Steven Dunne - The Disciple

‘What we are destroying is nothing but houses of cards and we are clearing up the ground of language on which they stood.’ Dupree and McQuarry turned to Drexler who smiled apologetically. ‘Sorry. Philosophy major. It’s Wittgenstein.’

‘Cute,’ said McQuarry. ‘Doesn’t change what looks like a classic murder-suicide to me. Boy kills father. Boy feels guilty and kills himself.’ She turned to Dupree. ‘But this message makes you think it was a double murder?’

‘No, Mba’am. Something else.’

Brook rubbed his eyes and took another scant mouthful of his baked potato. He washed it down with a slurp of cold tea and returned his gaze to the computer screen. He reread the FBI report and then clicked on a link to take him to the Los Angeles PD Homicide Report on the death of the Marquez family.

He read carefully: although the father and eldest son’s petty criminal background fitted the profile, several factors marked this down as something other than a Reaper killing. The timeline was fine. The Marquez family had died in 1995, at the same time the original Reaper Victor Sorenson had lived in LA, but the use of both a shotgun and several different knives on the two parents and four children pointed away from The Reaper. In addition, the two girls, one fifteen the other twelve, had both been raped at the scene, a violation to which The Reaper had never stooped. Sorenson killed his prey quickly. He didn’t want them to suffer; he just wanted them to experience beauty before they died — a piece of art, a beautiful aria, a glass of expensive wine. Then they could cease to exist, happy in the knowledge that they were leaving behind lives that weren’t worth the living, knowing the world was a better place without them.

Brook looked at his watch. It was past eleven. Three hours spent scouring the unsolved murder files of various US law enforcement agencies had left Brook feeling in need of another shower. America sickened him and he resolved never to go. What was it Sorenson had said just hours before he died? Something about a nation that called itself the Home of the Brave presiding over such appalling murder statistics? No wonder Sorenson felt The Reaper’s ‘work’ would be lost in America and had returned to England to strike in Derby. Brook had been searching for months to find cases that fitted The Reaper’s MO and wading through so much stuff had left him numb.

He logged out of the FBI site and clicked onto his Hotmail account for something to do. He cleared the usual junk and was left with nothing. Not surprising. Apart from some of the US agencies he’d emailed asking for information about families murdered in their homes, nobody even knew he had an email address.

Brook stood, stretching his legs, and went outside to his back garden, sucking in the sweet night air. He shook his head. Why was he still looking? Sorenson was dead. The Reaper was gone. What was he hoping to achieve? To unmask Sorenson to the world? Why? So he wouldn’t have to carry the knowledge alone? There had to be something else driving him. Guilt? The dreams?

A black cat dropped down from a neighbour’s wall and headed straight for Brook’s legs, purring in anticipation of the pleasure to come. ‘Hello, Basil, you little monkey. I haven’t seen you for a while.’ The cat fell onto Brook’s foot and writhed around his ankle until Brook leaned down to scratch its head and neck. After a couple of minutes, Brook extricated himself from its clutches and went back into the house. He re-emerged with a saucer of tinned tuna for the cat and a measure of malt whisky for himself and sat down on the bench, dividing his gaze between the feeding cat and the cotton-wool stars.

He was tired now, torn between the comfort and novelty of his own bed and the urge to go for a stroll, to feast on the chill air. In the end he did neither and satisfied himself with a barefooted amble around the lawn, enjoying the freshly nourished Basil’s acrobatic skills as he chased the nocturnal insects that had dared to enter his territory.

Finally Brook drained his glass, and returned to the cottage. Unusually, there was an email alert on his computer. He clicked on his inbox and was greeted by a message with the tagline ‘REAPER’ and the subject ‘CONGRATULATIONS’.

Brook hesitated for a moment, then clicked on the message.

Damen ,

My dear friend, how could I have underestimated you? Well done. Disposing of your daughter’s abuser was a noble act and one which I should have known you’d attend to in the fullness of time. I hope he suffered the way you suffered.

And now, my friend, it’s time for you to really take flight and show the world what you can do. I know you’ve been waiting, biding your time, planning, but now it’s time to fear The Reaper once more. Remember how good it felt to avenge Laura Maples? There’s a lot more work to be done. They’re outthere, Damen, the dregs of humanity, waiting for you to show them how life should be lived. Make them see beauty. Make them appreciate the wonder.

Good luck, though I know you won’t need it.

Your friend Victor.

Brook stared at the screen unblinking for several minutes, then drained his glass and went to fetch a refill. He stared at his monitor some more. This was a hoax. Sorenson was dead. And who knew his email address apart from a few FBI agencies? He reread the message before logging out of Hotmail and typing ‘Tony Harvey-Ellis’ into a search engine. He was rewarded with several hits, all local Brighton papers, reporting his drowning. He read all of them without expression, then his eyes fell onto the phone. He cast around for his address book, looked up a number that any normal father would’ve known by heart, and dialled.

Terri picked up on the first ring. ‘Hello?’

Brook hesitated. He opened his mouth to speak but no words came out.

‘Hello? Who is this? This isn’t very funny.’ Her tears were on the way when she slammed the phone down a few seconds later.

Brook replaced his receiver more gently, ashamed. His own daughter. He couldn’t even speak to his own daughter. But what could he say? I hope the man you loved, your mother’s husband, the rapist who took your virginity, is burning in hell. It needed a little work.

He took a deep breath. Two years. His ex-wife and only daughter were strangers. A misery he’d suppressed longer than he cared to think surfaced in him until he looked back at the reports of Harvey-Ellis’s death. Maybe things could change. Now Amy would have to face the truth about Tony; maybe after a suitable time, when the dust had settled, there could be contact, some kind of reconciliation. Maybe.

He glanced back at the phone. Terri had sounded different.

Brook realised now how much he missed her. The only good thing he’d ever done with his life was her. They hadn’t spoken in two years. Not even a phone call. Not since that day on the pier when she’d confessed to her affair with her stepfather — just fifteen years old — standing before him in her school uniform, laying claim to womanhood.

Brook sat down with another drink of whisky to gaze at the email purporting to be from the late Victor Sorenson. Everything about it was right, the laconic, gently probing style, the over-familiar yet stiff formality of the language.

But Sorenson was dead…

A banging on the door made Brook’s heart lurch and, after clicking the message onto his toolbar, he padded to the porch. For the first time since his move to the crime-free peace of Hartington, Brook hesitated before opening the door.

‘Mr Brook. I saw the light was on so I thought I’d take a chance.’

‘Tom.’

Tom Hutcheson hesitated on the step, waiting for an enquiry. When Brook remained mute he pressed on. ‘Aye, it’s the cottage, Mr Brook. I thought I’d let you know … Are you all right?’