Those That Remain Read online

  Those That Remain

  Rob Ashman

  Copyright © 2017 Rob Ashman

  The right of Rob Ashman to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by him in accordance Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  First published in 2017 by Bloodhound Books

  Apart from any use permitted under UK copyright law, this publication may only be reproduced, stored, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means, with prior permission in writing of the publisher or, in the case of reprographic production, in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency.

  All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  www.bloodhoundbooks.com

  Contents

  Also by Rob Ashman

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  A Note From The Publisher

  Acknowledgments

  Also by Rob Ashman

  Now also available, the next two books in the thrilling Mechanic Series.

  Book 2 In Your Name

  Book 3 Pay The Penance

  For Don

  1

  Wednesday, 23 March 1983

  Tallahassee, Florida

  Lucas wanted to shoot his visitors. The gun lay in his desk drawer and he was itching to pull it out and blast away. He had to stop them from torturing him with kindness, but wasting two FBI agents on his first week back was such bad form. So, in the absence of being able to kill them, he chose instead to only half listen.

  The two guys in FBI regulation suits were talking, but all he heard was the faint mumbling of soft, understanding voices. They were being ever so gentle and considerate, which would be good, if it wasn’t for the fact that they had been ever so gentle and considerate for the past three goddam days.

  They were well trained to deal with people being rehabilitated back into work after they had suffered significant trauma. But how many times did he have to go over and over the same damn stuff? It was always the same story, always the same chronology, always the same people, and always the same outcome.

  Monday 21 March was a significant date in the Lucas household calendar. It was the day he finally returned to work. He had been back now for three days. Not that anyone would have known because he had been holed up in his office talking to the FBI suits for the entire duration.

  Lucas harboured a dark thought which he kept to himself. Let them bring a new guy in to run the show, and I’ll drive a desk in a back office somewhere. It was once the job he loved, but now the role of Police Lieutenant appeared like a giant nettle which he had no intention of grasping.

  After everything that had happened, Lucas couldn’t move on. How could he? There was no resolution to what had taken place, just one giant loose end.

  One big, fat, ugly loose end.

  He was aware that the talking had stopped, and the FBI agents were staring at him with a look of expectation that said, ‘It’s your turn to talk now.’

  He looked up and didn’t even bother to pretend. ‘Sorry, guys, I wasn’t listening. You need anything else?’

  ‘It’s been a long few days, but I think we have all we need,’ the taller of the two men replied, nodding his head. Lucas still couldn’t remember their names.

  You had what you needed two damn months ago, Lucas thought, keeping his mouth shut.

  They rose from the circular conference table and shook hands across it. There was a palpable sense of relief that the gentle tones and soft questions had at last come to an end.

  ‘Thanks guys.’ Even Lucas had to admit his words sounded hollow and disingenuous. He just wanted them both to piss off.

  Lucas ushered them to the door, limping without his stick, and showed them out. He flopped down in his chair and shook his head. There was a knock on the door and his mail arrived.

  The plain white document-sized envelope with the handwritten address stood out from the rest. Lucas pulled it from the stack and held it in his hand, turning it first this way then the next, as if examining a piece of evidence. It was addressed to him with a date stamp of Monday 21 March and, from the postmark, he could just about make out Baton Rouge, Louisiana.

  It was written in an ornate copperplate script with flurries of expert swirls around his name: Lieutenant Edmund Lucas. He frowned and edged his finger into the corner of the flap, and then slid it along the top, ripping it open.

  The envelope felt empty.

  He peered inside.

  It certainly didn’t contain a letter or a document, but Lucas knew there was something at the bottom. He tipped the envelope sideways to extract whatever was inside.

  The first grains of white sugar rolled from the confines of the envelope and onto the polished surface of the desk. Lucas was stunned, unable to comprehend what was happening.

  He tilted it further. More grains of sugar spilled out and pooled in concentric circles on the table top. The more Lucas tilted the envelope, the more sugar cascaded down, along with what looked like squares of white paper. Lucas upended it and allowed the complete contents to empty onto the desk. He stared at the mess of sugar and paper, holding his breath.

  It took a few moments for the cogs to turn and for realization to dawn. Then tears welled in his eyes and he exploded, slamming his fist into the table.

  ‘No!’ he yelled at the top of his voice.

  As he punched the desk a second time, the door burst open.

  ‘Are you alright, boss?’

  ‘No, I am not!’ Lucas spat the words across the office. ‘Get those FBI bastards back here now.’

  He was ready to grasp the nettle, spoiling for a fight.

  2

  Eight months earlier

  Florida, July 1982

  Screams raged inside Mechanic’s head, while the rest of the room remained deathly silent. The air was sultry hot as the ceiling fan struggled to make headway against the Florida night. A pale yellow glow from the sodium street lights penetrated the thin cotton window drapes. The figure on the bed scanned the silhouettes of bedroom furniture and ornaments. Tears of exertion pooled into bloodshot eyes, giving a blurred and watery view of the emptiness.

  There was no one to help.

  The attacks were becoming more frequent now. They were more intense. The inevitable was not far away.

  Bathed in sweat, with bedsheets sticking to trembling limbs and torso, Mechanic’s head shook from side to side, with a face co
ntorted by the intense effort of trying to maintain control.

  Had it been there? Was it real?

  Mechanic’s imagination ran a roller-coaster ride of exaggeration with the sounds of a neighbourhood asleep. Afraid to swallow. Afraid to breathe. Listening.

  Mechanic’s chest heaved with the need to suck air into bursting lungs. Lying rigid on the bed, listening, silent screams resonating deep inside to drown out the terror.

  There it was again. A gnawing whisper, so deep in the mind it could be forgotten. Then it was gone.

  Was it real? Or was this just another night of shredded emotions based on a false alarm?

  Mechanic’s body convulsed and another torrent of air rushed into the lungs and out again. Then silence. Listening.

  Then came the faint, but unmistakable, sound of someone murmuring in the whispering gallery of Mechanic’s mind. Like the sound of a warm breeze through long, dry grass, gently building in volume, only to fall away to nothing.

  No mistake, it was there.

  No need to bury the scream now. Mechanic let it out, full blast.

  Mechanic bound from the bed, tearing the sodden sheets from flailing arms and legs, careering through the bedroom door, smashing first into one wall and then the next, running helter-skelter down the hallway to the room at the end.

  The door provided little resistance as Mechanic crashed through, plaster crumbling from the wall as the handle slammed into it. Falling flat to the floor with arms fully extended in the push-up position. Head arched backwards at a neck-breaking angle, baying to a non-existent moon.

  Staring at the ceiling, Mechanic listened. The only sound was the crack of vertebrae as the pressure and contortion increased.

  Mouth gaping open. Sucking in air.

  Listening.

  Nothing came.

  The seconds ticked by. Nothing. Just silence.

  Mechanic’s body sent pain signals to the brain. Eventually the effort proved too much and the powerful figure crumpled to the floor, forehead banging down hard on the matting.

  Lying there exhausted, the steady pattern of breathing gradually returned. The tension ebbed away. The attack was over. The pain had done its job.

  Then, with a sound like the death swing of a sword, it was back. No false alarm this time, positive proof.

  The gnawing, scratching whisper grew in clarity and volume. Like someone talking at the back of a great hall and slowly getting closer.

  Then the footsteps started.

  The sound of heavy boots on wood block floor echoed around the walls and vaulted ceilings of Mechanic’s mind, with doors opening and slamming shut.

  The footsteps got louder. Daddy was approaching.

  Moving to a crouched position, Mechanic grasped the heavy dumbbell weights on the floor, stood up and started driving the bars up and down. Muscles bulged and veins stood out, the sweat of fear replaced by the sweat of exertion.

  Must burn it out. We’re not ready, Mechanic’s thoughts tumbled together. Kill the bastard through pain. Focus on the pain.

  The gnawing whisper and the heavy boots came ever closer, forcing themselves to be heard.

  The pain came quickly and with it Mechanic’s body began to shake. Arm and shoulder muscles burned with lactic acid.

  ‘Must force it out. It’s too soon. Focus on the pain,’ Mechanic snarled into the full length mirror on the wall. Blowing air in and out through clenched teeth with the rhythm of the pumping weights, the mirror was soon awash with saliva.

  The footsteps stopped and the gnawing whisper spoke in soft, gentle tones, as if coaxing a child.

  ‘Put the weights down.’ Daddy was here.

  This served only to galvanize Mechanic into a frenzy of renewed effort. Blood engorged the neck and face. Arms and shoulders were now distended with swollen flesh and sinews. But the constant repetition of pumping iron grew slower as muscles lost their ability to function.

  ‘It’s too soon, it’s too soon. I’m not ready.’ Mechanic spat the words at the reflection in the mirror as the weights took their toll.

  ‘Put the weights down. It’s time to go to work.’ Daddy’s voice was clear and confident, less coaxing, more demanding.

  By now the bars hardly reached the horizontal lift position. The effort involved contorted Mechanic’s face into a grotesque picture of pain and fear. Head to one side, body arching backwards, the force of gravity winning the battle. Spit ran down the mirror in rivulets.

  ‘Put the fucking weights down now!’ The voice boomed around Mechanic’s head.

  The grip gave way and the weights fell to the floor with a clanking thud. Mechanic stood naked in front of the mirror, arms hanging down, pumped and useless.

  Pain still surging.

  Staring straight ahead, Mechanic didn’t move. As the minutes passed, the face relaxed, hyperventilated breathing slowly returned to normal, anxiety levels dropped.

  Mechanic’s reflection stared back, its contours distorted by the clinging fluid. All evidence of effort faded away. All evidence of control faded away.

  The lips parted with a faint smile.

  ‘That’s better. You’re ready when I say you’re ready. Now let’s go and please Daddy.’

  3

  The air in the bedroom was as still and warm as its sleeping occupants. The darkness of 3am worked its way into every corner as if to muffle any sound that might wake the sleeping beauties. The quilt covering the two of them rose and fell in the gentle rhythm of deep sleep.

  A bathrobe lay tossed into a heap at the foot of the bed. Footprints in the thick pile carpet, where heavy wet feet had crushed it flat, were slowly drying and returning to their original position. Books lay casually discarded on either side of the bed, books designed to exercise the eyes to sleep rather than the mind to action.

  Edmund Lucas was a sound sleeper.

  He was calm and collected at all times or, at least, that’s what he told himself. He was cool under fire or, at least, that’s what he told his staff. And he was a great husband, though not even he had the gall to tell his wife that. In addition to this glowing self-assessment, Lucas had a rather unusual trait. Since the age of twenty-six he had never been startled by anything.

  As a highly strung young patrolman he’d pulled over a car which had unexpectedly exploded in front of him as he questioned the driver. The guy turned out to be a religious maniac, intent on bringing some unfortunate individuals closer to their maker. The explosion turned out to be a homemade bomb which went off prematurely due to the hot weather. Something to do with sugar, fertilizer and plastic bags sweating in the heat.

  Lucas was blown a good ten feet through the air, but miraculously landed in one piece. The driver, however, was blown into what could only be described as bite-sized chunks. Lucas was in a bad way following his sudden flight, and it remained a remarkable stroke of luck that he survived. Fortunately for him, he did.

  Ed Lucas had never been startled or jumped at anything since that day. He figured the blast had blown away all his nerves.

  Ironically, the two weeks spent in the hospital high dependency unit did more for his career in the police force than anything he’d done before, not to mention the improvement it brought to his fictitious love life. After six years of working as an unremarkable uniformed officer who drove a patrol car around his beat, he became a local hero. Overnight he was transformed into the guy who tackled the terrorist single-handed. The papers and news channels had a field day. The force milked it for all they could – it was good PR at a time when they badly needed it.

  Regaining consciousness five days later, Lucas didn’t have the heart to tell them he’d had no idea that the man was a religious nutcase, even less that the mad bastard had a bomb in his car. All he knew was the guy had a brake light out.

  The media circus paraded around him, and Lucas just lay back in his intensive care bed and let it happen. Later, he’d often reflect that, in all the interviews he gave, no one once asked the obvious question: ‘So, Officer Lucas
, how did you know the guy had a bomb?’ It wasn’t important to them, so Lucas considered it shouldn’t be important to him either.

  His hospital-acquired love life now slept beside him. Somewhat larger than the one-hundred-and-thirty pound nurse who’d blanket bathed him as he lay unable to move, but still possessing the same caustic wit and magic eyes.

  Mrs Lucas was now almost the same size as Mr Lucas. He often said she only grew fat to piss him off, saying that making love was now like trying to balance two ball bearings on top of one another. She’d reply that if he was larger in the men’s department, the ball bearings wouldn’t have to try so hard to balance. Of their many marital jibes, they enjoyed this one the most.

  Lucas, like his wife, was an only child and, also like his wife, his parents were dead. As they moved from place to place over the years, they’d accumulated a wide circle of friends and were known as a sociable couple.

  She always said their friends liked her but tolerated him. Lucas countered this one day by saying, ‘If that was true, they’d visit when I’m not here.’ She smiled and replied, ‘They do, honey, I just don’t tell you.’

  For whatever reason, kids never came along. They tried hard for several years when they were younger and did all the tests. Nothing wrong with him, nothing wrong with her. However, life changed dramatically when they were both aged forty-two and what she thought was the onset of early menopause turned out to be a most unexpected pregnancy. For the next six weeks the news put their well-structured and well-ordered lives in a blender, switched on with the lid off.