Wasted Lives, a Detective Mike Bridger novel (25 page)

He looked at
his watch, three hours to go.

Martin opened
his eyes, had he heard something? Had he been sleeping? He was not
sure, but the ringing in his ears had subsided. There it was again-
someone was calling his name - someone far away.

Looking at the
remains of his stepfather, slumped in the chair, he saw blood
pooling around his buttocks and onto the floor. Strangely, he had
the feeling that it was his stepfather calling, from whichever
purgatory into which he had fallen. He imagined him meeting up with
his real father in the afterlife, what his father would say to him.
He could imagine what he would have to do, as penance for his
worldly sins. However, the remains of Bill Patterson looked just
like Tama had, all busted bones and tissue leaking his bodies
secrets all over the floor. He was not saying anything, he was not
here anymore, and there was no afterlife and no way for redemption.
He would be damned in the soul of a sinner for eternity.

We all look
the same on the inside, he thought sadly. There is no difference,
it is just a pity we cannot see that while we are still alive.
Maybe his mother should have seen something different though; he
wondered what view she had of his dead stepfather, whether she had
any suspicions of his sick needs. He shook the thought from his
mind; he could not tarnish her like that. She was his only
stability.

‘
Martin McLaren, if you or anybody else are in there please
come to the door with your hands empty and your arms above your
head’

That voice
again, it sounded tinny, mechanical even, he was not really
listening, but it wanted something.

Martin looked
at the shotgun, still clutched in his stepfather’s lifeless hands,
his body refusing to relinquish it even in death.

‘
This is the Police; you need to follow our instructions. Come
to the door with your hands empty and your arms in the air… Do it
now.’

The mention of
the word police did not alarm him even slightly. He was past
caring. He felt lighter inside than he had ever felt before, he was
almost happy. Watching his stepfather blow his own head off right
in front of him was almost cleansing, putting a final full stop on
a lifetime of shame.

He had
survived it, Bill Patterson had not. It was a bittersweet victory
of sorts, he liked what he was feeling but it was a feeling he knew
would not last.

He looked at
the gun. It once again offered a way out, a way to keep the feeling
he had now, forever. It would be a final finger to the world and he
would go out on a high. He had nothing else so what did it really
matter.

He stood up in
the small room, not caring where he put his feet. There was a
slight squelch as he walked towards the window. Looking outside,
through the lace curtains, he knew he would be invisible to anyone
out there. He saw a beautiful blue sky interspersed with wispy
white clouds, the small trees outside the house were not even
moving in the minimal breeze. He could hear cicadas chirruping and
snippets of birdsong. He saw black clad figures crouched across the
street, the eyes the only thing visible, guns pointed in his
direction. He saw hatred radiated from within each of those black
figures. He saw death.

Moving further
back from the window, he lent across the still warm body. Ignoring
the coppery smell of the blood and brain matter, he took the
shotgun from its cold hands. Something purged from within the
lifeless corpse as he inadvertently shifted its position. The noise
and smell gurgled out of the hole in its head, where the mouth used
to be. He gagged and stumbled backwards.

“
That
stinks, you dirty bastard,” he said to the faceless corpse, barely
managing to hold onto his stomach contents. He screwed up his face
in distaste, and then holding the shotgun in one hand, he kicked
out at his stepfather “Fuck you Bill Patterson, the pleasure was
all yours.”

Without
looking back, he turned and walked out into the hallway and towards
the front door.

‘
Stand by, stand by’
the command crackled in the
earpieces of every member of the AOS who were all dispersed into
the quiet suburban street.
‘The front door
is opening, standby for target conformation’
Sgt Gary
Stone was acting as spotter and negotiator and had radioed the
instructions to his squad. Ken Moore, his second in command, who
also acted as the squad sniper, had taken up position beside Stone.
Ken’s rifle, the Accuracy international AW sniper rifle was against
his shoulder and pointed directly at the front door of the ordinary
looking house. Gary knew he would have a clear line of sight
through the powerful scope. Whoever stepped through that door would
be in Ken’s crosshairs, and he would be able to neutralise any
threat they presented with one small movement of his trigger
finger.

The rest of
the squad carried Bushmaster M4A3 Carbines as well as Glock 17
pistols. Gary had dispersed them between outer cordons to stop
anyone entering the street and finding themselves in crossfire, to
the inner cordons that would contain anyone inside the area that
might decide to make a run for it.

It was
something the squad trained for constantly and had done countless
times for real. The difference today was that each member’s
emotional state was on a knife-edge. They all knew and liked John
Mouller and Jo Williamson, the frustration and disappointment had
been extreme when they had not located them back at the pad. If he
put all of that with the adrenalin from earlier still in their
bloodstream, and the fact that some had expressed their concerns
that they were wasting time with this job while not looking for
their friends, made Gary Stone a very nervous man.

He knew his
priorities should be with his missing colleagues but this was a
legitimate call, more than one person had reported hearing gunshots
and that meant they had to deal with it. He did not want an
incident today; they did not have the time to waste if someone on
his team let his discipline slip in any way.

He had no
further time to think about it as the door across the road from
them opened fully, and a figure stepped through and out onto the
porch.

“
Be advised, we have a male in the doorway, dark hair, medium
build, dark clothing
” Stone was watching him through
his binoculars but his arms were obscured by a small bush that was
within his line of sight, he needed to see what he was carrying.
Moving sideways to get a better look, he still tried to stay within
partial cover in case this male posed a threat. His fears were
borne out when he saw the unmistakable shape of a shotgun, one that
had its barrels shortened. The male was carrying it with one hand,
barrels towards the ground, hand around the wooden stock, finger in
the trigger guard. With the other hand, he saw him wipe at his
face, as if brushing away sweat, or tears.

“
That’s
Martin McLaren.” Ken Moore said with certainty, his index finger
moving from outside the trigger guard to rest lightly on the
trigger itself.

Stone saw Ken
Moore’s breathing slow down in preparation for a shot.

“
Alpha one to all members, we have one male combatant standing
on the front porch. He has a shortened double barrel shotgun in his
right hand. It’s being held at waist level pointing at the
ground”
Stone took a breath; he had obligations now in
relation to standard operating procedure and police general
instructions
“Be advised F061 applies, do
not engage unless he poses a threat or tries to break the
cordon.”
There was more to it than what he had said
and he knew that all of his squad members knew this ‘General
Instruction’ back to front and inside out. As always, he had to
tick every box in case they ended up shooting someone. It was not
so much to safeguard himself, more to protect his fellow squad
members, who in most cases would only be doing their job. The
public outcry would attract all the anti police establishment
types, and there would be heads called for if any discrepancy was
found. The bosses in Police Headquarters based in Wellington would
do their best but there always had to be someone to blame. He was
buggered if he was going to let it be one of his squad.

“
I have
a shot Gary,” Ken said, not taking his master eye from the
scope.

“
Okay
Ken, but let me try and talk him down first. We don’t want to get
tied up in a shooting today, not with Jo and John still out there
somewhere” Stone picked up his loud hailer and switched it
on.

“
There
can’t be too many sawn-off shotguns floating around this city” Ken
said “I’m betting this one was used on the shopkeeper in the
robbery and I’m willing to double the odds that it was used to kill
Tama Wilson as well. If Martin was involved in all of that then he
deserves to be shot”

Gary looked
down at his colleague “You might be right Ken but it doesn’t stop
me having to do this by the book” he put his mouth to the
speaker.

“
I need
you to put the weapon down and move into the street… do it
now.”

No
movement.

“
Put
down the gun and move into the street now, we have armed police
surrounding you”

Martin looked
up, shielding his eyes from the sun he scanned from left to right,
then his eyes located Gary and Ken and that is where they
stayed.

“
We have
firearms trained on you right now; if you present a danger to us
you will be shot. Put down your gun and move out into the
street.”

Martin started
moving, slowly, taking one small step at a time, eyes fixed on Gary
and Ken.

“
He’s
moving Gary, he still has the gun,” Ken said urgently.

Gary glanced
quickly at Ken and saw the knuckle on his trigger finger go white.
“Stand down Ken, his gun is still pointing to the ground. You have
to let me do this my way”

Martin kept
advancing towards the front gate, walking slowly on the concrete
path. The gun held loosely in his right hand.

“
If that
gun moves even a small fraction in our direction, he’s dead” Ken
spat out angrily.

Martin reached
the front gate and kept moving.

“
Martin
McLaren, stop where you are and put down the Gun” Gary knew this
was the last throw of the dice, if Martin didn’t stop then Ken
would shoot, and he had seen what 7.62mm rifle ammunition could do
to a body at close range. Whatever Martin McLaren had done he did
not deserve that. He heard his colleague take a deep breath and
then release it slowly, he knew he was preparing to shoot; it would
only be a fraction of a second more. He did not take his eyes off
the target, willing him consciously to stop.

Then Martin
stood stock still, gun hanging limply by his side. He was less than
fifty metres away and Brian could see he had been crying. Bloody
great, he thought, all he needed now was an armed person in an
emotionally fragile state, the worst kind there was. Martin just
stood there with wide eyes looking directly at the barrel of the
rifle pointed in his direction, as if contemplating a decision.

“
This
guy wants to be shot, Gary. He knows what he’s doing; we have let
him come to far as it is.” Ken’s voice sounded on edge.

“
We’re
not in the habit of assisting people to commit suicide Ken, just
give me a chance.” Despite the situation, what Brian Johnson had
said about Bridger’s request was playing in the back of his mind.
Bridger did not always play by the rules and he kept things pretty
close to his chest, but if he needed to speak with Martin, he would
have a good reason. John and Jo’s disappearance may even be
connected.

“
Put the
gun on the ground and move to your left.” The distance between them
almost made the loud hailer redundant, but he need it to be clear
enough to all that may be listening that Martin had heard his
instructions.

Martin just
stood there and did not move.

Bridger was
driving at breakneck speed; he had tried contacting Laura on the
phone, nearly running off the road as he fumbled with the numbers
on the small keypad, but she had not answered her phone. He hoped
there would be an explanation for that other than the scenario that
was running through his head, causing his foot to press the
accelerator even harder.

The car was
fitted with red and blue lights in the front grill and on the front
and rear windows and it had a siren, which was currently blaring
out although it was struggling to compete with the sound of the
engine, but other motorists still seemed oblivious to his
haste.

“
Get out
of the bloody way you ignorant dickhead,” he yelled for the
umpteenth time as he came up fast behind a vehicle travelling at
the speed limit.

The vehicle in
front pulled slightly to the left and Bridger floored the
accelerator, feeling the car surge forward as he straddled the
white centre line, just managing to squeeze between that car and an
oncoming truck with its lights flashing and horn blaring. He saw
the angry confused eyes of the truck driver as the tractor unit
roared by, dragging its trailers so close to his car that he could
hear the noise of the wind displacement. Looking in his rear view
mirror as he continued he saw the truck's trailers swinging wildly
as the driver fought to pull back onto an even course. The sign on
the rear of the trailers read ‘Have a nice day’. The truck carried
on around the corner out of sight. He did not have time to care
what happened to it next.