Chapter 22

When he’d shot at the stranger he had made a big mistake.

It wasn’t the act of shooting itself, because that had achieved the desired result. The suppressor on his pistol had muffled the retort and hadn’t attracted any untoward attention. All witnesses had turned at the sound of screeching tyres as the stranger took evasive action, and their attention held as traffic began to pile up on the street. He had to wonder what the outcome would have been if he’d shot the stranger on one of the fast-moving freeways as opposed to a surface street. As it was the carnage went way beyond anything he had anticipated. He would have liked to check that the stranger was dead, but the magnitude of the crash meant that patrol cars would be responding very quickly. He could not see how the man could have avoided certain death. A cattle truck flattened his car, and even if he had survived the bullet he’d have suffered tremendous injuries. Dead or not he’d be in no shape to offer protection to the next people on his list.

No, the mistake he’d made was in wearing his uniform while out on the street. It was stupid and reckless, and could identify him if anyone had indeed witnessed the shooting, or his quick run back to his car and subsequent speedy getaway. His work clothes weren’t distinctive in themselves — it wasn’t as if it was a police officer’s uniform or anything else immediately identifiable — but it wouldn’t take much tracking down by a determined investigator. He had been acting on impulse, he recalled. The uniform had offered good disguise as he’d fled from Yoshida Takumi’s house, but he should have shed it before shooting at the stranger. He wouldn’t make another amateurish mistake like that again.

It was hours later now, and still he wore the same jacket and cap. As soon as he was out of here he would ensure they were well out of the way at home when he went for the next target. He couldn’t keep his mind on his job for the distraction of thinking about tonight. He had to plan every move, make sure that there were no slip-ups. This time he would not mess around but get in, kill his next victim and get out again. The cops weren’t fools and would be closing in. It was only a matter of time until they recognised the pattern and zoned in on the remaining conspirators and took them into protective custody; he couldn’t imagine how he would get at them then. Unless he dropped an anonymous tip — told the police what the bastards had done forty years earlier. If they were arrested and subsequently sent down, well, things would be different then. They would be out of the way, incarcerated behind bars, but there were always ways and means where a prison was concerned. Money placed in the right hands, a door accidentally left unlocked, a guard willing to turn a blind eye, and many a prisoner’s life had been ended in a welter of violence.

Earlier he’d thought about ringing in sick, taking the day off to plan and recoup after the disaster at Yoshida’s place, but it was imperative that he not attract any unwanted attention. Best that he kept up his usual life and not give anyone a reason to question what he was up to outside of work. There were a number of nosy people around here and he didn’t want any of them putting two and two together. If he stuck to the programme, separated his paying career from his vocational work, then he should be fine. When all of this was done, and he avoided discovery, he would still need his job. Despite bragging to Daniel Lansdale about continuing his mission he had no intention of pushing the issue too soon. Revenge is a dish best served cold, he’d heard. Once the conspirators were all punished, he’d be happy to go back to his normal work for a while, before seeking out those others deserving of a visit from him.

Before setting off on his crusade, he had been a relatively law-abiding man, and if he hadn’t learned the horrible truth from Bruce Tennant most likely he would be now. However things had changed and there was no going back to the person he used to be. The thrill of the chase was all-encompassing at present, and if he slipped back into his normal life he would miss the excitement. He got some action during his ordinary day-to-day duties, and though he occasionally fed his desire for violence, there was a line he was not allowed to cross. He did not wish to endanger his employment here, he needed a wage because killing required an income. Plus, he owed a lot to this place: who’d have thought it would have led to the discovery of those responsible for murdering his father?

* * *

Bruce Tennant wanted more alcohol. He was barely tipsy and wished nothing more than to be speechless, so that when he returned home he’d be oblivious to the stench and grime, so that when he lay down to sleep he wouldn’t be conscious of the bugs crawling over his face, let alone the noises from his neighbouring apartments. He had spent all the cash he’d scratched from his pocket, and had managed to scam a couple of drinks from one of his drunker barfly buddies, but then he’d allowed his temper to get the better of him and began mouthing off. The barkeep at the Dynamo had grabbed him, told him there were no more warnings and had thrown him out on the street. He had to learn to keep his goddamn mouth shut; one of these days it was going to get him in real trouble.

He stumbled along, aware of the hobos sitting in doorways, their hands out, handwritten notes begging for change. More than once he thought about rolling one of them for their takings, but he knew where that would lead. Before long he’d be spending more time in their company, and soon he’d be sitting alongside them with his hand out.

There was a Seven-Eleven on the corner of his street. He went in, lingered around the counters. An Iranian teller watched him the entire time, and he stumbled outside again, his opportunity to boost a bottle or two missed. As he came out the door, swearing under his breath, a big guy had blocked his path. The man had grunted something — almost like an exclamation — before shoving past and into the shop. ‘A little fucking manners wouldn’t go amiss,’ Tennant shouted at him. Then he recalled his earlier resolve to mind his mouth, and he loped away before the guy could chase him down.

This part of the city was run down. That was an understatement if ever he’d heard one. It was downright shitty. He had no right to complain, of course. It was his own fault that he’d ended up here, and having been kicked loose from prison only weeks before he should feel damn fortunate to have found a landlord willing to give a room to an ex-jailbird. He didn’t feel lucky. His house wasn’t fit for rats, let alone human habitation. The fact that it was all he could afford was beside the point, and it didn’t mean he had to be happy about the arrangement. He shared the house with two other men. Both were drunks, and he trusted they were out in the bars, mooching free drinks in exchange for raunchy stories. He was going to get his head down — it would be impossible if either were home. One of them was so deaf he had to yell even when speaking to himself. The other fancied himself the Great Caruso and sang freakin’ opera at the top of his voice.

He had a key to the front door, but it was pointless. The frame was so warped that the components of the lock didn’t meet. As he usually did, he grabbed the handle, twisted it, and shoved with a shoulder against the door until it popped open. He closed the door in reverse. His heels scuffed through a drift of accumulated trash: mainly crushed beer cans and flyers, unopened bills and soiled clothing. There was no light bulb in the hall, but enough ambient city light came through the grimy window at the top of the stairs to guide a path through the junk. He passed the Great Caruso’s room on the left, and the door to the basement on the right. He lived on the second floor. The stair carpet was threadbare, holed in places, and a trap for the unwary. But he’d learned to navigate the danger spots — even drunk — so went up the stairs, grasping the rail for support. He had only made it part way up when he heard the door shoved open. Shit, his plans of dropping off to sleep now were scuppered. He swung round, a warning that his housemate keep the fuck quiet building on his lips.

The figure blocking the doorway wasn’t either man he expected. Both his housemates were shrunken gnomes; this man was large and stockily built. It wasn’t the first time some street punk had found their way inside, looking for somewhere out of sight to administer their drug of choice. Twice in the past fortnight, Tennant had had to kick bums back out on to the street. He started down the stairs, glad that he was only on the cusp of drunkenness because it meant he was at that stage where he could be as galled as he wished, but retained enough of his faculties that he could deal with a dangerous situation. ‘Hey, buddy, the street’s back that way. Now turn the fuck around and get outta here.’

The man didn’t reply, only bent down and heaved a large rucksack inside. Maddened, Tennant stomped down the stairs and into the hall. The house had three rooms, a shared kitchen and communal bathroom. The basement was a damp hole good for growing mould and nothing else. There was no room for a fourth lodger. ‘You can forget about moving in, buddy. Get your bag outta here and try somewhere else.’

The man closed the door. He was now lost in the shadows of the hall. Tennant halted. In the brief moment as the guy had turned to shut the door he’d caught a glimpse of his features in the street light from outside. It was the big guy who he’d almost collided with at the door of the Seven-Eleven. Suddenly Tennant didn’t feel as sure about himself as before.

‘You followed me back here, for what? OK, I owe you an apology. I shouldn’t have mouthed off like that. I’m sorry. Now let’s leave things at that, buddy.’

The man stepped forward.

‘OK. That’s as far as you come, buddy. I’ve apologised,’ Tennant puffed up his chest and bunched his fists, ‘but now it’s time to leave.’

‘I’m not finished here,’ the man replied.

‘Yes,’ Tennant said, stomping forward, ‘you are.’

The fear that pricked him at the appearance of the stranger had been pushed aside by the false courage of the liquor in his veins. When the whisky took hold like that, Tennant wasn’t afraid of anyone. Not even a big punk who invaded his house. Tennant went to grab the man, to force him back out on to the street.

He barely saw the man move. He hit Tennant with some Bruce Lee move; his knee flicking up, his lower shin whipping up and around to slam against his skull. Stars exploded in his vision and he tasted copper on his tongue. Tennant bounced off the wall, but fought to stay upright.

‘Son of a bitch!’ he hissed, his fingers against the welt growing on his forehead.

The man’s leg flicked again, this time beneath Tennant’s guard, and the ball of his foot found the soft spot beneath Tennant’s sternum. The wind was powered from his lungs, and his diaphragm recoiled at the trauma. Gasping for breath, Tennant retreated.

He heard a clink of metal as the man set down his bag. The movement was unhurried, as if Tennant were beneath contempt.

Tennant backed up to the base of the stairs, searching for something to use as a weapon, his heels digging through trash. His boot clanked against an empty beer bottle. Tennant ducked and came back up, holding the bottle by its neck. He lifted the bottle like a club.

‘Come any closer and I’ll break your head,’ he snapped.

There was a sound like someone coughing and the bottle shattered in his grip. Flying shards cut at his flesh, glittered in his vision. Tennant’s hand came open in reflex and the stub of the bottle fell back to the trash. The man came forward, and the slash of amber light filtering down from the window landed in a bar across his face. Below it something glinted bluish in the man’s right hand. Cordite drifted in the air, a stink stronger than the rankness already permeating the atmosphere.

Tennant had seen enough guns in his lifetime to recognise the semi-automatic in the man’s hand. The tubular object screwed on the barrel was something he was only familiar with from action movies and TV cop shows. The guy hadn’t simply followed him from the convenience store, he understood. The man had been following him before that. He had been spying inside, checking what he was up to, and Tennant had surprised him when he’d brusquely shoved out the door. The guy had been after him, and had an agenda that didn’t include finding lodging in this crap hole. Tennant knew enough that he was in real danger. As tough as he thought himself, he had no chance against a gun. He turned and fled up the stairs.

He didn’t get far.

A hand grasping Tennant’s jacket collar followed rapid footsteps. Tennant was no lightweight, but he was yanked off his feet, fell backwards and was dragged back down the stairs. Stunned, he blinked tears from his eyes as the man leaned over him.

‘Where do you think you’re running off to?’ the man asked.

‘Who are you, man? What do you want?’

‘I’ve come to say hello. Your old pal, Mitch, told me where to look you up.’

Mitch? He had to be talking about Mitchell Forbeck, his cellmate during his last six months inside. They had both been paroled the same week, but Tennant hadn’t seen him since. He’d had enough of Mitch to last him a lifetime and had said goodbye and meant it. Why would Mitch send this guy after him? He didn’t owe Mitch a damn thing, and their parting had been amicable enough. So, who was this guy: a friend of Mitch’s? He doubted it; Mitch didn’t have friends. Tennant attempted to study the man’s face. There was something vaguely familiar in it, but he was positive he didn’t know the man personally. Was he another inmate, someone he’d pissed off during their time behind bars?

‘Why’d Mitch send you here?’

‘Because I asked him to. Of course, I had to motivate him a little, the way I guess I’ll have to with you.’ The gun was pressed to Tennant’s forehead. ‘Now stand up. Don’t try anything funny, or your brains will decorate the floor.’

* * *

Recalling the state of Tennant’s home his threat was moot, because he had no intention of killing him outright. He had learned that Tennant was a braggart, and that while in prison he’d regaled his cellmate with tales of his criminal activity. All prisoners were guilty of embellishment, and Mitchell Forbeck had surmised that Tennant was building himself a tough rep, to ensure he was not someone to be messed with, when he’d told him about hanging and then burning a man alive in a cellar in Arkansas. Mitch didn’t believe Tennant, but he thought he could win points with the warden if he slipped him the nod. He didn’t get to see the warden himself, but two prison guards who reassured him that Tennant was blowing hot air out of his ass. The guards had sent Mitch back to his cell, cowed like a whipped dog for wasting their time, but they must have mentioned the story to another guard. From there the tale had grown fleetingly, before it was lost once more among all the other rumours bubbling around the general population. That was when the wild story had reached his ears and he knew that it was true: the man allegedly murdered shared his name. By then the originator of the admission was forgotten, but Mitch Forbeck’s inclusion was still bandied around. Mitch had been released from prison by then but he took no tracking down. All it took for him to learn the name of the braggart from Forbeck was to shove his gun under the punk’s chin. He probably didn’t need to shoot him dead afterwards, but it was possible that Mitch recognised him, and he had already proven himself to be the type to go stool pigeon.

Prior to that moment he had never killed another man, but it had proved surprisingly easy when he was driven by such pure rage. His life had been shit. Mother was a drunkard and those she brought into their home had been scum. He had known more stepfathers and uncles than he could count, and the beatings he took from them were the least of their sins he’d allow himself to recall. He went through his childhood hoping that his real dad would return, take him away from the horror, save him. When he discovered that his father had been thwarted from doing so by thugs led by vile lies he had resolved that Forbeck would not be the last to die at his hand.

It was a colossal coincidence that he should end up at the same prison as a man with information about his father’s demise, especially after so many years. He had truly believed he’d never avenge the murder, thinking the conspirators had to be so aged by now that they would already be in their graves.

After he’d found out Tennant’s identity, and tracked him back to the ramshackle house, it had pleased him to learn the names of all the lynch party, and more so that they — all the men at least — were still in the land of the living. What he hadn’t expected was for Tennant to be so forthcoming in the description of his father’s suffering. Perhaps it was because the asshole expected to die in agony and wished to take away some of the satisfaction from his punisher by basking in the gory details. Or maybe it was simply the man’s nature to brag, even if it meant further torment before he died.

* * *

‘I burned that sick motherfucker! It’s what the bastard deserved. I wasn’t like the other pussies that were having second thoughts. If I hadn’t thrown the gasoline over him I’m sure they’d have let him down, and rushed him to the nearest hospital to have his bullet wound seen to. Not me, though, no fucking way!’

The man listened to Tennant’s rant, dispassionately.

‘Do you hear me, you sick fuck? I burned your precious daddy. You should have seen him dance. Jesus! The screams. How half of Arkansas didn’t hear him I’ll never know. He was a fucking coward in life and he was a fucking coward in death.’

The man was sickened by Tennant’s lies. He had everything he needed from him — the names of each of the murderers, and a full description of each of their respective crimes. He did not need to listen any longer. He pulled tight the chain-link noose. Tennant gagged. His eyes bugged. The chain would strangle him completely, but not immediately. First Tennant must endure the agony of the links tearing into his flesh. He would like to allow the bastard to suffer the torture, but Tennant’s sickening false condemnation of his father had piqued his anger. He kicked the stool from under Tennant’s feet.

Tennant dropped like a stone, the links of the chain snapping around his throat, bunching up folds of grey skin beneath his clamped jaw. His tongue was forced between the gaps in his teeth, forming small blood-red balloons. His legs kicked and spasmed.

The man shot Tennant in the chest.

Then he began to pile the trash from the cellar floor around Tennant, watching him all the while. The bastard’s eyes were dulling, even as they bulged from their sockets. He leaned down, flicked his cigarette lighter and gave flame to the pile of trash.

The chain ensured that Tennant couldn’t scream, but he tried anyway, a keening noise that escaped him like steam as the flames danced up his legs and caught in the fabric of his trousers.

‘Who’s the fucking coward now?’ the man asked him, before firing once more into his chest.

Still, Tennant lingered. He was shuddering as the flames writhed over him.

The man shot him in the head.

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