Jack's Back

by Mark Romain

  Jack ran after him, taking full advantage of the killer’s light until it faded and disappeared around a right-angle bend. Without the benefit of the killer’s light to guide him, the passage quickly became as dark as the grave. In the few brief moments that the tunnel had been illuminated, he’d seen that several boxes and an old discarded trolley lay at various intervals in his path like an obstacle course. He cursed out loud and reluctantly slowed to negotiate the first of the hurdles.

  He tried to regulate his breathing, but the stale air in the tunnel was thick with newly disturbed dust, making him cough uncontrollably.

  Although he couldn’t see the killer anymore, he could still hear the steady patter of receding footsteps. The sound infuriated him.

  He wondered just how long the tunnel was; it seemed to be going on forever. With one hand held out in front of his face, probing the way ahead, and the other touching the side of the wall for balance, he began to advance. His progress was painfully slow and soon the killer’s footsteps faded into silence.

  He needed to go faster, but it was dangerous to run. Fuck it, life’s dangerous, he decided, angrily. Tyler began to jog. His movements were slow and clumsy at first, but at least he was moving faster than before. As he became more confident, he increased the pace. And then it happened.

  His left shin collided with something solid and he stumbled forward, his momentum driving him down onto the soggy floor. Something metallic snagged on his foot and whipped around, falling on top of him.

  The old trolley!

  He clumsily kicked it aside and struggled back to his feet, his leg throbbing, his face and hands covered with dirt and slime. “Why is nothing ever easy?” he complained bitterly. Ignoring the pulsating pain in his hands, he brushed himself down and continued to jog, knowing there was every chance he’d take another tumble and not giving a fuck.

  He reached the bend in the tunnel and followed it around to the right. About fifty feet ahead there was a tiny glow of light. As he got nearer, he realised that the light was coming from the other side of another set of double doors, similar to the ones he had entered the tunnel by. Only they appeared to be made of metal, not rubber. Each of the doors had a small glass panel, about a foot square, set into it at head height. It was through these windows that he could see the thin beam of light dancing around on the other side.

  It could only be the killer.

  Tyler bunched his fists and immediately cringed at the searing pain from his burns. “I’m coming for you, you bastard,” he growled.

  ◆◆◆

  Pritchard was battered, bruised and bleeding, and it was all Jack Tyler’s fault. His face and groin were in excruciating pain; every muscle in his body ached from the fall, and a deep gouge ran the length of his left forearm, where he’d caught it on a sharp piece of wood that jutted out of one of the bins he’d landed on. He’d be lucky not to end up with Septicaemia.

  He shone the torch around, looking for something he’d seen on his first trip to the underground storage area, when he’d searched the building earlier.

  There was no time to lose. Tyler wasn’t far behind, and although he’d heard the good Inspector take a fall in the tunnel behind – the killer hoped he’d broken his neck in the process – he couldn’t count on that, or anything else, stopping Tyler for long. The detective was too stupid and too stubborn to know when enough was enough.

  An insidious thought had occurred to him after the fall, as he lay stunned on the floor, surrounded by a whirlpool of dust. It was one of those rare moments of undiluted insight that could only be described as inspirational – like the moment he’d decided to let Terri Miller listen to him torturing Sarah.

  Tyler had become a thorn in his side, turning up unexpectedly, thwarting his plans, ruining the sacrificial timetable and – most importantly – spoiling his fun. Two whores, both equally undeserving of life, were still breathing thanks to Jack bloody Tyler – and one of them was the third bitch who was responsible for ruining his life. If she survived, she would reveal his identity to the world, and he couldn’t allow that. However, before he went back to the van to finish her off, his nemesis had to die – and The Disciple knew just how it was going to happen.

  Tyler was going to go out with a very big bang.

  He’d run down here, using the cloud of dust to mask his movements. It had given him the few precious seconds he’d needed. The storage room was approximately thirty-foot square with a low ceiling. It was cluttered with old equipment, including two acetylene cylinders sitting on a welder’s trolley, an assortment of rusted tools and stacks of general rubbish.

  He’d entered through a metal fire-proof door, and when he was finished, he would exit through an identical door at the far end of the storage area, which led down to the loading area on the pier.

  He ran the beam of light over the ceiling, which was covered with a series of anodised black pipes, and around the circumference of the room. More pipes: grey this time. A small, old-fashioned, emergency generator, mounted on a heavy-duty trolley, sat in the corner immediately to his right, and he dragged it over to the door, to use as a barricade. Next, he knocked an old filing cabinet over and wedged it behind the generator. Breathing like an old man with chronic asthma, the Pritchard grunted with satisfaction.

  That should hold Tyler for a while.

  He crossed to a giant metal cylinder that was at least ten-foot long and three foot in diameter. It lay flat on the floor, parallel to the wall, facing the doors he’d come through. Two thin pipes came out of the top end, ran up the wall, and disappeared into the ceiling.

  A half-dozen identical cylinders were bracketed to the wall above it, each one slightly offset from the one below. All had the same twin set of pipes leading upwards. He shone the light over the bottom cylinder until he found what he was looking for, a circular turn valve set into the furthest end. If they contained what he thought they did, he would use the cylinders to devastating effect. He would introduce Jack Tyler to Hell – and then send him there.

  The Disciple scanned the cylinder for ‘Hazardous Chemical’ or ‘Flammable liquid’ warning signs. He wiped a thick layer of condensed grime away from the centre, where he thought it should be, with the sleeve of his jacket. Sure enough, he found a large diamond-shaped sticker coloured in bright red. The words ‘DANGER – HIGHLY FLAMMABLE’ were written on it in big, bold letters, and accompanied by a picture of a single flame.

  If, as the killer suspected, this set up fuelled an outdated cooling system for a cold storage facility somewhere within the building above, then it probably still contained plenty of chlorofluorocarbons, which are a highly flammable propellant. He brushed the cobwebs away from the valve. Although dormant, the whole set up still appeared to be in working order. This was a very dangerous game to play, but Tyler had upped the stakes, forcing his hand.

  “You think you’ve got me, don’t you, Tyler? You think you’ve won. So help me, I’ll kill us both before I let that happen,” Pritchard promised, as he tried to turn the valve, which was stiff from years of inactivity.

  “Turn, damn you,” he grunted. His face glowed red from the effort, but the handle had rusted and wouldn’t budge an inch. Pritchard looked around, desperate to find something to use as a lever. The torch beam cut through the darkness like a white laser, until it came to rest upon a thin rod of iron protruding from beneath the old generator. About two-foot-long, it was perfect for his needs. He slid it into the valve and started rocking back and forth violently, until, with a loud creak, it began to move. As the valve turned a gentle hissing began to fill the silence, growing steadily louder as the colourless, odourless gas escaped into the air. He knew it wouldn’t take long to saturate the atmosphere of a room this size. He immediately started working on the valve in the cylinder above, which, to his surprise, wasn’t nearly as hard to move.

  Suddenly, the door thundered as something powerful crashed into it from the other side.

  Tyler! He quickly shone the torch across his barr
icade, afraid it might have collapsed. Neither the generator nor the filing cabinet had moved, and he breathed a small sigh of relief.

  “Pritchard, open the damn door,” Tyler called. The Disciple could hear the anger in his voice.

  “Losing your temper, are you, Jack? Not very professional is it?” he taunted. With the second valve now opened he turned his attention to the valve in the third cylinder. He had to use the iron rod on this one, just to get it going.

  “Pritchard, I’m warning you,” Tyler shouted, banging the door with his fist.

  “Ooh, I’m shaking in my shoes,” the killer responded sarcastically. The valve in the third cylinder was now spewing its flammable contents out with great gusto, and he quickly started work on the forth. Figuring that four canisters would be more than enough to cause the destruction he wanted, The Disciple moved over to the door, pressing his face against the glass panel.

  “In fact, you’re scaring me to death.” Holding the torch under his chin so that it illuminated his features from below, he distorted his face into a caricature of a death mask.

  The door jolted forward, almost banging into his face as Tyler kicked it from the other side. Instinctively, the killer shrank back, an agitated scowl on his face.

  “Okay, Jack – my very own Inspector Abberline – if you want me, come in and get me. I’m waiting for you and I’m ready to go out in a blaze of glory. The question is, are you?” The killer stepped backwards, into the centre of the room. He held the torch tight against his chest, shinning it upward. It gave him a ghostly appearance. As he finished speaking, he switched it off, sending the world into darkness.

  ◆◆◆

  Tyler couldn’t see a thing now that the torch had been extinguished, but from what little he’d been able to make out when it was on, he reckoned the killer was trapped in a storeroom of some sort. He doubted there was another way out. Pritchard would have been long gone if that were the case. He pushed on the door, lending all his weight to the effort. To his surprise, it only moved an inch or so. He tried again, quickly establishing a steady rhythm. Push, pause for breath, brace in readiness to push again…Push, pause for breath, brace…

  Slowly, ever so slowly, the door began to open inwards. It soon became evident that a large piece of machinery had been wedged behind the double doors, blocking them.

  “Fucking asshole,” Jack cursed through gritted teeth.

  Jack stopped shoving as soon as there was enough room for him to squeeze through. The entry was going to be a very dicey manoeuvre, and he wasn’t looking forward to it.

  The killer had too great an advantage. For a start, Jack didn’t know where in the room the fucker was hiding. Pritchard, on the other hand, knew exactly where he was. Another advantage the killer had was that he knew the layout of the room; he’d had plenty of time to familiarise himself with it. He knew what obstacles were in it and where they were. And, if he needed it, he could always turn his ruddy torch back on. Jack didn’t have that luxury.

  There were other, more poignant dangers, to consider. Jack knew that Pritchard had dropped his knife up in the warehouse, but did that mean he was now unarmed?

  Somehow, that seemed unlikely.

  Could he have retrieved it when he fell?

  Possibly.

  Could he have other weapons concealed on him, brought along as a backup?

  Probably.

  Had he found something lying around that he could improvise with to create a do-it-yourself club or spear?

  Almost certainly.

  Jack had learned the hard way not to underestimate this particular killer. He might be mad, but he sure as hell wasn’t stupid. Tyler listened carefully, hardly daring to breathe. The only noise coming from inside was a strange hissing sound, like steam escaping from a pipe.

  Tyler shouldered the door, knocking it back another couple of inches. Stepping back, he crouched down, waiting to see if there was any response.

  There was nothing. No movement, no noise – just the constant unexplained hiss. Tyler sniffed the air, worried that it might be a gas leak, although he couldn’t smell anything unusual.

  There was no easy way to handle this situation. He couldn’t afford to stay where he was in the hope that help would arrive, but the more he thought about going in after Pritchard, the less he wanted to do it.

  He began to focus his breathing, filling his bloodstream with as much oxygen as he could. This would have to be fast and furious. Jack couldn’t help wishing that Tony Dillon were here to back him up.

  He figured that the killer would try and take him as he entered the room, which meant he would be hiding immediately to the right or to the left of the door.

  Another possibility was that the killer had somehow managed to climb on top of the machinery without being heard, and was poised to jump down on him as he entered the room. Jack had watched the killer take half a dozen steps straight back, towards the centre of the room, before turning off the torch. It told him that the middle of the room was clear of obstruction.

  Dropping to his hands and knees, Tyler edged forward, feeling his way into the gap he’d created. As soon as his head cleared the door, he dived into the room in a rolling break fall, hoping to catch his opponent off guard. Twice he rolled before coming up and spinning to face the door. He froze, crouched in a defensive stance; his hands stretched out in front to fend off the sudden frenzied attack he expected to come at any moment.

  After thirty seconds, during which nothing happened, he found himself having doubts. Maybe there was another way out of here after all? Lowering his hands slightly, he began to shuffle sideways, towards the hissing noise. If there were pipes then they would be attached to a wall, and he needed a wall to get his bearings again.

  His nerves were raw after waiting for an attack that had never come, and he found himself longing to give up the chase, turn around and get out of this creepy place. But the fact of the matter was that he couldn’t turn back. He needed to find the other exit and get back on the killer’s trail, and sooner rather than later.

  Tyler stopped in his tracks as a small powerful draft hit him. It hadn’t been there a second ago. A rusty hinge creaked as a door opened close behind him. The hairs on the nape of his neck began to rise, and a shiver ran down his spine. He wasn’t alone after all.

  ◆◆◆

  Dillon had managed to carry the injured woman back down to Kelly’s car, and she now sat in the front passenger seat. Flowers sat next to her, in the driver’s seat, holding the side of her face. She was still badly dazed and had only just managed to negotiate the walk back to the car unaided.

  “Are you sure you’re okay, Kelly?” Dillon asked, placing a shovel sized hand on her shoulder.

  “I’m fine. You should go and help Jack. I’m really worried about him,” she said.

  “So am I,” Dillon admitted. He paused for a moment before making up his mind. “Alright, but lock both doors and start the engine. If anyone shows up, apart from me or Jack, floor it and get the hell out of here. Promise?” he asked, sternly.

  “I promise,” she said, meaning it.

  “Oh, and keep trying to ring out on my mobile.” He passed the phone through the open window. “If you can get a signal, dial all the nines and yell loudly for help, lots of it.”

  “I’ll try.”

  “And close that bloody window,” Dillon ordered. With that, he set off for the warehouse at a brisk trot.

  CHAPTER 42

  Simon Pritchard froze on the spot, silently cursing the squeaking hinge that had stolen the element of surprise. There was no way that Tyler could have missed it and now he would be forewarned of the killer’s approach.

  He had slipped out of the other set of fireproof doors the moment he’d turned the torch off, hiding in the damp corridor that ran down to the pier. Then, cupping his hand around the torch to prevent its light from spilling back into the room, and alerting Tyler, he had rummaged around on the floor in search of something to set fire to. Almost immediately
, he had found a long length of rag, which he’d crumpled into a ball.

  He now stood poised in the doorway, ready to run. But he couldn’t leave without letting Tyler know who the better man was. It wasn’t enough just to kill Tyler; first, he had to tell his arch-nemesis exactly what was going to happen to him.

  He switched the torch back on, shining it directly into the detective’s eyes. “Did you think I’d gone, Jack?” he asked in a soft sibilant voice.

  Tyler shielded his eyes against the sudden, painfully bright light, which was blinding after the total darkness of the underground boiler room. He took an uncertain step towards the voice, ready to pounce on its owner if the chance presented itself.

  “Stay where you are, Tyler,” the killer warned, and something in his voice made Jack stop.

  “Do you hear that noise, Tyler? Do you know what it is?” The killer shone the torch around the room, bringing it to rest on a stacking unit containing several long cylinders, over by the far wall. A ball of ice formed in Tyler’s stomach as he recalled his earlier fear of a gas leak.