Red Stripes

by Matt Hilton

  “It’s gone way beyond threats, Hunter. Didn’t you hear what I told you? Brook is dead.”

  The tingling in my skin was becoming painful, and a seething rush shot through my veins. I resisted the urge to scratch and bunched my fists in my pockets. “Brook was killed in a car crash. The police ruled it an accident.”

  Don grunted. Next to his battered chair was an equally worn cabinet. He pulled open the top drawer and drew out a folder, which he opened and held out. I was still thinking about the gleeful faces that had only moments before flickered on the screen and didn’t want to see what Don offered.

  “Take it,” Don said. “Have a good look and tell me if you still think my daughter died accidentally.”

  I’m no stranger to death in any of its horrible forms. To some I’ve inured myself, but not all. Once, I bore witness to the aftermath of an attack by guerrilla fighters on a village of innocents. Some of the victims—mostly women and children—had been burned alive. The images of their bodies twisted into blackened husks still occasionally plagued my nightmares. I didn’t want to see Brook like that.

  But I looked. The rushing heat in my veins went cold. There were photographs from the accident scene.

  They showed a vehicle on its roof, so consumed by fire that even the tires had been burned clean off their rims. The distance shots weren’t so bad; only when the camera had zoomed into the interior did it became apparent that the bundled form lying amid the ashes and molten components had once been human. That was nasty. But nowhere near as horrific as the follow-up photographs from the morgue where Brook’s remains had been taken. Under the stark glare of lights, surrounded by dull steel, the extreme charring of the woman’s corpse was shocking. There was little left of her, just a blackened skull and the withered husk of a torso. The larger bones of the upper arms, the pelvic girdle, and legs had survived, but all the lesser bones of her extremities had gone to ash. She had been twisted by the intensity of the heat into the classic pugilist pose, but it wasn’t that evident with her hands gone.

  My blink was slow, and I held my lids shut for a time afterward.

  “Well?”

  Well, what?

  I handed the file back to Don.

  “It’s a terrible thing,” I said. “I can’t begin to imagine the terror your daughter must have gone through. But, Don . . .”

  “It was no accident.”

  “The car rolled, the fuel tank erupted. A spark from the engine ignited the spilled fuel.”

  “That’s what it looks like.” Don opened the file, thrust the photographs under my nose. “That’s what it was made to look like.”

  “The report is conclusive.” I gently closed the flap on the file, covering the images. “Before you say anything, I’ve read it. I already had Rink get me a copy of both the police and ME files.”

  “And you believe a couple of hick cops and a washed-up medical examiner over me?” Don snorted. “They only saw what they wanted to see.”

  “Nevertheless, they didn’t find anything suspicious. No evidence that Brook’s death was anything other than a tragic accident.”

  “But now that you’ve seen the photographs?”

  “It doesn’t change a thing, Don. Your daughter died by the flames that also burned out the car she was trapped in.”

  Don chewed his moustache again. After a few seconds he lifted a hand, pointed at the stairs. “I want you to leave. If you don’t want to hear my take on what happened, then just go. I’ll find someone else who does give a damn.”

  His words were like a slap in the face. I squinted at him, anger riding on my tongue. But I let it go. I headed for the stairs. I ignored the tug of scar tissue in my thigh, in a hurry now to get away before I said something that I’d regret. There were enough regrets for me to contend with without hurting a grieving father.

  Don’s next words halted my hand on the door handle.

  “I got an e-mail, Hunter. It said, ‘Who must you lose next?’ ”

  Without turning, I pressed on the handle and tugged the door open and went up the stairs. “He’s dead, Don. How could he send you an e-mail?”

  “Whether it was him or not, I was still sent the goddamn thing.” Don walked to the base of the stairs but he didn’t follow me up. “It was a direct threat to my family.”

  I slipped into the dark hallway, hearing the rage building in the old man like the rumble that precedes an earthquake.

  I made it all the way to the front door, but for a second time in less than a minute my hand was halted by words.

  “You’re just going to walk away from this, Joe? Do you hate my father so much?”

  Millie was standing in the hallway, her arms wrapped around her body as though she were freezing. Strands of her hair were plastered across her face and clinging to the tears on her cheeks.

  Hate is such a strong word. I didn’t hate Don, just what he’d once led me to do.

  “He’s hurting and confused, Millie. You both are.”

  “Yes,” she said. “We’re all confused. But so are you. When will you open your eyes and see what’s really happening here? He is back.”

  I gnawed my bottom lip. It wasn’t possible. The bastard’s body was ravaged by flame, immolation of his corpse as complete as what had happened to Brook. Carswell Hicks had fallen over the precipice into his promised eternity in hell.

  But then there were the e-mails. Someone must have sent them.

  I opened the door.

  “Tell your father I’m sorry for his loss.”

  CHAPTER 3

  There was an ache in my right hand that was compounded by the cold, and more than the slight tugging in my leg, this concerned me the most. When adrenaline rushed through my system the wounds to my leg were no hindrance but I required the full range of movement and dexterity of my fingers. My hand had been shattered during the same battle where I’d picked up the other injuries, and I’d had to undergo microsurgery to put it right. As I walked, my fists in my pockets once more, I periodically flexed the hand to promote movement.

  I had the feeling that I was going to need it in fully functioning order.

  For someone in my line of work, speed of hand is the difference between life and death.

  I hear you’re supposed to be some kind of knight errant these days.

  Don Griffiths’ words had been meant as sarcasm. Right now they elicited the required response: a wry smile. Knight errant? That was just one fancy term that had been leveled at me. I suppose it was better than vigilante, which was more often the case. At least the term carried the honorable connotations that I hold dear. Without my sense of decency, I accept that I could very well be labeled alongside those other balaclava-clad hooligans who take the law into their own hands. But then—it’s all a matter of perspective. To some I’d still be seen as a man of questionable morals. Perhaps I was the type of knight who wore tarnished armor.

  As I walked a cat kept pace with me.

  It was a gnarly old tomcat, and judging by the scars that crisscrossed its body, it had fought a number of battles during its lifetime. We had a lot in common. It watched with luminous yellow eyes from the opposite sidewalk, perhaps recognizing its human familiar.

  Occasionally cats have questionable morals, too. Some people judge them as cruel killers, but not all their kills are for fun. Sometimes they have to kill to survive, or to protect their young.

  This took me right back to Millie, and to Brook’s children. My friend, Rink, who runs a successful PI outfit down in Tampa, had brought me up to speed on Brook’s death and the family she’d left behind: her husband, Adrian Reynolds, and nine- and six-year-olds Beth and Ryan. Don was an ex-cop, and, judging by the photograph I’d seen of his son-in-law, Adrian was no stranger to a gymnasium, so they could look after themselves. It was only Millie and the two kids I was worried about.

  I was uncomfortable about walking away from them. But I couldn’t believe that there was any truth in Don’s concern. How could a dead man be a threat to him o
r his family?

  Don was hurting; he was stricken with grief and grasping at anything that would make sense of Brook’s seemingly pointless death. In the same circumstances, some people raged at the world, or at their cruel god, while others looked for excuses. Don was clutching at old hatreds in order to add reason to his pain.

  But then he wasn’t the only one allowing hatred to shadow his judgment, was he?

  Someone must have sent that bloody e-mail.

  I stopped walking and looked across at the cat. The old tom mirrored my movement. We stared into each other’s eyes. I was the first to blink. The cat sat down and began licking its old wounds. In my pocket, I again flexed my fist.

  The cat stood up and slunk forward, and now I was the one who matched it step for step.

  I got the message. The time for licking wounds was done, and I should get back to doing what I did best.

  I was near the 7-Eleven where I’d left my car. On my right was an open lot full of weeds. Beyond it the forest that encircled Bedford Well swayed under the bitter wind, undulating like a pitch-black sea. Across the way, the cat was all that stood between me and the forest on that side. The cat had come to another standstill, but this time it was staring past the convenience store to where I’d parked the Audi. Its shoulders hunched and its ears flattened on its head; its mouth opened in silent challenge, baring teeth that glinted red under the moon.

  Suddenly the cat bolted, heading away into the cover promised by the forest. But I wasn’t going to run.

  I continued forward, to meet the two men who were resting their weight on my car. Once again I flexed my hand, pleased to find that the bubbling warmth flooding my body had anesthetized the pain.

  It was near four in the morning: too late for revelers and too early even for day-shift workers to show up at the convenience store. Their black SUV was parked a dozen yards away, and yet they chose to sit on the hood of my car. They were waiting for me and there was no good reason for it. I didn’t need the cat’s reactions to tell me that these men were dangerous.

  “You mind, guys? The car’s a rental and I have to pay for any damages.”

  Both men pushed off the Audi, one of them, stocky with a shaved head, leaning back as though inspecting the paintwork for scratches. The other, a tall man, who looked like he’d been constructed from too many bones and sun-dried leather, lifted his chin, his nostrils flaring.

  “Fee, fi, fo, fum . . .” he said in a surprisingly melodious voice.

  I smell the blood of an Englishman, I finished the thought. I’d heard plenty like it since my move to the States.

  The second man finished his inspection of the paintwork, then used his sleeve to buff out an imaginary scratch. Then he turned his attention to me, holding an empty palm toward the car. His smile was wide but colder than the wind gusting around the parking lot. “No harm done, buddy.”

  “No harm, no foul,” the tall one echoed as he picked at a patch of dry skin on his bald head.

  Taking the car keys from my pocket, I aimed them at the Audi and disengaged the locks. Nodded amiably at both men, then moved to go around them.

  “A moment if you please.” The second man was shorter than me, but he was heavier built, and I noticed he had self-inflicted prison tats on his fingers. He stepped in the way, barring me from the car. He raised his ink-mottled hand and touched it to my chest. The contact was little firmer than a caress, but it sent a jolt through my body. Not because he held an electrical device—or any weapon—but because I’d allowed him to do it. The rule I’d always followed was that if an enemy could touch you, then they could kill you. This man was without a shadow of a doubt an enemy.

  Subtly I stepped back, knowing that the next time he tried to lay hands on me would be the decisive moment. I watched the man’s eyes and saw the same thought flashing through his mind.

  “Ease up, buddy,” the man said. “I’m only being friendly. You’re not from around here, right? England is it? Just wanted to say hi and ask you a question or two.”

  He was obviously lying, but I wasn’t averse to playing that game. “Look, fellas, I’d love to stay and chat but I’ve got to get on my way.”

  “On your way already?” The stocky man shook his head. “Hey, you just got here. You can spare a minute, can’t you? Especially when we’ve gone to the trouble of turnin’ out to say hello.”

  “Wasn’t expecting a welcoming committee, I bet.” The tall man leaned close, and his breath, stinking of garlic and something sour, washed over me. “Not at this time of night, huh? You shouldn’t be surprised: I never sleep. I’m up before the roosters. Cock-a-doodle-doo!”

  I didn’t reply to either. One was a liar and the other was crazy. But both were very dangerous. Instead I held the stocky one’s gaze as I maneuvered the keys around in my grip.

  The stocky man nodded in the direction I’d just come from. “Who did you visit in town?”

  “Who says I visited anyone?”

  “Can’t see any other reason for you being in Bedford Well. Not like there’s much to see in the dark.”

  “There’s a nice wishing well on the green.”

  “Yeah, we noticed you at the well. We were going to say hi then, but we didn’t want to spook you.”

  “I saw you, too,” I said. “But then you left and I walked back here. Slowly.”

  The man smiled at the tit-for-tat lies.

  So did I.

  Finally I said, “Let’s just get this over with, shall we? You’re here to give me some sort of warning. Well, I’ll save you the trouble. I’m leaving and I won’t be back.”

  I went to move past the man, and his tattooed hand came up. It wavered inches from my shoulder like he’d read my earlier thoughts. With his other hand he held open his jacket, showing the gun tucked into his belt. “Not very satisfying if we just let you drive away, buddy.”

  “No, but it’ll be a lot less painful.”

  “We don’t have to hurt you,” the stocky man said. “Just make sure you head outta here and know what it means if you come back.”

  “Of course, I don’t mind causing a little pain.” The tall one grinned, showing rotting teeth. “If it comes to that.”

  I dipped my head. “I must have lost you in the translation there, guys. I didn’t mean it was going to be painful for me.”

  Both men exchanged glances just as the stocky man dropped his hand to pull the gun from his waistband.

  It was what I’d been hoping for. When they both looked back at me with incredulous grins on their faces, I was already moving.

  I’d been twiddling the car keys for more than the exercise: I’d lined up one of them so that it was protruding from my clenched fist.

  The sharp point rammed directly into the side of the stocky man’s neck an inch below the lobe of his ear. On its own it wouldn’t stop him immediately, but the force of my fist behind it also rocked his skull and the man went down in a heap on the ground.

  Turning, I lifted my fist and a scattering of blood arched away from the key on the night breeze.

  Seeing the leader of the duo dispatched so decisively should have given the tall one pause. But he was even crazier than he looked. Unfazed by the sudden violence, he merely let out a laugh and launched himself at me. “It looks like it’s come to that!”

  He appeared ungainly and loose-limbed: in fact he was anything but. He threw a series of punches, and I was hard put to avoid them all. One cracked against my cheek, another in my chest. As I stepped away from the clawing fingers that tried to rake my eyes, I missed the man’s leg coming up and kicking at my groin. Only the angles saved me from a crippling blow, but it was still agony when the man’s boot landed square on the point where I’d been knifed.

  Chewing down on the pain, I pivoted and avoided the next kick. I dipped the keys into a pocket, then snaked my hand under the tail of my jacket to grab my gun.

  Again the tall man surprised me by pivoting the other way and kicking out with his heel with a classic reverse rou
ndhouse kick from tae kwon do. His foot slammed into my gut and pushed me back against the Audi.

  I forgot about the gun. The crazy man was already coming at me, fingers tightened to spear into my exposed throat.

  “Cock-a-doodle-do!”

  He should have concentrated on fighting instead of crowing.

  Sweeping the attacking hand aside, I drove my opposite elbow directly into his face. There was a wet sound from where the elbow hit and he staggered backward, spitting out loose teeth. The sour smell washed over me again but this time it held a distinctly coppery tang.

  Following him, I drove a kick into his groin. More fragments of rotting teeth were spat on the floor as the man bent over at the waist. I avoided the foul stuff. It wasn’t easy while looping an arm over the man’s skull and under his throat so that the blade of my forearm was jammed tight against his windpipe. Catching hold of my wrist with my opposite hand, I reared back, arching my spine. All the pressure was centered on the man’s trachea, and I felt it collapse.

  I kept the pressure on.

  At first the man tried to claw at my arms. But when he couldn’t get any oxygen into his lungs, instinct took over and all he did then was scrabble at the ground with his feet and flap his elbows. Now he really was like a rooster.

  It took him the best part of a minute to die.

  Finally, I released him and he flopped down face-first.

  Looking down on him, I guess my gaze would be best described as dispassionate.

  Cock-a-fucking-doodle to you, I thought.

  The stocky man hadn’t recovered from the stab to his carotid. In fact, judging by the widening pool of blood reflecting the disc of the moon, he never would.

  Violence still surged through my veins. The same cold rush I’d experienced earlier in Don Griffiths’ basement when I’d recognized that—however I looked at this—more people were going to die. Releasing a ragged breath, I attempted to calm the rage within me.