The Travelling Man (14 page)

She brought the revolver up and assumed a shooter’s stance, gripping the weapon in both hands and bringing it in closer to her chest. She leaned out slightly so that she could see into the apartment. She could see a man kneeling on the floor in the centre of the room. His back was to her and his shoulders were shaking slightly. Now that she was a little closer, she could hear him sobbing slightly. There was a splattered mess on the floor surrounding him as though someone had spilled a large barrel of something dark and sticky.

“Mr Singer?” she said, recognising him now, as well as noticing an extra pair of feet sticking out from underneath him.

She stepped into the room and gestured for Kevin to stay in the hallway. As she moved forward, she tried to ignore the body splayed on the floor and concentrated on Singer as he was the only one moving. “Mr Singer, I need you to stand up slowly and place your hands on your head,” she ordered.

“I didn’t mean to,” Singer whispered, in a voice so low that she could barely hear him. “I just wanted her to love me like I love her, but she wouldn’t admit it. She was scared of me, can you believe that? Scared of me,” he laughed bitterly.

Cassie moved further into the room and risked a glance down at the floor and the body that Singer was kneeling over. It was female she could tell, as the woman’s clothes were ripped and torn asunder. There was too much blood from multiple wounds for Cassie’s quick glance to gain any sort of identification.

A glint of silver drew her full attention back to Singer as she spotted that he was still holding what was presumably the murder weapon. She reaffirmed her aim at the back of his head and tried to keep her voice calm but authoritative so as not to spook him further but still get his attention. “Mr Singer, I’m sure that we can sort all of this mess out, but for now I need you to drop the knife and stand up.”

He looked down at his hand and she saw surprise on his face as though he hadn’t known that he’d been holding it. “I told her not be scared but she wouldn’t listen, she just wouldn’t listen, SHE WOULDN’T LISTEN, SHE WOULDN’T LISTEN!” He punctuated every statement by thumping his head hard with his other hand.

“Mr Singer, I need you to calm down and calm down now,” she ordered again but she could feel that he wasn’t listening. Wherever he was, he wasn’t here.

Suddenly, he leapt to his feet and started to rock back and forth on his feet, the knife hanging low by his side. She could hear him mumbling something to himself but she couldn’t hear anything else as his body broke into great racking sobs.  

Just then she heard the thunder of running footsteps approaching along the hallway. She kept her eyes and her gun on Singer as she heard Kevin shouting and struggling with someone in the corridor. She felt, rather than saw, the figures emerge behind her in the doorway and so did Singer. He turned and she saw his eyes bulging with fear and grief and then the next thing she knew someone had grabbed her and threw her hard to one side.

She landed hard on her shoulder with something huge on top of her. She managed to twist her head to one side and her eyes locked with Singer’s.

“FREEZE!” someone yelled.

She could see that Singer was lifting his hands up in the air but he was still holding the knife in one hand and someone panicked.

She didn’t see which FBI agent opened fire but four shots were fired. Three hit Singer, punching large holes in his chest and sending him spinning backwards into the kitchen before hitting the cooker hard and sliding down, leaving a red trail against the white metal.

Kevin rolled off of her and she was glad of the weight lifting from her. She was up on her feet in a flash and spinning towards the agents. Both of them looked barely out of high school and they wore equal matching expressions of shock.

“Sorry, Boss,” Kevin said at her shoulder, which was now aching monstrously. “I could see that those boys had itchy trigger fingers and they weren’t gonna wait.”

“Thanks,” she said softly to him, nodding her appreciation. “What the hell, fellas?” she shouted loudly at the Feds.

They both turned to look at her as Kevin went to check on Singer. “He had a weapon,” one of them said in a shaky voice.

“He had a knife. Genius! What did you think, that he was part of a circus act? That he was going to throw a knife faster than a bullet?”

The two men at least had the good grace to suddenly find something of great interest on the floor as they looked down.

“Jesus, couldn’t you see that the guy was in shock?” she asked them, but knowing the answer. She looked over at Kevin who had examined Singer and he shook his head. “Brilliant,” she murmured.

“Hey, isn’t that Becky James?” one of the Feds said as he moved closer to the woman on the ground.

“The actress?” the other one replied. “What the hell would some Hollywood star be doing in a shit hole like this?”

“She was from here,” Kevin’s voice rumbled from the kitchen as he stood up again.

“Shit,” the greener of the agents said as he carefully avoided the bloody corpse. “That’s some homecoming.”

----------

Jim Lesnar had waited all day for the police to come knocking, but none had. He had been practicing his innocent look in the mirror all morning and rehearsing his story, but it hadn’t been necessary.

He stared out of his office window at his kingdom below and felt like a real king now. He had taken the life of someone who had mocked and derided him and he had shown her just who he really was. It was a liberating thought and was accompanied by zero guilt, a further sign of his rightful ascension.

He looked down at his hands and felt their undeniable power and also their thirst. He flexed his huge thick fingers as the bones cracked and popped. He wondered just how many others he could fit down the waste chute; his list was long and the days were short.

“It is intoxicating, is it not? Power.”

The voice didn’t startle him as, once he was sure that the police were not coming, he had been expecting this man instead. He turned towards Grange who had appeared out of nowhere and was now sitting in the chair opposite his desk. The man was still wearing the same suit that he had been in on the other times that he had seen him, but it still looked as fresh as the day it was made.

“Mr Grange,” Lesnar greeted him.

“Mr Lesnar,” Grange replied, tipping his hat politely.

“To what do I owe the pleasure?” Lesnar smiled, feeling every ounce of his newfound confidence.

“Just a courtesy call, Mr Lesnar; just thought that I’d check in on you, see how you’re doing.”

“Oh, I’m doing just fine, Mr Grange,” Lesnar smiled broadly.

“I can see that. Your recent activities certainly agree with you, I must say.”

Lesnar was not surprised in the least that Grange knew what he’d been up to the night before. He knew that he should be concerned that there was a potential witness, but he instinctively knew that Grange was not interested in anything as petty as morality.

“The only problem with power,” Grange started, “is that it gives one an appetite; one little taste and all you want is more and more until you’re fit to burst and even then it’s never enough. There are levels, like anything else in life. When you’re a child and you get your first job - maybe a paper route, maybe mowing lawns - you think that little bundle of change you receive is all the money in the world. Then you get a little older and you earn a little more and maybe buy a car, maybe a house, but it’s all about levels.”

Lesnar listened to the man talk, wondering just why he was doing so. Sure the guy had a few
parlor tricks up his sleeve but Jim Lesnar had crushed the life from another human being last night with his bare hands and got away with it. “Look, this is all very interesting and everything, but I am a busy man.”

Grange was on his feet in a flash. With a flick of his wrist he threw the large oak desk to one side, sending it smashing into the far wall like it was made of paper. “YOU LISTEN TO ME!” he roared, sending a shower of spittle into Lesnar’s face as it was slammed into the wall. “YOU WILL LISTEN TO YOUR ELDERS AND BETTERS!”

Lesnar’s head was thumped back against the wall over and over again until he saw stars. Up close, Grange was no longer the genial, older, dapper man with a fruity accent; up close, he was terrifying and Lesnar felt a warm trickle run down his leg as his bladder let go.

“I’m terribly sorry,” Grange said as all traces of fury fell from his face as quickly as they had appeared. “Where are my manners?”

“It’s okay,” Lesnar managed as Grange mercifully stepped back.

The older man exaggeratedly brushed the drywall dust from Lesnar’s jacket. “Spick and span, spick and span,” he sang as he cleaned. “There. We are all better.”

Lesnar stood shakily and watched the man, feeling like he was walking a tightrope. Grange had been right; there were always levels and, despite what he had done last night with the hooker, Grange was so far above him he couldn’t even see the man.

“There may be a job opening on the cards before too long,” Grange smiled. “I am always on the lookout for fresh talent and a man, even a man like myself, can’t go on forever.”

Lesnar’s mouth opened involuntarily to tell Grange that he already had a job, but he managed to override the thought and closed his mouth before he made a mistake. Something told him that Grange’s needle was hovering around the red danger zone and he didn’t want to make the guy blow.

“The night is drawing in, Mr Lesnar,” Grange said, sitting down and smoothing out his pants elegantly. “The days are getting short and the sands of time are racing against me,” he continued sadly, staring off into the distance. “You know, people always like to talk about having a good run, reaching a ripe old age, all of that nonsense. It’s just something that we tell ourselves to make the dying of the light seem a little more bearable, but in the end there’s never enough time, never enough.”

Lesnar sat and waited for what seemed like an age as Grange fell silent. Part of him desperately wanted to know what Grange was offering and an equally large part wanted him to run away screaming as fast as his short twisted legs could manage.

“So I’m recruiting,” Grange finally said. “Recruiting my replacement and your name is at the top of my list, Mr Lesnar. Tell me, my boy, are you interested?”

Despite his gnawing terror, Lesnar felt his head start to nod.

CHAPTER
10

taking stock

The man sat upon the ground, the desert sands blowing around him on the gentle winds. He closed his eyes and tried to find his centre again. These days, it seemed that he found it harder and harder to find that inner beam of peaceful concentration. He could stay like this for minutes, hours, or even years if he so chose.

He sat cross legged and tucked his feet into the space behind his knees in a yoga pose. Here, he could be himself, unencumbered by the requirement of masks and illusions. His suit hung around him in filthy rags, rotting away through the years of use and wear. His face was ashen and his skin was paper thin like ancient parchment, rough and sandy. His hair was long and lank, a mixture of greasy black and steely grey. His eyes were the only part of him that radiated power and fierce life. They glowed and sparkled, small black diamonds that rotated inside of his ancient face, burning outwards and casting a circle of light across the sand.

As he entered his mind, names slowly passed through and he had to try and remember just who he was now and even where he was. He had been many men at many times, but in his heart he was a salesman and the name never really mattered. He had sold his wares from the back of carts dragged through the mud and over huge monstrous desks atop the highest skyscrapers. A deal was a deal and he only gave the people what they wanted; that was always the agreement, no matter how much they might complain afterwards.

Here he was Gilbert, Gilbert Grange. The alliteration was always his little signature, a little self-indulgence that he couldn’t help. Whether it was Gilbert Grange or
Bryson
Benjamin
or
Terrence
Tobias
, it didn’t matter; it was the little touch that brought a smile to his face. Sometimes he wondered just who he had originally been. There were occasional glimpses of a face that had been his own once, but they were always too fleeting for him to catch his teeth on and truly remember.

He started to leave the ground. His body shook and trembled as he eased up just a few inches and the closing night air crackled around him with electricity, albeit dimmed somewhat. There was a time when he thought that he could have flown, but now it took everything he had just to rise a few inches. No matter how long he had lived and how long he had plied his trade, it had all seemed like a blink of an eye; there was never enough time.

The ancient dark leathery case lay on the ground next to him. The fading sky showered little light downwards but gave enough to see that the sides of the bag bulged and pulsed in and out as though the contents were struggling to breathe and to be freed. It was his job to sell and to collect and business was always good as long as mankind had desire. There would always be those looking to sell and he was always looking to buy.

Despite what people may have thought of him, he never lied. his honesty was part of his job and his makeup. His days were growing short and he needed to find a replacement and soon. It was a special job and required a special person to fill its shoes. Granton had attracted him because there lurked a very special black heart in the small mining town and time was growing decidedly short.

He fell back to the ground again, frustrated at his ailing powers. This town would be his last, of that there was no doubt now. Altering reality was draining him even quicker than he had feared and he was starting to wonder if he had, in fact, misjudged what little time he had left. He couldn’t be sure that there weren’t gaps appearing in his creations and after so long at the reins, he despised the thought that he might end his tenure without a flawless record.

He might have been attracted to Granton in the first place, but the town was far from the sleepy backwater that he’d envisaged. There was danger for him here, danger for the first time in forever. In the midst of the desolate sand and shifting empty winds, a desert rose bloomed, and she wore a badge.

CHAPTER
11

blooming desert winds

Cassie broke the habit of a lifetime, stepping outside of her uniform and pouring a round of whisky shots into small white plastic cups. She was sitting at her father’s desk - it would always be his desk, no matter how long she held the office. Kevin, Tom and Jeanne were crammed into the office along with Dr Stewart.

The gathering was designed to try and get a grip of just what was happening in their town. In the past few days it seemed like the whole world had fallen down around their ears and they had been unable to prevent it. They had bodies stacking up in the town morgue, which had never seen such business, and the questions were far outweighing the answers.

Despite Special Agent Harper’s firm assertions that Marshal Dinkins had been the Herod and thus responsible for the deaths of Harlan Harris and Davey Mackie, she was yet to be convinced. The two townsmen obviously did not fit the serial killer’s profile, but Harper was sure that his investigation would turn up a reason. She had tried to talk with him but she could see that while his face was friendly and open, his eyes were cold and vacant.

Now to top everything else off, two of Harper’s agents had blown away Dean Singer, a local landlord, who had in turn murdered the only celebrity that Granton had ever produced - the actress, Becky James.

Cassie once again had the strangest sensation that, while everyone was talking about the famous actress, she found herself oddly disconnected from their chatter. Her brain told her that Becky James had left Granton behind to pursue a successful career. She could picture the woman in her mind and could even remember watching a couple of her movies but, much like with Dinkins and the Herod serial killer case, none of it seemed real - more like a fuzzy dream.

Her staff looked tired and strained. Kevin seemed diminished sat in the office, his massive shoulders slumped, and he sat with his arms folded across his broad chest. Tom looked worse; she knew that the deputy had ambitions to become a detective and could easily imagine that his confidence must have been shattered to discover such goings on under his nose. Jeanne looked worried; her face was pinched and her eyes carried matching luggage. Although given the woman’s constant side glances to Kevin, Cassie wondered whether the dispatcher’s concerns were more for her unrequited love.

Doc Stewart looked like he had the weight of the world on his shoulders. Cassie had never known the man to be anything other than upbeat; now, he seemed to have aged dramatically in a short space of time. Cassie was grateful that the Feds were bringing in their own medical examiners after the shooting. While the Doc’s pride might have been dented, he could certainly use the help.

To add a cherry on top of the shitty cake Linda Jarvis had been found dead in her backyard. Doc Stewart’s initial examination had been inconclusive, but at least it didn’t seem to fit in with the spate of murders. The Doc had said that it had probably been some kind of internal hemorrhage or aneurism, but he had been a little vague on the details telling her that she’d have to wait for the report.   

Harper hadn’t bothered to consider her office after his agents had opened fire. He had simply assumed control and pushed her aside. In truth, she had still been in too much shock at yet another two deaths to put up any kind of fight over jurisdiction. It wasn’t the violence that troubled her, more the setting. Granton’s sleepy nature had been rocked to its core, exposing a rotten underbelly that she had never known existed. She was happy for Harper to run his investigation and she’d run her own.

----------

Cassie drove by The Oasis Bar on the way home. It was a regular stop off for her as it was one of the best places in town to pick up any fresh news in town. She was feeling disconnected with her people and needed to plug back in.

She’d left her staff with as much of a rousing speech as she could muster and could only hope that it would tide them over. Their eyes had been full of shock and uncertainty and she knew that she had to be their standard bearer, regardless of her own feelings; she wore the big badge and sat in the big chair.

Donald Mercy owned and ran The Oasis Bar. He was an amiable sort of a man, always smart and tidy and he kept his place problem free. It helped, of course, that the miners frequented The Nugget across town which left The Oasis to the townsfolk more interested in having a good time rather than causing trouble.

She pulled into the parking lot and saw that business was booming for Donald. There were multiple license plates from out of town attached to a whole bunch of vehicles that she didn’t recognise.

The tracking down and subsequent killing of the Herod, a serial killer that had been national news, had brought a certain level of interest to their town. But now a celebrity had been butchered, and that was a whole new ballgame. The news trucks were one thing -  at least at their heart they were professional journalists -  but now the gossip mongers had descended and these people cared little for rules. Jeanne had already fielded more complaints about intrusive reporters than any actual crime days in the town’s history. A plague of locusts had befallen Granton and she could do little to keep them from eating everything in their path.

She took her position very seriously, as had her father before. They wore the badge and they kept the peace. But right now, her town was hurting and she had to try and wrestle back some kind of control. Let Harper and the Feds run around in circles; they didn’t know her town and they didn’t know her people.

----------

Matt Kravis saw the big cop enter the bar. In the short time that he had been in Granton, he was still impressed by her sheer size and stature. She carried herself with such an effortless sense of confidence and authority that he felt every head turn towards her as she entered the room and every head dipped a little in deference.

He was nursing a cold soda and buying rounds for his new friends. Faces came and went at the bar and he was an expert in knowing which would open up and which wouldn’t. He probed a little here and there, mining small nuggets of information from various sources before rearranging the jigsaw pieces into a partial picture of the town. It was slow going and he knew that there would be faster ways, but he also knew that it was more important to fly below the radar.

He instinctively turned his face to one side as the Sheriff approached the bar. He had been talking to the barman-come-owner, a big guy named Donald. It had been like pulling teeth to get anything from the man but slowly, after the last couple of nights, he had started to open up, just a little. Matt knew that a barman was always one of the most reliable sources of information in any small town. The number one target would have been the local priest, but Matt had yet to manage to meet that particular resource.

“Hey, Sheriff,” Donald greeted the badge-wearing Amazonian.

“Hey, Donny, how’s business?” she greeted him back.

“Booming,” he grinned, looking around the packed bar.

Matt couldn’t help but notice just how much the town’s population seemed to have swelled dramatically in the past few days. It was often an unavoidable side effect in his experience. On the one hand, the added people would get in the way, but on the up side it did offer significantly more foliage to hide behind.

“Mr Kravis,” she said, suddenly noticing him.

He knew that he should have slipped away when he had the chance - there had certainly been time - but for some reason he hadn’t wanted to. “Sheriff,” he nodded back, slurring his words a little for effect, trying to look as harmless as possible.

“Your visit seems to have coincided with somewhat of a circus, Mr Kravis,” she said in a casual tone, but he could feel the fierce and suspicious intelligence behind her eyes.

“That almost sounds like an accusation,” he grinned, in spite of his better judgment. The last thing that he wanted was to be noticed in Granton and here he was, sparring with the Sheriff. She looked at him long and hard, enough to make him feel uncomfortable.

“I don’t make accusations, Mr Kravis. I’m more interested in facts,” she said firmly, but not unpleasantly.

He took a swig from his frosty glass, enjoying the cold soda in the hot bar. He could feel several pairs of eyes on him from the locals scattered around the place. It wasn’t good for him to be so noticeable and he cursed himself for letting his guard slip. “Is there something that you’d like to ask me, Sheriff?” he asked, wanting to end the conversation quickly now.

“I’m just curious about any new faces, especially at this time, Mr Kravis,” she said in a low tone that demanded to be taken seriously.

“That sounds like an excellent policy, Sheriff,” he agreed, nodding his head.

She left him then to move around the bar. He watched on as she shook some hands and greeted townies and the newcomers who were mostly affiliated with either law enforcement or news outlets. Her face was open and friendly but Kravis couldn’t help but notice that her eyes were ever watchful. There was a spark of interest that he couldn’t deny and he vowed to stay as far away from the Sheriff as possible. He was in Granton for only one reason: the man calling himself Gilbert Grange. He had made a promise a long time ago, a promise to himself and to her and he could not, would not, allow anything to deviate him from his path.