by Matt Hilton
Doubt had set in. I was lame and my hand wasn’t in full working order. What good was I to anyone in that frail condition?
Thinking on it now, it wasn’t disbelief of Don’s story, or even the old enmity that the two of us shared, that urged me turn the car round and flee back to Florida. It was the self-doubt; that I’d be unable to do anything to help. Subconsciously I’d killed those two mugs to prove something to myself. But at what price? Had it made a murderer of me? A bully? The very thing that I’d always despised?
I studied Millie, and decided. No. At the back of my mind I’d seen the men as a threat to her, and to her sister’s children.
‘Do you want more coffee?’
Millie reached out for the mug that I’d drained. I hadn’t been conscious of finishing it, or that I now held the empty mug to my lips. I handed it over. ‘I’d appreciate it.’
‘Breakfast? I could cook something for you.’
‘Coffee will be fine.’
‘You should eat.’
I should, I might need the strength. But I wasn’t sure that I could hold anything down for long. ‘Just coffee . . . please.’
Millie swung round, heading out the room.
‘Millie.’
She turned back. Her mouth was pinched and there were two red spots on her cheeks. I said, ‘I’m sorry I didn’t come when your father first asked. I truly am.’
‘I’ll get your coffee.’
Following her to the kitchen would serve no purpose. Millie’s offer to cook breakfast was her way of breaking down the barrier her sister’s death had placed between us. By my refusal I’d done nothing to help the matter. Going in there would only make things more awkward. When she came back with the second coffee there would be an opportunity to try again.
Turning back to the window, I peered across the green towards the main road into town. There was movement now, people finally bracing themselves against the elements to get on with their lives. Kids were hanging out by the green, waiting to be picked up for school. On my walk through town last night I’d noticed a school house, but it must cater only for the younger children. These older ones were probably bussed to a high school in the larger neighbouring town of Hertford. The college-age kids maybe only returned to town during holidays, if they returned at all. There didn’t seem much here to hold them; other than the family businesses and occasional chain store I hadn’t noted much else in the way of industry.
Kids were pretty much the same wherever I travelled. Fashions in clothing and hairstyles, the colour of their skin, might be different, but the group fooling around as they waited for the school bus could have been standing on any street corner in the western world. Pennsylvanian kids weren’t so different from those I’d been familiar with back home in the UK.
The two standing by the wishing well were different though.
Not only in appearance but by the intensity with which they stared back at me through the window.
It was a boy who, when I studied his smooth features and gangly frame, didn’t look like he’d made twenty years old yet. He was wearing jeans and boots and a black leather jacket emblazoned with patches and flags. He’d an archaic quiff hairstyle, greased and coiffed to Elvis perfection. The girl with him looked older. She had a retro look about her too. But she was more punk rocker than greaser. She had on a tartan mini that was strategically frayed around the hem, over bright yellow stockings and pink shoes. A white T-shirt daubed with splashes of colour was only partially hidden by the leather jacket she’d decorated with studs and chains. Another thin chain looped from her right nostril to her right earlobe, and her platinum hair was spiked high and then tipped with pink.
I stepped closer to the window, meeting their gaze. The boy and girl shared a glance. The girl said something and the boy sneered at me before they turned and walked unhurriedly across the green.
They look dangerous. Go after them, Hunter. Why not kill them as well?
I sighed and turned back to the room, putting the kids out of my mind. Don was walking in ahead of Millie and he was clutching a steaming mug similar to the two she carried. He also had the police file he’d shown me earlier tucked under his elbow.
‘I thought you might want to take a look at this again.’ As Don sat down he snapped the file against his thigh.
Taking the proffered mug from Millie, I said, ‘I don’t need to, Don.’ What I really meant was, ‘I don’t want to.’ ‘I’d rather see your grandchildren. And there’s something I want to show you on the way . . .’
Don caught the tone of delivery and had a good idea what the something was. ‘I don’t want to leave Millie here alone.’
‘She can come with us,’ I said. ‘She can wait with the kids while we—’
Millie held up a hand. ‘Hold on. Don’t I have a say in this?’
Don and I shared a glance.
‘I’m not a baby,’ she said. ‘I can look after myself. And I can certainly make up my own mind when it comes to where I’m going to wait. She’s going to wait right here.’ She looked pointedly at me for my choice of words.
‘It may not be safe here,’ Don said.
‘Dad!’
‘I mean it, Millie.’
‘What’s going to happen here? Who’s going to do something in this town?’
Once again we shared a glance. More could happen here than she could ever suspect, and we both knew it. Finally, I nodded. ‘You’re right, Millie. Nothing’s going to happen to you.’ I looked at Don. ‘Leave the key for her, though.’
Don frowned, but then dug in his back pocket for the key to the drawer where he’d left the gun this morning. He placed it on the arm of his chair. ‘It’s just a precaution. You remember how to use it, don’t you, Millie?’
‘Your gun? Yes . . . but . . .’
‘It’s just a precaution,’ I echoed. ‘You won’t need it, but it’s there just in case.’
‘Just in case I get frightened, you mean?’ Millie shook her head and turned to walk out of the room without picking up the key. Before she reached the door, the old tomcat graced us with his presence. He swanked into the room, his tail held high. Millie crouched, opening her arms, and the cat immediately sprang up to be cuddled. She turned back to us, holding the cat. It stared at us without blinking. So did Millie. ‘See. I’m not here all alone. We’ll be fine while you’re gone.’
We could only acquiesce. Don grabbed a jacket and a spare for me. I shrugged into the winter coat as Don gave his daughter a warning eye. ‘Just keep everything locked and don’t answer the door to any strangers.’
Millie walked away stiffly, the cat looking back over her shoulder at us. ‘Like we see many strangers around here?’
Chapter 6
From seats in the window of Benson’s Drugstore Vince Everett and Sonya Madden watched the two men drive away in the dark-coloured Audi.
Sonya was slurping on a milkshake. She batted her mascara-laden eyelashes at the young man next to her.
‘We gonna follow them, Vince?’
With a fingertip stained by nicotine he teased a drip of milkshake that trembled on her lip. ‘No, we just stay cool.’
Sonya looked over her shoulder. The motion appeared languid but was practised. At the counter, the old man – a third-generation Benson – paid them no more attention than he did any other kid in the place. Sonya leaned towards Vince. ‘We were told to keep an eye on them.’
‘They’ll spot a tail too easy.’
‘What if we lose them?’
‘They’ll come back. Now drink your shake and shut up, will ya? I’m trying to think.’
Sonya caught links of her nose chain with the tip of her tongue and pulled it into the corner of her mouth. ‘You’re thinking about the woman.’
Vince tilted his chin her way. His hair flopped on his forehead and he rolled his head to flick it back in place. ‘Only one woman I’m interested in, baby.’
Sonya let the chain pop loose as she concentrated on pouting. ‘So you say, but I kn
ow what’s on your mind. You’re looking forward to paying her a visit, ain’t ya?’
‘A man’s gotta do what a man’s gotta do. Doesn’t mean I have to take any pleasure from it.’
‘I want to come with you.’
‘No. You have to wait outside and keep watch.’
‘I want to watch you.’ Her eyes flared at the suggestion.
Vince touched her on the tip of her upturned nose. ‘Don’t worry, baby. When I do it, I’ll be thinking about you.’ He stood up, kicking back the chair with a heel of his silver-tipped boots. ‘Wait until I’m outta here, then go on over to the well. You see those guys come back, you ring me right away.’
‘Yeah, whatever.’ She slurped her milkshake again, managing her pout around the straw this time. ‘Knock yourself out, Vince.’
He stared down at her. Then he curled his lip and held her under his smouldering gaze. She smiled, but then she hunched her shoulders, ducking her head coyly like she couldn’t bear his sexy look any longer.
All an act. But he liked it.
He hitched up his jeans and then pimp-walked out of the store looking back over his shoulder.
Sonya watched him go. He saw her head come up and the innocence vanish from her features. They loved playing their little game, but now Sonya was all business. And so was he.
Vince Everett was a fake name, but that was all he’d allow. Everything else about him was the real deal. In the movie Jailhouse Rock Elvis Presley played the character of Vince Everett, the ex-con who became a big singing star. It didn’t matter that Vince couldn’t sing a note, or that his hip-swinging was more akin to someone taking a fit, there was something this Louisiana Cat possessed that the man whose name he’d assumed couldn’t claim. Elvis was famous for shooting at TV screens, but had he ever shot and killed a man?
Vince Everett had.
More than once.
He was also suspected of murdering a cop by beating him with the PR24 baton he’d taken off the cop’s belt. Vince had reputedly laughed for joy as the cop’s face went from stunned surprise to ground beef under the repeated whacks of the baton.
Unlike the Presley character, Everett had never been caught. He was no ex-con, and all being well things shouldn’t change.
School kids were clambering to get the best seats on a yellow bus as he walked across the green. From the misted windows a couple of older girls watched his progress. He swaggered for their benefit; but their laughter was too harsh to be appreciated. What did they know about sex on legs, anyway?
The bus puttered away, sending clouds of smoke out of its tailpipe. Vince kept walking. At the gate on to Don Griffiths’ property he paused. Back across the way he saw Sonya come out of the drugstore and walk towards the green. She was already clutching her cell phone, ready to warn him of the men’s return.
She was a good catch, that one.
He’d met her out East at one of them burlesque clubs in Greenwich Village. Not a dancer but a punter just like he was; someone who liked the archaic fashion and musical styles of bygone eras. It only took a glance and they both knew it: there was something else they shared. That night they’d danced and drunk and fucked, and things had been pretty much like that in the three months since. And twice already they’d shared their lust for violence. Sonya liked to watch him. Afterwards they’d screwed their brains out; high on the agony of the ones they had hurt.
She was probably pissed that she was going to miss out on what he was about to do to Millie Griffiths, but he’d tell her all the gory details afterwards. Right now she had to watch from a distance, keep an eye out for Don and his visitor returning. There’d be nothing to tell if Vince was disturbed on the job, nothing to spice things up when he ripped off her clothes.
Vince wondered who the newcomer was.
Looked nothing special to him, but who knew?
The guy was older than him, heavier built, and he looked a little tense when he walked. Old and slow. Vince was pretty sure that the man was no threat.
But then he thought of the way that the man had returned his stare out of the window earlier. Something about the guy made Vince wonder if maybe he should reconsider. The man had a similar look to the one he’d recognised in Sonya’s eyes that first time in Greenwich Village. It was the same look he knew that he carried. They all had what Vince’s grandpa called ‘Cain’s eyes’ – the eyes of a killer.
Yeah, but what did Grandpa Everett know? Vince’s grandfather hadn’t recognised the killer eyes of the kid who shot him through the throat with a .22 revolver when he’d discovered him trying to boost the cash from the till in his store.
Or maybe he had, but the shock of seeing them in his own grandson’s face had thrown him off.
Vince shrugged. Who gives a fuck anyway? If the guy comes back, Sonya will warn me. If he wants to get it on, then so be it. He’d kill the guy and see how hot for it that made Sonya.
Feeling the stirrings of an erection, Vince smiled to himself. Then he dipped a hand into the hip pocket of his jeans. He couldn’t play guitar like the King, but he always carried a spare string.
The ‘G’ string – Sonya always laughed at that, usually lifting the hem of her skirt to show him hers – had never been on a guitar and likely never would be. He’d taken the two ends and fastened them to large steel washers. The weighted ends made it easy for snaring round a throat, then gave him good handles while he throttled his victim. The string was a medium gauge, with a nylon filament and sheathed in a wound brass coil: tough enough not to break and not too slim that it cut deeply. Vince wanted his victims aware while he strangled them to death.
Chapter 7
A little under a year ago, I’d launched an assault with my friend Rink on a derelict building in Little Rock, Arkansas. We’d been searching for my brother, John, who’d been in the employ of the men inside. Though we’d both expected to be met with violence, I’d cautioned against the use of lethal force. The men inside were little more than low-end criminals and, without knowledge of John’s fate, I couldn’t reconcile myself to the thought of murder. Even when the guns started blasting, I’d reined in my instincts and hadn’t aimed to kill.
So what’s happened here?
I held back the blanket so that Don could look at the two dead men. I avoided looking at their purpling faces and their staring, accusatory eyes.
I concentrated instead on Don’s reaction to their identity. Please tell me that you don’t recognise them, I prayed.
My worst fear was that the two men were merely local punks, who, misreading my arrival in town, thought I was someone looking into their criminal activities. Maybe they were dealing dope or had an illegal cook shop hidden out in the hills and they thought I was there to upset their enterprise or even take their customers away from them.
‘I don’t know them.’
There was relief at Don’s words but only for the space of a heartbeat.
‘You’re sure? Take another look.’
‘I don’t need another look. I’ve lived here in Bedford Well for years and know every deadbeat out there. They’re not from round here, Hunter.’
This second wave of relief was tinged with the realisation that Don’s original suspicion was probably right. Someone had sent these men to watch Don’s house and to dissuade anyone from lingering there very long. It went some way to justifying my actions, but also it would be likely that more men were coming. And that could mean I might have to kill them too.
‘How’d you do it, Hunter?’
I allowed the blanket to drop back in place. The smell coming off the corpses wafted out of the interior of the SUV, and we moved away hurriedly. When I didn’t immediately reply, Don added, ‘I didn’t see any bullet holes. How’d you take them out?’
In the worst way imaginable.
‘Does it matter?’
Don shook his head. Then he planted his fists on his hips and looked around. The forest encroached on all sides, and an outcropping of limestone jutted across the trail, hiding the S
UV from anyone who might travel up the service road. But it wasn’t exactly the middle of nowhere.
‘They’ll be found sooner or later,’ he said.
‘Let’s hope that it’s later then.’ I closed the door and sealed the men in their tomb. It would stop the wildlife from getting at them but wouldn’t deter the insects for long. ‘You OK with that, Don?’
‘Not really. I was a cop and I have to admit that this really goes against the grain.’
‘I hear you. But now you’re just a father looking out for his family.’
‘Exactly.’ Don rubbed his hands over his face, the bristles of his beard rasping against his palms. ‘That’s why I’ll keep this secret. If they were here to hurt my family, well, I’m glad that you killed the bastards.’
But what if they weren’t?
I mentally shook myself. Enough worrying about the identity of the two I’d killed; they were punk criminals and given the opportunity they would have killed me. They got what was coming to them. That was all I had to keep telling myself.
We’d left my Audi a short stroll away on the main service trail and we walked back to it in silence. It gave us the opportunity to clear the fetid breath of decomposition from our lungs. I started the engine and threw the car into reverse. Driving back down the trail until I found an area flat enough to turn on, I then directed the Audi down towards the road.
We had to wait until a yellow school bus had passed before nosing out on to the road and following in its wake, allowing enough space between the two vehicles that no one would recall anything about the car seen leaving the scene of the body dump. Sooner or later the corpses would be discovered and I didn’t want a group of school kids carrying tales to the cops. Kids noticed much more than they were given credit for.
‘I guess I’d best warn you,’ Don said.
Concentrating on the road ahead, I merely flicked Don a glance.
‘Adrian isn’t happy that I’ve called you in.’
I’m not happy either, I thought. ‘Why not?’
‘He has just lost his wife. He has come to terms with the police findings and won’t accept that her death was anything but a tragic accident. He might be a little . . . difficult.’