Blood and Ashes (5 page)

‘Want to tell me?’ There was little conviction in her offer. ‘A problem shared . . .’

Isn’t always a problem halved. In fact, if I told her what was on my mind it would only cause more concern for the young woman. It was enough that she was grieving the loss of her sister, without worrying about what my actions might bring.

‘It’s nothing I can’t deal with,’ I said with equal lack of conviction.

When I’d been demobilised from the Special Forces I’d been recalled to the secret base on the north-western Scottish coastline: Arrowsake – a code name derived from a mispronunciation of Arisaig, the fabled home of the Special Operations Executive, the forerunner of the modern MI5. There I’d undergone debriefing and what I’d come to understand as
debugging
. It was necessary that the military shrinks did their best to reintegrate me into society without any of the baggage associated with killing men for over fourteen years. The last thing the military wanted was to let me loose unhinged and with the capacity for ongoing slaughter. I suspected that they’d only partially succeeded.

Proof of that theory was my overreaction to the threat posed by the two men in the Seven-Eleven parking lot. I possessed the skills to disarm both and to put them to sleep for a short spell while making myself scarce. But the old reactions had kicked in unchecked and I’d dealt with the men in the same way as when hunting terrorists and enemy soldiers.

Now in the cold afterwash of battle there was no excuse for my actions. I could lie; argue that I was merely defending my life; that if I hadn’t acted that way then it would have been me who was dumped out in the forest for the wildlife to feed upon.

The truth of the matter was that I hadn’t been fearful of the men. In fact it was the exact opposite: I’d relished the confrontation. For three months now I’d been healing from my previous encounter with a genuine challenge. Luke Rickard – a professional contract killer – had almost ended my life. He’d shot me, stabbed me in the leg, pulled me off the roof of a building in his last moments. I’d been broken and bleeding to death; the medics had fought to save my life. Surgical intervention had saved my physical being, but what of my mental state?

Doubt had set in. I was lame and my hand wasn’t in full working order. What good was I to anyone in that frail condition?

Thinking on it now, it wasn’t disbelief of Don’s story, or even the old enmity that the two of us shared, that urged me turn the car round and flee back to Florida. It was the self-doubt; that I’d be unable to do anything to help. Subconsciously I’d killed those two mugs to prove something to myself. But at what price? Had it made a murderer of me? A bully? The very thing that I’d always despised?

I studied Millie, and decided. No. At the back of my mind I’d seen the men as a threat to her, and to her sister’s children.

‘Do you want more coffee?’

Millie reached out for the mug that I’d drained. I hadn’t been conscious of finishing it, or that I now held the empty mug to my lips. I handed it over. ‘I’d appreciate it.’

‘Breakfast? I could cook something for you.’

‘Coffee will be fine.’

‘You should eat.’

I should, I might need the strength. But I wasn’t sure that I could hold anything down for long. ‘Just coffee . . . please.’

Millie swung round, heading out the room.

‘Millie.’

She turned back. Her mouth was pinched and there were two red spots on her cheeks. I said, ‘I’m sorry I didn’t come when your father first asked. I truly am.’

‘I’ll get your coffee.’

Following her to the kitchen would serve no purpose. Millie’s offer to cook breakfast was her way of breaking down the barrier her sister’s death had placed between us. By my refusal I’d done nothing to help the matter. Going in there would only make things more awkward. When she came back with the second coffee there would be an opportunity to try again.

Turning back to the window, I peered across the green towards the main road into town. There was movement now, people finally bracing themselves against the elements to get on with their lives. Kids were hanging out by the green, waiting to be picked up for school. On my walk through town last night I’d noticed a school house, but it must cater only for the younger children. These older ones were probably bussed to a high school in the larger neighbouring town of Hertford. The college-age kids maybe only returned to town during holidays, if they returned at all. There didn’t seem much here to hold them; other than the family businesses and occasional chain store I hadn’t noted much else in the way of industry.

Kids were pretty much the same wherever I travelled. Fashions in clothing and hairstyles, the colour of their skin, might be different, but the group fooling around as they waited for the school bus could have been standing on any street corner in the western world. Pennsylvanian kids weren’t so different from those I’d been familiar with back home in the UK.

The two standing by the wishing well were different though.

Not only in appearance but by the intensity with which they stared back at me through the window.

It was a boy who, when I studied his smooth features and gangly frame, didn’t look like he’d made twenty years old yet. He was wearing jeans and boots and a black leather jacket emblazoned with patches and flags. He’d an archaic quiff hairstyle, greased and coiffed to Elvis perfection. The girl with him looked older. She had a retro look about her too. But she was more punk rocker than greaser. She had on a tartan mini that was strategically frayed around the hem, over bright yellow stockings and pink shoes. A white T-shirt daubed with splashes of colour was only partially hidden by the leather jacket she’d decorated with studs and chains. Another thin chain looped from her right nostril to her right earlobe, and her platinum hair was spiked high and then tipped with pink.

I stepped closer to the window, meeting their gaze. The boy and girl shared a glance. The girl said something and the boy sneered at me before they turned and walked unhurriedly across the green.

They look dangerous. Go after them, Hunter. Why not kill them as well?

I sighed and turned back to the room, putting the kids out of my mind. Don was walking in ahead of Millie and he was clutching a steaming mug similar to the two she carried. He also had the police file he’d shown me earlier tucked under his elbow.

‘I thought you might want to take a look at this again.’ As Don sat down he snapped the file against his thigh.

Taking the proffered mug from Millie, I said, ‘I don’t need to, Don.’ What I really meant was, ‘I don’t
want
to.’ ‘I’d rather see your grandchildren. And there’s something I want to show you on the way . . .’

Don caught the tone of delivery and had a good idea what the something was. ‘I don’t want to leave Millie here alone.’

‘She can come with us,’ I said. ‘She can wait with the kids while we—’

Millie held up a hand. ‘Hold on. Don’t I have a say in this?’

Don and I shared a glance.

‘I’m not a baby,’ she said. ‘I can look after myself. And I can certainly make up my own mind when it comes to where I’m going to wait.
She
’s going to wait right here.’ She looked pointedly at me for my choice of words.

‘It may not be safe here,’ Don said.

‘Dad!’

‘I mean it, Millie.’

‘What’s going to happen here? Who’s going to do something in
this
town?’

Once again we shared a glance. More could happen here than she could ever suspect, and we both knew it. Finally, I nodded. ‘You’re right, Millie. Nothing’s going to happen to you.’ I looked at Don. ‘Leave the key for her, though.’

Don frowned, but then dug in his back pocket for the key to the drawer where he’d left the gun this morning. He placed it on the arm of his chair. ‘It’s just a precaution. You remember how to use it, don’t you, Millie?’

‘Your gun? Yes . . . but . . .’

‘It’s just a precaution,’ I echoed. ‘You won’t need it, but it’s there just in case.’

‘Just in case I get frightened, you mean?’ Millie shook her head and turned to walk out of the room without picking up the key. Before she reached the door, the old tomcat graced us with his presence. He swanked into the room, his tail held high. Millie crouched, opening her arms, and the cat immediately sprang up to be cuddled. She turned back to us, holding the cat. It stared at us without blinking. So did Millie. ‘See. I’m not here all alone.
We’ll
be fine while you’re gone.’

We could only acquiesce. Don grabbed a jacket and a spare for me. I shrugged into the winter coat as Don gave his daughter a warning eye. ‘Just keep everything locked and don’t answer the door to any strangers.’

Millie walked away stiffly, the cat looking back over her shoulder at us. ‘Like we see many strangers around here?’

Chapter 6

From seats in the window of Benson’s Drugstore Vince Everett and Sonya Madden watched the two men drive away in the dark-coloured Audi.

Sonya was slurping on a milkshake. She batted her mascara-laden eyelashes at the young man next to her.

‘We gonna follow them, Vince?’

With a fingertip stained by nicotine he teased a drip of milkshake that trembled on her lip. ‘No, we just stay cool.’

Sonya looked over her shoulder. The motion appeared languid but was practised. At the counter, the old man – a third-generation Benson – paid them no more attention than he did any other kid in the place. Sonya leaned towards Vince. ‘We were told to keep an eye on them.’

‘They’ll spot a tail too easy.’

‘What if we lose them?’

‘They’ll come back. Now drink your shake and shut up, will ya? I’m trying to think.’

Sonya caught links of her nose chain with the tip of her tongue and pulled it into the corner of her mouth. ‘You’re thinking about the woman.’

Vince tilted his chin her way. His hair flopped on his forehead and he rolled his head to flick it back in place. ‘Only one woman I’m interested in, baby.’

Sonya let the chain pop loose as she concentrated on pouting. ‘So you say, but I know what’s on your mind. You’re looking forward to paying her a visit, ain’t ya?’

‘A man’s gotta do what a man’s gotta do. Doesn’t mean I have to take any pleasure from it.’

‘I want to come with you.’

‘No. You have to wait outside and keep watch.’

‘I want to watch
you
.’ Her eyes flared at the suggestion.

Vince touched her on the tip of her upturned nose. ‘Don’t worry, baby. When I do it, I’ll be thinking about you.’ He stood up, kicking back the chair with a heel of his silver-tipped boots. ‘Wait until I’m outta here, then go on over to the well. You see those guys come back, you ring me right away.’

‘Yeah, whatever.’ She slurped her milkshake again, managing her pout around the straw this time. ‘Knock yourself out, Vince.’

He stared down at her. Then he curled his lip and held her under his smouldering gaze. She smiled, but then she hunched her shoulders, ducking her head coyly like she couldn’t bear his sexy look any longer.

All an act. But he liked it.

He hitched up his jeans and then pimp-walked out of the store looking back over his shoulder.

Sonya watched him go. He saw her head come up and the innocence vanish from her features. They loved playing their little game, but now Sonya was all business. And so was he.

Vince Everett was a fake name, but that was all he’d allow. Everything else about him was the real deal. In the movie
Jailhouse Rock
Elvis Presley played the character of Vince Everett, the ex-con who became a big singing star. It didn’t matter that Vince couldn’t sing a note, or that his hip-swinging was more akin to someone taking a fit, there was something this Louisiana Cat possessed that the man whose name he’d assumed couldn’t claim. Elvis was famous for shooting at TV screens, but had he ever shot and killed a man?

Vince Everett had.

More than once.

He was also suspected of murdering a cop by beating him with the PR24 baton he’d taken off the cop’s belt. Vince had reputedly laughed for joy as the cop’s face went from stunned surprise to ground beef under the repeated whacks of the baton.

Unlike the Presley character, Everett had never been caught. He was no ex-con, and all being well things shouldn’t change.

School kids were clambering to get the best seats on a yellow bus as he walked across the green. From the misted windows a couple of older girls watched his progress. He swaggered for their benefit; but their laughter was too harsh to be appreciated. What did they know about sex on legs, anyway?

The bus puttered away, sending clouds of smoke out of its tailpipe. Vince kept walking. At the gate on to Don Griffiths’ property he paused. Back across the way he saw Sonya come out of the drugstore and walk towards the green. She was already clutching her cell phone, ready to warn him of the men’s return.

She was a good catch, that one.

He’d met her out East at one of them burlesque clubs in Greenwich Village. Not a dancer but a punter just like he was; someone who liked the archaic fashion and musical styles of bygone eras. It only took a glance and they both knew it: there was something else they shared. That night they’d danced and drunk and fucked, and things had been pretty much like that in the three months since. And twice already they’d shared their lust for violence. Sonya liked to watch him. Afterwards they’d screwed their brains out; high on the agony of the ones they had hurt.