Traitor's Cause.

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Setp.14 2006, Upstate New York


The man paced the dimly lit room, in a highway motel. The stained walls and cardboard bed were normal, but his fine tailored suit and Italian leather shoes were certainly not. He paced and paced, back and forth, to and fro. A crunch of gravel alerted him of a car pulling up, it's headlights painfully retracting the fine tailored man's pupils. The headlights went out and the engine stopped. The car door opened and the heavy footsteps approached room 11. The man sat down on the hard, lumpy bed and placed his hands on his Giorgio Armani pants and started to hum along with the radio. Through the splintered door the driver burst in, a MK23 leading the way. The occupant only moved to wipe dust off his Audemars Piguet watch. The armed driver raised his gun and fired one silenced shot. The radio stopped in a crackle and white noise, the bullet destroyed half the small stereo.

"I hate "Walking on Sunshine"," the driver growled.

The man said nothing as the armed man observed the room, looking for any hidden guards. The radio still popped and fizzed, the only noise that wasn't a speeding car.

"Why here?" The baffled driver asked." You knew we came to kill you."

"We?" The rich man asked.

"Yes, of course their are others." The driver stated uneasily, these odd questions where out of place in a time like this.

"No, I meant only you mean to kill me." The man stated matter of factly.

The driverr's radio buzzed to life and a panicked voice was heard."Rodger! Rodger! Samson's dead. Philis and Kurt have t..." The trasmission ended in a loud crackling of bones. The driver spun around to look out the window. The posh man dropped to the floor and slid under the rock like bed. A small sound came from out side, it grew louder and louder until the shape of a small rocket emerged from the gloom and hit the driver's Dodge Shadow. Shrapnel cut through his body before the flames even reached his corpse.

Two armoured S.W.A.T. officers entered the motel room, one carried an extinguisher and put out the flaming corpse and room. The other reached under the bed and dragged the rich man out. The man meerly brushed himself off and smiled contently. The officer pulled out a US Army Ka-Bar and slit the surprised man's throat. The aghast man turned around and clutched the officers Kevlar, he tried to speak but the air escaped through the gaping wound. The man fell, dead. The armed officer relieved the man of a scrap of paper in his Armani pant's pockets. Afterwards the two officers both drew lighters and lit the drapes and dirty bedspreads. They exited the room into the cool September air, the owner came out cursing. He was shot, people screamed and tried to flee the inferno, unfortunly they left the frying pan and landed in the fire. The officers left none alive. The dead were left in the parking lot and the officers let Rick's Motel burn.

***

"Holy ****!" Detective Anderson spat through the handkerchief he held to his nose."The STENCH! Holy ****, that stinks." The bodies of the murdered victims were still in the the parking lot, some had caught fire and caused the putrid stench that fouled a perfect September day.

"You see all of 'em were shot in either the head or chest." A coroner observed."All of 'em were shot execution style. Every last one." The tall, brownish haired coroner paused as he surveyed the scene. His crooked nose boasted either a fight or fall, his toothy grin made him handsom and his dark brown eyes made him mysterious."Anderson!" He called out.

"Yep?" Anderson called back nasaly, with a plugged nose.

"There were only two left in the building I think they're the reason for the slaughter."

And a slaughter it was. The madia were already calling it The 87. Not because there were 87 victims, there were 16 in fact. It was at Rick's Motel on Highway 87 going through Adirondack Park.

"Can we go in yet?" The nasaly voice replied.

"Sure that wing was the first to burn out." The coroner assured. They headed for room 11 at the east side of the smoldering ruins. Infront were the scattered remains of some vehicle. "We're not sure who's it is or what it is yet." The roof had fallen so the cool breeze flowed through the chared skeleton room.

"There are corpses in here?" Anderson cried in disbelief. "They'd be cinders be now!"

"Actualy, you're standing on one." The cold coroner stated.

"**** man! What the hell is wrong with you!" The less composed detective swears while quickly moving his feet.

The coroner moved closer and grabbed a burnt object and pointed at the glass and metal peircing it." You see this man's skull? I believe he was killed by an explosion that destroyed the car outside and he was either already in the room or was thrown through the window, but judging by the glass in the back of the head I'd say he was already in the room. But now the question is?"

"What caused the explosion?" Anderson pipped in

"Exactly! What caused the explosion?" The coroner stopped for a minute and began again. "We'll have to wait on that, so let's move to contestant number two." The coroner walked carefuly over to the burnt bed.

"Ha! The bed didn't burn! I knew motel beds were hard, but this one must have been a rock!" Anderson joked, the coroner didn't reply.

"This one is different. There are no signs of shrapnel from the car or glass, so I'm guessing he was under the bed." The coroner was interupted by his compainon.

"Isn't figuring out what happened, my job?" He asked

"Well do you know what happened?" Was the cold reply. Anderson shrugged and the coroner/detective unveiled the crime. " And by the tell of his watch, he was pretty rich. A Audemars Piguet like that is fifty grand!" Anderson agreed with a low whistle. "So why is a rich man wearing a quarter of million dollars in a crappy motel worth less than his suit?" Anderson meerly shrugged knowing it was rhetorical question. "Welll any way, look here" he motioned to the man's neck. "It's slit. He must have been pulled out from under the bed and was murdered."

"Well, we found two S.W.A.T. officer out on the cliff, dead." Anderson sighed

"Dead?"

"Necks broken."

"Were they in uniform?"

"Nope."

"How did you know they're S.W.A.T.?"

"There were notes." Anderson tossed the coroner a sheet of paper.

The coroner turned white. "Crooked cops?"


Sept. 15 2006, UpState New York

In the musty office Anderson sat. His awards and honours adorned the walls. His small computer whirled as it tried to stay alive, his pens in a mason jar and a bottle of White & MacKay to relieve his nerves. His receding hairline, his grey hair with black streaks, his heavy set jaw and wide shoulders made him the perfect stereo-type for over sixty detectives. He wore always a white shirt, black tie and grey pants with suspenders, his leather jacket hung on a hat stand with all but one hook missing. And his famous brown fedora. That's what new constable Jeffery Henderson saw as he placed The 87 file on the Detective Chief Inspectors desk.

"What's this?" Anderson grumbled, never looking away from the shaking computer screen.

"The 87 case file. Sir." Henderson said as he saluted.

"This isn't the army boy." Anderson looked out at him through his thick glasses. "You don't need to salut."

Jeffery Henderson stopped saluting but stayed where he stood.

"Constable.."

"Henderson, sir."

"Constable Henderson. Why are you standing in the middle of my **** excuse of an office?"

"Sir, I'd like to ask permission to be part of The 87 case."

"Before I say no, please stop calling it "The 87" case, just call it.." Anderson paused as he looked at the folder. "Open case 279."

"Sir, I'd like to ask permission to investigate Open Case 279."

"No, constable you do not have permission, now get out of my office."

"Sir, you do know one the men, killed in room 11 was my brother."

"Yes, constable Henderson, I do. And the last thing I need is a vengeance seeker looking to get even with the only leads we'll get. And I don't want you killing anybody. That'll be all constable."

Henderson turned and left the dark room. He ground his teeth, something his dentist for years told him to stop. He let out a breath and rubbed his eyes. Rodger Henderson was at The 87, he was in room 11, and his finger prints were on a special forces MK23 and had extinguisher residue on his skin. His Dodge Shadow, blown to pieces and a high-tech reconnaissance two-way radio in his hand. What did all this add up to? Rodger was a officer in Maine, Agusta, what is he doing two states away in a burnt up highway motel with gear of an assassin, but is murdered himself.

***

"Philips!" Kurt yelled through the roaring wind as they sped through Montréal city.

"Yeah?" He yelled from the back seat of their black S.U.V.

"How do you get to Prince Edward Island?"

"How the hell should I know."

***

When Henderson left his office and shut his door bearing "William B. Anderson, Detective Cheif Inspector" on a plaque, Anderson grabbed the folder and skimmed trough the file. He was only going over the third page when a familar face came from behind the door.

"Cutris!" Anderson called out, he was glad to see the cold coroner again." Here sit down, have you read the file yet?"

"No, Bill, I haven't." The sombre coroner replied.

"Well, let me fill you in." Anderson stated, he cleared his throat and started to read out the pages. "The car turned out to be a Dodge... 1992 Dodge Shadow, it was hit by a RPG, a Russian handheld antitank grenade-launcher. Heavy stuff, it can't be easy getting a rocket launcher at the black market. The dead cop from Maine, had high-tech gear and had a suppresser and laser sighting on a MK23. Also he was firing .45 ACP bullets, used by the special forces. This guy was carrying SOF(Special Operations Forces) listed equipement." Anderson paused expecting to see a reaction from his cold counter part. "The guy could be a ****in' Green Beret!"

"A Green Beret as in commandos and the such?"

"Yeah, this guy could have been a highly trained commando working for the goverment to assassinate this guy called, Sir. Jeremy Finch-Malcolm. Oxford graduate, inheireted big, got knighted in 1999 and moved to Wallcot Estate with his wife and son in 2002. His wife died in a car accident last year and the kid is nine-teen. Poor kid's an orphan now. But why he had a hit on him from the president is beyond me?"

" Why do you think it was the president?" The collected coroner asked." A president is only a temporary post, there've been guys in the white house for thirty years! They have tons of secrets the top dog doesn't know about."

" So, you're saying it could have been an illegal operation?"

"You didn't hear it from me."

"Anyway, the fire wasn't caused by the RPG, that fire was put out before hand and the fire that burnt the place was done by cigarette lighters."

"Why would they put out the fire, then restart it?"

"Probably to give us a wild goose chase, to make it seem something else happened."

"Maybe, something did."

"I've been a detective for years and I know a wild goose chase when I see one, alot of crooks do that to slow us down."

"Then here's a mystery, why did they aim for the car and not the room if they wanted to kill both the men anyway?"

"Well, maybe Sir. Finch had something that they wanted undamaged. God knows what though." Anderson paused. "It say's here the the crooks who did the deed were Kurt Billings and Philips Wimbly. Their files are fake and only go back only a year, good enough for them to be accepted into the force. They must have known it would have been a short period, so we can now understand that these men knew what they were doing and they might have an inside man."

"So the plot thickens, we have: a Green Beret, two fake crooked cops, a rich knight with a hit on him from the Beret and a RPG aimed at an old Dodge. Anything missing?"

"Well, let's start on what we know. Rodger Henderson parked his car in lot 11, burst through the door, either had a fight with Sir Finch and let off a shot which busted the radio or hated "Walking on Sunshine"."

The coroner raised an eyebrow at the awful song.

"The boy's came up with that." Anderson grinned. " Then either Rodger heard something or his radio was called, and turn to the window. Finch knew about the rocket so he hid under the boulder bed. Rodger was toast and then Kurt and Philips came in and perhaps took something from the knight then cut his throat."

"Then why the RPG? They could've just shot him through the window."

"Perhaps they wanted us to think the RPG killed both and caused the fire, but the fire trucks got there too early to burn up the bodies and evidence."

"That sounds plausable." the gruff old man pondered it for a minute." It's time for the plebeians to visit the patrician."

"Pardon me?" The coroner asked. "My well versed roman associate."

"We go visit the Finch boy in Wallcot, today."


***


The butler put down the receiver in the main hall of the colonial mansion. The perturbed butler passed under the hanging crystal chandelier, over the red oak wood floors, up the curved carpeted stairs, down the dark hallway with paintings and tapestries aplenty and stopped at a inconspicuous door for such a lofty abode. He softly tapped on the modest door.

"Yes Hillis?" A soft voice came from the other side of the thin pine door. "Come in."

Hillis entered the small dusty room, the young man sat in a brown laz-e-boy, the walls completely covered in sagging bookcases. Their load of leather bound collector's editions of every one, except the volume of Moby Dick which the orphan put down on the side table beside the piles of other books, cups of milk, empty wine bottles and glasses. The man was so peaceful in his cluttered, dusty ugly room with all his wonderful pieces of literature.

"Yes Hillis?" The soft spoken adult asked again. "You seem worried. What's wrong?"

"Sir." The butler paused unable to think of the words. "Sir, I have just recieved a call from a police officer in Adirondack, he found your father in a burnt down motel. He's dead, Samuel. He was murdered!" The distraught butler cried out. The young man was still for long enough to have old Hillis worried that he had gone into shock.

"Thank you, Hillis." He croaked out through his dry throat. "You may go."

"Yes Sir." The butler left the man to sit in his chair and cry, and cry he did.

***

As the gruff well spoken sixty-three year old, sped down the highway, his 1986 Honda CRX painted blue rattled but ran forever. The cool coroner sat silently and tapped his fingers to Acadien Driftwood.

"What is this Bill?" The curious coroner inquired. Anderson turned so sharply and let the tooth pick, he was munching, fall out of his gaping mouth. Anderson stared bug-eyed at the younger man for longer than anyone should do while driving.

"You telling me you don't know The BAND!" The aghast old timer demanded.

"What band?" The nervous coroner had to ask.

"The Band, that's what it was called. It was the greatest band in the greatest generation."

"That's stretching it a bit."

"No. No, it's not. Todays music is crap with their hippin'n'hoppin', it's all crap. No beat, no lyrics, no soul!" Anderson said in a very serious voice. The coroner knew he had to change the subject if they didn't want to be in an accident.

"Where is this estate?" He tried to ask in a casual voice.

"Sssh." Anderson shushed, as he turned up the tape. " The night they drove ole' Dixie down, and the all bells were ringing." The gruff, deep voiced bull roared in his passion for The Band. " Garth Hudson, Rick Danko, Levon Helm, Richard Manuel and Robbie Robertson. The greastest musicians ever."

The coroner decieded to keep quiet and let the man relive his memories of youth. He deserved it, he was old, a widower and lonely. He could yell himself coarse, the coroner wouldn't stop him.
***

The Wallcot estate was located down a long winding drive way, the pavement a black snake through the massive lawns and gardens. The tall hedges made a wall at the base of the hill that supported the enormous weight of the venerble mansion. A black cast iron gate protected the mansion from the winding snake, on the other end of the black forboding gate was a road and courtyard of hand-carved marble slabs. At the entrance the CRX stopped and rang the intercom. A long silent pause ensued.

" It's 4 o'clock." Anderson stated, " Why the hell is no one answering?"

"Well the boy's father just died."

"It doesn't stop the butler to answer the friggin' door!"

A whistling was heard and grew louder, it's low buzzing an incomfortable sound in such a quiet, empty place.

"Oh, ****!" Anderson screamed as he fumbled with his seatbelt. " RPG!" The two men threw open their doors and dove behind a overly large bush. The rocket came in view and struck the pavement behind the old Honda, flipping it into the cast iron gate. Destroying part of the stone wall, camouflaged by the hedges. Three seconds after the rocket struck the gas blew, a full tank of the accelerant ignighted the dry green barrier of foliage.

"We move now!" Anderson said as he un-holstered his standard M-911. "That was a same kind of rocket that killed Rodger Henderson, and I bet someone is suppling them and they are pretty confident to fire on a cop."

"So their are others than Kurt and Philis?"

"Right now it looks like so. Now let's get out of her."

"Shouldn't we call in?"

"I don't have a cell-phone, and the bureau is compromised."

That ended discussion and they crawled under the hedge as best they could. They reached the forest edge and ran into the dark enclosed stuffy forest, running from people they don't know and why? The don't understand.

 

Sorry about spelling mistakes, I only have note pad for now and it doesn't have spell check. I just wanted to try something new and just wanted a non-family oppinion on it, so I figured to post it here.

 

Interesting. Are you going to continue it?

 

Yes I will, I just wanted to see if the beginning was up to snuff.

 

I like this story; it has potential, although yourwriting is a bit rough around the edges. and a small nitpick that imemdiately jumped at me: execution style shots are to the back of the neck, not head and chest.

 

It seems I'm agreeing with you once again Ara. I'll add a suggestion now so that I've actually contributed something. Be carefull that you remember to add question marks in. It's a bit jarring to see a sentence posed as a question ending in a full stop.

 

Liked some of the action scenes here!

Good work.


Daniel E. Blackston, editor-in-chief
Flashing Swords E-zine
www.swordandsorcery.org