The Immortal Harvest (17 page)

He heard him belch loudly as he quickly put the top back on the flask before stuffing it inside his coat pocket for safe keeping.

He then took a deep breath and looked at Baxter, a serious expression washed across his face as he spoke.

“I’ll tell ya everythin I know,” he said as he leant forward and began a desperate hacking coughing fit.

When he had finally finished coughing he hacked up a wad of bloodied phlegm and spat it into the gap behind the nearest industrial bin. Baxter could see the haunted look on the old man’s face as he spoke.

“I aint got long to go ya know. I’ve been on these streets for nearly t…t…ten years. I’ve s…s…seen sum s…s…stuff…ya know what I mean?” he said, his voice softer as he nervously looked around as if he was expecting someone or some ‘
thing’
to jump out of the dark at them.

Baxter offered no response to allow the old man to continue talking. He found the stutter to be really annoying but knew from experience that usually people who stuttered got a lot worse when pressured.

He decided the best option would be to try and make the interrogation as relaxed as possible. He hoped that the whiskey flask would help. The old man continued.

“There used to be a lot more of us out here. A lot of m..me m..mates have just up and d..d..disappeared. I think the r..r…reapers t..t..took ’em.”

Baxter could feel the anger and frustration begin to well up. He took a deep breath before responding.

“What do you mean old man? Are you talking about
the
Grim Reaper?”

“I aint no nut job, these reapers d..d..drive a van,” Gummy yelled as he stood up and swayed unsteadily on his feet.

Baxter noticed that anger suppressed the old man’s stuttering. He decided to use it to his advantage.

“I think the booze has scrambled your brain old man,” he said as he looked up at Gummy who swaggered unsteadily.

Baxter pointed to the side of his head and made the insanity gesture with his hands. He could tell that the gesture prompted an instant angry response.

“Now listen ’ere fella, I saw them two reaper fellas in the black van take poor old Joe and some kid a few nights ago,” Gummy said loudly as he pointed his bony index finger at Baxter’s face.

Baxter raised an eyebrow and sat up.

“You saw them take a child?”

“Yup, I stayed in the dark, I aint no hero, they’re not gettin’ me. I’m too smart for ’em,” he slurred his words slightly.

A guilty expression swept across the old man’s face as he pulled out the flask and took another swig, allowing some of the fluid to run through his scruffy grey beard. He staggered slightly and promptly slumped down onto a pile of newspapers.

He hung his head as if the feeling of shame made it too heavy to lift and the mixture of hunger and fatigue, combined with the alcohol, had finally overcome him.

Gummy unceremoniously collapsed flat on his back on the tattered cardboard. Baxter heard the old man softly mumble, “I’m sorry Joe.”

He rolled onto his side away from Baxter. He was snoring loudly within minutes. Baxter leant over closer to the prone figure and shook him gently by the shoulders.

“Gummy, don’t fall asleep I need to know more about this kid,” but he could tell the gesture was futile; the old man was practically unconscious.

After a couple more attempts at prompting a response from the old man, Baxter finally gave up and laid down on his piece of cardboard.

As he lay on the cold ground he squinted at the night sky, there were no stars. He supposed that any light from the stars would be blocked by the light pollution of the city lighting.

He listened quietly to the rhythmic snoring of the old man combining with the rumble of night traffic several blocks away.

He decided that he would let the old man sleep for awhile and then ask him some more questions when he was conscious and had sobered up a bit.

He did not want to leave the old man and risk the possibility of losing a lead. He decided that he may as well stay where he was.

He smiled and pictured Durning’s smug features in his mind.

E. T’s! Ha! What a crock of shit! I knew there was a more ‘Earthly’ reason.

Maybe these ‘reapers’ might pay me a visit – I’d really like to have a chat with them,
he thought as he pulled some old papers up over his legs and huddled further down into his jacket collar to ward off the chill that seemed to be increasing as the night grew longer.

As he lay still under the paper, he thought of the horrific murders of Edward Stringer’s parents and then he thought about the boy, Justen.

Was the child that Gummy saw, Justen? Where is the Mother? Why are the homeless being taken? What is the link to the Senator’s murder?

The string of unanswered questions triggered a cascade of thoughts that led Baxter into a series of bizarre dreams.

*     *     *

It was much later that night when the sound of a metal sliding door closing, merged seamlessly into one of Baxter’s dreams.

He was then dragged out of a sleeping state by the feel of someone’s hand clamping something cold and wet over his face.

He reacted immediately and started shaking his head and fighting as hard as he could against his assailant.

Whatever substance the rag had been soaked in, was stinging his eyes, forcing him to close them tightly. He was blind.

Suddenly, he felt as if his head was being held down by some tremendous force. At the same time he could feel hands grab hold of his legs, the rough fingernails digging deeply into his flesh.

His attempt to scream was stifled by the wet rag that was also threatening to obstruct his breathing. He thrashed his body around as much as he could in an attempt to dislodge his attackers.

“Hold him still Judas, we need to knock him out and get ’im to the van,” the first attacker said as he punched Baxter in the back of the head and thrust the rag harder over Baxter’s mouth and nose.

Baxter started to become light headed, the fight draining out of him as the effects of the Suprane kicked in.

He wanted desperately to scream,
“I’m FBI! You arseholes are under arrest. . .”
but they were only words that formed in his mind and quickly faded. He could feel that one of the attackers was searching his pockets.

“Well looky here, this one’s carrying pills. I’ll keep them safe for ya,” the attacker said as he chuckled. “Ya not gonna need um where you’re going.”

Baxter drifted in and out of consciousness as he felt his limp body being man-handled and dragged toward the attacker’s van.

He could just make out the conversation of his attackers as they tied his hands and feet and then threw him headlong into the back of the van.

“What about the old guy? Won’t the Doc get angry if we leave witnesses?”

“Don’t worry about the old man, he won’t be sayin’ nuttin’”

“You sure?”

“Yeah I’m sure; he’s cold like an iceberg. The old man’s dead, Doc don’t want any corpses ok. Now shut up, get in and let’s get the hell out of this dump.”

The news of the old man’s death was the last piece of information to filter through Baxter’s anaesthetised haze before his world faded into darkness.

Gloria Peters had a secret.

She was going to kill her boyfriend.

She despised him. The fact that she had caught him with Sylvan was the last straw. She was going to put an end to his miserable life and then she was going to kill herself.

She took another large gulp of the whiskey as she sharpened the knife. Tears streamed down her face when she thought of the abuse that she had put up with over the previous months.

She wanted him to pay.

In the beginning of the relationship, his little habits seemed charming. She was able to overlook the drinking and gambling. She was even able to overlook the fact that the fat arsehole was a complete and utter slob.

They had only been seeing each other for eight months. She had met Burt at a bar.

He was adorable at first. She loved the lustful way that he would wink at her and nuzzle her neck as he rubbed his hand over her arse. She loved the attention.

It was after the initial ‘honeymoon’ phase when Gloria noticed subtle changes in Burt’s behaviour.

He had come home drunk one day and as he groaned loudly he collapsed onto the couch and announced in a loud slurring voice that he had retired. Gloria immediately saw red.

“Retired! Retired from what? You don’t work. Have you won the lottery or something?”

“Nup! I ’ave decided that I’m gonna stay home and look after Sylvan and her brat. Besides, I worked six years part time. I’ve earned my retirement.”

“Is that so? And what are we going to eat? Do you expect me to go out and bring home the money to feed you and that little bitch and her bastard kid?

You can just go and fuck off, I’m not working to support you lot.”

She was taken completely by surprise when Burt heaved himself off the couch and in one swift movement had made his way across the room and had back handed her hard across the face, causing her to lose balance. She collapsed in a heap on the kitchen floor.

As she lay on the ground bleeding from her nose, she cringed at the sight of the drunken slob of a man leaning over her and screaming at her like a mad man.

From that day on she had been frightened of Burt and had dreaded the prospect of him coming home each night drunk and full of abuse.

She hated herself for staying with the monster but at the same time knew that she couldn’t leave him.

Who else would have this hag?

She used to ask herself whenever she saw her reflection in the mirror.

It was the sight of his naked bloated body on top of her only daughter that had caused the change in her.

He had forced her to throw her only daughter and grandson out onto the street. She could feel her life spiralling out of control. She had lost herself to this monster. She could no longer stand his abuse.

He had to die
.

She had taken a few days to summon up her courage and to plan the murder. Tonight was the night. She would wait for him to pass out in one of his drunken stupors and then she would slash his throat.

After she had taken care of Burt, she would run herself a nice deep bath, slash her wrists, and then she would lay in the bath and let the blood drain out of her as she slowly went to sleep from the combination of alcohol and sleeping pills.

She had just finished sharpening her knife when she heard the back door close. She carefully put the knife on the counter and called out.

She grabbed the bottle of whiskey and a glass and pushed through the kitchen door.

“Burt? Is that you? Do you want me to get you a…”

She inhaled sharply when she saw the horribly scarred face of the man who had just slashed Burt’s throat and had tossed him to the ground like discarded trash.

She screamed with horror as she watched the blood gush from the gaping wound in Burt’s throat as he thrashed helplessly around on the tattered carpet, grasping his throat with both hands in a futile attempt to keep his life from slipping away.

Instinctively, she threw the bottle at the killer and turned on her heels.

Dizzy from the alcohol, she staggered back into the kitchen and fell onto the floor and started scrambling on her hands and knees, desperately looking for some escape from the monster.

Adrenalin pumped through her and she started sobbing. She felt her hair being pulled. She was jerked by the hair onto her feet, the blood slickened blade pressed hard into her throat.

She inhaled sharply as her hair was pulled harder. She could feel the fetid wet breath on her ear as the killer spoke softly.

“If you scream again I’ll kill you. Do you understand?”

Gloria slowly and carefully nodded as she felt the pressure of the knife increase against her throat.

“I just want to know where your daughter and the boy are.”

This request from the monster activated her genetically programmed Mother’s instinct to protect their offspring.

Hormones raced through her body priming her to fight. She knew however, that she was in an unwinnable position. She knew what she had to do.

She shook as she grabbed the wrist of the monster which held the blade.

“Go fuck yourself! I’ll never tell you where Sylvan and Justen are.

“Go ahead…kill me,” she said quietly and calmly, as she forcefully pulled the killers hand across her throat, opening up her carotid artery.

She collapsed to the ground slipping out of her assailants grasp and smiled as she felt the life drain from her.

“You fucking stupid bitch!” were the last words that Gloria Peters heard as she slipped into oblivion.

*     *     *

Stringer sat shaking his head as he cleaned the blood from his knife. He had seen some screwed up people in his life, but he had never seen anyone so eager to die before.

He finished cleaning his knife and started thinking about his next move as he dragged the corpse of the woman into the living room and laid her out beside her boyfriend.

He looked around at the shit-hole that the corpses had been living in and grunted in disgust.

He methodically went through any drawers he could find.

He finally found a tattered photo album that had been used to prop up one leg of the coffee table.

As he sucked on another nicotine infuser he pored through the photos. The most recent one was of a birthday party.

The young blonde girl in the photo looked happy as she blew out the candles on a cake with twelve candles on it. The back of the photo had the words
Sylvan’s 12
^th
birthday
scrawled across it.

He went to his brief case that he had left just outside the back door and pulled out a pocket scanner to scan the photo.

He pushed a button on the side of the scanner and the photo appeared inside his neural net.

He manipulated the photo and aged the young girl’s features. He knew the age of the boy. He guessed that Sylvan would be in her early twenties and adjusted the image to reflect that age.