Dragged into Darkness (10 page)

“Or,” Mack prompted.

“A clone.”
  Kempton replaced the hand in the drawer.

“Shit,” Mack hissed.

“I know what I’m saying is bizarre.”

“No kidding.”  Mack turned to
Harker
.  “This isn’t me.  I’m not into all the science stuff.  My work was totally unrelated.”

“But you’re involved,”
Harker
responded.

Mack sighed.

“Somebody is trying to tell you something.”

“What, though?”

The three men stood in silence, gazing at the body parts.

Mack broke the silence.  “Okay, this must have something to do with me since I’m being sent these things.  So, to help me understand, what else is there?”

“Not much.” Kempton concluded.

“Fingerprints?”

“They don’t match any records of any kind,”
Harker
said.

“So, this Joe is new to us.  Do we know an age?”

“I would estimate thirty to thirty-five.”

“I’ve been retired ten years, which means he would have been young, maybe too young for our paths to have crossed.  Again, it points to us having never met.”

“But you must have a connection,”
Harker
added.

“Certainly.
  What about the amputations?  They look neat.  Did a doctor do it?”

“Yes,” Kempton said, but immediately retracted his answer.  “No.  At first glance everything looks that way, but on closer inspection…the way the bone is cut and the tissue…”

“Spit it out, doc,” Mack said.

“It doesn’t look like the hands and feet were severed.”

“What?”
Harker
blurted.  “That’s not what you said earlier.”

“I know.  I wasn’t sure before.  I’m still not.   But, it’s hard to say.  I don’t see tissue tearing left by a scalpel and I don’t see the damage left by a surgical saw.”

“So, what do you see?” Mack asked.

“Nothing.”

“Nothing?”

“There’s no evidence to say an amputation took place.  It’s as if the limbs were grown that way.”

“This doesn’t get any better,”
Harker
concluded.

“Are there any other tests you can do to shed some light?” Mack asked.

“I want to do some more blood work.  I wasn’t happy with it last time.  And, I can double check myself.  This has been a rush job.”

“Okay, you do that,”
Harker
said.

Harker
nodded to Mack and they left a confused Kempton to his work.  He escorted Mack out of the morgue and into the corridor. 
Harker
leaned against the wall.

“What do you think?” he asked.

“Has Kempton been drinking the formaldehyde?”

Harker
wasn’t amused.  “Jack received a hand this afternoon.  It’s on its way down now.”

Mack sighed and slumped against the wall opposite
Harker
.  He wasn’t surprised. 
“The right one?”

“Yes,”
Harker
replied.  “Have you received anything other than the hand and foot?”

Mack shook his head.  “I’ve been expecting something other than the packages.  Has Jack?”

“No.”

“I don’t get it.  They’ve got our attention, so why hasn’t someone made contact?”

“Don’t know.  But the interesting question is who
is someone
? 
Communist hardliners?
 
KGB?”

“I thought they didn’t exist anymore.”

Harker
snorted and raised an eyebrow.

Mack smirked.  “Sorry.”

“They’ve chosen to pick on the old guys and not MI6 directly, why?  What’s so special about you and Jack?”

“I did think of something that Jack and I do have in common.  We were both spy masters.”

“That’s right.  You were East Germany.  Jack was Moscow.”

“And…” Mack prompted. 

Harker
shrugged.

“Think.”

The penny dropped.  “Yes, of course.  Jerry Manning was
Czecho
.  Dieter
Ensman
was Yugoslavia.  And Marcus Gale was Hungary.  You five controlled our interests behind the Iron Curtain.”

“Have you heard anything from the other three?”

“Cancer got Dieter three years ago.  The bugger could never stop smoking. 
But not a thing from Jerry or Marcus.”

“Worth checking out then?”

“Yes, I’ll get you their addresses and you can let me know.”

“Me! 
Why, me?”

“Call it payback for scaring the shit out of my courier.”

***

Mack tried the numbers
Harker
gave him with no success.  Neither man answered his phone.  He didn’t want to risk leaving a message, so that meant a road trip.  The Beretta came too.

He hit the roads before first post, missing an encounter with another package.  He wasn’t heartbroken about it.  It wasn’t like the contents would be a surprise.  It would be a body part—he just didn’t know which one.  The surprise could wait. 

Mack picked Jerry Manning to see first.  He was closest.  Bournemouth was only two hours away, whereas Marcus Gale was somewhere in the depths of Cheshire.

Mack reached the seaside town before midday.  He never fancied life in one of England’s designated retirement towns.  He thought of it as surrender.  Living there was saying he had written himself off and that he was finished with life.  Although he had bitched at
Harker
for making him do MI6’s legwork, he was pleased to be doing something constructive with his life again.

Thinking of Jerry, he chuckled.  He imagined him in a bingo hall with a bunch of blue rinses, ex-bank managers and retired schoolteachers.  After spending twenty years of subverting communist plots, he couldn’t imagine one of Britain’s best espionage agents excitedly screaming “House!”  All Mack knew—it wasn’t for him.

Mack found Jerry’s house off the coast road, overlooking the
Solent
.   On a clear day, the Isle of Wight would have been visible.  But today, grey sea met grey sky and cruel waves clawed at the beach.   It wasn’t pretty but was no less dramatic than blue skies and sunshine. 

Walking up to Jerry’s door, Mack frowned.  Four milk bottles and two packages sat on the doorstep.  One of the packages he recognized.  A hand or a foot, he guessed, but the second was neither.  It was far too big, a leg at first glance.  Mack knew a similar package would be waiting for him when he got home.

But the parcels didn’t bother him.  He was expecting them.  The milk he wasn’t.  Jerry, like him, lived alone.  Service of one’s country didn’t make for a happy marriage.  And Mack didn’t think Jerry was drinking four pints of milk a day.  He rang the doorbell.

No reply.

“Hi, Jerry.
  It’s Mack,” he said loudly.  “Come round the back?  Right you are, mate.”

Mack slipped through a side gate that led into a seafront garden.  He pulled out his Berretta.  Climbing roses smothered a trellis, providing superb privacy for the French doors.  Putting the gun away, he picked the lock and let himself in.

Mack found Jerry’s markers protecting the house against intrusion.  Some habits
died
hard.  Then he found Jerry.  He was in the kitchen with an open parcel in front of him.  Mack knew it was the first parcel.  A left foot was poking out.  That meant Jerry had been dead two days.  There was no rigor mortis.  His corpse was room temperature and beginning to smell.  From the anguish carved into his face, Mack thought heart attack.  The scenario wasn’t hard to guess.

Mack took in the milk and remaining packages.  He checked for nosey neighbors.  Houses lined one side of the street only.  No one lived opposite.  Chances of his arrival raising too many suspicions were slim.  Good, he thought.

He placed the packages on the kitchen table with the one Jerry had already opened and opened the rest.  He was right.  The packages contained the left foot, right hand and left leg.

Mack delved for his mobile phone and rang
Harker
to give him the news.  He got
Harker’s
voicemail.  “Ben, Jerry’s dead.  Heart attack when he opened the first parcel.  I’m driving straight to Marcus’.  I’ll leave the front door unlocked for your cleaners.  He’s got three packages.  A leg arrived with this morning’s post.  A pound to a penny, I’ve got one too.  I’ll talk to you later.” 

There was nothing more he could do here.  He left Jerry propped in his chair, the packages in front of him.  He would be taken care of eventually.  He was amazed at his detachment.  How quickly the old habits came back.  He was what he was.  He closed the front door and drove north.

***

Mack was experiencing an annoying case of déjà vu.  Marcus wasn’t answering the door.  The only difference, no milk or packages were present. 

“C’mon, Marcus,” he muttered.

“Are you looking for the Gales?” 

A neighbor crossed the road towards him.  Unlike Jerry, Marcus’ home was situated in the middle of suburbia.  Houses came left and right and in front and behind.  It was impossible not to be seen, especially at six in the evening when the working world was arriving home.

“Yeah, I was hoping to find Joan and Marcus.”

The woman of early middle age with large hips leaned on the gate.  “You’ll have a hard time, love.”

“Why?”

“They’re on holiday. 
South of France.
 
Very nice for some.”
  She smirked. 
“Tenerife for us in June.”

“Do you know when they’ll
coming
back?”

“Who’s asking?”  An element of steel flecked the neighbor’s question.

“Terry Mack.  I used to work with Marcus.  I was visiting family in Chester and thought I’d pay a surprise visit.”

“Didn’t think you were a Jehovah’s Witness.”

Mack chuckled.  “Is that a compliment?”

“It is where I come from.  They’re not back for another week or so.”

“That’s a shame.”  Mack frowned in mock disappointment.  “What are they doing about packages?”

“What packages?  You send ‘
em
something?”

“Not me.  I was just thinking with crime the way it is.  Unclaimed packages, deliveries, you know.  It’s an invitation these days.”

“You sound like the police.”

Mack smiled wryly, shaking his head, like it was obvious and she should have known. 
“No, not plod, just a victim of my own stupidity.”

The woman nodded.  “Well, they learnt from your mistake.  I’m taking in all their deliveries.  Funny enough, they’ve been receiving a box every day for the last few.”