Hellbounce

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Book excerpt

Prologue 

Madden Scott jammed his foot on the brake pedal of the stolen Chevrolet Malibu, causing the car to skid to a halt.

“I’m right. You’re wrong. Get used to it.”

Several white Toyotas blew past the end of the alleyway, their blue lights flashing and filled with Montego Bay constables, oblivious to the fact their prey had, for the moment, eluded them.

He took a moment to gaze up, through the pouring rain, at the building in front of him, the air conditioning only just enough to clear the moisture from the windshield. White. Colonial. Classic Jamaican Imperial architecture. He let the wheels find their grip on the dirt track.

“See? Where are we?”

“Canterbury,” came the reply from Turell, the gang leader and mastermind behind their failed robbery on the local branch of the bank of Nova Scotia. Despite their argument, he kept his eyes trained on the road. “Let’s go, man. They gonna notice we not there any minute now, man.”

With voices of assent from the other two gang members, Joseph and Delon, Madden took a breath to steady his nerves, and eased the car back out onto the road. His heart thumped hard in his chest, the sound thudding in his ears. Sweat made his palms slick and he squeezed the steering wheel to regain control. He edged the car back out, fearing pursuit. The wide road allowed a good view, dense woodland on one side in stark contrast to the dwellings of the rich and shameless on the other. Madden gunned the throttle, and the car lurched into action, back down towards the center of Montego Bay.

In the passenger seat, next to Madden, Turell turned to keep a watch out the rear window, his rancid breath causing Madden to turn his head away from the stale after-effects of a jerked-chicken feast.

Turell caught sight of his brother. “Damn, Jo. You got hit.”

“I’ll live. Bullet went right through. Babylon can’t aim right.” Joseph cradled his arm as Delon tied a makeshift bandage tight, blood seeping through the material almost as soon as it was complete.

Madden concentrated on driving. “So where to? You will have to tell me at some point, or we will run out of road.”

“You concentrate on the driving, buccra,” Turell used the Jamaican term for ‘White Man’ in such a way Madden was left with no illusion this was going to end well, “and I will tell you where to go. We are on Upper King Street. Head for Gloucester Avenue; let’s blend in with the crowds.”

Madden did as instructed, intending to blend with the busy traffic in downtown Montego Bay. Driving with purpose, but not too fast to be singled out, he considered the choices he had made to find himself in this position. He was not without regret.

Madden was a loner by nature, flitting from place to place, not really caring how he was received, using charm to wheedle jobs and women alike, his good looks and shoulder-length brown hair a natural attraction. He had developed a taste for fast cars, and in recent years, had come to settle in Jamaica, the laid-back lifestyle suiting him. His love of the underground street-racing scene had earned him the nickname ‘Mad One’, a play on words on his own name. And with time, he had come to know Turell Banks. Small courier jobs had become bigger and more illegal. Now he had reached the point that he was a getaway driver, albeit a reluctant one, in a robbery. He had to see this through to the end. Turell was not a man one said no to.

The rain beat down, and Madden opened the window of the Chevrolet for a better view, as the moisture inside threatened to render the air conditioning redundant. Water sprayed in, adding to the sweat on his hands. Taking a couple of back streets, he avoided the highway that had been the scene of the chase.

“Man I’m hungry,” Joseph complained. “Mad One, there’s a KFC up ahead. I’m bruk-pocket. Go get me.”

“Yu mussi born back a cow,” Turell admonished his brother. “No food till we make it safe.”

Madden stopped the car in traffic, attempting to appear nonchalant. They were in the busiest part of town now, near the beaches. Even in this mild tropical storm the streets were busy. He had no choice but to move slowly. As he did so, he spied the blue-and-whites of more Jamaican police. One officer saw him, and raised a walkie-talkie to his lips.

Turell warned, “Them seen us! Drive!”

Several police cars converged toward their spot, sirens blaring. Madden had no choice but to floor it. The car lurched forward, beaches and stunning ocean to the left, with police in pursuit. People jumped out of the way, but they were a blur as Madden focussed on the road, becoming one with the car. “We are on Gloucester,” he shouted above the noise of the engine, and the ricochet of bullets on the road as their pursuers tried to take out the tires, “but the road is blocked up past the Coral Cliff Hotel and that’s only a kilometre off. So if you have a plan, tell me now.”

Turell just stared ahead, his wits deserting him.

“Damnit Turell, where? The Coral Cliff? Burger King? The sea? Where?”

“Tru dem barrier.” Turell answered.

“What?”

Turell brandished the glock he had taken from his police victim. “You drive, tru dem barrier, or I kill you myself, Iree?”

Madden shook his head and concentrated. Behind them, several police cars were jostling for position, each trying to get around him. He held the line of the road and the beaches flashed past all too quickly. The so-called ‘Hip Strip’, known for its restaurants and bars disappeared in moments.

The road veered away from the coast for a moment. “You had better be right about this,” Madden growled.

As the road swung back to the coast, Madden saw flashing lights ahead. By the Margaritaville restaurant, perched right on the edge of the water, several police cars blocked the road. A small army of police waited behind, guns already raised. Waves burst over the rocks, blurring with the slate-grey sky. Madden aimed for the small gap between the middle two cars, preferring the attempt to a bullet to the head. About ten metres out, a boat was moored; white with a pale-blue underbelly, it rolled with the waves churned up by the storm. In a moment of clarity, Madden saw one officer raise his gun, take aim, and fire.

The bullet smashed a hole in the windshield, whistling past Madden’s ear. In the rear-view mirror, Madden saw red mist and gore all over the back window.

“Joseph!” Screamed Turell, “Joseph, No!” Turell tried to climb to the back seat to comfort his already-dead brother as more shots were fired. The front left tire exploded.

The car swerved, skidding on the wet surface, and jumped as it hit the curb. The momentum lifted the car up over the all-too-small sea wall and out through the spume over the cerulean water.

“Hold on!” Madden shouted, and threw his head forward, protecting his neck with his arms.

Screams from passengers rang in his ears. The car flipped upside down as it flew through the air, and Madden felt the air blast in through the now-smashed windshield. There was a crunch as the car landed atop the boat, and then an instant of heat and darkness.

Madden found himself adrift in the water, a couple of feet from the surface, and propelled himself up with sure strokes. Unsure how he got there, he floated for a moment to get his bearings. He ached, but it was more of a tingle, and not the pain of someone recently in a car wreck. Just metres away, he could see the mangled mess of car and boat, on fire in places and mostly submerged, a small oil slick being whipped up by the waves.

He swam away, using the momentum of the waves to push him toward the shore where he climbed the rocks, and sat shivering against the sea wall. Behind him, the lights of the police vehicles flashed blue, magnified by the addition of his pursuers. Police approached, and stood beside him.

“Man, ain’t nobody gettin’ outta dat alive,” one said to his fellows. “There’s four bodies to be pulled out. Them say it’s Turell, his brother, cousin and them white boy driver. Let’s go grab a brew and wait.”

The police stared for a moment, and moved off, seeking the refuge of the Margaritaville. Madden sat there confused, staring at his shaking hands. Something swelled beneath the skin. Madden closed his eyes and took a deep breath. When he opened them, his hands were normal again. The police were chatting in the distance. They hadn’t even noticed him.

Chapter One 

The ABC logo flashed up on the television set, white letters on a blue circle. The logo glinted for a moment and disappeared.

“Welcome back to ABC news with Jeanette Gibson,” blared the strong male voiceover. The screen showed an elegant woman approaching her middle years with the confidence of a consummate professional, along with the knowledge she was fronting one of the biggest media outlets in the world.

It never failed to impress Eva Ross, who had wished for a career in media as a child, but through happenstance and a natural aptitude for the human mind, had studied hard to become a psychotherapist. She tried to work out the depths of the human psyche, specifically in those who lacked morals. Her career path had led far from her home of Sioux City, Iowa. She had studied at several universities, gaining accreditation that had eventually led her to the Worcester State Hospital in Massachusetts, a post she had held for two years now.

“In other news,” Jeanette Gibson announced with a look of mock severity on her face, “there has been a wave of amnesia attacks in Marblehead, a small town in Essex County, Massachusetts. The coastal community has been plagued by sailors who, dressed as eighteenth-century smugglers, seem unable to remember their names or how, in fact, they even arrived at the town.”

The screen cut to footage of a group of men with wide trousers, flared sleeves, all bearing the three-pointed Tricorn hats of the era in brown and black.

“Those affected are undergoing treatment in a local hospital, but lacking any credible proof, police suspect it to be either a local hoax, or as one officer put it: ‘Something in the water’”.

Eva let her mind wander, no longer paying any attention to the police officer the reporter was interviewing, trying to sound grave and sincere about such a light-hearted topic.

On her break between counselling sessions, she relaxed by watching the world outside, wishing she was there. It was late autumn, a hazy afternoon that showed yellow leaves clinging stubbornly, in an all too common attempt to deny the onset of winter, to the grove of American Linden that grew around the hospital. It was a lovely time of year, and for a moment, Eva could forget exactly where she was and why.

“And finally, the strange case of a convenience store clerk who was held hostage while the kidnappers ate everything in sight.”

Eva flicked the television off, and tied her shoulder-length brown hair back with one of several hair bands she habitually kept on her right wrist. Donning her red sweater, Eva set off for her office. Tradition held they should all wear the white coats so typical of their profession, but only her boss stuck to it, and despite his apparent officiousness, never insisted on anybody else doing the same. It reminded the convicted criminals with which they dealt too much of where they were.

On her way through the corridors of the rotting clock tower that was basically all that remained of the old hospital, Eva mulled over the questions she was going to ask her current patient. A clever man, highly intelligent and, in no small way, devious, Harold Fronhouse presented a challenge. Unlocking his mind was a gradual process. She was so preoccupied with her plan of attack she jumped when a hand touched her shoulder.

She turned to see the grinning young face of Jenny Slater, all blonde curly locks and movie star visage. “I’m sorry, Jenny, I didn’t hear you.”

“I shouted loud enough, four or five times,” the grad student replied in a husky voice that belied her relative youth. “I’m joining you today. I was told you are interviewing.”

“Oh, you are?” Eva gave her a sly look and began to walk on, amused by Jenny’s attempt to include herself. “What you mean is you were nosing over my schedule trying to see whether what I was doing today would help advance your studies.”

Jenny had the credit to look embarrassed, a slow flush creeping into her cheeks. “Well yes, there is that. But Doctor Homes has given me permission to sit in today.”

Eva stopped and turned, putting her hand on the wall, the whitewash chalky under her hand.

“He doesn’t have the right.”

“Well that’s what he told me. He said I had to find you and sit in on the Fronhouse interview. He said it would be a good case to study an extreme case of borderline personality disorder.”

 “There is more to it than the Wikipedia definition of borderline personality disorder you know,” Eva warned. “We used to call them ‘psychopaths’ and this one is as bad as they come.”

They passed through secure doors to the interview rooms. Fading light bulbs gave the corridor a sinister feel.

“Are you certain you wish to do this?” Eva asked, placing her hand on the younger woman’s shoulder. There was an eagerness in Jenny’s eyes that screamed innocence and a lack of caution.

“Yes. I started this, and now I need to be responsible for my decisions. Even if I don’t like what I am getting into.”

“You get immune to it after a while.”

“If you look at them as animals, I am sure you do.”

 “Save the psychoanalysis for the patient, Jenny. You can tell me later just how you convinced Gideon to approve this.”

Outside the room, a guard waited. “Dr Ross,” he said by way of a perfunctory greeting, “our boy is acting up today. You sure you want her in there with you?”

Eva turned to observe Jenny, who still didn’t look right, and could feel the guard’s eyes on her. She dismissed the puerile male stirrings. “You are fine, aren’t you, Jenny?”

“Yes... yes. I am fine.”

The guard shrugged meaty shoulders as if he didn’t care either way. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”