Matt Hilton: Blood and Ashes

Three days on the road had left their residue on me. Perspiration had dried on my skin, my clothes were grimy and uncomfortable, but that wasn’t the reason for the prickling sensation in my flesh. It was as though my nerve endings were charged with static. ‘It just takes a little coming to terms with, Don. How could a dead man be threatening your family?’

‘It’s gone way beyond threats, Hunter. Didn’t you hear what I told you? Brook is dead.’

The tingling in my skin was becoming painful, and a seething rush shot through my veins. I resisted the urge to scratch and bunched my fists in my pockets. ‘Brook was killed in a car crash. The police ruled it an accident.’

Don grunted. Next to his battered chair was an equally worn cabinet. He pulled open the top drawer and drew out a folder which he opened and held out. I was still thinking about the gleeful faces that had only moments before flickered on the screen and didn’t want to see what Don offered.

‘Take it,’ Don said. ‘Have a good look and tell me if you still think my daughter died accidentally.’

I’m no stranger to death in any of its horrible forms. To some I’ve inured myself, but not all. Once, I bore witness to the aftermath of an attack by guerrilla fighters on a village of innocents. Some of the victims — mostly women and children — had been burned alive. The images of their bodies twisted into blackened husks still occasionally plagued my nightmares. I didn’t want to see Brook like that.

But I looked.

The rushing heat in my veins went cold.

There were photographs from the accident scene. They showed a vehicle on its roof, so consumed by fire that even the tyres had been burned clean off their rims. The distance shots weren’t so bad; only when the camera had zoomed into the interior did it became apparent that the bundled form lying amid the ashes and molten components had once been human. That was nasty. But nowhere near as horrific as the follow-up photographs from the morgue where Brook’s remains had been taken. Under the stark glare of lights, surrounded by dull steel, the extreme charring of the woman’s corpse was shocking. There was little left of her, just a blackened skull and the withered husk of a torso. The larger bones of the upper arms, the pelvic girdle and legs had survived, but all the lesser bones of her extremities had gone to ash. She had been twisted by the intensity of the heat into the classic pugilist pose, but it wasn’t that evident with her hands gone.

My blink was slow, and I held my lids shut for a time afterwards.

‘Well?’

Well, what?

I handed the file back to Don.

‘It’s a terrible thing,’ I said. ‘I can’t begin to imagine the terror your daughter must have gone through. But, Don…’

‘It was no accident.’

‘The car rolled, the fuel tank erupted. A spark from the engine ignited the spilled fuel.’

‘That’s what it looks like.’ Don opened the file; thrust the photographs under my nose. ‘That’s what it was made to look like.’

‘The report is conclusive.’ I gently closed the flap on the file, covering the images. ‘Before you say anything, I’ve read it. I already had Rink get me a copy of both the police and ME files.’

‘And you believe a couple of hick cops and a washed-up medical examiner over me?’ Don snorted. ‘They only saw what they wanted to see.’

‘Nevertheless, they didn’t find anything suspicious. No evidence that Brook’s death was anything other than a tragic accident.’

‘But now that you’ve seen the photographs?’

‘It doesn’t change a thing, Don. Your daughter died by the flames that also burned out the car she was trapped in.’

Don chewed his moustache again. After a few seconds he lifted a hand, pointed at the stairs. ‘I want you to leave. If you don’t want to hear my take on what happened, then just go. I’ll find someone else who does give a damn.’

The old man’s words were like a slap in the face. I squinted at him, anger riding on my tongue. But I let it go. I headed for the stairs. I ignored the tug of scar tissue in my thigh, in a hurry now to get away before I said something that I’d regret. There were enough regrets for me to contend with without hurting a grieving father.

Don’s next words halted my hand on the door handle.

‘I got an email, Hunter. It said: “Who must you lose next?”.’

Without turning, I pressed on the handle and tugged the door open and went up the stairs. ‘He’s dead, Don. How could he send you an email?’

‘Whether it was him or not, I was still sent the goddamn thing.’ Don walked to the base of the stairs but he didn’t follow me up. ‘It was a direct threat to my family.’

I slipped into the dark hallway, hearing the rage building in the old man like the rumble that precedes an earthquake.

I made it all the way to the front door, but for a second time in less than a minute my hand was halted by words.

‘You’re just going to walk away from this, Joe? Do you hate my father so much?’

Millie was standing in the hallway, her arms wrapped round her body as though she was freezing. Strands of her hair were plastered across her face and clinging to the tears on her cheeks.

Hate is such a strong word. I didn’t hate Don, just what he’d once led me to do.

‘He’s hurting and confused, Millie. You both are.’

‘Yes,’ she said. ‘We’re all confused. But so are you. When will you open your eyes and see what’s really happening here? He is back.’

I gnawed my bottom lip. It wasn’t possible. The bastard’s body was ravaged by flame, immolation of his corpse as complete as what had happened to Brook. Carswell Hicks had fallen over the precipice into his promised eternity in hell.

But then there were the emails. Someone must have sent them.

I opened the door.

‘Tell your father I’m sorry for his loss.’

There was an ache in my right hand which was compounded by the cold, and more than the slight tugging in my leg, this concerned me the most. When adrenalin rushed through my system the wounds to my leg were no hindrance but I required the full range of movement and dexterity of my fingers. My hand had been shattered during the same battle where I’d picked up the other injuries, and I’d had to undergo micro-surgery to put it right. As I walked, my fists in my pockets once more, I periodically flexed the hand to promote movement.

I had the feeling that I was going to need it in fully functioning order.

For someone in my line of work, speed of hand is the difference between life and death.

I hear you’re supposed to be some kind of knight errant these days.

Don Griffiths’ words had been meant as sarcasm. Right now they elicited the required response: a wry smile. Knight errant? That was just one fancy term that had been levelled at me. I suppose it was better than vigilante, which was more often the case. At least the term carried the honourable connotations that I hold dear. Without my sense of decency, I accept that I could very well be labelled alongside those other balaclava-clad hooligans who take the law into their own hands. But then — it’s all a matter of perspective. To some I’d still be seen as a man of questionable morals. Perhaps I was the type of knight who wore tarnished armour.

As I walked a cat kept pace with me.

It was a gnarly old tomcat, and judging by the scars that criss-crossed its body it had fought a number of battles during its lifetime. We had a lot in common. It watched with luminous yellow eyes from the opposite sidewalk, perhaps recognising its human familiar.

Occasionally cats have questionable morals too. Some people judge them as cruel killers, but not all their kills are for fun. Sometimes they have to kill to survive, or to protect their young.