Out of Promises

by Simon Leigh

  ‘He’s here, but he can’t speak. His tongue is missing.’

  Preston let out a sinister chuckle. ‘How the devil are you, brother?’

  He tried to talk again, his eyes full of deceit and anger.

  ‘Sharpe, you were always the favourite. Probably because you had your nose so far up Matherson’s ass you could get lost. Even our parents favoured you. Well, not anymore. Look where Matherson has led you now.’

  ‘What shall I do with him, sir?’

  ‘Kill him. Goodbye Sharpe.’ Then the phone went dead.

  Cyrus put the phone in his pocket and grinned, showing his unclean, smoke ridden teeth. Resting the switchblade on Sharpe’s neck, he said, ‘Orders are orders, I’m sure you understand.’

  Before Sharpe could make a sound, the blade was in his throat, slicing through his flesh with blood curdling ease and he began choking, powerless to do anything. His arms wildly clutched at his throat, trying to push the blood back in, but it just gushed out and down his shirt to join the pool already gathered.

  Then he stopped.

  They say your life flashes before your eyes when you die, and Sharpe’s was no different. He saw his mother and father through a child’s eyes; his teenage years and his first kiss followed by his first sexual encounter; his first fight and his acceptance by Matherson; Northbrook with Rodriguez and Nicky. But the last thing he saw was the last time he saw Preston, just before he left to meet Freddie six years ago. He said goodbye to him as he left the office. And with that, he drew his last gargling breath and sat, slumped in the chair, staring at the floor through cold, dead eyes.

  SEVENTEEN YEARS AGO. WHEN THE FIRE STARTED

  i

  Seventeen years ago after casing Northbrook Children’s Home in gasoline, Preston stayed behind to start the fire that would live on forever in Southbrook’s history as a gas explosion.

  At the truck ready to leave, Preston closed the truck’s rear doors and Sharpe climbed into the driver’s seat.

  ‘You take off back to the depot,’ Preston said. ‘I’ll start the fire.’

  ‘What are you talking about? Cops could be all over this within minutes. We need to go.’

  ‘More of a reason to get this truck away from here. If they come I’ll make a run for it through the woods.’

  ‘Fine, see ya later then,’ Sharpe said and started the truck, heading along the half mile track to the road.

  Preston, with his lighter in hand, left the loading bay and grabbed some dried grass from the overgrown areas, setting it on fire in his hand. Smoke covered his face, choking him as he tossed it into the loading bay, standing back to watch the room light up beautifully within seconds. Flames raced to the ceiling sending scolding heat out through the shutters and up into the night air. He watched the flames burn the bricks and metal around the doors and race down the corridors devouring everything in sight.

  Finishing with that area, he worked his way around the home smashing window after window throwing burning grass or wood inside. Up on the second floor screaming children banged and clawed at the windows. He felt no guilt; an order was an order. He blocked the screams from his mind and did his job.

  After making a full circle back to the loading bay, he headed for the driveway to collect the boy from the staff room, hoping that he’d listened to him and hidden in the bushes.

  Where the driveway hits the road, he looked back at the building half a mile away, the bright orange glow from the fire lighting up the sky.

  He searched for the boy.

  ‘Hey, kid?’

  No answer.

  It began to rain. Just a light shower.

  ‘Hey,’ he said, louder this time.

  Still nothing.

  He looked everywhere around the road’s end, but there was no sign of him. He knew couldn’t just leave him, especially if he escaped as Freddie had. Giving up with this area, he walked the half mile back to the fire, scouring the edges on the way with his time running out.

  As he approached the home, he found the window he’d smashed to get inside when they first arrived. The fire was blazing and impossible to see through making him cough as he braved the suffocating vacuum. He shouted for the boy again through harsh smoke with still no answer.

  Then he heard something inside: a barely audible noise over the roar. It was coming from the window above, where Freddie had escaped.

  Covering his mouth with a handkerchief, he took a run up, grabbing the shattered windowsill with his feet hanging behind him.

  The smell of fire and gas tickled his nose and he saw the boy cowering in the corner.

  ‘Hey!’ he yelled.

  The boy just looked at him.

  ‘Come over here. Just run to me, OK?’ He held out a struggling hand, but he didn’t move.

  He tried to climb up, only, his feet wouldn’t grip the wall and his arms were weakening. Behind the door, the corridor was burning and he knew the fire would soon spread into the room. ‘Dammit, come here, now!’

  He still didn’t move. Helpless and frightened, he stayed in the corner.

  Preston dropped down, stood a few feet from the wall and began a longer run up when he heard the child scream.

  Shit.

  He watched in horror as the boy approached the windowsill covered in ravaging flames. His clothes were burning and his arms flailed madly to dampen the smothering pain. Then, at the edge of the windowsill, the pain got too much for him and he lost consciousness, collapsing from the window to the ground.

  Preston ran towards him, taking off his coat and covering the boy, suffocating the fire. The clothes were burned into his skin and the smell was sickening, but he was breathing.

  Carrying him, Preston ran to the main road.

  Elsewhere, at the back of the home, a chair was thrown through a ground floor window followed by a man with a burning child in his arms. The boy was unconscious and wasn’t breathing.

  While keeping the child close to his chest, he ran through the light rain to the safety of the trees sixty feet from the rear of the building.

  ‘Don’t you fucking die,’ he said to the kid, putting his ear to the boy’s mouth to feel for a breath that never came.

  Come on.

  He tried pinching what was left of the boy’s skin to get a response and felt for a pulse – both with no success.

  Giving up, he sat next to the boy’s lifeless body, weeping.

  The child in Preston’s arms was growing heavier as he neared the road. Once there, he laid him on the damp ground, took out his cell phone and called an ambulance claiming to be a passer-by who found him like that.

  Inevitably, he knew, there would be police inquiries, but it was either let the boy die or answer some questions. He also had the risk of Matherson finding out about it. He lied about his name and address and left as soon as he had the opportunity.

  It was also his plan to get the boy out of the hospital once he had recovered. But with the burns the boy had sustained, recovery could take days, weeks, or even months.

  ii

  Weeks passed by and the boy was healing nicely, though he would be scarred for life. Preston was at his bedside in the private room in the hospital. Thankfully for him, he’d been able to keep this incident from Matherson and the others and now it was time to get him out of here. It was just pure luck that nobody on Matherson’s payroll saw him.

  His rejection by Matherson had made him even more eager for revenge.

  He said to the boy, ‘I’ll take care of you, Cyrus.’

  Still burnt with bandages covering the majority of his body, he looked at Preston and said, ‘How?’

  ‘By feeding you and giving you a home.’

  ‘Are you my new dad?’

  ‘Yes, but we need to leave this place before the men from the children’s home find you. Do you understand?’

  He thought on it before saying: ‘Yes.’

  ‘OK. Let’s get you dressed and we can go.’

  With difficulty, and with Preston’s h
elp, he got dressed and they waited together until the corridor was clear before walking hand in hand out of the room, down to the entrance and out to the parking lot.

  CHAPTER THIRTY THREE

  At 19:30, Detective Baker stopped his unmarked sedan outside Yates Detective Agency office with a squad car following behind.

  A young officer got out, a new recruit Baker figured. He didn’t mind working with new recruits and felt sympathy for them. After all, he’d been one himself once and knew what crap they had to deal with.

  He looked on at the young officer proudly, remembering his time undercover in Bridgewater as an ambitious know-it-all, wondering if his life would have been different if he’d lived a normal police life. He thought he might even be married, but the job came first. Always.

  ‘Come on,’ he said to the officer. ‘But be careful. If anybody runs don’t be afraid.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  They walked up the empty, echoing steps to the office and stopped outside the door.

  Bill knocked and said, ‘This is Southbrook P.D. Open up.’

  No answer.

  ‘Mr Yates?’

  Still no answer.

  ‘I don’t think he’s there,’ said the rookie.

  Baker pushed the door to find Sharpe slumped backwards behind the desk looking up at the ceiling with his mouth wide open, blood covering his chin and chest.

  Baker pulled out his Glock. ‘Wait out here,’ he ordered.

  Walking in with his weapon raised, he soon discovered they were alone. As a formality, he lifted Sharpe’s cold, limp wrist to check for a pulse.

  He took out his phone. ‘This is Detective Baker. I need an APB sent out for Bill Yates. He’s considered extremely dangerous, approach with caution. He may be armed. He may also have a lady with him that goes by the name Valerie Lambert. He’s an ex-cop so get his mug shot out there and send a crew to Yates Detective Agency on Lord Street. We have an unknown male, DOA.’

  He turned to the rookie and said, ‘You can go and wait outside. I’m going back to the office when they get here.’

  CHAPTER THIRTY FOUR

  At a window booth in a small quaint diner, Valerie and Bill tried to make the best of the break they had before moving on. Neither of them had been to this particular diner before, but it was mostly a carbon copy of other diners with a stainless metal table separating them and red cushioned seats polished so highly they would squeak with each movement. Upturned cups were already on the tables for efficiency. Pictures of famous actors and musicians on the walls accompanied a strong smell of fresh coffee filling their noses. A TV on the wall in the corner behind the counter showed nothing of interest.

  Truckers coming and going before getting ready for a night on the road sent a chill through.

  ‘Good old American diners,’ said Bill. ‘I do love them. You know, I don’t think they have places like this in any other country.’

  Valerie wasn’t really paying attention to anything; she was just happy to be in the warmth. She was deep in thought looking through the window at the parking lot and beyond to yellow cabs and other traffic mindlessly whizzing by.

  Bill smiled across the table. ‘So, you’re glad I’m all right?’

  She didn’t answer him, although she had to admit she saw him in a different light now from when she’d first met him. Her trust was growing and she found him charming. But she didn’t want to dwell on the subject. Her personal feelings had to stay that way: personal, though she couldn’t escape the proverbial emotional wall coming down.

  ‘Coffee?’ asked a flustered young lady in a pink waitress outfit holding out a warm pot. She looked rushed, almost embarrassed to be there chewing gum rigorously and making that lip smacking sound that became annoying to the both of them.

  To keep the peace, they both nodded without speaking.

  She turned their cups over, filling them. ‘Anything else?’

  Not feeling like eating, Valerie shook her head.

  Bill said, ‘Not just yet, thank you.’

  She left them without a word.

  ‘So what did you and Sharpe talk about?’ Valerie asked. ‘Did he mention Jackson?’

  Bill looked at her sympathetically, torn between upsetting her and taking her mind from finding Freddie’s killer, or her deciding she’d had enough and leaving. Neither of which he wanted to do.

  ‘Bill?’

  ‘Sorry. No, he didn’t mention Jackson, but I’m sure he’s hanging in there.’ He could see that underneath the strong façade she desperately tried to show that it was getting to her.

  She said, ‘I think we should see Fraser again at Fosters. We didn’t get much chance to speak with him.’

  A trucker walked in bringing a fresh chill to the place.

  Bill said, ‘That slippery old fart doesn’t know anything.’

  ‘How can you say that? The name is on the lock pick.’

  ‘OK, fine. We can go back after food,’ he said, waving at the young waitress.

  He ordered a burger and fries. Valerie changed her mind about eating and ordered the same.

  A man behind the counter turned the TV up loud to a sitcom full of canned laughter.

  Valerie looked over and said, ‘I love this show.’

  ‘Pfft. Prefer a good police drama myself.’

  ‘Don’t you like to laugh?’

  ‘Hey, I do like a laugh, but not fake laughter. The canned laughter on those shows is telling you when to laugh. I know when to laugh.’

  ‘Wow. Moody sometimes aren’t you?’

  ‘Me?’

  Her smile faded. ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

  He backed off.

  The waitress came over, dropped the food on the table and walked away.

  ‘Thanks for your help,’ Bill yelled after her. She ignored him. ‘I know a waitress who ain’t getting a tip.’

  Valerie poured ketchup on her fries. ‘This does look nice, though.’

  The TV sitcom changed to the local news channel about crime in Southbrook.

  Valerie took a bite of the burger. The warm, succulent, meaty texture awakened her taste buds making her want more. The fries were perfect too, not too salty with just the right crunch.

  Bill watched her wash it all down with a mouthful of coffee. ‘So, you’re not hungry?’

  She smiled shyly.

  ‘Wow, not seen you smile properly since I met you I think.’

  Don’t start again.

  The TV continued on about crime rates: ‘Before we move on to our interview with Dr. Keys, here’s a sport update.’

  ‘So what’s the plan now, Val?’ Bill asked with a mouthful.

  She raised an eyebrow. ‘Fraser. We’ll see Fraser. Like we agreed.’ She gulped another load of coffee. It was bitter, but sweet and it warmed her. Sitting back, she gazed through the window again. The TV was uninteresting to her. She knew of the crime rates and didn’t like sport so she tuned it out.

  Bill finished off the last of his food and waited patiently for her to talk. She was a puzzle to him and he didn’t know which approach to start with sometimes, but she intrigued him and he liked the unpredictability.

  ‘Why did you leave the police, Bill?’ she asked, still watching the cars pass by.

  The TV caught his ears and he turned to look at it without answering. It showed the Southbrook baseball team losing again. He smiled, ‘They couldn’t hit that ball if it was tied to the bat.’

  When the sorts had finished, the camera panned to the news anchors. ‘Breaking news just in. Police are now on a hunt for a highly dangerous male in connection with the murder of a man this morning at Saint Patrick’s church. The male’s name is Bill Yates, a private detective in the city of Southbrook. Police have issued this photograph.’ A photograph of him appeared on the screen, an old photo from his police days.

  ‘Oh shit.’

  Valerie sprung to life. ‘We need to leave,’ she said, looking around.

  Thankfully, nobody was paying attention.r />
  It continued: ‘Valerie Lambert is the name of his accomplice. Southbrook police department tell us a picture will be made available in the coming hours. If you have any information please call the number at the bottom of the screen. The police are urging people not approach them. More news as it comes.’

  Bill stood up, dropped a twenty on the table and grabbed Valerie’s hand without making a scene. She let him and they made their way to the door.

  The report continued: ‘Dr. Keys, is this a prime example of the days of old reoccurring?’

  ‘Bill, wait a second,’ said Valerie. She recognized Dr. Keys from somewhere.

  He was uncomfortable and felt exposed and vulnerable now his picture was plastered all over the TV. He stood at the door with her and watched the story unfold.

  The anchor asked, ‘Is there another crime wave on the way?’

  Keys was a brunette and dressed in a lady’s black trouser suit. ‘It’s difficult to say right now. We’ve had a rise in the number of crimes over the last couple of years or so, but I wouldn’t panic just yet. The last crime wave lasted many years. Now the police are more efficient and well equipped than ever before.’

  Bill scoffed at her, ‘Well equipped? Ha.’

  The story continued: ‘But surely the police aren’t prepared for every possible situation?’

  A group of friends entered the diner.

  Valerie said, ‘Let’s get out of here.’ She grabbed him and walked out.

  The news report continued after they left: ‘The situation I’m talking about is the incident some years ago with Victoria and Joseph Lambert. Do you remember? Victoria butchered her husband because she blamed him for their child running away. These are the kinds of incidents the police are not prepared for.’

  Keys said, ‘True, but that’s not part of the crime wave. That was a long time ago. I personally don’t think another wave is on the way. What I’m talking about today is organized crime. Please don’t misunderstand me, these domestic incidents, sad as they are, are not considered part of organized crime rises.’