there. The fight is the reason why I hate you. I’ve been watching and waiting for the right time.”
“What do you want to do?” Kendal probed.
“Pure unadulterated revenge,” spat Patrick.
“Revenge is an old game. I thought you
might be different?”
“You thought wrong. You changed the rules. We’re playing your game now.”
“It doesn’t seem like it,” chided Kendal.
“Shut up Coppa. It’s no coincidence you’ve been given a chance to bring me down. It’s been strategic moves on my part. You’re mine. All mine. I’ll have my revenge sooner than you think.”
“Join the queue.” Kendal exhaled, pressed end on his mobile phone, dropped it into his pocket and walked the last thirty feet to the house. Entering the kitchen, he announced cheerfully. “I’m here.”
“Why are you so cheerful? I’m going out of my mind worrying,” growled Marg.
Kendal kissed his wife and grinned at his mother-in-law. His new-found confidence just happened to be strengthening.
“Patrick won’t let Tegan die. He wants a show down to satisfy his anger.”
“I don’t understand.”
“He’s hell-bent on revenge.”
“Why?” Marg questioned. She flopped onto the closest seat, staring up at her husband.
“It apparently happened when my father and I were fighting in the strip club named Miss Finns.”
“When you were seventeen?”
Kendal nodded. He coaxed Marg to a standing position.
“I promise Tegan will be fine.”
“How can you promise Tegan will be okay?”
“It’s a feeling, a gut instinct. I believe Patrick only wants me to die. Not the kids or you.”
“I don’t want to lose you either,” sobbed Marg.
“You won’t lose any of us.” Kendal wiped the tears from his wife’s eyes. Reeling her in closer, he kissed her. “I have to leave soon. Let’s change the subject. Tell me, what were you two talking about? Did I miss anything?”
Marg flashed a half-hearted smile.
“I suggested to mum she should have a fire extinguisher in the kitchen.”
“I’ve already mentioned not to fuss,” barked the old woman. “I’d have no idea on how to use one. Besides, I don’t need to start a fire to keep me warm; I have my little radiator you bought me last winter.”
“A fire extinguisher will put out a fire,” explained Kendal, interrupting.
“Fire, what fire? Oh dear, I have to find Mr. Minx. He’s probably up the plum tree chasing the birds again.”
“Mum, settle, the cat died years ago,” insisted Marg, gently. “And there isn’t a fire. What would you say if I bought you a fire blanket instead?”
“A green woolen blanket sounds wonderful dear.”
Kendal grinned at a sudden vision of seeing the old woman wrapped in a fire blanket sitting in front of the small radiator trying to keep her feet warm and patting a ghost cat.
“When Marg buys you the fire blanket you can hang it on this hook next to the stove.” Kendal noted the carnations and wildflowers, were growing out the top of the antique stove. Seeing a broken tile under one of the stove’s cast iron feet he squatted to have a closer look. “Another job I’ll have to do,” he grumbled.
“I’m not crazy Alan Kendal,” blurted the old woman. “I stopped using the old cast iron stove years ago. I use an electric stove now.”
“You might be old, but you know what you want, and when you’ve set your mind on something, nothing can change it.”
The old woman shook her fist at him. “Not even you.”
They dug into a lunch of egg and salad in Ciabatta rolls. Marg’s family never settled for anything less than the best.
‘One-hundred-percent Italian and all are great cooks,’ Kendal thought inwardly.
He was fourteen when he met Marg. In twenty-four hours, he was introduced to Italian cooking. He had often mentioned to Marg her mother’s cooking tasted superb. He also made her promise never to tell her. If she did, he’d deny every word. He didn’t want to give the woman a big head.
After lunch, Marg found an old scrapbook full of photos. For several moments, Kendal stared at a picture of his scumbag father. He exhaled heavily and faced the old woman.
“Is it still okay if Marg and Tani stay for a few days?”
“Certainly,” she replied.
“They won’t put you out too much?”
“No.”
The old woman waited for Marg to leave the room before making her move. She leaned forward and forced her head and shoulders over the table.
“You’re lucky I’m short Alan James Kendal. If I were any taller, I’d grab you by the collar and make you talk.”
“About what?” he asked pushing his back deeper against the seat.
“All about this Patrick character. Is he dangerous?”
“I can’t say.”
The old woman raised an eyebrow. The second time she asked the same question she used a stronger yet raspy tone of voice.
“You ought to give up the fags.” Kendal sent a snappy grin. Leaning forward he looked the old woman in the eyes. “You should be in the interview room when we bring in a suspect. He’d confess in no time.”
The old woman shrunk back, her wrinkled skin covering her throat moved violently as she swallowed. “What about my grand-daughter?”
Kendal dropped eye contact and blinked a tear away.
“I’m doing my best. Don’t worry; I’ll have Tegan home safe and soon. Trust me when I say I’ll have Patrick locked away just as quick.”
The old woman slumped back in her chair.
Kendal swallowed the last of his coffee. Seeing Marg walking into the room he switched his attention on her.
“I have to leave. I’ll give you a ring at seven each evening. If you see your father, give him my regards. I’ll talk to the local sheriff to arrange a Constable to protect you, Tani and your mum.”
“Thanks,” said Marg. “I’ll feel more at ease if someone is guarding the house.”
“I’ve been thinking about the fist fight my old man and I had in the strip club. One of the bouncers called himself Chuck. I think he and Patrick might be the same person.”
“If nothing comes of the information at least it’s a step in the right direction,” said Marg. “Finally, you might be getting closer to finding Tegan and Patrick.”
Kendal completed a last minute, check of the grounds before revving the car’s engine. Marg, Tani, and the old woman watched the tail lights disappear down the drive. When the engine noise faded, the trio walked back indoors, checked the windows and locked the doors.
CHAPTER TEN