Steven Dunne - The Disciple

Drexler smiled now. Of course. Never ask a question you don’t know the answer to. The end was in sight. But then what? What purpose was this serving? What did he want from him? ‘Don’t stop, Professor. It’s just getting interesting.’

Sorenson stood. He seemed satisfied with Drexler’s reply. ‘I’m glad you’re not taking this personally, Mike. I think we can be friends.’ Drexler raised an eyebrow at that. Sorenson caught it. ‘In time.’

He moved over to a large walnut cabinet and opened a door. ‘First some Beethoven … and a glass of malt whisky.’ Sorenson pressed a button and music began to play — beautiful and lingering piano notes swaying dramatically against the worsening weather gathering on the lake. He poured two generous measures into heavy tumblers and handed one to his guest. Drexler prepared to refuse. He hadn’t touched alcohol for nearly three months and hadn’t missed it.

‘Don’t worry, Mike. It’s not drugged.’

Drexler smiled and took the glass. This had to be part of the game. He accepted his whisky and sniffed at it without drinking. It didn’t smell like ordinary whisky and he was tempted to take a sip but needed his wits about him if he were ever going to get a crack at his agenda. He felt the need to occupy himself and stood to stroll as nonchalantly as he could manage across to the large glass doors which were being pounded by wind and snow now driving across the water.

He turned to look around. Everything about the place was expensive and tasteful. The room was sparsely furnished as befitted the single man, indicated by all the information they held on Sorenson. The space was large and open and smelled of pine, though there was a slight chemical edge in the air that reminded him of hospitals.

A mezzanine balcony, serviced by a generous wooden staircase, ran along one wall and seemed to lead off to other enclosed rooms. The fire, framed in wood and stone, dominated another wall and arranged to face it were a polished oak coffee table and the two comfortable dark leather sofas on which Drexler and Sorenson had been sitting.

There was no TV but across an end wall stood a large walnut chest holding a few weighty books. There was a music centre that fed the speakers, which were placed discreetly under beams at the four corners of the room. The chest also housed the drinks cabinet from which Sorenson had produced the two glasses of whisky. The darkness was gathering and Sorenson switched on a pair of lamps.

‘Cheers.’ Sorenson raised his glass to drink and Drexler decided to follow suit with a minute sip which burned his tongue with its smoky fire.

Drexler returned to his seat, leaving the toast unanswered. ‘What do you want, Professor?’

Sorenson seemed a little surprised. ‘What do I want? I want to know who you are and I want you to know who I am. I’d like you to think of me as a friend.’ Drexler pulled a face. ‘Or at least as someone who can help you.’

‘Help me? How?’

‘Make you realise you’re not alone in your pain, Mike.’

‘Pain?’

‘With me it was my twin brother — with you a drunken, abusive father. Families cause such pain. I don’t know why.’

Drexler glared at Sorenson, determined not to react to the constant probing, though each pick at the wound made it harder. ‘Makes you just want to wipe them out, doesn’t it, Professor?’

Sorenson smiled faintly. ‘Yes, it does. For instance your father, James Drexler, was also a religious zealot, Mike. A drunk too. And as you saw with the Reverend Hunseth, religion and alcohol can be a dangerous combination. Did he quote the scriptures at you as he beat you? Did he beat your mother and call her the devil’s harlot? Did he call damnation on your sister after her suicide?’

Drexler dropped his glass and lunged towards Sorenson but froze a few yards away. The 9mm M9 automatic had appeared in Sorenson’s hand as if from nowhere. ‘Sorry, Mike.’ He gestured the gasping Drexler back to the sofa and sat down on the other. ‘Truly I am. I push too hard sometimes. But I had to be sure.’

‘Fuck you. Kerry would never do that. It was a traffic accident,’ panted Drexler, still breathing harshly.

‘There were no skid marks, Mike. She wasn’t wearing a seat belt. She drove herself into that ravine to end the torture of life with your father. Her love for you couldn’t conquer the pain he caused, so she snuffed out her life and left you and your mother to pick up the pieces.’ He paused to assess Drexler’s willingness to lunge at him again before lowering the gun. ‘Now that is information I did have to pay for. I’m very sorry. But I have to know why you’re still coming at me so hard. It’s the same reason you put four bullets into Reverend Hunseth, isn’t it? Am I really the same as him?’

‘An authority figure with power over life and death. And not afraid to use it. What do you think, Professor?’

‘I think whoever killed Caleb and Billy is more like you than you know. An avenging angel, removing those who abuse their position, those who torment and kill the innocent to satisfy their basest urges. With your father and the departed Reverend, it was a twisted religious mania and a love of the bottle; with Caleb Ashwell, carnal pleasure and financial gain. Face it. You didn’t have to kill Hunseth. You could’ve disabled him. The Board knew that but gave you the benefit of the doubt. But you get more than that from me and Hunseth’s tortured family. You get their gratitude. You ended the tyranny of his life and saved those close to him.’

‘Saved?’

‘As surely as the killer you seek saved other families from the tyranny of Caleb Ashwell.’

‘And Billy?’

Sorenson put down the gun and took a sip of his whisky, eyeing his guest. Drexler wondered briefly whether to make a grab for it but decided against it. ‘Of course. Stupid of me. You see me as Caleb and yourself as Billy — as much a victim as George Bailey and his family. And do you know something? You’re right, Mike. Billy was a victim. But it was too late for rehab. Billy could never be that child again. The clay had hardened.’

‘Clay?’

‘That’s right. He was moulded by his father. You see, Billy didn’t have your strength.’

‘My strength?’

‘Mike, when will you embrace what you’ve become? Those four bullets have bestowed a power on you that you weren’t aware of before. You were moulded just as Billy was, but did you become Billy? Did you help your father beat your mother? Did you help drive your sister to despair? No. You conquered the urge to find safety under his cloak. And to do so kept you a victim. You chose the hard path. But not Billy. He took the hand that led him to oblivion. He would’ve become Caleb. No power on earth could’ve stopped that.’ Sorenson got up with his glass and picked up the gun by the nozzle. ‘Terrible things, guns.’ He threw it to Drexler who caught it.

Drexler checked the magazine. It was full. He flicked the safety off and caressed the weapon in his palm and looked over at Sorenson who was at the drinks cabinet, his back turned.

‘Another drink, Mike?’

Drexler contemplated for a few seconds, then put the safety back on. He put the gun in his pocket and picked up his spilled glass. He walked over to Sorenson and held out the glass which his host refilled. Then he drank the whisky down in one swallow and held his glass for a further refill.

‘So what do you want, Professor?’

‘What I said, Mike — understanding.’

‘You want me to understand you?’

Sorenson smiled and shook his head. ‘No, Mike. I want you to understand yourself. You’ve studied philosophy. Apply those skills. Make friends with your past. You’re not Billy Ashwell. Billy raped and tortured people.’