Hunting Angels (Box Set) (The great horror writers (Masterton, Saul, Herbert) and now Jones)

by Conrad Jones

  I glanced towards the fire in the distance, the slope of the earth hiding most of it but I could see that the helicopter was positioned above the farm. They hadn’t heard the gunshots or if they had, the echoes from the mountain had confused them as to which direction they had come from. I jogged back to the quad, fastened the Mossberg and steered the bike up the slope in search of the gate that the Land Rover had entered through. The quad seemed unscathed mechanically and one headlight was better than none. The altercation with the Land Rover had done me a favour. I would have ridden straight into the ditch that it had fallen into. Looking back, I can only guess at who the driver was and my instincts tell me he was part of the shooting party who went to the farm to kill me. I never heard any mention of him when the deaths at the farmhouse hit the news. It’s not like he could report the incident to the police without having to answer some very tricky questions himself.

  As I trundled across the fields and down pothole riddled tracks, I thought about the news coverage that would be broadcast the next day; an armed siege at the camp-site thwarted by my escape and then the ensuing fire and deaths of a number of local men. Could people really believe that the people killed were just unfortunate victims, who were in the wrong place at the wrong time? Surely the police would find their weapons and realise that they were hunting me and that I had acted in self defence. I decided there and then that before I headed for my showdown with Jennifer Booth, I would share my version of events with the media. I had turned the tide of public opinion once and I needed to do it again, even it was only to cause the police investigation to intensify its efforts against the Order of Nine Angels. There was no doubt in my mind that if I didn’t do it now, I wouldn’t get another chance. I didn’t believe that I would survive my showdown with the niners.

  Chapter 28

  I reached Barmouth two hours later. The farm tracks led to a back road which weaved down the headlands and eventually merged with the coast road. Blue flashing lights were zipping up and down the main road, so I entered a housing estate which looked rundown and sprawled for a mile before it mingled with the older more expensive dwellings. I wiped the quad down and left it on the edge of some playing fields with the keys in it. Bryn didn’t need it any longer and I figured that a couple of proud ASBO owners would be delighted when they found it. They would strip it, repaint it and terrorise their neighbours on it for weeks before the police connected it to the camp-site; if they ever connected it at all. I couldn’t risk walking the streets with a shotgun under my arm so I took a gamble. Taking cover in a clump of trees, which bordered the playing fields, I took out a crumpled business card from my back pocket and dialled the number. I was about to test the offer of help, which had been offered the previous day.

  “Hello.” The line clicked and buzzed as if there was interference.

  “Joseph,” I said.

  “Yes,” he sounded sleepy. “Who is this? Have you got any idea what time it is?”

  “No, not really,” I answered honestly. “This is Conrad and I need help.”

  “Fucking hell!” his voice suddenly sounded wide awake. “Where are you, how can I help?” I heard him fumbling around for something and then the sound of a lighter wheel against a flint. The sound of a cigarette being lit sent the nicotine receptors in my brain alight like a thousand tiny blowtorches burning in my brain.

  “Well I could do with one of those cigarettes for a start,” I mused. It had been hours since my last smoke. My cigarettes were in my truck. “Has there been anything on the news about the camp-site at Nant-y-Col?”

  “Are you joking?” I heard him take a deep suck on the smoke. “Sky News was showing nothing else but a reel about how the police allowed an armed fugitive to escape through the back of his tent! My tent as well; I sold you that, my tents are famous, eh?”

  “You need to design and sell ‘escape tents’ with a zip at both ends,” I laughed sourly, “there’s a gap in the market there. Every fugitive should have one.”

  “Funny,” he inhaled again. He sounded almost excited. “Seriously though, how can I help you?”

  “Well I need a lift for a start, a cigarette, a beer and an internet connection.”

  “I think I can manage all that,” he said seriously. “Anything else?”

  “Oh yes,” I added, “I need a boat that will stay afloat long enough to sail me to Anglesey.”

  “Fucking hell,” he whistled.

  “Oh, and someone who can sail!”

  “One thing at a time,” he said calmly. “Tell me where you are and I’ll come and get you.”

  ****************

  Half an hour later, I heard a diesel engine approaching and then headlights swept across the playing fields. Joseph flashed the beam twice as we had agreed. I stepped out of the trees and jogged fifty yards across the grass to his dark blue Jaguar. There was a moment of nervous anxiety as I opened the door. I was putting my liberty and possibly my life into the hands of a stranger but my situation was so dire that I had little or no choice. I couldn’t get out of Barmouth by road or rail and I didn’t have enough time to lie low for weeks until the roadblocks disappeared. I put the Mossberg into my left hand and slid into the front seat. He reached over with his right hand and I accepted the gesture gladly.

  “You’ve stirred up a hornets’ nest,” he smiled. “There are police racing up and down the coast road. The news is warning people to stay indoors as there’s an armed fugitive in the area.”

  “There is,” I shrugged and tried hard to return his smile but failed miserably. “Can I steal one of your cigarettes please?” I needed to get my priorities right. He chuckled and passed me a Sterling from a new packet. I lit it and inhaled deeply.

  “Keep them. They’re for you, menthol right?”

  “Right,” I looked at him sternly. “How do you know that?”

  “There’s been quite a few profiles about you on the news, you know, interviews with people who claim to know you and the little titbits about you lead to ‘be on the lookout for a shaven headed male, who smokes menthol cigarettes’ blah blah. Some of them are showing an interview with your ex, you know, Constance Bonner’s mother. She’s claiming that you’re a hero for rescuing her daughter and pleading you to give yourself up.”

  “Funny how the people you haven’t seen for years claim to know you the best. I see she hasn’t learned to stay out of the limelight,” I relaxed a little. “Thanks for the cigarettes. I was gasping. You’re a star. We’d better get going. It looks a bit odd sitting here at this time of night.”

  “I’m making sure that I haven’t been followed first,” he looked in the rear view mirror. I looked over my shoulder nervously. The roads around were dead. He scanned the playing fields once more before starting the engine. “I live up the hill,” he explained as he drove away from the kerb. I found his cautionary behaviour comforting and yet disturbing in equal amounts. He wasn’t your average guy. “You can rest up tonight and then we’ll sort out what you need tomorrow.”

  “Thanks for your help.” I sunk down into the leather seat and pulled on the smoke. The cigarette felt like a little piece of heaven in my hand and I savoured the soothing effect. The Jaguar purred as we drove through the council estate before taking a left and heading towards the headlands above the river. In the space of a few hundred yards, the buildings had changed from prefabricated terraces to four-storey Victorian detached.

  “No worries,” he said seriously. “Most people are right behind you. Did you know there was a half hour news special on you yesterday?”

  “No,” I felt my stomach tighten. My ability to move freely across the country was dissipating day by day. “Did they make me out to be a lunatic?”

  “Far from it,” he shook his head. “They painted you as a victim, if anything, they were scathing of the police investigation into the cults and they made a big deal about you rescuing your daughter.”

  “They don’t know it was me at the mill for sure do they?”

  “Th
ey have your voice on the recording of the 999 call,” he looked at me. “It’s faint and in the background but some of your friends identified it as you.”

  “Friends, eh,” I laughed. “Who needs friends like that?”

  “Well it must be nice to know you have some,” he joked, “the programme was scathing about these cults though.”

  “Cults as in plural cults?” I asked confused.

  “Yes,” he nodded. “Seems that your Order of Nine Angels has number of affiliate groups, The Church of Satan and The Temple of Set being the most obvious names that I can remember and then they were showing footage of some of the right wing extremist groups, who sympathise with their ethos. The newspapers are dragging up all sorts of connections going back decades. There’s been some pretty high profile arrests made and half a dozen untimely resignations. It’s big news at the moment.”

  “Good, but the press are diluting the story by bringing the other groups into it. The niners hold all the other groups in contempt,” I explained. I was frustrated that the press had still not got a handle on just how bad The Order of Nine Angels were in comparison to the other self proclaimed Satan worshippers. “The other groups are like the boy scouts in comparison to the niners. The press don’t realise just how insidious they are.”

  “What’s the difference?”

  “Culling and breeding for abuse.”

  “Culling,” he repeated. “As in seal culling?”

  “Exactly,” I drew deeply on the smoke again. “They actively encourage the slaughter of those who they see as weak, or people they deem to be a threat to them. They choose their sacrifices from the sea of human dross that floats around out there. Drifters and the homeless, kids from the care systems, people who won’t be missed. Of course, killing people who threaten to expose them is just a necessity.”

  “People who threaten them,” he smiled. “Like you?”

  “Especially me,” I laughed. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d felt relaxed enough to laugh.

  “Well whatever these Satanic groups are up to, they’re in the spotlight and running for the shadows. Worshipping Satan is not pc at the moment!”

  “Good,” I finished my cigarette and exhaled as I spoke. “It’s got fuck all to do with worshipping Satan for most of them. It’s all about sex and abuse. Only the hardcore really believe that Satan is their God.”

  “That’s what they’re saying on the news now. Your message is getting there,” he glanced at me. There was thirty seconds of uncomfortable silence. “What happened at Nant-y-Col?”

  “To cut a long story short, the camp-site owner bubbled me. I fell asleep and woke up surrounded. I legged it through the forest.” I lit a second Sterling, “The owner’s son, a young lad called, Bryn helped me escape. I was hiding from the police in a farmhouse, which belonged to their family and it turned out to belong to a niner.”

  “Was that a coincidence?” he grimaced. “Did the son set you up?”

  “Fuck knows,” I shrugged. “If he did then he paid a hefty price. They slit his throat and crucified him to the barn wall. His old man was one of them.”

  “What?” Joseph shook his head in disbelief. “He slaughtered his own son?”

  “I don’t think so,” I thought back. “He was burnt badly in the fire but he thought that I’d killed Bryn. I think one of the others knew he’d helped me escape and they killed him as a warning to anyone else who thinks about helping me.”

  “Are you trying to put me off?” Joseph wasn’t perturbed by the implication. “I’ll take my chances.” It wasn’t said boastfully but I got the feeling that he probably fancied his chances in most situations. “I’m intrigued about the farm, carry on.”

  “They came for me with shotguns. I set fire to the place and left a tin of petrol on the stove to cover my escape and they were caught in the explosion. The flames alerted the police helicopter and here I am.”

  “Very clever,” he tilted his head. “I’ve read your bio but have you been in the military?”

  “No,” I shook my head and smiled at the thought. “Just shit I’ve picked up researching books.”

  “Well it obviously works,” he nodded. “Were there any more dead?”

  “Yes.”

  “How many?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe four.”

  “Oops.”

  “Oops, indeed.”

  I looked out of the window and caught sight of a drawn face with dark circles under the eyes. He looked tired, exhausted even. Although I was aware that it was my reflection, I was fascinated by how haunted the face looked. The gentle movement of the vehicle and the quiet purr of the engine combined and acted as a powerful tranquiliser. I was asleep within seconds. I felt safe for the first time in as long as I could remember and my mind surrendered to slumber. I couldn’t have slept for more than ten minutes but my dreams were the most pleasant that I had had for months. I was surrounded by familiar faces, all of them smiling and reassuring me that they didn’t judge me for what I had done. My dear departed father appeared just before I awoke; his blue eyes as vivid as if he was there. He smiled and was about to speak. I knew it was a warning. A voice dragged me back to a dark reality. I sat up and couldn’t move properly. I gripped the gun and looked around with panicked bleary eyes.

  “It’s okay, Conrad,” Joseph placed a calming hand on my arm. “Relax we’re at my house.”

  I realised that the reason that I couldn’t move was my seatbelt. I sat back and took a deep breath. “Sorry,” I sighed. “I’m tired and jumpy.”

  “Well you’re safe for now,” he opened his door and the interior light came on. I could hear a winch motor and saw a garage door closing behind me in the wing mirror. As the door closed, the lights came on automatically. A bank of six fluorescent tubes flickered into life illuminating the interior of the double garage with the power of a small sun. I blinked and looked around. It was painted white and was pristine and spotlessly clean. The walls were lined with pegboards and shelves, which were filled with enough DIY hardware to stock a B&Q. Everything was aligned neatly and symmetrically in rows and columns. It looked like there was a small saloon car beneath a tarpaulin in the second side of the garage, maybe a restoration project or something similar, although I couldn’t see any wheels. A Jeep was parked in front of it. Thick metal stanchions supported the house above the cavernous garage. “Come on let’s get you inside.”

  I opened the door and reluctantly climbed out of the vehicle. I could have curled up and slept for a month. I carried my bag and the Mossberg as if they were the crown jewels. Joseph offered to carry the bag but that would have been too traumatic to handle. The garage smelled of timber and creosote. It was a pleasant smell. I envied the order and normality of Joseph’s garage. He was obviously a conscientious DIY fan. Not someone who dabbled to save paying a tradesman but someone who took on a project for the sense of accomplishment and pride. Joseph punched a six figure code into a digital keyboard, which was fixed to the wall and the door into the house clicked open.

  “I’m always losing my keys so this was a no-brainer.” He guessed what I was thinking from the expression on my face. “I bought this cheap on ebay.”

  “I’m always losing my keys and forgetting my pin code so it would be of no benefit to me. I’d be screwed either way.”

  “Follow the stairs up to the top,” he switched on a light, which illuminated a carpeted stairwell. There were ten steps and then a small landing as the stairs turned 180 degrees and then there were another ten to the top. I noticed a door on the landing, which seemed to lead to a hallway with several rooms leading off it. When I reached the top of the stairs, I was greeted by a huge split-level living area with a vaulted ceiling and a wooden floor; three low leather couches and a smoked glass coffee table the only furniture. A plasma television was bolted to the wall where it could be viewed from any angle. Panoramic windows made up two walls, offering a view over the entire resort, which was three miles below us. The river was to the left a
nd the sand dunes and beaches to the right. The remaining walls were made from rectangular slate bricks and at the far end of the room was an open kitchen, which looked to be made entirely from granite and chrome. “I renovated the place myself,” Joseph said proudly from behind me. “It was a bungalow but we blasted into the cliff to add height and depth.

  “It’s amazing,” I said impressed. “Were you a builder?”

  “Sort of,” he laughed. “My father was a property developer and we worked together for a while when I left school but then I chose a different career. He taught me the basics and I learned the rest along the way. It’s not rocket science.”

  “Beautiful location, Joseph,” I said impressed. I stood by the windows and saw the wooden decking beyond. The house was built into a steep incline so the wide deck was supported from beneath by metal stilts forming an ‘L’ shaped balcony at the front of the house. I guessed that the bedrooms were beneath us accessed from the doorway on the landing. “What a view. At least I’ll be able to see the police coming!”