Ghostfire

Ghostfire

By

Ethan Somerville

Copyright © 2014

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SMASHWORDS EDITION

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PUBLISHED BY:

Storm Publishing on Smashwords

Ghostfire

Copyright © 2014 by Ethan Somerville

www.stormpublishing.net

Smashwords Edition License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the author’s work.

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Chapter 1

The killer grabbed the fence with gloved hands, tensed and hauled himself over with a minimum of sound. Light from distant houses reached him, but was quickly absorbed by his dark clothing; navy-blue jumper and black trousers that clung to his tall, sinewy body. He could have been part of the shadows cast by a bushy mulberry tree as he landed softly on freshly-mown grass. An expert at stealth, he stole across the back yard like a cat, taking care not to linger on any spot for too long. He didn’t want any footprints identified.

He passed through a painfully neat garden, the result of much patience and TLC, darted up a thin path of pavers, skirting a plastic playset jungle and sprawl of toys and leapt up onto a cluttered terrace. As he approached a closed screen door, he detected the gentle strains of an evening movie. He paused to draw his semi-automatic pistol, its cool grip falling naturally into his hand. He waited, excited gasps catching in his throat.

It felt so good to be back.

Inside the house, Margaret Durras lounged in her favourite easy-chair and stared at the screen, scenes flickering and changing before her heavy-lidded eyes. Exhaustion had worked its persistent claws in despite her determination to see The Color Purple through to its conclusion. Thirty four years old, a divorced mother of three unruly boys, Margaret had little time for herself. She rose at six-thirty every morning to cut lunches, ready the lads for school and prepare herself for work. After a hectic day at the bistro, she arrived home to cook dinner and hear all about her sons’ problems. On weekends, she worked in her one meagre indulgence - her garden.

I love my boys, but I wish I had more time for myself, she thought as she sank deeper into her chair, weariness now filling every limb. Tall and slender with bleached blonde curls framing a sad, careworn face, Margaret looked like an unlucky hitch-hiker on the grubby road of life. The courts might have granted her this house and full custody of the boys, but even though her abusive ex had departed a year ago, so had the security of his money. If only they would make me a permanent employee at the club, she thought.

Margaret sighed and mopped some curls out of her face, forcing herself to focus on the screen. She had wanted to see this movie for years - she couldn’t fall asleep now.

A cool autumn breeze wafted across her, and she realised that she had left the back door open. She pushed herself to her feet, tired body swaying, and staggered from the lounge room. She thrust the door closed and dead-locked it, hanging the key on a tiny hook beside it. A second gentle gust lifted the hairs on the back of her neck. Now where’s that coming from? she wondered. Have I left some windows open as well?

Suddenly a large gloved hand clamped down over her mouth and yanked her back against a warm torso. A powerful smell of leather and sweat assaulted her nostrils before fear could grab a foothold and eclipse everything. Her screams absorbed by the leather glove, she started to struggle furiously. Had Jim returned to exact his final revenge on her?

Don’t move, a deep voice whispered in her ear. A cold circle of metal touched her temple and pressed in. And don’t make a sound. This gun is loaded. Slowly, the gloved palm lifted.

Margaret’s heart pounded, a bloody roar in her ears. I h-haven’t got m-much! she stammered. P-please d-d-don’t rob me!

Shut up, the mysterious intruder growled, and Margaret realised that he couldn’t possibly be Jim. Her alcoholic ex had never spoken with such ... cold-blooded precision.

Margaret started to tremble, tears stinging her eyes as her terror explored new heights. Jim might have beaten her, but he never threatened her life. The man stepped into her line of sight, face shadowed by a dark blue cap. Even so, his eyes blazed in the half light; bright blue beacons of pure hatred. The deadly black pistol gleamed in his other hand, steady in his grip. Margaret could have drawn a line from its muzzle to her heart. She realised then that he intended more than robbery.

Wh-what’s going on? What do you want? she whimpered.

His dreadful, thin-lipped leer matched his evil eyes. I didn’t think you’d recognise me - not after these years. No matter. My revenge will still be sweet. He lifted his gun, training its barrel on her forehead. He cocked it with his thumb and began slowly squeezing the trigger. His crooked grin widened.

No - no nononono! Margaret begged.

Bang, the man whispered, and started laughing huskily.

Margaret dropped, kneecaps smacking onto the lino. A warm, wet puddle began to gather beneath her buttocks, but she hardly noticed it, all attention focused on that small, black hole following her every movement.

Pathetic, the man muttered. Can’t face up to what you did, can you? I’m a man now, and I can take care of myself.

P-please tell me what you want! Margaret begged, tears streaming down her cheeks.

But the man shook his head, slowly, condescendingly. Remember. Keeping his gun trained on the woman, he hauled her towards a kitchen chair. He plonked her down. She gagged at the sour smell of her own urine. He thrust his free hand into a front pocket and drew out a set of handcuffs. He started to walk around her chair.

For pity’s sake! Margaret cried. Take what you want and get out! Please!

I am. The man yanked her arms through the chair-back’s wooden slats and cuffed them together so she couldn’t rise unless she took the seat with her. She started to struggle against him, but he quelled her attempts by jabbing his gun against the back of her head. Don’t.

She fell limp, mind working furiously. What am I going to do? she wondered as he crossed to the kitchen sink. L-look ... I’m sure we can talk this over. If you’ll just tell me-

He sheathed his gun, and hope leapt in Margaret’s trembling heart. But then he picked up a tea-towel still damp from the night’s washing up. If there’s anything you have to say, I don’t want to hear it, he continued, still in the same soft, calm tone. You damned yourself years ago. All I want you to do is remember. As she opened her mouth to scream, he drew the tea-towel tight across her mouth and knotted it behind her neck. She tasted dishwater and started coughing. Bile rose but she fought it down, realising that if she vomited she would choke. She rolled her head from side to side, searching futilely for an escape route. Cold shock set in, and she began to rise above her body. This couldn’t possibly be happening to her, could it? It had to be a nightmare, brought about by her weariness.

Then the lunatic reached into a back pocket and pulled out a large hunting-knife; shiny, hungry for blood and whetted razor sharp. Margaret’s eyes bulged from her skull. A scream sank into the clammy tea-towel across her mouth. He smiled as he waved the blade under her nose. Oh God - someone help me! she thought. She thought of her children down the hall, sleeping peacefully in their bedrooms. What would become of them if this maniac killed her? More tears flowed. Oh my poor little boys!

Would he try to murder them as well? No! White-hot anger began to nudge shock aside. She couldn’t let that happen!

Now the time has come to repay you for what you did, he whispered. He touched the knife’s cold, sharp point to her neck. The prick brought her back to reality. She jerked her head back and lashed out with a leg. Unfortunately he detected the movement by the sudden shift in her gaze, and leapt backwards. Her foot swished through the air where his privates should have been.

Tightening his grip on his knife he approached from the side, eyes blazing dark malevolence. That was not very wise! He stepped forward, too quickly for her to react, and brought his knife down, slashing her floral-print dress open from neck to belly. Then he ripped it from her shoulders, bearing a pair of sagging breasts held in check by a worn bra. The hate in his eyes shifted sideways so lust could rise up beside it. Oh sweet Jesus - is he going to rape me? she wondered.

She prayed again as he touched the knife-point to her bare chest. This is for Nicky, he whispered.

For a one brief moment, Margaret noticed sadness shining behind the cruelty; a deep, almost overwhelming grief. Then it disappeared, swallowed forever by psychotic evil. Teeth clenched, the maniac swung back. All eight inches of his knife plunged into her chest. She felt the ice-cold metal grind through bone and pierce her heart. She coughed, jerked against her bonds - and felt darkness roar towards her like a black tunnel mouth. But before it could engulf her, she focussed her last thought on her boys, and begged God to protect them.

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Chapter 2

As soon as Senior Detective Frank Saunders of the Homicide Squad flashed his badge, the constable lifted the streamer so he could duck under it. As the stocky investigator in the long grey trenchcoat and matching trilby hurried towards the house, a sick, nervous feeling churned in his guts. He replayed the hasty phone-conversation again, and decided that Superintendant Reed had to be wrong. It couldn’t possibly be starting all over again. Nevertheless, I’ve still got to take a look - assuage my curiosity - make sure, he told himself.

Frank pulled off his hat and ran a broad hand through his greying brown hair. A mild, early morning breeze made him tremble. At forty seven, he was no longer as fit as he used to be. Five foot eleven in height, slightly paunchy and suffering from insomnia, his youthful days of breaking up New Years Eve brawls, chasing car-thieves and pounding the streets were long over. Now he spent his time grilling suspects, searching for evidence, and pounding away at computer keyboards.

The Beverly Hills house looked so ordinary Frank found himself wondering if a serious mistake had been made. Could a hideous murder have actually taken place within those secure double-brick walls? In this quiet suburb of families and retired couples? A pale-faced, but attractive young woman introduced herself as Detective Joanne Mullins as Frank stepped into the house’s dark front hall.

You’re Detective Frank Saunders, aren’t you? she asked brightly. I’ve heard a lot about you!

Yeah, Frank answered gruffly as he put his hat back on. He had never been one for cheerful introductions, especially at this hour of the morning. So what if some green detective thought he was a legend? She didn’t know what he’d done to acquire this reputation, or what he’d lost in the process. So where is it?

In the kitchen. Follow me. Abruptly, Mullins spun on her heel and marched off down the hall.

Frank followed, rubbing his tired eyes. He had spent much of the previous night tossing and turning, finally falling into a restless doze at around three a.m. The insistent ringing of his mobile phone woke him what felt like only minutes later. Superintendant Reed’s excited voice had taken whole minutes to penetrate his fuzzy brain. When his youthful fitness had departed, it had taken his reflexes with it. Has it been identified? he asked the young detective.

We’re pretty sure it belongs to thirty-five year old Margaret Durras, divorced sandwich hand and mother of three. Hope you’re up to it. Mullins led Frank across a medium-sized lounge-room cluttered with miss-matched, well-used furniture. Children’s toys were scattered in front of a battered TV set, and a gardening magazine lay open on a scratched coffee-table. It’s pretty gross. She fought down the memory of her own reaction at the sight. One glimpse - and breakfast had started clambering up her throat.

Hope I’m up to it, Frank muttered sarcastically. Woman, I was examining gross sights while you were still an itch in your Daddy’s pants.

Mullins gulped, affronted by both the observation and the vulgarity. Of course the crotchety old bugger was right. Why on earth had she said that? In a vain attempt to come across as a hardened detective in front of the great Frank Saunders, of course! In here, sir. She marched stiffly through a small dining area into a clean, but old-fashioned kitchen. Four forensics boys looked up as Frank stepped in.

Frank found it hard to believe that this tidy, homely room was the site of a horrific murder. Towels with ducks on them hung in front of an old stove, flowers bloomed under a curtained window, a sampler graced a wall, and brightly coloured magnets held children’s drawings and school reports to the fridge. In the old days a lump would have risen in his throat. Now he simply turned to face the body.

This one appeared to be sitting upright on a chair. As Frank circled it, he noticed its hands protruding from beneath the sheet; dainty female hands, with tapering fingers and the short, broken nails of a garden-lover.

Frank lifted the blanket.

The body slumped with its head bowed, but was prevented from falling by the fact that both of its hands had been thrust through the back of the chair. Thin red abrasions marked the wrists. They had been bound with something now long gone. The chair was drenched with blood, and dark puddles had dried on the floor beneath it.

Frank was about to lift her bowed head when he noticed the scruffy state of her dyed-blonde hair. Someone had very inexpertly hacked it off, leaving only a few wispy, brown-rooted clumps remaining. Unease squirmed inside him and his hasty breakfast of coffee and toast sat heavily. Where’s the hair? he called.

We’ve already picked most of it up off the floor, one the forensic scientists called. He held up a plastic bag. Fine blonde curls filled it, some stained with blood.

Frank lifted the head. Even though he had been prepared, he still stepped back with a curse. But the sight of the woman’s bloody body didn’t shock him as much as the realisation that Superintendant Reed was right. Jesus Christ, he blasphemed.

Not only had this woman lost her hair, but her face as well. She hadn’t been skinned - her attacker hadn’t had the skill to do that. Instead he’d slashed, hacked and sawed at her face until only a bloody, unrecognisable mess remained. Oozing eye-sockets gaped sightlessly from a mask of shredded skin and muscle. Through the remains of her lips her teeth glistened. The maniac had left no part of her face untouched; cutting off her nose and ears. Blood and clots of flesh had dropped into her lap, along with more clumps of hair.

The killer had truly gone into a demonic frenzy, forcing Frank to accept the horrible truth.

What d’you think? Sergeant Mullins inquired softly.

I’ve seen this before. Frank lowered the bloody head.

You’re kidding me. Mullins’ voice came out flat and cold. How could Saunders have possibly seen something this sick before? Even the forensics boys had turned green.

Frank pulled the sheet back over the body, then turned to the younger detective. Who found her?

Her oldest son, a ten year old named Simon.

Jesus, this is something no kid should ever have to see. Where’s the boy now?

His grandparents have taken him, along with his two younger brothers. Mullins lowered her eyes. Aged seven and five.

Frank pulled his hat off again so he could smooth his hair down again. Gruesome sights he could handle; the thought of them being witnessed by innocent children he couldn’t. He imagined a little boy trotting down the hall, wondering why his mother hadn’t woken him for school, then discovering her butchered corpse in the kitchen. The poor lad must have screamed the house down.

Shaking a Winfield Red from its packet, Frank stepped out onto the house’s back terrace. More forensic detectives were searching the back yard for evidence. By the surly expressions on their faces, Frank realised they hadn’t found anything of note. He lit his cigarette and took a long, refreshing drag, exhaling a pale grey smoke-cone into the mid-morning. Birds chirped cheerfully in the trees, cars whispered past, and the sound of children playing in a nearby schoolyard wafted across the back fence. Another cop stood in front of it, picking splinters from the wood for analysis. The killer must have climbed over it there, Frank realised.

Soon the nicotine soothed his churning guts and shaking nerves. He knew a large portion of his wage disappeared into the tobacco corporation’s coffers, but he didn’t care. He felt he deserved a small vice after all the hours he’d put in, hunting down killers. At least he wasn’t a raging alcoholic like a lot of his workmates.

What did you mean earlier, about having seen that sort of mutilation before? Mullins asked nervously.

Too preoccupied with his thoughts, Frank hadn’t even heard the younger detective follow him out. He took another pull on his cigarette and exhaled smoke upwards, into the ice-blue sky. How old are you, Detective? he asked.

Mullins lowered her eyes, a lock of sandy hair falling across her brow. I’m twenty nine.

Fair enough. I’m willing to bet that thirteen years ago, the biggest things in your life were trying for your L-plates, ditching school, and chasing boys, am I right?

I never ditched school.

Come on - everyone ditches school at some time. I spent more hours in the local movie theatre than in maths class. And I still managed to pass. But that’s beside the point. Thirteen years ago, you were sixteen years old.

Mullins lowered her sky-blue eyes. Yes.

Frank took a deep breath. So you probably don’t remember the three months between July and September, when a maniac took the lives of five women. All were Caucasian, blonde and between the ages of eighteen and forty eight. He stabbed them to death and mutilated their bodies by cutting off all their hair and hacking up their faces. He left them as unrecognisable as that poor woman inside. He jerked a thumb over his shoulder.

Mullins paled and lifted a hand to her lips. Frank searched for a wedding ring, and didn’t find one. Stop that you old perv, he snapped at himself. She’s young enough to be your daughter, for pity’s sake! Besides, after the way you acted earlier, she probably thinks you’re a bad-tempered old fart!

The media dubbed him ‘The Plastic Surgeon’. Frank curled his lips in disgust. Fancy giving a psychotic killer a super hero title! I was put at the head of a Plastic Surgeon taskforce - the reason why I’m here now.

I remember hearing something about a ‘Plastic Surgeon’ on the news, Mullins mused. But I thought he was caught!

Frank tossed his spent cigarette onto the terrace and ground it out beneath one scuffed black shoe. Nope. He simply stopped killing. Although we grilled dozens of suspects, talked to hundreds of witnesses, cleaned the murder-sites with toothbrushes, and amassed files big enough to damn rivers, we never found him. He might have been crazy, but he wasn’t stupid. Not one hair, fingerprint, thread of clothing, drop of bodily fluid or witness left behind. In fact, the only real piece of evidence we found was a .38 revolver bullet, lodged in the thigh of one of his victims. It’s all in my report, if you want to read it.

I think I might. But surely you don’t think this murder is one of his? Mullins asked. Like you said before, thirteen years have passed! He’s probably an old man by now.

From some of the murder-sites, we worked out that he was a very young strong fellow. Twenty five or so plus thirteen only makes thirty eight. And thirty eight is still relatively youthful.

Mullins frowned and directed her gaze at the forensic detectives, who appeared to be wondering where to look next. Yeah - I guess so.

If the Plastic Surgeon really has returned, then my taskforce will have to be reformed. Frank remembered the toll the first five murders had taken on him. He had started smoking, developed insomnia, and lost his wife of seven years. Plastic Surgeon, whoever the Hell you are, you have a lot to answer for! he thought darkly.

As he left the house he noticed that a large crowd had collected outside the streamers; curious passers by, concerned neighbours and reporters. A couple of journalists badgered the barricade cops for information, but they weren’t talking. Frank bolted for his blue commodore, and managed to slam his door before the journalists reached him. Some banged their clipboards