by Michael Kerr
As he sat in the almost empty cafeteria, drinking expensive but low quality coffee, he tried Laura’s number yet again, having already attempted to contact her four times as he had driven north. He slammed his Nokia onto the tabletop in frustration as her recorded message once more talked at him impersonally. A waitress and the few customers turned to stare at him. He glowered at each in turn until they looked away.
The coffee scalded his mouth and brought tears to his eyes as he drank it too fast, eager to set off on the last leg of his journey, now running late. It was still only four-forty-five, but fully light.
The fog had magically dispersed as he pulled back out onto the M1 and accelerated smoothly up to ninety. He was trembling with an unshakeable presentiment of doom, which manifested itself in what felt like cold fingers wrapped around and squeezing his intestines. It was the same gut-churning fear that overcame him every time he arrived at an airport terminal to catch a flight; a sickening, sinking, leg-weakening sensation that sapped his strength and reduced him to a quaking mound of Jell-O. He knew that the unexpected may be waiting for him; a sudden catastrophe that could not be reckoned on, and which he was powerless to deal with appropriately. A lot of what life threw at you was from out of left field, catching you completely by surprise and bowling you over like a ninepin.
Daydreaming as he drove, Jim journeyed back in time to relive an early experience of how a planned and professional operation could turn into a major-league fuck-up.
The incident now seemed a lifetime ago, but he could recall every heart-stopping second as if it had only taken place yesterday...
...As a rookie field agent back in Arizona, with brush cut hairstyle, brand new charcoal-grey suit, and full to bursting with pride and the need to prove himself, Jim had been on his first case; the junior member of a team that were approaching a remote timber-frame bungalow in the shadow of the Sauceda Mountains, halfway between Gila Bend and Ajo. They had parked the off-roaders well back, behind tumbles of time and wind-shaped sandstone over a hundred yards from the property, then donned Kevlar vests under the black jackets that were stencilled FBI in large white letters on the front and back. He had been armed with a pump-action Mossberg shotgun and a holstered Smith & Wesson 38 Special. They had moved carefully through the saguaro and rock-strewn landscape, to take up positions around the bleached, sagging building, that looked as though it would collapse under the next strong gust of hot, desert wind.
Jim was bathed in sweat by the time the snipers were in position and the stage was set to commence the operation. He was on a high, ready to follow orders and prove himself worthy of the shiny new bureau badge that was now his most treasured possession and seemed to burn against his ribs through the leather wallet it was seated in. He felt invulnerable; justice and might on his side. He was an agent of the Federal Bureau of Investigation, and the fidelity, bravery and integrity that the letters also stood for filled him with pride, and a false sense of security.
An attempted bank robbery at a First National location in Tucson had turned into a blood bath. Three raiders had disarmed the security guard and subsequently ordered him, the tellers and the sixteen customers present to lie face down on the floor. The bank guard was an ex-cop and carried a backup piece in an ankle holster. He had, stupidly, drawn it and managed to shoot one of the trio in the throat, and another in the leg, before the third opened fire with an AK-47, killing both him and a teenage boy who had unwittingly made the fatal mistake of lying next to him.
The two surviving would-be robbers aborted the raid and fled, taking a middle-aged female customer as hostage and quitting the scene in a stolen Chevy Tahoe.
The State Police had given chase, calling the bureau as a matter of course, due to the kidnap of the woman being a federal offence.
There must have been eighty cops gathered, waiting for the action as Agent In Charge, Curtis Baur stood and faced the bungalow, a bullhorn to his mouth, about to start the negotiation procedure.
It had been then that reality in all its sudden inequitable, unforgiving and indiscriminate purposelessness hit Jim with the force of an eighteen-wheeler.
A bullet ploughed through the AIC’s forehead, causing a strangled, amplified grunt to be emitted from the hand-held speaker. A baseball-sized hole opened up in the back of the agent’s head, and Jim – who had been knelt behind Curtis – fell back on his ass as a spout of blood and steaming brains covered him, followed by the full weight of the twitching but already dead body of the late negotiator. All professionalism died with Curtis Baur. A deafening staccato of return fire split the arid air, peppering the house, shattering the windows and reducing the one-storey building to match wood. With no concern for the plight of the hostage, just a bloodlust and determination to exact swift retribution, the gathering of law enforcement officers expended enough ammunition to decimate the population of a small town.
After what seemed an eternity, the firing ceased. No one moved, and for long seconds the only sound came from the groaning of splintered timbers, which were losing their battle to hold up the cedar-shingled roof.
As they stood transfixed, the remains of the door swung open. One of the kidnappers appeared, hands held high, waving to show that he was unarmed. He walked forward hesitantly, out into the bright sun with his eyes narrowed to slits, squinting against the dazzling light.
Jim pushed the corpse of the team commander off him and rose to his knees, just in time to see the execution of the now defenceless felon. A hail of bullets caused the less than able robber to dance like a marionette in the control of a demented puppeteer. Bright red florets blossomed from his shirt and pants as hot lead crashed into his body, turning him into a bloody rag doll; spinning him, driving him back into the doorway that he had just exited from.
They moved in, fingers on triggers, ready to open fire again at the least sign of movement. In the bungalow’s living room, among the bullet-riddled furniture and fittings, the two fugitives lay side by side, staring blankly at the ceiling, no longer a threat to anyone. The hostage was in the bedroom, curled up on a mattress as though asleep, with a single bullet hole in her temple, which would later – thank Christ! – be found to be from one of the killer’s guns. The paperwork that was subsequently cooked up between the state and bureau somehow made the foul-up look more like the taking of Iwo Jima, and Jim had quickly come to terms with the reality that however well-trained and prepared, anything could and did happen. The best laid plans of mice and men, and especially men, when adversity and guns were involved, often turned to shit when human nature in all its unpredictability was involved.
The reverie, though depressing, had helped eat up the miles. Jim cut the engine and stepped out, his butt numb and neck aching. The first thing he noticed was that Laura’s car was missing from its usual spot at the front of the cottage.
He rushed to the front door. It was locked, and his knocking, shouting, and even the throwing of gravel up at her bedroom window brought no response. He ran around to the back and found the kitchen door also locked, but the window next to it open. A damp chill pervaded him, as though embalming fluid had been injected into a vein, to be circulated through every part of his being by a labouring heart that was now full of icy liquid dispelling his blood.
Not bothering to go and retrieve the spare door key from the garage, Jim climbed through the window, noticing that the sill was clear, and suspecting that the large vase of flowers farther along it had been moved to allow prior unrestricted access. Lowering himself to the floor, he slipped off his loafers and quickly made his way through to the living room, his awareness to the surroundings heightened as he tried to ready himself for any eventuality. Silently, he wound his way up the metal steps. The house felt empty, but he was on guard, tensed for a sudden attack, his muscles as tightly coiled as the spiral staircase. In the bedroom, he found no clues. Laura just wasn’t there, though the bed had been slept in. The pillow was dimpled from where her head had lain on it, and the ruffled sheet had been thrown back. Th
ere seemed nothing untoward. Perhaps she was at work now. He checked the other small bedroom and the bathroom, before going back downstairs and finding a note on the coffee table, its corner pinned down by a heavy onyx ashtray. He read it twice, studied each word, and came to the sickening conclusion that Laura was in the hands of the killer.
A further meticulous search of the cottage confirmed his worst fears. On the jamb of her bedroom door was a small smear of blood, almost dry, not yet set hard to the gloss paint; still bright and easy to rub off on to the ball of his thumb. He went back to the bed and found a single red blot that appeared almost black against the background of the plum-coloured pillowcase. If not specifically searching for it, he would have – as he had on first inspection – missed it. Back downstairs he read the note again: Jim, I’ve had enough. I’m sorry, but I need time out from the job and everything else. I thought getting away from London would be the answer. But you can’t run away from yourself. I still haven’t come to terms with Karah’s death. And this case with teenage victims has got to me. Please don’t try to find me. I need to work things out. I’ll give you a call when I get it back together.
It was definitely Laura’s handwriting, but Jim knew that she had been taken from the cottage against her will. However messed up her mind was she wouldn’t – even under dire stress – have misspelled Kara’s name. The addition of an H was her message to him, telling him that the note was bogus. Also, though maybe not intentional, the extra letter was significant; H, for Hugh. He pocketed the piece of paper and went back through to the kitchen for his shoes, and then made for the front door, opening it as the phone began to ring. He rushed back to answer it before the machine kicked in.
“Hello,” he said.
“Hi. Is Laura there?”
“Who’s calling?”
“Larry.”
“Larry who?”
“Larry Hannigan. Odontology. Who am I speaking to?”
“Jim Elliott. I’m a close friend of Laura’s.”
“Well, er, Jim Elliott. I need to know that she’s okay.”
“I don’t think she is okay, Larry. I just got here and she’s missing. Why are you so concerned at this time in the morning?”
“I rang her with some results, just a few hours ago, and the more I thought about the implications, the more worried I got. My karma’s fucked up, and I think she’s in danger.”
“I need to know all you know, Larry. What results are you talking about?”
“Sorry, pal, no can do. I don’t know you from Adam. I’m going to ring her department.”
“Larry, whatever you do, do not ring the police. It’s a cop that’s involved in this. You could get her killed if you talk to the wrong person.”
“Give me one half decent reason why I should believe you.”
“Because I’ve got no reason to lie to you. I needn’t have answered the phone, or told you that she was missing. I need help, Larry, or Laura might not make it.”
There was a long pause. “I’ll buy that for now. Call in at the lab within an hour and convince me that I should trust you,” Larry said before giving him the address and disconnecting.
Jim left the cottage and headed for the city, the bunching muscles in his cheeks being the only outward sign of his agitation.
The small office he was ushered into was a world apart from the white, sterile looking laboratory he had passed through. The room was a scruffy den, pure sixties. The Dell pc on the paper-laden desktop clashed with garret-like surroundings that reflected Larry’s appearance and demeanour.
“I met Dylan in D.C., back in ’93 at Clinton’s inauguration ‘do’ at the Lincoln Memorial,” Jim said as he stared at the giant poster of Larry’s folk hero, which held pride of place, tacked to the wall above the desk. “He seemed a cool dude. I remember he sang ‘Chimes of Freedom’.”
Larry was impressed. His raised eyebrows and rapid blinking said so. “So, er, Jim, just who the hell exactly are you? And what’s happened to Laura?” he asked, pouring them both black coffee from a machine that could have been – and in fact was – a model manufactured in the ‘Swinging Sixties’.
“I’m an ex-FBI profiler, Larry. I knew Laura in London when she was with the Met. After her daughter died, I helped her get past it, and we got tight. She needed to move away, and I didn’t want to live with her and the force. Anyway, she contacted me over this Tacker case and asked if I would give a few pointers. The bottom line is, that I’ve got it narrowed down to a list of one; a cop on her team. I arranged to be at her place today, and arrived early. When I got there she was gone. I found traces of blood and this phoney note,” he said, withdrawing the folded sheet of paper from his shirt pocket and handing it to the technician.
“This is bullshit, Jim,” Larry said, reading it and passing it back. “She was up, on top of this. Christ, man, I was talking to her on the phone at one a.m. She wouldn’t have just taken off.”
“I know that. Help me on this, Larry. It could save her life.”
“She came to see me yesterday, late afternoon, with a fresh, partly eaten pork pie, and asked me to do an ‘off the record’ bite comparison with the two victims who’d had their nipples bitten off. I got a positive match and phoned her. She told me to treat it as evidence and do the necessary paperwork. I rang back because I couldn’t get it out of my head that she must have been with the killer yesterday, probably eating with him at lunchtime. I had bad vibes.”
“I know who he is, Larry” Jim said. “He must have realised that Laura was on to him, and abducted her. I don’t want him panicked. He may have already killed her, but if he hasn’t, I need for him to feel safe until I can locate her.”
Jim fell silent, looking down into the dregs of coffee in the old Greenpeace mug. He had voiced his fear that Laura might already be dead, and in saying it, had made it seem more of a probability than a possibility. And he didn’t know if he could deal with that, if it turned out to be true.
“Larry,” he said after gathering his thoughts. “I don’t want you to do anything till I get Laura back. Can you trust me and believe that I’m her only chance?”
“You really love her,” Larry stated.
“You’d better believe it.”
“Keep me posted, will you? She’s a special lady.”
“You got it, Larry. Thanks.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
LAURA reached out slowly, found and pressed the light switch and half-closed her eyes against the sudden glare. Hugh was withdrawing a long-bladed knife from the side of her neck, smiling cheerfully as he sat down on the bed next to her.
“What the fuck are you doing, Hugh? Why are you here?” Laura said, trying to feign ignorance, and simultaneously cope with the genuine shock and astonishment of what had transpired during the last few seconds.
Hugh’s smile vanished. “Nice try, boss. But it’s too late to act dumb. Thanks to your colonial friend coming up with a pretty good description, and putting it into your head that the Tacker was a copper, I’ve had to think up a whole new game plan. You suddenly put two and two together at lunchtime in the pub. Why?”
“It just fell into place,” Laura said, dropping all pretence. “Jim thought it had to be someone on the case. I hoped it wasn’t you, even when I saw that you were left-handed. Funny, I’d never really noticed that before. The phone call I just got sealed it.”
“Who were you talking to?”
“The lab. They did a comparison for me, and your teeth marks were identical to the killer’s, which means that you’re the maniac who gets off on killing young defenceless girls.”
“Careful, Laura. Push me and it can end right here and now. Where did you get my teeth marks from?”
“The pie you only ate half of in the pub.”
“So that’s what you went back for?”
“That’s right, Hugh. It’s over.”
“It isn’t over till it’s over, Laura. I’m betting that you were waiting to see if it was a match before you told anyon
e else. That means I’m still in the clear.”
“So what are you going to do, Hugh, kill me?”
“I hope not. I may not have to if you don’t try to do anything stupid. I need you out of the way though, under wraps until I get organised. But if you fuck with me...well, you know what I’m capable of. You’ve seen enough of my work.”
It didn’t make any sense to her. “Why, Hugh? You’re a good copper. Why did you murder all those girls?”
“You don’t need to ask. Elliott had all the answers. He’s too smart for his own good. I think I’ll kill him for fucking up my life and forcing me to have to start over. What I do to them is personal. I’m a liberated man, and what I do has nothing to do with anybody but me and my whore of a mother. She has to pay.”
“I thought that your parents lived down south, Hugh?”
“You were meant to. I watched my father die under a tractor, and spat on his dead face. Later, I fixed my mother and her fancy man. The flat and the photos are just a front. Edgar fucking Hoover Elliott was right again. I own a farm in the area that he pointed us at.”
“But if―”
“That’s it, Laura. No more talking. I’ve got a lot to do. Let’s go.”
With the point of the knife’s blade pricking the skin of her neck, drawing blood, Laura got up from the bed and allowed herself to be guided to the door, where Hugh stopped her with a hand on the shoulder.
“Remember, Laura, if you try to run or make any heroic moves, I’ll cut your pretty head off and leave it on a plate in the fridge for lover boy to find.”
She put a hand up to her neck, felt a bead of blood, and then lowered her arm back down to her side. “I’m not going to give you any reason to hurt me, Hugh,” she said, furtively wiping her finger on the door jamb as he urged her forward and down the stairs to the living room.