Patrick rapped his knuckles on the wood. “Hello?”
He walked around to one side and poked his head through the gap. There was no movement bar the wavy reflections of the sun thrown by the water. But there was a small bag – a brown leather satchel of sorts lying on the bench along the back.
Patrick stepped inside and picked up the bag. There was a book underneath, a dog-eared paperback version of Pride and Prejudice that had come loose from its bindings in parts. Patrick idly flicked through it, seeing pen marks and parts underlined.
Then he heard a click behind him.
He turned to see a pistol pointed at him – a familiar pistol.
“Beth?”
“What the hell are you doing here? What do you want?”
“I…”
“And what’s with the comedy coat?”
Patrick put the book down and held his hands up to head height. “Hey, relax. I’ve just come to talk.”
“So talk. Then leave.”
“Could you put the gun down first?”
“No. Say what you need to say and leave.”
Patrick dropped his hands in a slow, deliberate manner. “You’re not really going to use that are you?”
“What do you want to talk about?”
Patrick frowned at her. “Are you serious? What do I want to talk about?” He exhaled slowly, puffing his cheeks out and shaking his head. “What do think, Beth? As a starter we could talk about why there’s some sort of microwave machine underneath the bed in my apartment, then you can explain why my internet and TV feeds are what you might call “managed”. In short, I need to know what the hell’s going on.” He nodded to the pistol. “You know, you don’t have to keep that thing pointed at me.”
“I only know what I’ve been told,” Beth replied.
“What’s that supposed to mean? You think I’m going to hurt you?”
“I think you must be pretty pissed off.”
“Wouldn’t you be?”
She started to lower the pistol. “Patrick, I’m sorry. But I was only doing my job.”
“What?” Patrick gave a sharp tut. “Your job?”
“Look. I know you must hate me, but it’s just what I do.”
“Which is what, exactly?”
“Anything OrSum tell me to do.”
Patrick stepped closer. “Anything?”
“Don’t twist things. I’ve never hurt anyone.”
“Paulo? Did you hurt him?”
Beth shook her head. “Paulo’s fine.”
“He’s alive?”
“Christ, Patrick. We’re not the goddam mafia. He still works in Chicago, just at a different office. We thought he was getting a little too close to you.”
Patrick took another step forward and Beth raised the pistol back up to him. He relaxed on his haunches and took a moment to look over the lake.
“Nice spot here,” he said. He picked up the book. “Yours?”
“I like to read it whenever I come here. It keeps me strong.”
“But why here? Isn’t this where…?”
“Don’t say it, Patrick. Just don’t go there.”
“I won’t. But I can understand. Perhaps it makes you think of a different life, how things might have turned out for you if it hadn’t happened.”
Beth stepped closer to him, the pistol now a foot from his face. “Just shut up!” she said. “Don’t try to screw with my mind, Patrick. I do okay.”
“Do you?”
“I’m the highest earning woman at OrSum.”
Patrick laughed. “And that’s it? That’s your life?”
Beth’s lips parted but no sound came out. Patrick looked out across the wide sheet of water. Beth frowned and looked too.
Within half a second Patrick had ripped the pistol from her hand and her face was stinging from the harshness of his hand.
Beth stepped back but Patrick grabbed her by the arm and threw her down onto the wooden bench.
“Right. I want to know everything you know. About OrSum, about Rozita, about my nightmares. Everything.”
“Or what? You’re gonna shoot me?”
Patrick stilled himself for a moment, then grunted as he hurled the gun towards the lake. It clunked on the wooden ceiling and fell inches from the water.
“No,” he said. “I can do better than that. Much better.”
“What do you mean?”
Patrick pulled the plastic bottle from his coat pocket. It looked just like it was full of water. He unscrewed the top and cast it from left to right, splashing a little of the fluid onto Beth’s face and neck, making her cough and splutter.
She screwed her face up against the stink and let out a scream. Patrick slapped her across the top of her head and she stopped.
“Start talking, Beth, or you and your beloved boathouse go up in flames.”
“No, Patrick. You wouldn’t.”
Patrick grabbed her chin and pulled her face to his. “Just tell me.”
“I don’t know. I just don’t know. Like I said, I just do as I’m told. Jesus Christ, Patrick. You have to believe me!”
Patrick released her chin but kept his face pointed at hers while his hand went to his pocket and pulled out a cigarette lighter.
She screamed again, now cowering and covering her face.
“Cut the crap, Beth. Tell me what’s been happening.”
“I can’t.”
Patrick pulled her hand away from her face and now saw moist, shiny red cheekbones.
“Final chance,” he said, slowly and clearly.
“Okay, okay,” Beth spluttered, shaking. She took a deep breath. “But please, put the lighter away.”
“I’ll decide when I do that,” he said, grabbing her hair and pulling it to the side. “Tell me!”
“It’s all a set-up. I don’t know the details, I don’t know why, but I know you’ve been set up.”
He released her hair with a sharp twist and she let out a yelp.
“Just put the lighter away and I’ll tell you everything I know.”
“Fuck!” Patrick kicked the bench. “I knew I couldn’t trust you.” He put the lighter away. “So tell me more. I want every detail and I want to know who’s behind all of this.”
“I don’t know everything.”
“Is my brother part of this?”
“Look, it’s something to do with him. I don’t know what, but I know he doesn’t live in Seattle.”
“So where is he?” He grabbed her hair again and pulled. “Tell me! What have they done with Declan?”
“I swear, Patrick. I don’t know. Please, you’re hurting me.”
“Okay.” He let go, then pointed an angry finger at her face. “But you need to tell me more.”
“Right,” she said, gulping down a breath. “I can tell you everything I know. Yes, OrSum control your TV and internet feeds – I don’t know anything about a microwave. The Rozita thing was part of the set-up. I just did what I was told to do – like I always do. Of course you didn’t kill her – I loaded the gun with blanks and I guess the rest was down to fake blood. But that was the limit of my involvement, Patrick. I swear it.”
“You must know more than that.”
“Patrick, I’m on your side, really.”
“You’re on my side? How can you say that?”
“Even the break-in at VTA, they wanted to stop you at security and rough you up a little to scare you off.”
“Jesus! You told them we were going to break in?”
“Yes, I did. But it was me that persuaded them to let you go ahead with it.”
“Why would you do that?
“I told them there was no way you’d get into their computer system. I underestimated you.”
“I don’t believe this,” Patrick said, running his eyes over her face. “I trusted you, Beth. I told you about my nightmares, about my family, my brother.”
“It’s what I do for a living, Patrick, that’s all.”
“But you knew everythin
g about me already, you knew it all.”
“No, I didn’t, Patrick – not everything. And I was wrong. You’re a nice guy. Whatever OrSum have done to you it stinks. I can see that now.”
Now he looked more closely at her face, and saw the bare streaks where tears had washed away her make-up. He brought a hand up and gently placed it around her throat, pinning her back.
“You know something, Beth. I still think you’re lying.”
“I’m not.” She started to lash out with her fists, only a few hitting their target.
He squeezed her neck, oblivious to the blows. “Whatever. It’s. Just. Not. Good. Enough.”
“You don’t mean that, Patrick. I can’t believe you’re gonna do this.”
“If I walk away with no leads, I walk away from a burning boathouse. Now SPEAK!”
Patrick relaxed his grip for a second.
“Jesus Christ, Patrick. You’re talking about burning me alive here. Tell me you wouldn’t do that to another human being. I’m begging you, please!”
“Well, begging’s not going to… to…”
Burning alive.
Patrick’s hands went completely flaccid and lifeless around Beth’s throat.
Burning alive.
Images of writhing bodies engulfed in flames flashed through Patrick’s mind.
His hands fell away from Beth’s throat and slowly drifted down to his side. In seconds his eyes switched from madly staring to soulfully closed, and he fell down, clutching his head.
“Patrick?”
Beth staggered to her feet, edged away, then pounced on the gun. Her trembling hands pointed it at Patrick as she stepped towards the gap in the wood. Then she stopped, and slowly stepped back towards Patrick.
Patrick looked up to her, his face a wet ruddy mess. And then he wasn’t looking at Beth, he was looking straight at the gun. “Do it,” he said, “Please God, yes.”
Beth slowly lowered her gun. “You poor shit,” she said. “Whatever they did to you they sure fucked you up good and proper, didn’t they?”
She leaned down to him, keeping the gun to her side, and he gently held her and pulled her down onto the floor with him.
“Beth. You have to help me here. I have to know what’s happening to me.”
“I can’t.” She tried to pull her hand away, straining while Patrick’s thick forearm hardly moved.
“I don’t want to do this. I feel like I have no choice. I can’t control it.” Patrick’s eyes followed a stag beetle scurrying along the rough timber floor underneath them. His spare hand reached out, and his thumb crushed the insect’s shiny body with a faint cracking sound.
Beth stopped pulling away. “Wait. Okay. There is one thing.”
Patrick looked up.
“There’s the Sandman.”
“The Sandman?”
“I don’t know the details – I swear I don’t – but I know his address. I don’t know his real name, I think he’s a doctor of some sort, but that’s what they call him, the Sandman. I was at a weekend conference when all this started. It was my introductory meeting for the WishPhixxer project. This guy was hitting on me and, I guess, wanted to show me what a big shot he was. He gave me the address, said the Sandman was the mastermind of the whole thing. And I kept it, I thought it might come in useful someday.” She pointed to the brown satchel on the bench. “It’s in my address book, take it. Just don’t say you got it from me.”
“You think this Sandman guy can tell me what’s going on?”
“I’ve heard the word whispered since. I think if anyone knows he does.”
Patrick let go of her, jumped up and grabbed the bag. He pulled out the address book and started flicking through it. He paused at a page, glanced to Beth, then ripped it out and tossed the book down.
“Thanks,” he said. “Really.”
Beth’s body shrank as she relaxed and let out a long, slow, breath.
“You’re a good actor,” Patrick said. “I’ll give you that.” He put the bottle back in his pocket. “You had me fooled on that trip to Wichita with all that bullshit about your background.”
“Like I said, it’s my job. Whether I like it or not it’s what I do.”
“What? Lying? Is that your job?”
“Partly. It’s what I do for a living.”
“So you lied about everything. You haven’t got a sister in Wichita, have you?”
“Well, no. And I know I messed up about the Carlini girl.”
“I didn’t tell you, did I?”
Beth shook her head.
“You know what happened in my dream?”
“I haven’t a clue – it’s just a name I was fed.”
“And… about your father? More lies?”
Beth forced a swallow and squeezed her face up. She almost spoke but didn’t, and her chest heaved a few times.
“Hey,” Patrick said. “I’m sorry. Really.”
For a minute or so the only sound was that of small waves crinkling against the jetty supports.
“Thank you,” Beth said.
Patrick stood up and put a leg through the gap in the side of the boat house. “You need to wash that stuff off your face and neck. It’ll burn in time.”
“Patrick?”
“What?”
“You really wouldn’t have set me on fire, would you?”
A pained expression cast a shadow across Patrick’s face. “You know something, Beth?” he said. “I feel so wretched, the God’s honest truth is, I just don’t know. I’ve never done anything as nasty as that in my life, but it… it seemed to come almost naturally. I’m frightened, I really am. I’m not sure what sort of person I am anymore.” He looked down to the deck, and paused before stepping out of the boathouse.
“Patrick?”
He looked back in. “What?”
“Good luck.”
“And you, Beth. And you.”
44
In Wilmette, twenty miles from Chicago, Patrick whiled away a few hours in a public park and by the time the sun was dipping towards the horizon he’d eaten and was ready to make his move. He drove over to the address scribbled down in Beth’s book, parked up a couple of streets away, and set off on foot.
He tried his best to look casual as he strolled over to the house, and was impressed. He guessed local realtors might refer to it as an architect-designed home. He would call it a modern mansion, but to be fair, it was far from out of place in this affluent neighbourhood. It was a large house, all sharp edges and angular roof sections, with a wide gravel drive leading up to a triple garage, and was perched halfway up a hill overlooking Chicago and Lake Michigan. It politely stated, as opposed to boasted, that someone had made it.
Patrick started off by taking a walk all around the property. A large brick wall surrounded the back garden, but walking back a few paces from it and stretching up lent him enough height to observe every window at the back of the property. The blinds had yet to be drawn so he could check the movements inside the house – it looked like only one person was home. There were no cameras visible, but otherwise the place looked solid – no open windows or doors and no obvious way of climbing up to a higher floor.
Patrick took a long look in every direction before jumping up and grasping the top of the wall, dropping himself down the other side. Easy. He stood still for a moment, priming himself for floodlights, dogs, armed guards, or God knows what in the near-dusk. Nothing. Then a figure appeared at the top right hand window, and Patrick dropped behind a bush. He edged his head out just enough to see the shadow of the figure move away and took his chance to sprint towards the back door. There he turned and surveyed the other properties and the road. From here he could see no traffic and only the clay-red roof tiles of nearby houses. That meant he had some time. Next to the door was a large window, but all it showed Patrick was a dark reflection of himself and the garden. A single occupant had been upstairs ten seconds ago, so it seemed a good bet the room was empty.
He lifted a large wr
ecking bar from one of those enormous coat pockets and stepped towards the door. He shoved the sharp edge of the tool in the crack between door and frame and slid it up and down, searching for the spot that would give the most purchase. He settled on a position at his head height, furthest away from the locking mechanism, then spread his legs wide and took up the strain.
Only then did his eyes fall upon the door handle, and almost as an afterthought he grasped the handle. It turned with a little more than a click, and the door swung open.
Was that good? It meant he was inside with no noise to announce his entrance, but somehow it was unnerving, as though he was expected. Still, he was in.
The embers of daylight casting through the glass caught dust rising from the floor. A mass of drapes framed large windows on two sides of the room. It was nothing like Patrick had expected to find in a house belonging to someone as powerful as the Sandman. It was a playroom of sorts. To his left was a flashing flickering pinball machine, beyond that a pool table, its two cues lying haphazardly across the baize, separating two lonely balls.
To his right was a bank of machines. The two nearest to him were vintage video games. Patrick didn’t recognize them – he was too young for that – but he recognized the styles as “old”. The biggest giveaway was that they were big bulky coin-operated machines – definitely something from the 1980s. Next was an early console game, a black steering wheel cast on the floor in front of a bulky CRT TV screen. Then there was a bang-up-to-date console proudly sitting in front of a large flat-screen TV screen.
It was evolution of species.
At the furthest end, beyond the current top-dog system, was something far more intriguing – a black box that resembled a large wardrobe lying on its back. Beyond that, at the far end of the room, was another door, a blue wooden one.
Patrick silently closed the door behind him and walked past the machines and over to the blue door. He stood next to the door, slowed his heart rate down, and listened. He heard nothing, but turned his head and noticed some writing on the end of the large black box. In a gothic typeface the word “WishPhixxer” stood out in gold lettering. Still he heard nothing. Good. He stepped over to the black box and examined it.
Slow Burning Lies - A Dark Psychological Thriller Page 22