by Graham Smith
He catches the flick of my eyes as I search for the shotgun. Smiles. ‘You should have kept hold of the gun, shouldn’t you? You’re losing. Don’t worry, I’ll take my time. Once your fight’s gone, I’ll peel you a little. Perhaps I’ll keep peeling until you beg me to kill you.’
I’m expecting the lunge which comes at the end of his sentence. I’ve been in enough fights not to get taken by surprise anymore.
Instead of blocking him outside my body, I swipe his knife arm inwards as I wheel round him. The blood that has run from the cut on my left forearm makes my grip slippery, but I hold his wrist long enough to run my blade along the inside of his elbow.
I could have stuck him in the kidneys, but some primeval element of my psyche wants him to taste his own medicine. Choking on it would be better.
He yelps and drops his knife. The lower part of his left arm hangs useless as he spins away from me.
For the first time I see fear in his eyes. He backs away. As he goes, he’s trying, and failing, to regain control of his arm.
I advance on him. Momentum has swung my way. A slash at him slices open his bicep. He counters with a hard right to my ribs. Breathing becomes difficult as he sidesteps around me and delivers a hard elbow to my head.
I whirl round to see him lifting the knife with his right hand. His grip is orthodox as he leads with his right foot like a fencer.
He’s making wild slashes as he comes forward. I retreat; happy to wait for a safe opportunity; happy to let him tire himself out.
He puts in a quick step and stabs the knife forward.
I twist left and counter-stab as I back off. Steel collides with steel rather than flesh.
Brian pushes forward with a mixture of stabs and slashes. All thoughts of making me suffer must have been cast aside in a desire to kill me before I kill him.
Not sharing his urgent desire to kill, I keep myself out of harm’s way.
It’s a mistake. He’s not been trying to get a quick kill. He’s been steering me in a set direction.
A muscled arm snakes around my throat. Squeezes.
I’d stab the arm in a heartbeat if I didn’t need the knife to keep Brian at bay.
With my eyes kept on Brian I throw my right heel backwards. It strikes bone.
I repeat the kick until I feel the grip on my neck loosen. I drop the knife, put two hands on the muscled arm, and fall to my knees twisting as I go. Connor Jones rolls over my shoulder and crashes into Brian’s feet. There’s a pained yelp as his broken ankle twists beneath him.
There’s no way of knowing Connor’s agony as he clambered from a prone position to stand on his one good leg to set the trap I’ve just fallen into. It doesn’t matter. For his part in events, he deserves nothing but suffering and pain.
When I rise to my feet, I’m once again holding the knife in a backhand grip. Brian is upon me before I have time to set myself. Steel flashes and he opens a wound on my left bicep as I slash at his chest.
Connor’s hand grasps my ankle and I fall backwards.
Brian follows me down. His left elbow slams into my face. The forearm still loose and uncontrolled.
My right arm is trapped between our bodies.
I manage to get my left hand onto his right wrist. He’s pushing down. His knife three inches from my eye.
His weight is pinning my body. Pushing down on the knife.
Two inches.
Neither of us are using our dominant arm, though he’s able to put his shoulder behind the knife.
One inch.
He smiles as he senses victory. Stale garlic pollutes his breath.
I twist my right hand and punch upwards. His eyes widen, and the pressure on his knife hand lessens, as my blade pierces his heart.
Pink bubbles decorate his lips only to be replaced with crimson ones.
I push him off my chest and leave him to gurgle. My knife protrudes from his chest so I lift his from where it dropped.
Young David is a moaning heap of undeserved self-pity.
His eyes snap open when he feels steel pressed against flesh. ‘Where is Ms Rosenberg?’
If the ominous threat in my voice is a surprise to him, it’s a shock to me.
Young David presses himself into the earth as if he can burrow away from the knife at his throat. ‘The journalist?’ I nod. ‘She’s in a fridge at the end of the building.’
I resist the temptation to punch him and stagger off towards the door of the guards’ barracks.
83
Drops of my blood leave a trail as I stumble towards the door of the guards’ barracks. Some are larger than others and some are halfway to becoming clots.
I go up the three steps and burst into a hallway. To my left is a dormitory, a sign above the door to my right says ‘Kitchen’.
The door is stiff. Aged hinges creak as I force it open. Everything smells dank. Dust motes that I’ve disturbed float across the beams of sunlight which manage to fight their way through the dirt on the windows.
A low rumble fills the air. It’s the steady sound of an engine running a few beats above idle.
I cross the kitchen – past the old units, abandoned cookers and the serving hatch.
As soon as I haul the fridge door open, I cough and choke on the fumes that pour out to attack my senses. My eyes water as I peer into the fridge.
Ms Rosenberg is slumped against one wall. A chain through her bound wrists secures her to a hook screwed into the ceiling.
There’s a portable generator in a corner. Its engine the source of the rumble; its exhaust the source of the fumes.
All this information is absorbed and processed in a fraction of a second. I screw my mouth tight and step forward.
I don’t know whether she’s alive or dead, but I do know she has to be removed from this fume-laden environment if she has any chance of survival. I stride to the generator, knock it off, then put my fingertips to Ms Rosenberg’s throat.
I might be wrong. It might be wishful thinking, but I convince myself of a faint throb. Slight as she is, her unconsciousness makes her a dead weight as I lift her high enough to allow me to release the chain from the hook.
When she’s free, I get her in a fireman’s lift and rush outside.
I lay Ms Rosenberg down in the fresh air and look at her. Her eyes are closed, her lips are blue and there’s not so much as the slightest hint of movement. She’s covered in blood, but it’s mine not hers. My wounds haven’t stopped leaking just because I’m trying to save someone else’s life.
There’s no doubt she’ll have carbon monoxide poisoning after being enclosed in such a small space with a running engine. I don’t know how to treat it though.
Should I administer mouth-to-mouth to drive fresher, purer air into her lungs, or should I let the poison work its own way out of her system?
I check her pulse again. This time I’m less sure of its presence.
Again, I become stricken with indecision. Should I administer CPR or go for help? She’ll be dead for sure by the time I return with help but, in my current bloody and weakened state, I won’t be able to maintain the necessary treatment for more than a half hour without collapsing from exhaustion.
The wail of a police siren in the distance makes my decision for me.
I draw a huge breath into my lungs and blow it into her mouth.
When Chief Watson’s truck roars into view I’m on my tenth repetition of chest compressions.
He jumps out and runs to the back of his truck. He reappears with a medical kit and what I hope is a portable defibrillator. A deputy appears from the passenger side.
‘She’s been gassed.’ My words come between pants as I continue with the compressions.
The chief shoulders me out of the way, rips open her clothes and applies two pads to her chest. The pads are connected to the defibrillator by thin wires. He presses a button on the machine and her body jerks.
I check for a pulse then draw my hand back. ‘Again.’
He does as
I bid.
She doesn’t respond.
Three more times we try.
Three more failures.
We look at each other and, in unison, stop our efforts at resuscitation.
The chief removes the pads from her chest, and I try to preserve her decency by fastening the buttons not ripped off by the chief’s hurried efforts to get the pads onto her skin.
I look round as another vehicle approaches. It’s Alfonse. After summoning the police he must have raced over here. I’m not sure how he planned to help, but I’m glad he’s tried to come to my aid.
He runs across as soon as he sees me. Worry etched into his face. ‘Are you okay?’
‘I’m fine. It’s just a lot of little cuts.’
The chief steps between us, gestures at the two dead bodies and the cursing Jones family. ‘Want to tell me what went down here, Boulder?’
‘These are the guys who’ve been killing people because of their skin colour, religion or sexuality.’ I point to the barracks. ‘Ms Rosenberg is their latest victim. They imprisoned her in an old fridge with a running generator.’
84
I awaken to a nightmare of stiffness. Every part of my upper body aches. The bandages and dressings applied to my various wounds itch as well as restrict what little movement protesting muscles allow.
‘Do you want some coffee?’
It’s Taylor. Her voice as sweet and melodic as ever.
‘Yeah please. Time is it?’
‘Twenty after one.’
The light pouring through the window tells me I’ve slept for twelve hours solid – even if my body thinks otherwise.
The events of yesterday descend into a blur after the point where Alfonse arrived at the former detention centre.
I have vague memories of deputies having to restrain Alfonse from kicking Connor and Kevin while a paramedic fussed over me. Alfonse and the chief had bundled me into an ambulance once my various cuts were attended to.
Gaertner had been waiting for me at the hospital. He fired question after question at me as a doctor stitched me back together.
At some point Alfonse and Taylor appeared at the hospital. There was something of a disagreement when I left the hospital, but all I can remember about it was a determination to come home.
I remember failing to save Ms Rosenberg. Perhaps she’d still be alive if I’d driven there a bit faster, or shot Kevin instead of aiming wide, and claimed the shotgun. Letting myself get drawn into a macho situation by Brian had wasted minutes which could have made the difference. If I’d known first aid a little better, I may have been able to save her. Whichever way I look at it, I find I’ve made mistakes which could have been the difference between life and death.
Taylor puts a mug of coffee on the bedside table and drops a straw into it.
I lift the mug and am about to launch the straw across the room when I realise how much pain it’ll save me.
‘You’re due two more of these.’ Taylor rattles a pill bottle.
‘Don’t want them.’
‘Cut the crap, Jake. You’re lucky to be alive. Every movement you make hurts you. Why aren’t you taking something for the pain?’
‘I need to keep my wits clear.’
‘What do you mean, keep your wits clear? You’ve solved the case. Disabled three sick killers and killed another. It’s over, Jake. You’ve won.’
‘Pass me my cell, will you?’
She frowns but hands it over. I show it to her. ‘You see all these messages and missed calls? I’m willing to bet at least three quarters of them are my mother. She’ll have heard about what happened and will want to tell me how stupid I am. I’m not engaging in a battle of wits with her at anything less than full strength.’
‘You’re scared of your mom?’ Taylor dissolves into fits of giggles. ‘That’s priceless. Jake Boulder, the rough tough hero who keeps chasing killers is frightened of his mommy. Who is this matriarch and what makes her so scary?’
If her peals of laughter weren’t so musical I might fall out with her. I’m not in the mood for levity.
‘Don’t laugh. We’re having dinner with her and my stepfather on Friday.’
It’s not the smooth way I had planned on telling her about the meeting, but it’s fitting revenge for her mocking laughter.
‘We are?’ She leans over and kisses my forehead. ‘Thank you.’
‘You won’t be thanking me after Friday night. You’ll be ditching me for someone whose mother isn’t an interfering narcissist.’
My words and tone are deliberately gruff. It’s my way of stopping myself from saying the three words I want to say to her. So often when those words have been said to me, and I haven’t reciprocated them, I’ve seen pain. Not the kind of pain prescribed drugs can fix. The kind only time and love can heal.
I’m not sure if I can face the pain of her responding to me with any other answer than ‘I love you too’.
‘Nonsense. Now just you lay back and let me take care of you.’
85
It’s dark when Alfonse draws up outside the Tree. The usual Sunday night crowd are hanging outside – smoking, laughing and filling the air with enough bullshit to give a horticulturist a wet dream.
Taylor skips ahead to get the door and Alfonse leads the way, making sure no-one bumps or barges into me. He’s perhaps the smallest blocker I’ve known, but his heart’s in the right place and I’m grateful for his help.
John is waiting for us in a quiet booth near the back of the room, his face pale and grave. The bottle on the table in front of him is sparkling water. Perhaps he too has issues with alcohol.
We go through the usual small talk greetings until Alfonse and Taylor make their excuses and leave us to it.
‘You’ve come a long way to find me, John. Other than a desire to fill out another branch of the family tree, what brings you here?’
The question is a lot less polite than he deserves, or I intend, but I’m tired, sore and more than a little pissed at myself for not saving Ms Rosenberg.
He looks nervous. Like he’s about to ask for something he’s not going to get.
If it’s money he’s after, he’s asking the wrong man. Other than the money I won betting on myself, I have little more than a month’s salary to my name and I’ve already earmarked the sixty thousand I won for a children’s hospice in Salt Lake.
‘What is it, what do you want from me? If it’s money you’re out of luck.’
‘It’s no’ money. I’ve got plenty o’ that.’ Nerves are thickening his Scottish accent.
‘What is it then?’
‘I’ve got leukaemia.’ A lick of the lips. ‘I need a bone marrow transplant.’
My bad temper evaporates as I digest this news. All of a sudden my long-lost, unknown-about half-brother is about to be snatched away from me before I get to know him.
The reason for his visit becomes obvious. Common sense tells me that bone marrow isn’t something you can donate like blood so it can be stored until needed. He’ll need to find a family member who’s a match for whatever element needs to be matched.
I may well be wrong with my assumptions but they explain his presence here.
‘You’re asking me to donate. Your mother and sister aren’t matches?’
‘Mother died two years ago. Sarah is pregnant and both she and the baby would be at risk. I can’t ask her. Won’t ask her.’
I admire his stance. ‘Cousins, aunts, uncles?’ I would add grandparents to the question but guess they’ll be too old.
He pulls a face. ‘There are none. The old dear was an only child and well… you know about the old man.’
I struggle to keep a grin from my face at his use of the Scottish terminology for parents. It’s not a smiling situation.
‘You’re wanting me to donate, aren’t you?’
‘Would you?’ There’s hope in his eyes. He sees a chance to watch his daughters grow up. Perhaps he’s picturing himself walking them down the aisle in a typical Sc
ottish kirk, or some grand cathedral. ‘There’s no great risk for the donor. The side effects are only bone and muscle pain, a bit of nausea, headaches and fatigue.’
It’s clear he knows his stuff, but in his position who wouldn’t? In these days of online doctors and medical websites it’s only natural for the person with the illness to research everything about it.
This may be my chance at redemption. I’ve never been a great believer in karma or the yin and yang balance of life. Yet twenty-four hours after taking one life and failing to save another, I’m being granted a second chance to be a saviour.
‘If I’m a match, I’ll do it.’
The End
Acknowledgments
I would like to take this opportunity to say extend my grateful thanks to all at Bloodhound Books for their professionalism and hard work in bring this book out. Special thanks must go to Sarah Hardy for her excellent work in publicising my writing.
I’d also like to say a huge thank you to all the bloggers who’ve taken the time out of their busy lives to support me. They are the unsung heroes of the book world and their support really has made the difference. Noelle Holten especially deserves a mention as the self-appointed leader of my cheer. I may owe her an apology for what happened to her in the book.
Thanks also go to those who’ve supported me in my writing, my good friend and mentor, Matt Hilton, Col Bury who brainstorms ideas with me late at night over the odd glass of something hangover-making, the Crime and Publishment gang, all my writing and non-writing friends and of course my family.
Humble thanks also to Rebecca Higgs, who answered many stupid questions with intelligence and good grace.
Last but by no means least, my readers. Without your support, kind reviews and enthusiasm for my writing, I’d be nothing more than a stenographer for the voices in my head.