Steven Dunne - The Disciple

‘Goodnight.’ Brook clicked on the toolbar to reopen the inbox of his Hotmail account. The second email from The Reaper had already been opened and read. But Brook stared at the subject line again. Tonight. He stood and went to look out across the low horizon, lighting up again as he gazed out through the darkness at the twinkling lights of Derby. With a deep sigh he looked at his watch and returned to his desk to log out.

Drexler pulled the car across the highway and into the drive of an unseen house. He and McQuarry stepped from the car and peered through an imposing pair of iron gates, following the course of the drive as it wound its way towards the lake. They couldn’t see the house but the icy waters of Lake Tahoe were visible, lapping calmly against the shore in the pale sunshine — a waterfront property in one of the most expensive real estate zones in the US. It didn’t seem feasible that a resident here would have any connection to the late Caleb Ashwell and his son Billy.

McQuarry checked her notes. ‘879 Cascade Road. This is it, Mike.’

Drexler rattled the gates, but McQuarry took the trouble to find the intercom on the wall and pushed the button. There was a crackle.

‘Yes?’

‘Federal agents, sir. May we speak with you?’

No answer but the gates swung open noiselessly. The two words that struck fear and often loathing into everyone who crossed their path had barely registered. Not a moment’s hesitation. Normally, even the most righteous couldn’t help but take a second to review their ancient and recent past for forgotten transgressions. Reasons to be fearful, McQuarry and Drexler called it. But not today.

‘Somebody’s got a very clear conscience,’ observed Drexler. The agents jumped back into the Chevy and drove slowly up to the house, taking in the splendour of the surroundings — large grounds shaded by mature white fir, lodgepole pine and aspen trees interspersed with bark-covered flowerbeds. As the trees thinned they saw the huge cabin-style house facing the shore, built with natural wood and local stone. The house stood on a bank, maybe ten metres above the water level and about twenty metres back from the lake. A wooden pier, bleached by the seasons, stretched its arm into the heart of the lake, though no boat was moored.

‘Feel intimidated?’ smiled Drexler.

‘I’m quaking in my boots, Mike.’

They parked near a three-car garage at the side of the house, though there was only one car in residence — a small red Toyota.

‘No sign of a Dodge Ram 250,’ said Drexler.

‘Care to give me odds it’s been stolen , Mike?’

He smiled. ‘No sale.’

A slightly built middle-aged man seemed to appear out of nowhere and strolled across the lawn to greet them. Drexler and McQuarry exchanged a private smile of recognition. But instead of the full head of wiry red hair from his passport photograph, the man’s shaved head was as it was on Caleb Ashwell’s CCTV monitor.

‘Detectives, what can I do for you?’ he said in an approximation of an English accent. He smiled at them, though his shrewd black eyes didn’t seem to be in sympathy with his mouth.

‘FBI, sir. This is Special Agent Drexler and I’m Special Agent McQuarry.’

‘Special agents, how thrilling,’ he said with an effort to be impressed. ‘Just like in the movies.’

Drexler flipped open his notepad. ‘And you are Mr Victor Sorenson?’

The man grinned, perhaps distracted for a moment by an echo from the past. ‘Professor Sorenson in fact.’

It was well past midnight but the fire still blazed in the old oil drum in Stinger’s overgrown backyard. The air was cold and a fog was forming, but the heat radiating towards the four figures slumped on two decrepit sofas served to incubate the occupants. Stinger’s younger brother had gone to his room to play computer games, shortly after Stinger’s mum and her boyfriend Ryan had staggered off to bed. Stinger, Banger and Grets were close to coma and stared unblinking at the hypnotic flames.

Jason would have liked to turn off the boom box but that wasn’t a runner — Stinger was on a major wreck and Jason knew from experience that he’d not let up until every drop of booze was drunk and every ounce of dope smoked.

‘Turn it up, blood. This track kicks ass,’ slurred Stinger, head lolling back on the bigger of the two sofas.

‘Turn it up yourself, bitch.’ Banger leered at the others, waiting for them to acknowledge the comic genius in their midst.

‘It’s pretty loud already,’ observed Jason, regretting his comment at once.

‘So? The fuck are the neighbours gonna say?’ said Stinger, stumbling to the boom box nestled on the bonnet of his dad’s demolition derby car. It was rotting on bricks in the backyard until someone on the estate took a chance and bought new wheels for their own vehicle. ‘The last time Osama came round to complain, Ryan gave him a right slappin’, innit?’ Stinger turned up the gangsta rap a couple of notches and slumped back down as they all started nodding to the beat.

‘Bet he weren’t happy though,’ observed Banger before dissolving into hysterics — he was on a roll.

‘And granny next door never puts her head outside after dark no more,’ added Stinger. He threw another fencepost onto the fire. Sparks flew off into the night sky.

‘Not unless she wants croaking like that other old bitch,’ nodded Grets. They all laughed but there was a tension in their throats, and each felt the need to run his drunken eye over the others to make sure it hadn’t been noticed. The moment passed and they were able to reposition their masks of invulnerability. But there was disquiet in their demeanour as each reflected on the night Jason’s family had been slaughtered just a few doors away, the night the four of them had murdered an old woman for money and drugs but awoke to find their thunder stolen by The Reaper, Annie Sewell’s death a mere footnote. Narked at first, each had since come to realise that the sensational events at the Wallis home had kept the Sewell murder out of the limelight and left them free to continue numbing their lives.

Jason stared into the flames and remembered that night with something approaching shame. The face he could never forget — the old woman begging for her life, or at least a little dignity. That night she kept neither.

Thank Christ nobody knew. Not true. That leng, DI Brook knew. He’d come round his aunt’s, got him loaded on cheap whisky. Brook had warned him, tried to make him ’fess up and name names. Had he imagined it? But he hadn’t imagined being tied up. Being threatened. One thing Brook said, Jason would never forget. The Reaper was still out there, waiting for his chance — unfinished business. Trouble was, he didn’t seem keen to finish it. Well, maybe tonight was the night and Jason was ready. Ready to make payment. Ready for an end to misery and fear. Ready to stop being a victim and start being a player. Ready for fame and a place in history.

Banger took a long draught of cider and offered the dregs of a two-litre bottle to Jason. He held a hand up to refuse, so Banger drained the rest, and threw it into the oil drum.

‘It’s late. I should peg it,’ said Jason, trying to sound casual.

‘Chill your beans, man. It’s early. Don’t be dread. This party’s for you. You can crash here. I asked my mum.’

‘Cheers, Sting. It’s been sick. But I got stuff to do tomorrow.’

‘So what? I got college. Ain’t going though. It’s boring.’

‘Me neither,’ piped up Grets.

‘Yeah, but I promised my aunt.’

‘So? Anyway, you’ll never get a white cab this time o’ night.’

‘I was gonna walk.’

‘Oh my days. It’s bloody miles to Borrowash. And you’ll be crossing enemy blocks.’