Acts Beyond Redemption

by S. Burke

  The video is in the second envelope. It’s not an easy thing to watch.

  Henry, trust no-one, NO-ONE. I’ll write no more. The tape will clarify everything. For God’s sake man be careful. If it is learned the tape exists and is in your possession that will sign your death warrant. I’m sorry, my friend. I discovered I was a weak man after all.

  Take care.

  Ted

  Henry read and reread the letter, searching for a clue as to what was awaiting him on the video.

  None of it made sense. What had Ted been involved in that had been severe enough to have him murdered?

  Henry wasn’t surprised to find his hands were shaking as he opened the second envelope, removed the contents and placed it in the video player.

  The tape was blank.

  Chapter 31

  Two of the remaining three of Sheila’s assistants sat in a bar, watching what they drank, ever aware of being pulled over by a highway patrol vehicle. They took great pains to never break the law.

  Tim laughed about that very thing with Ben Dobson, his partner. Not a speeding ticket between them in ten years. No fingerprints on police files anywhere. They were whistle clean. Considering they had helped murder twelve of nineteen men and had added their colleague Clara to the list, it was to them hysterically funny.

  They were under instruction from Sheila to go home and resume their normal lives until she contacted them.

  Tim had decided his normal life held no appeal for him anymore. It was boring, waiting between hits; he needed the adrenalin rush from a fresh kill.

  Ben Dobson had no opinion on much of anything. He would do as he was trained to do. No more, no less. The murders held no thrill for him. They were merely jobs in a profession he excelled at.

  The bar was on a side street off the main drag, and both men stopped there whenever they were returning from the lodge. They were not overly familiar faces, but neither were they strangers. The barman only knew them as Tim and Ben.

  Most people steered clear of them. They caused no problems and made no noise, yet the barman was edgy every time they came in. He went out to the office area, pulled the business card from his wallet and made the call.

  “Yes?”

  “Um, yeah, the two men you asked about? They’re here now.”

  “Good work. The money will be in your account tomorrow. Say nothing. You did well.”

  The call was disconnected. The barman shrugged his shoulders. Shit happens, he thought. The thousand bucks he’d just made for doing sweet fuck all was good money. He needed it.

  Tim and Ben finished their drinks and headed up to the main street to get some take out. They always had Chinese when they stayed here overnight. They took their orders back to the hotel and went up to their shared room.

  The following morning at sun-up they settled their account and headed out on the coast road bound for home. Tim wasn’t sure if Sheila knew he and Ben were lovers; he doubted it somehow. She had no need to check their personal lives as long as they performed to satisfaction when called upon.

  The drive was beautiful, edging its way along the cliff on the narrow stretch that ran for thirty miles with the face on one side of the car and a good 400 feet drop onto the rocks on the other. The scenery was breathtaking and they had the windows down, drinking in the fresh salty air.

  Tim became aware of a car behind them, and checked in the mirror. A dark blue Chevy followed, sitting close. He looked again and then relaxed; unusual to see another car up here, true, but not unheard of.

  Ben caught the look and turned to see the reason for it. “He doesn’t know the road.”

  “What makes ya say that?”

  “He’s looking for some place to overtake, otherwise he wouldn’t be sitting on our ass like that. So he doesn’t know there’s nowhere to pass for another twenty miles or so.”

  “Makes sense. Ain’t nowhere for me to edge in and give him room either, so he’s just gonna have to wait, ain’t he?”

  Ben was edgy. “Something’s not right. I can feel it. Speed up, and see if he still sticks.”

  Tim never questioned Ben’s sixth sense; it had saved both their skins on numerous occasions on jobs. He put his foot down and accelerated away from the blue Chevy. They kept up the speed for a good ten miles, and then slowed it. This stretch was the narrowest, and needed careful driving. Any distraction could put you over that edge.

  The car came up behind them so fast Tim didn’t have time to react. It hit the back of their sedan, hard, sending Tim into panic mode. “Fuck me dead, what?”

  Ben grabbed the Gluck 17 from the glove compartment. He checked the clip and leaned out the side window. Whatever was under the hood of the pursuit vehicle outmatched the sedan they were driving. Tim focused on the road, his heart pounding.

  “Slow down now!” screamed Ben as he leaned out to take a shot. The road curved again and his opportunity was lost. “Can’t get a shot, keep driving, fast. Get ahead as far as you can and then stop the car. We’ll bail and cover behind it. I’ll take ’em as they round the corner. Now go.”

  Ben fired of a couple of rounds, and the vehicle behind slowed a little. ’C’mon … fuck you, Tim, I said fast!”

  The car screeched and the speed picked up dangerously on this road.

  “Now! Stop!”

  After bringing the vehicle to a screaming halt, the two men climbed out fast. Tim opened the trunk and threw the assault rifle to his lover. They had no time to do anything but take cover as they heard the Chevy approaching.

  “Run!” shouted Ben, and he and Tim distanced themselves as far as they could.

  They were barely twenty feet away when the Chevy rounded the hair pin bend at high speed and ploughed straight into the stationary vehicle. The impact set both cars spinning and over the edge. Ben took aim with the sniper rifle and ignited the fuel tank of the Chevy. The occupants would have either died on impact with the sedan or in the fireball that disintegrated it on the rocks below.

  Ben drew a deep breath, and pulled Tim into his arms. They clung to each other, shaking with reaction.

  Someone clearly wanted them dead. Someone had almost succeeded. Tim glanced down at the carnage. Neither car was in recognizable form. Bodies were incinerated in the flash. The pounding ocean would clear the wreckage on the incoming tide.

  “What now?” asked Tim.

  “Now we disappear. You know our instructions.”

  “Shouldn’t we warn Sheila?”

  Ben turned and smiled at his lover. “Not in our orders. I hope she dies real dirty.”

  Sheila was a long way from being dead. The anti-climax from the hit on Ted Prendergast lingered and she scoured the paper for new instructions. Nothing. As far as she could figure, there remained only two men on the original list. She had no details. Not until the hit was ordered. She knew only one thing; this is what she and the others had been trained for. They had one thing in common, one only; each had clear and identifiable sociopathic personalities. They had all failed the psyche test when they attempted to join the leading agencies in crime prevention.

  That failure had set them apart. That failure was precisely why they had been selected for this mission and the man who had trained them knew them well. He was the only person apart from each other they were afraid of.

  Chapter 32

  Trish Clayton was exhausted. She hadn’t been able to sleep more than two hours at a stretch since the night that document arrived from Ted Prendergast. Now Ted had been murdered. There had to be a connection between the two incidents. She was scrambling her brain trying to figure out just what was happening here. Nigel Cantrell had made it clear what her options were if she opened her mouth to anyone. Especially Mike. What was in that document?

  She shuddered as the thought entered her head uninvited. Could Mike be dirty? The fact that she was in love with the man didn’t negate the logic of the question. Mike had been in control of the investigation into the ‘Countdown Murders’ from the first victim. Quentin
Hamersley, yes, that was his name. Victim number one.

  Something nagged at Trish; she couldn’t shake the thought that Quentin’s death was different. What the hell was it? She wanted to go over his file. For the first time in days she felt a surge of … hope? Yes, she acknowledged- hope. That was it.

  Sheila scanned the paper again; nothing. She was getting too edgy waiting for instructions, and buzzed down to the stables. “Leonard, saddle Kaiser and bring him round front.”

  “Yes, Ma’am.”

  Leonard hurried to do her bidding, the tone of voice meant she was in a nasty mood. He shrugged, so what else was new? He stroked the beautiful animal and spoke softly to him. “Take her for a long ride, beauty. Maybe you can manage to throw her off a cliff while you’re at it.”

  “I take it you don’t like the boss too much, Len?” Craig spoke from the open doorway, making Leonard jump and the horse dance sideways.

  Leonard steadied the animal. “I’m just havin’ a bad morning, Jack. Just a bad mornin’ is all.”

  “Whatever you say, my friend,” replied Craig with a shrug of his shoulders. “I’ll saddle Ali up if I may?”

  “Of course, but if you care to wait a moment, I’ll take Kaiser down to the main lodge, and then saddle Ali for you.”

  “Tell you what, Lennie, my man, I’ll saddle Ali and then I’ll lead Kaiser down to the lodge, how would that be?”

  “Well, I don’t know, I mean I’m grateful and all, but she … she might not like … you know?”

  “Don’t sweat it, my friend, I’ll have her smiling in no time,” said Craig.

  “Well, hell … yeah okay, thanks, that’d be great.”

  “No problem.” Craig headed across to Ali’s stall and expertly saddled the animal, took Kaiser’s reigns from Leonard and gave him a grin. “Cheer up, buddy. Maybe you’ll get lucky and she’ll get thrown.”

  Leonard didn’t offer a comment; he patted the horse’s neck and wished Craig a good day.

  Chapter 33

  Trish pulled the file on Quentin Hamersley and started reading. What had they missed here? She was certain there must be something. His profile was a little different only in that he ran his own company and was away from his usual place of abode sometimes for weeks at a time.

  The town where he’d lived was a six hour drive, so Trish made the decision to go back there. She wanted to walk through this thing from day one. The thought became an action and she placed a call to Mike.

  He wasn’t responding; she tried Cantrell with zero results. Frustrated, she headed into the office, and Mike wasn’t in yet. She tried his cell again with no luck. Time was wasting and she was anxious to get going, so she headed into Mike’s office and put her phone down while she searched for a pen that worked.

  Damn, he was disorganised! She finally located one and penned a message, telling him where she was headed and that she would be in touch when she got there. She placed the handwritten note on the centre of the computer screen where Mike could clearly see it.

  She returned to her apartment, grabbed a few things and tossed them in a backpack, then dressed in jeans and a sweater, and headed off.

  Quentin Hamersley had been listed as a missing person by his friend Selma weeks after anyone had seen him alive, months before his severed head made front page headlines. The woman had sold the house and moved after his death; she was proving difficult to trace.

  Trish stopped for a bite two hours out of Deaconsville. The road from the diner to the town was a long stretch with little or no traffic. This would have to have been the road he travelled between his business office and his home.

  She pulled into the small parking lot belonging to the Deaconsville Inn, stretching her limbs as she climbed from the car. She wanted to snoop around a little before announcing her credentials. She checked in and dropped her bag in her room, stopping only long enough to wash her face and hands and comb her hair, before pulling it up into a ponytail, which gave her a fresh and rather youthful appearance.

  She drove over to the house once owned by the deceased; it was isolated on a property a good few miles out of the small town. The road was dirt and in need of repair. She checked the file on the passenger seat; Mr and Mrs Frank Allworth purchased the house from Selma shortly after Quentin’s death. Records indicated they still lived there.

  The gate was freshly painted and she was enthusiastically greeted by a pair of golden retrievers as she entered the pathway up to the house. A middle aged woman a little on the wrong side of slim came out to the porch in response to the noise of the dogs. She whistled shrilly and the pair bounded over to her and sat obediently at her command.

  “Can I help you, Miss?” she asked with her head on the side.

  “Mrs Allworth?” asked Trish.

  “That’s me. What can I do for you, young woman?”

  Trish decided to use her credentials on this one; the woman appeared to be of the brisk no nonsense variety. “Ma’am, my name is Trish Clayton, Special Agent Clayton, FBI. I wonder, could you spare the time to help me with a few answers I need?”

  “About Quentin, who used to own this place?”

  “Yes, Ma’am, that is correct.”

  “Well, I don’t know what I can tell you that we haven’t already discussed with the FBI, but come in anyway. Would you care for coffee, tea?”

  “Thank you, Ma’am, coffee, cream and sugar, would be much appreciated.”

  “Come in and take a load off.” Mrs Allworth indicated a large sofa and matching chairs off to the right of the entrance door.

  Trish wiped her feet well and entered, noticing as she did several newish looking sets of luggage in the area to the left of the door. She made a mental note to ask the Allworths if they were going on, or just returning from a trip, in case she needed to return for clarification of any points raised. She then followed Mrs Allworth into a beautifully furnished living room and seated herself comfortably. She removed the recorder from her bag and waited, glancing around at the high-ceilinged room, attractive with its exposed beams and open fireplace. The Allworths had spared no expense on furnishings, and the place had a warm ambience about it.

  Mrs Allworth returned with a tray bearing coffee and a selection of sweet biscuits, which she placed on a coffee table within easy reach. She poured two cups and seated herself, clearly curious about why the FBI were asking questions again so long after the grisly murder.

  “Well, now, go ahead, young lady, but firstly let me take a look at your badge.” She put her hand out expectantly.

  Trish smiled. This woman was no country hick. She handed her I.D. over and pocketed it again after it had been duly read.

  “So, what do you want to know?”

  “Did either you or your husband know Quentin Hamersley personally?”

  “Yes, but not well. We’d met him a few times at the country club, and nodded if we passed him on the street, but we weren’t friends. Just acquaintances.”

  “As acquaintances, what was your opinion of Quentin? I mean, did he strike you as the type to just up and leave his home without a word?”

  “My husband and I discussed that very thing when we first became aware he seemed to have vanished. He hadn’t struck us as a flighty sort of person, you know; he seemed too level-headed for that.”

  “What condition was the property in when you purchased it?”

  “Well, Selma made certain it was in good repair. She had it freshly painted and carpeted before she put it on the market. Poor woman, they’d been very close, she was in a dreadful way afterwards. She left town not long after herself, selling her home as well. She really took care of things, even his car was serviced and polished, and we bought that as well, as part of the deal.”

  Trish’s ears pricked. His car? She rifled through her notes. No mention was made of his vehicle being left behind. My God, how did that get missed? It was assumed he’d taken the car.

  “Well, that’s fortunate. Did you keep the car?”

  “Oh, yes. Quentin
was very fussy with it, and it was serviced regularly and lovingly cared for. We got a great deal from Selma. My husband loves the thing. I mean, it guzzles gas, but he’s like any boy with a powerful toy. He drives it everywhere.”

  “The vehicle was here in the garage when you purchased the place?”

  “Yes, indeed. Selma even had it detailed down at the garage, so it was in great condition.”

  “May I see the car?”

  “You’ll need to come over when my husband gets home from work, dear. He’s driving it today.”

  “I would appreciate that, thank you. The house itself, structure-wise, have you made any modifications since you bought it?”

  “No need to. It had everything we wanted. Quentin was a good cook apparently. The kitchen was a dream and the walk in pantry was just great. He also grew most of his own herbs and vegetables, so the garden was wonderful as well.”

  “May I ask if anyone else apart from law enforcement has been here asking questions about Mr Hamersley?”

  “No, dear. Well, not since straight after the murder, that is. We had a few journalist types sniffing around the first few months, but nothing since then.”

  “Have you ever found anything belonging to the deceased since taking possession?”

  “Only some old receipts in the glove compartment for new tyres. I remember ‘cause, Frank- that’s my husband- Frank was curious, as they were for tyres that wouldn’t have fit the wheels on the Chevy. We figured he had another car at some point just prior to when he went missing. Oh, and some terrific paintings and sketches Quentin did. He was a talented man. Sketched most of the prominent folks in town, and some other quite remarkable charcoal works. He had- what do you call it, a photogenic- no, a photographic memory, that’s it; none of us ever sat for him, he sketched everyone from memory, a little spooky to think someone can do that. I’ve been thinking about framing some of them and putting them up on the walls in the study.”