Authors: Simon Leigh
Out of Promises (2 page)
The heavy rain masked the creak as the church door gently caressed the stony ground. A small gust of air brushed passed the newcomer sending the candlelight dancing in the dark.
He entered without a sound and checked around before limping his way gradually to the altar with his weapon cocked and ready, heavy in his gloved hand. The weapon was a revolver, a twenty year old Colt Python .357 Magnum with a six inch barrel and six round capacity. The grip was engraved with a picture of an open winged eagle, worn away slightly through overuse.
The man at the altar had his eyes closed, unaware of his new company. His mind was set on his daughter’s giggling face. She looked happy, running around a park near where they used to live, begging for him to chase her. But he couldn’t move; he could only watch, like he was frozen in time. He was afraid. The mother of his daughter walked into his field of vision and looked him in the eye, her long brown hair blowing in the breeze. At first she sent out a beaming smile. The same smile that made him fall in love with her, the smile to melt any man. The smile that faded as she looked down into her arms. She began to cry.
‘Look,’
she said, tearfully. He lowered his eyes to a bundle of cloth nestled in her arms.
‘Look what you did!’
She moved closer to him. He tried to back away.
Then he felt the hard barrel of a gun jammed into the back of his head, returning him to the church.
‘Don't turn around,’ said the stranger, his voice smoky and full of phlegm.
‘I know your voice,’ replied the man on his knees.
‘I’d be surprised if you didn’t, Freddie.’
‘How do you know my name?’
No answer from the stranger.
‘Whatever you want, just take it,’ Freddie said, turning his head to look at the man.
A broad smile appeared. The stranger yelled: ‘I told you not to turn around!’ He swung the revolver hard into the side of Freddie’s head, sending him spinning to the cold stone floor.
On the ground, Freddie felt the warm ooze of blood trickle from his head as he focussed on the face of his attacker. It was only then that he knew that his life was just about over. ‘You!’ he said. ‘What do you want?’
The stranger stood over him, looked down into his eyes and raised the revolver. ‘Goodbye, Freddie.’
Valerie didn’t hear the shot; she’d fallen asleep, waking only to the dull sound of a truck’s horn and water spraying across the car’s hood.
She looked at the clock.
Shit.
She’d been asleep for well over two hours. During that time, the rain had subsided to a light pour with the moonlight reflecting each droplet as it fell onto the pale illuminated road.
Looking out at the deadly quiet church and gazing up at the silhouette of the spire standing out against the vacant sky, she wondered if Freddie was still inside. After all, his SUV was still there.
She had to find out.
The icy night air skated across her skin as she stepped out. Other than the patter of raindrops, the place was silent.
Houses sat opposite the church with the city lights blinking beyond. Right now, she wished she was back there, back to normality, whatever that was. The area around the church reminded her of English country villages she’d seen on TV, the kind of places the elderly came to retire. She didn’t like it. It was all too foreign from the security and comfort of the city.
Heaving a sigh, she walked passed Freddie’s silver SUV, and on to the ten feet tall decaying oak doors. Gently pushing them, the wind smothered her like a vacuum, pushing her inside.
She stood in the darkness waiting for her eyes to focus. The few candles that were still burning didn’t help at all.
Everything was silent apart from water splashing from the dripping roof into the font beside her.
As she readied herself to venture farther into the gloomy church, she was startled by the slam of a door shutting from the room to her left.
What the hell was that?
At the door, she pressed her ear to the cold wood hearing nothing but the persistent howling wind clawing the church walls.
God dammit.
For a better look, she pulled the door a few inches to reveal a dim light, like a lighter or a match, accompanied by a shadow.
‘Freddie?’ she asked.
A grunt came from the shadow before it lunged for the door. She didn’t know what to do, and seconds later, the shadowy figure barged into the door, sending her to the ground with a yelp.
The stranger stood before her, roaming his menacing eyes across her body with a broad grin on his face showing rank yellow teeth in a rough, scarred face.
With his perverted gaze, he limped towards her.
She kicked away, desperately searching for grip with her feet sliding on the rain damped ground. She reached for her gun, which was in the car.
Stupid mistake.
Her heart beat faster the closer he got. Frozen with fear and absolutely terrified, she couldn’t pick herself up from the ground no matter how hard she tried. She closed her eyes, hoping he would just go away. But he didn’t go away, not right away. Instead, he bent down to her with his rancid breath touching her skin and entering her body, forcing its way into her lungs. With a searching hand, he firmly grabbed her right breast. Normally, she’d hit it away, but he wasn’t some frisky clubber trying it on; he was a creature from another world slowly stroking her breast in a clockwise motion. Taking great pleasure from her humiliation, he squeezed hard, hurting her. She cried out for him to leave her alone, fearful of him pinning her down and violating her in ways she had never been. But he didn’t do any of that. He just let out another grunt, released her breast and walked past her to the exit and out of the church leaving her breathless and alone.
At first, she didn’t move, opting to stay on the cold floor to catch her breath for a few minutes. She wanted to run, but her boss wouldn’t accept that; his rage was far more terrifying than anything she’d known before. She had to find Freddie and that was all he would care about.
When she finally stood up, she composed herself and entered the room the stranger had come from. It turned out that the room was used for storage and contained a spiral staircase leading up to the bell tower. There was another locked door inside that she figured must be a cupboard. Not wanting to brave the spiral staircase just yet, she turned and moved back into the hall.
Shaking, she walked slowly along the centre aisle, pissed off for both seizing up, and for falling asleep.
She passed each pew with her arms folded over her breasts for comfort. The ticking of water hitting the ground grew louder, like a clock counting down to something. She was afraid. The dark was increasing her discomfort, and with what just happened playing over in her mind, she just wanted out of there, Freddie or no Freddie.
With each step taking her farther away from the exit, she used her foot to feel in front of her like a blind man without a stick. A shiver raced down her spine as a fluttering noise came from the rafters. Looking up at the blackness through squinting eyes, her foot caught on something and she stumbled to the floor.
‘Shit,’ she muttered.
Picking up the item, she moved her fingers around it, feeling the wet wooden cross with a Jesus figure attached.
She looked around. ‘Freddie?’
Nothing but an empty echo.
With watering eyes and trembling limbs, she walked to a candle on the wall for a better look.
‘What the hell?’ she said, looking at her blood covered hands. She let go of the cross, which hit the ground with a thud.
Is this Freddie’s blood?
‘Freddie!?’ she bellowed, wiping her hands on her clothes and wiping her tears away.
More flutters came from above.
She was a wreck, but carried on regardless.
Minutes later at the front of the church, she wasn’t thinking clearly. Fear had taken over and nullified the logical part of her mind making her see all manner of things in the shadows, convincing her that she could see a body on the large cross behind the altar. On a normal day, this wasn’t anything out of place, but this was the source of the dripping sound. With her gut telling her something was terribly wrong, she approached the hanging cross to discover a body tied with rope around the neck, arms, and legs. Blood dripped from a bullet hole in the skull, trickling along the body to the shoes and on to the floor, pooling at her feet.
‘Freddie!?’ she yelled, holding her hand to her mouth and questioning the sight before her.
With haste, she turned and ran for the exit, collecting the smaller cross on her way out while slipping on the blood along the centre aisles.
There are many ways to describe Jackson Matherson. Tall. Confident. Mouthy. But the one that he was most well-known for was reliable. Thirty six years old, having spent the most important years of his life as a friend to Valerie Lambert, he had a terrible habit of speaking his mind, bringing with it unwanted attention. He stole his first car at eight years old, which his father beat him for.
‘You’re attracting the wrong kind of attention,’
his father would shout. At the time, Jackson didn’t know what it meant, but over the years, he learned of what his father did for a living, eventually being brought into the business at sixteen.
‘Why did you order Valerie to kill him?’ he asked his father.
They were on the twelfth floor of their headquarters building at Hellman’s Business Centre. Smaller office buildings surrounded them with a large parking lot out front ending at a road with shops lining up opposite. The place became larger as the business grew, erected in this location for a fast escape to the freeway leading out of town. There had been a debate as to why they’d picked the top floor for the main office as the means of escape were slim – just an elevator and a stairwell – but in the end Jackson had to back down. He thought his father had too much confidence; his father thought it showed power.
The office was spacious with a high ceiling and large windows covering the entire outside wall showing a stunning view of the city, even at this time of night. Long blue blinds fluttered in the wind on a clear sunny day, but tonight they were static and lifeless. To the right of where Jackson was sitting was a door to a meeting room and a bathroom beside it.
Across a large mahogany desk was Jackson’s father, and boss of the business, Julius Matherson. A rich, powerful, distinguished looking man in a navy shirt with no tie and glasses almost falling from his nose. He was fifty nine years old now with greying hair. Still fit and sharp, he saw the aging process as a weakness. That was how he saw life: strong or weak. Yin and yang. Black and white.
Of late, things had started to turn sour. Some of his men had deserted him and his influence was diminishing like a wall crumbling. Over the years, the police had come on strongly, desperate to pin something on him, but no evidence; no conviction.
‘Are you questioning my judgment?’ he asked Jackson.
‘No. Of course not. I just thought he was a good asset to have around. He’s been with us seventeen years and he’s a good guy.’ Jackson paused to think before asking his next question. ‘Would you do this to me?’
‘I don’t pay you to think, I pay you to follow orders.’ He stood up and put his hands on the desk. ‘You are my son, but if you fuck with me, you’re nothing. People are replaceable. Don’t let your feelings get in the way of your work.’
‘Right, right, sorry.’
Matherson ignored Jackson’s tone. ‘Valerie should have called by now.’
‘I’ll call her.’
‘No, I’ll do it. I’m not too old to dial a phone.’ He picked up the receiver. ‘Leave. This is a private call since you’ve shown your disapproval. When you get out there send Sharpe in.’
Jackson saw the stern, cold eyes of his father and felt sadness for the man who once had everything. He looked older somehow, showing his age.
He stood up and walked to the doors.
Matherson said, ‘Before you go, Jackson, remember your place.’
The door closed and the room fell silent.
The reception area was a lot like the office: clean and modern. A glass coffee table with coffee machine sat in a waiting area in front of a large red sofa. Two elevators stood in the centre of the back wall with the fire exit to the left.
‘He wants you,’ Jackson said to Sharpe, who was sitting behind the desk.
Sharpe was Matherson’s lapdog. At thirty nine years old, he was an obnoxious, smug looking son of a bitch who always wore a suit, no matter what the situation.
He stood up from behind the desk, nodded to Jackson and walked past him, nudging his shoulder as he did. ‘Watch it asshole,’ he said.
Jackson wanted him to just leave. He had a phone call to make.