(2012) Disappear

by Iain Edward Henn

  Helen flew down the stairs, but Roger, blocking out the pain and quickly regaining his balance, snatched the wire from the floor and hurled himself bodily down the stairwell. He smashed into Helen from above, sending her crashing to the floor at the foot of the stairs, sprawling across her. The wire fell from his grasp again.

  He launched himself onto his knees, his arms springing out, his hands locking onto Helen’s throat.

  ‘Get off me you bastard!’ Her scream was cut off as his fingers pushed down heavily into the flesh of her neck, blocking her air, crushing her larynx. She twisted her body about, trying to gain some leverage, but he was too heavy for her.

  ‘Stupid bloody bitch!’ he yelled. The anger inside him was volcanic. The deep, dark thrill had never been greater, soaring through him at fever pitch, bursting for release. He jerked her head violently, banging it several times against the floor with every ounce of energy he possessed. The sickening crack of her skull smashing against the polished marble caused his sexual excitement to explode, the juices flowing freely from him.

  Then he applied the final pressure to her throat, his fingers so deep now he could feel the supple pulping of her organs. Her body went limp beneath him.

  ‘Helen’s here as well,’ Kaplan exclaimed, clearly surprised, as they pulled into the driveway. Her car was at the far end, near the house. ‘I expected her to be out most of the day.’ He leapt from the car.

  Masterton reached across, gripped Kaplan’s arm. ‘Let’s not go racing in. A dramatic entrance may not help.’

  Kaplan considered this momentarily. ‘The voice of reason.’

  ‘Yes, I am.’

  ‘Very well. We’ll do it your way.’

  Jennifer lay on her belly, sucking in draughts of air. Every breath was an effort as it strained for passage through her heavily bruised throat. Blood welled from the incision and ran in tiny rivers to the carpet.

  She felt disorientated; her vision still cloudy, but with each long breath the fog lifted from her brain and her inner resolve fought its way back up. The need to survive was like a living thing, marching up her spine.

  She heard his footsteps above the thumping of her heart before he appeared in the doorway. Her hair had fallen across her eyes and, forcing herself to keep them open slightly, she saw he was like a man possessed - a demon. Nothing like the Roger she thought she’d known. And …

  Oh, dear Jesus … please God, help me.

  The murderous, bloodied length of wire was still in his hand.

  I’ve got to fight him. Somehow.

  She lay still and deathly silent.

  If he thinks I’ve died …

  He prodded his foot hard into her side. Testing. The pain was like a red-hot knife ripping through her, but she bit down hard on her lip and remained still. Roger, uncertain, used his foot to roll her over.

  Jennifer squeezed her eyes closed. She had never felt so vulnerable and an icy fear stabbed even deeper, to the core of her heart. She didn’t think her ruse was going to work.

  At that moment she heard a car pulling up, doors opening, footsteps on the driveway.

  Roger moved quickly to the balcony doors. ‘Damn it.’ His father was entering the house with Masterton. He turned and fled from the room.

  There was still time for his plan to succeed. Jennifer lay limp on the floor. Whether she was dead or unconscious didn’t matter now - if she woke there’d be no chance to warn his father. Roger raced down the stairs and out the rear exit. He pulled the hand-held detonator device from his pocket as he ran.

  Jennifer heard Roger run from the room. She opened her eyes warily, looked around, breathed a sigh of relief and pushed herself to her knees. What had disturbed him? Henry? She heard the front door open.

  The bomb.

  She had little energy in her arms or her legs. She summoned up every last reserve of strength, breathing deeply and rapidly like a drowning woman brought back once more to the surface

  Kaplan and Masterton reached the foot of the stairwell where they were confronted with Helen’s body. She lay face down in a pool of blood.

  Kaplan knelt, his hand reached feebly for her head. He didn’t need to feel for a pulse to know she was dead. He felt nothing but a curious sense of detachment, as if this was someone else’s house, someone else’s girlfriend. Someone else’s son.

  He averted his eyes from the corpse, looked around. ‘Jennifer …’ he croaked. He started towards the stairs.

  Outside, Roger ripped the plastic casing from the device, freeing the plunger, and placed his thumb over it, at the ready. He would allow sixty seconds for his father to reach the room on the first floor and then he would activate the bomb.

  His mission was almost complete. He no longer felt that he should worry about the copper, Lachlan. Let the investigation continue and the connection with Winterstone be made. Over the years he had placed enough circumstantial evidence to point the finger at Harold Masterton. It was a bonus that Masterton had arrived with his father.

  He moved past the pool and the paved barbecue area, across the landscaped gardens, to the rear of the property. A slope led to the embankment along the harbour shore. Now he was far enough away for safety’s sake.

  Jennifer grabbed the briefcase and moved as fast as she could, wobbly but determined, into the hall and across to the bedroom opposite. She tried to open the window but couldn’t lift the frame.

  Damn.

  Taking hold of the stool beside the vanity unit she hurled it at the glass. The window smashed and Jennifer lunged forward, throwing the case out with a sudden final burst of energy.

  She turned and ran back across the hall.

  Roger checked his watch. Now, he thought. He raised the detonator in his hand and looked towards the house.

  Jennifer had reached the doorway to the rumpus room when the world went mad.

  The briefcase was two metres from the window and falling, another four metres below the level of the first floor when Roger Kaplan’s thumb pressed down firmly on the plunger. As he did so he averted his gaze, catching just a glimpse of the blinding white light that otherwise would have filled every corner of his vision. The force of the blast blew him off his feet and ripped the device from his grasp, sending it spinning through the air.

  The explosion could be heard, a deafening crack to some, a low boom further afield, up to a radius of fifty kilometres.

  A hole, ten metres in diameter, was torn into the rear wall of the Kaplan mansion. The wind from the explosion caused fractures to appear in every wall, floor and most items of furniture.

  Jennifer was thrown violently across the room and onto the floor. Her ears rang with the roar. Her cheekbone cracked as she hit the floor and blood burst from the torn skin of the wound.

  Fractures rippled through the floorboards, spitting carpet and handfuls of timber, concrete and dust into the air.

  Jennifer placed her palms down flat on the floor, tried to push herself to her knees, but she had no strength left in her arms and jolts of pain stabbed all over, like hot knives. Her head dropped, her breath coming in short, sharp gasps as she fought against the darkness.

  Kaplan and Masterton were hurled across the room beneath a flying wall of debris. Kaplan was sure he screamed yet he heard no sound, other than a deafening boom, which rang and rang and rang in his ears, an endless echo. The air around him filled with swirls of dust, churning like storm clouds, and a steady shower of masonry and slivers of brick drizzled across the room.

  Nothing looked familiar. The house had become a shambles, every nook and cranny transformed into something twisted and grotesque.

  Pain pulsed from everywhere. Kaplan was aware of enormous pressure on his chest, and he moved his arm to the area of pain. Looking down and across his body, he saw he was drenched in blood. He’d never seen so much blood.

  ‘Oh … God.’ He groped about, squinting through the grey cloud. ‘Harold!’

  Masterton appeared beside him, dishevelled, bloodied. He hooked his arm
around Kaplan and painfully dragged him towards the door. ‘We’ve got to get out, Henry.’

  ‘Harold … what has he done? What - has my son done - to us?’

  THIRTY FIVE

  Moments before, the police car had screamed to a halt on the street outside. Lachlan and Aroney looked at the cars in the driveway and exchanged glances. ‘Henry Kaplan’s here,’ Lachlan said, ‘but who else?’ He didn’t know Helen’s car. They were about to open their doors when the roar of the explosion filled their heads. The car rocked.

  They looked to the house. Every window had blown out, sending a stream of shattered glass over the front lawn. The front door had been ripped from its hinges.

  ‘For Christ’s sake,’ shouted Aroney, ‘he’s bombed the bloody place.’

  Lachlan darted from the car and raced into the house, Aroney on his tail. They entered a virtual war zone. A burning, acrid smell, dust as thick as a winter fog, furniture twisted into tortured shapes and scattered piles of metal and brick. One dead body. Masterton scrambling for the door, supporting a badly hurt Kaplan.

  Sirens wailed from the street outside. The first of the squad cars belatedly reacting to the all-points bulletin.

  ‘Where’s Jennifer?’ Lachlan stopped in front of Kaplan and Masterton. The once powerful tycoon was a mere shell now. He stared up at Lachlan with a broken expression that said I don’t know.

  Lachlan stepped past them, mounted the stairs. The banister, still holding until then, shifted with his weight. Part of it began to crumble. He moved cautiously along the first floor hallway, aware of the danger of falling debris. He coughed. The dust was thick so he took his handkerchief from his pocket to cover his mouth. He glanced into each of the rooms as he passed.

  ‘Neil!’ Aroney’s voice came from below. ‘We’ve got to get out. Gas fumes, coming from the kitchen. She’s gonna blow again.’

  ‘Sweet Jesus,’ Lachlan muttered under his breath. Where was she? He reached the doorway to the rumpus room, saw Jennifer sprawled on the floor. A trail of blood circled her.

  He felt for her pulse. Found it. ‘Thank God.’ He lifted her over his shoulder and retraced his steps quickly. As he passed through the remains of the ground floor living room, a gaseous aroma filled his nostrils. He fought back nausea.

  Aroney had helped Kaplan and Masterton across the lawn and was heading back down the driveway when he saw Lachlan. ‘Hurry,’ he called frantically.

  Lachlan stumbled through the doorway. He was almost to the driveway’s end when the second explosion rocked the grounds. He lost his footing. Jennifer slid from his shoulders and crashed to the lawn.

  The blast blew a small hole in the front wall of the house. The escaped gas inside had ignited with sparks from the electrical wires. It sent another wave of red-hot flame through the house, shooting from the windows and all the cracks.

  Jennifer opened her eyes, raised her head to see Lachlan, kneeling beside her. He clasped the palm of her hand in his.

  ‘You okay?’

  ‘Okay,’ she rasped. Her hands flew to her neck, her fingers gently trailing the ugly red welt. ‘We’ve got to go after Roger.’

  ‘Where is he?’

  She banked her head towards the house. ‘Must’ve taken…the rear. He had …’ She stopped briefly, gulped in a lungful of air. ‘…a remote device for the bomb.’

  More sirens. Several cars screeched to a stop along the street. The footpaths were lined with residents, all gaping in astonishment at the wreckage of the Kaplan home.

  Lachlan sprang to his feet. Three police officers ran towards him.

  ‘You all right, sir?’ one asked.

  ‘Fine. Is an ambulance on the way?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  He pointed to one of the men. ‘Stay with Ms. Parkes.’ He cocked his head towards the other two. ‘Come with me. The bomber is at the rear of the property.’

  ‘Be careful,’ Jennifer called after them, but her voice was barely a croak. No-one heard her.

  The young officer’s hand came to rest on her shoulder. ‘Take it easy, Miss. The medics will be here in a moment.’

  Jennifer’s thoughts, however, were on Neil Lachlan. She watched him race around the side of the shattered building and said a quiet prayer: Please, God, don’t let anything happen to him. And in the fantasy realm of her mind’s eye, she dropped a five-cent coin into the old wishing pool.

  After the first explosion, Roger scrambled to his feet. The rear of the property didn’t have the extent of damage he’d expected. He feared that Jennifer and his father might not have been killed in the blast. He had to be sure.

  If I can get back in, I’ll finish them off before the emergency services arrive.

  He sprinted across the garden and up the steps of the wide round patio. Chunks of timber and metal and glass lay everywhere. He heard Neil Lachlan’s voice from inside.

  ‘Where’s Jennifer?’

  Damn him to hell, thought Roger. What was he doing here so soon? The explosion had only just occurred. Was he psychic? Whimpering sounds came from Roger’s father.

  He turned and ran full pelt back across the property, down the slippery embankment to the water’s edge. He ran along the shoreline, under cover of the thick brush and overhanging trees. There was practically no beach here, just a thin stretch of sand littered with seaweed and stones.

  He heard the second explosion.

  The flag of freedom had, until now, been flying high in his expectations. An undiscovered country. Freedom from his father. Freedom from the watchers. Freedom to kill.

  Sirens wailed from the street. Now, instead, he’d been discovered; his plans foiled. Now he was the hunted.

  He reached a grassy knoll. It stood at the point where the houses stopped and a bend in the shoreline created a natural reserve. He paused to catch his breath.

  All’s not lost, he told himself. He simply had to alter his plans. The money was still there, untraceable. Underworld contacts such as Hargreaves, who’d helped him in the past, could assist him in escaping to a new life.

  ‘It’s over, Roger.’

  Roger’s head whipped about. Lachlan was approaching, several metres back along the strip of land. Two other police officers were coming up behind him.

  Roger felt an overwhelming desire to squeeze the life from Lachlan. The meddling copper had been a thorn in his side for over a week now, always arriving on the scene at the wrong time. Was there something between him and Jennifer? That might explain it.

  Roger threw his hands in the air, a gesture of defeat. ‘Okay, okay.’ He began marching, shoulders slumped, back towards them. ‘I don’t have a weapon,’ he called out.

  When he made his move it was sudden and swift. He shifted direction with a violent twist of his limbs, propelling himself into the water at a run, diving when he felt the sand give way to greater depth.

  ‘Stop!’ Lachlan’s reflexes were equally quick. He drew his gun but immediately saw it was pointless. He cast it aside and ran into the water, feeling the sudden steep slope away from the shallows. He dived.

  Roger was a strong swimmer. He hurtled through the water. He didn’t intend to outswim Lachlan - that wouldn’t work. What he did intend was to swim to a point where the current changed, then across, coming back into a stretch of shore on the other side of the point.

  But he didn’t want Lachlan on his tail the whole way. He was a dozen metres out when he stopped. He yanked the loop of wire from his trouser pocket, and then dived again. He opened his eyes. The salt stung them and the light was dim. The shadow cast by Lachlan’s form cut a swathe along the surface. Approaching rapidly.

  Roger swam in a sideways pattern, attempting to position himself beside or behind the advancing swimmer. His lungs screamed out for air but he figured he could last a few seconds more. If he broke the surface directly behind Lachlan, applying the garotte instantly, then he knew he’d win. He’d force the copper down and his victim would be in the weaker position, grappling to maintain equilibrium in th
ese depths. The survivor would be the one with the most air in his lungs.

  Lachlan reached a spot roughly above his prey. Roger was slightly to his opponent’s left now, just a half a metre below him. His lungs were about to burst but the adrenalin surge kept him going. His vision was a blur of shadows and shapes, dark and shifting, silhouetted by a thousand points of shimmering green light.

  Now.

  He pushed himself to the surface, thrusting the loop of wire blindly towards Lachlan. His aim was off, missing by a hand’s space. Lachlan banked to the side, whipping his head about to face Roger, but the killer had slipped beneath the surface again, his body brushing against Lachlan’s legs. He surfaced again almost immediately, to Lachlan’s rear once more, and this time the wire snapped into position around his quarry’s throat.

  Despite the sharp bite of the wire, Lachlan arched his body into a backwards flip and pivotted. Kicking his legs up, he placed them in a scissor grip around Roger’s neck and pulled him forward. Surprised, Roger’s grip on the wire faltered and was lost. It fell away into the depths.

  Roger allowed himself to fall forward and sink into the ocean under the force of Lachlan’s pull. Then he jerked his body free and propelled himself away. He had no choices left. He had to beat Lachlan to the shore at the far side of the point.

  He could hear his pursuer thrashing through the water behind him. Roger dived, kicking furiously. Perhaps he could outdistance the copper if he swam underwater for long stretches at a time.

  He saw long stems of reed and fern rise like tentacles from the ocean floor, tangling with chunks of seaweed. A school of fish, bright vibrant colours, darted away as he approached. He looked back. Lachlan had also submerged and was gaining on him.

  An incredible tiredness gripped Roger. His arms and legs felt as though they were weighed down. He expected that Lachlan was feeling the same but he knew the copper wouldn’t give up the chase. He’d follow until they both drowned.