The Killing Hour (11 page)

Landry presses his foot on the accelerator hoping the speed will make him feel better. Imagine crashing with Feldman in the back seat, and imagine Feldman getting killed. Yeah, that’d be nice. That’d be lovely. That’d be justice. The problem, though, is that he’d die too, and dying in the same car wreck as that sick bastard is so insulting that he eases his foot back off the pedal.

Landry grips the steering wheel until his knuckles turn white. He thinks about taking Feldman into the middle of nowhere and leaving him with nothing but a bullet rattling around the inside of his skull. It wouldn’t be murder, not really, not in the same sense of the word that Feldman is a murderer. It would be more like an exchange. A two for one bargain. He can’t save Kathy or Luciana, but he can save the next girl. That can’t be a bad thing. Not really. It can’t be a bad thing to live with.

Jesus. What a choice. What a responsibility.

Could he do it? Does he have it in him to do this city, this country, this world a favour by ending the life of a murderer? Does he have it in him to correct God’s mistake and delete this man from this world?

He isn’t sure.

19

My wrists are hurting. I try to make myself more comfortable but it’s impossible. Time starts slipping by. Just a casual drive through the city. But maybe we’re taking the long way because we don’t seem to be arriving anywhere. I recognise the streets but we just seem to be going around and around in circles, looping the edges of the city as if Detective Inspector Bill Landry of the Christchurch Police Department doesn’t know where he’s going. Or he’s stalling for time, trying to figure something out.

‘Why are we driving in circles?’ I ask, but he doesn’t answer. ‘Hey? Are we going somewhere or not?’

‘I haven’t decided.’

‘What does that mean?’

‘It means I haven’t decided.’

‘Decided on what?’

‘You have the right to remain silent. You ought to use your rights.’

I start to use them because the alternative is pissing him off. We begin another run around the city. We skirt the edges of town where property looks rough but is usually expensive because of its location. The loop starts to get wider. We begin hitting the outer edges of suburbs. Different economic diversities. Nice homes. Nice people. Bad homes. Bad people. We keep driving. We end up going west, right out of the city.

‘Where are we going?’

He doesn’t answer. The bright lights of the city start to dim the further we get.

‘Come on, Inspector. Where in the hell are we going?’

‘You have the right to remain silent.’

‘You said that already.’

‘Then I must really mean it.’

‘Are we going to a different police station?’

He doesn’t answer, just stares ahead.

‘Hey, are we going to a different police station?’ I repeat.

‘We’re skipping that part, Feldman.’

I pull at the handcuffs but the only thing I achieve is pain in my wrists. Surely nothing in this direction can possibly relate to this homicide investigation.

‘Skipping what part?’

‘We’re heading straight to trial.’

Away from the city trial has an ominous kind of sound to it that could see me hanging from a tree and swinging in the breeze. I keep looking out the window, trying to figure out where we’re going – as if it actually matters, as if the location is the relevant point here and not the fact that Landry is crazy. Twenty minutes pass silently. Just the hum of the motor and the slight clinking coming from my handcuffs as I change position. I can’t lean back because the pull on my wrists is too strong. My lower back starts to get sore. The first drops of rain splash lightly on the roof, slowly, at first, then in a constant thick patter. Landry turns on the wipers –
wubwud, wubwud
.

I wonder what was in that box.

Soon there isn’t much to see out the window. We’ve been driving for an hour now, and all I’m looking at are black hills. The only sound is the constant, cruising drone of the engine. We hit the hour fifteen mark. An hour thirty. I try making conversation, but Landry keeps telling me to shut up. Two hours and it’s just long straight roads and no car lights ahead or behind us. I close my eyes and ride it out in silence. It’s all I can do. Finally the tyres start bumping over a gravel road and we come to a skidding halt. Landry steps out, shifting the weight of the car so it bounces up slightly. He swings open a chain-link fence. I can hear its hinges squeak over the noise of the rain. They sound like a coffin lid being pried up. I have large red indentations around my wrists visible under the car’s interior light. As the skin swells the cuffs get tighter.

Landry comes back, water dripping from his jacket and ears. He throws me a curious glance before climbing into the car, looking at me as if I’m nothing but shit. He continues to drive, not bothering to stop and shut the gate. The gravel peters out as the surface becomes dirt. The back wheels spin occasionally as they fail to find traction in the mud. The driveway becomes bumpier and painful because every small bounce is amplified through my wrists. Soon we come to another stop. He kills the engine and the only sound is the rain. I peer out the window. Ahead of me are trees. To my left and right only darkness.

Landry climbs out. He leaves the interior light on, making it difficult for me to look outside as my reflection continually gets in the way. I stare at it as if it’s another person who can help me, but it’s only somebody else who’s letting me down. Landry disappears. I keep glancing at my watch as if time is suddenly my greatest ally. My arse is sore, my back is throbbing and my neck is stiff. My arms and legs are cramping, especially my shoulders. My headache is back.

I wonder how far from the Garden City we’ve come. Out here it’s just one huge garden. Miles of it. It’s as if God created too many trees for Eden and dumped the surplus.

Five minutes before Wednesday morning begins the boot opens. A jangle of keys, a few thuds and bangs, and then it’s slammed shut. Landry opens my door, leans in and undoes one set of handcuffs. They dangle from the handgrip. He throws the keys for the remaining cuffs at my feet.

‘Don’t waste my time, Feldman.’

He stands a few metres from the car. Rain pours around him but he doesn’t seem to care. He has the air of a man who knows not to bother trying to stay dry because he plans on spending more time getting wet. He’s watching me with the barrel of a shotgun.

The handcuffs are difficult to unlock. My hands are sore and my fingers are shaking. Rain is blowing into the car and I blink away what to Landry must look like tears. Finally I manage to get the key into the small slot, then both hands are free. I almost faint with relief.

Then the shotgun touches my cheek. The barrel is steel and as cold as ice. I stop dead. My blood drains into the balls of my feet.

‘Grab the cuff from the handgrip, Feldman, and put it back on.’

I take his advice. It’s hard undoing it but I get there. Then I wrap one bracelet around my wrist and do it up. Then the other.

‘Don’t hold back now, Feldman. Make sure they’re nice and tight.’

I look around as I tighten the cuffs. There’s no help here. I try not to grimace as the metal bites into the bones of my wrists.

‘Keys?’

The barrel is still touching my face as I flick the keys to the edge of the seat. Holding the weapon in one arm he lowers himself and, keeping his eyes on me, reaches for them. I watch them disappear into a pocket and only now do I realise he’s changed out of his cheap suit into jeans, a flannel shirt and a dark jacket. He’s wearing a cap that says
Kiss the Cook
. The rain hits the brim and rolls off the edges. His loafers have been replaced with hiking boots. He’s also wearing leather gloves.

‘Come on out and don’t try anything funny, Feldman. I don’t have the patience for any trouble.’

I slowly climb from the car. On legs shaking from near cramp, cold and terror, I stand and step forward. To my left I can hear a river.

‘Enjoying yourself?’ he asks.

‘Not as much as you.’

In a blistering movement I’m on the ground, my eyes swimming in their sockets, bright lights circling them. I manage to look up at Landry but struggle to focus on him. What I can see is the shotgun in his hand, the butt facing me, and through a mind drowning in red-hot pain I slowly understand the connection. I manage to stay on my knees for a few more seconds before spilling onto my side. My jaw is throbbing. I think I’ll lie here for ever. Before I get the chance he drags me to my feet and props me against the car. He slaps me around the face, hard, as though this is going to help me think straight.

‘Okay, Mr Smartmouth, neither of us wants that to happen again, and it won’t, as long as you co-operate and stop being such a smart prick.’

My eyes are struggling to focus and it feels like I’m trying to tune his words in from far away, but yeah, I get his point. He grabs a handful of my hair and shoves my head backwards.

‘
Do you understand?
’

My ears hurt and I slowly nod, not wanting him to scream again. The motion is nearly enough to make me vomit.

He steps back and tracks me with the weapon. ‘Now step forward.’

I stumble forward.

‘Behind you is a cabin. It’s probably not up to your expectations but it won’t kill you. We’re going to walk over there and you’re going to make your way inside. Just keep in mind that this is a Mossberg pump-action shotgun. Mr Smartmouth …’ he pauses. ‘Can I call you Mr Smartmouth?’

I nod and it hurts.

‘Just keep thinking about the shotgun. Keep thinking about what it can do to you. Now hurry up, or are you waiting for an invitation?’

I turn around. My view shifts from the shotgun and the man behind it back to the car and the cabin beyond. This must be where Landry went when he left me alone before. Though calling it a cabin is a fairly generous term. It has the minimum number of walls required to hold up a ceiling and be labelled a building and looks to be the size of a small one-bedroom house. The walls are warped and knotted, made from a mixture of woods. The side wall I can see is made from weatherboards, while the wall closest with the glass sliding door is constructed from plywood and fence pales and plenty of sealant. The roof is made from tin and rust. Without any guttering to catch and drain the rain, a small moat has formed around the cabin. A wooden porch extends a metre from the sliding door and the roof extends above it. The glass part of the door is covered in grime but isn’t broken or cracked. Pine needles stick to the glass all along the bottom. The metal runners have darkened with mud and rust. It’s hard to imagine anybody dragging these pieces out here in their car and constructing this small home away from home. Hard to imagine some do-it-yourselfer walking through a scrap yard and coming across these bits of wood and tin and getting the final image of this cabin in his mind.

I walk past the car and climb up onto the porch. It creaks beneath my weight but I don’t fall through. Inside the air is just as cold. The rain yells on the roof but I can’t see any signs of leakage. There are two rooms. We’re standing in the main one. The walls aren’t lined – same plywood, same fence pales, with just a few bits of framing, mostly old fenceposts. Dark plastic sags in the middle just beneath the roof, probably from a small build-up of rain that has drained through the rust holes in the tin.

Landry closes the sliding door, locking out the rain and any hope I have of getting out of this place alive.

‘Sit down,’ he says, pointing me to a large, extremely worn soft chair. Its fading pattern of yellow flowers doesn’t make it look even remotely comfortable. Nor do the worn gashes with escaping foam and protruding springs. I fall into it. The broken framework pulls my body right to the back so my feet come off the ground. I rest my handcuffed hands in my lap. I can smell pine and mildew. Three lanterns provide light, but not much of it. Their glass shells are dotted with mould. Landry sits in an opposite chair. Next to him on the floor is a duffel bag. Inside, I assume, are his original clothes.

An oval rug in the centre of the floor is stained with mud and animal hair. The open fireplace is made from brick and cinderblock with a chimney that is a long metal tube not much wider than my leg. At the moment it’s set with blocks of wood and yellow newspaper but hasn’t been lit. Landry either likes the cold or doesn’t plan on being here long.

He rests the shotgun across his legs then sighs. No possible way can I get to him before he gets to his gun. I figure that’s the whole point. He looks tired.

‘Nice place,’ I say.

His hands clutch the Mossberg tightly. ‘Jesus, why in the hell do you have to keep on being so smart? Can’t you take anything seriously?’

I shake my head. ‘I wasn’t being smart. I just meant it seemed like a nice place to come to, back to nature, you know, away from everything. And believe me, I’m taking this seriously.’

It’s hard not to stumble over my sentences as I ramble. I’m scared. I know it and he knows it. So far it’s all we have in common. He lets go of the shotgun, leans back into his chair and starts nodding.

‘This isn’t my place. It belonged to a killer. I caught him. It’s a while back now.’

‘Did you give him a trial too?’

‘Jesus, Feldman.’

‘You’re making a big mistake. I didn’t kill anybody, and if you give me the chance to …’

‘Shut up, okay? Do you know how many times I’ve heard guys like you tell me they’re innocent? I don’t need to hear it from you. All I want to hear from you is a confession.’

‘Look, I know how you feel, I can understand …’

‘You can’t understand anything, Feldman, you really can’t. I’m sick,’ he says, and slowly he shakes his head. ‘I’m sick of dealing with all of this. Sick of people who kill for the hell of it, just for fun. I see these people go to jail, I see them released and then I see them reoffend. They’re predators, and that will never change. They’ll always be among us. Their faces change, but their thoughts never do. They live among us doing what evil men do. I thought I’d seen everything. You like this cabin?’ He looks around it as if he’s seeing it for the first time. ‘This useless shack in the middle of nowhere – you want to know what it was built for?’