by Matt Drabble
“Here,” Danny said, reaching back and pressing the silver brooch into her hand.
“Thank you. Where’s Doctor Reese?” she asked Danny, who was sitting up front and driving alone.
“Gone, I dropped him off; there’s no need to keep him involved any further,” Danny answered, not taking his eyes off the road ahead.
“Is he going to tell?”
“No, or at least I hope not. Maybe if he gets backed into a corner he might crack, but right now he’s already taking some leave from work and heading off on holiday with his daughter.”
“Are we in his car still?” Jane asked, concerned.
“No, it’s a rental and don’t worry I had a friend do the paperwork, a very discreet friend.”
“Nathan, your boyfriend?”
“Yes,” Danny answered after a long pause.
“So I’m guessing that no one knows about him?”
“You’d guess right.”
“So where are we going?”
“There’s an old cabin in the woods.”
“Sounds ominous.”
“It belongs to Nathan’s grandfather. We should be safe there; no one knows about him or the cabin,” Danny stressed. “As far as Nathan is concerned, it’s just me using it. He doesn’t know anything about you or our jail break so no one will look for either of us there.”
“So what, we’re just going to hide out?”
“We need some time, Jane - time to figure things out.”
“You mean time to catch this man.”
“Yes, because right now we’re the only ones looking.”
“That doesn’t make me feel any easier, Danny.”
“Well, what else can we do? There’s a stack of dead people here, Jane … friends,” he said in a small tight voice choked with anger. “I couldn’t walk away even if I wanted to.”
Jane knew that he made sense; she felt the same way, but they were just two people, and fugitives no less. “So where do we start?”
“With this,” Danny said, plucking an old fountain pen from an envelope on the passenger seat.
“What is it?”
“One last present from the departing doctor. He managed to snag it from the evidence locker at the station.”
“Dare I ask who it belonged to?”
“Martin Kline. It’s the pen that he used to write his ledgers with. I thought that we could find you a secluded spot and let you hold it for a while.”
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The room was a raging torrent of camera flashes as the gathered photographers scrummed and jostled for position with raised tempers and sharpened elbows. The pressroom was woefully small for such an event but Barrett had insisted on leading the press conference and he wanted it to be far away from the meddling of London.
His suit was pressed and cleaned and his buttons gleamed under the lights. He stood tall and proud, commanding the room with his presence and relishing the anticipation.
“Ladies and gentlemen, if I could have your attention please,” he announced loudly and was happy to see that the room immediately quietened.
Several hands shot up, trembling arms desperate for attention, desperate for answers, but he ignored them all.
“I would like to start by announcing that the man responsible for the recent spate of deaths in the area has been identified and an end has been put to his reign.”
“Is it true that a reporter for The London Herald caught and killed the man in a desperate struggle?” a man bellowed out from the back of the room, with no regard for protocol.
“I am here today to put to rest several rumours that seem to be circulating,” Barrett said in a strong clear voice. “Randall Zerneck was working with the police in a very limited capacity, under my direct supervision,” he lied. “After becoming aware of serious deficiencies within this very station, I took it upon myself to intervene and run this investigation personally.”
“You mean Detective Inspector Meyers?” a female reporter called out.
“All I can say is that there is an investigation into a senior member of the force based here in Faircliff. As the investigation is currently under way, I am unable to comment further at this time.”
“Are you saying that you are responsible for the identification of the Crucifier?” another reporter quizzed.
Barrett smiled broadly. “What I will say is that this investigation is the result of much hard work from many dedicated men and women. I would also like to add my displeasure at the need of the press to attach such casual nicknames to such serious crimes.”
“If it was your investigation, then how come Zerneck was in Kline’s basement alone?” an attractive woman demanded, standing up in the front row, and Barrett made a mental note to invite the woman back for a little one-on-one later.
“Unfortunately, when dealing with… non-professionals,” Barrett said, leaving the right length of pause to underline his point, “there can be lapses of judgement. Mr Zerneck acted somewhat hastily and placed himself in a very dangerous position; he was very fortunate that we showed up in time.”
The rest of the press conference was a tap dance as Barrett managed to dance around several key issues and create the appearance of his own success without divulging too many details. He knew that Zerneck was going to back his new version of events without too much fuss. He could spot a coward a mile away and Zerneck had ‘self-preservation’ stamped through his core like a stick of Blackpool rock. He would allow the reporter enough credit to sell some books but it was now Barrett’s face that would be at the forefront of any national praise.
He smiled warmly to the female reporter that had caught his eye and felt justified as she blushed a little; today was going to be a good day.
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Jane held the pen in her hand reluctantly. She wanted answers but she was afraid to step into the Shadow World again. The power there was growing stronger and stronger until its reach had seemingly crossed over to the waking world and she no longer felt safe at any time.
The cabin was indeed secluded and peaceful as Danny had promised. The place had a warm and welcoming aura and she had secretly hoped to catch a whiff of Nathan here, as Danny was so secretive about his lover, but there was no trace. She couldn’t blame Danny for keeping his private life private especially when his chosen profession had such a dark reputation hanging over it. Truth be told, she was more than a little jealous that he had someone living to fight for when all she seemed to have were the dead.
She was freshly showered and sat in the middle of the lounge after Danny had dragged the furniture clear for her. Her skin was cold but clean. She wore nothing but her underwear, determined to shed herself of all distractions. She would have preferred to be naked but even given Danny’s orientation there were limits.
She gripped the pen firmly in both hands and let out all the air in her lungs in one long exhale. She closed her eyes and felt the sudden rush of exhilaration that she had thought long gone. In spite of everything, she was surprised to discover that she still wanted this journey. She was concerned that she could no longer trust her own visions after the disaster at the school, but she had to try and find the truth, no matter what. She let Marty’s spirit flow into her as she stepped across the threshold and into his past.
The world was still new to Martin Kline but pain and fear were already familiar companions. His days were spent buried under musty old texts bloated with tales of terror and furious vengeance. In this small room at the back of the church, God was a deity who revelled in his violence.
Marty’s father was an old school preacher, one of blood and thunder, charged with bludgeoning his congregation into submission and obedience. There had been a time when the pews were jammed full of eager upturned faces, but their numbers had declined over the years as souls reneged on their nature to be saved. Marty would watch his father in awe from his seated position in the front row as the preacher raged against his flock. Most of the sermons had been about atonement and responsibility. Hi
s father had seen humanity as deeply flawed beings that could not be trusted to lead lives of virtue, moulded clay by the hands of God and charged with his praise.
As the years passed, the Reverend Abraham Kline became more and more unstable. His congregation began to wilt and retreat under his tirades and the man started to disappear inside a bottle. Marty had never known his mother, and his father had answered any questions with a swift and painful backhand.
The parish provided accommodation along with the post and while the cottage was fairly small, it always felt empty to Martin. By the age of 7, the young boy had yet to see the inside of a classroom and was homeschooled as far as the authorities were concerned. But in reality, his lessons consisted of occasional private sermons followed by his father’s vengeful attention. Young Martin had never known love that wasn’t accompanied by pain; if he’d been asked, he would have expressed genuine surprise that not everyone lived a life such as his.
Abraham Kline saw the hand of the devil all around him and with increasing regularity. He began to suspect that the postman was an agent of hell sent to watch him and that the milkman was placed at his front door to poison him and his son with the breast milk of the Whore of Babylon herself, her excretions sent to pollute a man of God. It wasn’t long before his rants began to be noticed and several tradesmen refused to attend the Reverend’s home. After one too many violent outbursts, Abraham knew that he had to be smarter, that he had to fool those around him, those who would revel in his incarceration as it would remove the one man who could see the true face of evil.
Martin never stood a chance of a normal life, even if he had come from normal untainted genes; his isolated upbringing would soon become his indoctrination into his father’s deluded world. He soon began to feel his father’s fears and saw life through the man’s crooked eyes.
Martin discovered that the agents of the devil could take many forms and he found that cats in particular made cunning recruits, but little Martin was cunning too. He found an old refrigerator dumped at a local beauty spot and, through sheer perspiration and determination, he managed to drag the thing out deep into the woods where it would become his shrine to godliness.
Martin used his own money, earned by scrubbing the church floor until his fingers bled, to buy expensive feline treats. He would lure the strays out with promises of food and love before trapping them in a heavy duty plastic bin bag. His happiest memories would soon become his trips out into the woods with his precious cargo. Many was the time that he would be unable to stop his casual walk from turning into a joyful jog as the excitement would build and build until he was running.
He would sit by the side of the fridge with his ear pressed against the cold metallic side, listening to the panicked scratches and wails of the cat as it would fight uselessly to be free. Sometimes it would take a day to die and sometimes it would take a week, depending on the condition.
Jane watched the birth of a killer through the boy’s own mind and tears ran down her cheek unnoticed as she wept for a child lost to madness. She also wept for his future victims.
By the time Martin was 15, his father had been committed to an institution after finally losing his mind in front of the few remaining parishioners. He had leapt from his pulpit after swearing that he could hear someone’s phone ringing with deafening volume. He had attacked several people, before jamming a pencil deep into each ear to drown out the noise of God’s unanswered call.
Jane watched on as Martin left the church and disappeared. Because he had never attended a school or visited a doctor, there was no trace of him in any bureaucratic system and no one was sent to look for him. He vanished into a class that operated below the sightlines of the people; he begged, stole and sold himself to survive, all the while waiting and watching for a sign. Jane could see that he was sure that God had a plan for him, a plan that would be revealed in time and he had to be ready.
She was dimly aware that someone was trying to pull her back into the real world but she ignored the insistent tugging. Danny might have his concerns about her length of time here but he would have to wait. She watched on as one black night Marty saw a vision finally sent to him. He saw a blinding light that bathed his bones in warmth despite the cold and he knew that his mission was to find his mother. God had sent a Crucifier to earth before, a man who had been tasked with carrying out God’s work before but had ultimately failed in his quest. Martin would be a new and improved instrument of God’s will, a surgical tool to cut through the devil’s concubines and strike at the heart of evil.
Jane watched on with twisting terror as Martin sought woman after woman but they were all liars. She felt his rage infect her system like a virus and she started to feel empathy with his plight. He was a product of a perverted society, and God’s plan was deeply flawed and unfair - a hopeless task for a hopeless soul. She watched his knife fall time and time again into soft flesh and her mouth watered as the blood spurted. She felt his rage and showered beneath the crimson sprays of truth and justice. Dimly, she felt the bones in her hand crack as she clenched her fist tight enough to make it pop. She wanted a blade of her own, she wanted to swing the razor’s edge with impunity and strike down those who had stood in her way.
The sharp stinging slap ripped her from this place in an instant, so quickly that she only just managed to turn her head and avoid vomiting down her shirt. The room in the cabin spun around and she threw up again before coughing violently. She flapped away Danny’s hands as they reached for her with comforting intent but she couldn’t stand to have anyone else’s thoughts in her head right now; it was too damn crowded in there already.
“It was him, it was Marty,” she finally managed to say after a few minutes.
“Are you sure?” Danny asked.
“Yes, I wish to God that I wasn’t, but it was him.” She thought of the killer who had been under her nose the whole time, working by her side in the pet store - a seemingly harmless young man, albeit an awkward one.
“Our man is too organised to be a nutter like he was, Jane. This killer was able to function without being caught, he left no trace evidence at any crime scenes, no fibres, no witnesses, no nothing.”
“I saw him, Danny; it was Marty.”
“Forgive me for saying so, Jane, but you’re not exactly batting with a hundred percent success rate lately. What if these images are more of the real killer’s ability to project into your head?”
“Not when it’s this clear,” Jane sighed heavily. “I was there, I was inside his head; his emotions were poison bubbling under my skin, Danny. He killed those poor women.”
“What about the original Crucifier case? What’s the link there?”
“Nothing more than inspiration, I’m afraid. He believed that he was on a mission from God, sent to find his mother and send her home. Every woman that he saw a bloom on turned out to not be her and he punished them accordingly.”
“Jesus, if it’s not one thing, it’s your mother,” Danny said lightly. “So this is really it? I’m on the run, you’ve broken out of a secure hospital and for what?”
Jane could only look on hopelessly as his malaise became hers too. It all seemed so anticlimactic that their quarry had already been put in the cold ground and covered in dirt. The only trouble was that her accompanying entourage of the dead were still near. She could feel them hovering in the background and their thirst for vengeance wasn’t yet quenched.
She had no idea what came next, but her thoughts were interrupted by the sound of an approaching car.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
VISITORS
Randall pulled up to the cabin, morbidly aware of its isolated location. The past twenty four hours or so had been an illustration in just how quickly tides could turn. One minute he had been the hero who had taken down the Crucifier, the next he was Barrett’s bitch. He had looked into the commander’s eyes and knew that the man would not hesitate to fabricate evidence that would sink Randall Zerneck.
The truth was that he
had been at the children’s playground across from the Faircliff Police Station and he had found Kim Croft’s body. He thought that he’d been careful enough to not leave any trace behind of his presence, but he couldn’t be sure and Barrett was not past planting all the evidence he needed.
His phone had stopped ringing once word got out that he had only been doing the bidding of Barrett; now, the cop was the hero. He still had his contract with The Herald but they were starting to ask questions about why he hadn’t mentioned the fact that he was working with the police. It was killing him to not be able to tell the world the truth, that he was the hero and that Barrett was blackmailing him into going along with his version of events, but he liked his freedom a little too much to argue.
The phone call that had brought him out to the woods had been both anonymous and a Godsend. The man on the other end of the line had promised him answers and a way out from under Barrett’s thumb. He had considered the man’s words only for a moment before realising that he had little choice.
The drive out into the country had been long but the directions were accurate and he found the place without any real trouble. The heavily wooded area was thick with concealment and he didn’t pass another house all the way up the long lane after he had turned off the main road.
He pulled up to the cabin knowing that he must be in the right place because it was the only house for miles. There was another car parked outside and he wasn’t surprised to find it there; he knew that someone would be here, he just didn’t know who.
He had been named after his grandfather. The first Randall Zerneck had been a veteran of the Second World War, a bitter man famed for his quick temper and quicker fists. For some reason, Randall Senior had looked upon his grandson as a second chance to teach a young mind the truth of the world. His truths, however, were about equating the evils of the world with darker complexions than his own. Randall Junior, however, had been of a strong mind himself, ironically inheriting much of his grandfather’s determination and iron will, never one for having other’s opinions forced upon him.