Bloodstorm

by Sam Millar

  Karl glanced quickly at Naomi’s terrified face on the verge of tears, believing the gunmen would kill them both, no matter the outcome. Resigned, he said, “In the desk beside the far window. Bottom drawer.”

  The other gunman walked to the desk, opened the drawer, and removed the manuscript. Nodding to his companion, he said, “It’s the one. Got Brown’s name all over it.”

  Naomi’s terrified eyes burned into Karl’s. We’re going to be killed, the eyes said.

  Karl glanced at the leading gunman, trying desperately to think, clear the muck of shock from his head.

  “Studying my face, Karl? You really don’t want to be studying my face. If you ever see my face naked, it will be the last face you ever see. Understand?”

  “Yes …”

  “That yes didn’t sound too convincing, Karl.”

  The gun was brought back to Naomi’s head. A second later, there was a horrible sound, like knuckles being cracked. It was the sound of the gun being cocked. The terrifying sound make her jerk, made Karl shudder.

  “For god’s sake, don’t touch her! She’s got nothing to do with any of my business.”

  “That’s right. It’s always the innocent who get punished for the guilty; always the innocent who are short-changed.” Then, placing his mouth tight against Karl’s ear, the gunman whispered with perverse seductiveness: “Listen very carefully, you cock-sucking bastard. If you ever make me get out of bed on a shitty night like this again, I’ll kill you both. My advice for a healthy future? Tread very carefully. Stick to what you know – which is probably very little. Do you understand?”

  His throat arid dry, Karl could only nod.

  “Good. Now, go back to your fucking. It’ll keep you out of trouble.”

  As quickly as they appeared, the gunmen vanished. Dark magicians of the night.

  “It’s okay. It’s okay,” soothed Karl, hugging a sobbing Naomi, trying desperately to prevent her shaking. His own shaking was impossible to control.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  Friday, 2 March

  ‘Distrust all in whom the impulse to punish is powerful.’

  Friedrich Nietzsche, Thus Spake Zarathustra

  “ARE YOU SURE you’re both okay?” asked Wilson, his back leaning against a cupboard in Karl’s office downstairs. Beside him stood Detective Philips, taking notes.

  “As far as having guns shoved into our faces, how the hell do you think we are?”

  “Sorry. That was a stupid question.”

  “We finally agree on something. Truth be told, we’re both still shook up by it. The doctor has given Naomi some sedatives. She’s resting. I only hope she hasn’t been too traumatised.”

  “I’m going to leave Philips at the door – or at least in a car, across the road,” stated Wilson.

  “No you’re not. Nobody goes to a dentist that has bad teeth, do they? That’s all I need, word getting out that I require police protection. Terrific advertising for my business. And anyway, my apologies to Philips, but he doesn’t exactly have the physique any longer to strike the fear of god into anyone.”

  “Apologies accepted, Kane,” said Philips, nonchalantly.

  “Well then, if not you, what about Naomi?” enquired Wilson. “Would she consider protection – if only for a week or two? We can also find a safe house for her to stay in.”

  “She’s extremely obstinate. I hate to be the one to tell you this, but cops aren’t exactly top of Naomi’s favourite people list. She hardly tolerates me, to be honest. No, when the time comes, she’ll decide what to do. Hopefully, I can get her to go and stay with her parents, for a while.”

  “Have you any idea what the gunmen looked like?” enquired Philips, his pen tapping against the roof of the notepad.

  “Sooty and Sweep with woollen faces, any help? No, of course we don’t know what they looked like. Both our minds froze. Even the gunmen’s muffled voices came out slowly, as if they were on drugs.”

  “It’s more than likely they were the same drug dealers who murdered Chris Brown,” said Wilson, appearing to be thinking about something.

  “And the only thing they wanted was Brown’s manuscript?” added Philips.

  “Seems that way. They didn’t take any valuables – at least not that I’m aware of. I haven’t given it much thought.”

  “The gang must have wanted to make sure none of their names were on that manuscript,” said Wilson, pushing himself away from the cupboard. “You didn’t by any chance happen to make a copy of it?”

  Karl shook his head. “No. I hardly even had time to look at it, so I can’t even supply you with any of the names that were in it – if any.”

  “Karl? I only heard. How’s Naomi?” said Tom Hicks, suddenly popping his head into the room.

  “Under the circumstances, she’s holding up well. Take a seat, Tom. Wilson and company were just leaving.”

  Taking the hint, Wilson made a move for the door, nodding at Philips. “I’ll keep you informed of any developments. In the meantime, if you can think of anything else, you’ll let me know?”

  “Of course,” said Karl, his voice almost a whisper.

  Tom waited until Wilson and Philips had left, before asking, “How is she, really?”

  “Really? All fucked up, poor girl,” said Karl, his face tightening. “Cowardly bastards, Tom. If I could just get my hands on the scumbags, just for a few minutes without their guns, I’d show them how tough they really are. Bastards.”

  “At least you’re both safe. There’s a lot to be said for that.”

  “I suppose,” said Karl. “At least you didn’t hit me with the ‘I told you so. Digging your own grave,’ speech, even though you were right.”

  “Forget all that. Anyway, don’t know if this is the right time or place, but I’ve completed those blood tests you asked me for.”

  “And? Both different, weren’t they?”

  “One of them – Chris Brown’s, I believe – was A-plus; the other sample was O-negative.”

  “I know this will sound stupid to you, but it couldn’t have been blood from his dog, could it? It had its throat slit out in the yard, and the intruders could have trailed some of it in. I’m not too familiar with the difference between animal and human blood.”

  “No. It wasn’t from his dog. Dogs do have a specific blood type, although it’s not the familiar ABO system used to determine human blood type. This definitely wasn’t dog blood. Also, there was just a tiny residue of blood-cleaning fluid found in the O-negative sample. It’s the same fluid we use at the lab. It can’t be bought commercially.”

  The Rockford Files sounded. Karl lifted the phone from the table. Checked the text message. YOYO. Ur N Dngr. UR NT Openng Yr Iyz.

  “Yoyo yourself, wanker.”

  “Who was that?”

  “Some dick with nothing better to do. Keeps sending me these weird text messages.”

  “What did it say?”

  “Don’t be funny. I’m an adult. This stuff is for adolescents.”

  “Let me see it.”

  “Are you serious?” replied Karl, handing the phone to Tom. “Don’t tell me you know how these things work?”

  “Of course. Quite simple, really. Just like learning another language.”

  Show off. You were always good as that kind of shit in school. Well? What does it say?”

  “YOYO – you’re on your own. The rest of the text reads: You are in danger. You’re not opening your eyes.” Tom looked at Karl. “How long have you been getting these?”

  “Three, possibly four weeks. Why?”

  “Have they all been the same?”

  “More or less the same theme. Why? Don’t tell me you think there’s something in this gibberish?”

  “Don’t be silly. Why would I think such nonsense? You get warnings that someone is after you, and a few days later you’re attacked by masked gunmen. Why on earth would I think there’s something important in the messages?”

  “Leave the sarcasm to me, T
om.”

  “Karl?” shouted Naomi, from upstairs. “Can you come up for a minute?”

  “I’ve overstayed my welcome,” said Tom rising. “I’ll talk to you tomorrow. Oh. Almost forgot. I was able to trace the manufacturer of the pacemaker. They were good enough to cross-reference their records for me. The owner was a gentleman by the name of Andy Fleming, from Dublin.”

  “Dublin? Wonder what the hell brought him up here, only to meet his death?”

  “Haven’t a clue, but I’ve handed all the details over to Wilson, as required. Hopefully he’ll amaze us by coming up with something relevant – though I wouldn’t hold my breath.”

  “Only when I’m swimming.”

  “Well, I’ll leave you to it. In the meantime, give Naomi my best.”

  “Tom?”

  “Yes?”

  “Don’t be mentioning anything about our conversation to anyone over at church. I don’t have a lot of faith in the present congregation, at the moment.”

  “Even Vicar Wilson?”

  “Especially Vicar Wilson, and in particular his choir boys …”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  Confronting the Demon: 1988

  ‘All human beings … are commingled out of good and evil.’

  Robert Louis Stevenson, The Strange Case of

  Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde

  IT WAS THE boy’s fault. He, and he alone, had allowed the monster to be freed. He had failed his father, again. He had failed his mother forever.

  It was many years later, when the boy finally climbed the ladder to adulthood, that the decision to correct this terrible wrong germinated fully. He had followed Bibendum’s journey for years until it became an obsessive monkey on his back. Now, as a man, he was about to ape the monster by becoming a killer, also.

  Checking for the umpteenth time, the man counted the bullets housed in the gun’s chamber. He had been offered the service of an automatic weapon, but declined it after being informed of its tendency to jam. The thought of pointing the weapon at Bibendum, only to hear the sickening click of impotence, sent his stomach into high-kicks of nerves. Secretly, he believed Bibendum could not be felled by mere bullets, as if he were some indestructible, gothic monster. A clammy sweat broke out on his forehead at the thought of Bibendum grabbing him, finishing what he had failed to do, all those years ago.

  One bullet, fired into the correct part of the skull, should be more than sufficient, but he would empty the entire chamber into the fat skull.

  Parking his car a good distance away, he walked the remainder of the journey, the night’s darkness fully cloaking him. He strolled by the bar, glancing casually in the front window. The monster Bibendum was there, skulking in the far corner, alone, a quiet shadow crammed with neon lights reflecting off its hairless head.

  The man crossed the street to the vacant parking lot, and behind a family of trees, he vomited violently.

  Stop being a coward, he admonished. You know what has to be done. Do it. Get it over with.

  Despite the coldness of the night, his hands were sweating. He wiped them quickly, only to see the sweat return almost immediately.

  In the distance, the town clock chimed midnight. It was now Good Friday. A day he would never forget …

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  Sunday, 4 March

  ‘A resolution to avoid an evil is seldom framed till the evil is so far advanced as to make avoidance impossible.’

  Thomas Hardy, Far from the Madding Crowd

  KARL GLANCED AT his five cards. Not bad. It was the first non-mongrel hand he’d had all night. Even at that, it wasn’t terrific. The four hearts he held gave him a potential flush, but he quickly contemplated whether or not to go with the two aces – a heart and club. The flush would be the most likely candidate. Nine possible hearts left in the deck, or scattered between the other five players; only two other aces, floating somewhere in card world.

  “C’mon, c’mon,” urged Buster ‘Bucket Mouth’ McCracken, host to tonight’s poker game, in the living room of his house. “We haven’t all night, Karl. Some of us have real jobs to go to in the morning. For the tenth time, how many cards do you want?”

  Ignoring McCracken, Karl concentrated on the cards in his hands. He had always equated poker players with private investigators: both needed to make decisions based on incomplete information. One misinterpretation of that information, and you were up the shitty creek, paddle firmly rammed up your arse.

  Karl’s mobile rang.

  “Thought we agreed to no mobile phones?” claimed Marty Harrington. “Buster’s right. Some of us have real jobs to go to in the morning.”

  “This coming from a man making a living from the dead?” retorted Karl, trying to sound offended. “Stop moaning, Marty. It used to be The Exorcist – though you’d probably be more at home with that.” Karl hit the receive button. “Hello?”

  “I need to speak to you,” stated a solemn voice at the other end.

  “Wilson? Are you serious? I’m at a business meeting, at the moment.”

  “Yes, I can hear that. I need to ask you a few questions.”

  Cradling the phone awkwardly between shoulder and jaw while holding his cards, Karl asked, “Now? At this time of night? Can’t it wait until the morning?”

  “You wouldn’t want me to raid McCracken’s house for illegal gambling, just to drag you out?”

  “What’s crawled up your arse?”

  “I could have you brought over to North Queen Street for the evening, nice comfortable cell to do your thinking in.”

  Trying to ignore the implied threat, Karl refocused his attention on the game. His brain said one card, go for the flush, odds are better. “Give me three,” said his balls.

  “Hallefuckinglujah!” exclaimed Bucket Mouth, skimming three cards towards Karl, before servicing the rest of the players through a haze of cigar and cigarette smoke.

  Disgusted with his lack of luck, Harrington was the first to throw his defeated cards onto the table – for the tenth consecutive time.

  “Are you still there?” asked Wilson, impatiently.

  “Call me back in five minutes,” said Karl, cutting off Wilson’s probing voice.

  Checking each card individually by sweating them in from the top, Karl whispered a silent prayer for the distinctive pyramid point, indicating an ace. Instead, the top of the incoming card was curved. A deuce. Bastard! It got worse. It was the deuce of hearts. He would have had a flush, had he listened to his brain. He sweated the next card. Another deuce. Excellent! Two pair, at least. His heart did a little jig as the next card appeared over the horizon, its pyramid-shape granting him hope. His heart began to beat faster. Easy … easy … could be a four … Closed his eyes; praying. It’s an ace! Fuck. A full house. Good old balls!

  Karl upped the ante, slightly, not wanting to scare off the rest of the players from his trap. The strategy was a complete disaster. Everyone smelt a rat, and folded their cards, pronto. Everyone except Henry McGovern, a lawyer with a criminal reputation for winning outrageous decisions in court and at cards.

  “I think you’re bluffing, Karl,” stated McGovern, bringing a fat Cuban cigar to his equally fat mouth. “You are bluffing, aren’t you?”

  Karl shrugged his shoulders; smiled. “One way of finding out, Henry. But it’ll cost you.”

  McGovern lit the cigar and angled his lips, before blowing the thick, cobalt smoke into the air. “Fair enough, Karl. Your twenty, plus … let’s say … fifty.”

  Karl struggled to keep his face expressionless, all the while looking at his full house. Slowly, he set the cards down. Shook his head. Looked at his money. Looked directly across at the grinning McGovern.

  Easy. Don’t rush it. You have sleazeball by the bollocks.

  “A little bit of courtroom intimidation?” said Karl, fingers doing a little tap-dance on the table before reaching for his wad of money. “I was going to fold, but I don’t like bullies. So, I’ll tell you what, Henry. Your fifty, plus ano
ther fifty – no, make that one hundred.”

  An audible intake of air could be heard from the audience. Suddenly, everything went quiet. All were watching. Harrington joined his fingers in prayer mode, and rested his chin gently upon them.

  McGovern sucked on the cigar, once more, looking at his healthy pile of money. Fingered it gently, almost lovingly. He made an ‘o’ with his lips and manufactured a perfect, smoky tyre. The tyre widened, hovering over Karl’s head like a halo.

  “Let’s make this interesting, Karl. Your one hundred, plus …” he thumbed the pile of money “… another two.”

  Bucket Mouth’s mouth gaped open. Harrington rubbed his hands gleefully, knowing someone would come out of this battle critically injured, perhaps fatally.

  Karl rechecked his money. Disappointed. Just when your luck is in, your money’s out. Just enough to see McGovern. He counted out the correct amount.

  “Okay, Henry. I call. Hit me.”

  “A pleasure,” said McGovern, spreading his cards perfectly on the table’s surface. “Queen Elizabeth taking a shit.”

  “Fuck …” whispered everyone – bar Karl – in perfect unison. “A royal flush …”

  Karl was speechless. His chest tightened. A heart attack? The room was suddenly swaying. All eyes were on his. He shook his head, and gallantly admitted defeat by dropping his cards face down.

  The Rockford Files sounded once more.

  “One minute’s up. Tell your friends to get ready to be arrested. I’m coming up,” said Wilson at the end of the phone.

  “No need to, Mister Tactful. I’m finished here. I’m on my way out now,” said Karl, closing the phone, and then standing before wiggling into his overcoat. “Au revoir, you bunch of bastards. Same time next week.” His legs suddenly felt heavy, his pockets light.