Souls At Zero (A Dark Psychological Thriller) (33 page)

"Jesus Christ," Black said, looking down at the bag full of weapons. "Where the hell did you get all that from?"

"My brother," Edger said, kneeling on the floor next to the bag. He proceeded to take all the weapons out of the bag and lay them on the floor next to him. Black counted two semi-automatic rifles, two smaller automatic rifles, six handguns, one hand grenade, numerous spare magazines and boxes of bullets, plus two double edged knives with strap on sheaths. At the bottom of the bag there was also a flak jacket, and what appeared to be another smaller bag, that turned out to contain two plastic explosive charges with timers, which Edger took out of the bag and examined, before laying them carefully on the floor.

Black sat dumbfounded for a moment, staring at the mini armoury spread out on the floor. "There's enough there to fight a small war."

"Lucky for us," Edger said, picking up one of the automatic rifles and wracking the slide before aiming it at the wall. "We're going to need it all."

Black took a long, deep breath and then reached into the pocket of his coat draped over the back of the chair he was sitting in. He took out his police ID. Opening the black wallet, he stared at the badge inside for a moment. "Twenty-five years," he said to himself. "And this is what it's come down to." Closing the wallet he tossed it into the fire, watching it burn for a few moments before looking at Edger. "So what's your plan?"

Edger lifted one of the Berettas of the floor, slid in a magazine, pulled the slide back and aimed it out in front of him. "Find out when the next big meeting is."

"And then?" Black asked, although he knew the answer already.

"And then we kill them all."

CHAPTER FORTY

Rankin was at home, in his spacious study, sitting on an expensive high backed leather chair behind a large antique writing desk. He was dressed in a grey tracksuit, having just come back from a late night run around the Malone Road and Stranmillis area. Running was something he had been doing for most of his adult life. It kept his stress levels down, he found. Except tonight when he got back, he didn't feel any less stressed.

Although his muscles were relaxed, he still felt tense as he sat with a glass of Scotch in his hand, hoping the alcohol would go some way to soothing his nerves.

His wife and two daughters were upstairs sleeping, but sleeping was the last thing Rankin felt like doing. His mind was too active, filled as it was with thoughts of Harry Edger and the upheaval surrounding him. Edger had opened up a whole can of worms for Rankin, and he didn't even know it. Rankin was now in a difficult position because of him, and he wasn't sure what to do about it. Or rather, he
did
know what to do about it, but he was reticent about doing it.

A lot of stuff had arisen since Edger's daughter was kidnapped. And thanks to Edger's dogged refusal to drop anything, things had now come to light that Rankin hoped would never see the light of day.

And Edger was
still
digging. It was only a matter of time before he learned the truth about everything.

Before he learned the truth about Rankin.

Rankin's mobile phone vibrated in his pocket. He took the phone out, looked at the number on the screen. Adrenaline shot through him, and he quickly drank the rest of the Scotch in his glass, before slamming the glass on the table. He took a breath, and then answered the call. "Hello?" he said.

"Mr Rankin," the voice on the other end of the line said.

Rankin swallowed as he felt his blood chill. "Professor Mason. How can I help you?"

"I think you know the answer to that question already, Mr Rankin." Professor Gabriel Mason's voice was quiet and had a sinister tone to it that never failed to put Rankin on edge. The old man's voice had an effortless authority to it that made Rankin feel like a nervous school boy standing in front of a stern headmaster with a reputation for dishing out hard punishments.

"You're referring to Harry Edger."

"Yes, Mr Rankin, I am. He has become somewhat of a thorn in my side, thanks to his brother's out of control behaviour."

"I didn't know Declan Edger belonged to you, Professor. What happened there?"

"It doesn't matter what happened," Mason said. "It only matters that his brother is now digging into the Country Club. He knows too much already. I can't have a man like that coming at us, hell-bent on some notion of avenging his brother."

"You could have told me who Edger was before I employed him over a year ago." Rankin was careful to keep his voice respectful.

"I didn't foresee any of our current problems arising back then. Although perhaps it's best that you did employ him. At least now you know the man. You can get close to him. Erase him before he does any real damage."

"You've already tried that from what I hear. Edger killed the three men you sent after him."

"He thinks you're his friend, Mr Rankin. He'll let you get close enough to take him out."

"But I don't even know where he is. I tried calling him. He's killed his phone."

"I don't care. Find him. I'm sure I don't need to remind you about tomorrow night's ritual at the Country Club. I don't need Edger causing any trouble."

"I'll sort it."

"Take care of the girl and the ex-wife as well. We can't be sure how much they know. Better safe than sorry."

Rankin fell silent.

"Will that be a problem, Mr Rankin?"

"No," Rankin said, looking down at his desk. "No problem, Professor."

"Good. I'm sure you don't want your family hearing about your penchant for young girls." Mason paused. "I doubt your wife and daughters would be happy if they knew who you really were, wouldn't you agree, Mr Rankin?"

Rankin made a fist on top of his desk. "I'll take care of it."

The line went dead as the professor hung up.

Rankin put his phone on the desk and grabbed the bottle of Scotch sitting there, poured himself half a glass, and sat back in his chair drinking it. What a fuck up. Why did it have to be Edger of all people? He considered Edger a friend. The man was only doing what he thought was right. He was avenging his brother, protecting himself and his family. Now Rankin would have to eliminate them all, something he didn't relish doing by any means. But he had no choice.

Rankin had his own family to think about. Mason would reveal things to Rankin's wife and daughters if Rankin didn't do what Mason asked of him. Marlene and the kids would see Rankin as a monster. He would lose them forever, and he couldn't have that.

Neither could he loose the privilege of being able to indulge his sadistic leanings without any of the worry and danger of finding victims, or being discovered. A few times back in London, he came close to being caught. There are just too many variables to consider when it comes to dealing with victims. There was always something left behind—a piece of evidence, a witness—that could possibly get you caught.

Then there was the constant fear that you
would
eventually get caught. Always looking over your shoulder. Dreading a knock on the door one night and it being the cops.

The Red Falcon Country Club eliminated all of that, brought the many variables under firm control. Made it safe for him to indulge his forbidden desires. Even provided him with victims. And all he had to do in return was provide protection for the other club members when they needed it. It was a good arrangement, and one he wasn't willing to sacrifice, even for Edger.

Leaning forward, he unlocked a desk drawer with a small key that was in his pocket. Inside the drawer was an ornate wooden box—like a cigar box—that he had picked up in an antique shop in London's east end. He carefully put the box on the table and opened the lid to reveal what was inside.

A collection of teeth. About two dozen or more, all collected from the young girls who fell victim to his sadism over the years.

He picked up one of the teeth from the box. A molar. White and smooth. He loved the feel of it as he ran it across his lips, his eyes closed, wondering which girl the tooth once belonged to. It was a private game he liked to indulge in from time to time. Chose a tooth at random and try to guess whose mouth it used to be in. Each of the teeth were different in some small way and he always made sure he could identify the tooth before adding it to the collection. The one he held now belonged to one of his first victims back in London. A fifteen year old girl. Pretty. Innocent. He never killed her. Killing wasn't his game. Torturing was. Sometimes they died anyway. They would bleed out from the damage he had done to them, or they would die from the shock. The ones who didn't die in the Country Club, Mason would take them away. Rankin didn't know what he did with them afterwards. Killed them probably. Although there was rumours of experiments. Rankin didn't care anyway. As long as he had his time with them first.

"Paul?" It was Victoria, his wife, calling from the top of the stairs. "You coming to bed love?"

Rankin froze for a second, the tooth still in his hand. "Yes, love. I'll be up now."

"Okay."

Rankin heard his wife walk along the landing to the bathroom and close the door. He put the tooth back in the box and put the box back in the drawer, locking it after him.

Then he went upstairs to get a few hours sleep. After that he would head to Fermanagh and do what had to be done.

CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

The man strapped to the stainless steel table was somewhere in his forties. Severely underweight, his bone structure plainly visible through the pasty white skin of his naked body. Ragged beard growth covered the lower half of his face. His eyes were sunken with yellowish dark circles underneath them. His stick thin arms and legs strained against the leather straps that held him securely to the table. A ball gag was strapped over his mouth, muffling the screaming noises he was trying to make. The man's name was unknown. Just another alcoholic vagrant from a small Northern Irish town, unlucky enough to be spotted by and scooped up by The Crow, the black van that drove endlessly around the country looking for fresh laboratory subjects. The homeless man had been drugged inside The Crow, waking up several hours later to find himself naked and trapped in a brightly lit room, with what appeared to be three doctors standing around him, all dressed in surgical gowns, masks covering their faces.

Professor Gabriel Mason was the doctor in charge. At six feet seven he towered over the terrified man like a hungry eagle standing over its freshly captured prey. Mason looked down with sharp blue eyes at the man on the table, while filling a syringe with a dark reddish fluid from a small bottle in his other hand. A microphone hung from a wire a few feet above the man on the table. Mason spoke into it as his two assistants attached electrodes to the subject.

"This is Professor Gabriel Mason," Mason began, as he filled the syringe. "The date is October 28th 2015. Time is…" He looked briefly at the digital clock display on one of the walls. "…2:15 a.m. This is Regeneration Experiment No. 117. The subject is a male of unknown age, probably in early forties. Body severely emaciated, swelling present in the ankles and abdomen as one would expect from long term alcohol abuse. Verified that patient is suffering from the onset of Cirrhosis of the liver and possibly also stomach cancer."

The terrified man on the table stared up at Mason with bulging eyes, perhaps thinking he was in the grip of the delirium tremors. Mason smiled coldly down at the man. "Don't worry," he said, with no hint of reassurance in his voice whatsoever. "If this works, you'll be a whole new man. If it doesn't, well at least you'll be out of your misery. Won't that be good?"

The terrified homeless man tried to scream something through his gag, but it just came out as incomprehensible mumbling.

Mason ignored him and looked at his two assistants instead. "Glasses on," he told them, as he slipped on a pair of plastic goggles. "You know what happened last time."

The two assistants, a young man and a woman with curiously blank looks in their eyes, put their goggles on as they were instructed.

Mason held up the syringe and pushed on the plunger. A stream of the red liquid erupted from the long, thick needle. Satisfied, he said, "And here we go. Hold him still, please."

The two assistants did their best to keep the man still, one holding his legs, the other his arms as Mason leaned down and inserted the thick needle into the man's scrawny neck. The professor made eye contact with the man as he pressed down on the plunger, injecting every drop of the liquid into the man's blood stream. When he had finished he stood up straight and put the syringe on a steel trolley next to him.

Then they all waited in tense silence.

Except the man on the table that is, whose chest began to rise and fall rapidly as the liquid from the syringe raced around his veins and began to take effect. After a moment, the man, clearly in pain, began to convulse, and his body strained against the leather straps holding him down, every vein in his body bulging through his skin like they were about to explode. Even the man's eyeballs bulged, looking like two misshapen squash balls .