by Amy Cross
"As long as Manuel didn't leave any other nasty little surprises," I point out.
"Like what?"
"How do we know that he didn't call the authorities before you caught up to him?"
"I had his phones and email bugged," he replies, grinning as he taps the side of his nose, "and the guy was in a hell of a panic. It was a split-second decision. I really don't think there's any reason to worry."
Sighing, I realize that the situation is untenable. Sure, it's unlikely that Manuel planned his little revolt in advance, but the possibility exists, and I always pride myself on reacting to every possibility, no matter how remote. The one thing I hate more than anything else is uncertainty.
"This is going to be okay," Albert says after a moment. "I've taken care of Manuel, I've taken care of the Staten building, and now we've gotta move on to consolidating the other two buildings. Hell, I don't even see why we need to necessarily replace what we've lost. Maybe we were getting too big. I mean, once we cash out on our existing stock, we're made for life, right?"
I stare at him.
"Right?" he continues.
"I suppose that's one way of looking at it," I reply eventually.
"So let's just move forward like I described," he says. "Slim down the operation a bit, focus on what we've got and forget about trying to expand too much. There's no need to keep adding more and more buildings. Everything that happened today was like a sign from God -"
"Don't bring God into this," I say darkly.
"Let's just at least try my way," he continues. "Please, John, just agree to try it and see how it fits. I think you'll be surprised. It'll be a little slower-paced, a little less frenetic, but it might be just what we need, I mean... haven't you felt a little overwhelmed lately? Like things have been getting out of hand?"
I stare at him for a moment, utterly shocked by his lack of ambition. It's as if he's slowly creeping back into his shell, hiding from the possibilities. How the hell did I end up associating with such a mundane mind?
"Fine," I mutter. "We'll try it your way."
"Good," he says, checking his watch. "It's getting late, so I guess one of us should check on the other buildings. I can do it if you like, I mean, I'm sure you've got someone waiting for you at home."
"I'm sure I do," I reply.
Getting to his feet, he grabs his coat and gets ready to leave. "This is just a blip," he continues. "One day, we'll look back on this moment and, well, maybe we won't laugh, but I think we'll see it as a turning point."
"Maybe you're right," I say, getting to my feet. I pause for a moment, watching as Albert zips up his jacket and takes some cigarettes from his pocket.
"You want a ride?" he asks absent-mindedly as he lights up. "I'm headed east."
"Actually..." I reach into my pocket and feel the butt of the gun I brought this evening. The past sixty seconds or so, since I agreed to try Albert's approach, have felt appalling, as if suddenly our operation has lost all its ambition and all its appeal. "I think I've got a better idea," I say, pulling the gun from my pocket and aiming it at the back of his head. "I think the best thing would be to take the entire operation in-house from this point."
"What do -" he asks calmly, starting to turn toward me.
Without hesitation, I fire a single shot into the side of his face, felling him immediately. The silencer keeps the sound of the gun to a minimum, and the only real noise is the thump of his body as it hits the floor. I turn to walk to the door, but blind rage overtakes me and I step back over to his body; leaning down, I empty the remaining five shots directly into his face at point-blank range, until his head is cracked straight down the middle.
I close my eyes.
Finally, the cold anger seems to crystallize and fade.
I take a deep breath.
"No more mistakes," I mutter, putting the gun back into my pocket as my mind races with ideas about how to dispose of Albert's remains. The truth is, I always knew that a day like this would come, and I already have the rough outline of a plan worked out. It won't be pleasant, but it's the only way to ensure that the operation remains on-track.
Joanna Mason
"Police are said to have called in a team of psychotherapists from Boston, Chicago and Washington to help them work with the victims," the reporter says, staring straight at the camera, "but sources say that most of the girls have little or no capability with the English language, and in some cases it's believed that their level of education is low or even non-existant."
"Huh," I mutter, eating another mouthful of the popcorn I found in the back of a cupboard. I'm sitting on the sofa, watching a news channel on my laptop, and this particular case is unfolding in just the kind of way that hits all my buttons. Glancing at my phone, I see that there's still no call from Dawson. Damn it, I'm really starting to get all itchy and scratchy here, but I already tried to call him once today. It's his turn.
"One potentially significant new development in recent hours," the reporter continues, "is the discovery of a burned-out building several miles away from the rural home where the women were first spotted. Sources have told this channel that the building consists of little more than a metal frame, but it's believed to have had wood panels before being deliberately torched by a person or persons unknown. A search of local planning databases reveals no information on such a building, raising the possibility that it was constructed without permission and in secret."
"No way," I say as I take another mouthful of popcorn, while engrossed in the story. I've had some meaty cases over the years, but this one is coming together perfectly. There's a bunch of random, unknown women in various states of distress, all of them forced to crawl to freedom 'cause their backs were broken; there's a remote house with a pair of halfwits who found the women; there's a mysterious burned-out building in the middle of nowhere; and there's a faint hint of some kind of cult or slavery ring about the whole thing. In other words, this might well be the juiciest story to hit this area in years, and I guess it's just my luck that I'm off sick from work when it strikes.
Then again, I've never let that kind of thing stop me before.
"Come on, asshole," I mutter, checking my phone for the thousandth time tonight. I know damn well that Dawson's going to need my help on this case. The guy's smart and he's a good detective, but when it comes to wild, out-of-whack incidents, he tends to think too slowly and laterally. What he needs is my talent for making intuitive leaps, and I know for certain that if he's been assigned to this case, he'll be desperately in need of my input. Normally, he'd have called me immediately, but this time he seems to be holding off. He's probably trying to play it cool.
Finally, figuring that I'm going to develop an ulcer if I just sit here like this all night, I push the bag of popcorn aside and make my way through to the bathroom. As I pee, I find myself still obsessing over the details of the case and, more specifically, over the fact that Dawson hasn't called. Even the fact that there's a small amount of blood in my urine doesn't really distract me from thinking about -
Suddenly I hear it.
Somewhere else in the apartment, my phone is ringing.
Barely even taking time to wipe, I race back through to the sofa and grab the phone. Sure enough, it's Dawson trying to get hold of me. I take a moment to gather my composure; standing in the darkened front room with my pants around my ankles, bathed in the flickering light from my laptop screen, I close my eyes for a moment and remind myself that it's vital to make sure that I don't sound too eager.
"Hello," I say calmly as I answer the phone. "Joanna Mason speaking."
"Hey, Jo," he replies, sounding as if he's outside somewhere in some pretty foul weather. "It's me. Have you seen the news?"
"No," I lie. "Why? Anything interesting going on?"
"There's this case," he replies, having to raise his voice to be heard over the wind. "Look, I'm really sorry to disturb you, and I know you're supposed to be off sick and this has kinda come out of the blue, but I was wonder
ing if maybe I could persuade you to come and meet me? I need to pick your brains."
I look down at my pants and realize that as well as being down around my ankles, they're dangling in the remains of the takeaway I ate for lunch. Frankly, I'm a complete mess right now.
"I'm kinda busy," I say after a moment, lying again, "but I guess I could spare a few minutes." I can't help but smile as I pause to let him sweat a little longer. "So," I continue, "where do you want to meet?"
John
"Hey, honey," Sharon whispers in the darkness as soon as I step through the bedroom door. "Sorry, I went to bed without you. What time is it?"
"Almost midnight," I reply calmly.
"The kids are in bed."
"I know."
As I walk across the room, I hear the rustle of the sheets as Sharon sits up.
"Is everything okay?" she asks. "You sound tense?"
"I'm fine," I reply, fumbling a little in the darkness but determined to keep the light off.
"Are you sure?"
"Yes!" I say firmly, a little annoyed by her constant questions and, also, by the thought that she - or anyone - might be able to tell that I have something on my mind. I've always prided myself on my ability to keep my emotions hidden, and there's no way Sharon should be able to pick up on even the slightest hint of concern in my voice. Not even after five years of marriage.
"I'll turn the light on," she says.
"No," I reply. "Please. It's okay."
She doesn't say anything, and as I climb fully-clothed into bed, I can tell that I've done an unusually poor job of concealing my true intentions. I'd hoped that she wouldn't wake up when I came back, although I know that she likes to wait up for me on nights when I come home late. There's always been something very kind and caring about Sharon, as if she dotes on me; I'm sure that, in different circumstances, I would have been happy to spend the rest of my life with her, accepting her plain looks and mediocre intelligence as a sacrifice that had to be made in order to acquire such a loyal and capable wife.
"Are you still wearing your clothes?" she asks, reaching out and running a hand along the inside of my trouser leg. "Honey, why haven't you got undressed? I only changed the sheets yesterday, you'll track all sorts of dirt into the bed."
"Sorry," I mutter, placing a hand on her bare belly before reaching up to cup one of her small, pert breasts.
"John?" she says, with concern in her voice. "Your hand's wet. And... warm."
"Sorry," I say again, trying to fight the tears that are welling up in my eyes. The truth is, although I'd planned to be as steely and calm as possible, I'm finding at the last minute that my feelings for Sharon are much stronger than I could ever have imagined. It's not that I love her, particularly; it's more that I feel desperately, achingly sorry for her, and I want to get this over with as quickly as possible. I don't want her to suffer, or to realize what's happening; I just want her to slip away in an instant, which means that I have to find the precise moment when I can do this cleanly. I've imagined this moment so many times over the years, but I never expected to have this kind of emotional reaction.
What the hell is wrong with me?
Reaching into my jacket, I slowly pull out the gun.
"It's sticky," she says, reaching up and lifting my hand away from her breast. "John, what is this? Oil?"
I pause for a moment, wondering whether I should tell her the truth.
"I've changed my mind," I say eventually, aware that my voice sounds weak and frail. If I'm not careful, she'll guess that there are tears in my eyes. "Honey, can you lean over and turn the bedside lamp on? I... need to be able to see properly."
The sheets rustle as she rolls away from me. I wait in the darkness, with the gun poised and ready to fire, and I listen to the sound of her hand fumbling on the bedside table.
I take a deep breath.
As soon as the light comes on, I'll do it.
I wait.
Suddenly there's a click and the bulb flickers on. For a fraction of a second, I stare at the back of Sharon's head, before she starts to turn back to face me.
I have to do it now, before she sees.
I raise the gun and fire once, straight into her temple.
Her body jerks and slumps down onto the pillow as blood sprays against the headboard. I quickly fire a second shot into the side of her head, just to make sure that she's dead, and finally I sit back and stare at her body.
That was much, much harder than I expected.
Harder than it should have been.
I look down at my hands, covered in hot, sticky blood that hasn't quite dried yet. I accidentally smeared some on Sharon's left breast; I didn't really think much of it at the time, but now the blood seems horrifyingly symbolic.
"Onward," I mutter, hoping to strengthen my resolve as I get out of bed and walk back over to the door, with the gun still in my hand. Stopping in the doorway, I turn and look back at the bed, where Sharon's body remains slumped against the pillow with a slow bloodstain seeping through the fabric. It's a tragic sight, and one that I'd always hoped to avoid, even if in the back of my mind I suppose I was aware of the inevitability of this moment. It wasn't her fault, of course. It was all mine.
"Sweet dreams," I whisper.
Realizing that there's no point being sentimental, I turn and head along the corridor, before stopping at the door to the room our two children share. We have a four-year-old son named Kieran and a two-year-old girl named Eliza, and over the course of their lives I've watched them grow to become fine young people with promising futures of their own. Reaching down to the handle, I pause for a moment, unsure as to whether I can ever summon the strength to go inside. Finally, after reminding myself that I need to remain calm, I turn the handle and push it open.
Inside, on their beds, the two little dead bodies rest in pools of their own blood. I had to kill them before I killed Sharon. It was the only way. At least the silencer ensured that Sharon and Kieran didn't wake up after I started with Eliza.
Pulling the door shut, I make my way quietly through to the kitchen. Everything is so neat; as usual, Sharon tidied away the remains of dinner and set the dishwasher going before heading to bed. She was always a very neat, very ordered woman who took her homely responsibilities extremely seriously. She did almost everything right, and yet she made one awful, fatal mistake: she met, and fell for, a man with no heart, no conscience, no soul; a man who never really existed. She looked into my eyes and thought she saw love, when in fact there's nothing inside me but emptiness. I guess she saw what she wanted to see, and once she'd made that mistake, her days began to count down to this inevitable moment. I tried to hold back the pain for as long as possible, but there was only so much I could do.
Still, the alternative would have been worse. If she'd ever learned the truth about me, she'd have been horrified and distraught. By killing her and the children, I've saved them from lasting torment. At least I was able to do that for them. And before all of this, I gave them a decent life.
I check my watch.
Time to get moving.
Part Two
Flames
Joanna Mason
It takes me almost three hours to drive out to the house, and without any kind of GPS system I'm forced to park up several times and consult an old paper map that's been badly folded a few too many times. Sometimes I think I should just surrender and join the twenty-first century, but then I wouldn't be able to mock all those goddamn technophiles with quite so much assurance. The map's far from ideal, but with regular glances and only a couple profanities I'm eventually able to work out the route.
Kind of, anyway.
For a while, I start to worry that maybe I'm lost; finally, however, just after midnight, I spot lights up ahead, and soon I'm reaching the end of a long dirt road, surrounded by flashing blue lights.
"Joanna Mason," I say, leaning out the window and flashing my old badge at the cop manning a small roadblock. I make sure to keep the badge movin
g, but he reaches out and grabs it, holding it still for a moment.
"This badge is out of date," he says humorlessly.
"Is it?" I reply, feigning surprise as I pretend to look at the badge. "Huh. I hadn't noticed."
"I'm sorry," he continues, "but you're not allowed to pass this point unless you have an up-to-date badge."
"It's out by, like, a few weeks," I point out, hoping that I might be able to get him to change his mind. "That's nothing!"
"I'm sorry," the cop says sternly. "I can't -"
"It's okay!" a familiar voice calls out from the darkness, and seconds later Dawson hurries over, fighting his way through the high wind. "She's with me," he adds, before leaning down toward me and flashing a faint but tense smile. "It's good to see you again, Jo."
"Where do I park?" I ask, unable to resist a faint smile of my own.
A few minutes later, once I've pulled up a little further on, Dawson comes to meet me. It's not exactly a grand, emotional reunion, but then I guess that's not how either of us likes to do things. As he takes me toward the house where the women apparently just showed up earlier today, he fills me in on the basic details, and it's almost as if we've picked up right where we left off. It's difficult to get to the front door, since several parts of the garden and porch have been marked off with police tape. Although he comes up with a few pleasantries, Dawson doesn't really tell me anything I hadn't already worked out from media reports, and as we reach the house I can't help but notice a reporter - the same one I was watching a few hours ago - loitering nearby with his cameraman, watching like jackals.
"So how are things going?" I ask, figuring I should try some small-talk, even though it's not exactly my strong-point.