The 13th Black Candle
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The 13th Black Candle
The 13th
Black Candle
Bob Goodwin
Copyright © 2015 by Bob Goodwin
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, email the publisher at info@storiesandplays.com
13th Black Candle
Cover design by
Spiffing Covers
In memory of
William Henry Goodwin (Harry)
13/10/1914 – 01/06/2015
A creative artist
A distinguished gentleman
And my Dad
Contents
Chapter 1 - Tuesday - June 3rd 1986
Chapter 2 – The First Interview
Chapter 3 – Narangba
Chapter 4 – The Bodytone Club
Chapter 5 – The Ruins
Chapter 6 – Second Interview
Chapter 7 – Familiar Friends
Chapter 8 – The Briefing
Chapter 9 – Surveillance
Chapter 10 – The Walking Wounded
Chapter 11 – Security
Chapter 12 – Under Lock and Key
Chapter 13 – Race Day
Chapter 14 – Playing Chess
Chapter 15 – Breach of Duty
Chapter 16 – The Red Scarf
Chapter 17 – Dinner is Served
Chapter 18 – Sweet Dreams
Chapter 19 – An Innocent Man?
Chapter 20 – Poor Old George
Chapter 21 – Friends and Foes
Chapter 22 – The Madhouse
Chapter 23 – Robes and Rituals
Chapter 24 – Don’t Leave Me This Way
Chapter 25 – The Departure
Chapter 26 – The Great Pentacle
Chapter 27 – Devilish Creatures
Chapter 28 – Return of the Lust Busters
Chapter 29 – A Snake in the Grass
Chapter 30 – Goldsmith
Chapter 31 – Lucy
Chapter 32 – Cherry Minx
Chapter 33 – A Waiting Game
Chapter 34 – Stakeout
Chapter 35 – Let the Service Begin
Chapter 36 – The Sawmill
Chapter 37 – Sacrifice
Chapter 38 – Confessions and Apologies
Chapter 39 – Sex on the Beach
Chapter 40 – Unfinished Business
About the Author
Other Books by Bob Goodwin
Acknowledgements
Chapter 1
Tuesday - June 3rd 1986
11.55 p.m.
Simon Stacey looked beyond his car headlights and into the darkness as he drove along the quiet country road. Being one kilometre from his home, he could normally spot the location by the external night-lights; but tonight, there was just blackness. One minute later he turned onto his property and headed down the driveway.
‘Shit!’ He braked sharply to avoid hitting a metal jerry can. The car skidded a metre or so on some loose gravel before coming to a halt. After a quick scan of the area, Simon got out and retrieved the can. He shook it. It was empty. ‘Huh, weird. Who’s been in my shed?’ He shrugged his shoulders and placed the can off to the side of the driveway before continuing towards the house.
‘Alison, the bloody security lights. They need to stay on!’ he muttered.
As the headlights of the Mercedes illuminated the rear of the house, a man, wearing only a pair of shorts, darted across in front of the car.
‘What the fuck?!’
The man stopped in his tracks, turned, and raised a pistol. But then, as if suddenly changing his mind, he lowered the weapon and ran.
Simon instinctively put his foot on the accelerator. With the car almost upon him, the man had little choice; either scale the high pool fence to his left or become one with the driveway. He tossed the gun over the fence, then with outstretched hands, grabbed the top rail and swung his legs high. The vault itself was a medal winner; the landing, however, was a disgrace. He plunged chest-first into the grassed area surrounding the swimming pool. Simon slammed on the brakes. Before his winded adversary regained his feet, Simon was out of the car, through the pool gate, and had the pistol in hand.
‘Who the hell are you? And what in God’s name are you doing on my property?’ Simon was trembling. He held the weapon uneasily with both hands, but its general aim towards the stranger’s head kept him from running off a second time. Clutching at his chest, the man slowly straightened himself up.
‘Mr Stacey, it seems you have me in an awkward position. You don’t really want to use that gun, do you? It would be very foolish.’ He took two steps backward off the grass and onto the tiles that encircled the pool.
‘Don’t move! I may not be a good shot, but from this distance I’ll do you some serious damage. That’s a promise. How do you know my name? Who are you? If you’ve harmed my family, I swear I’ll kill you!’
‘I can assure you, Mr Stacey. No harm has come to your family.’ The man slowly lifted his arms from his chest and displayed two open hands, as if to reinforce his sincerity. ‘My name is Romoli.’
‘Keep talking and keep living.’
‘Your wife signed a contract a long time ago. You might say I have come to see that she honours the agreement.’ Romoli glanced at his watch.
‘What’s the hurry, dickhead? You’re not going anywhere until I’m good and ready!’ Simon’s voice became louder and impatient. ‘I don’t like this. I’m not hearing what I want to hear. You got any ID? Empty your pockets. Now!’
‘Don’t panic,’ Romoli replied softly, while turning his two pockets inside out. A handkerchief, a few silver coins, and some newspaper clippings fell to the ground.
‘That’s it?’
‘Hey, I travel light. Sorry.’
‘Move to the side.’ Romoli took a couple of steps sideways. Simon knelt and picked up the pieces of newspaper, at the same time keeping a close eye on his captive. He held them toward his car headlights and scanned the headlines.
MAN DISEMBOWELLED BY DRUGGED YOUTHS
WOMAN SLAIN IN RITUAL KILLING
LIVE HUMAN SACRIFICES BY BIZARRE CULT
COURT TOLD: CHILDREN TARGETED BY SATANISTS
WITCHCRAFT SECRET SOCIETIES WIDESPREAD.
Among some jottings in pencil at the top of each clipping was a date, clearly written in red biro. None were more than two years old. Down the side of one piece of paper was a short list of what appeared to be phone numbers.
Simon had seen enough. He now had a very good idea what this oddball was on about. As he shoved the pieces of paper into his pocket, his expression changed. His eyes narrowed, his teeth clenched, and his head moved slowly from side to side.
‘She made a commitment,’ said Romoli very matter-of-factly. ‘I needed the articles to help remind her of our continuing work. She signed her name in front of many people. She signed it in blood.’
‘You bastard! You deadshit, deviant bastard! She’s finished with all that Satanist crap. I helped her over it. That’s ancient history.’
‘Ancient history? No. Continuing history? Yes,’ nodded Romoli. ‘And our future will therefore be assured. And just to put the record straight, we are not Satanists.’
‘An arsehole by any other name would still smell like shit,’ retorted Simon.
‘We are the Order of the 13th Black Candle.’
‘Yeah, as I just said.’
Ro
moli glanced at his watch once more. He smiled and extended his arms to the sky. ‘Dear Lord, Prince of Darkness and Ruler of the Universe, accept this offering from your loyal servants.’
‘Shut up!’ Simon glanced nervously back at the house. It remained shrouded in darkness. All was still. Romoli continued his prayer.
‘Hail Satan, accept our souls. Hail Satan, accept our gift.’
‘I’m warning you! If you’ve harmed my family I swear I’ll blow your fucking brains out!’ Stacey straightened his arms to steady his quivering aim. ‘I’ll shoot! I swear I’ll shoot!’ His finger tightened on the trigger. There was a tremendous flash of light, followed almost instantly by a thunderous explosion. Simon felt his body being pushed forward by the force of the blast. The gun discharged. Romoli flew backwards into the pool. Stacey fell forward onto the tile work.
The man’s body was face up in the water, slightly below the surface. Golds, yellows, and reds flashed over the pool from the explosion. Romoli’s eyes and mouth were wide open. Bobbing up a few centimetres, his face protruded from the rippled pool surface, then slowly sank. A stream of small bubbles ran from his mouth. An enveloping cloud of redness, emanating from the back of his head, closed over him, and he disappeared.
Chapter 2
The First Interview
It came as some surprise to Simon that he was permitted to freely leave the Alderley Police Complex after an exhausting three hours of interviews with numerous police officers and detectives. He had endeavoured to be as cooperative as possible, without disclosing more than was necessary. The investigators were very sympathetic to the loss of his family, allowing him several opportunities to take a break and compose himself. Of course, they wanted to know all the details of where he was and who he was with when his Samford Valley home burnt to the ground. They focused at length on anyone who may have had reason enough to commit such a dreadful act. Simon gave them a few names of individuals he had crossed swords with over the last few years, knowing full well that they were all dead ends.
While they did take his fingerprints for the record, and to assist in eliminating him from their line of enquires, it did seem strange that nothing had been said about a body in the pool or a weapon being found at the scene. And there was no reference to the empty jerry can he’d left lying on the ground.
Detective Marshall had provided him with some general details about the arson. An accelerant had been used; probably petrol. They were still investigating how ignition had taken place. The fire was virtually an instantaneous explosion throughout many rooms of the house. Any occupants had no chance of survival. Two bodies had been found, an adult and a child, and were awaiting formal identification.
Simon walked slowly to his parked Mercedes-Benz W126. He stood near the driver’s door, staring out across the busy South Pine Road but not seeing anything. There was a lot to think through. And the numbness he was feeling was not helping. He stood motionless for a full two minutes before opening the car door.
‘You okay there, Mr Stacey?’ came a call from behind him. He turned. It was Detective Marshall. Marshall was a tall, slender man with a weathered complexion. He had seemed compassionate, thoughtful, and knowledgeable. For a cop, Simon thought he was not too bad.
‘Yeah. I’m okay. Just needing a few deep breaths before I go.’
‘You sure you’re okay to drive? I can get one of the boys to drive you if you wish.’
‘Very kind, but I can manage. Thanks.’ Simon raised his hand and nodded. The detective replied likewise.
Sitting in the car, he managed to decide on three things. Right now, he needed to see his best friend, Adrian Devlin. He needed rest, and tomorrow he needed to go back to his property to see the damage and convince himself that the nightmare was real.
Chapter 3
Narangba
Simon completely missed the highway turnoff to Adrian’s Narangba flat and had to double back at the next exit. He briefly told himself off, then forgave himself the error as he drove the extra ten kilometres before pulling up in Main Street outside a block of six brick veneer flats.
The area was on the outskirts of Brisbane, about forty kilometres from the middle of town. As a place to live, Simon didn’t mind it; it still had some rural appeal and some good-sized acreage properties. At the same time, it was handy to the station and a few shops. But the best thing about Narangba was that this was where his lifetime friend Adrian lived, and for the time being, this was also the place he would be calling home.
There was one parking space for each flat underneath the building. Number two was vacant, but Simon decided to park on the street anyway; it seemed the courteous thing to do. He slipped on his jacket when he felt the cool air against his skin. Looking down at himself, he would normally have felt a little embarrassed at his untidy appearance, as his jacket, shirt, and pants were all creased and dirty. As he had told Detective Marshall, he’d had an argument and a bit of a fight last night at a poker game with his friends. Teddy Duncan had a bit too much to drink and didn’t like losing, but liked it even less when Simon went to leave. That’s when the fight started. But right now, he needed to lie down. Sleep deprivation was taking its toll. Later, when Adrian turned up they could talk, share a drink or two, and try to get their heads around the whole bloody mess. Simon climbed the fourteen stairs, lifted a small plant pot, grabbed the key, and let himself in.
* * *
Five hours later, Simon Stacey woke himself up screaming. He breathed heavily for a few moments while he slowly regained orientation to his whereabouts. It was dark, but the room was partially illuminated by the street lights. He took a moment, sitting on the side of the bed, then plodded through to the bathroom. He flicked the light on and splashed copious amounts of water over his face.
He studied his dripping image in the mirror. Still wearing the same clothes. Still untidy.
‘You look like a fucking hobo, Stacey. Get your shit together!’ From his pocket, he removed the newspaper clippings he’d obtained from Romoli. He wandered to the kitchen area and placed them on the table under a bottle of Johnnie Walker. Back in the bathroom, he stripped off and took a long shower.
* * *
Simon didn’t bother to dress; he wandered into the kitchen-dining area just wrapped in a towel. Adrian had not arrived home. This was not completely unexpected, as he had left the poker night earlier than everyone else with some hope of getting lucky with Angela. The passion and lust were still running rampant. The only way Adrian could know about Alison and Robbie was if he had heard about the Samford Valley fire and deaths on the news via radio or television, and if that was the case, he would definitely be here right now.
Simon moved the phone from the bench top to the table, poured a big glass of Johnnie Walker, and looked through the phone numbers scribbled down the side of one of the newspaper clippings. There were two that he knew immediately; his own, and the Bodytone Fitness Club. The other three were unfamiliar, so he rang them one at a time and hung up after each call. Strangely, one of the numbers was the Alderley Police Station. Another was Ward 21, the psychiatric ward at the hospital. The final one he called several times but it just went unanswered.
Chapter 4
The Bodytone Club
Apart from a handful of new recruits trying to hide in the back row, the room was alive with synchronised activity, and the third aerobics session of the morning was well underway. The four large black boxes were visibly vibrating with Peter Gabriel’s “Big Time.” Despite the hard work of the ceiling fans, all faces were beading sweat. Full wall mirrors at either end reflected a multi-coloured plethora of leotards, and enough footwear to bring a smile to the face of any Nike shareholder. A solitary performer shouted out commands from the slightly raised platform area.
‘And one - and two - and three - and other - arm - and two - and three - and four’. The counting and staggered speech continued monotonously, never missing a beat. ‘And - don’t - forget - to breathe - and one - and two...’
&
nbsp; Charles Madden, the fitness club manager, had been standing near the door watching the aerobics show for the last two songs. Deborah, wearing glistening sky-blue leotards, moved alongside him.
‘Why is it necessary to remind people to breathe?’ muttered Charlie. ‘A perfectly normal automatic bodily function. I really wonder what happens to these people when they go to sleep at night. Perhaps they have a cassette playing under the pillow. Now breathe. In two three four and out two three four.’
‘Charlie, it’s important. It helps you keep rhythm, allows your body to work more efficiently, and stops you getting exhausted too quickly,’ replied the slender brunette standing at his side.
‘You’ve been an aerobics instructor too long, Deb. The brainwashing seems to be working.’
‘You should try it, Charlie. What have you got to lose except that lower back problem and a couple of kilos?’
‘The last thing I want to do is bust my backside learning how to count and breathe, and my weight is exactly right for my height. Thanks all the same.’ Charlie was amused with Deborah’s attempt. It was not the first. Several of the regular staff had been trying for the past few months to convert him to their fitness religion.
‘It would be good for you. You know, a healthier lifestyle and all that.’
‘What are you suggesting? That I’m not healthy? Not fit?’
‘I’d have to see you work out to know that for sure.’
‘Well, that event seems most unlikely.’
‘That’s a shame,’ she replied coyly.
‘Hmm…I best be on my way. My morning rounds await.’ He held his farewell glance a little longer than he normally would have for a polite good-bye. Deborah smiled.
Charlie Madden generally made two strolls a day through all areas of the prestigious club, greeting and chatting with members and staff, checking on any repairs, and looking for new ideas. The appointment of a part-time medical practitioner, a part-time physiotherapist, together with the development of the social club, were three such ideas that had proved most popular. These innovations were all financed by the wealthy club owner, Simon Stacey. Membership had increased fifty percent in the few short months since these developments had come to fruition. The social club, more affectionately known as Pluto’s Den, boasted a games room, a quiet lounge, covered outside barbecue area, restaurant, and a small but well used night club. The two bars within allowed members to replace those kilojoules they had worked so hard at removing in the gym, pool, sauna, squash courts, and aerobics classes.