The Angels of Destiny

by Haydn Jones

  "So what happened?"

  "We’re not sure, but something or someone entered the house that caused the adults to panic. Gunshots were fired at whatever it was, but there is no sign of blood anywhere in the house or the surrounding area. The whole family was forced to leave clearly against their will. I think you should come in and listen to the tape Rob. It’s got some strange sounds on it that just freaks me out. We need you to analyze it but I must warn you Rob, the whole thing is quite distressing.”

  McPherson analyzed the audiotape for two months. Fourier frequency analysis and spectral pattern recognition using the latest digital techniques allowed McPherson to study the noises but all drew a blank on what happened that night. The children's voices could be heard shouting in the chaos. One child could be heard shouting "Who are they, Mummy? They look strange." The family was never seen again.

  It was now over a week since Kim had buried her husband. She was sitting on the very veranda that Samuel loved so much. The strain of recent events showed on her taut face and dark rings surrounded her eyes. Her normally relaxed body felt stiff and sore. The house had been put up for sale and tomorrow she would return to England to start a new life whilst her agent would deal with the legalities of the sale. Her frustration was heightened because Tom was not returning her calls and she wanted desperately to see him before she left. Kim lowered her head and looked at the book of poems and prose in her hands as she flicked the pages aimlessly, one caught her attention, she read:

  The Meeting

  It was the daily meeting, between unrelenting pain, and the dawn,

  Escorted always by the ever-punctual cold and uncaring night.

  Bodies stirred, careful not to wake the disconnected souls,

  So much in need of peace.

  The clouds selfishly absorb the warm sun

  And cleverly mimic the dirty grey streets below.

  No better alarm clock, than a city, awakening

  To the demands of another working day.

  Yet for some lucky ones the sound of the morning call will never be heard again.

  The colourful reflections on the multitude of polished leather shoes

  Quickly change as they scurry to their destinations.

  No eyes to see, no heart to feel, yet so very expensive.

  Sometimes a glimpse of children skipping and playing

  Oblivious to their excess of energy,

  Catch it; hold it, need it.

  Women, sweet smelling, elegant and clean.

  Stockings, sparking memories of laughter, wine, sex and warm beds.

  Each memory fading,

  Transported by the rising steam from the street drain.

  Pushed high into the sky by the nipple,

  Once soft and pink but now glass hard.

  Grim expressions hold back the stench of stomachs

  Destroyed by cheap wine and cocktails unfamiliar to the hoards of neon lit bars.

  The heavy burden holds the balance still,

  Sneering, knowingly soon to be the winner and controlling the hopeless struggle.

  Life, the pitiful opponent, weakens with every meeting.

  Kim felt a sadness overcome her and thought of Samuel and the despair he must have felt at the end. She looked back into the lounge at the white envelope on the table addressed quite simply to My wife. She had found it in the place where they always left messages to each other, a white china teapot in the kitchen. When the police had questioned her about the deaths, she didn’t mention the note. Scared to open it, she had put it to the back of her mind. He was alive when he wrote it and his mind was probably disturbed. Did she really want to know his manic thoughts, would it reveal the reasons for the pointless deaths; did she care enough to want to know? Did he blame her; was she the reason for his suicide?

  Her eyes again wandered to the envelope. If she were to open it she would first need a large gin. Standing up, she dropped the book of poems and slowly walked indoors to pour herself a large glass of inner courage.

  The envelope was written in black ink and Kim remembered the time in New York when she had bought the fountain pen as a birthday present for him. He had cherished the pen for over fifteen-years. Sitting down, she drank a large gulp, and felt the warm liquor warm her throat and stomach. Pushing her index finger into the envelope she tore it open and pulled out the contents. Unfolding the white paper she began to read:-

  To my Kim

  I want this to be a last farewell and my opportunity to explain the circumstances to you that have lead me to take my own life. I do not blame you for what you have done and through all of this, in my heart; I have remained in love with you.

  Many years ago, in San Francisco, I was a wild irresponsible kid. I got involved with people I shouldn’t have and in the end I caused the death of an innocent young girl. It was an accident involving drugs; I never meant her any harm. The torment of that alone was hard to bear, but soon after I was blackmailed by a man, who at the time of the accident, was, I thought, a good friend. He helped me to dispose of the body. I couldn’t face up to my actions. I wanted to be a success, I was young and enthusiastic; prison for the rest of my life was just unthinkable.

  A lot of the money paid to the evil bastard has come from your earnings and for that I’m deeply sorry, but I also have paid heavily over the years. In an attempt to stop the demands I gave him details of the secret project I am involved with here in Houston. Greed would not allow him to leave me alone and it was not the end. The pain in my heart now is too much to bear. I feel hatred, anger and total despair.

  I want her soul to rest in peace and the remains of her young body to be buried in a proper grave, so that her parents can visit her, and be with her again.

  Make Tom Hudson, editor of the San Francisco Herald; take the police to the southern most shore of Lake Merced. Cross the cycle lane from John Muir drive and twenty-five yards into the lake they will find the remains of Jo.

  This is the end. I cannot go on. My only wish is that Hudson rots in Hell.

  Goodbye Kim, and may your God protect you from the evil that perpetrates our world.

  It was signed, Samuel.

  Tears from his wife's face fell onto the letter that trembled in her hands, dissolving the words into black smudges. Anger welled up inside her and her face contorted with uncontrolled rage as she screamed out. Her tanned, muscular legs drained of all energy and she collapsed onto the floor.

  Nine

  Antwerp is a bustling city, some thirty-miles from Brussels, is famous for its beers and diamond trade but much of its success stems from its busy inland port that stretches along the River Scheldt, approximately fifty-miles from the North Sea.

  It was this port and the easy access to the rest of mainland Europe that attracted Michel Ramon to the area. Originally from Perpignan in Southern France, he now moved around Europe making money, and plenty of it. Today the business was military weapons. A black market rocket launcher to be more precise, with four armor-piercing long range rockets, that had been smuggled out of Bosnia at a cost of one man’s life and four-thousand dollars. The sell price was twenty thousand-dollars.

  The shipment was heading for America and Michel Ramon had escorted the truck across Europe for some three days, finally arriving in Belgium via the E313 and the Baudouin Motorway that linked to the autobahns of Germany. Having watched the container full of engine-parts for Mercedes and BMW, being safely lowered into the hold of the ship by a huge Nord Natie container crane, he could drive the short distance to the hotel and rest. Later he would visit his favourite restaurants in St.Pietersvliet 1, near the Ortelius Kaai that faced onto the Schelde.Then, to finish off a very lucrative days work, a visit to the nearby less respectable Koolkaai Street in the ‘Schipperskwartier.’

  Spring had arrived in Antwerp some six weeks previously and the city was already bustling with excited, eager tourists. The old churches, museums, art galleries, and café bars, restaurants and cobbled streets gave the place a charm that attract
s people from all around the world. ‘Our Lady’ Cathedral was standing majestically, as always, for all to admire her breathtaking Gothic architecture.

  After a short sleep and a shower Michel Ramon felt refreshed and hungry. Dressed in a white cotton shirt and denims, he walked the few hundred metres from his hotel on Kammenstraat to the Cathedral. The evening was pleasantly warm and the trees all donned the fresh young leaves of spring The sound of a choir could be heard as he approached the square. Outside the entrance to the cathedral he stood on the cobblestones and looked up at the amazing stonework, colored pink by the setting sun, the intricate stone carvings resembling delicate lace as they reached the floodlit zenith.

  Nearby, people gathered to watch a street artist juggle rings whilst balancing on an extended monocycle. Their laughter echoed around the old stone square as he pretended to stumble and fall. Walking past the cathedral street cafes, Michel could smell the rich aromas of coffee and Croque Monsieur. He was looking forward to eating and his pace quickened as a light rain began to fall.

  As he walked the short distance to the Koolkaai the ship carrying his cargo was leaving the port, headed for the East Coast of America.

  One hour later he walked slowly back into Koolkaai Street. The rare steak and bottle of 95 Chateau Smith Havt Lafitte had satisfied one of his desires. The ‘window girls’ were there as usual displaying their partly dressed bodies to the staring passers by. Many of the visitors to the street were tourists, keen to see the famous ‘window girls.’ An embarrassed woman pulled her husband away from a window where the female had made eye contact with him and gestured to him to come inside. He walked away smiling. His ego had been given a booster injection. Lots of single men with sad faces paced the streets looking for the right moment to enter a door and relieve their sexual frustration on a willing whore.

  Ramon had no such inhibitions, his second desire was as strong, if not stronger than his first. He walked up to a flaking blue painted door and knocked. A small eyepiece allowed the girl to see his distorted face through the lens and the door was immediately opened.

  “Hello, Michel," said a girl, dressed only in bra and pants.

  "Hello," replied Ramon.

  "The usual?"

  "Why not? Abondance de bien ne nuit pas," he said, smiling.

  She directed him into a small room that contained a cheap sofa covered in a white sheet, a small hand-painted blue wicker chair, and a white enamel washbasin. On the far wall was a mirror that was slightly tinted and kind on the eyes. The room smelt of disinfectant, even though cinnamon incense burned in a small pot on the floor.

  Her hard face was heavily made up and her false eyelashes flickered nervously as the level of heroin in her blood dropped. Another shot would calm her down after he had been attended to.

  "Come to the sink please," she said and Ramon eagerly obliged. Lowering his denims, she took out his penis and began to gently wash it with warm disinfected water that gave off a mild scent. Happy that his swelling member was clean, she dried it with a towel. Looking up at Ramon, she took his penis in her mouth, sucking his swollen organ deeper and deeper into her throat. Ramon's body began to shake with the excitement. Knowing ‘she’ was a 'he' excited him even more.

  Back in Houston, McPherson was busily analyzing the last of the data scans from M13. No signals had even reached a third pass of pattern recognition, and he felt somewhat disappointed by the results. The meeting he had called for this afternoon was to discuss the next step, now that M13 was near completion. Linda Washington had already informed the team members of the three o’clock start time.

  In her office next to McPherson’s, Vicki was sitting at her desk, feeling unwell. She had been sick for the last four mornings but had not mentioned it to Rob. She picked up her bag and walked to the bathroom. Inside she chose the far right cubicle of six. Locking the door behind her she took a pregnancy test kit out of her bag.

  Before returning to her own office, Vicki walked into McPherson’s office, where he was intently studying the computer screen.

  "Busy my darling?" she said in an upbeat manner.

  "Oh it’s you."

  "So who else calls you darling?" she said smiling.

  "You seem in a good mood today."

  "I suppose I am."

  "Why what’s happened?"

  "Tell you later, See you at the meeting."

  McPherson watched her as she left the office smiling at him until she vanished out of view. It pleased him that Vicki appeared so happy. But, not understanding the ways of the female mind he tried not to guess the reasons. Soon he was back to work, attentively analyzing data.

  Vicki already knew the result, the strip just confirmed her feelings; she was having Rob’s baby. She would tell him the news tonight over supper and then take him home to meet her family in the Bay as soon as possible. Her dad would want her to have a boy, a grandson, but in her heart, she really didn’t mind. A little girl to dress in fancy clothes and share her favourite childhood dolls seemed enormously appealing. What would her big brother think now? The little girl he teased and tormented for years was going to have a baby of her own. What would Rob think? He was going to be a father. The career minded woman had turned into an excited mother to be.

  Wayne had arrived at Hunters office at eight o’clock, precisely on time.

  "Tell me the latest, Officer Wayne." Hunter said, with indifference in his voice and pointing to the seat in front of his desk.

  Wayne sat down. "Sir, as you already know the information about M13 was given to Hudson at the San Francisco Herald. It was necessary to exterminate him before he blabbed. We don’t know yet precisely why Black gave him the classified information but he did it. There seems to be some irregularities in his bank account and blackmail may be a reason, but as I say, we don’t know yet."

  "Blackmail. Why him?"

  “Maybe not him, maybe his wife?”

  “Maybe? Anyway, please continue."

  "All details of the project have now been returned. The Sub Editor handed over the original copy that Hudson had deposited at the bank. She was crapping herself and glad to get rid of the stuff. I don’t think the ‘Herald’ will be a problem to us." Wayne said smiling.

  “Good — Did Hudson take his medicine?"

  "No, I blew his brains out instead. Made it look like robbery in his apartment. Nice place, overlooking the Bay. He was getting money from somewhere: that’s obvious."

  "What about his account?"

  "Clean. All the normal stuff. He was dealing with cash, and loads of it."

  "Keep on it, make sure the whole thing is sealed up like a whales asshole."

  "Sure thing, sir…Leave it to me.”

  Tom Hudson’s body lay in the city mortuary, covered with a white sheet, the remains of his head was packed with cotton wool. The cause of his death was obvious, even to a layman, but the autopsy procedure had still been done as a matter of course. According to the ‘Press Reports’ the motive appeared to be Robbery.

  His chest had been opened and ribs removed so that his internal organs could be taken out ‘en block’ for inspection. ‘Slices’ of his liver, heart, lungs and kidneys had been examined under the microscope for any form of damage or poisoning, none was found. His stomach contents showed that he had eaten a seafood salad some two or three hours before his death. Again, there was no trace of poison. The remains of his scull had been stuffed with cotton wool and a white plastic hat, like a shower cap, replaced what was his head. After examination his ribs and organs had been placed into thick plastic bags and put back into his abdomen in no particular order. Large coarse stitches held together the long cut from his chest to his lower torso. His right eye was missing where the first bullet had entered his head. The second bullet had left a small hole in the centre of his forehead. Very little brain tissue remained and most of the back of his head was missing.

  On the computer screen in the corner of the autopsy room a file named PhotoGallery No.134-568/act/T Hudson contained s
ome thirty detailed images of his corpse taken during the autopsy.

  Under the images details of his body weight before and after the autopsy showed a match. No body parts were missing and the procedure had been signed off.

  The remains of Jo Krienen’s body had been recovered from Lake Merced by the SFPD. Found in a thick plastic bag, by police divers, the bag was cut to allow straps through that were then fixed to four concrete building blocks, one on each corner. Examination of the remains was limited and difficult, given what was left of the corpse. Only her skeleton, two gold rings and an ankle chain remained. Her beautiful young flesh had been torn from the bones by hungry small fish and a vast army of crustaceans. Her body could only be identified from her dental records.

  Her father, Dr Hans Krienen stood next to his weeping wife in the cemetery, his left arm around her shoulders as a gesture of support. His head was lowered and in his trembling hand he held a small bunch of forget-me-nots. Slowly he bent forward and placed the flowers on the grave of his daughter, then, standing up straight, like a soldier on parade, he pulled a white cotton handkerchief from his jacket pocket to wipe the tears from his bloodshot eyes.

  Jo’s remains were now there for him to visit and in a strange way he felt at peace, after so many heartbreaking years. The simple white marble head stone bore the inscription in gold engraving,

  'Rest now our darling daughter.'

  Only faded memories remained for Hans Krienen, even though Jo occupied his thoughts daily for more than twenty years. He often tried to remember her smiling face but he was never able to ‘hear’ her voice in his mind and that annoyed him. His wife, Ziggi Krienen, was a broken woman; her spirit had been destroyed after the death of their only child. Her future was once bright but her career as a lecturer in Ancient History at the University of California, San Francisco, stopped on the day Jo died. She never worked again, choosing to stay at home all day, busying herself with things of little importance. Together arm in arm they walked back to the parking area. Every day for the rest of their ruined lives they would visit their daughter’s grave to talk to her and tell her how much they loved her and missed her.