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by J. A. Henderson

  “They’re crazy people!” R.D. retorted. “What are they gonna do? Complain to their invisible friends?”

  “That’s the kind of attitude making Justin so wary about working for Daler. And I’m not exactly a fan of the metal health system myself.”

  “That’s why your future hubby needs to take hold of the reins. Otherwise some fool like me will end up in charge.”

  “I know you need Justin, but so do I.” Clancy arched her slim body and stared into the cloudless sky. “Oh, he’s not as exciting or as funny as you, but I love him. He saved my life. I trust him. There’s no other man on this earth I trust. No offence.”

  “And he’s crazy about you.” The older man smiled tersely. He had rubbed a red raw patch on his temple. “So, tell him to stop poring over old paperwork and get back on track.”

  “Don’t worry, R.D.” She peeked up at him and winked. “I won’t let your meal ticket slip away.”

  “That was a mean thing to say.”

  “You and I are damaged goods.” Clancy brushed off the protest. “I was abused for years. You? I guess nobody will ever know what makes you tick. But we survive, rather than really enjoying life. That much is obvious. To me anyway.”

  She smiled grimly and laid her head on his shoulder

  “In a way, we’re made for each other. Kindred spirits, if you like.”

  R.D. blinked rapidly.

  “Thing is, Justin isn’t like other men,” Clancy continued. “The guy’s determined to do what’s right, no matter the cost. He loves me to bits and I’m gonna marry him.”

  She looked him straight in the eye.

  “So quit complaining about what his integrity will do to your career and back him up.”

  That night R.D. went to a payphone and made a call.

  “Mr Fischer?”

  “Call me dad,” Anne-Louise’s father answered reproachfully. “Any news?”

  “Yeah. I have news.” R.D. took a deep breath. “I’ll keep working for Justin, like you asked. But I’m afraid I won’t be doing your dirty work any longer.”

  “This is a very important project.” The voice was completely unruffled. “It’s of great help to me to have an insider’s view.”

  “I’m the father of your grandchild. That’s the kind of insider I wanted to be.” R.D. clenched the phone tightly. “Part of the family.”

  “You are, son.” There was a long pause. “And families stick together and help each other out. That’s why I gave you this job.” There was another pause. “You don’t want the job?”

  “Of course I want the job.” Sweat broke out on R.D.’s brow. “But isn’t it Justin’s decision whether I keep it? Either way, you’ll get no more info out of me.”

  “You’re married to my daughter and I can’t help that.” Fischer’s voice became glacial. “But you don’t strike me as a man who can get much right. I’m sure if I do a little digging I’ll find other… defects in your character.”

  “I wouldn’t bet on it.” R.D. finally lost his temper. “I’m a smarter guy than you think.”

  “And I have more influence than you could possibly realise. Who do you imagine will win this pointless little charade?”

  There was a click as he hung up.

  “Fuck you.” R.D said to the receiver.

  But his legs were shaking so badly he could hardly stand.

  -17-

  Three weeks later, R.D. was driving when his mobile rang. He pulled over and answered it.

  “It’s Justin. I’m at the labs.”

  “What’s up, buddy?”

  “I need you.”

  “It’s my day off and I’ve got Martin with me.” R.D. griped. “We’re on our way to the Dobson’s rattlesnake farm. Gonna wrestle king Cobras or whatever the hell they do there.”

  “The place is crawling with auditors.” Justin’s voice was brusque to the point of rudeness. “You better get over here, right now.”

  R.D. did an about turn and headed back.

  R.D.’s son died in his father’s big blue Volvo on the I35. The vehicle careened into a slow moving truck and trailer and overturned, crushing the rear. The psychologist suffered serious concussion.

  R.D. had strapped Martin in the back of the car. He was crushed like a wad of paper.

  While the psychologist lay in hospital, drifting in and out of consciousness, Justin left Daler. Then he and Clancy upped and left for East Texas. Neither visited R.D. to explain their decision.

  His severance from Anne-Louise was just as swift, and sharp as a paper-cut.

  “The police studied the tyre marks on the road,” she rasped, sitting stolidly by the hospital bed. “You were forty miles over the speed limit when you drove into the back of that trailer.”

  “I wouldn’t do that with Martin in the back!” R.D. sobbed.

  “Either you were racing back after Justin’s phone call,” his wife said. “Or you found it too hard to stay in control with some girl sucking your dick.”

  “There was nobody else in the car,” he wailed. “I swear!”

  “I thought you couldn’t remember anything because of the concussion.” Anne-Louise half closed her eyes. A listless chimera, devoid of makeup, R.D.’s wife was already a piece of dead past.

  “I saw the report. The cops are charging you with dangerous driving.”

  “That can’t be right!” R.D. groaned in pain as he tried to struggle further up the pillow. “It must be a mistake.”

  Anne-Louise didn’t flinch.

  “I really don’t give a fuck why you were speeding and I aint interested in finding out.” His hostile visitor arranged a vase of bedside flowers, proud and pale. “All I know is Martin and I loved you and you let us both down. Difference is, he trusted you and he needed you.”

  A last golden lily dropped into place.

  “I don’t.”

  “He was my son too. Please don’t leave.”

  His wife patted the bed. Red, heavy lidded eyes avoided the devastated occupant.

  “I’m sure you’ll manage to spawn more offspring, R.D. But my boy is gone and so am I.”

  Anne-Louise left without a backward glance.

  A week later divorce papers landed on the covers.

  Justin refused to return his calls so, on his release, R.D. summoned all his energy and courage and faced the four hour drive to the Moore’s new home in East Texas.

  Justin ushered him into the study. Clancy was nowhere to be seen.

  “What do you want Scotty?” There was no warmth in the man’s voice.

  “I want to know why you didn’t come to visit me.” R.D. was equally curt. “I could have done with some support.”

  “I had a long talk with your father in law.” Justin sat on the edge of the couch like a coiled spring. “Took a while to convince him not to have my ass dragged into court for fraud. My resignation was required, however, along with signing a confidentiality form and destroying my records.”

  “Fraud?” R.D. fingered the stitches on the back of his head. “You mean your research was flawed after all?”

  “It was. But I also agreed to leave in exchange for Daler not pressing charges against you.”

  “For what?”

  “Stealing money from the company.” Justin clenched his fists. “He showed me the figures.”

  “Now you listen to me, Justin Moore.” R.D. stood up and pointed a quivering finger. “I did not nick a penny from these guys. You’re the one who first suspected Daler would do anything to sabotage your work. Never occur to you that it might include framing me?”

  “Of course I considered it.” Doubt crept into Justin’s voice. “But why would they do that to their inside man?”

  “Aw, Justin.” R.D. stammered. “It’s not how it seems.”

  “Don’t matter.” The scientist stared coldly. “I’m the one who put you in charge of funding. I’m tarred with the same brush, if you end up in court.”

  “Then I’ll take the entire blame. Even though I’m innocent.�
��

  “You’re protesting your innocence about too many things.” Justin bit his lip but carried on. “I’m sorry about your son, but what the hell were you doing driving so fast with him in the back?”

  “I don’t know what happened. I got concussion from the accident.” R.D. blinked back tears. “But you’ve got to believe it wasn’t my fault.”

  “That’s the problem, aint it? Nothing is ever your fault. It’s getting a little old.”

  “How can I make it right?” It took all the psychologist’s composure not to come back with a bitter retort. “You’re my only friend. I’ll do anything.”

  “You can leave me and Clancy alone.” Justin got up and held the door open.

  “Goodbye R.D.”

  Shaken to the core by the rejection of his closest comrade, R.D. never went back. Anne-Louise had already retreated to the bosom of her family where her ex-husband couldn’t reach her.

  R.D. was well aware he was no longer welcome in the neighbourhood.

  Of course, he was given impeccable references with no mention of any swindling. Daler would never admit to hiring a thief, especially one who had been married to the boss’s daughter. But R.D.’s career as a scientific ground-breaker was well and truly over.

  It was too late to return to Scotland. He’d never bothered to keep in touch with anyone there, as Jim Lindsay predicted.

  So R.D. stayed. He didn’t have anywhere else to go.

  He scraped together what money and reputation he had left, bought a new black suit and rented an office in down town Austin. Then he went into business as a therapist.

  A few months later he bumped into one of Justin’s former assistants, Karen Sergeant. Sergeant was a tall freckled Kentuckian, one of the few researchers at Daler who had actually liked him. But when the psychologist asked how the Cocktail project was doing, she stared at him blankly.

  “It folded,” she said quietly.

  “Folded? Eh? Why?” R.D. was taken aback. “I thought Daler had appointed another head of research.”

  “They did.” Karen Sergeant opened her bag and rummaged inside. “But Justin’s research was thoroughly discredited by then, so Daler withdrew their funding. The whole project was shut down.”

  R.D. glared at her in astonishment.

  “A project that important shouldn’t have just gotten obliterated,” he said incredulously. “There would be a proper inquiry, at least.”

  “I dunno, R.D. Daler are pretty powerful.” Karen finally found a bag of mints in the bottom of her bag and opened them. “I mean… I know I didn’t do anything wrong. I don’t really like to think about it.”

  She popped a sweet into her mouth.

  “Anyway, gotta go. Keep on keeping on.”

  Then she walked into the nearest shop, leaving her former boss standing alone in the street.

  -18-

  New Braunfells State Facility, Texas 2003

  Ettrick Sinclair studied R.D. Slaither. The inmate stared back, pictures splayed between his fingers.

  He bent his head warily as if he were reluctant to take his eyes off the detective. Tapped the second picture.

  “Question two.” R.D. picked up the photograph and flipped it over.

  “No, no. Just wait a second.” Ettrick leaned back in his chair and pulled a pack of cigarettes from his shirt pocket. “You want me to answer your dumb questions, then it’s gonna have to be tit for tat.”

  R.D. considered this. Ettrick removed a cigarette and stuck it in his mouth.

  “That’s fair enough, I suppose.”

  “There aint nobody here but you and me.” The detective patted himself down and found a match. “There’s no recording devices and I’m not wired. I’m not looking to trap you into a confession.” He found a book of matches and pulled it out. “What you say stays between us.”

  “That’s not like you.” R.D. was instantly suspicious. “You’re a cop through and through and you don’t bend the rules.”

  “First time for everything.” Ettrick sighed. “I give you my word. The department doesn’t know I’m here. Hell, even I don’t know why I’m here.”

  R.D. gave a lopsided grin.

  “Or, maybe, I do” Ettrick lit the match with a calloused finger. “It sure looks like you’re crazy as a loon and I know you’re a tad dodgy. But I’m still not sure you’re capable of mass murder.”

  “Ask your question, then.”

  “Did you really kill Justin Moore?” Ettrick lit his cigarette and tossed the spent match casually onto the floor.

  “Yes.” R.D. didn’t hesitate. “I killed Justin Moore.”

  Ettrick let a stream of smoke escape his lips.

  “What the hell for?” he began

  “Ah, ah!” The psychologist wagged a disproving finger. “That’s two questions. My turn now.”

  “Go on then.” Ettrick took another deep drag on his cigarette. R.D. eyed it hungrily but didn’t ask for one. Instead he picked up the second picture and read the question on the back.

  “A little girl called Gina Windsor was a victim of the notorious Cherry Bomb killer. What was her unusual physical feature?”

  This time the detective needed no time to think.

  “She had one green eye and one blue one,” he rattled back. “When she went missing, the police profile was wrong… said one green eye, one brown eye. She turned up dead next day and it didn’t seem worth changing the description.”

  “Correct.” R.D. relaxed a little. ‘That’s correct.”

  -Part 2-

  THE CHERRY BOMB

  If he be Mr. Hyde, I shall be Mr. Seek.

  R.L. Stevenson. The Strange Case of Dr Jekyll and Mr. Hyde

  -19-

  Austin, Texas 1996

  The Cherry Bomb killed children. Cute, pint-size, little children. Then he hid them in people’s cars. It created a nice double victim scenario.

  Pepe Pineda was the owner of Janet’s Eatery on 32nd and Guadalupe. He was a stocky, unassuming man - a second generation Mexican immigrant, who looked like a cross between Sitting Bull and Bob Hope.

  On Sunday at 9.00am he walked, yawning, from the early morning bustle of his restaurant and slid into his car, easing gingerly over the scalding seat leather. Starting the engine, he maneuvered between the slumbering vehicles in the parking lot, squinting sleepily at the low slung sun. He bumped over the balding grass verge and onto the slip road between his property and the neighbouring Posthouse Bar. As he shifted gears his old Lincoln Mercury died.

  Now there were two dead things in the alley.

  Mr. Pineda climbed out of the car in the face-stinging heat and lifted the bonnet. An oily scrap of card, torn from a milk carton, hung lifeless on the radiator cap. It said

  Oops! Look in the trunk….

  Pepe Pineda spat. He circled the Mercury and read the note again. Shit. What the fuck was this?

  He warily unlocked the trunk of the car. It was stiff. He felt a stab of fear followed by a pang of hunger. Hunger won.

  Standing to one side, Pineda leaned over pulled up the cover and skipped quickly back.

  A tattered, fleshy snake shot glistening into the air. The shaken driver later likened it to a giant Chinese firecracker, splintering into a thousand silent sparks. The sparks showered Pepe Pineda, turning his sweat-soaked shirt red.

  It was blood.

  Bobbing in front of him was the body of Kimberly-Anne Thackery, a ten year old abducted from Northwest Hills the day before. She had lain all night inside the sweltering Mercury, attached to the lock mechanism by a hook and wire apparatus. When the hood flew up, it pulled Kimberly-Anne’s intestines out through the razored slash in her stomach.

  Pepe Pineda was hospitalised for shock.

  One of the witnesses, eating breakfast in Pepe’s restaurant, was a tall consumptive diner called Brett Parker. Parker was a part-time local D.J. playing smoky jazz on K-NAC from ten till midnight. That evening, in the murky studio, he told his story over the air. Ash fell like a glow-worm
from his cigarette.

  “When I seen that kid’s insides fly up in the air… it looked like some kind o’ terrible cherry bomb,” he rasped laconically, languishing in his fifteen minutes of real limelight.

  And suddenly the killer had a name.

  That was the basic pattern of the slayings. A month later another car broke down at Round Rock. The driver got out, lifted the hood and found a similar note. Knowing of the Pineda case, he faced a choice. He could open the trunk and pray the message was an adolescent hoax, or he could call the cops and risk losing time and looking stupid.

  He went through the usual process of self-denial.

  It can’t happen to me, he thought. I’m too busy to have a dead kid in my car.

  So, he opened the trunk and found the cheapness of human life displayed in a pool of congealing blood.

  Three weeks later the same thing happened to a motorist on Hayes Boulevard in west Austin.

  The fourth and fifth casualties fell prey to a new strategy. Both suffered wheel problems and went straight to the back of the car to get a spare or a tyre iron. Inside each driver found his very own dead child.

  The patrol car arrived with siren clamouring and lights whirling, but the white-lipped driver was no longer in any particular hurry. He would be standing at the roadside, perhaps smoking a cigarette, crying bitterly in the crisp morning air.

  Commuters went through an agony of indecision each time they ran out of gas or saw their engine overheat. The Triple A became so popular they could have built bigger offices. The Austin Police department, on the other hand, grew jumpy and irritable. The victims were random strangers, neither deserving nor undeserving. The body count was relatively low compared to a highway pile up or a tornado, but the primal fears aroused were much deeper.

  Frightened parents began keeping their kids home from school and spied on them at play from behind cracks in the curtain. Out there roamed the bogeyman. The stuff of legend. This guy was killing kids. Little fucking kids.