Part 19 (1/2)
She had come to find Danny because she had been so wrong about the killer and what his intentions were. It also suddenly struck her that anyone could be the Crucifier, Bradshaw and Danny included. She had been blinded by her arrogance and, instead of righting wrongs, she was about to further compound the errors.
Danny and Bradshaw were rolling around in silent struggle as arms flailed and fists swung through the empty air. The two men were a far cry from fights that she had seen on TV. There was no room here for balletic dance; here were two animals squabbling in the dirt.
Something metallic hit the floor and she saw Bradshaw's gun slide into the centre of the room. She darted forward and scooped it up in a nervous sweaty hand. ”Alright, that's enough,” she shouted, but to no avail.
She turned the revolver over in her hands and pulled the hammer back, hoping that the movies were accurate. She braced herself and pointed the gun towards the ceiling and pulled the trigger. The gunshot was deafening in the bas.e.m.e.nt and the two men instantly rolled away from each other and clambered to their feet.
”Jane, give me the gun,” Danny implored her with an outstretched hand.
”Ms Parkes, just put the weapon down,” Bradshaw ordered.
”Just stay where you are,” she barked, swinging her aim between the two men. Whoever the killer was, he had been able to completely pull the wool over her eyes and fool her. She could no longer trust any of her instincts, and any thought that she had been able to trust her intuition might have been planted there.
”Give me the gun, Jane, quickly,” Danny said, stepping towards her.
”Don't trust him, Ms Parkes,” Bradshaw countered. ”Look. I was inserted into his team to check them all out, that's why I'm here. Someone on Meyers' squad is dirty, possibly the killer.”
”Dammit, Jane, you can't trust this guy!” Danny snapped.
”Just stay where you are,” she ordered, taking a step backwards. She had known Danny's father, but then again she had blamed herself for his death and so had Danny. Maybe Danny's immersion into the original Crucifier case, along with his father's death, may have caused him serious mental health problems. Then again, there was the American. Bradshaw was a blank slate as far as her reading ability went. She had been unable to pierce through his barrier and wasn't that what the killer had been doing all along?
”Jane, don't listen to him,” Danny pleaded. ”You don't know him from a hole in the wall; he has to be the guy, right? Think about it, he shows up out of nowhere and people are dropping like flies.”
”You're too smart for that, Jane,” Bradshaw said, shaking his head. ”This guy is all wrong and you know it. He's been too close to this serial killer for too d.a.m.n long. Think about it: his father was murdered by a maniac when he was a kid and it pushed him over the edge. He blamed you for the old man's death and now he's just building up to killing you. You're his last victim, Jane.”
She wanted to scream at them both to stop talking, as her head was spinning with a thick fog and she couldn't focus. There were figures standing behind the two men, but they were fading in and out of her vision. She could feel their presence and she knew that they were trying to help, but there was an erected wall that they couldn't break through. She could catch glimpses of them pounding at the barrier as fragile fists struck the wall like wisps of wind trying to break concrete.
She knew that she had to make a decision here, or more appropriately a choice, but she never got the chance.
The world around them was suddenly torn apart by a ma.s.sive explosion and the air turned thick with black smoke and fire.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN.
ASHES.
Randall kept a safe distance from his prey as the evening drew in. Martin Kline was a skinny young man who walked with a seemingly permanent nervous twitch. The kid worked at a pet store of all places and Randall wondered about the condition of the pets inside. It was no secret about psychos and their treatment of small animals. He had intended to start by staking the place out and seeing if young Martin worked a late s.h.i.+ft alone, but as soon as he'd spotted the kid leaving the shop he'd known that his search was over. It was as if Mr Kline had a burning halo over his head, one that screamed abnormal.
He would have had Kim start a trail back through Kline's protected history, but she was lying dead behind a children's playground. It would take some time but with The Herald's resources he would soon expose the kid's past.
Randall's heart was racing and for the first time in a long time he felt the pull of a bright future. He still found it hard to believe that his medical at the paper's insistence had turned up nothing more than a common stomach complaint. He had made a resolute promise to himself that he would start looking after himself better. This was a second chance of the most unexpected nature and he wouldn't let it pa.s.s him by. This was going to be the big break that made him a national name and his self-made promises to look after his estranged family were already fading into memory.
Kline paused in the middle of the road as he crossed and Randall suddenly gripped the steering wheel of his car in panic. He had been following slowly in the a.s.sumption that Kline must have driven to work, but the kid had continued to progress on foot, leaving Randall to follow a walking man by car.
Kline seemed to stare straight at him as Randall had no choice but to continue forward until he had pa.s.sed the young man, but Kline's head swivelled as the car pa.s.sed. Randall headed quickly around the corner out of sight and desperately searched for a parking bay to pull in to. He had to admit that the kid's stare had given him the creeps, but at the same time it only seemed to confirm his suspicions.
When Kline didn't appear around the corner, Randall exited the car and slowly wandered back to where he'd last seen the boy. As he reached the corner, a large bus rounded the corner and he could feel, rather than see, Kline onboard. He chuckled to himself at the sensation and wondered if the Parkes woman might not be such a fake after all as he caught sight of Kline on the upper deck of the bus. There wasn't a designated stop on the stretch of road where he'd last seen Kline but the buses would always be amenable to being flagged down.
Randall broke into a brisk jog as he spotted the bus's indicator light flick on and it pulled into a bus stop just up ahead. Fortunately, there was an old woman clambering onboard, lugging a heavy-looking shopping trolley up the steps with her. The fact that all of the pa.s.sengers at the front of the bus suddenly found something far more interesting to look at out of the window rather than help the woman, meant that Randall was able to catch up and board behind her.
He paid the fare till the end of the line as he didn't know where Kline was going to get off and then climbed the stairs to the top deck. He took a seat on the opposite side of the aisle and a few seats down, close enough to watch but not close enough to be noticed. There were several youths who had gravitated toward the back seats as was the universal truth of the young. They were larking around as usual, seemingly confident in the mysterious anonymity that the seats at the back of the bus offered. Randall ignored the kids and tried to watch Kline with a casualness that didn't come easy. His heart was pounding and his s.h.i.+rt was sticking to his back with a sweaty eagerness; a killer could be sitting only several feet from him, a killer who was going to be his winning lottery ticket.
Randall tried to get a vibe from the young man but the kid seemed blank as he sat and stared straight ahead. A soda can suddenly flew overhead and bounced off Kline's shoulder, spilling the last of its contents in a sticky trail. There was m.u.f.fled laughter from behind as the school kids enjoyed their attempt at humour. ”Oi, mate, I think you dropped something,” one of the kids offered, to much mirth from his companions.
Randall watched intently as Kline remained motionless, his eyes fixed straight ahead without blinking.
One of the kids, presumably the mouthy one, got up from behind and wandered forward. Randall knew kids like these, kids with no sense of consequence. They were firm in their knowledge that the system didn't have the s.p.a.ce or time to deal out punishments for minor irritations. He was sure that every one of the little t.u.r.ds would have been terrified the first time that a copper pulled them aside, but that fear would soon evaporate when the outcome was no more than a verbal warning.
The boy sauntered up to Kline with an arrogant swagger fuelled by his entourage. ”You got any change, mate?” he asked with malice.
Kline didn't budge.
”You deaf or what?” the boy demanded.
Randall could see that what the schoolboy lacked in size, he made up for in att.i.tude.
”I'm talking to you,” the boy said, jabbing a finger into Kline's shoulder.
This time, Kline's head turned on a swivel and Randall felt his own chest intake a sharp breath. Kline's eyes were black and blank; his stare was unnerving, and the schoolboy took a step backwards momentarily faltering. Kline held the boy's gaze until the boy started to blink first, his face growing uncertain as the confrontation ran in the wrong direction for him. He took a few steps backwards and Kline returned his gaze towards the front window.
”What you looking at, Granddad?” the boy barked towards Randall as he pa.s.sed on his way to the back.
Randall said nothing but he could see that the kid was shaken, unused to not dominating a situation. The bus rumbled on a few stops before Kline stood up and headed down the stairs. He didn't so much as look at the kids as he pa.s.sed but Randall could feel their unease.
Randall watched carefully out of the window to see which way Kline headed after he exited the bus. The street was long and Kline turned into a cul-de-sac which Randall recognised as his address. He waited for the bus to move a hundred yards or so down the road before he motioned for the driver to pull over, which he did, albeit begrudgingly.
Once he was off the bus, he ignored the school kids' rude gestures and followed in Kline's footsteps. The street was pleasant and lined with well-maintained flowerbeds. The houses seemed well kept and the gardens were mowed short.
Randall knew that Kline lived at number 20 and he soon found the right house. He was suddenly struck by uncertainty as he stood outside the house feeling fully exposed. His prayers were answered when he spotted a 'For Sale' sign in the garden of the house next door. He strode confidently up the path, knowing that looking nervous would make him noticeable. He made a show of checking the windows and guttering as would a prospective buyer before heading around to the rear garden.
The fence was low enough at the back for him to be able to hop over without any trouble. Kline's garden was kept in immaculate condition. There was a pathway leading to a shed at the bottom and a was.h.i.+ng line in between with various flapping articles of clothing. All of the laundry looked to be male in origin and of the same size, leading Randall to believe that Kline lived alone. There was a pale blue s.h.i.+rt that drew his eye. The item of clothing flapped in the wind and Randall could see large dark stains that p.r.i.c.ked his morbid imagination; something hadn't come out in the wash.
There were large patio doors at the back of the house and Randall craned his head to try and see through the gla.s.s but there were heavy curtains drawn. With a quick look around he checked that no one was watching before he hopped over the short fence and crept up to Kline's house. He knew that the police could not enter without a warrant, but he wasn't the law.
He tried the patio doors but they were understandably locked. After all, what self-respecting serial killer would leave his lair unprotected? He moved to the back door of the house when suddenly it sprang open. He quickly moved in its direction so that he was hidden by the open door and stood fixed to the spot as Kline walked outside. His back was pressed against the wall as he watched Kline wander down the pathway with a laundry basket under his arm. In that brief second, time stood still and Randall suddenly realised that this was real; he was tracking the man he suspected to be a brutal murderer and was now mere feet from him. He had two choices: he could duck around the side of the house and be gone, or he could head inside.
The house was cool inside, out of the dying sun, but it was also dark. Randall headed further into the house, not knowing what he was going to do, but knowing that he had to do something. He was going to win this war, even if it was the last thing he ever did.
He made it to the kitchen and the smell of cleaning products was overpowering. Kline most definitely kept a clean and tidy s.h.i.+p. There was a door in the room on the far side. It was an ordinary door, wooden and panelled, but the thing that drew Randall's eye like a magnet was that there was a bright s.h.i.+ny padlock slipped through a bolt; it was a security device designed to keep someone in and not out.
Randall crossed quickly towards it and noted a key hanging on a hook by the side of it. He took the key and unlocked the door. The opening stood black and unwelcoming. There wasn't the stench of death emanating from within that Randall had expected, but the smell was chemical in nature as though the very air had been scrubbed clean. He heard Kline returning and made a sudden decision to plunge himself into the darkness.
The stairs were wooden and creaked slightly beneath his weight as he descended. He'd pulled the door shut behind him and could only hope that Kline wouldn't notice that the padlock had been opened.
He reached the bottom of the stairs and searched the walls for a light switch. Better than that, he found a collection of candles and matches on a table. He lit one and the eerie light of the dancing flame only added to his unease. The gloom lifted and he could just make out the walls covered with pinned news articles and photographs. The paper pages went back through the years to the original Crucifier case as Arthur Durage's face grinned at Randall from the past. He held the candle close to him, cupping the flame with his hand as he scanned the walls. The picture frame of death and terror was overwhelming as history told its tale amidst Martin Kline's display.