Dead Eyed (37 page)

‘Target? Don’t be so dramatic,’ said Hastings.

‘Leave May out of this. You said you wanted to save me. So save me, and let her be.’

Hastings stood in the middle of the room, a tied prisoner to either side of him. He paused for psychological and dramatic effect. ‘I don’t think you realise how lucky you are.’

Lambert looked straight past the man towards May. The rope which bound her left ankle had come loose when Hastings dragged her across the room. She was trying to free it. Lambert knew he had to keep Hastings talking. ‘Fine, I’ll humour you. How am I lucky?’

Hastings hesitated, surprised by the response. ‘Well, you forced me to change my story.’

Lambert was confused but continued asking questions. ‘You sent Klatzky the pictures to get me involved?’

‘Of course.’

‘Why?’

Hastings shrugged. ‘I wanted to save Klatzky and I wanted to involve you. I’d read about your problems. I knew you wouldn’t be able to resist getting involved. Like I said to your colleague, there’s a certain symmetry to the story. Revisiting Billy Nolan has been so delicious. Getting you and Simon involved, and our friend Sandra Hopkins.’

Lambert tried to not look at Sarah May who was still struggling with the rope. ‘You’ll need to clarify that.’

‘I’m not sure how much you know about your friend Simon, but we had things in common.’

‘Don’t compare yourself to him,’ said Lambert.

‘There are things you don’t know about him, about his mother.’ Hastings grimaced, his face flushed with anger.

‘What’s that got to do with you?’

Hastings regained his composure. He played with the cuffs of his shirt. ‘That’s not relevant. Simon still struggled with his childhood, that much was obvious. He needed help and I helped him.’

‘I think you’ll find he was more troubled by Billy Nolan’s death.’

‘For someone who has a knack for seeing things others don’t, you’re surprisingly blind to the situation of those closest to you. Klatzky was a drunk, an addict, way before I rescued Billy Nolan. You didn’t notice that he spent the whole three years at University escaping something.’

May was still struggling at the rope.

Lambert searched for an argument against what Hastings had told him. ‘We were all like that,’ he said.

‘There are shades of dependency. Klatzky was a fuck-up then and he stayed one until the end. Anyway…’

‘Why did you stop, Hastings?’

Hastings glared at him. ‘Stop?’

‘Why did you stop after Billy? And why did you start again?’

Hastings sat on the floor next to him, as if the three of them were having a friendly chat. ‘I never stopped, Michael, you’ll find that out soon enough. The Souljacker killings were drawing too much attention. It was becoming too hard to deflect interest, and it was affecting my career. I decided to go dark, as they say. There are a number of unmarked graves out there.’

It was difficult to relate the Hastings he thought he knew with the man before him. ‘So why target me now?’ said Lambert.

‘Ah, you, Lambert. I know Miss May here has filled you in on some of the detail.’ Hastings turned briefly, his hand pointing at Sarah. He stopped and took a deep breath. He was almost serene, the light of the standing lamp illuminating his face.

‘God chose twelve apostles when his son was on Earth. There are twelve pearly gates. I am saving twelve lost souls.’

Hastings’ speech sounded contrived, a little too prepared. Lambert was not convinced by the religious rhetoric. For one, the twelve apostles were all men, and Hastings had killed Sandra Hopkins. ‘How am I lost?’ he asked.

‘Michael…’ said Hastings, standing.

Lambert struggled in his position, as the man touched his hair and placed his palm onto his cheek.

‘You lost your soul when you killed your daughter.’

Chapter 54

Lambert thrashed in his chair. He pushed at the rope which held his wrists fast, a pain spreading up his arms and into his chest. ‘Don’t you fucking talk about my daughter, you sadistic animal,’ he screamed.

Hastings sounded genuinely shocked. ‘I’m sorry, Michael, I didn’t mean to upset you. By your own admission, you were responsible for your daughter’s death. Officially it was an accident, and I’m sure it was, but you blame yourself don’t you?’

Lambert eased his struggle. Saliva dripped from his mouth as his body cramped. ‘Don’t mention her,’ he said, through gritted teeth.

Hastings left the room, leaving the door open. Lambert called over to May. ‘Any use?’ he asked, his mind still reeling from what Hastings had said.

Sarah May jiggled her left leg. ‘It’s coming loose slowly,’ she said, her voice a whisper. ‘Not that it will make any difference.’

‘Keep working.’

Lambert shivered as the adrenalin in his body faded. He tried not to think about where Hastings had gone, but was unable to blank out his imagination. He pictured Hastings gathering his surgical set, the pontifical incense, and the anaesthetic. In his thoughts, Hastings smiled in anticipation of a new kill. A wave of nausea hit Lambert. He tried to vomit, his throat contracting as he dry heaved, his stomach empty.

Hastings returned with a small wooden table which he placed next to Lambert. He left the room once more to retrieve two hand guns which he placed side by side on the table. Lambert noticed one of the guns was his Glock.

‘Okay, the end is near,’ said Hastings. ‘Let me explain what is going to happen.’ He picked up one of the guns and held it in front of Lambert.

Lambert breathed deeply, tried to ease his raging heartbeat.

‘I’m giving you one chance, and one chance only, to save your soul, Mr Lambert. You failed to save your daughter, little Chloe, and now I am going to give you the chance to redeem yourself.’

Hastings turned his palms face up, his arms held out wide waiting for a response.

Lambert’s chest was bursting with pressure. ‘Just tell us, you sick fuck.’

‘I will be giving you the opportunity to save Sarah May’s life,’ said Hastings, who walked over and sat down in the chair opposite Sarah May. He unclicked the safety and lifted the gun so it pointed squarely at May’s forehead.

‘Don’t,’ said Lambert. ‘It was me you were going to save,’ said Lambert.

May closed her eyes, peaceful, save for the tremor in her chest. Lambert hoped she was lost somewhere in her thoughts, a fond memory taking her away from the stark reality.

‘My life’s work is over,’ said Hastings, lowering the gun. ‘I need a fitting end. A conclusion worthy to what I’ve achieved. A twelfth soul worth saving. Sarah May isn’t part of my plans. Only you are, Michael.’

May opened her eyes. At first relieved that Hastings had lowered the gun, her face contorted into anger. If she hadn’t been tied up at the moment, she would have torn Hastings to pieces with her bare hands.

‘So fucking end it,’ said Lambert.

‘Fair enough,’ said Hastings, getting to his feet. ‘In a couple of minutes, Michael, I am going to untie you. I will leave the second gun where it is, on the table before you. As you can see, the gun is yours. I retrieved it from you after your accident. The magazine has one bullet left. After untying you, I will count to ten. If I finish counting to ten, then I will shoot Sarah May.’

Lambert fought against his ties, exchanged a look with Sarah. ‘What’s the catch?’

‘No catch, but the shot needs to be a clean kill. If I am still alive then I will shoot the young detective here.’

‘You expect me to believe that you’re going to let me kill you?’

‘Why not? I’m finished and gratefully so. I have already written the ending. Can you imagine it, the perfect way to save my twelfth soul. Giving you redemption for killing your daughter.’

Lambert ignored the mention of Chloe. It sounded too good to be true. ‘The gun’s loaded?’

‘One bullet in the magazine. I warn you, it needs to be a clean kill.’

In Lambert’s peripheral vision, May was still struggling with the loose rope on her leg. He couldn’t see if she was succeeding.

‘So do we have a deal, Mr Lambert?’

Lambert shrugged. ‘I’m hardly in a position to negotiate.’

‘Wonderful. I’ll be back shortly.’

Lambert watched, horrified, as a man who had never previously betrayed any sense of emotion practically skipped out of the room.

‘Do you think he means it?’ said May.

Lambert didn’t want to get too hopeful. ‘It’s possible. Also possible that he is toying with us. He could do this with all his victims for all we know.’

‘If we ever get out of this, I think we need to get you to work on your motivational skills,’ said May. ‘Do you think you’ll be able to do it?’

‘What, shoot him? Are you kidding? Nothing would give me more pleasure.’

‘I mean with your arms having been tied up for so long. They are going to be incredibly stiff.’

Lambert clenched his fists, tensed and released his arm muscles. ‘Don’t worry about me. I’d like to keep him alive so we can question him, but I’ll make sure he goes down. What about your leg?’

‘The rope is looser. I think I might be able to free it. I can’t move anything else, though.’

‘Keep trying, just in case.’

Hastings kept them waiting. Lambert took in the scene, tried to concentrate on what was to come. Sarah May was less than six metres away. Under normal circumstances, the shot would be easy. It was his gun, he’d practised with it on numerous occasions in various secluded woodland areas. He considered the variables in his current situation, concluding that the physical constraints were the least of his problems. He would have to turn his left shoulder to face Hastings. His legs would probably remain tied, but there would be enough freedom of movement to make the turn. His left leg still ached, and the remnants of whatever Hastings had drugged him with still travelled his system, but he would hold the gun steady enough to get off one shot. If there was an issue, it would be the psychological issue of knowing that if he missed he would be condemning Sarah May to death.

As if reading his mind, May said, ‘whatever that bastard says, you know it wasn’t your fault that Chloe died, and you have nothing to redeem yourself for. You do know that, don’t you?’

‘I’ll probably still shoot him anyway,’ he said.

May laughed, and Lambert thought it was probably the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen. ‘Oh, good,’ she said.

Another hour passed before Hastings returned. He’d kept the light on, the glow from the naked bulb so bright that Lambert was forced to keep his eyes shut. He managed to keep his arms moving as much as possible. He clenched his fists, tensing his biceps and chest muscles so that the shock of freedom, should it occur, would be manageable.

Hastings didn’t talk, his demeanour more like the dour, humourless man Lambert had always known. He picked up Lambert’s gun and unclipped the magazine. He checked it and clicked it back in place. In the glare of the standing lamp, Lambert noticed the mass of wrinkles on Hastings’ face, a network of minuscule incisions on his leather-like skin.

‘Ready?’ asked Hastings, his voice a rasping growl.

During Hastings’ absence, Lambert had deliberated as to how Hastings’ little game would work.

A split second later he found out.

Chapter 55

It lasted longer than ten seconds.

The first impact came out of nowhere, Hastings’ fist landing on Lambert’s chin snapping his head back. Lambert twisted his head, a line of saliva coated in blood flying across the room. Hastings hit him again, three more times, once across each temple and a third in his mouth shattering a number of teeth until Lambert’s head hung low on his chest. With no way to defend himself, the blows caused maximum damage. In his dizzied state, Lambert presumed Hastings had changed his mind. Supporting this new theory, Hastings punched him hard in the stomach. Again the blow was unexpected, Lambert not having time to offer even the merest resistance of clenching his stomach muscles. Lambert tried to breathe, a faint whistling sound escaping from his mouth. His chest muscles tightened and for a time and he feared he was going into cardiac arrest.

From somewhere in the room, he heard the distance voice of Sarah May, protesting at Hastings’ actions. As his breath returned, he noticed his left hand was free. He made a feeble attempt to lift it and suffered another punch, this time to his throat.

The blow must have knocked him out, his body shocking itself back into consciousness as if waking from a nightmare. His eyes snapped open and took in everything. The brightly lit room. The sight of Sarah May tied to the chair, a gag rammed into her mouth. Hastings sitting in the chair opposite, his gun pointed directly at May’s forehead.

Lambert noticed his hands were free, his Glock 22 within reach on the table before him.

‘Ten seconds,’ said Hastings.

Lambert tried not to hesitate. He watched his hand reach for the gun as if in slow motion. It reminded him of the dreams which at times had plagued his childhood, the nightmares where he’d tried to run from unknown assailants only for his legs to move as if stuck in treacle. The gun felt heavier than he remembered, a lead weight pulsating in his shaking hand. He thought he heard Hastings reach seven but couldn’t be sure. His head throbbed, his throat constricted as if filled with a foreign object.

Lambert swivelled his body to face Hastings. He focused on the man, disturbed to see that Hastings’ hand was shaking. His gun waved in front of Sarah May’s face, who stared ahead dead eyed.

Lambert took aim. He tensed his arm to stop it shaking and aimed for Hastings’ forehead.

Lambert closed his right eye and squeezed the trigger.

Later, he would have sworn that he saw the bullet leave his gun.

As Lambert went to squeeze the trigger, Hastings leant into May deciding his chosen finale was not for him. As he did so, May’s left leg struggled free. She managed to dart her leg out just in time to kick Hastings backwards.

The bullet entered Hastings’ neck. Lambert fired his gun again but Hastings had been telling the truth about the solitary bullet. Using his hands for leverage, Lambert swayed on the spot and managed to topple the chair. He landed on his hands, the impact almost breaking his wrists. He dragged his body across the floor to Hastings.