Disappear
On a rain-drenched night, a young husband runs to the corner shop - and never returns.
Eighteen years later, his body reappears.
-Reappears, wearing the same clothes, and on the same street from which he went missing.
-Reappears, and is the victim of a hit/run driver.
He looks exactly the same now as when he vanished.
His widow, Jennifer Parkes, is determined to solve this enigma once and for all.
Other bodies are found. All missing eighteen years. None seem to have aged.
On the trail of a vicious killer, Jennifer and homicide detective Neil Lachlan are drawn into a human minefield of deception and terror; into the depths of a mystery that baffles the police and defies logic. Investigating at the forefront of scientific and medical technologies, they confront a threat that is much closer than either of them could ever have imagined.
Praise for Iain Edward Henn (author The Delta Chain)
“fast-paced…hooks the reader in…”
-Publisher’s Weekly
“bona fide suspense…thoroughly compelling”
ABOUT THE AUTHOR-Renee Washburn, Apex Reviews
Iain Edward Henn has a background in newspaper and magazine publishing.
Twenty of his short stories have appeared in magazines in England, North America, Denmark, Sweden, Norway, Australia and New Zealand and with the Scandinavian University Press.
His novel, The Delta Chain, was an Amazon Breakthrough Novel Award Quarterfinalist.
He lives on the outskirts of Sydney with his wife, Janne.
DISAPPEAR
IAIN EDWARD HENN
SUNFIRE PUBLISHING
First published in Australia as ‘The Silent Scream,’ by Saga Publishing, an imprint of Gary Allen Pty. Ltd.
Revised and updated 2012
Copyright 2012 Iain Edward Henn
This edition published 2012 by Sunfire Publishing
The right of Iain Edward Henn to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him under the Copyright Amendment (Moral Rights) Act 2000.
All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means – electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, scanning, or other – except for brief quotations in critical reviews or articles, without the prior written permission of the publisher.
Apart from references to actual historical figures and places, all other names, characters and places are the product of the author’s imagination and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
ISBN 978-0-9808493-5-6
Cover images –
Copyright Bowie 15/Dreamstime.com
Copyright Pavel Kohout/Dreamstime.com
eBooks created by
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To my wife, Janne,
for your light and love and encouragement
Each year, in Australia alone, 35,000 people are reported missing. In the United States, it is 900,000, in the UK: 200,000. More than 85% of these return, or are found, within the first two weeks. The remainder fall into the category of the long term missing person. Some have run away to a different life; some have suffered memory loss or illness; some have been kidnapped or murdered. Most are traced eventually one way or another. There is always a small percentage, however, who are never seen or heard of again.
-Missing Persons Statistics
It was the perfect time and the perfect place for the killing.
The first soft sweep of dawn light, the air crisp. The reserve was a large, sprawling tangle of green, sections of park, sections of natural bush. The running track circled the grounds, obscured from view in several places by overhanging willows and over-reaching ferns.
The jogger’s blood lust was running at fever pitch, his senses singing with exhilaration. Most people would wake this morning feeling good to be alive. The jogger had woken feeling reborn, his all-consuming, dark need re-energised. His moment had finally arrived.
The time. The place. And the perfect victim.
For the first time in eighteen years he was free to kill again. The watchers were gone, he was certain of that.
He’d driven the perimeter of the reserve, stopping at random to scan the area with binoculars. No cars in the immediate vicinity. The reserve itself was empty, except for the young woman, keeping to her usual routine.
He joined the track on one of the hidden stretches and began to jog. His timing was precise, so that the woman was a dozen metres in front of him. She covered the ground in long, casual strides.
He couldn’t have wished for a finer specimen. Long legs, athletic physique, electric blue shorts in a tight fit.
The urge coursed through his veins like a drug as he closed the distance between them.
He was going to make up for the long years of frustration and denial; of trying to satisfy his desires with fantasies and memories; of practically being driven mad on occasion by the inexplicable restraints.
That was over now.
The woman was almost within reach. He imagined the thin strip of wire looped around her throat, pulling tight, biting into flesh. Her panic; her gasping for breath. She’d be unable to scream, unable to break free of his iron grip.
And then acceptance as her hands fell limply to her sides and her knees sagged, life draining away.
The jogger reached for the wire that lay in the pocket of his tracksuit pants. Its cold steel felt reassuring against his fingers.
The woman was within arm’s reach now. He noticed the slight tilt of her head as she became aware of another runner on the path. It was almost time.
For the young woman it should have been the start of one of the most exciting times in her life. She’d woken that morning feeling good to be alive. Instead, it was to be the end of everything.
Eighteen years earlier
Thunder rolled across the sky, nature’s soundtrack to the dark clouds that blanketed the city. The night was lit only by the occasional flash of streak lightning. There was steady rain, not a deluge, just the promise of one, and the wind howled like a pack of hounds.
Hell of a night, thought Brian Parkes.
He’d been stuck on the train for two hours, any hint of rain and the blasted things slowed down. Give them a full blown electrical winter storm and they threw in the towel completely, stopping and starting with a familiar, grinding mechanical wheeze. Then came to a complete standstill.
On a number of occasions during the two hours the train had stalled for up to fifteen minutes at a time, before lurching on a little further. Stop-starting all the way.
At the end of the long journey Brian learned from a station assistant that the delays were caused by overhead lines coming down under the force of the strong winds. Many decades earlier Neil Armstrong had set foot on the moon. But in Sydney, the train system defied the fact that, elsewhere, Man was reaching for the stars.
It was a twelve-minute walk from the station to his home. His umbrella had been pushed inside out by the wind and the metal sprockets had snapped. The thin strands of metal stood upwards, away from the inverted cloth, like a creature on its back with its legs in the air. He dumped it in a roadside bin as he ran, pulling the collar of his coat tighter. He sprinted the first two blocks, and then slowed to a walk for the third. After all, what was the point of racing? He was already soaked to the bone. He wasn’t going to be any less wet when he walked through the front door.
Was it just his imagination or was the rain driving harder since he’d left the train? That’d be right. It pounded the pavement like a battering ram. He broke into a run again as he rounded the corner into his street.
Inside number forty six Claridge Street, Jennifer Parkes watched her husband as he stepped into the front alcove. She felt herself tingle with contentment. She loved the rumpled look of his young face with his easy smile, snub nose and pointy chin. His curly brown hair was plastered to his head by the rain, but the lines of water that ran down his cheeks didn’t detract in the slightest from those handsome, cherubic features.
Their eyes connected and Brian beamed.
‘Hi, baby.’ He eased out of the wet jacket and ambled towards her.
‘I was starting to worry.’
‘Train packed up. Been stuck in a carriage for two hours.’
She winced. ‘Poor thing. Hot cuppa? Hot bath?’
‘Yes please. The works.’
She melted into his arms. The feel and smell of her made Brian’s senses soar. The firm swell of her breasts through the light cotton of her blouse, pressing against his chest, the gentle warmth of her body, supple and slender, fitting snugly against him. He brushed his fingers through the dark hair, shiny ebony black, centre-parted, that fell below her shoulders.
‘Cuppa first. I’ll make it while you get out of those wet clothes.’ She pulled away, headed for the kitchen.
‘In a sec.’ He flopped down on the lounge, shivered, reached for the packet of cigarettes in his shirt pocket. Flipped it open. ‘Damn. I’m out of fags.’
Jennifer’s head popped around the corner of the kitchen doorway. She made a face at him. ‘Silly, aren’t you.’
‘Bloody silly.’
She looked at the rain lashed window, then back to him. ‘You’re not going out in that again?’
He shrugged. ‘It’s only a coupl’a minutes to the corner store. Bill will still be open.’
Jennifer gave him a despairing look. ‘Good night to give them up.’
Brian shook his head. ‘No. Bad night to give them up.’ He retraced his steps to the door, pulling his coat back on again.
‘You’ll catch a chill.’
‘I’ll hop straight into a hot bath when I get back. Promise.’ He paused at the door, looking back at her. The dance of the rain on the roof became suddenly louder. ‘Of all the days to have the car in for service.’
‘One day we’ll look back on this and laugh. Or at least I will.’ She smiled again, winked at him, and he marvelled at how her smile lit the room.
‘Love you,’ he said.
‘Love you too. Be quick.’
‘Real quick.’ He blew her a kiss and stepped out into the storm.
‘Wait!’ she called. She took her small yellow umbrella from the hook on the hall wall and ran to the door, passing it out to him. ‘Take my brolly.’
‘Thanks, hon.’
Jennifer went back through to the kitchen to check on the vegetable stew. She placed four bread rolls in the oven to heat. This was going to be just the meal for a night like this. Despite the cold air outside, she felt warm and cosy in here. Before she knew it, twenty minutes had passed. It was only a five-minute walk, three if you ran, to the local store.
She went to the front door, opened it, and peered out into the rain. She couldn’t see a thing. What was taking Brian so long? Probably standing in that shop, dripping wet, chatting with Bill. Men. She went into the living room, placed her open palms in front of the electric heater, and waited.
Another fifteen minutes dragged by and she began to worry.
Brian and his damned silly cigarettes.
Where was he? She went to the door again and looked out. The rain had eased off considerably. A full moon glowed through a break in the night clouds and the wind had stopped.
Jennifer pulled a jacket on and marched off along the street towards the shop. The store was closed when she reached it but a light was still on inside. She banged on the front door and half a minute later it swung open.
