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    Signs of Horror: 3
    Signs of Horror: 3
    Signs of Horror: 3
    Ebook439 pages5 hours

    Signs of Horror: 3

    By Joel Mark Harris

    ()

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    About this ebook

    When a bomb goes off in a Toronto Jewish school, John Webster, a Daily Globe reporter and former war correspondent, is told he is the only man for the job. 

    Against his own better judgement, John investigates the horrific death of a teacher and six students killed in the blast. But in doing so he relives the past in his nightmares, when he witnessed horrible suicide bombs in Iraq. 

    John searches for witnesses in a hospital and meets one of the victims, Lila Neuhoff, who was severally disfigured by the blast. They are drawn together by pain and suffering as well as their scars –both physical and mentally. They decide to join forces to track down the bomber and the shadowy organization behind him. 

    At first, a local terrorist group takes responsibility and the police seem satisfied. But John and Lila delve deep into the life of the victims and find a sinister past that may point to an alternative motive. 


    The bombing takes an emotional toll on John and Lila as they become more connected and involved. Even when John is told to go home at the risk of another bombing, he cannot stop until he brings those responsible to justice. 

    Their search takes them to the infamous Sing Sing prison, a small remote army town, and to a sex club in Montreal. Along the way they find things aren’t as they seem. The plot is more intricate than John ever imagined and he must stop those responsible before more people are massacred.

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherJoel Mark Harris
    Release dateNov 24, 2015
    ISBN9781519954459
    Signs of Horror: 3
    Author

    Joel Mark Harris

    Joel Mark Harris graduated from the Langara Journalism School in 2007. He is an award-winning journalist, novelist, screenwriter, and producer. His first novel, A Thousand Bayonets, won an Editor’s Choice Award and the Pinnacle Achievement Award for Best Thriller. His feature-length film Neutral Territory won ten awards. He lives in Vancouver. 

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      Book preview

      Signs of Horror - Joel Mark Harris

      Critics Sing Praises for Joel Mark Harris

      ––––––––

      Praise for A Thousand Bayonets

      Gritty, hard-hitting action that grabs you and won’t let go.

      -Topbookreviews.com

      Praise for Shame The Devil

      Has everything you could ask for in a mystery novel

      -Genius Book Review

      Full of twists and turns to find the wrong-doers who will elude you to the very end

      -Best Chaplit

      Joel Mark Harris does not fail to deliver! Make sure you have time to spare because you won’t want to put this one down.

      -Allison Cosgrove, author   of the Stan Brookshire Novels

      ––––––––

      For more on Joel Mark Harris go to www.joelmarkharris.com

      Acknowledgments

      I would like to thank my family for always being supportive and understanding, especially my sister Stephanie Harris for reading early versions of the manuscript and offering suggestions.

      Many thanks to my editor Lacie Redding of Pelican Proofing for her hard work and dedication to the book.

      Lastly, my girlfriend, Shiva Kashi, and her family for always cheering me on and being amazing fans of my work.

      This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or personas, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

      Copyright © 2015 JMH Enterprises

      www.joelmarkharris.com

      All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the author.

      Printed in the United States of America

      ISBN-13: 978-1517090692

      ISBN-10: 1517090695 

      ––––––––

      Cover and logo design by Amy Chae

      To Edward Snowden

      .

      Also by Joel Mark Harris

      A Thousand Bayonets

      Shame The Devil

      With Guido Baechler

      Re.Evolution

      Journalism can never be silent: that is its greatest virtue and its greatest fault. It must speak, and speak immediately, while the echoes of wonder, the claims of triumph and the signs of horror are still in the air.

      Henry Anatole Grunwald

      School is Out

      I

      t was a grey mid-April morning when an old Ford Focus rolled its back wheels over a spotted-grey tabby. The bomber, who was standing on the sidewalk about five meters away, heard the horrible, loud crunching sound of crushed bone and muscle. There was strangely little commotion. No death throes. No mournful meow. Nothing.

      The car drove on. The bomber could see the dead cat lying on the side of the road. Blood and bone and brain matter were splattered across the sidewalk and onto the curb like a popped tomato.

      The grey Ford continued along Finch Avenue, the driver seemingly unaware he had just killed an animal. The bomber watched as the car turned the corner and disappeared from sight.

      The bomber shifted the duffle bag from his left hand to his right and walked over to the dead cat; thick oozing blood slowly pooled and trickled down the gutter. He looked down at the lifeless animal, one leg still twitching. Something beautiful suddenly turned ugly. The bomber wondered what it had been thinking the last moments of its life.

      Why had it so clearly run into danger? Did it not know about cars?

      It was almost as if the cat wanted to die, as if it wanted to commit suicide.

      This is a bad omen, the bomber thought. Perhaps it means my mission won’t succeed.

      The bomber shook his head, dismissing his thoughts and stepped over the carcass.

      He continued on his way. He had a mission to attend to and he focused on the moments ahead. He expected to be frightened, anxious but he was strangely calm, almost peaceful. No sweaty palms, no heightened breathing. He had never done anything like this before. People would remember his name in infamy. This made the bomber smile.

      Something made the bomber pause. It wasn’t a danger or a warning; rather it was something about life. Things he never noticed before or paid attention to.

      But then he had never thought about dead cats either.

      He heard the low rumble of the engines, the smell of oil and gas filled the air. He looked at the veins on a tree leaf and how they were interconnected. He never cared about trees before, never realized how beautiful they were.

      A bus stopped and a bunch of lanky teenagers got out, uncoordinated and unproportioned. They were talking and shouting with each other. One was bouncing a basketball and it made a deep thud each time it hit the smooth pavement.

      What where they doing out of school? It was the middle of the day.

      They looked over in the bomber’s direction and for a moment the bomber thought he had been caught, that they could see exactly what he was going to do, but they passed him without a word.

      The bomber walked a little faster. The duffle bag grew heavy in his hand. The strap cut into his palm.

      Old brick apartment buildings stood on one side while single-story bungalow-style houses were on the other. They stood long and cold and sober, staring down at the bomber with black windows.

      The bomber stopped and wiped his brow with the back of his left hand. He was beginning to sweat. The heat was getting to him. Where had it come from? Only moments ago it was a typical cool Toronto day.

      The bomber stared up at the sky. He couldn’t see the sun in the overcast sky.

      It’s okay, it will be over soon, he thought to himself.

      He turned down Senlac Street and saw the school peaking over the other buildings in the distance. He was almost there. He crossed the road and walked through an empty lot, jumping a chain-link fence.

      His job was to remain inconspicuous now. Let nobody see him. He stopped to look around but he saw nobody. There was a covered tarmac area with large poles. 

      He came to the entrance of the school. It was a red brick building like the surrounding houses, only larger and the bomber could see it had recently been upgraded for earthquakes he supposed.

      The bomber took a deep breath and climbed the stairs. He reached the top and was surprised to find he was out of breath. Only then did he realize how fast his heart was beating. He felt dizzy and had to put his hand up against the railing to steady himself.

      When the dizziness passed he pushed open the large wooden doors and stepped inside the building. He expected it to be cooler inside but the heat only intensified.

      He was in a long hallway with lockers on either side. Pictures of students from past classes hung above. The bomber stared up at the pictures as he continued down the hallway; they stretched all the way back to the early 1900’s.

      A couple of students came out of their classes and lingered in the hallway. They stared at the bomber but didn’t say anything. The bomber avoided their gaze and stared straight ahead. He was almost there, his mission almost complete.

      Excuse me, a voice called from behind the bomber.

      The bomber stopped, taking a few minutes to control himself before he turned to face the voice.

      He was met by a middle-aged woman with short greyish-blonde hair. She wore a thick flower-patterned skirt. The corners of her eyes were stretched back and her nose was neatly folded towards her mouth.

      What are you doing here?

      The bomber gave his best smile. Yes, I’m looking for the computer science room, he said, his much-practiced speech.

      The woman took a step closer. May I ask why?

      I was told I could donate my old computer to the lab, the bomber said, holding open the duffle bag. The woman frowned and peered in. She then straightened her spine and looked back up at the bomber.

      For a moment she just stared back at the bomber thoughtfully but then she spoke. Yes, it’s just down the hallway, turn left and it’s the third door on your right.

      The bomber smiled again and nodded. Thank you.

      The woman turned and walked away. The bomber did likewise. He would have to hurry now. The woman would likely call the principle — or worse: the cops.

      He walked quickly, his rubber soles squeaking on the linoleum floor.

      He knocked on the computer science door and when nobody answered he pushed it open. Nobody was inside.The room was full of old computers on desks and chairs. At one end of the room was a larger desk that looked like it was for the teacher.

      The bomber strode over to the teacher’s desk and placed the bag underneath where it wouldn’t be seen and walked out.

      Nobody stopped him or said a word to him.

      He got out of the school and back onto the street. There he walked as quickly as possible while trying not to look like a person who was running away.

      He was back on Finch Street when he heard the explosion. He looked behind him and saw a cloud of thick smoke rising in the air.

      He smiled to himself. A job well done. A couple of minutes later he heard the sirens approaching but by then he was far away.

      The Serial Killer

      J

      ohn Webster inserted money into the coffee machine and waited for the familiar metallic clicking sound.  The gears whirled into motion and a thin greyish liquid started to pour into a Styrofoam cup. He took a sip of the weak coffee. It tasted terrible but it would have to do for now.

      He turned and walked down the hospital corridor. The hallway was mostly empty except for the old nurse he passed. He came to ‘Section C’ where he pushed through a set of double doors and entered another wing of the hospital.

      John was tall with short oaky hair. He had slightly sagging cheeks and a scraggily beard. His eyes were bright, intense and colourful. John knew his stare could be powerful, potent and pensive. Many people were caught in his gaze: some fell for it like bright starlight while others were frightened by it.

      John had a slight excess of weight around his midriff but he was strong across his chest and arms. He had once been strong and a good fighter and he could still bluff most people into backing down but whether he could still throw a good punch, John didn’t know.

      John eventually found the room he was looking for. It wasn’t too hard; it was the one with the police officer sitting outside.

      The police officer stood as John approached. Behind him was a closed door.

      I’ve come to see the patient, John said, giving the police officer his press credentials.

      John Webster was a reporter for the Daily Globe. He was tall, stocky and looked like a man who was uneasy with middle age, like a salamander unsure of his new skin. He was a former war correspondent but now mostly wrote about local politics and crime.

      The police officer took the card in his hands, studied it closely before handing it back to John.

      I’m sorry sir, but you can’t see him.

      But I have an appointment. He asked to see me.

      There has been a change in plans. The chief doesn’t think it’s a good idea.

      The man is dying. You can’t deny his last request.

      I’m very sorry, the police officer repeated, indicating with a small smirk he wasn’t the least bit sorry.

      I’m going to get your boss on the phone right now, John said.

      He pulled out his cell phone and hit a number he knew from memory.

      Sergeant Tom Hillenberg, said the media spokesperson for the Vancouver Police.

      Tom, this is John—

      Look, I’m sorry, John this straight from the top. There’s nothing I can do.

      Sure there is. Tell him that he doesn’t want to mess with me. Tell him I will make sure to make his life miserable.

      John, I’m not sure threats at this point are very productive.

      I have nothing to lose, John said. He abruptly decided to switch tactics. Tom, what’s the chief afraid of? It’s just a sentimental piece. Nothing controversial.

      He’s worried about digging up old wounds, things that should stay buried.

      Thomas Ronin is going to die regardless of the chief’s PR schedule and it’s going to make the news. What if I get an apology for all those people he killed? What if he gives me the answers to those two bodies that were never found? And I made it my headline? Gave him full credit. Wouldn’t that make the chief happy? Knowing that he helped ease the suffering of those families?

      The Police spokesperson snorted through the phone. We both know that’s not going to happen.

      Stranger things have happened, Tom.

      There was a long silence on the phone and John held his breath. You promise to cooperate with us on this? 

      As much as I can, of course. I’m always a good friend to the police.

      There was another incredulous snort. Both men knew that was a lie. Okay, I’ll see what I can do.  

      Thank you Tom. That’s all I ever ask.

      John, if you fuck me over on this I’ll make sure you never get a goddamn story ever again.

      Can I quote you on that?

      Bet your sweet ass you can.

      John hung up and found a chair down the hallway. He pulled it up beside the police officer.

      What are you doing? the officer asked.

      I’m going to sit here until I get to go in, John replied.

      The first hour passed and neither John nor the police officer said anything. The nurse went in for a quick check up.

      How’s he doing? John asked when she came out.

      I can’t discuss his medical condition with you, she said, before turning around and walking away. John followed her.

      You can give me something. Strictly non-medical.

      "Sorry sir.

      John followed her as she entered another room. She abruptly stopped, frowning at John. You can’t come in here. These patients have rights.

      John lifted up his hands as if to say, I mean no harm. Just a quote. I won’t attribute it to you.

      The nurse put her hands on her hips and looked around as if she needed a witness to John’s insubordination.  You reporters are unbelievable, you know that?

      I’m just doing my job, he said, backing out the room.

      John walked back to the police officer guarding the door. He looked tired and bored.

      I’m going to get some more coffee, John said. You want any?

      No thank you.

      Suit yourself.

      John wandered back to the coffee machine he had been at earlier and got himself another cup.

      When John returned, he started questioning the officer, who

      began to open up a bit perhaps out of boredom. He talked about his family and the challenges of being a police officer.

      John filed it all away in case he needed to use it later. He told the officer about what it was like being a war correspondent, being embedded in the first invasion of Iraq and Afghanistan.

      My brother lost his left leg in Afghanistan, the officer said.

      I’m sorry to hear that. What happened?

      But before the officer could reply a priest approached them. He had long, grey-black hair and matching beard.

      I’m here to see Thomas Ronin, he said.

      Your name, please? the officer asked, getting to his feet.

      Father Kevin Roper.

      John studied the priest as he spoke. He was middle-aged with long thick black hair and a handsome face.

      Can you please sign here? the officer said, giving the priest a clipboard from underneath his chair.

      The priest smiled and signed the documents before handing them back to the police officer.

      The priest stepped into the room and the police officer closed the door behind him.

      John’s phone buzzed; he looked at the caller ID and saw it was the newsroom. They probably wanted an update but John wasn’t ready to give them one and silenced the phone.

      You don’t need to be here, the officer said. I’m sure someone will give you a call if things change.

      John didn’t say anything. He strained to listen to what the priest was saying. He heard Thomas Ronin’s deep voice greet the priest.

      Are you trying to eavesdrop? the officer asked, angrily, but John waved him quiet.

      The police officer didn’t seem to know what to make of this so he just shook his head and leaned back against the wall, muttering something about journalists.

      The priest said a few things that John didn’t understand and then he heard Ronin’s voice cut through the walls.

      John had spent hours interviewing him in what would be his first best-selling book. He knew Thomas Ronin as much as anybody could know a crazy psychopath. His deep voice always reminded John of a musical instrument, a cello perhaps.

      It seems from the moment we are born we just wait around to die. Ronin said through the thin hospital walls. Seems to me ridiculous to keep trying to put off the inevitable . . . as if somehow we’ll win. Trying to keep hold of this worthless life.  

      Again John didn’t hear the priest’s reply. He wished he could have heard what the priest was saying. Was it any comfort? How many times had John wondered the same thing? Did the suffering end? Did the suffering around you end as well?

      You ever think about how you’ll die? John asked.

      The police officer shook his head. Doesn’t even cross my mind.

      You don’t think some crazy idiot will pick you for some no good reason and just pull the trigger?

      I have better chances of being killed in a car crash, the officer scoffed.

      When you’re in war, John said, You need to come to terms with it really quickly. Nobody is safe. Even as a war correspondent you usually stay behind the front lines but a sniper could easily come along and you’re dead. You just accept it, just like your brother did.

      Don’t talk about my brother.

      John looked down at his large hands. He was blabbing he knew. He usually didn’t talk too much. Perhaps he should just turn around and go back to the office. Tell the editors he couldn’t get the interview.

      But John never accepted defeat easily even when he knew he would hate the outcome.  

      They lapsed into silence, not saying anything for a long time. John thought about the two bullet wounds that were in his body. One had been put there by the Taliban and the other by a hired assassin. Both times he had thought he was going to die; he never thought he would live to see old age.

      The prospect of suddenly being hit by cancer like Thomas Ronin had never crossed his mind. Didn’t seem like a fitting way for a serial killer to go.

      Before he had become a war correspondent, John had never been too concerned with death. But as he got older he saw it was only a matter of time before it happened and each moment it was getting closer and closer and there was no stopping it.

      Perhaps this was karma, perhaps there was some justice in the world after all. John didn’t know.

      John’s phone rang and he looked at the caller ID expecting to see the newsroom phoning again but this time it was Sergeant Tom Hillenberg phoning back.

      You got your interview, he said. Pass me over to the officer on duty.

      John gave his phone to the police officer who answered in short sentences.

      Yes, sir, he said, ending the call.

      You can go in once the priest comes out, he said.

      The priest was in there for another fifteen minutes and during that time John went over the questions he wanted to ask Ronin. He knew he wouldn’t have time to ask everything he wanted to but perhaps this would be the last time he would see Ronin before he died.

      Finally the priest came out, nodding towards the officer, and John went in.

      The room was small and windowless. It smelled of bleach and chemicals and sweat. Ronin was lying on a gurney, an IV in his vein and another cord that attached him to a heart monitor. He looked thin and frail, his skin was a yellowish-white. Not at all like the man he had seen in the courtroom.

      Do you remember me? John asked.

      Ronin coughed, grimacing. Of course, John Webster, the esteemed writer for the Daily Globe.  I never miss an article by you. Tell me, Webster, how are those lawyers doing? Suffering immensely I sure hope.

      Ronin was talking about John’s latest article. He had written about a divorce lawyer who had slept with his client and then stolen her money. He had been disbarred and thrown in jail. 

      You talk a lot for a sick man, John replied.

      Ronin coughed again and smiled. Truth is I don’t feel very sick.

      John could see this was a ridiculous lie. Ronin was obviously in a lot of pain even with the medication they were feeding into his system. 

      I brought you something. John took out a mickey of rum and gave it to Ronin who took it gratefully.

      You’re here to chronicle my dying days?

      Something like that, John said. How was your visit with the priest?

      Come now, Webster. You know confessions are confidential.

      You don’t strike me as a God-fearing man.

      I’m not, but I am a gambler. I like to hedge my bets.

      Did you ask for forgiveness?

      What good would that do?

      John looked up at the neon tube lighting as if somehow the answer was up there. I don’t know. You’re not interested in forgiveness?

      Any God that forgives that easily is no God of mine.

      John pulled up a chair and began to ask his questions. Ronin answered them all until John came to the last two bodies. John had to look up their names before coming to the hospital, Tina and Julia. Somehow he had managed to supress much of the trial, compartmentalize it in the back of his memory. It was funny how he could recall some horrors so easily while others lay in the cellar of his mind.

      Where did you bury them?

      I don’t remember.

      Do you remember killing them?

      I’m tired Webster, this interview is over.

      You want more rum? I will get it for you.

      Ronin pressed his lips together. I could have given that information for reduced restrictions, better meals and more freedom. What makes you think I will give it to you for a couple sips of rum?

      Circumstances change. You don’t have many luxuries in front of you to enjoy.

      Crossroads

      J

      ohn felt hungry so he went downstairs and had a sandwich from the cafeteria. The cafeteria was a wide-open space with off-green walls and flickering lights. John looked around at all the grim faces. Everybody spoke in quiet hushes. Even the cafeteria staff looked sad-eyed and forlorn as they passed him his food.

      He felt like asking the cashier for a drink but he knew they didn’t serve any alcohol. He regretted giving his only booze to Ronin. He would have to wait until he got back to the office where he had a flask stashed in his desk.

      John found a table and took out his notepad and scribbled some final notes on Thomas Ronin. He hadn’t gotten what the police wanted but he felt that they would be happy with his article nevertheless. It would provide closure to a terrible chapter in the city’s history.

      John closed his notepad and looked up to find a woman crying across from him. She was perhaps in her early forties, her hair short and dyed a bright red. She wore a long black peacoat jacket with black boots.

      John got up, found some tissue and passed it to her.

      Thank you, she mumbled.

      John was about to turn away when the woman said, Don’t go.

      John didn’t have to file the story until the end of the day so he technically had some time, but he wasn’t sure if he wanted to spend it with a grieving woman. Nevertheless, John felt his limbs make up his mind for him and he slid back into the seat opposite the woman. After awhile, the woman stopped crying. She dabbed her eyes with the ends of the tissue and rolled it up into a ball before putting it in her pocket.

      Thank you for staying, she said.

      What’s your name?

      Kim, she said.

      I’m John.

      There was an awkward pause. For somebody who had been around it so much he thought he would get better at knowing what to say but whatever came out of his mouth seemed so false and insincere.

      You visiting a family member? she asked.

      No, thankfully. I’m here on business.

      You’re not a doctor, are you? You don’t look like one.

      John laughed and wondered if he should have dressed in a white lab coat. Maybe he could have gotten the interview easier. No, I’m a journalist.

      I work in immigration, interviewing applicants for their papers.

      I guess we both have that in common, John said.

      Kim frowned in confusion.

      We interview people for a living.

      Kim gave a weak smile. Yeah... you’re right I suppose. Are you interviewing a doctor for a story?

      John shifted uncomfortably in his seat. I think it’s best we don’t talk about it.

      You’re probably wondering why I’m crying.

      We don’t have to talk about that either, if you don’t want to.

      But she leaned forward and John took in a hint of perfume. Her eyes seemed large and eager. John always thought it was strange how grief made people do crazy things. How sometimes complete strangers were better than your closest friends.

      My husband, he’s on life support. Car crash.

      Kim leaned back and began to cry again. John just sat helplessly. Again he felt he should leave this woman to her grief but for some reason she wanted to share it with him.

      John’s father had been killed in a car crash. He had been sixteen at the time and rather than stay and deal with the pain he had tried to run away from it.

      Of course that was silly but it didn’t stop him from trying.

      I’m sorry, John said, not sure if he meant it or not.

      Kim reached across the table for John’s hand. He hesitated but then finally extended his. She grasped it tightly. Her palm was hot and wet. Some drunk driver came out of nowhere. He was coming home from a late shift - a Tuesday night if you can believe it - and smashed his driver’s side. The car flipped over twice, landing in a ditch. The drunk driver walked away unscathed, leaving my husband...

      He’ll pull through.

      But Kim shook his head. The doctors aren’t very hopeful.

      But they have to say that. They don’t want to give you false hope.

      I need to get out of here. Let’s go someplace, Kim said.

      Where?

      Get some decent coffee.

      John still wanted that drink. How about something stiffer instead?

      ––––––––

      They ended up at the Palace Bar, John’s usual drinking hole. He loved it because it was always open, it was dark and quiet, and the drinks were cheap; apart from those few qualities there wasn’t much going for it. It was dirty and the décor hadn’t been changed in at least fifty years. 

      John looked around, counting the patrons. He knew three of them up at the bar. There was one businessman with his jacket haphazardly thrown across the stool next to him;

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