Pay The Penance (Mechanic Trilogy Book 3)

by Rob Ashman

  Harper opened the door and fell into the back seat, a much better option than falling in the gutter.

  ‘That kid stole my wallet.’ Harper gasped for breath.

  ‘Which one?’ the driver yelled over his shoulder.

  Harper was trying not to have a heart attack.

  ‘That one, the boy running,’ he said between gulps of air. ‘The dirt bag stole my wallet.’

  ‘Punks are ruining the neighbourhood and the cops are nowhere to be seen when you need them.’

  As an ex-cop Harper bristled at the slight on his profession but was too grateful to retaliate.

  The driver sped away, continuing his rant. ‘One of them lifted my wallet last month, cash, credit cards, driving licence, the full shebang. Took me ages to sort out. And where were the cops then? Nowhere, that’s where. But when my buddy ran a red light, oh boy they came down on him like a ton of bricks.’

  Harper nodded, not wanting to waste precious air on trying to speak. He could see the boy darting between the other people on the sidewalk. The boy swung his head around, slowed, and came to a stop, convinced no one was after him.

  The driver pulled the cab over to the roadside and shouted through the passenger window.

  ‘I know you, you little shit.’

  The boy’s head jerked around as if God was talking to him. Harper opened the door but the boy spotted him. He ran off again, weaving his way up the sidewalk. Harper shut the door and the driver gunned the engine.

  The boy changed direction and cut across the road between the traffic and darted down an alley.

  ‘Damn!’ Harper exploded. ‘We lost him.’

  ‘The fuck we have.’ The driver put his foot down and the cab lurched forward. About a hundred yards further on he made a sharp right and slammed on the brakes.

  ‘Chances are the punk is running this way,’ he said looking in his rear-view mirror. ‘You gonna be alright, man?’

  ‘I’ll be fine,’ Harper said throwing ten bucks from his pocket onto the front seat. ‘I’ll be just fine.’

  ‘No need, man.’ The cabbie held up the note for Harper to take back. ‘Give him one from me.’

  ‘No, you take it, buy a new wallet.’

  Harper bailed out of the back. He was at the head of a T-junction, with the street the boy was travelling along running right to left in front of him. He pressed his back to the wall and risked a peek around the corner. Sure enough the boy was walking towards him with his head down. Harper gave the driver a thumbs up and he reversed the cab back up the road to join the main drag.

  The boy drew level.

  Harper grabbed his arm and swung him into the wall. He jammed his right forearm across the boy’s chest pinning him to the brickwork. He let out a shriek.

  ‘Why did you run?’ Harper said into the boy’s face.

  ‘I don’t know, let me go.’ The boy kicked his legs but Harper held him firm.

  ‘You were picking up mail, weren’t you?’

  ‘Yes. Let me go.’

  ‘What do you do with it?’

  ‘I stick it in a dumpster.’

  ‘And when does it get collected?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Which dumpster?’

  ‘It’s up there, let me go.’ The boy nodded up the street.

  ‘Show me.’ Harper released him and gripped his upper arm.

  ‘Shit man, you’re in dead trouble for this,’ he hissed, trying to pull free.

  ‘Yeah, I’m sure I am. Now where is it?’

  The boy pointed to a group of industrial trash bins set off to one side.

  ‘Show me what you do.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Which one, show me which bin.’

  ‘Any one of them, man, I take the flyers from my bag and put them in the trash.’

  ‘What flyers?’ Harper screwed his face up.

  ‘These flyers.’ The boy shook his arm free and unclipped the flap on his bag. He reached inside and pulled out a fistful of takeaway menus.

  ‘Where is the mail?’

  ‘What mail, there is no mail. I clear out the flyers from the mailboxes.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I take these from the boxes.’ The boy thrust a fistful of menus into Harper’s chest. There were Chinese and Mexican takeaway menus and pizza delivery flyers. ‘I take these out of the mailboxes and put them in the trash.’

  ‘Why do you do that?’

  ‘So when Mr Milano puts his pizza menu in their mail they will buy from him and not these.’ The boy threw the flyers in the air to emphasise his point.

  Harper gawked at the glossy paper as it fell around him. The boy saw his chance and bolted. Harper could see the white flashes on the underside of his trainers as he sprinted away. He was making one-fingered gestures over his shoulder and shouting something about Harper being a dead man. Which, given his unexpected bout of vigorous exercise, he very nearly was.

  Lucas was enjoying a leisurely walk in the sun. He had returned to Maple Crescent when he lost the boy. His pathetic attempt to catch him ensured he only had a short walk back. From the description he gave, the janitor didn’t recognise the kid who’d picked up the mail. So, in the absence of being able to help Harper, he stayed put. A strategy which paid off.

  Ten minutes later Lucas was sitting in his usual place in reception when a different boy turned up. He headed over to the mailboxes and Lucas could hear the sound of a key being inserted into a lock and the rustling of paper. Then Lucas had his first piece of luck of the day – the boy dropped the mail. When he bent down to pick it up, Lucas could see the door to number forty-six flapping open. Proof positive, this is what they had been waiting for. The boy locked the box and put the envelopes into his backpack.

  Lucas didn’t fancy his chances with another foot race so decided against a direct approach. The boy left the building, and Lucas filed in behind, following him at a safe distance.

  They sauntered down the street and the boy hung a right into the park. He found a bench and sat down, removing the mail from his bag. Lucas stopped at the park entrance and pretended to wait for someone. There were three letters which the kid laid out on the seat, along with a large brown envelope. He placed the letters inside and sealed the flap. Lucas noticed the stamp on the top right-hand corner.

  The boy took a pen from his bag and wrote on the envelope. Lucas had to get closer to have any chance of reading what was written. He strolled over, but after four strides the boy got up and walked back to the park entrance.

  Lucas stared straight ahead and the boy passed to his right, pulling a set of earphones from his bag.

  Lucas allowed the boy to leave the park, and then doubled back and followed him along the street. The boy’s head was bopping to the music in his head.

  Then Lucas saw it.

  A slate grey USPS mailbox about fifteen feet ahead and directly in the boy’s path. He was heading straight for it. Lucas quickened his pace and was closing on the boy.

  Fifteen feet, ten feet, but the kid was getting closer.

  Eight feet, five feet, the box was almost in reach, and he had his hand out clutching the brown envelope.

  Lucas called to the boy to stop, but he couldn’t hear above the beat in his ears.

  Three feet, two feet.

  Lucas lunged at the letter and slapped it out of the boy’s grasp.

  He jumped out of his skin and tore the headphones from his head.

  ‘What the fuck!’ he screeched, leaping away from the madman in front of him. ‘What are you doing?’ People looked over at the commotion.

  Lucas searched for something to say. Nothing came. He looked at the letter face down on the floor.

  ‘I’m sorry, I thought you were going to put it into a dead mailbox.’

  The boy screwed his face up.

  ‘A dead what?’

  ‘I did the same thing the other day. I put a letter into this box and it was no longer in use. I had to get the mail guys to come open it up to get it ba
ck.’

  ‘You had to what?’

  ‘Sorry I startled you, I didn’t want you to make the same mistake. It looks like it’s in service now.’

  The boy went to pick up the letter but Lucas moved first. The boy stepped back.

  ‘You’re crazy, man. You can’t go round knocking things out of people’s hands like that.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Lucas said handing him the letter. ‘I thought—’

  ‘You are one crazy person.’ The boy approached Lucas with his arm outstretched as if he was feeding a wild animal and snatched the envelope out of his hand.

  He stuffed it into his bag and scurried away to find another mailbox, preferably not one being guarded by a madman.

  Lucas let out a huge sigh and pulled a pen from his jacket. He rolled up his sleeve and scribbled on the inside of his forearm. He retraced his route back to Maple Crescent with two thoughts in his head: where was Harper and who the hell was Mark Jameson?

  Moran was about to start day two of her three-day promise to Harper. Her previous evening with Mills had been worse than expected. He talked non-stop about himself and insisted on buying the drinks. It felt like a disastrous date, but it achieved the objective.

  Mills had been a happy bunny sitting opposite Moran with a beer in one hand and a fistful of corn chips in the other, waxing lyrical about how he could have played for the NFL when he left college. Moran had faked interest and nodded in all the right places. To be honest, she was more surprised about Mills having gone to college than about the NFL lie.

  She had struggled to keep her mind focused and kept drifting off into the horror that was the Shamon situation. She didn’t know if Lucas and Harper had made any progress or, if they had, if it would do any good. All she knew was Harper had her by the short and curlies and if the plot to capture Mechanic ever got into the open she was well and truly screwed.

  Mills had rounded off the evening by walking her back to her tram stop. He said goodnight and for a heart-stopping moment it looked like he was about to move in for a kiss. Thankfully for him he didn’t, if he had she would have decked him.

  Moran arrived in the office early to figure out the best way to fake a problem with the Shamon account. She contacted the bank to make an appointment and by 9.15am it was time for the morning briefing.

  Mills was unbearably chipper. He flashed a special good morning smile in Moran’s direction as she took her seat.

  ‘Morning everyone,’ he kicked off. ‘Going round the table, what do we have?’

  Each officer reported on their slice of the case and Mills took notes. When it came to Moran she reported the issue with the Shamon account, indicating that she would be sorting it out with the bank today. She was acutely aware that she had to find another twenty-four hours of delay, and her latest pretend problem was not going to carry her through. But this was one step at a time.

  Mills didn’t challenge her, he accepted what she said and thanked her with another smile. Moran looked away hoping no one saw. The meeting wrapped up and she picked up a coffee on her way to the bank.

  Lucas threw open the door to find Harper dozing in the chair.

  ‘Good to see you’re on red alert.’

  ‘I was resting my eyes.’

  ‘Looked like you were pushing out zeds.’

  ‘No, no. Anyway we had the wrong guy. I caught up with him but he turned out to be a little shit who steals the takeaway food flyers.’

  Lucas shook his head.

  ‘He steals what?’

  ‘Never mind. Where the hell have you been?’

  ‘Catching the right one.’

  ‘What? How did that happen?’

  ‘Shortly after you ran off, another kid appeared and took the mail.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘Just as we thought, he redirected it.’ Lucas rolled up his sleeve and showed Harper the name and address scribbled onto his inner arm.

  ‘How did you get it?’

  ‘By making myself look like a dick.’

  ‘What do you mean, look like?’

  Lucas ignored his remark.

  ‘Get your ass in gear,’ he barked at Harper.

  ‘Where we going?’

  ‘We have a new friend to call upon, Mark Jameson.’

  17

  Mechanic stood in the shower and allowed the hot water to cascade over her head. She had been home just long enough to boil the kettle and down a cup of sweet black coffee. She was exhausted.

  The images of the last seventeen hours played out in her head like a low budget S&M movie. They had planned to discuss business at some time during the evening but the pleasure side got in the way.

  She pictured Jameson doing the very same thing, standing in his shower, wincing as the water flowed over his battered body. A session with Jameson always satisfied Mechanic’s three basic needs: sex, whisky and violence. The harder she beat him, the harder he fucked her. And the more they drank, the more he could take.

  They had collapsed into bed at 2.40am. He was asleep as soon as he hit the sheets and she had cradled his head against her breast, his breathing erratic and heavy. Through the thin drapes the streetlights had illuminated the room with a sepia glow. She had looked down at him lying next to her. His face, neck, hands and arms were unmarked, but the rest of his body was a morass of bruises, abrasions and scratches.

  She had beaten him for six hours.

  The game was always the same. She beat him until Jameson had an erection hard enough to poke a hole in the wall. Then they would screw each other’s brains out. When he was about to come, they would stop, allow things to cool down, and drink Wild Turkey. Then the beatings would start again. The cycle repeated over and over until either he lost control and came, or physically he couldn’t continue. This time his self-control was immaculate.

  She had slipped into a dreamless sleep holding him in her arms. The alarm was set for 6am when the beating would resume, checkout was at 11am.

  Mechanic stepped from the shower and wrapped herself in a bathrobe. She wasn’t sure how much pain Jameson was in this morning but she was decidedly sore, and decidedly happy.

  She fished an envelope from the behind the wardrobe and spilled its contents on the table. The photo statted picture of Elaine Cooper stared up at her.

  The phone rang.

  ‘Hello.’

  ‘It’s me, can you talk?’ It was Jameson calling from the hotel.

  ‘Yes, what’s up, you okay?’

  ‘I’m still trying to find that road truck that ran over me last night but other than that I’m fine thanks.’

  ‘Yes, it was quite a night. You home yet?’

  ‘No, still at the hotel. I called the organisers of that conference we are due to attend in San Francisco.’

  It took Mechanic a second for her brain to get in gear and decode the sentence.

  ‘Is there a problem?’

  ‘No, but they’ve had to move things forward by a week, something to do with a mix-up at the venue.’

  ‘When is it scheduled?’

  ‘They want to hold it the day after tomorrow and asked if we could still attend. I said I’d get back to them.’

  ‘That should be fine. Can you get the merchandise delivered in time?’

  ‘No problem. We need to run through the agenda and make sure we have the presentation worked out. But I guess we can do that en-route to Frisco.’

  ‘That’s fine with me, is there a change in time?’

  ‘No, all the arrangements are as previously agreed, it’s simply a change in the date.’

  ‘We can make that work. I’m looking forward to it. I will call you from the airport.’

  ‘Have a safe flight, speak to you later.’

  Mechanic replaced the receiver then picked it up again. She needed to book some tickets.

  Jameson got out of the cab, paid the driver, and walked, or rather limped, across the road to his two-up two-down town house in the trendy Ocean Bay area of San Diego.

  He dra
gged his roll-along bag behind him. It contained his shredded suit, two halves of a shirt and enough sex toys to run a brothel. He was an ex-Navy Seal and physically fit, but this morning he struggled to tow behind him a twelve-pound bag on wheels.

  He opened his front door, dumped the bag in the hall and headed for the bathroom. He clunked around in the medicine cabinet and knocked back a handful of painkillers and anti-inflammatories. He needed a bath and some sleep. Mechanic had promised him an extra special night and boy had she delivered. Everything hurt.

  Jameson went to the kitchen, rummaged in a cupboard, returned to the bathroom and turned on the taps. Hot water flooded into the bath and steam rose into the air. He unbuttoned his shirt with shaking fingers and peeled the material away from his body. It stuck to him where the blood had seeped through the fabric and congealed. The shirt dropped to the floor, he removed his jeans and underwear. Standing naked in front of the mirror the full extent of his injuries became clear.

  His chest was pockmarked with what looked like purple bullet wounds where her heels had stamped holes in his flesh and his cock and balls were a kaleidoscope of colours. His stomach and ribs were a patchwork of blue and yellow, as the bruises spread under his skin. He half-turned. His ass, back and legs were criss-crossed with angry welts from the bite of her crop, and deep red tramlines ran down his body where her nails had raked away the top layer of skin.

  Jameson turned off the taps and swirled a handful of salt into the water. He lowered himself into the bath and slid down until the water lapped against his chin, wincing as the salt got to work on his wounds. After twenty minutes the pain eased and the hot water soothed his battered body.

  He closed his eyes and melted into sleep.

  Outside, Lucas and Harper sat in their rental car.

  ‘I figure that was our guy,’ Harper said.

  ‘Unless he takes in lodgers.’

  ‘I’m not sure what he does for a living but he looked like shit.’

  ‘We got to hustle. You stay here, I need to find a phone.’

  18

  Lucas walked a quarter of a mile back towards town and found what he was looking for. To the side of a bus stop was a bank of payphones. He stood at the first one and punched in the digits. He fed a coin into the slot, spoke briefly, then hung up.