Keeping with Killers (The Salingers Book 1) (8 page)

'Seems we're looking for different things. I want something that will tell us where your old man has gone. Looks like you just want to get some feely emotional memories from when you lived here.' He grimaced. 'You know, I was stood right here when I first met you. You were a scrawny little thing, but there's no denying you were bright. Your dad introduced me as the gardener. I stood right here and shook your hand. You took it and said–'

'That's an expensive-looking watch for a gardener.' Blake laughed. 'That was you?' He couldn't help but smile, brush his hair back and keep looking down. 'I must have been… hmm. No older than seven.'

'Sure were observant,' Greg said. 'Kid, why don't you put that observation to good use, and look around the fucking house?' His smile vanished immediately, revealing that the past moments of humour had been a mere act. And then he wandered off into the nearest room.

Blake knew it as the kitchen and had no desire to be in there–they had already eaten at Frank's place before they left that morning. Instead, he ascended the stairs, one small step at a time. The amount of times he had fallen down here were beyond count. But those were back in the days. Back when he was naive enough to take the world at face value.

At the top of the stairs he faced an L-shaped corridor, one which led to a bathroom and the gaming rooms, gym and so on. The other end was the bedrooms, which he mostly associated with reading and playing on the rug, which later evolved into studying and
cleaning
the rug.
Funny how times change,
he thought, heading towards the bedroom. He felt like a ghost, a visitor in someone else's history. He had been away for so long that the property felt alien to him.

As he approached the door, not pausing to wonder what Greg had found, he slowly pushed it open, the long creak revealing his memories one by one. It took a few moments for the shock to register.

He had expected a converted room, perhaps a second gym or another games room. Hell, a study wouldn't have been a bad idea and, in the very least, his window might have been doubled-glazed since he had left. But no. What he was looking at was a room that was
exactly
as he had left it. Blake stepped inside, feeling as though he was walking through a time portal. To his right, his old computer that may or may not still work. His bed was still made up the way he liked to do it. So many memories dwelled here; his first kiss with Rachel in their teen years, the time he broke his leg and read through every single one of his books.
Oh, the books.
He turned to see his perfectly neat shelf with every piece of literature still lined up in alphabetical order. The only thing that had changed was that every surface was coated in dust. But an upkeep is a lot to ask after having his memories preserved. Blake hadn't known that his father still cared that much. Could it make sense that he would keep this room in its original state and still flee from his life without so much as a goodbye?

Sure it could. Blake wanted to believe it.

His heart throbbing, he sat down on the bed. A fine cloud of dust rose with a puff and then slowly settled. He looked around the room at his AC/DC poster, and below that, his old study desk. It amused him that those two items had belonged to the same kid.

Blake stood and crept over to the window, ready to reacquaint himself with the view. From there he could see the motorway, though it was a long way in the distance and divided by fields and trees. The hill they had laid on was to the left. Blake's eyes landed on the gravel where the car had been and followed up towards the distance.

The sudden glimmer of sun stung his eyes.

He winced.

What was that?

He looked again. His heart ran wild and his legs began to tremble. The familiar silver Audi was coming back, drawing closer to the house.

'Greg!' he called, running out of the room and onto the stairs. 'She's coming back!' He went from room to room, pushing the doors open. He had no time to savour the memories that lay behind each one. If Marcy caught him in her house, there was no telling what she would do with that information. Blake headed downstairs, taking two steps at a time. He burst into the kitchen without slowing down, but Greg was nowhere to be seen.

He felt the sweat begin to brew at his brow, and he suddenly felt weak with nervousness. Blake had barely had time to check the rest of the rooms, when he heard the front door open. Footsteps echoed through the hallway. The front door slammed shut only seconds after, and for one moment, the house was in utter silence. The footsteps started up again. They came closer, louder. Blake realised that his fingernails were digging into his palms. The kitchen door handle turned, the door began to open. A hot wave flushed over him.

How could he talk his way out of this one? The short answer: he couldn't.

The door was halfway open. He could see the edge of a hand pushing it from the side, but then it stopped. Blake held his breath, though he didn't know he was doing it. The door held for seconds, and then, after hearing Marcy tut under her breath, it closed and the footsteps rang back across the hall.

That was too bloody close!

He wanted to turn around and high-five Greg, but he wasn't there. He still had no idea where the man was. What if Marcy found him in another room? He knew he should probably stay put, but if Marcy came back then he was screwed. Besides, he had to find Greg–that man would know exactly what to do.

His hands were shaking as he stepped forward and pressed his ear against the door. There was nothing but silence. He turned the handle and pulled the door open slowly, its creak high-pitched. He had to be careful -
very
careful - but he also had to be quick. Knowing he had not yet checked there, he crept across the hall and dove straight into the reading room. There were memories here, too, but mostly memories of being shuffled out by a father who was too irritated at the fact that he had been disturbed.

The shelves were twice as tall as he was, and even higher than the last time he had seen them. Blake closed the door behind him and took a quick peek between the two aisles of bookshelves, thinking that he would slip his shoes off and get sucked into a book if he had more time on his hands.

'Greg?' he called in a loud whisper.

Nobody replied though, so Blake moved back to the door, opened it, and crept across the hall in time with the grandfather clock's tick-tock-tick. The floor made squeaking sounds on the soles of his shoes, making him wince each time. He was just at the door of the dining room when it suddenly opened. Blake froze, grinded his teeth and prepared to kiss goodbye to life as he knew it.

But then Greg stepped out of the room.

'We need to go back…' Blake began, but then he took a closer look at the man. 'In–why is there blood on your sleeves?' He didn't know for sure if it was blood, but when it came to this man, it was the first thing he associated with him.

'Let it go, kid,' he said, pushing the heel of his hand out to keep him away.

Something didn't seem right. The blood was one thing, but Greg had an air about him which suggested extreme measures of guilt.

'Let me in.'

'I said no.' His hand came out to stop him.

Blake had had enough. No longer considering the noise he was making, he tried to push past. Greg grabbed him by the arm, twisted it until Blake's body contorted and left him hanging just above the cold marble floor. 'I said
let go!
' Feeling the grip loosen, he broke free of the arm lock and pushed open the door before he was even fully on his feet.

As soon as he entered, all the red caught his eye. The floor looked like a painting, swirling pools of blood brushed in thick strokes across the canvass.
What have you done?
He took slow, unsteady steps around the dining table until the body came into view.

Blake felt sick. He had never seen a dead body before, and he didn't expect it would ever have to be the woman who had stolen his father's heart. His knees gave way and hit the floor with a bone-crunching
clunk
, and his hands went straight to his head.
No,
he thought as the tears began to well.

No, no, no!

Chapter 11

'Get the fuck away from me!' Blake screamed at him, knelt by Marcy's unmoving body. He didn't know where to put his hands. When he put them softly on her chest, sticky red blood covered them. He felt ill, dizzy.

'Kid, I didn't have a choice.'

Blake had his back to the man, but immediately shifted away from the discomfort, landing on his arse with Greg to the side. 'You had… no right. No reason…' He stared at the floor. He couldn't look at her and he sure as hell couldn't direct his gaze towards Greg. There was a fire in his blood, and looking at his stepmother's murderer would only add fuel to it.

Even though she had set him up for a murder that he hadn't committed, even though his current situation was all her fault, he couldn't see how she had deserved this. When he looked at her, all he saw was the always-cheery face that had cared for him in the past.

Greg inched closer, pulled the cigarette pack from his breast pocket and fingered through it. He must have realised the pack was empty so he crushed it in one hand and tossed it across the room. 'Fucking hell.' He placed his hands on his hips, took a deep breath and looked down at Blake. 'I had to do it. She would have called the police.'

His vision was a blurry cloud through thick tears. 'So? We could have talked to her. I could have talked her onto our side. She would… she would have understood.'

The silver-haired man laughed. 'Not a chance. You're aware that this woman is the reason you were in the police station to begin with, right? If it weren't for her you would probably still be at work sniffing after that Robin lass.'

'It's
Rachel!
' he said through gritted teeth.

'Whatever.' He huffed. 'Look, let's get this all cleaned up in case anybody comes by here. You'll be surprised how normal this feels when it doesn't
look
so messy. It might even put some hairs on your chest.'

This man was now a totally different person to Blake. He had always considered him dangerous, but for some reason it had felt more protective than aggressive. His true colours were coming to light–that is, if these really were his colours. One could never trust a spy.

'Come on,' Greg pressed, lowering his tone. 'Let's tuck her up somewhere quiet and then we can get what we came for and get the hell out of here.'

It was hard for Blake to recount why they had come here in the first place. He knew it was for the sake of a clue as to where his father was, but if he knew Marcy's life was the price then he wouldn't have wanted to pay it. For all he knew, Greg was lying about her involvement in the entire police fiasco. But what choice did he have but to trust this man? Without him, he would be on his way to jail, or worse. 'There's… there's room in the basement.' He told him. He would have to cooperate. For now.

'I didn't even know there
was
a basement.'

Blake clambered to his feet, dusting off his knees and swiping at his eyes with his sleeves. 'You're not supposed to. It was Dad's retreat. I'll show you.' He slipped out of the room, his breathing heavy. Out in the hallway, under the stairs, he pushed a dark, varnished wooden panel in the wall, which popped open to reveal a simple bolt lock.

'How long has it been here?' asked Greg, his voice getting louder as he caught up.

Blake pulled the lock to the side and a regular-sized doorway opened up, revealing the first few metal steps into darkness. 'Only the family knew about it. He suffered from depression and liked to come down here for a break from society. This would be his hiding place where he could collect his thoughts until he was ready to–what?'

Greg was smirking at him. 'The basement is news to me, but I knew about the depression excuse. It was the lie he was most ashamed of.'

Fucking hell!
The more this man spoke, the more Val Salinger became a stranger. Everybody has secrets - he understood that - but was
anything
about his heritage true?

'Forget it. Follow me.' Blake descended the stairs, yanking on a light cord which lit up the steps like an underground base. Blake had never been any farther than halfway down, and still felt as though he was breaking a rule.

When his foot came off the bottom step and hit the concrete floor, he looked around in amazement. The well-lit room was almost as large as the entire house. All along one wall was a work bench, which held stacks of boxes similar to the one he had found in his father's trunk. He approached cautiously, hearing Greg stepping in behind him.

'I'm guessing Daddy kept his secrets bottled up in here.'

Blake ignored him, trying to take everything in. It was as if a handful of items from every imaginable scene had been thrown in here. A dirt bike sat in one corner, stripped as if somebody had been maintaining it and then given up at the drop of a hat. Along the far wall, metal shutters encased something; something that Blake could only assume to be a stash of weapons. Right now, he would rather not find out. 'It's like… a work station.' He turned to Greg. 'And you had no idea about any of this?'

'I figured he had
somewhere
to shut off and focus on his works. Every agent has a kind of retreat or safe house. Hell, I have sixteen of them.' He held a power tool of some sort up to the light, examined it with a look of bewilderment and then dropped it back onto its metal tray. 'He was quite the engineer, you know. Knew how to take something ordinary and make it… well, extraordinary.'

Blake thought back to his youth, trying to pair up his father's personality with the man that he was learning about in this secret basement. Had he ever been a tinkerer, of sorts? Blake had always been able to carry his technology over and ask for his help, and sure enough, it would come back within a couple of hours working better than it ever had. Even his first car had seemed far more powerful than it ever should have done; he had almost crashed it into the bush on its maiden voyage, a memory he would never forget.