Souls At Zero (A Dark Psychological Thriller)

by Neal Martin

  Although his muscles were relaxed, he still felt tense as he sat with a glass of Scotch in his hand, hoping the alcohol would go some way to soothing his nerves.

  His wife and two daughters were upstairs sleeping, but sleeping was the last thing Rankin felt like doing. His mind was too active, filled as it was with thoughts of Harry Edger and the upheaval surrounding him. Edger had opened up a whole can of worms for Rankin, and he didn't even know it. Rankin was now in a difficult position because of him, and he wasn't sure what to do about it. Or rather, he did know what to do about it, but he was reticent about doing it.

  A lot of stuff had arisen since Edger's daughter was kidnapped. And thanks to Edger's dogged refusal to drop anything, things had now come to light that Rankin hoped would never see the light of day.

  And Edger was still digging. It was only a matter of time before he learned the truth about everything.

  Before he learned the truth about Rankin.

  Rankin's mobile phone vibrated in his pocket. He took the phone out, looked at the number on the screen. Adrenaline shot through him, and he quickly drank the rest of the Scotch in his glass, before slamming the glass on the table. He took a breath, and then answered the call. "Hello?" he said.

  "Mr Rankin," the voice on the other end of the line said.

  Rankin swallowed as he felt his blood chill. "Professor Mason. How can I help you?"

  "I think you know the answer to that question already, Mr Rankin." Professor Gabriel Mason's voice was quiet and had a sinister tone to it that never failed to put Rankin on edge. The old man's voice had an effortless authority to it that made Rankin feel like a nervous school boy standing in front of a stern headmaster with a reputation for dishing out hard punishments.

  "You're referring to Harry Edger."

  "Yes, Mr Rankin, I am. He has become somewhat of a thorn in my side, thanks to his brother's out of control behaviour."

  "I didn't know Declan Edger belonged to you, Professor. What happened there?"

  "It doesn't matter what happened," Mason said. "It only matters that his brother is now digging into the Country Club. He knows too much already. I can't have a man like that coming at us, hell-bent on some notion of avenging his brother."

  "You could have told me who Edger was before I employed him over a year ago." Rankin was careful to keep his voice respectful.

  "I didn't foresee any of our current problems arising back then. Although perhaps it's best that you did employ him. At least now you know the man. You can get close to him. Erase him before he does any real damage."

  "You've already tried that from what I hear. Edger killed the three men you sent after him."

  "He thinks you're his friend, Mr Rankin. He'll let you get close enough to take him out."

  "But I don't even know where he is. I tried calling him. He's killed his phone."

  "I don't care. Find him. I'm sure I don't need to remind you about tomorrow night's ritual at the Country Club. I don't need Edger causing any trouble."

  "I'll sort it."

  "Take care of the girl and the ex-wife as well. We can't be sure how much they know. Better safe than sorry."

  Rankin fell silent.

  "Will that be a problem, Mr Rankin?"

  "No," Rankin said, looking down at his desk. "No problem, Professor."

  "Good. I'm sure you don't want your family hearing about your penchant for young girls." Mason paused. "I doubt your wife and daughters would be happy if they knew who you really were, wouldn't you agree, Mr Rankin?"

  Rankin made a fist on top of his desk. "I'll take care of it."

  The line went dead as the professor hung up.

  Rankin put his phone on the desk and grabbed the bottle of Scotch sitting there, poured himself half a glass, and sat back in his chair drinking it. What a fuck up. Why did it have to be Edger of all people? He considered Edger a friend. The man was only doing what he thought was right. He was avenging his brother, protecting himself and his family. Now Rankin would have to eliminate them all, something he didn't relish doing by any means. But he had no choice.

  Rankin had his own family to think about. Mason would reveal things to Rankin's wife and daughters if Rankin didn't do what Mason asked of him. Marlene and the kids would see Rankin as a monster. He would lose them forever, and he couldn't have that.

  Neither could he loose the privilege of being able to indulge his sadistic leanings without any of the worry and danger of finding victims, or being discovered. A few times back in London, he came close to being caught. There are just too many variables to consider when it comes to dealing with victims. There was always something left behind—a piece of evidence, a witness—that could possibly get you caught.

  Then there was the constant fear that you would eventually get caught. Always looking over your shoulder. Dreading a knock on the door one night and it being the cops.

  The Red Falcon Country Club eliminated all of that, brought the many variables under firm control. Made it safe for him to indulge his forbidden desires. Even provided him with victims. And all he had to do in return was provide protection for the other club members when they needed it. It was a good arrangement, and one he wasn't willing to sacrifice, even for Edger.

  Leaning forward, he unlocked a desk drawer with a small key that was in his pocket. Inside the drawer was an ornate wooden box—like a cigar box—that he had picked up in an antique shop in London's east end. He carefully put the box on the table and opened the lid to reveal what was inside.

  A collection of teeth. About two dozen or more, all collected from the young girls who fell victim to his sadism over the years.

  He picked up one of the teeth from the box. A molar. White and smooth. He loved the feel of it as he ran it across his lips, his eyes closed, wondering which girl the tooth once belonged to. It was a private game he liked to indulge in from time to time. Chose a tooth at random and try to guess whose mouth it used to be in. Each of the teeth were different in some small way and he always made sure he could identify the tooth before adding it to the collection. The one he held now belonged to one of his first victims back in London. A fifteen year old girl. Pretty. Innocent. He never killed her. Killing wasn't his game. Torturing was. Sometimes they died anyway. They would bleed out from the damage he had done to them, or they would die from the shock. The ones who didn't die in the Country Club, Mason would take them away. Rankin didn't know what he did with them afterwards. Killed them probably. Although there was rumours of experiments. Rankin didn't care anyway. As long as he had his time with them first.

  "Paul?" It was Victoria, his wife, calling from the top of the stairs. "You coming to bed love?"

  Rankin froze for a second, the tooth still in his hand. "Yes, love. I'll be up now."

  "Okay."

  Rankin heard his wife walk along the landing to the bathroom and close the door. He put the tooth back in the box and put the box back in the drawer, locking it after him.

  Then he went upstairs to get a few hours sleep. After that he would head to Fermanagh and do what had to be done.

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  The man strapped to the stainless steel table was somewhere in his forties. Severely underweight, his bone structure plainly visible through the pasty white skin of his naked body. Ragged beard growth covered the lower half of his face. His eyes were sunken with yellowish dark circles underneath them. His stick thin arms and legs strained against the leather straps that held him securely to the table. A ball gag was strapped over his mouth, muffling the screaming noises he was trying to make. The man's name was unknown. Just another alcoholic vagrant from a small Northern Irish town, unlucky enough to be spotted by and scooped up by The Crow, the black van that drove endlessly around the country looking for fresh laboratory subjects. The homeless man had been drugged inside The Crow, waking up several hours later to find himself naked and trapped in a brightly lit room, with what appeared to be three doctors standing around him, all dressed in surgical gowns, masks covering
their faces.

  Professor Gabriel Mason was the doctor in charge. At six feet seven he towered over the terrified man like a hungry eagle standing over its freshly captured prey. Mason looked down with sharp blue eyes at the man on the table, while filling a syringe with a dark reddish fluid from a small bottle in his other hand. A microphone hung from a wire a few feet above the man on the table. Mason spoke into it as his two assistants attached electrodes to the subject.

  "This is Professor Gabriel Mason," Mason began, as he filled the syringe. "The date is October 28th 2015. Time is…" He looked briefly at the digital clock display on one of the walls. "…2:15 a.m. This is Regeneration Experiment No. 117. The subject is a male of unknown age, probably in early forties. Body severely emaciated, swelling present in the ankles and abdomen as one would expect from long term alcohol abuse. Verified that patient is suffering from the onset of Cirrhosis of the liver and possibly also stomach cancer."

  The terrified man on the table stared up at Mason with bulging eyes, perhaps thinking he was in the grip of the delirium tremors. Mason smiled coldly down at the man. "Don't worry," he said, with no hint of reassurance in his voice whatsoever. "If this works, you'll be a whole new man. If it doesn't, well at least you'll be out of your misery. Won't that be good?"

  The terrified homeless man tried to scream something through his gag, but it just came out as incomprehensible mumbling.

  Mason ignored him and looked at his two assistants instead. "Glasses on," he told them, as he slipped on a pair of plastic goggles. "You know what happened last time."

  The two assistants, a young man and a woman with curiously blank looks in their eyes, put their goggles on as they were instructed.

  Mason held up the syringe and pushed on the plunger. A stream of the red liquid erupted from the long, thick needle. Satisfied, he said, "And here we go. Hold him still, please."

  The two assistants did their best to keep the man still, one holding his legs, the other his arms as Mason leaned down and inserted the thick needle into the man's scrawny neck. The professor made eye contact with the man as he pressed down on the plunger, injecting every drop of the liquid into the man's blood stream. When he had finished he stood up straight and put the syringe on a steel trolley next to him.

  Then they all waited in tense silence.

  Except the man on the table that is, whose chest began to rise and fall rapidly as the liquid from the syringe raced around his veins and began to take effect. After a moment, the man, clearly in pain, began to convulse, and his body strained against the leather straps holding him down, every vein in his body bulging through his skin like they were about to explode. Even the man's eyeballs bulged, looking like two misshapen squash balls .

  Mason watched intently as the formula he had created began to take effect. It was touch and go at this stage. If he got the formula right this time, the man would eventually settle down and stop convulsing. Otherwise, the inevitable would happen.

  The professor glanced at the clock on the wall. Two minutes since the injection.

  The subject's skin went from white to a reddish purple colour all over. His eyes bulged out even further in their sockets.

  Come on. Work, damn you!

  "Vitals are crashing," the female assistant said.

  Mason ignored her as he continued to look down at his experiment.

  Then there was a loud cracking sound, the result of the subject straining so hard against the leather straps, he broke the bones in his arms, as well as several ribs.

  "Professor, he's not going to last!" the male assistant said.

  Mason sighed and shook his head as he took a step back away from the table.

  A second later, the subject's eyeballs exploded, spraying blood and gelatinous tissue everywhere. Then his body stopped convulsing, and he died as quickly as if someone had put a bullet in his head. The two assistants stood looking at the Professor as the monotone of the EKG machine filled the silence in the room.

  Mason sighed again and took of his goggles and surgical mask. Then he took his gown off to reveal the dark three piece suit and bow tie he wore underneath, looking more like an undertaker now than a scientist. He stepped forward and spoke into the microphone. "Experiment 117 ended in failure," he said, before looking at his assistants. "Clean this mess up. Incinerate the body."

  The professor turned and walked to the electronic door of the lab. He pressed a button and the door whooshed open. He stepped out of the lab and into a long corridor that had rooms on either side, with large windows in them. He walked down the middle of the corridor, looking through the windows into each of the rooms as he went. Each room held a test subject. A human subject. Most were children, although a few were approaching their twenties. Many of the subjects lay naked in the small unfurnished rooms, most of them drugged, some of them in various stages of starvation.

  Mason stopped by one of the rooms and looked through the window. In the centre of the room was a young boy who lay naked on the floor. Standing next to the boy was one of the professor's female assistants, dressed in a white lab coat and wearing surgical gloves. Mason watched as the assistant picked up a handful of excrement from the many mounds on the stinking floor. She then made the boy take the excrement of her, and forced him to eat it with his own hands. The boy ate the filth with a curiously blank look on his face, and then vomited over the floor a moment later. The assistant unleashed a torrent of vile verbal abuse on the boy, who cowered away from her, sliding around in his own filth.

  Mason nodded in approval as he watched. The boy would soon be ready for full programming, once his mind was shattered, and his core personality was fractured and pushed to unreachable corners of his mind. After that, the boy would be programmed to be whatever Mason's paying clients wanted the boy to be. Most often it was a sex slave. Sometimes an assassin. Sometimes a spy of some kind. Mason didn't really care how they ended up, as long the clients paid for them.

  He turned and walked back to the end of the corridor, where he entered a lift and pressed the button for the top floor. A few moments later, he stepped out of the lift and into a large spacious room that was filled with antique furniture and priceless works of art on the walls, many of the paintings not having been seen since before the Second World War.

  Mason walked across the plush pile carpet to a 17th Century oak drinks cabinet and poured himself a glass of whiskey that was brewed over a hundred years ago. Then he went and sat down on a large, dark green leather sofa that had once sat in the home of the Fuhrer himself, Adolf Hitler. Mason sipped at his whiskey, savouring the taste as he sat and looked out the massive window to his right. He had a view that looked out over the front grounds of the estate, at the road cutting through the landscaped gardens that led to the front gate. He could also see the black mass of the forest beyond, the stars shining above it, the moon partly cloaked in clouds.

  As he stared out the window, Mason thought about Blutwolf, the man once known as Declan Edger, until Mason had given him his new name. Blutwolf had been Mason's own private assassin and fixer. Loyal and obedient to a fault thanks to the professor's expert programming, until that is, something happened. Mason still wasn't sure why Blutwolf had gone off the reservation, or why his programming had suddenly failed. Whatever happened, Blutwolf created a mess afterwards. Now the man's brother was on the warpath, no doubt gunning for Mason himself as part of some misguided revenge trip. The brother was dangerous, having already killed the three men that Mason sent to take care of him. Normally, he wouldn't care so much, but there was a ritual taking place tomorrow night. Red Falcon members from all over the country would be in attendance. Mason didn't want the embarrassment of some ex-Legionnaire with a grudge causing problems. Hopefully, Rankin would take care of things before that happened.

  Mason stood, and walked to the massive fireplace in the room, enjoying the heat that warmed his ageing bones. Above the fireplace was a huge portrait of a man that looked not unlike the professor himself, with the same gaunt face a
nd round glasses over small but keen blue eyes that looked like they never missed a trick. The man in the oil painting was in his late forties. He also wore a black Nazi SS uniform. A gold plate on the wooden frame of the portrait read: Heinrich Gurganstunph.

  Mason's father.

  Mason raised his glass to the portrait. "Your work will not be in vain, Father," he said. "I will make you proud. I promise you that."

  CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

  The property belonging to Gemma McGuire's parents was located just off the main Belcoo to Garrison Road in County Fermanagh. It was a four bedroom bungalow that sat on an acre of ground overlooking Lough McNean. It was 7:25 a.m. and Gemma was sitting on a beige fabric sofa in the large conservatory attached to the side of bungalow. She nursed a hot cup of coffee in her hand as she stared out the window, past the grounds at the front of the house, and the main road, to the stunning view of the Lough and the brown and green coloured hills that overlooked it. It was windy outside, and the water on the Lough was choppy, making Gemma glad she was cuddled up inside with the heating on.

  Gemma's parents had left for London the night before. Her father, owner of a large publishing house, had meetings there over the next few days, which meant Gemma had the house to herself. Almost anyway. Kaitlin was still sleeping in one of the bedrooms. She hadn't done much else since they arrived at the bungalow the day before. Then there was Nigel and Kieran, the two men John Rankin had sent with Gemma to guard against any possible attacks. Not that Gemma or the two bodyguards even knew who they were supposed to be guarding against. Some organisation Harry's brother was involved with. That's all Gemma knew. She just hoped Harry would take care of the situation before anyone else got hurt.

  Like Kaitlin.

  Gemma's daughter had hardly said a word since she left the hospital yesterday. The poor child was in so much pain thanks to the damage done to both her hands, plus the sprained ankle and concussion. The hospital wasn't happy when Gemma said she was signing her daughter out, but she did it for Kaitlin's own protection, as well as her own. Gemma felt she would be safer at her parents place than in some depressing hospital. She was also hoping that a more relaxed environment would enable Kaitlin to talk about what happened to her after she was kidnapped. Not that Gemma was holding her breath on that one. Her daughter was clearly traumatised by the whole experience. Gemma feared she might have to put Kaitlin into counselling soon to help her get over her experience.