Slow Burning Lies (24 page)

Patrick relaxed his grip for a second.

‘Jesus Christ, Patrick. You’re talking about burning me alive here. Tell me you wouldn’t do that to another human being. I’m begging you, please!’

‘Well, begging’s not going to… to…’

Burning alive.

Patrick’s hands went completely flaccid and lifeless around Beth’s throat.

Burning alive.

Images of writhing bodies engulfed in flames flashed through Patrick’s mind.

His hands fell away from Beth’s throat and slowly drifted down to his side. In seconds his eyes switched from madly staring to soulfully closed, and he fell down, clutching his head.

‘Patrick?’

Beth staggered to her feet, edged away, then pounced on the gun. Her trembling hands pointed it at Patrick as she stepped towards the gap in the wood. Then she stopped, and slowly stepped back towards Patrick.

Patrick looked up to her, his face a wet ruddy mess. And then he wasn’t looking at Beth, he was looking straight at the gun. ‘Do it,’ he said, ‘Please God, yes.’

Beth slowly lowered her gun. ‘You poor shit,’ she said. ‘Whatever they did to you they sure fucked you up good and proper, didn’t they?’

She leaned down to him, keeping the gun to her side, and he gently held her and pulled her down onto the floor with him.

‘Beth. You have to help me here. I have to know what’s happening to me.’

‘I can’t.’ She tried to pull her hand away, straining while Patrick’s thick forearm hardly moved.

‘I don’t want to do this. I feel like I have no choice. I can’t control it.’ Patrick’s eyes followed a stag beetle scurrying along the rough timber floor underneath them. His spare hand reached out, and his thumb crushed the insect’s shiny body with a faint cracking sound.

Beth stopped pulling away. ‘Wait. Okay. There is one thing.’

Patrick looked up.

‘There’s the Sandman.’

‘The Sandman?’

‘I don’t know the details – I swear I don’t – but I know his address. I don’t know his real name, I think he’s a doctor of some sort, but that’s what they call him, the Sandman. I was at a weekend conference when all this started. It was my introductory meeting for the WishPhixxer project. This guy was hitting on me and, I guess, wanted to show me what a big shot he was. He gave me the address, said the Sandman was the mastermind of the whole thing. And I kept it, I thought it might come in useful some day.’ She pointed to the brown satchel on the bench. ‘It’s in my address book, take it. Just don’t say you got it from me.’

‘You think this Sandman guy can tell me what’s going on?’

‘I’ve heard the word whispered since. I think if anyone knows he does.’

Patrick let go of her, jumped up and grabbed the bag. He pulled out the address book and started flicking through it. He paused at a page, glanced to Beth, then ripped it out and tossed the book down.

‘Thanks,’ he said. ‘Really.’

Beth’s body shrank as she relaxed and let out a long, slow, breath.

‘You’re a good actor,’ Patrick said. ‘I’ll give you that.’ He put the bottle back in his pocket. ‘You had me fooled on that trip to Wichita with all that bullshit about your background.’

‘Like I said, it’s my job. Whether I like it or not it’s what I do.’

‘What? Lying? Is that your job?’

‘Partly. It’s what I do for a living.’

‘So you lied about everything. You haven’t got a sister in Wichita, have you?’

‘Well, no. And I know I messed up about the Carlini girl.’

‘I didn’t tell you, did I?’

Beth shook her head.

‘You know what happened in my dream?’

‘I haven’t a clue – it’s just a name I was fed.’

‘And… about your father? More lies?’

Beth forced a swallow and squeezed her face up. She almost spoke but didn’t, and her chest heaved a few times.

‘Hey,’ Patrick said. ‘I’m sorry. Really.’

For a minute or so the only sound was that of small waves crinkling against the jetty supports.

‘Thank you,’ Beth said.

Patrick stood up and put a leg through the gap in the side of the boat house. ‘You need to wash that stuff off your face and neck. It’ll burn in time.’

‘Patrick?’

‘What?’

‘You really wouldn’t have set me on fire, would you?’

A pained expression cast a shadow across Patrick’s face. ‘You know something, Beth?’ he said. ‘I feel so wretched, the God’s honest truth is,
I just don’t know
. I’ve never done anything as nasty as that in my life, but it… it seemed to come almost naturally. I’m frightened, I really am. I’m not sure what sort of person I am anymore.’ He looked down to the deck, and paused before stepping out of the boathouse.

‘Patrick?’

He looked back in. ‘What?’

‘Good luck.’

‘And you, Beth. And you.’

44

In Wilmette, twenty miles from Chicago, Patrick whiled away a few hours in a public park and by the time the sun was dipping towards the horizon had eaten and was ready to make his move. He drove over to the address scribbled down in Beth’s book, parked up a couple of streets away, and set off on foot.

He tried his best to look casual as he strolled over to the address he’d been given, and was impressed. He guessed local realtors might refer to it as an architect designed home. He would call it a modern mansion, but to be fair, it was far from out of place in this affluent neighbourhood. It was a large, striking, house, all sharp edges and angular roof sections, with a wide gravel drive leading up to a triple garage, and was perched halfway up a hill overlooking Chicago and Lake Michigan. It politely stated, as opposed to boasted, that someone had made it.

Patrick started off by taking a walk all around the property. A large brick wall surrounded the back garden, but walking back a few paces from it and stretching up lent him enough height to observe every window at the back of the property. The blinds had yet to be drawn so he could check the movements inside the house – it looked like only one person was home. There were no cameras visible, but otherwise the place looked solid – no open windows or doors and no obvious way of climbing up to a higher floor.

Patrick took a long look in every direction before jumping up and grasping the top of the wall, dropping himself down the other side. Easy. He stood still for a moment, priming himself for floodlights, dogs, armed guards, or God knows what in the near-dusk. Nothing. Then a figure appeared at the top right hand window, and Patrick dropped behind a bush. He edged his head out just enough to see the shadow of the figure move away and took his chance to sprint towards the back door. There he turned and surveyed the other properties and the road. From here he could see no traffic and only the clay-red roof tiles of nearby houses. That meant he had some time. Next to the door was a large window, but all it showed Patrick was a dark reflection of himself and the garden. A single occupant had been upstairs ten seconds ago, so it seemed a good bet the room was empty.

He lifted a large wrecking bar from one of those enormous coat pockets and stepped towards the door. He slid the sharp edge of the tool in the crack between door and frame and slid it up and down, trying to find the spot where it would squeeze in the most, and hence would give the most purchase. He settled on a position at his head height, furthest away from the locking mechanism, then spread his legs wide and took up the strain.

Only then did his eyes fall upon the door handle, and almost as an afterthought he grasped the handle. It turned with a little more than a click, and the door swung open.

Was that good? It meant he was inside with no noise to announce his entrance, but somehow it was unnerving, as though he was expected. Still, he was in.

The embers of daylight stroking through the glassy exterior caught dust rising from the floor. A mass of drapes framed large windows on two sides of the room. It was nothing like Patrick had expected to find in a house belonging to someone as powerful as the Sandman. It was a playroom of sorts. To his left was a flashing flickering pinball machine, beyond that a pool table, its two cues lying haphazardly across the baize, separating two lonely balls.

To his right was a bank of machines. The two nearest to him were vintage video games. Patrick didn’t recognize them – he was too young for that – but he recognized the styles as ‘old’. The biggest giveaway was that they were big bulky coin operated machines – definitely something from the 1980s. Next was an early console game, a black steering wheel cast on the floor in front of a bulky CRT TV screen. Then there was a bang-up-to-date console proudly sitting in front of a large flat-screen TV screen.

It was evolution of species.

At the farthest end, beyond the current top-dog system, was something far more intriguing – a black box that resembled a large wardrobe lying on its back. Beyond that, at the far end of the room, was another door, a blue wooden one.

Patrick silently closed the door behind him and walked past the machines and over to the blue door. He stood next to the door, slowed his heart rate down, and listened. He heard nothing, but turned his head and noticed some writing on the end of the large black box. In a gothic typeface the word ‘WishPhixxer’ stood out in gold lettering. Still he heard nothing. Good. He stepped over to the black box and examined it.

It was some sort of housing or pod, and close-up a fairly flimsy one, made of plywood or chipboard, with runs of matt black paint frozen into dribbles at various places. There was a small door on the side. It opened with a metallic click and Patrick leaned inside. On the ground was a low-slung funky version of an armchair – again all in black – and in front of it were five flat-screen TV screens; one straight ahead and four top, bottom, left and right. When sitting in the chair the occupant would see little apart from the screens. And that was it. Almost. In the dimness Patrick had to squint to see the wires that trailed from behind the array of screens. Each wire ended in a small tab about the size of a coin. Patrick reached down to check more closely. The tabs were sticky.

Just then a noise made him step back away from the black pod.

The noise came from behind the blue door.

Then he took up position, standing tall and thin next to the hinges of the door.

But there were no more noises.

One loping stride later Patrick peeked through the crack in the door. His eyes lingered for a few seconds but he saw and heard nothing.

He opened it as quickly as he dared.

He found himself in a small utility room – with a washing machine, a tumble dryer and a small sink. Above these was a shelf, on which various cleaning products were neatly lined up. At the far end was another door. He stepped over to it and reached out for the handle.

Just then the door swung away from him. He withdrew a little in fear, and then, when nothing happened, he stepped inside, keeping his hands at the ready. It was a kitchen for fashion victims – black granite and shiny stainless steel as far as the eye could see. A man stood there, leaning against a worktop. Patrick reckoned he was a couple of inches short of six feet tall, slim but with a frame that looked sinewy strong, a mound of silvery hair forming a horseshoe around a tanned head. He wore only a pair of shorts, and had small sagging breasts half-hidden beneath an undergrowth of more of that silvery hair. The breasts twitched a little, and the tiny pot-belly pulled itself in.

‘Good evening,’ the man said.

‘Are you the Sandman?’ Patrick asked.

The man nodded.

‘I’m Patrick. Patrick Leary.’

‘Yes, I know,’ the Sandman said. There was no inflexion in his voice, and just a stony expression on his face.

‘You’ve been expecting me?’

‘Let’s just say I’d heard you were in the neighbourhood.’

‘So you know why I’m here?’

‘I know all about you.’

Patrick took a step forward. ‘So you must know about my brother too.’

‘You mean,
Declan
?’ The man’s shoulders grew a little as he drew a breath and started laughing. Now his face had some animation it showed more wrinkles, most spreading out from the corners of his eyes like a ship’s wake. His skin was middle aged – and that was being generous – but the teeth were perfectly formed and a shade of white that was unlikely given his age.

However old this man was, Patrick wasn’t going to show any mercy. ‘You think that’s funny?’ he said.

The man stopped laughing and tilted his head to one side. ‘Only from where I stand, I guess.’

‘So where the fuck is he?’

‘Dear, oh dear.’ The man folded his arms. ‘Let me tell you one thing about me – just one thing. I don’t approve of foul language.’

‘Well I don’t give a shit,
Sandman
.’

The Sandman’s face dropped a fraction and his nostrils flared.

‘Listen to me,’ Patrick said. ‘One way or another you’re going to tell me what you’ve done with my brother. So don’t give me shit about using foul language. That’s the least of your problems, old timer.’

‘In my experience crude language is the product of a lazy mind.’

Patrick now stepped closer, their faces almost touching. ‘I don’t want to go into your fucking—’

And then Patrick stopped talking as he felt a bony hand strike him on the cheek – at least he
thought
it was a hand, he didn’t see anything coming or leaving.

‘I won’t tell you again,’ the Sandman said. ‘Please curb your language.’

Patrick rubbed the stinging area of his face. ‘Do that again and even though you’re an old man half my size I’ll beat you to a fucking pulp.’

The Sandman’s face now reverted to a grey flatness after its brief flirtation with expressing emotion. ‘Perhaps it was a mistake letting you come here,’ he said.

‘
Letting me come here?
’

‘I did have plans – but I’ve half a mind to make you leave.’

‘I’m not going anywhere,’ Patrick said. He grasped the Sandman by the throat, pressing the hardness of his Adam’s apple back into the flesh of his neck. ‘I’m staying here until you tell me what you’ve done with my brother, and why you’ve been messing with my head.’

The Sandman’s body dipped a little then with a sharp shout both arms came up and over and crashed down onto the arm Patrick held him with.

Patrick felt his elbow move in a direction it was never designed to move in and instinctively pulled back. He smashed his fist into the Sandman’s face, knocking him down. The Sandman got up immediately and slammed the point of his elbow into Patrick’s solar plexus, forcing him back into the utility room where he fell down onto his back. He went to drag himself up but saw the outside edge of a bare foot coming towards him and curled into a ball with his hands in front of his face. The blow to his wrist was painful – it had more force than it had any right to coming from a slender middle aged man. The foot came down again and Patrick grabbed it and convulsed, whipping his body over in the cramped floorspace. The Sandman cried out but managed to retrieve his foot, and brought the heel down twice in quick succession onto Patrick’s chest, winding him. Patrick scrabbled off the ground and fell back through the doorway into the games room.

That was better. In this spacious arena Patrick’s advantage in height, weight and age would tell. As the Sandman followed him into the room Patrick grabbed him, pulled him to one side and wrapped an arm around the man’s neck, squeezing tightly, making him groan. He grabbed Patrick’s forearm with both hands, but Patrick didn’t budge.

‘Tell me!’ Patrick shouted out close to the man’s ear. ‘Where’s my fucking brother?’ Patrick felt the man struggle, but could easily contain the flexing and wriggling of his torso. Patrick brought his other hand around to make the hold more solid. The Sandman slapped a hand on top of Patrick’s, loosened a little finger from the bunch, and wrenched it backwards. Patrick felt a searing pain and let go; adrenaline could only cover up so much pain. Patrick shook the pain from his hand, straightening his damaged finger, and when he looked across there was just enough light to see the Sandman wielding one of the pool cues in both hands. Patrick stepped forward, grabbed the cue, and aimed a kick straight ahead at the Sandman. During the next few seconds the cue was twisted sharply, shoving Patrick off balance, and he felt three cracks of the hard wood on his head.

That was when Patrick’s world changed from dark to black.