Slow Burning Lies - A Dark Psychological Thriller

by Ray Kingfisher

  Just then a cacophony of breaking glass made them instinctively turn. They all approached the bottle storage area, tentatively at first, then pointing to the shattered glass still settling, not noticing the two guilty pebbles nearby. Voices were raised, shoulders were shrugged. One of them grabbed a nearby broom and made a half-hearted attempt to sweep the broken glass into a pile.

  And soon there were more raised voices as they went to go back to work and found only two jackets where they had placed three just minutes before.

  Patrick tried to keep his swagger the inconspicuous side of confident as he strolled past the security desk in the conference foyer. He didn’t look to the staff on the desk, and they didn’t call him back. He headed for the washroom where he took off the catering jacket in the privacy of a toilet cubicle and headed back to the conference’s main auditorium.

  It was a sea of suits with the odd flotsam of a woman in a bright dress, the occasional jetsam of a renegade in a light casual jacket.

  Patrick thought he mixed pretty well under the circumstances. The sleepless red-eye flight crumples and rough-sleeping sweat stains stood out less than he expected. He started to slip through the crowd like a pickpocket’s hands, drifting along the perimeter, carefully looking to the distance so he would spot Beth before she had a chance to spot him. An A4 conference guide held up to cover most of his face helped too.

  He was lucky; he recognized her from behind by the colour and cut of her suit and the flouncy dancing of her hair whenever she moved her head.

  For the next six hours Patrick hardly let her out of his sight. He stayed back in the shadows pretending to read sales literature while watching her every gesture and contact and manoeuvre. He saw her at the new software delivery methodology demonstration, at the hands-on tutorial of cutting edge graphics adaptors, at the roadmap for ergonomic games handsets. He followed her along the buffet meal at lunchtime before watching her at more of the same routine games conference displays right up to the end of the conference.

  There was no getting over it. Beth was clean. There was nothing whatsoever suspicious about her behaviour or contacts. For her it had been yet another day out of the office; for him just one big useless waste of time.

  It came to the conference close-out speech, this time a talk given by one or other of OrSum’s competitors, and it was also decision time for Patrick. Was it worth carrying on with his covert surveillance of Beth? As the whole shebang came to a close and the delegates started congregating around the exit, a few sales representatives in the display booths dotted around the perimeter continued the sales pitch to the bitter end. He had a few minutes to decide. Follow Beth out of the conference? Get in another taxi and check she went to the airport? Make sure she got on the flight to Chicago? None of that was likely to prove or disprove anything.

  But it was the only thing he could think of.

  He kept back a discreet distance, always behind her, always ready to hide behind another suit should she turn and look in his direction.

  It was then he saw her.

  Her.

  She was standing by a sales booth, and was obviously working for VTA, whoever they were. She was a piece of eye candy to sweeten sales talk in what was a mostly male fraternity. Patrick was a mere five paces away from her but she was concentrating on her sales patter, not taking her eyes off the man she was pitching to. It gave Patrick a nauseous feeling. He breathed long and hard to quell the sickness rising from his stomach. Saliva pooled around his gums, threatening to spill out of his mouth, yet somehow his mouth was arid and sticky.

  Her name tag said “Jennifer Lane” but it was definitely her. She was wearing a light blue suit and her hair was raked back and tied in a bun, but the face and the figure were unmistakeable, not least of which was the mole, that beauty spot nestling comfortably to one side of her perfectly shaped nose, a single beautiful blemish on that otherwise perfect warm olive skin of hers.

  He froze, staring at her for a few seconds, part of him wanting to hide from her, part of him willing her to look to him, to recognize him. But the only thing that happened was that a feeling of light-headedness washed over him, and with it came the dark threat of a blackout. He bolted, almost fighting his way out into the fresh air, then slipped onto the walkway to the side of the building, where he crouched down underneath the enormous air conditioning fans and covered his head.

  The nightmare was not over.

  Rozita had returned from the dead.

  34

  Patrick had no idea how long he’d been hunkered down in that dark place at the side of the building, perhaps an hour, definitely long enough for him to get used to the thunderous hum of the air conditioning fans pumping their stale odour all over him. By the time he lifted his head, the hubbub of delegates streaming out of the conference had faded away.

  What to do now?

  He had absolutely no idea.

  For a few minutes he wondered whether he had had a relapse of sorts and slipped into another of his dreams. But no. The feeling wasn’t right. There had always been that unreal sharpness to his vision whenever he was in one of his bad dreams – he wasn’t getting that here. Moreover, nothing horrific had happened.

  Except, of course, that Rozita Leary had now become Jennifer Lane.

  It was the woman he’d loved, then killed, albeit in different worlds. No – the woman he still loved, if he was honest. Even, if he was being completely truthful, the only woman he’d ever really loved. And unless his mind was creating memories, she was also the woman Beth had persuaded him to kill.

  Beth.

  The one thing he did know was that he could forget about Beth – for now. Whatever her involvement might or might not have been, she was probably at the airport by now, possibly even boarding a plane. With Beth there was always going to be another day – such as when she’d be back at work – and if he had any lingering suspicions about her he could follow them up any time he wanted.

  No, he now had to turn his attentions to Rozita – or rather Jennifer.

  Dare he go back into the auditorium to look for her? What if she was there and recognized him? And if so, what would they find to talk about?

  What a conversation that would be.

  How are you, Rozita? I see you’re back from the dead.

  Yes, I remember you – you’re Patrick, my husband. Didn’t you kill me?

  He stood up, edged away from the cloak of stale air and took some gulps of the fresh stuff. Then he made his way to the front of the building. Sure enough, it was quiet. A clutch of delegates waited for cabs, others were on phones, none of them was near the entrance. Patrick took a few steps upwards, his chest tightening as he reached the doors.

  They were locked. Inside, a few cleaners busied themselves vacuuming and moving furniture, the delegates and sales staff long gone.

  Patrick spent the next hour roaming the streets around the conference centre looking for Rozita, but gave up. His flight wasn’t for hours, but what else could he do?

  He took a cab and told the driver to head for JFK airport.

  As the cab crawled through the streets Patrick scanned them, checking at the people going about their ordinary business, screwing his eyes up at any that vaguely resembled Rozita, just in case she was walking back to wherever she’d come from, back to VTA, whoever they were.

  VTA.

  Of course.

  His one and only clue was VTA.

  He rapped on the partition of the cab, then rapped again before the driver had a chance to slide it open.

  “Okay, buddy, there’s no need to break down the—”

  “Take me to the library,” Patrick said.

  “Which library?”

  “Any.”

  “I gotta know which library. There’s more goddam libraries than anyone could need in one city.”

  “Just the nearest. Any. It doesn’t matter.”

  Traffic lights halted the cab and the driver took the opportunity to glance behind him.

  �
�Jeez, I’ve had people desperate for shows, or interviews, even the john – never the library.”

  Patrick pointed to the lights as they turned green. “Just fucking go, will you.”

  “Hey, abusive language costs extra, you know.”

  Soon Patrick was sitting in front of a PC in a public library, where he spent most of the evening searching for organisations or companies called VTA.

  He passed on Vancouver Traffic Authority.

  The Valluvan Tamil Academy had a ring to it, and Patrick took a minute to investigate, but no, there was no connection.

  The Valley Transportation Authority of California and the Virginia Transit Association had one thing in common – they had nothing to sell.

  It was only on the fourth page that the search engine threw up something much more interesting.

  Virtual Therapy for America was a not-for-profit organisation. The draw for Patrick was that it was headquartered in Chicago. But what would a not-for-profit organisation be trying to sell at a conference?

  Patrick dismissed the idea with a shake of his head and carried on viewing the alternative search results for VTA.

  Next was a video production company who patently didn’t want to let people know what VTA stood for. He followed the link but couldn’t think of a connection.

  He looked at three more pages but drew a blank.

  A different search engine didn’t throw up any better search results, but produced one extra snippet of information that gave prickly heat to the back of Patrick’s neck.

  Virtual Therapy for America might have been a not-for-profit organisation but it was a wholly owned subsidiary of OrSum Technologies. Patrick followed the link and had to cover his mouth to stop himself disturbing the serene surroundings at what he found. Yes, the typeface and the logo for this VTA matched the one on the lapel badge of Rozita or Jennifer or whoever the hell she really was.

  Just then he was disturbed by the public address system announcing the library was about to close, so quickly printed out the page, raced outside and hailed another cab.

  He spent a few hours milling around JFK airport reading and rereading the paper he’d printed off in the library. The corporation blurb said that they were at the forefront of using computer technology to treat phobias and similar psychological conditions. It was a very soft sell, but the message of their product was clear: let us help you to do the things in life you really want to do. A few case files were detailed: one was an unnamed big league baseball player whose career was being severely hampered by fear of flying – until VTA stepped in; another was a woman who had suffered from anorexia for twenty years but was now gradually rebuilding her life – again thanks to VTA.

  On the flight back to Chicago, Patrick continued to mull things over. He was more confused than ever, but there were two things he could be sure of: one, he wasn’t going mad about Rozita – it was either her or her twin sister he’d seen in New York; and two, he now had a company name to investigate.

  As soon as he got back to his apartment, early on Saturday morning, he freshened up and left again with one thing on his mind – finding the offices of VTA.

  The piece of paper he’d printed off gave no clues – other than the fact that it was Chicago based – and gave only email and phone contact details. There was no way he was going to ring from a traceable line. Was he being paranoid? Abso-fucking-lutely.

  Patrick returned home later that day and spent the evening on the sofa planning the next stage. However, the events of the last couple of days caught up with him. He was only human. He fell asleep on the sofa and only woke up early on Sunday afternoon. The rest of that day was little more than a fog.

  The next morning, after a sleepless night, Patrick went into work, tidied up the documentation for the Zombie Stomper scoring module, and emailed it to Beth. Ten seconds later a reply came back telling him to go to her office immediately.

  “Shut the door and sit down,” was her greeting.

  Patrick immediately did. “Is anything wrong with the—?”

  “What happened Friday?”

  “I… I didn’t come into work.”

  “I know that, Patrick. I gave promises to people you’d be working full time on the Zombie Stomper project.”

  “It’s done. I emailed the results to you just now.”

  “Don’t be dumb, Patrick. It’s the principle. It was noted you didn’t turn up for work Friday and that reflects badly on me. Were you ill?”

  Ill? What did she want? For him to agree just so that she could say all over again what a fruitcake he was?

  “No,” he said. “I decided to leave early for Seattle. It’s a long way.”

  “Seattle,” Beth said flatly. “So, how’s your brother?”

  “He’s fine.”

  “Now I know you’re lying.”

  Patrick spluttered out an indignant laugh. “Excuse me?”

  “Just admit it. You went to New York.”

  “No I didn’t.”

  “You were seen, Patrick. I didn’t see you but others did.”

  “Who?”

  “It doesn’t matter who. For Christ’s sake, I told you not to go. I warned you.”

  “Okay, okay.” Patrick slapped his hand firmly on the desk between them. “Yes. I went. But who the hell saw me, Beth? Because I certainly didn’t see anyone from this office.”

  “I forget who it was.”

  “And anyway,” Patrick said. “It’s a free country. I can go where I like.”

  “Not true. It’s private property. You were trespassing and you could be arrested for it.”

  “Oh, for fuck’s sake.” Patrick sat back, crossed his arms and looked up to the ceiling. “Look. Reprimand over. Can I go now or do I get detention for disobeying orders?”

  “Patrick, look at me.”

  He didn’t. She repeated the words more firmly. He did as he was told but let out a rebellious teenager sort of sigh.

  “This is important, Patrick. You said you didn’t see anyone you recognized. Is that right?”

  “Yes.”

  Beth nodded slowly. “Good.”

  “Well… actually no.”

  “I don’t get it.”

  Patrick blinked a few times then put his hands up to his face, kneading his knuckles into his eye sockets then rubbing his forehead as if trying to iron out the creases.

  The next time he looked to Beth, she’d changed. It was a subtle change. She was leaning forward attentively, and had her head tilted to one side and a hint of puppy-dog eyes to her expression.

  “C’mon Patrick,” she said, even her voice noticeably quieter and softer. “You can tell me.”

  Everything in her body language said trust me.

  Patrick didn’t.

  “I saw you,” he said. “You were the person I recognized.”

  “Okay,” she said. “That’s good.”

  Patrick stood up, casually tapped the flat of his hand on the back of the seat, and tried to paste a smile onto his face.

  Beth drew a quick breath and said, “For a moment I thought you were going to say you saw a character from one of your dreams.”

  Patrick’s face dropped so much it almost slid onto the carpet tiles.

  “Oh, shit,” Beth said.

  Neither of them said anything else for a few moments. Patrick didn’t exactly trust Beth, but he wasn’t in a position to trust anyone. He’d confided in her before and lived to tell the tale. And his ghost hunt had pretty much run out of steam. If he wanted to search any further – which he did for the sake of his own sanity – he could do with some advice, someone to bounce ideas off if nothing else.

  He sat back down, then said, “I saw Rozita.”

  Beth’s eyes glazed. “You’re kidding, right?”

  “Please. Listen before you say any more.”

  “Okay.”

  “I saw Rozita at the conference – except she’s now called Jennifer Lane. I didn’t get a chance to say anything and I don’t think she saw me. And
I did some digging.”

  “Oh, no,” Beth said. “Why did—?”

  “Will you just shut up?” Patrick wiped a sweaty hand over his mouth and checked the door was shut. “This is hot shit, Beth. If I tell you, I need to know you won’t tell anyone else. Believe me or don’t believe me. Think I’m fucking crazy if you want. But I need to know I can trust you.”

  “Of course you can.”

  Patrick stared at her for a moment, watching for a twitch or break of eye contact that would telegraph any betrayal.

  She did nothing but stare right back at him. “Patrick, I know we’ve had our ups and downs, but I’ve never betrayed your confidence. I won’t now.”

  “Okay,” he said. “And I need you to be honest with me.”

  “About what?” She shifted uneasily at the stern look Patrick sent her. “Okay. Yes, of course I will.”

  He paused before continuing. “Have you heard of a company called VTA?”

  She shrugged.

  “Otherwise known as Virtual Therapy for America?”

  “And?”

  “Rozita works for that company.”

  “Come on, Patrick. It can’t be Rozita.”

  “Because I shot her?”

  “You didn’t shoot anyone. You’re just a little mixed up.”

  Patrick stood up and leaned towards her, his head above hers. “I’m mixed up, am I?”

  “No, I didn’t mean it like that.”

  “Well listen to this. Rozita works for VTA, and VTA is owned by OrSum. And if that’s not scary enough, they’re headquartered six blocks from here.”

  “How did you find that out?”

  “With difficulty. I called them, said I had a delivery for them. They argued with me, said they didn’t give their address out and that they weren’t expecting anything, but I said it had urgent stamped all over it and eventually they gave in.”

  “You visited them?”

  “I tried to. When I got to the address they gave me, it was just an unmarked door at the end of an alleyway. No signs, no publicity, just the address number.”