by Mark Stewart
INSIDE THE house, Patrick finished spraying petrol on the downstairs walls and ceiling. Over the next half an hour he checked every door and window to make sure they were locked. In the darkness, he walked from window to window waiting for his prey to arrive.
Outside, the trees resembled tall, dark statues. Due to the approaching storm, the two-metre-tall wooden framed windmill next to the rose garden started to spin faster.
Patrick checked his crossbow for readiness. Snatching the gun, he stole from his back pocket he rechecked the number of bullets.
“Three bullets and two arrows, more than enough fire power to bring Kendal down. I can smell victory.”
Walking in the dark, he began the checking process again. In five- minutes he’d finished his systematic check.
“Every door is shut and locked, all except the kitchen. I’m ready for you Coppa. Come and get it. Remember, you broke the rules.”
Standing in the dark, waiting for the first sign his victim had arrived, he started to chant quietly, before breaking out into a song and repeating the same words over and over.
‘Don’t break the rules. Don’t break the rules. You broke the rules.
You broke the rules. You’re gonna cop it. You’re gonna cop it.’
A sudden noise forced Patrick to stop. The noise came from the front of the house. Staring through the dark, his pupils enlarged. Moonlight shone through the glass on top of the door making the entrance brighter than the surrounding rooms. He stopped breathing as he watched the door start to open. Squaring himself to the door, he lifted the crossbow to eye level.
“Kendal, you’re late.”
Patrick heard no reply. When the door was fully open, he saw a figure enter the house.
“Patrick,” whispered the shadow.
He fired. The arrow struck the front door at waist height.
The figure emerged from the darkness.
“Hey Doc, you, stupid woman, I nearly killed you.”
“You should look before you shoot. Lucky for me you are not the perfect shot.”
“Never sneak into the house.”
“You should have a light on.”
“It’s dark so I can surprise Kendal.”
“He is probably dead.”
“I don’t think so. I thought I caught a whiff of Kendal’s cheap deodorant just before.”
“If he was alive, he should have been here by now,” suggested Dr. Clarke, pushing her hands onto her hips. “He was probably blown up playing hero, out on the lake.”
“You’re wrong. Kendal’s too dumb to think one of his kid’s might be in the boat.”
“What did we see when we stood next to each other in the dark?”
Patrick shrugged.
“Remember when we were staring through the trees, we both saw the carelessly lit headlights shining bright, across the surface of the lake? Furthermore, we both heard the explosion. I was in the kitchen, and you were upstairs checking the hostages. Shouldn’t the explosion have been your plan B?”
“It was.”
“You should have used plan ‘A’ first?”
“I did it to get even. Kendal’s wife lied to me. She shouldn’t have lied. You know how angry I get when people lie to me.”
“She does not understand you, like I do.”
For a moment, Patrick stared at Clarke, before resuming his walk back and forth across the room. He eventually stopped.
“Maybe Kendal did die in the explosion,” said Dr. Clarke. “It could be the reason behind why he is late.”
“Either he’s dead, or the clues I left weren’t good enough.” Patrick paused to look Ashlee in the eyes. “Or you didn’t ring him.”
She bowed her head. “I didn’t ring. You have to understand; I was scared.”
Patrick pulled an arrow from the quiver hanging from under his arm and thrust it under her chin.
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to let you down.”
“You’ve let me down for the last time.”
Wriggling violently, Ashlee managed to break free of the vice-like grip. She glanced at her watch. “It’s 10:30pm. Have you thought of a new plan B?”
“No, I haven’t. The explosion on the lake was the diversion I needed to get away.”
“After the house fire, you’ll be caught. You have no way of escaping. For all, you know Kendal could already be in the house?”
“He’s not here yet,” growled Patrick.
“How do you know?”
“The smell of his cheap aftershave would be strong in the air.”
“We need a plan if you’re going to escape this house.”
“Shut up and let me think.” Patrick started to walk in tight circles. Every few seconds he stared at Ashlee.
A full minute ticked off before she clicked her fingers three times in rapid succession.
“Time is running out. If you don’t tell me the plan, I’m leaving.”
“I’m a genius,” barked Patrick. “I’ve the perfect solution. I want you to lock yourself in the trunk of your car. When the house implodes, start calling for help. A burly firefighter will play hero and save you.”
“Where will you be?”
“I’ll start walking towards Melbourne via the lake. After you’ve told the cops I threw you in the trunk; you can pick me up on the way home. After Kendal and his family are dead, the cops will never connect you to the fire. The cops will assign someone else to hunt me down. They won’t find me due to the fact there’ll be no more house fires. They’ll draw a blank. Case closed.”
“It sounds good to me,” said Ashlee.
“Come on; I’ll escort you to the kitchen door. You can leave after I make sure the coast is clear. All you have to do is get to your car unseen,” whispered Patrick.
Kendal had successfully wormed his way through the gap between the wall and the kitchen door undetected. He stood in the dark, next to the antique stove. Its short cast iron legs were sitting heavily on the broken tiles. He knew he was walking into a trap. This moment must come. It was he and Patrick, one on one. He knew if he won the game, Patrick would be stopped. Losing wasn’t an option. If everything went pear shaped, he must stay alive long enough to rescue his wife, the old woman and if he could, Claire.
Aiming his revolver at the closed kitchen door, Kendal slid along the wall. The hallway was long and narrow. At the other end, he could just see the staircase. Slowly Kendal walked. He’d reached the halfway point when he heard a chuckle.
“You’re late.”
Kendal stopped and pushed his shoulders hard against the wall.
“Put the gun down, nice and easy.”
“Why should I listen to you?”
“Because you’re in checkmate,” growled Patrick. “You’re halfway between each end of the hall, and I’ve a crossbow pointing at your heart. There’s nothing to hide behind. You have nowhere to run.”
“Checkmate is a strange word. Are we playing chess?”
Laughter echoed down the hall.
“Patrick, you’re under arrest.”
“Nice stall tactics. I like the desperate game you’re playing. Be advised; the game’s over. Drop your gun, now.”
Kendal knew he had no option except to obey. Staying alive was off to a bad start. He threw his revolver behind him. It made a clunking noise when it hit the floor, barrel first. He heard it slide along the polished floorboards.
“Good, now the other one.”
“I don’t have another.”
“Don’t mock me, Kendal. You forget I know you. Don’t make me spell it out.”
“I’m at a loss.” He raised his hands to prove it.
“The gun is strapped to your inside right ankle.”
Light from a torch shone through the darkness. Kendal bent his leg and reached for the snub nose. It ended at the same place as the revolver.
“Excellent.”
The torch went out. The overhead light flickered on. Kendal squinted in its sudden brilliance.
“Coppa, i
t’s good to see you again.”
“Why don’t you stop hiding behind the mask?”
“Not before time.”
“Give up the game. It’s over.”
“For you, the game is over. I won.”
“You should never be over confident.”
“And why not?” barked Patrick. “You’re here. I have hostages. Admit it; you’re in checkmate.”
“Never,” jeered Kendal. “I know your identity.”
Patrick stared at the ceiling so he could create a hideous laugh. The noise brought a grin to Kendal’s face. He clenched his fists and moved at speed. There was no time to debate the pros and cons, or if the psychotic arsonist had a concealed gun behind his back. The scathing attack would have to be more silent than a game of charades. There’d be no turning back, no let up. No surrender.
One fist found its home on Patrick’s protruding jaw, sending his head and body sideways. Kendal’s second fist grazed a rib. Patrick lashed out with a hurried slap to Kendal’s chin. Patrick stepped back, aimed the crossbow’s arrow and pulled the trigger. The arrow found its mark pinning Kendal to the wall.
“That wasn’t nice,” puffed Patrick, rubbing his swelling jaw. “Not nice at all. I’ll allow you to scream in pain. I’ve heard it all.”
“I’d never give you the satisfaction,” snarled Kendal.
Patrick stepped closer. His eyes gave away he was full of murderous anger. “You need sleep. Your eyes are bloodshot. Tracking me down has worn you out.”
One step closer was all Kendal needed for a second chance to win against his aggressor.
Instead of stepping forward, Patrick back stepped.
“Clever, but I’m up to your tricks. You want me to take a step forward so you can kick me in the ribs.”
Patrick walked into the lounge room and threw the crossbow away. Extracting a match from a pocket, he struck it on the side of a matchbox he held in his gloved hand. For a long moment, he stared at the dancing flame.
“You have been a mighty opponent, but it’s time to say goodbye.”
He flicked the match high in the air, walking towards the door. For only a moment he hesitated to stare Kendal in the eyes.
Upstairs in the bedroom, Claire heard muffled talking. Continuing her struggles against the ropes, she met Marg’s stare.
“I have to hurry, Al’s here, and I think he’s in trouble.”
Marg started to sob.
“There’s no time for crying. I’m almost free.” Claire exhaled. She groaned and pushed her right hand from underneath the ropes. “Marg, I need you to stand.” She rolled towards the window and picked up a large fragment of glass lying on the floor from the shattered window. Using the wall for a brace, she struggled to a standing position. “Marg hold still.” Claire held tight the glass fragment and started sawing the rope that held Marg, a prisoner.
Seconds seemed like hours.
“Claire, take a break, you’ve been attacking the rope for ages,” whispered Grandma.
“I’m tired, but, I’m not stopping. I’m convinced Al’s in trouble and I have to help him.”
Marg’s face tensed. “How far have you got?”
“I’m about half way through the rope. Why?”
“I thought I heard a match being struck.”
Everything happened as if in slow motion. Kendal watched the match rise and fall. He looked Patrick in the eyes. He saw something he’d never seen before in a criminal. Could it be compassion, doubt, or was it fear?
Behind the balaclava, Patrick blinked. The match hit the floor. Kendal’s eyes widened as he tensed, waiting for the petrol to ignite.
The match went out.
Patrick doubled over in laughter.
“Before the fire roars to life I want you to beg.”
“Never,” he barked.
The psychotic arsonist straddled the kindling. His grin looked barbaric, his stare absolute.
“It’s been a real pleasur. However, the time has come.”
“Ending the game so easily? Where’s Ashlee? Isn’t it her turn to roll the dice?”
“I’m not answering your questions; the games are over. I’ve won.”
“I wouldn’t count on a win just yet.”
Patrick lit another match. Again, he watched the flame dance on the match head.
“See Kendal; if you listen to the flame, it’s telling you it’s alive and very hungry. It can smell food.”
“You should listen to Dr. Clarke. She wants you to blow the flame out.”
“I could listen to her, but if I snuff the flame out, I’d be a murderer. I can’t do it.”
“Yes, you can. Blow out the flame.”
“You didn’t say the magic word.”
“Patrick, please put out the flame.”
“No,” he growled. “I’ve one final thing to say before you take your last breath.”
Kendal’s eyebrows shot up.
“Checkmate.”
Patrick flicked the match high above the pile of wood. The flame flickered in the sudden rush of air. It had hovered for a mere second before gravity took control.
“Calling checkmate is a trifle premature. You aren’t the perfect archer as you might think.”
Unscathed, Kendal slipped out of his long black coat. Leaving it hanging on the wall, he dived towards the match.
Patrick saw him move. He jumped off the kindling, reaching for the gun in his back pocket. A blue and orange fireball erupted the moment the match hit the kindling. The fire roared to life, quickly spreading throughout the house.
Kendal hit Patrick hard using a tight fist, spilling the gun out of his gloved hand. Kendal and Patrick rolled towards the wall away from the fire, their limbs flying in all directions. The fire grew rapidly. Four flaming fire trails went in separate directions. The walls erupted in flames as the fire traveled upwards to the ceiling.
Patrick got to his feet first. He kicked out using his left foot. Kendal reached into his back pocket for Claire’s handcuffs. With precision timing, he snapped the handcuffs over Patrick’s ankle. Patrick, aware he was cuffed, ran for the kitchen door, Kendal in hot pursuit. He wasn’t about to have this offender slip through his fingers. He dived over the kitchen table, knocking Patrick to the ground, grabbed his handcuffs and pulled the arsonist towards the antique cast iron stove, quickly clamping the handcuffs around one of the stove’s stubby legs.
Patrick started growling. He lashed out at the handcuffs and the heavy stove that held him a prisoner. He sent a right-handed power punch to Kendal’s stomach, tumbling him backwards over the kitchen table. For a few seconds, his lungs refused to work. Using the kitchen doorway for a crutch, he managed to slowly stand. Kendal glared at his victim, still cursing the stove.
“Patrick, don’t go away.”
Kendal took a deep breath and stepped into the plume of smoke billowing into the kitchen.
The storm was bearing down on the house. The wind started howling through the treetops. Branches were scraping hard against the windows, waiting to fan the fire. Lightning forked across the sky. A blue flash and sparks erupted from the home’s electrical switchboard. If the house weren’t for fire, the building would have blanketed in darkness.
Visibility quickly dropped to practically zero. Breathing felt impossible. Kendal squinted to protect his eyes from the lurid smoke. Feeling the walls along the hallway, the stairs erupted in flames. He hesitated and thought he heard the fire laughing at its newest victim. The glass in the lounge-room windows cracked. A moment later they shattered. The walls creaked. The temperature soared. The smoke in the hall cleared. Kendal spied his guns. Snatching them up, he pushed them home in his shoulder holster, and ankle strap before the next wave of smoke began to smother him. He inhaled. The putrid smell of burnt carpet lingered in his nostrils. Ignoring the flames eating the balustrade he sprinted up the burning stairs. He could feel the heat under his feet.
The ceiling in the lounge fell, pulling an upstairs room down to the ground. Th
e pale green walls in the hall started to blister from the heat. Kendal felt his way along the upstairs hall, past the first doorway and stood square to the second door. He half opened one eye, found the doorknob and twisted.
It refused to turn.
Embers fell from the ceiling, dancing around his feet. He took a half step back, raised his foot to waist height and kicked. The solid wooden door’s lock broke. The door swung open. The three ladies inside the room jumped. Kendal emerged from the smoke, displaying a smug look. The sudden draft of oxygen caused by the broken window fed the fire. Flames burst into the room. The walls caught fire. The flames headed for the ceiling.
Claire stopped her cutting action. “You’re late.”
“I’m always late to a party.”
“Patrick?”
“He’s busy examining the stove.”
Tears poured from Marg’s eyes. “Al, I thought you and the kids were dead.”
“Not even close,” he lied. “Tegan and Tani are safe in the car.” He opened the flick knife he confiscated from Crusher, marched across the room and using a sharp downward sweep of the blade the ropes holding each of the women a prisoner, fell to the floor.
Marg hugged and kissed her husband.
“Romance will have to wait; this floor’s about to drop.”
Claire sprinted into the hall only to return a moment later, a dismal expression on her face. She looked at the group and shielded her eyes from the falling embers.
“The window’s a no go and so is the stairs.”
Kendal walked to the door. Smoke still poured into the room. The stairs crashed to the floor below, causing a fireball to mushroom and splatter flames across the ceiling. The floor of the upstairs hall and the room they were standing in burst into flames.
“Follow me,” he yelled.
Grabbing Marg’s hand, he looked her in the eye. She stared back.
Kendal led the way to the next room, turned the doorknob and opened the door. Claire was the last one through and shut out the smoke. She caught her partner up at the window.
“What happened downstairs?”
“It’s like what I told you at the archery club, Patrick isn’t the perfect shot.”
“Are you telling me he missed?”
Kendal nodded and kicked out at the glass window. “He did ruin a perfectly good coat.”
When the closed door burst into flames, Kendal leaned out of the window and looked at the pool.
“No time to play ‘the spinning game,’ to see who goes first. Claire, you’re up. You’ll be fine, the pool’s six feet deep.”
She took seven steps backwards, turned and ran for the window. After diving through and completing a mid-air somersault like an experienced diver, she landed feet first into the water, creating a giant splash.
Kendal poked his head out of the smashed window and gave his partner a wave. He looked at his wife. “You’re up next.”
Marg copied Claire and dived through the window. Tegan and Tani came running to the pool’s edge, all smiles.
Kendal faced the old dear.
“I’m not jumping.”
“Take a look at your favorite rose bushes,” he suggested.
The old woman stared through the window. Lifting a tight fist, she waved it in the face of her son-in-law.
“You murderer,” she spat. “For years, you’ve been trying to find a way to get at me, and now you’ve done it. You deliberately ran over my rose bushes, didn’t you?”
“I did no such thing. I needed ammunition to get you to jump. It’s a small matter of your life or death. Tegan said you’d be pissed. If you jump, you can yell at me all you want, after you move into my home.”
Still shaking her fist, the old woman climbed onto the window ledge. Her screams drowned out the sirens of the emergency vehicles. She made the water by mere centimeters.
The house creaked and groaned. The temperature inside the house felt unbearable. Kendal walked back to the door and sprinted towards the window. He thought of the days and months to come. Shaking his head at the thought of the old dear living at his house, he still felt certain Marg and the kids would love it, though he couldn’t be sure the old woman would ever get over the loss of her roses. One thing he felt certain of, she’d love every minute of being close to her grand-kids. As for him, he hoped there’d be another case to keep him busy and out of her way.
Flames erupted from the floor at the window. Kendal dived through the window, landing sideways in the water.
“He’s not much of a sportsman,” giggled Claire, in Marg’s ear.
Both women sprinted to fetch him from under the water.
Kendal took a moment to spit the water out of his lungs. He smiled at knowing they all survived the fire.
“I have to save Patrick.”
“Why?” snarled Marg. “He has been nothing except trouble.”
“I need him alive so we can unmask him in front of Hughes.”
Kendal sprinted around the other side of the house. Seeing the flames erupting out of all the downstairs windows, he knew time was of the essence. He picked up his pace, pushed open the back gate and sprinted towards the kitchen.
Patrick grew tired of thrashing about trying to yank on the handcuffs and kicking out at the heavy stove. Smoke looked thick. The ceiling appeared to be sagging. Visibility was practically zero. He started coughing out smoke.
“Fire, I demand that you stop laughing at me this instant. Kendal, I curse the day you were born. I hate you. I hate you.”
He yanked on the handcuffs again and spat at the tiled floor under the stove. Staring through wide eyes, he sat motionlessly. Reaching out he pulled up half a tile.
“I’ve still got time to escape. I’ll be gone from here before Kendal finishes playing hero upstairs. I’ll escape via the kitchen door and disappear into the night. He won’t find a body. He’ll think I was incinerated in the fire.”
Patrick squatted. He shouldered the stove. The cast iron leg lifted. Reaching out, he pulled away the other half of the tile. He leaned harder against the stove, managing to slip the handcuff chain half way under the leg.
“Doc, I need your help. I can smell freedom. Doc where are you?”
“This time, the doctor isn’t going to help you.”
Patrick looked for the voice. He saw Kendal’s ghostly shape enter the kitchen.
“You got here too quick. How did you escape the fire?”
“The same way you did. I jumped.”
Patrick groaned, curled his fingers into a fist and swiped at the air.
The ceiling directly above their heads creaked then sagged lower. Flaming paint fell to the floor. The doorway leading into the hall caught fire. The upstairs hall and rooms collapsed.
“All this is your fault,” spat Patrick, trying to kick Kendal.
He extracted his handcuffs from his back pocket. Seizing the perfect opportunity, he clamped one end of the cuffs over Patrick’s wrist, the other end, he clamped his other wrist.
“You wait. When I’m free, you’ll regret you were born,” snarled Patrick.
Kendal bent down, shouldered the stove, grabbed Patrick’s un-cuffed ankle and handcuffed them together.
Patrick lashed out using a double fisted punch. Kendal easily blocked the punch, grabbed hold of the handcuffs and dragged his prisoner by the wrists out of the kitchen and towards the pool. The moment he heard timbers crashing, he turned his head and saw the ceiling in the kitchen collapse. At poolside and with everyone mingling around, Kendal stared directly into Patrick’s eyes.
“For now, your balaclava stays on. I want a few more witnesses to arrive before your real identity was revealed.
“Why, so you can gloat?”
“Yes. You have exactly two minutes to confess why you have a vendetta against me. After the two minutes, I’ll hand you over to the arson boys. Believe me; they’re not friendly as me.”
What remained of the house quickly imploded, turning the old home into a pile of smoldering
rubble.
“Start talking,” barked Kendal.
“Will I receive a lighter sentence if I tell all?”
“Anything is possible. How the jury sees things is out of my hands.”
Patrick spat the taste of smoke out of his mouth. Staring directly at Kendal, he started his incredible confession.
“I hate you. When I walk out of prison, I’ll have my revenge. It is entirely your fault for what happened to Dr. Clarke in that strip club.”
Kendal stared past the mask and into Patrick’s defeated blue eyes, casting his mind back in time, back to the night when he was seventeen and had entered the strip club.
“I remember finding my father sitting in the front row, left of center drooling over a tall female exotic pole dancer. I walked up to, and king hit him from behind. My father staggered to his feet, turned, and faced me. I hit him again. He fell backwards onto the stage. I followed. He clawed his way to his feet. I could tell he was full of booze and I hit him one more time. He overbalanced, knocking the woman towards the edge of the stage. I went to grab her by the arm to prevent her from falling. My father kicked me in the thigh. I fell off the stage, dragging the woman behind me. I fell through a chair. The bouncers grabbed me and threw me out of the building and into the dirty back lane. They told me I broke the rules by touching a dancer.”
“Yes, you broke the rules,” hissed Patrick. “Ashlee Clarke was that woman. Because of you, she broke the fingers on her right hand. She was in the club to earn money so she could finance herself through medical school. She was studying to be a fine surgeon. She had the talent. No thanks to you, her dream ended.”
“Why involve my family?”
“Their last name is Kendal. They will one day breed.”
“Tell me about the first fire. The one Mason was accused of starting.”
“Ashlee Clarke was twelve-years-old. Mason her and I were playing hide and seek at Ashlee’s house. Her mother needed to go pick her father up from the train station. Fifteen minutes she’d be gone. She warned Ashlee not to go anywhere near the open fire. She would light the fire when she got home. The temperature began to drop. Mason and Ashlee ended their game. I couldn’t convince her to start the fire even when I explained she’d hear praise from her mother for helping. In her entire life, she never heard a pleasing word. In fact, her parents always called her a loser. To help, I poured petrol on the kindling and threw a lit match into the fireplace. I accidently tipped the large can of petrol over when I jumped back from the fireball. The petrol in the can ignited. Mason dragged Ashlee out of the house. I ordered her to tell her parents I started the fire and not her. They didn’t believe her. They blamed Mason.”
“So, Patrick, it was you who started the fire?”
“Yes.”
Kendal watched a police car stop next to the pool. A familiar man stepped down and marched over.
“Captain Hughes, welcome. You have arrived just in time,” said Kendal.
“So, this is the scumbag you’ve been chasing for three months?”
“It certainly is Cap, Captain Hughes Sir.”
Claire stood next to her partner, giggling.
“Good work you two.”
Kendal reached for Patrick’s balaclava.
“Before you bring us out of suspense, I’ve a couple of important announcements,” said Hughes. “Firstly, there’s a manila folder on my desk. It has your name on it. That’s your next case. Second is, congratulations.”
“Exactly what do you mean?” questioned Kendal.
“The promotion you have been asking about has been approved for you and Claire. I have to call you both, Detective Sergeants. The two words have a flow about them don’t you think, Detective Sergeant Claire Ambroso and Detective Sergeant Alan Kendal?” asked Hughes.
Folding her arms, Claire couldn’t hide her oversized grin.
Kendal grinned too, reached for Patrick’s balaclava and pulled it from his head.
“Everyone say hello to Dr. Ashlee Clarke and Patrick, the psychotic arsonist. Both are one and the same.” He knelt and stared at the unmasked Ashlee Clarke in the face. “You lost the game when Dr. Clarke and I were having our conversation in her office. When you were playing the Doctor, you used full words such as. ‘I am here.’ Patrick’s words were rough and slightly on the slang side. For example, ‘I’m here.’ As for Ashlee, she was the smoker and the flirt. She was the third person and the exotic pole dancer. To top it all, when I looked into the roof cavity at the hospital and found only cobwebs, I knew beyond any doubt of your identity, and where you’ve been hiding. The fact was cemented into place when Tegan saw your face. I’ve one more thing to say, Patrick.”
The pyromaniac looked up. He stared at Kendal through defeated steel eyes.
“Patrick, you’ve been dethroned. I won.”