From The Shadows (Blaze series Book 1)

by David Carter

  “Sexuality,” O’Brian offered.

  “Yes! Exactly,” he agreed, embarrassed.

  O’Brian calmed down significantly. “So, you said you received a photo in the mail, or something...?”

  “Yes, something like that.”

  “Well, get on with it then—before I arrest you for verbally assaulting a police officer.”

  Jones hesitated. “If I take the chain off the door, do you promise to remain calm and keep your hands to yourself?”

  O’Brian knew that what he’d asked was completely innocent, but he thought it might be fun to mess with him for a moment.

  Payback’s a bitch, lardass.

  “What do you mean, keep my hands to myself? Are you calling me a faggot again?” O’Brian asked aggressively. “Do you really think I would want to feel you up? Perhaps I should show you how sweet I can be with my size twelve boot up your ass!”

  “No!” Jones squealed. “That’s not what I meant, I swear!”

  He relaxed when he saw O’Brian chuckling.

  “I’m just messing with you, Jonesy.” He grinned. “I’m a man of the law; you couldn’t be in safer hands.”

  Or more disgusting hands, thought Jones.

  He opened the door and ushered O’Brian inside, leading him to the dining room where he sat down at the sturdy dining table.

  O’Brian said, “Go and put the kettle on so we can sit down like rational adults and you can tell me what the hell this is all about.”

  Jones pottered around the kitchen until he returned with two large mugs of strong coffee and sat down opposite O’Brian. In the middle of the table was a white envelope. Jones pushed it across the polished surface. “Everything you need to know is in here,” he said.

  O’Brian took a sip of his coffee and picked up the mysterious package.

  “I will warn you now, Karl, the photos are somewhat, graphic,” he said.

  O’Brian replied with a nod.

  The colour drained from his face as he saw himself and Turner making love in their bedroom. He could remember the day the photos were taken, as it was the one and only time the curtains had been left open. They were always careful to lock the doors and draw the curtains, keeping their relationship in the dark. The one time they had overlooked their strict rule was a moment of spontaneous drunken passion.

  They had been out for lunch at a restaurant in Glendale and had far too much to drink. They were well over the legal blood alcohol limit to drive home. So, being the responsible men they were, they decided to leave their car in town and walk the relatively short distance up the main street to the old farmhouse they rented down a long dirt driveway on the outskirts of town, virtually opposite the Glendale Christian Church.

  O’Brian was of Irish heritage, and loved a good old fashioned sing song when feeling merry. They attracted a fair amount of attention as they stumbled home; loudly slurring the words to Bon Jovi’s hit song: Wanted, Dead or Alive.

  The locals thought they were classic best mates, and deemed that honest, hard-working men of the law were entitled to have their share of drunken benders without judgement.

  When they had staggered through the front door of their house, they’d instantly torn each other’s clothes off and headed to the bedroom. Little did they know they had been followed. A moment of curiosity had turned into the scandal of a lifetime for the Watcher.

  “Okay, explain,” said O’Brian as he stared at the photos in disbelief.

  Jones held both his hands around his cup of coffee as he said, “I’m going to come straight to the point, Karl. Your and Luke’s lives are in danger.”

  “What do you mean, in danger?”

  He explained the threatening message he’d received, signed by the Watcher, and the Bible Verse that was written on the back of one of the photos: 1 John 1:9. Then he said, “Karl, I have to tell you a secret. But you have to promise me that you will keep it between yourself and Luke...”

  “You have my word,” he replied, intrigued.

  Jones told him about the Protectors of the Past, about what they stood for and why they existed.

  O’Brian was furious to hear the club’s position on his sexuality. “I’ll be damned if I’m leaving the police force!” He banged his fist on the table. “I have the same bloody rights as everybody else in this country. And I’m not giving them up for a bunch of old derelicts who secretly dictate who does what in Glendale! The fact that you keep your club a secret means that you have something to hide! In reality, you should be the ones with death threats in your letterboxes! And after discovering your club’s opinion about which sex I share my private life with, I would be the first person to send you one! You pompous, Christian bigots!”

  Jones chose the diplomatic route. “Look, I understand your anger, Karl, I truly do. But right now, we have a much bigger problem.”

  O’Brian simmered his anger, and had a sip of his coffee. “And just what might that be?” he said curtly.

  “The Watcher.”

  “The man who signed the death threat?”

  “Yes. That’s why I told you about the club. The person who delivered it is the same person who committed the most detestable unsolved murder in Glendale’s history almost twenty-five years ago, and is most likely responsible for many others.”

  O’Brian nearly dropped his mug as he listened to the startling revelation. “I’m missing some pieces of the puzzle here, Jonesy, you need to fill in the blanks for me...”

  Jones shifted his body weight to get comfortable in his chair, and cleared his throat. “Do you remember Senior Constable Eric Thompson?”

  “Sure I do. I worked under him before taking over command when he retired twelve years back.”

  “That’s right. And under the circumstances, I need to reveal to you that he is also a member of the Protectors of the Past.”

  “Well he’s a fucking wanker then.”

  “Please! Karl, let me finish.”

  O’Brian inhaled a long breath to calm himself.

  Jones thought for a moment, recalling everything he had been told earlier this afternoon, then began his story. “Way back in nineteen eighty-nine, there was a cold case murder in Glendale. An eight-year-old boy by the name of George Walker was abducted between the hours of three and five o’clock in the afternoon on his way home from school. Eric canvassed the entire district for any information, with limited success, but he did manage to piece together what possibly happened. Two St Mary’s students said George was a regular down at the BMX track on John Street; the one opposite the school on the other side of the sports field. They said he was there literally every day after school. The day he went missing, there were no other students at the track because it was raining. And from the information Eric gathered, George was obsessed with riding his bike to the point that he would ride it in the rain, hail, or shine.”

  “What’s that got to do with me?” interrupted O’Brian.

  “I will get to the point in just a moment,” Jones said, then combed his fingers through his snowy hair, and adjusted his glasses. “Before George was killed, Eric received a note in his letterbox from a mysterious person calling himself the Watcher. The note said that he knew about his secret, and that if he didn’t confess it to God by a specified time, George was going to pay the price for his sins. The note contained verses from the Bible, specifically the Old Testament, about a man called Abraham who was commanded by God to sacrifice his own son, Isaac, on an altar as an offering to God for his sins.”

  “That’s pretty hardcore.”

  “Yes, but the story is simply about a test of Abraham’s faith.”

  “Did he do it? As in, did he kill his own son?”

  “No, he didn’t. God called out to him to stop just as he was about to strike Isaac on the altar, and provided a ram in his place.”

  “Thank God for that.”

  Jones continued. “The story of Abraham symbolizes the innocent blood required to cleanse us from our sins, just as Jesus, the son of God,
sacrificed himself on the cross for all mankind.”

  “Okay, I get the picture. But why did the Watcher threaten George Walker? Eric had two sons—but neither of them was named George from what I recall...”

  Jones paused before he said, “Because Eric had been having an affair for almost ten years with George’s mother, Rhonda, and had managed to keep it a secret right up until today when he confessed it to me and the other members of the club.”

  “Bloody hell! But that still doesn’t explain why the Watcher killed the boy...”

  “Actually, it does.”

  “How so?”

  Jones exhaled loudly through his nose. “Because Eric was George’s biological father.”

  “Holy shit!” O’Brian exclaimed. “That’s a massive secret to keep under wraps for so many years!”

  “Yes, it is.”

  O’Brian tried to wrap his brain around all the information he’d just received. “So, what you’re telling me is that some psycho took a symbolic text from the Bible, and made it come to life by actually killing George Walker? As a sacrifice for his father’s adultery?”

  “That’s exactly what I’m saying.”

  “So, in the eyes of the Watcher, killing George cancelled out the sins of his father? Therefore, he didn’t need to let the cat out of the bag about the relationship and child?”

  “Correct again.”

  Holy shit, thought O’Brian.

  He ran both his hands down his face, bedazzled. He sat quietly, and after a few moments of digesting everything, he asked, “So how did the Watcher find out about their affair? And how did the town not find out about it?”

  “They are both excellent questions,” replied Jones. “Eric said he has no idea how the Watcher found out about their affair. He could only make two assumptions: either they were followed, which led to visual confirmation of their relationship and some overheard conversations about George, or the Watcher followed Rhonda, who is a devout Catholic, and eavesdropped outside the confession box at the church, listening to everything she’d said during confession, confirming any suspicions he may have had.”

  O’Brian raised an eyebrow. “That’s a bit of a long shot, don’t you think? Does Eric even know if she mentioned it during confession?”

  “I’m sorry, he said he has no idea if she did or not; they haven’t spoken to each other in over twenty years.”

  “I know this sounds obvious, but did anyone question the priest?”

  “Yes, but he couldn’t answer the question, as he didn’t want to betray Rhonda’s confidence. So unfortunately, everything she mentioned during confession stayed between themselves and God. It would make no difference anyhow, because as a judge, I know that nothing said during confession, incriminating or not, can be used in a court of law for prosecution.”

  “Okay, I get the picture,” O’Brian said, frustrated. “Tell me about how it was all kept under wraps then.”

  Jones shrugged. “It was swept under the carpet. The newspaper reporters assumed that George’s body was dumped on Eric’s doorstep as a calling card. They concluded the killer was showing off how smart he was, or mocking the senior constable of Glendale, as he couldn’t catch him. I guess everybody believed it. Little did they know that the Watcher was returning a murdered son to his father.”

  O’Brian had heard enough and got up to leave.

  “Please stay a moment longer,” pleaded Jones, “there is one more detail about George that the reporters never found out about.”

  “Yeah? And what was that?” He sat back down.

  “He was sexually assaulted,” Jones said grimly.

  “You’re kidding me?”

  “I only wish I were. The post mortem proved conclusively that an adult male had penetrated his rectum so violently, that his colon was torn to shreds and he bled to death.”

  “Bloody hell,” said O’Brian as he shook his head.

  “Yes, I’m afraid it’s quite the horror story.”

  Jones felt sick in the stomach after recalling the gory details of George’s demise and rapidly waddled to the kitchen sink, vomiting for the second time today. O’Brian had to breathe deeply to prevent himself from following suit. “Let’s get outta here,” he said squeamishly. “I could use some fresh air.”

  They walked outside to O’Brian’s car to finish their conversation.

  Jones placed a hand on O’Brian’s shoulder, and said, “Look, I know we don’t see eye to eye on the issue of you remaining as the senior constable of this town, but it’s beside the point. The point is there is a man out there who knows your secret. He wants both you and Luke to confess your sins to God and alter your lifestyles accordingly. I firmly believe he is offering you a chance of salvation through the Bible verse that I told you about.”

  O’Brian remembered their earlier conversation. “First John, one, nine, right?”

  “That’s right. And I received the message sometime before ten o’clock this morning, so your twenty-four-hour deadline is rapidly approaching. And I’d take it seriously if I were you.”

  O’Brian gently removed Jones’ hand from his shoulder. “I’ve got nothing to confess,” he said. “I was born a homosexual, and I physically can’t help it. If God truly is the creator of all things, why would he design me the way I am, and then forbid me to live that way?”

  Jones appeared both stumped and infuriated by his question, to which he had no reply. To save face he blurted out, “The Bible is perfectly clear on the matter. If you have a problem with God’s wisdom, you can get down on your knees in prayer and take it up with him!”

  O’Brian didn’t want a theological debate, so he said, “Many different people wrote the Bible during a time of social prejudice, not God. It’s been rewritten God knows how many times, in hundreds of different languages. I don’t care what you, your club, or the Watcher think about my relationship with Luke. It was just easier to hide it in a town that stands by such old fashioned, bullshit morals and beliefs.”

  Jones had to admit defeat. He humbly said, “You have the courage of a lion, Karl; I admire that, I honestly do. I truly don’t want see anything happen to you or to Luke.”

  “I appreciate that, I guess...”

  “So, what do you plan to do?” Jones asked.

  O’Brian got into his patrol car, wound down the window, and said, “If that sick, child-molesting fucker gets within ten feet of me or Luke, I’m gonna tear him a new asshole and watch him bleed to death!”

  He sped off back to the station, and as he drove along he went over all the details again in his mind. And after giving them some serious thought, something puzzling jumped out at him: the photos. They had to have been taken at least four months prior to this day, when the day of their drunken escapade occurred.

  If the Watcher has known about our relationship for the past four months, what’s triggered him off to come out of hibernation and threaten us now?

  Chapter 15

  Archer took off his glasses and gave them a polish as he confronted Blaze. “So, I see you can handle yourself in a fight after all. I must say, I’m rather impressed.”

  “Fuck you, asshole,” he replied.

  Archer grinned. “I have also noticed your distinct lack of affection for authority. But don’t worry; I’m going to straighten that little problem out for you, Bobby.”

  Blaze’s anger boiled over as Archer belittled him, addressing him by his real name. “I only have a problem with cowards who hide behind others because they’re too chicken shit to fight their own battles. I can’t wait for the day when it’s just you and me alone, without bars between us, and we can find out what you’re really made of,” he said, before grabbing the bars with both hands, and through gritted teeth, saying, “Now listen up, and listen good. My name is Blaze. B. L. A. Z. E. You got the fucking message?”

  Archer chuckled. “You seem to be forgetting that I’m in charge around here, and that you are my property. I will call you whatever I please. And seeing how you hate your gi
ven name so much, that’s exactly what I am going to call you—knowing it grinds away your pride one pathetic granule at a time.”

  “Are you trying to make a point? Because all I can hear is blah, blah, blah, I’m a clever-dick that tries to suck myself off every morning.”

  Archer heard a chorus of snickering inmates at Blaze’s insolence. “Silence!” he shouted.

  The room instantly went quiet.

  “I will admit, I admire your resilience, Bobby. You are fast becoming my greatest project in The Wolves’ Den. I view you as my opponent in a game of chess; you play without fear, and you like to get on the front foot early. But be warned, Bobby; I will eventually back you into a corner where you will have nowhere to hide. And then—checkmate! You will be mine to use as I please—assuming you live long enough to see that day.”

  Archer pulled out a small, dark object from his trouser pocket and handed it to Bulldog, who had been patiently standing next to him in the walkway. Blaze instantly recognised the item, and shouted, “Hey! Where the fuck did you get that from?”

  Bulldog had been given his prized switchblade. It was something he had always carried with him, and was beyond passionate about having it back in his possession.

  “I had it sent to my office when you arrived here this morning. It interested me that you had such an exotic and highly illegal gizmo in your personal effects,” said Archer.

  “You can go and put it right back with the rest of my shit!” Blaze snapped.

  Archer was silent for a moment, then said, “Bobby, I want you to play a game with me. Do you like games, Bobby?”

  “Is it a game where I get to slice off your head and shove it up your ass?”

  Archer grinned. “Oh, Bobby, you really think you’re funny, don’t you? I do appreciate a good sense of humour.” He paused. “Here’s what I propose: I am going to let you have the opportunity to win your precious knife back for one fight—in which you will get to choose your opponent.”