Earthbound : A gripping crime thriller full of twists and supernatural suspense

by Fynn Perry

  “Yes,” John’s host confirmed.

  John just listened and remained passive. He needed to save his energy. The guard would be his next host.

  “Good. Open her up,” the security guard said.

  John felt his host’s effort and the wheezing as he heaved the weight of his body up, step by step. Heavily panting, the host joined the guard on the deck. John waited for the driver to open the rear cargo doors and for the guard to walk inside before he left the trucker’s body. His former host faltered and collapsed, causing the guard to turn around just as John possessed him. The guard’s entire body tensed for a moment.

  “Shit!” he exclaimed, surprised by both the strange feeling that had come over him, and by the scene in front of him.

  “Larry, you fat ass. Get up. I can’t have this bullshit today.”

  The guard leaned over the truck driver, slapping him on the cheeks. When that didn’t work, he looked toward the dispatcher’s desk and saw a bottle of water. He went to fetch it, un-did the cap and threw the water over the trucker’s face. The driver spurted out a complaint as he came to.

  “Thank God you’re OK! I would need to dig a big hole for your corpse!” the guard snickered.

  John’s new host pulled the trucker to his feet and called through his short-wave radio for help with the unloading as the trucker stumbled over to sit in the chair at the dispatcher’s desk. The cracked leatherette cushion hissed air with the sudden load.

  After a few minutes, the elevator doors opened and four men in black jeans and t-shirts with the DNA logo printed on them, and a variety of part-shaved, part-quiff hairstyles, tattoos, and piercings pushed out pallet trucks. One by one, pallets stacked with beer barrels went into the goods lift and disappeared. After the second row of barrels had been taken, John’s host used a UV lamp to scan the top of each barrel. A spider-shaped logo, like the one he had seen on the pills, fluoresced on some of the containers, and these were immediately directed to be stacked, to wait, on separate pallets.

  As the last batch of ‘regular’ kegs left in the elevator, John’s host was left with two guys, both Hispanic, grim-faced and solidly built.

  “OK, you know the drill, get on with it!” John’s host ordered.

  The two men made four trips in the elevator, taking two pallets at a time with eighteen of the secret, logo-bearing kegs on each pallet. That gave a total of 144 kegs out of 270 that were most likely filled with pills, by John’s rapid calculations. His host got into the elevator with the last load. The journey took them up again to the 40th floor––the location of the VIP club, the kitchen that served it, and the restaurant area he had seen during his last, brief visit. The beer was moved along the service corridor until they stopped by a metal door. A code was punched into a keypad, and they entered a storage room with plain concrete walls that were scuffed in horizontal bands by the protruding ribs of more steel kegs stacked against them.

  The floor was dominated by a large drainage area covered by a heavy-duty metal grille. Men were opening barrels over it and there was a smell of stale beer. The contents hissed and foamed as the keg spears were pulled out and each man ran a finger alongside the inside of the opening to catch and pull out what looked like the end of a fishing line. As they pulled, bag after bag of the pills emerged. They were rinsed, dried, and piled into large, clear-plastic containers on wheels.

  John could feel the guard’s anxiety over signing off on the exact number of pills that had been delivered as the filled containers were wheeled into another room.

  Finished with white walls and a floor, the second room looked pristine by comparison. It contained a few white tables and a silver-colored machine about the size of a copy shop Xerox with a slowly turning spool at one end, feeding plastic film into it. A guard dressed in black stood sentinel in the corner with what John assumed was a small automatic weapon with a noise suppressor. The guard’s eyes were normal, unpossessed, but as his index finger rested on the trigger, they surveyed the activity in the room with the merciless, intense stare of a bird of prey. Two middle-aged Hispanic women, dressed like lab assistants, quickly attended to the incoming containers. The bags were opened and the pills poured into a funnel onto the top of the silver machine which, not unlike a photocopier, made relentless and rhythmic clanking sounds as it packed the pills into individual wrappers. The wrapped pills were then packed by hand into small boxes.

  John’s attention was diverted by his host receiving an incoming call on his phone. He looked at the screen. The caller ID showed simply ‘The Accountant.’ The conversation was brief.

  “Cargo arrived?” the voice on the line asked.

  “Yes.”

  “All as ordered?”

  “Yes.”

  “Bring the delivery roster to my office when unloading is complete.”

  “Will do.”

  The line went dead. John noted that his host was keeping two records. One for the delivery of real beer, and one for the kegs containing pills. John watched in disbelief as barrel after barrel was emptied, and countless trolleys of pills were packed. The process took about forty minutes, during which time his host made calls and paced up and down the room, then sent a text to The Accountant:

  All done. On my way.

  It looked as though John was now going to meet The Accountant.

  On the fortieth floor, John’s host passed the doors to the kitchen that were connected to the VIP lounge. Next along was a pair of sleek wooden doors. One had a sign that read ‘Restricted Access - Management Only’ and another had a keypad beside it. The guard keyed in a code, there was a click, and he pushed open the door. It had noticeable heft. Probably a steel door with a wooden outer finish, thought John.

  Cautiously, the host ventured through a corridor with thick carpet and mirror paneling. Ahead of them was another heavy oak door.

  Inside the room, carpet gave way to a polished oak floor covered with large, antique, Persian-looking rugs with faded patterns. The walls were lined with fitted bookcases, also in oak, and the room smelled of cigar smoke. It was the type of gentleman’s club ‘power decor’ that had been popular in the nineties, John thought, and it was in stark contrast to the sleek, minimalistic lines of the DNA club. Clearly, The Accountant was a traditionalist, keen to display old-school muscle.

  The focal point of the room was a huge, highly ornate, gilded desk. It was gaudy, obviously meant to be intimidating.

  A voice came from an open doorway to the left of the desk. Then a chubby, bearded face with eyes like small buttons behind thick, black-rimmed glasses appeared. The face sat on top of a sizable, rotund body clad in a sharp suit. Most importantly, if this was The Accountant, he was not possessed, John noted with relief.

  “Sit and wait,” the chubby man said in his remarkably deep voice as he disappeared into a private bathroom, closing the door behind him.

  John could sense that the papers and contracts on the desk stirred his host’s curiosity. This was perfect; John was curious too. Disappointingly, John also felt a sense of fear overcome his host. The host had reminded himself of the presence of the small camera on the ceiling and he was no longer willing to take a look.

  But John had another plan. Jennifer had confirmed, not that he had any doubts, that spirits didn’t show up on camera feeds. However, the mortal host and his sudden passing out would, of course, be registered. Despite the risk, John decided to leave the guard.

  The bodyguard now sat limply back in his chair with his heavy head hung to the right, pulling on his torso, almost like it was willing it to fall out of the chair. His build was, however, solid enough to anchor him in his chair for a while and John made maximum use of the limited time. He was immediately at the table, scanning the documents, and his eye was drawn to a pile of vendor invoices similar to the ones he had seen in Donovan’s flat. All were addressed to Supreme Bars & Clubs as the payee, the same entity that owned the Irish pub, but named DNA as the place where services were to be rendered, or deliveries made. One of th
em was a Supreme Security invoice which looked identical in format to the one he had seen in Donovan’s flat. A second pile of documents had just caught John’s eye when he heard the toilet flush. Immediately, he looked at the guard. His upper body was still slowly lurching forward, threatening to fall from the chair. Assuming he had the time, it would take The Accountant to wash his hands, John looked again at the second pile of papers. One of them was a document headed ‘INTERCOMPANY LOAN.’ John’s father had told him about such agreements being widely used as an accounting tool to move money between companies belonging within the same group. Beneath the title, the parties were defined as SUPREME HOLDINGS as debtor and SUPREME BARS & CLUBS as creditor.

  The registered address of Supreme Holdings showed 420D Park Avenue, Delaware––the same address Jennifer had found earlier online. This now left no doubt in John’s mind that his father’s friend had gone behind his back and had sold the pub to El Gordito. Beneath the agreement was another Supreme Security invoice, which was issued to Supreme Logistics. The address of the property stated as being provided with security services was Supreme Logistics Fulfillment Center, Unit 25, Bellevue Logistics Park, Bellevue Lane, Newstone, New Jersey. It was the same address as the liquor merchants that John had seen on the truck driver’s transport bill for the beer kegs. El Gordito must be transporting the pills into Manhattan from some kind of distribution center out of town.

  The guard lurched a little more. John made the surface of his fingers interact with the remaining invoices as he flicked through them. They were from the same type of companies as the first pile, but there were also invoices from Supreme Logistics made out to other companies which seemed to be household electrical, children’s toys, and alcohol retailers. He didn’t recognize any of the names. The invoices were for goods storage and transportation services, with delivery addresses in New York, including a few made out to DNA and the Irish pub, but also to addresses in other cities along the east coast such as Boston and Philly. There were at least fifty such invoices, he estimated.

  As he moved back toward the guard, he quickly looked at the registered address of Supreme Logistics again to make sure he had gotten it right. He had––Suite 1023,124 East 53rd Street—just like the other companies with Supreme in their name.

  As he re-possessed the guard, he saw the figure of The Accountant emerging from the bathroom. The bodyguard bolted upright and readjusted himself in his seat.

  The Accountant eyed him suspiciously. “We not paying you enough to stay awake?” he chided as he lowered his expensively tailored backside into a sumptuously padded, leather swivel chair. “Hand over the inventory docket and transport bill,” he demanded as he leaned down to a low drawer in the desk from which he took out two hardcover ledgers. They were thick and old-fashioned, with a gold-inlaid swirl pattern on the covers. One had ‘DNA 1’ embossed on its spine, and the bore the word ‘OTHER 1.’ He opened ‘DNA 1’ first, exposing grid-lined pages with handwritten numbers in a table.

  “When are you going to get a computer?” mocked the guard. John wondered if it was a good idea to rile the man.

  “Heard of the NSA, DEA, and FBI?” the chubby man questioned, looking up at the guard for a second. He didn’t wait for an answer. “No one’s hacking into this, dipshit.” He paused, giving the guard a stern look. “What was the total barrel shipment?”

  “270 kegs.”

  He scribbled down the figure in the ledger, then set it aside, still open, while he opened the ledger marked ‘OTHER 1.’ “How many bags of Spider’s Bite?”

  Must be the name of the pills, thought John.

  “Forty per keg and 144 kegs were filled with pills, so that’s 5,760 packets. Ten pills per packet as always. So, 57,600 pills.”

  “Good boy! School wasn’t totally lost on you!” smirked The Accountant as he scribbled the numbers down. “And now, when are you going to get the forty large that one of your scumbag dealers owes? It was due yesterday!” He ran his fat, gold-ringed index finger down the joint of the ledger spine and cover. “You know how the boss hates late payers.”

  The guard lowered his head. “It’ll will be with tonight’s takings.”

  The Accountant stared at him. “It had better be. No excuses, or you’ll have the boss to deal with!”

  He made a note of the amount in pencil in the ledger, not committing it to ink. “Now go back to the dock and check that the right number of empty kegs are returned.” He didn’t look up but started reviewing other entries in the book of accounts.

  The same group of men that John had seen before were now loading the truck with pallets of empty kegs. John’s host ordered the side curtains to be lifted on both sides and stepped off the platform to properly inspect the contents.

  He counted eight pallets stacked with eighteen kegs, so that made 144 kegs for return. He went to the dispatcher’s desk, sat down, and made an entry on a form. The guard waved to the driver, who started pulling down and fixing the straps to the side curtains.

  John’s host took out a crumpled soft pack of cigarettes and put them on the table.

  “Make sure you get the number of returns confirmed back at the depot,” the host shouted at the driver.

  “Will do!” the driver confirmed.

  John guessed that ‘the depot’ meant the Supreme Logistics Fulfillment Center that the pills had come from. This was his chance to see it and get one more piece to the puzzle.

  The guard placed a cigarette to his lips but didn’t get to light it because at that moment John’s spirit departed the man’s body.

  Lazlo wasn’t going to give up on the Kendrick case. For some reason, El Gordito was covering up Mark Kendrick’s brother’s real cause of death. He wanted to know what his sister, Siobhan, knew, and if he could use it against the drug kingpin.

  After the cremation, he had waited for her return at her home address—an apartment building in Queens—until a neighbor informed him that Kendrick had gone to live with her mother. The old lady, who seemed to be into everyone’s business in the building, had even met Siobhan’s mother and managed to extract her first name and the neighborhood in Philadelphia where she lived. He had done some database research and had narrowed down the possible addresses to two.

  Now, heading along the I-95, Lazlo was thirty minutes away from Kendrick’s mother’s house. It had been just over two hours’ drive in all.

  He pulled up on Elmbrook Street in the district of Chestnut Hill in Philadelphia at around 5:20 p.m. To his annoyance, the address turned out to be a bust: a black couple occupied the house, young professionals starting out on the housing ladder. He drove on to the other address.

  Springfield Road was in a more down-market area. He pulled up two houses away from number fifty-three, which was a small brick house with a white picket fence. He was in luck. A woman in her fifties was getting into an old Jeep Cherokee. She had just pulled out from the curb and was about to drive off when another woman chased after her, ordering the car to stop. She spoke for a moment to the driver before the car drove away, leaving her in the middle of the street. Lazlo wasn’t sure it was Siobhan Kendrick at first. This individual had short hair, and she was a blonde whereas Kendrick had been brunette, but her figure looked the same.

  He got out of the car and called to her as he ran in her direction. She glanced at him, recognition then fear crossing her face before she turned away and started walking quickly to the house.

  “Leave me alone!” she shouted back at him.

  Lazlo caught up with her by her front door. She had her back to him as she walked through the door.

  “I just want to ask why you didn’t . . .” Lazlo’s voice faded when she turned around and attempted to close the door—a move that he prevented by blocking it with his foot. Her skin was looking paler than before and it was dry with scabs. And as she pushed her hand harder against the door, he noticed needle marks on the underside of her forearm.

  He wondered whether she had been an addict before her brother’s death.<
br />
  “You see, I’m a junkie like my brother… was.” She laughed a hollow, sarcastic laugh. “Move your foot,” she snarled.

  “I’m sorry for your loss.” Lazlo said, knowing that even if he got her to tell the truth about what had really happened to her brother, El Gordito’s lawyer would crush her credibility in court because of the addiction. And with the body now cremated, it looked like El Gordito had this one covered from all angles.

  As soon as Lazlo withdrew his foot, she slammed the door in his face.

  He wasn’t about to give up just yet. The only evidence he had of El Gordito’s crimes might have been reduced to an urn full of ashes, but he still had the pills—the little white pills with the red spider logo. They were now his only lead, but an important one, and the first thing he had to do was to find out exactly what was in them.

  Thirteen

  Marty Jackson felt the hairs on his skin prickle in response to the tingle of energy that suddenly raced through his nervous system. Holding him rigid for less than a second, it caused the slight hunch in his back to straighten for an instant. He thought his sciatica had gone nuclear again, but when everything went back to normal, he was happy to have gotten off lightly this time.

  He continued to walk the fence surrounding the light-grey, box-like building that was Supreme Logistics Fulfillment Center as he did, every hour, to check for signs of trespass. It was a cool night for late summer, and his standard-issue security guard’s jacket kept the chill out. The entire area was under constant surveillance by a network of IP cameras, with his buddy George, five years his junior at fifty-eight years old, manning the screens in the surveillance room, which also doubled as their social quarters. They both worked for Supreme Security and wore the same beige uniforms with military-style, embroidered arm patches featuring the firm’s name and logo.

  He considered how lucky they were. He, George, and Jeff on the gate were earning much better wages than the market average. They were under no illusion that they were worth the extra salary, being neither ex-military or in good shape. In fact, George had glasses with lenses as thick as poker chips and Jeff was deaf in one ear. He had a theory that the only reason they were needed was to make the place look unimportant and to provide a kind of cover of normality. He suspected that the place wasn’t ordinary, but he had no idea what went on inside. Regular trucking companies used the facility, and the drivers he had spoken to had told him that the goods they were hauling were ordinary consumer goods. So why the need for the other security team that managed the internal areas? Those guys were younger, dressed in black combat gear, well-trained, and in much better shape, but none too friendly.