Chameleon

Chapter 18

Stevey Johnston hadn't been hard to find.

The hard part had been watching him butcher Rick Jarvis.

When the footage began, it was focused on the empty bed. Johnston walked into shot, carrying the unconscious Jarvis over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes. Both men were naked. Johnston threw Jarvis onto the bed, tied him down and gagged him. Then he slapped him around the face until he regained consciousness.

Johnston walked off camera. When he reappeared he was carrying a knife. Before starting his grisly work, he paused and stared straight into the camera, a perfect mug shot, as though he wanted to make sure he was recognised. Then he turned back to the bed and began to cut.

They arrested Johnston at 10:30 that morning.

By midday Bannerman was fuming.

'Who the hell broke his arms?' he demanded.

'It wasn't my lads,' the duty sergeant informed him. 'Says he was attacked, night before last, him and Jarvis both.'

'The hospital confirms it, Sir,' Rafferty chipped in. Johnston and Jarvis were treated for broken bones, cuts and bruises. Neither would say how it happened.'

'Bad breaks are they?' Bannerman asked.

'Pretty bad, Sir.'

'Bad enough to stop him carting a full-grown man about like a kiddie's toy and then carving him into little pieces, are they?'

'Well, I'm no medical expert, Sir, but I'd say so, yes.'

'Oh, you would, would you,' Bannerman fumed. 'Then, in that case, who was that sodding maniac we saw on the tape?'

Bannerman let the question hang in the air as he stormed off to speak with the prisoner.

* * *

Molly was worried as hell.

She'd heard of people who bled for no reason, but that was supposed to be a religious experience.

Molly knew she was good in bed, but she'd hardly call it a religious experience!

But what else could it be?

Charlie had no cuts or scratches anywhere on his entire body. A nosebleed then? Hardly likely, but what else?

Charlie couldn't even remember starting to bleed, or getting into the shower for that matter. The tears and the trauma of the previous day seemed to have washed away from him with the stains on his hands. He was in a good mood, like a little kid going on holiday. He was looking forward to the rehearsal. Molly didn't like to bring him down, so she pushed the fears to the back of her mind, but they refused to stay there. They'd sneak out every now and then and gnaw at her like hungry rats.

He's not sick.

He's not insane.

He's not a religious fanatic.

She kept repeating her litany of "he's not's" to herself to drive the rat-fears away. They would pretend to retreat, then poke their nasty little snouts back around the corner and shout:

'If you're so smart, tell us what he is, not what he's not.'

Molly had no answer for that and the rat-fears would snigger behind their paws and creep a bit closer.