The Disciple

by Steven Dunne

  ‘Wait a minute. There were five members of the Campbell family, including two teenage boys,’ said Drexler. ‘Are you telling me they roll up for gas and one man, and maybe one woman, somehow overpowered these people right there on the highway?’

  ‘If they were armed and had the element of surprise…’

  ‘Even so, Andy, it’s far from a slamdunk. Another car could happen along, the family might fight back. A lot can go wrong. Yet Ashwell’s been doing this for over twenty years, without any comeback. Seems awful risky.’

  Dupree stroked his chin. ‘See what you mean.’

  ‘You’re forgetting the state of some of the vehicles,’ said McQuarry. ‘They wouldn’t need guns if their victims had just been in a car crash.’

  ‘So you think Caleb and his wife just wandered up and down 89 in a tow truck looking for car wrecks?’ asked Drexler.

  ‘Wait, what if Caleb caused the crashes? We’re pretty sure Billy Ashwell was drugged.’ Dupree put on a pair of half-moon glasses and picked up some papers. ‘He drank coffee before he died. If they served coffee to customers with the same kind of drugs Billy had? A few miles down the road the victims would either pull over or crash.’

  ‘It’s a theory. But surely there could be other cars around that maybe get to the crash site first.’

  ‘So they drive on by,’ said Dupree. ‘Or maybe they stop and help like regular citizens. But there are plenty of crashes on 89. It’s a tricky drive, ’specially at night. But if nobody’s around they hook up the car and tow it back to the station. If the adults are drugged the kids will be easy…’

  ‘And maybe they only pick out targets at night and only ones paying cash so there’s no paper trail,’ added Drexler.

  McQuarry nodded. ‘Sounds reasonable so far. Only one fly in the ointment for me. Why would a woman conspire to let her husband commit rape?’

  ‘It’s not unknown, Ed. Maybe she was glad it was them and not her.’

  ‘Or maybe Caleb’s wife didn’t know about the rapes. Far as I can remember, she would only have been around for the first one. Maybe the Campbells were just killed and robbed. We have a gap of several years to the next one – the Hernandez family from Arizona,’ continued Dupree. ‘Mrs Ashwell left Caleb before that. She gave birth to a son, then upped and left six months later, leaving Billy behind with Caleb. Maybe she got cold feet after the Campbell killings and couldn’t live with it. She leaves and a few months later Caleb picks up where he left off. 1978, the year the Hernandez family go missing. Only this time he wants more than just their car and their money.’

  ‘Where’d Mrs Ashwell go?’

  ‘Nobody knows, Ed. She ain’t been heard from since.’

  ‘Then how do we know she left at all?’

  Dupree and Drexler looked up at her. ‘You think maybe Caleb killed her too.’

  ‘What mother would leave her baby with a monster like that? These three new bodies. How many you say were naked?’

  Dupree looked at his notepad. ‘One. An adult female.’

  ‘So one adult female wasn’t?’

  ‘That’s right. Material indicates she was wearing a dress.’

  ‘So how many clothed adult female bodies do we have in total?’

  ‘Just that one.’

  McQuarry raised an eyebrow. ‘And why wasn’t she naked?’

  Drexler snapped his fingers. ‘Because Caleb didn’t rape her. She was his wife.’

  Dupree checked his notes. ‘She was found in a grave on her own. Son of a bitch. You might be right.’

  ‘Guess we’ll find out soon enough.’ McQuarry pulled out a cigarette in anticipation of a break.

  ‘Poor Billy,’ added Drexler. ‘Without a mother, he didn’t stand a chance.’

  ‘You think Caleb trained him up to be just like him?’ asked McQuarry.

  ‘Monsters like that…’ Drexler shook his head. His eye met his partner’s, but he couldn’t maintain contact. He shrugged. ‘That’s what they do.’

  ‘Well, forgetting ancient history for a while,’ said Dupree. ‘What do we suppose happened to Caleb and Billy last week? This weren’t no family fighting back. These folks were executed.’

  ‘It’s all about the rose petals, Andy,’ said McQuarry. ‘George Bailey’s family are the key. They get killed but this time somebody either knew about it or worked it out.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘You got me. But whoever this is wanted us to know. The way he looked up at the camera after hanging Billy. This guy knew about the camera. This guy had been to the gas station before.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘Think about it, Mike. Without that single piece of film, we log this as a murder-suicide and just concentrate on the Ghost Road killings. We tag the Ashwells as serial killers who do their stuff until one night Billy can’t stand it any more and goes over the edge. He kills his dad, writes about what’s in the clearing in blood as a sort of confession, then hangs himself out of remorse. But this guy wants us to know. He makes damn sure we know. First the camera, then the petals.’

  Brook woke in the early hours. He padded downstairs to make tea. He was on late turn today but instead of scouring the internet for old Reaper cases, he decided to read his newly acquired signed copy of Drexler’s book.

  The Ghost Road Killers is a faithful account of the activities of Caleb Ashwell and his son Billy who faced justice of sorts in 1995. Their murders ended a reign of terror in Northern California and shone a light on the disappearance of several families whose misfortune it was to cross their path. It may never be known just how many men, women and children the Ashwells terrorised and murdered on the California 89 highway because some of the victims have never been found, and because the mysterious murder of the Texas-born father and son robbed the investigation of its two key witnesses.

  Brook took a sip of tea. Odd. The Ghost Road Killers were identified in the book’s first paragraph yet Drexler had claimed they hadn’t solved the case. Perhaps he just meant the full facts were never uncovered.

  He read for a couple more hours until the sun was up then walked round to the corner shop. He walked back to the cottage through the faint morning light, sucking in the soft chilly air and shaking the slight fug from his head. He’d drank more than he’d intended the night before but had to admit he’d enjoyed himself more than he’d expected.

  After some tea, Brook returned to the book. It was well written and easy to read, but the subject matter was hard going. Women and children were abused, tortured and in most cases raped. Caleb Ashwell was a monster and his son Billy was being moulded from the same clay. The trigger for the killing spree seemed to be the infidelity of Mrs Ashwell, soon after the birth of her son. Claiming she’d walked out on him, Caleb raised Billy by himself while the body of his wife lay undisturbed in the farthest corner of a clearing near the family cabin. This had also been the hiding place for all the cars belonging to, or hired by, the families hijacked by the Ashwells while travelling on Highway 89.

  All the male victims were killed almost immediately. For the female victims, standing in for the late Mrs Ashwell no doubt, the nightmare had just begun.

  Brook was disturbed by the slamming of a door and stood up to see Drexler walking out to his car. He nipped to the front door.

  ‘Morning.’

  ‘Good morning, Damen.’

  ‘Thanks again for last night. I had a good time.’

  ‘No problem.’

  ‘You’re away early?’

  ‘Work, I’m afraid. I’m not the best sleeper and books don’t write themselves. Am I right in thinking Ashbourne’s easy to find?’

  ‘Very easy. Turn right at the bottom of the hill. Up to the A515, turn right again and keep going until you hit it.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘Do you need a map?’

  ‘I’ll be fine.’

  ‘I’m enjoying your book.’

  Drexler turned from the car and fixed Brook in his sights. ‘Enjoying?’

  ‘You kno
w what I mean. It’s very well written.’

  Drexler gave an imperceptible nod and just stood there waiting, as though Brook had more to say. Then he turned back to the car and got in behind the wheel. ‘Any questions?’ he said enigmatically.

  When Brook shook his head, Drexler started the car and drove away.

  Dupree, Drexler and McQuarry stood by the glass partition trying not to stare too hard at the decomposing cadaver of little Sally Bailey on the stainless steel gurney. Her corpse had the tagged summation of a lifetime tied round her big toe. Name. Sex. Date of Birth. Date and Cause of Death. Case number. No intangibles, no memories, no laughter, no pain, no Little League, no prom nights, no nights of love. No future. Her mother, in a more advanced state of decomposition, was on the adjacent trolley.

  Drexler stole a glance at the other two. Dupree the father had been locked in the deepest recesses and only Dupree the law officer had turned up. McQuarry too had eyes like flint. The medical examiner bent over the microphone for the last time then tossed the last of his instruments into a steel bowl for a steam clean. He picked up a small bowl with the remains of the bullet and held it up to the glass.

  ‘Same bullet as the others, seems like, Andy,’ he said, so the microphone could just about pick it up. He nodded at an assistant, who began bagging and labelling the various organs.

  The examiner, whose nametag said John Taybor, walked through a small door at the end of the room. He held out his hand, which each shook in turn after an initial hesitation to check his latex gloves had been removed.

  ‘Andy. Special Agents.’ He nodded.

  ‘Well, John?’

  ‘We’re getting there, Andy. Gradually. We’ll have the little girl’s internals tomorrow. Promise. But I can give you one thing now. She was no longer a virgin and had been subjected to repeated sexual assault. The mother had engaged in sexual activity before she died too.’

  ‘We figured as much.’

  ‘As for Caleb and Billy, I’ll have the official report typed up for you tonight but you know the summary. Before his throat was cut Caleb was struck with a heavy instrument. Front of the skull too. There was no violence against the boy before he was hung because he was drugged. The coffee he had drunk contained the toxin hyoscine, sometimes called scopolamine. There are also traces of morphine which is interesting. A combination of the two, carefully applied can cause cerebral sedation.’

  ‘He was anaesthetised,’ said McQuarry.

  ‘Effectively,’ nodded Taybor. ‘The subject would have been completely unable to think or act. Even speech would have been almost impossible. Physically they might have basic motor functions, but the subject would be very easy to control. I’m told a variation of this stuff is used as a date rape drug so you get the idea. The interesting thing is I found traces of the same drug combination in George and Tania Bailey’s systems.’

  ‘That’s not a surprise, John.’

  ‘I can’t tell you about the girl yet.’

  ‘If we’re right, John, the drugs would be confined to the coffee drinkers. What about the other families? We’re thinking they were also drugged. At least the adults.’

  ‘I’m afraid our equipment isn’t sophisticated enough for samples that age. We’ve sent them off to Quantico for further analysis.’

  Laura Grant looked at her watch, then round at the entrance to the breakfast room. Nearly ten o’clock. She’d finished her scrambled eggs some time ago and now the staff were clearing the tables. This wasn’t like her boss. He was old school. People of his generation never passed up a free meal. Whenever she and Hudson were away on work, he always made a point of eating a gargantuan breakfast. ‘If the taxpayer is footing the bill for this, we owe it to them to get VFM,’ he always said. Why men of a certain age associated lining their arteries with saturated fat and Value For Money was a complete mystery.

  She drained her Earl Grey tea and marched to Hudson’s room, banging on the door.

  ‘Guv. You’ve missed breakfast,’ she said loudly. No answer. She banged again. ‘Guv!’ Still no answer. ‘It’s checkout in two hours. Are you okay?’ She rattled the handle and the door opened.

  Grant pushed into the room. It was in darkness. The smell hit her first, then the faint noise from the bed. She walked over to the motionless form sprawled across the high mattress.

  ‘Guv,’ she said softly, reaching an arm out to rouse him.

  Jason woke as usual, panting and clutching his throat. After an urgent inspection for gaping wounds his breathing began to slow and he slid his damp frame from under the moistened sheets. It was a cold morning and the sweat on Jason’s brow and chest was transformed into salty goose bumps within seconds. He pulled aside the heavy green curtain and peeked out at the winter morning. The sky was clear and blue and the ground covered in a light frost.

  Jason checked his mobile. He had a text from Stinger.

  My place 7 2nite got news be their

  Wassup he texted back. A moment later the text was answered. Jason read it. Then he read it again. A puzzled smile creased his pale visage and he threw himself back on his bed. He took a deep breath and nodded.

  ‘I’m ready,’ he muttered, staring saucer-eyed at the ceiling.

  Laura Grant walked quickly past the railway station back towards the Midland. The sun still shone and although it was lowering it still felt unseasonably warm.

  She trotted up to the first-floor landing and opened the door to Hudson’s room.

  The room was still in darkness. ‘Guv?’

  This time the figure on the bed croaked out an answer. ‘That you, Laura?’

  ‘No, it’s Britney Spears.’

  Hudson managed a chuckle before moaning long and low. ‘Oh, don’t make me laugh, darlin’. My stomach can’t cope.’

  ‘How are you feeling?’

  ‘Like death would be a blessed release.’

  ‘But you managed to get some sleep?’

  ‘Between projectile vomits and having the shits, yeah.’

  ‘Good.’

  ‘You know, I think there’s a competition going on to see which of my orifices can expel the most stuff. I could sell tickets.’

  ‘As long as we don’t see it in the Olympics. Here,’ she said, drawing out a paper cup from a brown paper bag.

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘Chicken soup.’

  ‘No, I couldn’t, honestly.’

  ‘You’ve got to eat something, guv. It’s good for you.’

  ‘Not yet. Not after that bloody curry. Just the smell…’

  ‘Maybe some Lucozade?’

  ‘I’ll try. Leave it by the bed. Everything sorted?’

  Grant nodded. ‘We’ve got the rooms until tomorrow. And I rang Maddy’s office to tell him we needed an extra day to follow something up.’

  Hudson nodded minutely. ‘Fingers crossed I’ll be okay by then.’

  ‘You’ll be fine – this isn’t like you.’

  ‘I know. What will you do with yourself?’

  ‘I don’t know. Read a book. See a film. Maybe have an Indian.’

  ‘That’s not funny.’

  ‘But we’re on exes, guv. We’ve got to fill our boots.’

  Hudson sighed heavily. ‘Turn the lamp off on your way out.’

  Sheriff Dupree stared at the frozen monitor then sat back so that McQuarry and Drexler could see the image of the shaven-headed man handing over money to Caleb Ashwell. ‘This is the last one. This is the only customer we can’t put a name to and the only one who left with a cup of coffee. Every other customer that day is a local I can vouch for, or paid by other means. Not this man. He paid cash.’

  ‘He fits. It’s 6.30 – just before Ashwell closed up for the night.’

  ‘And he was driving a motor home – a Dodge Ram 250.’

  ‘How do we know that?’ asked McQuarry.

  ‘Ashwell had some problem with thefts a while back,’ said Dupree. ‘That’s why they put a camera in. They also started logging all vehicle plates with
a time.’

  ‘Did the DMV give us a name?’

  ‘No, because the vehicle was sold recently by a party in LA. The paperwork hasn’t caught up yet, but they’re tracing it.’

  ‘This guy looks the right height and build to be our hangman,’ nodded Drexler at the monitor.

  ‘It gets better. Watch this!’ said Dupree. He pressed the play button and the man began to move away from Ashwell. But before he turned to leave, he raised his dark eyes up to the camera and gave an imperceptible smile. Then he left, clutching a paper bag and his large Styrofoam cup of coffee.

  ‘What was in the bag? Rewind it,’ said McQuarry.

  ‘No need, I already seen. He bought one of these.’ Sheriff Dupree placed a sturdy penknife on the table. ‘Ain’t a fella in the county who don’t own one.’ Dupree smiled at them but only McQuarry understood why.

  ‘Am I missing something?’ asked Drexler.

  Dupree picked up his penknife and pulled out the corkscrew attachment before placing the knife back on the table. ‘This is California. And in California we grow grapes.’

  Drexler smiled. ‘Of course, the bottle of wine. We need to find this guy.’

  ‘And we need to ask him something. If he got a cup of coffee, how come he didn’t crash like the others?’

  ‘Only one answer, Andy,’ said McQuarry. ‘He didn’t drink it because he knew.’