Deadly Treatment (12 page)

T
aylor and Malone had returned home late the previous night, so Daniel opted not to wake them to tell them he’d booked a flight for that morning — he simply scribbled a note and grabbed a cab to the airport.

Since the letter from Sister Elizabeth had called his mother a bad person, it hadn’t really come as any great surprise to Daniel that Logan tracked her down to America’s own
sin city
— Las Vegas.

As the red-eye flew towards the rising sun, Daniel looked out of his window at the desert below and watched the famous adult playground slowly emerge from the sand. The plane touched down surprisingly softly, and Daniel took that to be a good omen for the day ahead.

With his bag over his shoulder, Daniel exited the airport and was immediately hit by the heat and bright sunshine; squinting, he joined the end of the cab line full of tourists, sightseers, gamblers, and suckers all headed for the city center and what it had to offer. The line moved quickly, and when his turn came, Daniel asked the driver to take him to the address Logan had given him the night before.

Naturally, the words to
Viva Las Vegas
swam around his head as they drove towards the city. Elvis sang of bright lights and fiery souls, but from the window of the cab, all Daniel could see was high rise buildings, road sweepers, drunks, and tramps. The cab went past a row of wedding chapels boasting twenty-four-hour service, and Daniel wondered if drunken couples or Elvis and Monroe wannabee’s were getting hitched inside any of them. The cab passed through the city center and out the other side where the artificial glitz and glamour of the strip faded to cheap motels, prefabs, and in turn, probably the real side of Vegas. The driver turned a few corners and pulled up outside a very average looking house that had long since seen better days.

‘There you go,’ the driver said as he turned and looked at Daniel.

Daniel looked at the house and was overcome with nerves. He pulled the photo of his first birthday out of his pocket in the hope that looking at it would calm him down; it didn’t; it made him feel worse.

‘Could you please go to the end of the street and stop there.’ he asked in a jittery voice.

The driver shrugged his shoulders, put the car into gear, and drove to the corner.

‘This better?’ he asked.

Daniel looked out the back window at the house as thoughts, questions, and scenarios rushed through his head. Did his mother, Shannon, really live there? Was she in? What would he say when he knocked on the door? What would she say? Is his father there with her? The words crashed around in his head.

‘Are you getting out here, or do you need to go someplace else?’ the cab driver asked impatiently.

‘Just give me a minute!’ Daniel snapped, and then immediately apologized.

He sat there for a moment trying to bolster the courage to get out of the car, go back up the street, and knock on the door.

Daniel was startled to see another cab come around the corner, pull up outside Shannon’s house, and beep its horn. A few seconds later, a woman clutching a bag came out of the house. Daniel immediately recognized her from the photo. Sure, she was older, her hair was different, and sure, she was skinnier, but he was also certain it was her. She slammed the house door, checked that it was locked, and then jumped inside the waiting cab.

‘Follow them,’ Daniel managed to say before his head was filled with more questions and scenarios.

Shannon’s cab made off towards the strip, and Daniel’s cab swung around to trail it.

‘Don’t get too close,’ Daniel ordered as he sat forward and looked through the windshield.

‘Look son, I’m just a cab driver, I’m no James Bond, and I’m no sidekick to a stalker. I’ll follow them to where they’re going, then that’s you and me finished.’

Daniel was going to explain, but thought better of it.

Shannon’s cab pulled up outside the Aladdin Palace Casino.

‘Stop right here!’ Daniel cried out.

The driver nearly squealed to a halt. Daniel watched as Shannon got out of the cab, and then leaned in through the window to pay the driver. As the cab pulled away, she took a look around and entered the building. Daniel paid the driver and sent him on his way.

As he walked up to the casino’s entrance, he was still unsure how he was going approach her or what he would say when he did. He decided that first he’d check out the place and see what kind of work she did there.
Maybe I’ll get lucky, and she’s a waitress or a dealer, and I can watch her for a while . . . maybe even talk to her a bit before I tell her who I am
.

Plucking up some courage, he took a deep breath and entered the building.

The moment he walked through the door, he was grabbed by two security guards. Shannon followed behind them as they silently marched him into an office beside the entrance.

With Daniel thrust into a seat and the door to the office securely closed, Shannon opened the interrogation.

‘Who the hell are you, and why are you following me? Oh, and don’t bother trying to lie either; I saw you pull up outside my house, and I saw your cab follow me.’ Her words were quick and they shot at Daniel like machinegun fire.

He eyed the two big guards, and then looked at the woman in front of him. She looked as though she had aged a lot more than the twenty or so years since the photo was taken, but even under her heavily applied make up, she was still a good-looking woman. Her hair was cut short and dyed black, and she was slim, Daniel put her at around 120 pounds.

‘Are you deaf or something? Why the fuck are you following me?’ Shannon repeated.

‘You’d better answer her, Boy,’ One of the guards added sternly.

Daniel paused a beat, looked straight into Shannon’s brown eyes and said, ‘I’m your son, Daniel.’ 

T
he corporate jet taxied into the huge hanger on the edge of O’Hare airport, and Paxton, Elwood’s boss, was there to meet it. Getting on in years and experience, he thought late night jaunts were a thing of the past, but this was an exception. He yawned widely, and ran his fingers through his grey hair. He’d decided to personally handle the arrival of the body. It certainly wasn’t the first time in his career his hands were dirty, but it had been a long time since he’d been so close to the action. And when it came to Cain’s death, he did have a slight tinge of guilt.

He waited by the town-car until the jet was parked and the engines were shut down before approaching the plane. The door and steps dropped open, and the captain filled the doorway.

‘Good evening,’ he said.

‘You made good time,’ Paxton replied.

‘Tail wind,’ the captain explained and nodded.

‘Look, I appreciate you doing this, and there will be a token of our appreciation in your pay.’

The captain gave him a
you didn’t have to do that
look.

Paxton boarded the plane, walked over to the matte black plastic body bag that took up the main floor space, and unzipped it to take a look inside. The gaunt face of his colleague, Anthony Cain, stared lifelessly back at him.

He closed the bag and called for his chauffeur to come and grab one end of it. The body was unexpectedly heavy, and when the grey-haired man struggled to lift it, the captain stepped in to help. They carried the body over to the town-car and slid it onto the rear seat where, thankfully, it fit snugly. They said goodbye to the pilot, and Paxton chose to ride shotgun as they headed for the private medical facility in downtown Chicago. ‘Yeah, we’re on our way; we’ll come straight round the back; have a gurney ready.’ He hung up the car’s phone and settled into the heated leather seat.

No one spoke as they loaded the body onto the metal trolley and the orderly covered it with a sheet. They didn’t expect to see anyone on the way, but it didn’t hurt to err on the side of caution. The security guards had already been paid to look the other way.

It wasn’t until they got into the private ward that the silence was broken. ‘Is everyone on board with this?’ Paxton asked.

‘Yep, one of our physicians will find him here first thing tomorrow morning. He will have passed quietly in his sleep during the night. No autopsy will be required because we all know how he died.’

Paxton nodded.

‘His only family is his aged mother; she will be told about his passing tomorrow too; she won’t be a problem either since she didn’t even know of his disappearance. She thinks he’s been in an experimental area for a couple of weeks.’

They propped up the body in the bed and made him look comfortable. As the orderly connected the last of the drips and monitors to the body, Paxton yawned again and left them to it.

‘
O
h, shit! That’s Joshua!’ Scott yelled out to Vince. He was watching the news on the TV; there on 55 inches of high-definition screen was a picture of Joshua behind Erin Costello pleading for the return of her son. They both watched the news item, but as Erin broke down and cried, only Scott had a lump in his throat.

Later that day, Scott suggested they swing by a mall and get a change of clothes for Joshua and then maybe check out Joshua’s home. He convinced Vince that maybe they would be able to use the information to their advantage later. There was really no reason, but somehow he just felt the need to do it.

‘What the hell for?’ Vince asked.

‘Well, for one thing, he’s been wearing the same shorts for days now.’

‘Not the clothes, the home visit — fool.’

‘There’s some famous quote about knowing your enemy, or keeping them close or… well, I don’t know. I just think it wouldn’t hurt to know what we’re dealing with.’

‘My view is that enemies are better off exterminated, which is something else we need to discuss; we should start making plans for the disposal of the kid,’ Vince replied.

‘You don’t have a clue do you? We may not have to dispose of the kid. Do you really want the murder of a kid on your conscience? We could threaten or bribe his mother into silence or burn their house down, or… fuck knows what else. The more we know about the whole situation, the more we can use it to our own advantage.’

‘What do you think we’ll find?’

‘How the hell should I know? That’s what I want to find out!’ Scott shook his head, and he finished with, ‘idiot!’

They checked in on Joshua to make sure he was secure, and then without talking, they got into the car and pulled out of the garage. The shopping trip was a little uncomfortable for both of them as they tried to work out boys clothing sizes. It seemed like an impossible task, so in the end they enlisted the help of the store assistant. She seemed very competent in deciphering Scott’s — my nephew's this size — hand gestures. After the mall, it was off to the Costello residence.

Vince drove, and as they passed from neighborhood to neighborhood, Scott tuned out his surroundings as his thoughts drifted back to his childhood and how his life had become what it was today. For as long as he could remember, he’d been obsessed with fire; in fact, one of his earliest memories was of his father setting a fire and lighting it. He’d grown up in a fairly rough area of the Valley; their house was average size and middle of the road in terms of looks — which was funny because it was, in fact, in the middle of the street. One thing it did have that set it apart from the other homes in the area was its open fire; in winter, it proudly roared and crackled away in the main living area of the house. He had watched as his father crumpled sheets of newspaper into little balls, then using a variety of thin sticks, he’d carefully construct a small wigwam frame over the dry paper. Then, with a quick shake of the matchbox as if to wake up its occupants before sliding open the drawer and exposing the red tips of the matches, he’d select one at random, pull the match out, then slide the box closed again.

Scott watched in awe as his father, with a flick of his wrist, scraped the head of the match down the side of the box, and created fire. The wonderful fizzing noise and burst of bright red and yellow light instantly aroused the young Scott’s two main senses which were quickly enhanced by the beautiful aroma of ignited phosphorous. His father then held the small flame to the rolled up newspaper in the heart of the wigwam; the flame took hold, and slowly the blue flame turned yellow and began to turn the paper charcoal as it jumped over to the frail wooden frame.

With the fire started, his father then added a couple of larger chunks of wood to each side of the flaming frame and sat back on his knees to watch as the flames licked around the wood. Young Scott’s last two senses were excited as he felt the comforting heat from the fire, and he breathed in and tasted the small plume of smoke as it slipped around the room and up his nose. Scott was instantly hooked.

It’s easy to blame the parents for the way the child turns out; the frequently heated discussions that surround nature versus nurture have been around for decades, but the truth of whether this was the moment that turned a young boy into a firebug was never of any doubt to Scott. Nature had created a firebug; it was in his very being, his core; nurture never stood a chance. Sure, this was his first real exposure to fire, but the firebug was already there — screaming to get out.

It didn’t take him long to obtain and perfect the household fire starting chore, but being restricted mainly to winter weather meant there were long periods of time when he couldn’t start fires. To offset this though, as the summer months came around so did the lighter nights; these, in turn, meant more freedom — more freedom to experiment outside the confines of his home.

Oil drums were his next big thing. Setting fires in empty oil drums was fun. Although they were relatively hard to find, Scott discovered that if he trawled the neighborhood thoroughly enough, a good sixty percent of the time he’d find one. Thick, oil-coated drums filled with paper and card burnt fiercely; flames leapt from their gaping mouths and gave off thick black clouds of smoke — marvelous!

Setting fires became an addiction; he was good at it — and very careful. Fires were started at his school, in his neighborhood, and as Scott the boy became a teen and the teen became a young man, fires would repeatedly occur around his life…but no one knew it was him… until Tims came along.

Scott had tried several times to remember exactly how he met Tims, aka Harrison, but the reality was that often fate takes hold of two people, and they are just destined to collide.

Tims told him there was good money in this type of work, and to prove it he got Scott to do a couple of little jobs for a few hundred dollars. Scott didn’t really care about the money; all he wanted to do was create fire. His career advisor at school harped on about finding something he was good at and trying to make a career out of that; so in a way, Scott was living his dream. It was just a shame he had to work at the local tire-fitting shop as a front.

But Scott never forgot how he’d met Vince. According to Tims, there was a new megamart called Europorium coming to Bakersfield. The company was big in Europe, and as they had spread around the different states of America, they had a reputation for swallowing small and large businesses alike. In the paper, Scott had seen the unfinished building that was to be its new home; it was a gargantuan site, somewhat near the size of a small Mall, and in many ways it was a shopper’s dream.

He had read about their method of trading. The experience started at the parking lot with attendants at every entrance equipped with portable GPS terminals to guide you to the next available slot — so no endless circling of the lot or frustrating waits. For the disabled, obese, or downright lazy, there was free valet parking — just call fifteen minutes before the end of your shopping experience and your car would be there at the door waiting. In the store, aisles were wide enough to drive cars through; experts were on hand for any manner of products you had in mind to purchase; there were computer and electronic gurus in attendance to assist with PCs, laptops, TVs, MP3s, cameras, and all manner of whiteware. Fashion designers were on hand to help you choose the perfect outfit. There were also Dermatologists, Jewelers; the list went on and on

To keep the males amused, the big sport events were projected onto forty-foot walls near the bar area, and of course, crèche and arcade facilities were available for children of all ages. Already there was a buzz of anticipation around town. People wanted to work there, and people wanted to shop there — a simple and effective business model for everyone involved — except of course, if you were a competitor or local small business owner.

Scott didn’t know if it was one of the three big area marts or a collection of smaller retailers that had indirectly hired him; all he knew was they wanted the job done well, and they wanted the job done ASAP. He had been given free reign over what to do, but they wanted it to be irreparably damaged. Ideally, they wanted construction to go back to the beginning, or indeed, cease altogether.

It was a big job; in fact, it was the biggest Scott had been contracted to do. Paradoxically, it was a chance for him to make a name for himself while remaining unknown. The envelope Tims had given him was thorough enough with basic blueprints and satellite images of the site. All gas, electric, and other main utility points were marked as were all entrances and exits. There was security, but even at this progressed stage of construction it was rudimentary. The construction workers had portable cabins dotted around the site, so the company’s security guard patrolled these checking a door lock here and a window there, and since the building was still bare and open concrete walls, he effectively only looked out for taggers.

Scott had done several drive-bys to check on the site both by day and at night. During day-time hours, there was the hustle and bustle of the hard-hatted construction workers going about their business. Steel girders were moved around by huge whirling cranes; continual lines of concrete trucks dropped their loads, and then shuffled off to get a refill. By night, the tableau was totally different. The dark gray concrete structure loomed cold and lonely beneath the shadows of the oppressive cranes that stood guard at each corner. The portable cabins looked like abandoned shipping containers dotted around the site, and during Scott’s visits, the only creature that moved was the security guard — on the hour — every hour.

With his plan set in mind, and his truck already loaded with the gear he needed, Scott checked his watch again, started the engine, and set off to the job. Arriving at his chosen vantage point on a bank to the rear of the site, he killed the truck’s headlights, coasted to a halt, and then turned off the engine. He reclined the driver’s seat a few notches and scanned the scene to ensure that nothing was out of place or unusual. As his eyes grew accustomed to the dark, the only thing different from the previous night was a dark sedan parked on the roadside leading to the eastern side of the site. It didn’t really look out of place, but Scott watched it for a while before he slipped out of the truck and moved to its rear. He checked his watch again, three A.M. precisely.

Looking down at the site, he crouched low and waited for the guard to make his way clockwise around the building, circling and checking the odd cabin as he went. In some strange way, Scott admired the guard for his diligence — effectively conducting the same fruitless task eight times a night, where many other, lazier, men would have skipped a few times in favor of the TV. But tonight Scott was getting restless, tonight he had a job to do, and tonight the guard was holding him up.
Come on, come on – you’ve checked them already — no-one’s been there since they knocked off at seven, so nothing’s changed since the last time you checked,
he encouraged himself, not knowing at that point how wrong he was.

As the guard disappeared from view, Scott grabbed his kit bag and hosepipe from the back of the flatbed, looped the coiled length of hose over his shoulder and under his arm, and then made his way down the slope. He cut a small hole in the security fence and crept up to the building. Although well into its construction, the gaping holes that had yet to be plugged with automatic doors meant that access was easy. Once inside, he moved to the left and crouched down in the corner, unfolded the schematic drawing of the site, and flicked on his flashlight; its beam quickly illuminated his present location. He already knew the route he was going to take, but he raised the light and ran the beam low from left to right to help to get his bearings and see if there were any obstacles he might potentially trip over. Comfortable that the coast was clear, he clicked off the flashlight and waited for his eyes to welcome the dark.

A tiny scraping noise, like nails on canvas, followed by a sharp click broke the silence. Immediately, the hair on the back of his neck stood to attention. It was such a slight sound and could easily be explained a number of ways: the settling of the new building into the Californian soil, the structure’s concrete cooling, any bit of the debris around the site resting or moving in the breeze that channeled down the huge corridors, maybe even a small animal. But for Scott, there was another explanation; instinctively, he knew he wasn’t alone.

He remained crouched and silent as his eyes tried desperately to pierce the darkness, seeking movement to confirm his suspicions, while secretly hoping it was just some form of paranoia. He waited patiently for more than two long minutes with no further sound as his mind sought rationalization
. It’s just big game nerves taking hold of me; I need to calm down and trust I’ve done my homework right,
he told himself.
After seven at night, no one aside from the guard comes to the site. The guard runs his security route as regular as clockwork and doesn’t
stray from his set course. No, it just has to bet one of those inexplicable noises, a bump in the night, a…
  but before he could finish, the scrape and click sounded again, only this time very much closer.