A Killer Among Us Read online

  Rhys Stalba-Smith

  A KILLER AMONG US

  Copyright © 2021 by Rhys Stalba-Smith

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, scanning, or otherwise without written permission from the publisher. It is illegal to copy this book, post it to a website, or distribute it by any other means without permission.

  First edition

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  Contents

  I. THE BEGINNING & THE END

  Definition

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  II. SARAH

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  III. ETHAN

  Chapter 15

  IV. PERSECUTORY

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  V. PERSECUTOR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  VI. CHARLIE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  About the Author

  Also by Rhys Stalba-Smith

  I

  THE BEGINNING & THE END

  Definition

  Per·se·cu·to·ry adjective

  1 of, relating to, or feelings of persecution 2 as psychosis - A type of delusion believing that the victim (or someone close to them) is being mistreated, that someone is spying on them or planning to harm them.

  Per·se·cu·te transitive verb

  1 to harass or punish in a manner that designs injury or grievance. To afflict specifically / to cause suffering because of belief.

  CHAPTER ONE

  Charlie’s skin burning woke him up. The pain jagged at his nerves, the sheared metal pressing through his thigh. Blood, warm and thick leaking from him. Upside down. Head spinning. Steering wheel in his chest. Clutching it. Crushed to it. He reached out a hand, pushed against the door. It pulled at his flesh. He screamed. He could smell petrol and rain. Too much.

  Charlie’s voice was echoing in the darkness. Barely could see, or wasn’t seeing what was in front of him? Eve?. He turned in the direction of his wife but couldn’t see her. Reaching out again. A blurred shape moving. Charlie tried to turn the other way, look in the back for his daughters. His vision was blurring, head full of blood, fading. His body started to convulse. Couldn’t feel the steering wheel in his chest. Death? Empty. He began screaming again, for someone, anyone to hear. But there was nothing.

  Charlie woke again. In the back of the car. No, the front. Eve next to him. She hung limply. Tears in his eyes. His heart aching. Her hair trailing down onto the roof of the car, pooling in the mixed waters. He kept whispering to her. Saying her name over and over, it’d be okay. But then he was also screaming, pleading for her to come back. To bring her back. Because there was a person there. Right by the car moving around. Fidgeting with something. They were with his daughters.

  Charlie woke again. Twisted in his seat. Body contorted and coiled. He’d been looking at the back seat. A small voice whispering, then asking, then afraid. One daughter is missing. One daughter is missing. Rachel? he said. Rachel! Where are you—He stopped. Harper taking the words from him. She hung like her mother. Body peaceful in it’s placidity. The first time she’d looked peaceful in a long time. Her wheelchair halfway out of the window. One wheel spinning from the rain. He watched it because he couldn’t look at his daughter. Finally, he did. Her small body crushed by the side walling of the car. The car had plough right into the middle of the car. They should’ve been sheared in two. Charlie croaks at her. Then bucks against the door, calling and reaching. He cries and keeps bucking. Reaching for his belt. He just needs to get to his daughter. Needs to find Rachel too. Needs to—he unclips the buckle and falls on his head.

  The rain really coming down now. Pooling over the edges of the roof and into the car. They’d rolled into a ditch. He remembered the rolling. He pushes weakly against the door with his hand. Someone was just here. He reaches at Eve. Maybe he could just hold her until help arrived. Get Harper down too. Maybe find Rachel too. His hands are shaking. He can’t even reach Eve’s buckle up there. Charlie snakes slowly over the crumpled roof, the metal digging at his mangled legs. Caresses Harper’s face. He ignores the blood pooling in her nostrils and dripping down her face.

  He needs to leave the car. That way he’d find Rachel. That’ll fix everything. She could still be alive. He holds Harper’s face, can’t leave just yet. Not when she’s this perfect. Just beautiful. His first daughter. He’s caressing her more now, spreading the blood and trying to wipe it away. But her neck is wrong. It’s too sharp. Too jagged. He stifles a cry, tells her it’s okay.

  Charlie pulled himself away. Too much. Could open the door at the back here. Rachel’s side is near untouched. The door can open. He crawled over the frame. The broken glass cutting at his stomach and gut. His hands. He ignores it and pulls on. He’s shaking and pulling himself along. His legs numb and dead. Rachel?

  A light shines on him and he stops. Thank God. Help! He calls out. He’s only halfway out the car. The light becomes brighter, moving towards him. He can see the rain in it. Great heavy droplets puckering his face and the ground. The girls would’ve loved it. Footsteps with the light even in the rain. On hard ground then? Now slushing mud. The person coming into the ditch. The light shining on him brighter and brighter. Blinding. He rolls over, looking back at the car. The thing is flat.

  Charlie, a voice says through the years. Echoing from his childhood.

  Charlie jolts awake. Sweating. Heart spasming. The monitor on his finger blipping in the dark. His knees hurting. Phantom pain, he’s been told. Hasn’t had his knees, bottom half of his body since the accident. They’re there, just not working. He gropes at his boney flesh under the covers. Leans over and pulls the lamp on, the room lights up dull yellow. The grey room alive and confirming his fears, he’s alone.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Emergency services.

  Um, hello, um.

  Hello there, how can I help you?

  Um, I’m not meant to use the phone.

  Is everything okay?

  It’s my parents. They’re um—They don’t like me doing things without them knowing.

  Well I can keep a secret if that helps? You can tell me what you need help with.

  Okay. It’s my parents.

  Do your parents need help?

  I think so. They’re not moving. There’s a lot of blood. Some men came.

  Okay, I’m sending some help along just now. Is that okay? We’ll be there shortly. Do you want to stay on here with me in the mean time?

  Okay.

  What’s your name?

  I’m not meant to say those things to people I don’t know.

  That’s very smart of you. You must be a very good boy. If it helps, my name is Barbara. But you can call me Barb. I work at the emergency services. My friends are coming to help you,
okay?

  Okay.

  Can I ask you a favour? Can you be a brave boy and tell me what’s happened? Or are you able to go to your parents and see if they’re breathing? Can you do that?

  Some men came.

  And what did these men do?

  Their chests don’t go up and down anymore.

  Whose chests?

  My parents.

  Well sometimes when we breathe very quietly we don’t make much movement. Are the men still there?

  No.

  Is anyone else there with you?

  A pause. I don’t know.

  Can you try something for me? Can you go to your parents?

  I’m not allowed to. I’m not allowed out of the cupboard.

  The line is quiet for a few moments. The emergency caller talking to her team. Horrified. My friends should be there shortly, she said, returning. They’re really close. You’re doing great. But it would be a big help if you could give me some more information. Are you sure you can’t help me?

  Maybe…

  If you can, and only if you can, I want you to place your hand under their nose or in front of their mouth. You’ll feel a little bit of pressure on your hand. That’s their breath.

  I think I can do that. But I have to put the phone down, it won’t reach out of the cupboard.

  That’s okay.

  There’s lots of blood. I don’t really like blood. I falled asleep when I got my shot. I wanted to help, but—the line crackled and clicked—made me promise. I don’t want to. It’s too scary. I can’t. Panic rising in the child’s voice.

  It’s okay, Barb said. That’s okay.

  They’re looking at me funny.

  That’s okay. You just stay on the line with me—

  They staring at me, the boy is hysterical. My ears hurt. I don’t want to leave the cupboard. You can’t make me leave. I don’t want to leave. I don’t want. I don’t want. It’s safe here. The men with the big guns might come back. I don’t—

  It’s okay. It’s okay. You don’t have to leave the cupboard. Barbara is mouthing at her team to find out where the car is. It’s fine, she said. It’s okay to stay put. Just breath slowly with me. Okay?

  Okay.

  In. Out. In.

  The line quiet. Barb can hear the boy breathing. The two policemen are almost at the house, she’s told. The boy comes back on line.

  When I’m nervous I normally play I-Spy with Mum. Or my sitter.

  I can play with you. Would you like to spy first?

  The boy fumbles with the phone between hands. Barb hears movement down the line. I spy my Mum but I don’t think she’s alive anymore. I think she’s like Bobo.

  Sorry?

  He was my rabbit that died. My dad killed him because I was bad. An’ then he leaved him in the cage in the room with me to set an example. But not-Dad taked him down. Mum looks the same way that Bobo was. I liked Bobo, an’ I know I was bad, but I don’t want Mum to be like Bobo. I hope she’s not the same as Bobo cause I didn’t think I was being bad. But Mum’s brains are coming out of the hole the big guns made.

  Jesus christ, Barbara mutters. Hold on kid, we’re almost there. She hears the distant siren on his line.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Twenty, forty, sixty, eighty, one, twenty, forty, sixty, eighty, two, George counting the cash out of the safe. He places the money in the tray and went back for coins. A muffled call through the bookshop echoed back to him. What? he said.

  I said you want coffee? Gene asked coming in, leaning against the counter, jeans grubby and stained with paint. I’m heading over to Three-4-Two. Just saw the delivery van of pastries. She was rubbing her hands.

  George frowned at her overalls, Painting’s a bastard, isn’t it? Still no washer?

  Gene stifled a yawn and stood away from the counter, stretching. Good. Still sleeping in the yard though. Smell was too much overnight. But, majority of the rooms’re done. Plumber coming today to connect the heater up. Can put that first load on.

  George nodded and standing up with a groan and the coins, took the cash tray under his arm. Beauty, he said. Truly happy for Gene. Well once you’re done, I get to have the first beers with you. I’m financing it.

  Gene laughed, allowed George to pass. You might be financing but it’s Jacob’s Hardware getting it all. Might as well just make a direct transfer to them.

  George put the money in the till and closed it. Ran a set of numbers through and the dollar sign spun. The machine reset. To answer your initial question, he said. Tall black and one of those almond thingies. Twiddled his fingers. Maybe two, he winked.

  Always the sweet tooth.

  Wasn’t always, George heading back out, Gene with him. It was book launch day. Busy. Hopefully. My old man was a pastries man regardless of hour, George said. And when I say pastries, I mean meat pies and pasties. Never caught him eating anything sweet in the morning or evening.

  Eww, Gene scrunched her face. Sounds like you were somewhat the rebel in the household then Georgey.

  That I was Gene Genie. That I was, he said. His back cracking.

  Late night yourself?

  Yeah. George yawned again. Stuck on a plot point. But, he shrugged. Tis the life, as they say.

  As you say.

  As I say, yes. They both smiled. Anyway, I used to eat pies for breakfast too. Microwave ‘em. Nice and soggy.

  Eugh, I’m gonna be sick, you’re such an animal George. Gene at the door now.

  Was. But that’s why I read. Try and prove those scientists wrong. This shaved monkey can learn.

  Gene shook her head and smiled, threw her coat on as the door slammed. George waved her off as she crossed the little space between stores then the road. George’s new and old bookshop was in a corner mall at a village in the Adelaide Hills. Retired reading country. Just him and a few others at the mall. Most Friday nights they all sat out back of one of the other’s shops and had drinks and takeaway. George picked up the box of books and took it to the table Gene had prepared last night. He couldn’t have hired a better worker. He needed a switched on person to take over while he grieved, became old and forgetful. Not that he was old old, he was fifty-six. Halfway to a ton in cricketing terms, but he wasn’t picky about his days anymore. He just enjoyed them. Which, besides her fierce work ethic, was also what Gene did. Gene in her few years had changed his way of organisation, time keeping, even stock control. She reminded him of Laura.

  He opened the new release box of books and began building his pyramid for the day’s release. A documentary had aired last night about a famous missing persons case in Adelaide. There was demand when both book and doco were announced a few months ago. Today would feel like some damn battle. Something Laura would’ve envisioned when they opened their store twenty years ago. When he was freshly out of a job, an ex-insurance lawyer and keen hobby writer.

  He took the book out and Rachel Gardner stared back at him. Rachel Gardner: and the Real Story of the PK Killer by Edward Cole. Twenty years she’d been gone. There about anyway. He turned the book over, read the flap. Not too bad a cover, nice dust jacket, blurb was a bit over the top for such a sad book, but it would move. He’d have shelved it with all his conspiracy-turned-spirituality books under normal circumstances, but with the tie-in tv special everyone had been taken in. Answers at last!

  He opened the promo pack and took out the poster. An enormous artist’s rendering of how she might appear now, an amalgamation of her last known photo from youth and interpretation. Personally he didn’t think she was alive. If no girl had come forward yet claiming to be her, what made people think a book would do it now? The truth with a lot of cases like this was exactly as you knew them to be, sad. Brutal. And that’s what this was. All a show. Entertainment. Yet as much as he hated it, he ran a book shop. If the people wanted it he supplied it.

  There was a knock. Gene juggling coffee and a bag of pastries. George let her in. Stocked up I see.

  I tell ya, Gene said placing it all down and ha
nding George his coffee. That barista is hot for the Gene Genie. Thinks he can bribe me for some lovin’ with an extra pastry or two.

  Ahhhh, George sighed, sipping his coffee.

  Yes Ahhhh, Gene took her coffee and removed the lid. Dipped her croissant in. Boys more like it, she said around a mouthful. Too bad for him I don’t swing that way, but great for us on the snack front.

  George nodded, taking his cap off to dunk a pastry in. Yes, the glorious snack front. All hail the Gene Genie, bringer of foods. Have you ever stopped to think that maybe he likes you for your personality?

  Gene snorted, rolled her eyes. Of course! How could I miss it? Men, the defenders of personalities, she said.

  They were laughing now as they shared their breakfast. George handed Gene an apple danish. What ever happened to just good ole bowing and door opening? How come no one doffs a hat anymore? George tipped an imaginary hat from his head.

  Oh don’t start that shit, Gene said. You know it’s horrendous.

  And you hate it.

  Gene squinted. And yet you taunt. Half her danish departed from the rest of it’s pastry body and fell into the drink. Fishing the piece from the hot liquid, Gene continued speaking. You wore that terrible thing for months. Months. God and that long coat too. George was smiling from ear to ear. Drinking their coffee, she shook her head side to side. They sat in silence for a moment, staring at the store and all the books. The sun not out yet. Sammy was wondering if you wanted to come round Sunday arvo? Gene said. Few drinks, help us finish the decking.

  George finished his coffee in one mouthful. Sounds good. Need me to bring the sander?

  Please.

  Gene walked from the till to the pile of books that George had been stacking. Poster looks good. Whole thing actually. Better than I expected.

  George nodded along. I was surprised by how realistic the photo looked to be honest. Doesn’t even look like an artist rendering. Considering some of the covers we have in that true crime section.