by Andrea Speed, A. B. Gayle, Jessie Blackwood, J. J Levesque, Katisha Moreish
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Miles locked the door behind him and tried to prevent himself from falling down the stairs as Roofie took off. “This is only a before bed piss-stop and dump, not a walk, you idiot.” He pulled the lead tight and followed the dog out the gate.
The late night air still carried some moisture in it; a by-product of the rain they’d had over the last few days. Roofie was checking out the smells as usual. With the number of dogs in town he could take a while. “Hurry up, mate, we haven’t got all night.”
Roofie stopped sniffing and looked up, his bedraggled ears trying to stand at attention, all legs tense. Miles stared in the direction he was facing but couldn’t see anything except different shades of black. Roofie’s tail started a slow wag. Friend then, not foe.
“Miles! Just the man I was looking for,” Flynn said, approaching out of the shadows. “What a coincidence.” Now that that asshole Vale was deliberately taunting him with Aiden’s vulnerability, he had to do something about him ... but what? The thought of killing the bastard was nice, but he knew he didn’t have much of a taste for blood, and besides that, Vale implied he wasn’t alone. He needed all the ammo he could get on Vale, and he needed it yesterday.
“What’s up, Errol?” Ever since the Mad Max crack, Miles had been sweating on calling the man that the next time he saw him. Roofie was bounding around the man’s legs as if he was a long lost friend. Didn’t the dog have any taste?
Flynn stopped short. “What did you call me?”
“Well, since you called me, Mad Max, I’ll call you, Errol Flynn. Fair’s fair.” Miles noticed all the color had drained out of the man’s face at the name. Couldn’t take his own medicine, eh? “And if you’re looking for me, clinic hours are Monday through Friday 8:00 am to 4:30 pm and Saturday from 8:00 to noon.” The guy still seemed to be trying to find his tongue. Maybe he just didn’t appreciate his sense of humor. Most Americans didn’t. “So, what did you want to see me about?”
Holy shit, that scared him. What would he have done if Miles knew who he actually was? Flynn shook his head, and focused once more. “I was wondering if you had any more info on those hands. Like, how the guy died, or if more body parts had turned up or things like that.”
Miles kicked the ground with the toe of his boot as he thought about the request. Had it just been a coincidence that Flynn had been around when both hands were found? He seemed to be awfully interested in them and his reaction when he told him of the ID had definitely been strange. “What’s it to you?”
Oh good, Mad Max was going to be stroppy. Damn it. “I’m curious. It’s not every day you find severed hands in a park.” He paused briefly. “Unless Australia is rougher than I thought.”
So the punk wanted to play silly buggers and have a go at Australia, did he? Two could play that game. “Well at least our contact football is just that. We don’t pad ourselves up like the Michelin man. You ever seen a game of rugby?”
Flynn snorted derisively. “Seen it? Hell, man, I used to play it. Ain’t a lot of interest in some places, though.”
Errol had actually played the game. Gee, maybe he wasn’t a total dipshit. Come to think of it that tackle he’d done on Roofie the first day they met had been quite impressive. “Shame a few mauls and rucks with some of the guys that live around here might get very interesting. What position did you play?”
“I was versatile. Generally I was a loosehead prop, but sometimes I was a forward, depending on what was needed. You ever play?”
“Played for a few years ‘til...” Miles stopped as he suddenly realized he was going to say until he’d realized he was gay and known he’d have the shit kicked out of him if the rest of the team found out. So far only a couple of guys had been brave enough to come out in any form of the code in Australia. In those days he’d been too chicken. “You don’t look big enough to be a prop. Geez, it’s a wonder the scrum didn’t run right over the top of you.”
Flynn grinned in remembrance. “Oh, I like the rough stuff. You could ask the boyfriends, but that’s probably T.M.I. .”
Miles looked him up and down a few times and wondered whether he’d be Flynn’s type. Nah. “Well, as it happens I did get a report back from the sheriff’s office.”
“About my boyfriends?” Flynn realized Miles wasn’t in a teasing mood, and got back down to business. “About what, the guy who was unhanded?”
“Yep, Lance had wondered why Roofie hadn’t just eaten the hands, but the lab said they’d been injected with formaldehyde.” Miles checked to see if his companion knew what he was talking about. “It’s used to preserve things. The concentration in the tissue was pretty high, over 35%. That’s why they were that funny gray color. Turns out they were cut off after whatsisname was dead and then treated.” He tugged on Roofie’s lead. The dog had grown bored since they’d started talking and was digging holes in Mrs Danver’s dahlia bed.
“Don’t insult me, man, I know what formaldehyde is, I’m not that stupid,” Flynn replied testily, wondering exactly what all off this meant. He only wished his father’s hand had something telling on them. A tattoo saying ;This is why you’re screwed, and why some asshole is trying to kill you’. “One of the hands was more rotted than the other. Was that one not injected with as much?”
“Who knows. There are so many variables that affect the rate of decomposition. Perhaps the rain leached some of the preservative out. It was also a day later. Another day of sitting in the ground surrounded by microbes and bacteria. Eventually the hand would have started to rot.”
“Was there any way for them to tell how he died?” Flynn couldn’t seem too eager. But too dispassionate brought its own questions. It was hard being a good actor.
“Not so far. They found some sand under the fingernails, but that could have got there after the man was dead. There’s even doubts that they were buried in the place Roofie found them.” Miles had his doubts on that one as well. He’d already caught his dog reburying one of the lamb bones he’d given him. “The real question is why would anyone bother embalming two hands? It’s almost the opposite of what normally happens. Usually the killers want to prevent identification, so they cut off the fingers. The Russian mafia do that in the film “Eastern Promises”. Have you seen it?”
“Naked Viggo? Oh hell, yes.”
“Yeah, well.” Miles shifted uncomfortably. There had been some serious man-on-man undercurrents between Viggo’s character and the son of the mafia boss he was working for. The film had been one of Darren’s favorites too. “Anyway, the sheriff reckons whoever’s hands they were, someone wanted their identity to be known. The question is why?”
“Yeah.” Flynn felt like he had missed something, then realized what it was. “Wait - isn’t embalming something that happens at a mortuary?”
“Yep. I passed Henry Vale going into the sheriff’s office on my way out. He seemed to be upset.” Vale had aimed a kick at Roofie before he saw Miles watching him. Bastard. He better hope he didn’t ever need patching up when he was on duty.
“Vale.” Just the name made Flynn’s balls shrivel and leave him with a bad taste in his mouth, like poison. “Do you know him very well?”
Miles took a deep breath. He didn’t like dissing people who were virtually colleagues, even if they did give him the shits. “I’ve seen him around. I’ve actually had more to do with his assistant, Riley.”
“His assistant is Lyle, that Limey prick.”
Miles decided to let Flynn’s “Limey prick” comment ride for now. He didn’t know who ‘Lyle’ was, so he hardly felt as if he should stick up for him. But if dear Errol here ever used the same words to describe Gil, Miles would have no hesitation in decking him. “Vale’s assistant is Stan Riley. He’s worked there for a few years. Who’s this Lyle character you seem to dislike so much. What’s the matter didn’t he want to jump into bed with you?”
“Hardly. He’s a tight assed, callous bastard ... did you say, Riley?”
“Yep.” Ge
e, Errol had gone as white as a ghost again. “It’s funny, he was due to come and see me today and didn’t turn up.” Riley would have needed a repeat prescription for Restoril by now, so the missed appointment had been out of character. Especially seeing he’d been complaining about having difficulty getting to sleep at night.
“I’d really like to meet him. Think that’s possible?”
Miles checked his watch. It was nine pm, a bit late for a social call, but now he thought of it, Stan’s absence had been strange. “I suppose it wouldn’t hurt to see if he’s home. His house is just down the road and Roofie might actually sleep if he gets some more exercise.”
“Well, lead on, Mad Max. I’ll man the flamethrower.”
“What, you offering to be Bruce Spence instead of Errol?” They walked in silence for a while. Conversation wasn’t easy while Miles’s brain was whirring around, trying to figure out why his companion seemed so keen to meet Vale’s assistant. Did he think he might have embalmed the hands? Formaldehyde wasn’t that hard to get hold of. Heck, even some of the school teachers could have probably put their hands on some if they wanted to. Hands ... formaldeyde... the two would be forever linked in his brain now.
Flynn followed, and in his worst Australian accent, said, “We’re partners, mate. Partners!”
“Hey, good one, mate. At least you’ve got the accent right. Now do the grin!”
“Can’t. My teeth aren’t that bad.”
Miles laughed. He tried to superimpose an image of Mad Max’s gyrocopter pilot on Flynn and failed miserably. For a start he was about a foot too short. Maybe Errol wasn’t so bad once you got to know him. At least he had a decent sense of humor. “Well, here we are.”
Riley’s house was an old single level house with a sharply peaked roof. A few of its roof tiles were gone, making it look like the smile of a fifth grader with its baby teeth missing. The house was a sort of dull ecru, perhaps once white, with peeling pink highlights. The front yard was a small rectangle, and some decrepit azaleas were being eaten away by a fungus that looked like lichen. It was a sad looking place, and for that reason kind of ominous. It was one of the older houses he thought he’d seen in Haven Falls, something about it screamed ‘70’s. He bet it had a rec room.
Miles tied Roofie to one of the downposts of the porch. He’d never actually visited Stan as they weren’t exactly on buddy, buddy terms but he thought the house wouldn’t have looked quite as run down as this. The primer on the windowsills looked as if it had been there for years, just waiting for the top coat. He knocked on the door.
Flynn stood back, waiting. He wondered if Riley would be as skeletal and sour looking as Vale. He wondered if he had the self-restraint to keep from throttling him the moment he saw him.
No answer. Miles checked the window near the door, but the blind was too tightly drawn, so no cracks for light to shine through. “How about you check around the back and see if you can see any sign of life.”
“Sure, why not?” Flynn stepped down off the porch and circled the house, following the patches of dead grass. This was a man who didn’t keep up his lawn at all. Weren’t there rules against that sort of things in suburbs? Well, maybe this wasn’t a proper suburb.
The back of the house was as stark as the front, with only a cement back porch and an old reel lawnmower propped up against the siding. It hadn’t been used in ages, and the blades were getting rusty.
There was a back door, and his best guess was it was a kitchen door, although it would have been too easy if it had a window inset. It didn’t; it was hollow core metal, painted that same shade of off white as the rest of the house. He tried the knob. It was locked.
Flynn glanced around briefly, making sure Miles hadn’t followed, and dropped to one knee. In his front jeans pocket, he had the tiny roll of black velvet where he kept his basic lockpick kit - an array of tiny silver instruments, good for just about any physical lock on the planet. (Infrared not so much; that required different tools.) He took out the two he needed, slid them into the keyhole, and within thirty seconds heard the click of the lock being retracted. Very basic lock. No inner city heavy duty deadbolts out in Haven Falls, it seemed.
He put the tools back, shoved the velvet kit back in his pocket, and stood up before shouting, “Door’s open back here.” It was true. Miles didn’t need to know it was a recent development.
“Okay, I heard you, buddy.” Miles muttered when he heard the yell. “You don’t have to let the entire street know.” He patted Roofie on the head. “Stay here.” The dog cocked his head to one side and proceeded to piss on the doorpost. Miles sighed. Were there any dog obedience schools in town? Roofie sure needed some training.
He walked around the side of the house, picking his way through the wet, overgrown vegetation. Stan obviously wasn’t a gardener. As he passed the garbage can, the stink of stale prawns seemed to almost climb out of the container. Only years of working in primitive conditions helped him overcome the automatic gag reflex. He lifted the lid. A cursory glance just showed normal garbage, but it looked like it hadn’t been emptied for a while.
Maybe he should call the sheriff’s office. Not just go barging in.
His companion was waiting impatiently at the back door with his arms crossed over his chest giving Miles the evil eye.
“What, you took the scenic route?”
“The smelly route more like. Have you been inside yet?” Miles opened the door slightly and peered through the narrow opening. Everything looked dark. He took a deep breath. Nothing putrid assaulted his nostrils. Nothing as bad as the garbage. So, no dead body, thank God.
Flynn peered in over Miles’s shoulder, and from what he could tell in the moonlight streaming in through the door, they were in a kitchen. A fairly messy kitchen. “Who leaves their cupboard doors open?”
“Stan, are you there?” Miles called out. The silence was deafening. “Should we call the sheriff?” He edged the door further open and felt around for the light switch. For a second he thought it must be already on and the power off at the mains, then he remembered Americans had the switch arse-about. Down is “off”. He flipped the switch and a harsh light glowed from the ceiling fluorescent.
“What for? Have you seen something illegal yet?”
Miles called out again with the same result. Just the echo as his voice reverberated off the walls. Outside, Roofie gave a yelp as if he was answering. “You think Riley always leaves his kitchen in this state? I mean the man’s not exactly Martha Stewart but he wouldn’t leave plates and cutlery lying scattered on the floor, would he.” Miles took a few steps inside and turned around. “Were there any signs of a forced lock or anything? Riley was pretty paranoid about locking up at night. He kept telling me someone was after him.” That’s why he’d needed the sleeping tablets.
“No, the door was just unlocked. And how do you know he left the place at night? He could’ve stepped out for a second to get his newspaper or something.” Even Flynn couldn’t buy this bullshit as he was saying it. But he couldn’t tell Mileshe picked the lock, any more than he could say he had a really bad feeling about this.
Miles ran his hand through his beard. Something was off here. He had a feeling Flynn was lying about something, but he wasn’t too sure what. “I’ll go check the other rooms. Who knows, he may just be asleep.” They should probably ring the sheriff’s office, but Riley had been a bit leery about contacting them when Miles had asked whether he’d reported his suspicions about being followed. “Are you coming?”
“Should I? If he’s here, he has no fucking clue who I am.” Also, Flynn had a feeling there was nobody here. Or if there was, they were in no shape to ask who the hell he was.
“Suit yourself.” Miles carefully picked his way through the broken crockery. “Stan,” he called again as he edged aside the upturned kitchen stool. If there was going to be a police investigation, the less disturbance he made, the better. A familiar vibration against his leg startled him for a moment. “Bugger.” He pulled
out his pager. “Looks like I’m needed back at the hospital. One of my patients has just gone into labor.”
“I hope it’s a woman. Otherwise you’ve got one for the books.”
Miles laughed. “Not everyone in this town is gay.” Although sometimes it feels like it he muttered to himself as he shoved the pager back into his pocket and retraced his steps. “Mate, can you do me a favor? Can you call the sheriff and get him to come and take a look?” Miles edged past Flynn who was still standing at the door. “You’ll have to stay here until he arrives. Is that okay?”
“You’re really just leaving me here?” He was sure Miles didn’t trust him, he just had no choice. “What if there’s a corpse in the bathroom?”
“Well if there is, it’s a fresh one. Take it from one who knows. Unless it’s embalmed or something.” Miles grinned at his own joke. Flynn didn’t seem to be amused though. “I’d call them, but I didn’t bring my phone with me. I was just popping out for a couple of minutes to let Roofie do his business. Look, I can leave you Roofie for company if you’re scared.”
“I’m a bouncer, remember? I don’t get scared.” Except by some stupid ass, scarecrow like mortician, but the less said about that, the better.
Miles ran his hand up and down the edge of the door. “Hm. No signs of a break and entry. I wonder how they got in? If Riley isn’t here, then there is just no way the door would have been left open. You better not touch anything. The fingerprint people might be needing to check for prints.”
“Please stop treating me like an idiot. I’m decent looking, but that doesn’t make me instantly a moron.”
“Decent? In your dreams, kiddo. I might call you, Errol, but no way do you look anywhere near as good as him. Gotta run.” Miles collected Roofie and set off back for the house. From the sounds of things, he still had a few minutes as Sheree wasn’t fully dilated yet. According to Millie Broadbent anyway.
“Errol Flynn’s looks are overrated, he’s just another white guy with a questionable mustache,” Flynn called after Miles’s departing back. Would he ever know how right he was about his name? Hopefully not, but it all depended on Vale, he supposed.