Consequences

By Maureen Green

How could Chas Winter, as a brash lad of seventeen, have foreseen that the brutal bullying of Donald Bracken would alter the course of both their lives?

Incensed by the unwarranted beating, Donald vowed to make the bullies pay. Tormented by his peers, his hatred spreads like insidious cancer invading his thoughts night and day. Compelled to prepare for his payback, ( utu,), the weedy teen joins the Army and becomes a highly skilled assassin. With his skills honed, he returns to New Zealand and the serial killings begin.

Detective Senior Sergeant Chas Winter is provided with professional opportunity when a missing person’s case mutates into a murder inquiry. The killings escalate. Confronted with a serial killer, Chas’s efforts to unmask the offender are frustrated by the lack of physical evidence. He realizes he is dealing with a highly skilled professional whose actions deny investigators evidence. A psychopath is playing out his own game.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Bev Robitai
• Release date: Oct 31, 2011
• ISBN: 9781466176324

Maureen Green

Maureen Green has been anything but quiet since her retirement, taking up writing in 2005. Maureen has published work across the genres to include young adult, short stories and adult crime fiction, winning competitions in all three genres. Passionate about bringing both published and unpublished authors' works to readers, Maureen was one of the founders of the Author's Mouth, a local writer/reader group which meets monthly and showcases local talent. Maureen's works have been published in America, United Kingdom and Australia and New Zealand. List of published works: Short Stories Secret Attic. Clean as a Whistle, T-Zero It's great to be Me T-Zero Seagull Sponge Learning Media Children's Works Dinosaur Stomp Published 2008. -a children's picture book New Hat Blue Hat - Something Story Publishing Kitchen Magic - Something Story Publishing Four Dragons - Bigziddlezot Multimedia 2006 Children's Book Award. An ancient legend recounting how the four great rivers of China were formed. Four Dragons - Print Magic in the Air - a children's anthology, edited and contributed 2 stories. Published Nov 2010 Rawiri the Little Spotted Kiwi To be published 2010 Young Adult Code of Silence L&R Hartley, Publishers Code of Silence Print . . In Arthur's Footsteps Published 2009 - a young adult. Adult Consequences Literary Road Website Footprints - A collection of short stories contracted by a group of ex pat New Zealanders living in Australia, has been recognised in New Zealand as a work of historical significance.

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CONSEQUENCES

Maureen Green

SMASHWORDS EDITION

COPYRIGHT: Maureen Green 2011

Smashwords Edition License Notes

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I am surrounded by many troubles—too many to count!

My sins have caught up with me, and I can no longer see;

They are more than the hairs on my head, and I have lost my courage.

Psalm 40:12

Prologue

One minute Donald Bracken was riding along home from swimming, humming his favourite tune, and the next, his bike was pulled from under him, spilling him onto the asphalt. Jesus! What? What the hell?

The town bullies moved from the shadows and surrounded him, cornering him in the deserted school grounds. A shudder, starting at the top of his head, rippled down to the tip of his toes when he saw the menacing looks on their faces. Wracked with terror, he began panting and heeling his way across the asphalt until his progress was impeded by a picket of legs. Sweat pimpled on his brow. His heart beat a zany tattoo in time to the music wafting up from the valley below. Ears straining, he listened for sounds signalling help was at hand, but he heard nothing other than the excited wheezing of the group surrounding him.

The leader of the pack, the one with the most patches on his silken jacket, was a tall gangly pock-marked boy older than the other five. The fat one, the bully most feared in the neighbourhood, kicked him in the ribs. Gotcha, he sneered as he spat a gooby into his face.

Teach ya to kill my grandma’s dog, hissed the leader as he grabbed Donald by the collar, slammed him against the school building and pinned him there.

I didn’t, Donald protested as he squirmed like a worm on a hook in an effort to free himself. A car hit him.

Don’t ya goddam lie to me, you creep. My gran says you killed him. Always teasing him, ya were. Every morning on your paper run.

I didn’t. That dog barked at everything that moved. It always ran out barking and nipping at my heels. He scared the living shit out of people as they passed by. Today he got vicious and I kicked him away. A car bowled him.

Ya lying little creep. Teach ya to mess with mine.

The others did the punching, one stepping back to take a breath while another took his place. Spittle frothed from their mouths, whispered curses the only sound as they punched, starting at his head and working down.

Not his balls, one of them shouted. That’s lower than the low.

Donald felt a searing pain bury itself in his gut when a fist slammed into his crotch. He gulped and almost swallowed his tongue. A telltale trickle of water pooled at his feet.

Peed his pants, said the fat one. Fucking well peed his pants.

They let him go and he folded to the ground, curled in a foetal position and covered his head. One of the bullies kicked him in the side and shouted, Fucking baby.

The six of them laughed. That hurt Donald more than the punches. He uncurled and supported on his elbow, turned his already-swelling eyes towards the gang leader. You bastards, he growled.

The fat one pushed Donald’s head down to the ground and held it there with his shoe perched on his neck as if he were propping his foot on a desk. Through the slits Donald’s eyes had become, a shadow moved forward, grabbed his hair and, lifting his head to within a hair’s breadth of its face, spat: Did you say something, dickhead? The bullies laughed.

The lookout posted outside the school-grounds, hooted like an owl and called in his tinny fluting voice: Someone’s coming, someone coming.

We’re out of here, said the fat one. Come on.

Five of them ran, but the sixth, the leader of the gang, leaned over Donald brandishing a switch knife and whispered, Talk and I’ll kill you, you creepy piss pants.

Donald’s steel grey eyes narrowed. Kill me, he whispered as the leader moved off. He did not move for a long time as he lay gasping, hugging his battered body and thinking about revenge. He had to find a way to get back at them. They were always picking on him. Bullied him every day, and now they had beaten him up and smashed his bike.

He hadn’t meant any harm to the old woman’s dog. He had felt sorry for it as he stood barefooted, eyes deflected down watching the dog writhing in pain at his feet. The small white terrier had come charging out of the gateway from the little old dilapidated cottage; set well back from the road. It frothed at the mouth, snarled and snapped at his feet. The terrier struck again and again with such frenzy that Donald’s bike wobbled dangerously and he thought he would fall. Alarmed by the dog’s uncharacteristic fury, he kicked out. The dog flew into the air and landed with a thump onto the road. It lay there for a moment panting and gasping for air. Then, as it rose to its feet, car tyres screamed and smoke plumed as the driver of a red Mazda 646 tried to avoid the dazed terrier. The impact tossed the dog over the car’s hood, onto the boot from where it bounced and skidded to land on the footpath where Donald stood, mouth agape. He knelt and stroked the dog, willing it to show some sign of life, but the terrier did not move. He wondered what the dog had felt as life was pressed out of him. I didn’t mean for you to get hurt, he murmured. I only wanted you to leave me alone.

An old woman, still in her dressing gown and using a walking frame as support, shuffled her way along the path shrieking at the top of her lungs. Killed my dog! You killed my dog, you little shit.

A car hit him.

I seen it all from my window, she screamed. You kicked my poor wee dog onto the road into the path of an oncoming car. The old woman crouched, still holding her frame for support, then on hands and knees, crawled to her dead dog. She scratched behind its ear and kissed its head. My poor, baby. What’s the nasty boy done to you? she crooned.

Donald was distraught. I didn’t want to hurt him. I’ve never killed anything—not even a fly, he said as he turned to face the old woman, tears flooding his eyes and running down his face. The old woman paused then whirled around. You bloody murderer, she spat. Just you wait ’til my grandson hears of this. He’ll make you pay.

But I didn’t.

Shrilling, the old woman levered herself to her feet. With arms flailing she beat on his body with all the strength she could muster and shrieked, Be off with you bloody murderer. I’ll look after me own baby.

Donald picked up his bike and ran, never looking back.

* * *

Had the shit beaten out of me because of a bloody yappy dog, he muttered as he picked himself up from the ground where he had lain catching his breath. Filled with a burning hate he shouted into the still air: I’ll kill those bastards.

Killing them, he knew, would be a difficult assignment, but succeeding would be an accomplishment. It would take much practice if he was to succeed, but he would be patient. It takes time to learn to kill. Just like learning a musical instrument, he thought, but I can wait until I’ve learned.

Chapter One

It takes time to learn to kill without remorse, but Donald Bracken had been patient. For twenty years, images of the bullies who would pay for his beating nurtured his coals of hate as he honed his killing skills. In an elite commando squad, he had become athletic, compact and catlike—quite changed from the small, bullied teen. He was ready.

His stomach churning with anticipation, he listened to the phone burring out its call tones; eight, nine, ten, he counted.

Pick up, pick up. God damn you.

Hello. Paul Bracken. A thin voice, accompanied by cracklings came along the line.

Dad, can you hear me?

Who’s this?

Donald.

For some moments only intermittent cracklings sped along the line.

Donald? It’s been a long time.

I know.

Missed you son.

Missed me? Donald thought. His emotions oscillated wildly between loving and loathing. That was a laugh.

Now aged thirty-seven, Donald’s mind flashed back to his teen years. His old man was always drunk, and Donald was left to fend for himself, to be the man of the house, and care for his father. Alone and helpless, he had watched his dad sink deeper and deeper into alcoholic oblivion. It had been a relief to join the army and get away from that hell.

Coming home, Dad.

When?

Leaving London on Monday. Flying into Auckland the twenty-fifth of January, that’s next Wednesday, Qantas flight 543, arriving five-thirty p.m.

His voice sounding eager, Paul said, I’ll meet you at the airport.

No need to, I’ve arranged a hire car so I can drive straight home.

But I want to. I’ll catch a bus and be waiting.

* * *

When Donald entered the arrival lounge at Auckland International Airport, he stood, eyes raking over those locked in greeting and those waiting. His eyes lit upon Paul Bracken, cap in hand, peering at the console. Donald was struck by how he had aged. The autumn of life hung in his father’s eyes, his skin deeply wrinkled and his hair as white as new snow. For a long moment he closed his eyes and did not move. When he looked again his father was staring at him, his forehead creased with indecision and his eyes filled with tears.

Donald is ... is that you? he queried, his eyebrows rising in quizzical arch. The man Donald had become was clean-cut, his bearing arrogant and commanding. He was not handsome in the sense of the word, but he was one of those men whose irregular features fit nicely together. He was tall, slender and athletic. His walnut brown chiselled face, intense grey eyes, and hawkish off-centre nose underpinned by narrow delicate lips gave him an air of purpose.

Donald nodded as he ran his hand through the thick dark brown hair crowning his head. His tanned face lit up as he savoured the moment, and he answered, Yes, it’s me, Dad.

Paul hurried forward, eating up the distance between them with short stuttering steps. Then he cradled Donald’s hands in his and pumped vigorously up and down. He clapped him on the shoulder then stood back and stared. When he spoke he had difficulty in controlling his voice. I hardly recognise you, son.

You had me flummoxed for a moment too; you’ve lightened your hair.

Paul smiled and stepped back. That’s old age, but look at you, quite different from the scrawny lad who left to join the forces. You’re a strapping young man, and handsome.

Donald didn’t answer for a long time. His mind replaying earlier days, his expression hardened. He tried to catch himself, but it was too late. His father had seen the look and his smile faded. Donald’s face softened as he spoke. The army made a man of me, Dad.

* * *

From Auckland, Donald and his father travelled north on State Highway One though farmland and dense native bush. After four hours of driving he turned towards Whangapehe, New Zealand’s warmest and northern-most city. Anticipation surged through his body as the tyres thrummed on the tarmac, eating up the kilometres through familiar territory. Extinct volcanic cones dotted the countryside and weathered volcanic cores and larva flows from forty thousand years ago punctuated the landscape. Coal seams dotted the road banks and lime outcrops erupted from the earth.

On the outskirts of the city, a welcome sign caught Donald’s attention. He smiled as he noted the population had grown to forty-one thousand during his twenty-year absence. It was ten thirty-seven on a balmy summer’s evening when Donald drove into his home town. As he turned his rental car onto Main Street, carpeted with spent pohutukawa bloom, he noted an obese red-headed man staggering along the street. Donald sneered, nudged his father and nodded his head in drunk’s direction.

Still a fat slob I see.

Paul Bracken turned and watched the drunk.

Oh, Keppleman, he said with a lot of force behind his words. A bloody wife beater, that one.

Always been a bully. He gave me the worst beating of my life.

When was that? You never said anything about being bullied.

You were always too drunk to notice what was happening to me. Anyway there was nothing you could have done.

A pained expression lit across Paul’s face and he rubbed his chin. I’ve been off the booze ever since you left home. Always go to my meetings at AA. Don’t miss one.

Donald turned dispassionate eyes on his father. Your alcoholism would have killed you if you hadn’t stopped drinking.

A wry smile teased at the corner of Paul’s lips, and seemingly ignoring Donald’s remarks, he pointed in the direction of Callum Keppleman, who was now shouting obscenities at the top of his lungs.

That one there needs counselling. His antics are the talk of the town. He beats his wife most nights—that pretty thing you had the hots for—and he bullies older folk.

You mean Marie? He married Marie? She was a beautiful young woman—blond hair and sparkling arctic blue eyes. She was stunning.

Yes. Spiked her drinks and knocked her up. Her old man insisted they marry. You know—a shotgun wedding.

She’d no love for bullies—slapped Callum across the face a number of times when he grabbed at her and whispered in her ear. She hated his guts.

She’s a shadow of her former self; a timid little mousy thing now. I don’t think you would recognise her.

Donald’s eyes narrowed, his face set into an inscrutable mask, and the embers of hate burning within flared.

Callum doesn’t deserve to live, he said.

His father winced and looked sideways at Donald, clearly startled by the indifferent tone conveyed in his voice. You know Donald, you rarely show your feelings; always the same face and the same voice. I bet you could do away with someone and we’d never know about it by looking at you.

The corners of Donald’s mouth twitched in a smile. All part of the training, Dad, he replied as he patted his trouser pocket in which a photograph wallet bore the images of the men he would make pay.

For twenty years the images had kindled Donald’s passion to master the skills of silent killing. Discipline had been harsh and expectations high in the elite commando unit for which he had volunteered. Training had been gruelling, and each mission, a challenge. Often drained to the point of exhaustion, his eyes red-rimmed and bloodshot, and his every action automatic, the pictures burned into his brain had provided the willpower to endure.

He had pushed himself hard, the running, the pressing of weights, the weapons training and the mental preparation required, for the act that would drive away his demons. The gnawing pangs of conscience had been suppressed. He’d learned to take human life without a flicker of remorse.

Killing was his profession.

* * *

The sun had barely breasted the Earth’s rim when Donald rose, pulled on his shorts and laced his Nike running shoes. Fitness training and healthy eating had become part of his daily life in the commandos. He adjusted his watch, grabbed a bottle of water and set off on a three-hour run that would take him along Henderson Street and on to Old North Road. As he neared number 62, frenzied barking caused him to stop and watch. An excited pit bull bitch tracked up and down the porch clawing at the woodwork and throwing her body at the flaking painted door. A male voice raised in anger hurled animated obscenities which were interspersed with plaintive cries of a female pleading, Please don’t. Please.

Suddenly the front door flung back with a resounding whack.

Shut the fuck up, shouted the red-head as he slammed a boot into the side of the bitch. The dog let out an ear-piercing yelp, whimpered, turned tail between her legs and retreated to her kennel.

Donald felt the boot, remembered the pain from all those years ago. It’s slow, oh so slow for you, you bastard, he whispered before continuing on his way.

* * *

All that afternoon, Donald waited in the library opposite the bar, watching for Callum. He was well prepared for the hunt, should the opportunity arise. His new four-wheel drive, with his mountain bike mounted on the rear, had a full tank of petrol and the tools of his trade were discreetly housed under the seat. When Callum lurched on his fat stumpy legs into the bar, Donald slipped in behind and seated himself in the darkest corner of the room.

Callum trundled up to a rough-looking character, head down as if it was too heavy to lift, staring into his beer, and thumped him on the shoulder. Liquid ballooning from the glass spilled onto his clothes. Clearly startled, the man shouted, What the fuck, then less volubly, Oh, Callum. How are you, mate? Two men, one dark-haired with a healthy growth of dark stubble on his chin, and the other with long fair hair, looked up from their game of pool and, calling greetings, swaggered across the room to stand at Callum’s elbow. Your beer’s waiting, said the fair-haired one as he pointed to a jug sitting on the edge of the pool table.

Callum gave no hint that he had heard his friend’s words. His eyes fixed on the barmaid, he hollered in his high pitched piercing voice, Get a load of this.

The barmaid, blond and blue-eyed, her face slashed by bright crimson lips, a gold stud in one ear and her near-perfect shape set off by a short, hugging skirt, sensed his presence. She looked up and eyed him with a look of disdain on her face. Callum leered and grabbed at his crotch, tugged on his balls and rolled his eyes back in their sockets until only the whites showed. Like to get into your pants. You’re a smasher.

Raw, hard, decadent laughter erupted throughout the bar. The barmaid tossed her head. Filth, she spat and turning her back on him, walked to the other end of the counter.

Donald’s eyes hooded and his brow creased as he fought to control the welling hate. Marie was a ‘looker’ too, until you got your paws on her, you bastard, he muttered.

* * *

It was seven o’clock when Donald ordered his meal at the brasserie adjoining the bar. The menu, with its variety of meats and range of salads, piqued his interest. He selected eye fillet steak stuffed with oysters, a side salad, ate a leisurely and satisfying meal, ordered a coffee and sat back, waiting.

Tucked in the corner of the dining room, he continued his watch. Nine o’clock came and went before a boisterous Callum stood and hollered, Going to get me some ’possums.

You’re pissed, remarked the fair-haired man. You can’t go hunting when you’re pissed.

The fuck I can’t, Callum slurred belligerently as he pantomimed the hunt. I can shoot ’em with me eyes shut.

Not alone, you can’t go into the bush alone, Callum, cautioned his dark-haired companion. He stationed himself to bar Callum’s way. Callum sneered. His face reddened and his fists tightened. He lowered his head and charged bull-like into his mate’s midriff, tossing him across the room to land in a heap on the floor.

You can’t stop me, you friggin’ little runt, he bellowed as he lurched and elbowed his way through the crowded bar and stumbled out onto the footpath.

* * *

Donald waited long moments before paying his