No Absolution

By Bill Kandiliotis

One man's identity becomes another man's obsession.

 

A fugitive on the run. 
A drifter going nowhere. 
A detective on the hunt.

 

Unable to lead a normal life, prison escapee, Phil, concocts a plan to steal someone else's identity. After placing an ad in the paper, Phil hires a drifter called Trevor. On their way to a phoney destination, Phil struggles to juggle greed, empathy and basic instinct to bring himself to kill another human being. The more he gets to know Trevor, who's recounting his whole tragic life story, the more Phil loses his nerve. To make matters worse, Phil discovers that an old nemesis, Detective Edmondson, is hot on his heels. 

 

Determined to carry out his plan, Phil must overcome panic attacks, an interfering hitchhiker, a church full of redeemers, a friend's homicidal wife, and a detective who is running a malign scheme of his own.

 

If only murder is as easy as it's made out to be.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Nitronaut Books
• Release date: Dec 24, 2019
• ISBN: 9781393275060

Bill Kandiliotis

Wrote his first 'hardcore' science fiction book in second grade during book week. It was a five-page interplanetary epic, with a montage front cover and full page drawings. He came second in the competition which annoyed the hell out of him. Since then, has read and watched everything and anything that can be even remotely classified as science fiction. He has produced a few guerrilla films back when that was a thing and has recently been credited with the discovery of two exoplanets. These days his reading time is sacrificed in the pursuit of writing down his own stories from ideas he has accumulated over the years. Author of A Hostile Takeover & The Blood Ring Discoverer of Exoplanets KIC 10905746 b & KIC 6185331 b Producer of The Bad Samaritan (2001)

Book preview

Detour Ahead

1

Daybreak over the Valley

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The cat, said a familiar voice.

What cat?

In the darkness, Phil felt motion, like he was flying, yet he was sitting at a table, opposite a dirty, unshaven guy pointing a burning cigarette at him.

I know this person, Phil thought. When an angry-looking Bruce Harvey said, Where’s my cat, fucker? Phil concluded it was a dream. The has-been movie star interrogated Phil in a grimy, dilapidated room surrounded by four cracked, windowless walls, but the only question running through Phil’s head was...

Why this actor?

Harvey leaned forward and karate chopped Phil across the back of the neck. It’s not the pain that woke him, it was the warm light bleeding in through his eyelids. The nightmare faded, fizzling away into his brain’s nether regions, dying alongside discarded aspirations, and forgotten memories. Drool ran down the side of his mouth, but Phil was unable to move. His face felt numb, due to his cheek pressed against the cold glass. The tinnitus in his ears stopped, replaced by the hum of ute’s engine, the friction between tyre, road and air entered Phil’s awareness. He opened his eyes, just wide enough to squint, focusing on the golden countryside sweeping past outside.

For a moment; reality was a blur.

Phil attempted to shift his head and was relieved it moved with little pain. His arm was cramped, and his neck felt broken, but Phil knew this would be temporary. The breaking dawn illuminated the narrow, unmarked road, winding around a chain of hills. A clump of trees obscured the misty valley beyond, sending intermittent shafts of copper light to warm his face. Once the forest ended, he marvelled at the spectacle, at the amber clouds cruising along the horizon, at the auburn fields, smothered with whispers of mist, rolling up and down between the clumps of cedars.

Tears formed in the corners of his eyes, but the chill dried them before they could sully his reputation. Phil looked ahead, out to where the road straightened out into the broadening valley, cutting through open farmland. Aside from the old twin-cab ute, no other traffic traverses the road.

Check out the valley, said a voice.

Without moving his head, Phil looked at the driver. With the angle of the sun low, the dirty windscreen was saturated with sunlight. Trevor appeared content, almost happy.

Isn’t it beautiful? Trevor said. He looked over at Phil, Don’t you think, Phil? Take a look.

Phil moved his head and looked outside, squinting at the dawn sunlight bathing the road ahead. What am I looking at?

You are looking at an artistic masterpiece painted by the Creator. This is God’s way of nourishing the souls of men. Good and bad. Look at how He baths the Earth, washing away all its troubles with one single brushstroke.

Phil remained quiet, nauseated by the words, almost antagonized by them.

I’m sorry, Trevor said, I keep forgetting you’re not much of a religious man.

No, I’m not, Phil shut his eyes and tried to snooze, feeling he still had some sleep left in him.

I get a little overzealous, said Trevor.

Phil refused to react to his words, hoping to avert a discussion. Trevor, on the other hand, was a cannonball. I can’t help myself. Just ignore me when I start waffling on.

Fucken aye, thought Phil as he tried harder to ignore him.

Phil?

Phil doesn’t respond, praying to the same dumb-ass God for some respite.

"Phil?

Fat chance. Phil reluctantly opened his eyes. Trevor waited for Phil to look at him. Can I stop for a few minutes?

Why?

Are you seeing what I’m seeing. Man, I gotta take a shot of this. I won’t even be five minutes.

No, was Phil’s reply.

Why not?

Because your five minutes turn into one of my hours. You’re gonna wanna set everything up, wait for that, wait for this. Whole buncha bullshit later, there goes the hour, my hour, never to return. Bye-bye hour. Nice knowing ya.

Man, you’ve got me driving through the night. Do you know how dangerous this is? Especially the predawn. I need to rest my eyes?

Phil spent a moment measuring the gravity of the driver’s words and attitude. Pulling out the folded country map, the one he had ripped out from the dog-eared copy of the 55th Edition Mappex, he flipped it around until he found the road that they were traversing. Pull over at the next truck stop.

How far is that?

I think it’s less than an hour, said Phil. He observed Trevor’s grip on the steering wheel tightened.

Trevor said, Just five minutes, man.

Phil said nothing, not want to risk an argument or feed any ill-feeling. Nor does he want this prick wasting time. Phil’s time. So, he let the man decide. Phil knew from the outset that executing such a scheme would require patience, above all else.

A shrug from Phil is all he needed. Trevor slowed and steered the ute onto the gravel. Phil sustained his silence, sitting in the worn faux leather seat, allowing Trevor to stop, climb out, get his camera bag, and begin setting up. Phil’s hands trembled. He started wringing them to ease away the agitation. The mere act of waiting caused Phil’s nerves to flare up, which, if left untended, endangered the plan.

Phil’s last devious gambit.

Success would unlock a new life.

Any failure, all would be lost.

The question of whether Phil was capable of killing a man in cold blood doesn’t haunt him anymore. The last thing he wanted, was to allow the guilt in the pit of his stomach to churn up excuses to force him to chicken out.

Patience is a virtue, Phil reminded himself as he watched Trevor do his thing. By the time Trevor was ready to adjust the focal length of his lens, the layers of mist had dissipated, and the sun’s light had lost its golden lustre.

2

Mala Fide

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The back interior of the Ridgebury police cruiser smelled brand new, like melted crayons, yet Detective Craig Edmondson could see that the five-litre sedan had clocked over two hundred thousand kilometres. He sat back into his seat, looking out at the dust-covered airfield outside, at the jet as it taxied along the runway. When the vehicle started to move, Edmondson switched his attention to the other occupants.

Next to him, his partner, Detective Jessica Rhodes shifted her green gym bag onto the seat, creating a barrier between them. He tried not to read much into it, but her presence annoyed him. She had badgered him the entire two-hour flight, wanting to get inside his brain. He put it down to her being young and ambitious, a colleague seeking to make the most out of her assignment. Edmondson figured she hated her attachment to his operation and began to suspect that she too could read his animosity towards her.

A hindrance.

An obstruction to his mission.

The decision to burden him with a ‘partner’ was not something he could control. He would persevere and manage the situation to his advantage. When Edmondson looked at the two local cops sitting in the front, he realised his workload had doubled. Silence reigned until they hit a winding road cutting across the hilly countryside.

Edmondson studied the gym bag.

She brought clothes, he thought, reassessing his own choice to not bring any overnight spares. While the detective next to him had brought fresh undies to change into, he, on the other hand, brought nothing. This seemed like a bad decision, and bad decisions deflated his confidence. Edmondson felt his ass cheeks sweat as he pondered whether he was of sound mind to pull this whole thing off. He felt old age grinding at his bones, that aching in his muscles, the fifty-plus years that have weathered his body, his brain, and his soul.

If I had a soul, he thought, considering his whole career.

The uniformed police officers in the front seats were Ridgebury locals. The younger of the two was driving. The older one, a grizzled senior constable who had forgotten retirement was an option, turned over to face Edmondson. You want us to pull over at the next truck stop, stretch your legs and go for a piss.

Edmondson hoped these country cops were as dumb as they were lazy. I’m right, thank you, he said.

Speak for yourself, said Rhodes. Please, that’ll be nice, Gary.

There’s a truck stop coming right up, said Senior Constable Gary Unsworth. This is some operation you’ve got going here. Why all the secrecy, Edmondson?

Edmondson frowned. The last thing he wanted was an inquisitive regional dickhead on his back. "I don’t want the press fucking this up. They’re in a frenzy over this case and they have more resources than I do. If they get even a whisper that I’m here, those leeches will be swarming all over your town before you can say fuck me dead."

Fuck me dead, repeated Unsworth.

I nearly had him, said Edmondson, but then some asshole journalist reported details of this investigation and our suspect went dark. We were monitoring him up until that moment. The last thing you want is those miserable vultures inundating your sweet little town.

Unsworth looked at his protege. Did you hear that, Fenech? We are going to be famous. City folk are going to discover our little slice of paradise.

I’m from the city, said the probationary constable named Michael M. Fenech. I left because life is a toilet there. So many distractions, clouds judgement. Here in the country, not much happens, sharpens one’s attention.

Edmondson looked at Rhodes, who grinned back at him. Trust me, he said, when the media sticks a camera up into your nose, you’ll regret you were ever born.

Any special reason why our town is the focus of your manhunt? inquired Unsworth. This is a manhunt, is it not?

Last we monitored, said Rhodes, the suspect was heading towards this direction.

Fuck me, cursed Edmondson. I’m setting a trap, he said to stop her divulging everything.

The two policemen in front shared a look. A trap? asked Unsworth. Please, do explain.

How many units under your disposal? asked Edmondson. He knew the answer but wanted the old geezer to verify it, just in case his facts and figures were wrong.

Just me and Fenech are posted here in Ridgebury. I got another two up at Merrysville. Two down at Gawpin Hill. One-hour response time. Next precinct is two hours. I can have six units in pretty fast. You expecting that much trouble from this guy.

No, answered Edmondson. He looked at Rhodes, urging her to back him up.

No, said Rhodes. Suspect is on his own. We shouldn’t have too much trouble picking him up once he’s found. We’re going to give everyone a detailed briefing as soon as possible.

Holy shit, Rhodes, thought Edmondson

Do you still want me to pull in at the truck stop, asked Fenech.

For Christ’s sake, constable, yelled Unsworth, You know I’ve got a weak bladder. Pull in before I piss in your ear.

Edmondson smiled, hiding his dismay. He sat back and tried to relax.

They are going to be a problem.

3

Busking with Julia

Julia waited for the other commuters to board the white Denning coach first, not wanting to inconvenience them with her backpack and acoustic guitar. She hopped up the steps and looked at the driver, seeking his permission.

The driver, a stocky older gentleman whom she’d encountered on numerous occasions, nodded. She knew, as long as she did not become a pest, she could travel free between Nunningwood and Ridgebury. The air conditioning struggled to compete with the harsh, sun-beaten environment that ruled outside, achieving nothing but minimise the heat from building up to lethal levels. Her denim shorts and faded Lull singlet did nothing to ease the discomfort.

She set her things down at the front and positioned her acoustic guitar under her elbow. Julia looked at her audience. At full capacity, the passengers appeared to not notice her. The coach moved and Julia took a deep breath, unsure of whether to make an introductory speech or to just get on with it. She caressed the mid-strings and played a tune, tripping on a few notes but persevered, intent on getting the intro right.

Julia counted the beat and then sang, Why are some words left unspoken? Am I emotionally incorrect, for thinking we’re broken? She had sung the Eve Grace song ever since she was twelve and felt confident in delivering a decent performance.

But then she messed up the line, Do I talk too much, or do I remain a token, croaking on the words like a dry toad. She knew she can do better, she only had to survive to the next chorus. When it arrived, it settled her nerves. Julia sang the song she loved; her spirit soaring.

Wish you cared. Wish you dared...

The next verse, she nailed, so she upped the tempo, changing the medley slightly from the original. By the time Julia finished the song she felt uplifted, relieved, somehow satisfied, but then remembered that she had to go and try to collect donations. The first two commuters behaved as if she didn’t exist, ignoring her. The next one, an older lady, easily over seventy, gave her a dollar coin. Julia smiled but remembered her broken tooth, clasping down her lip to form an involuntary frown.

The next commuter, a working lad with a bag of tools, handed her a combination of silver and bronze coin, and asked her, What your name?

Meg, she lied behind a sealed smile. Her paranoia made her do many things. She feared the lad’s motivations. She feared her boyfriend. She feared the townsfolk. So, she lied and moved on to the thirty or so other commuters.

When the coach stopped at the Glennbrook Truck Stop, Julia pocketed the eight dollars and forty cents and made her exit, thanking the driver with a smile. The service station was packed with motorists seeking to break up the four-hour journey crossing The Meadowlands. She waited at the busy toilets for an empty cubicle, then beating a group of children who decided to rush in when the next one became available. Julia washed her hands and cooled down her neck with a splash of water. She checked her teeth, sticking her tongue into the gap where her left lateral incisors should have been.

Fixable, she thought, but expensive.

If she had a job, she knew it wouldn’t take her long to save up enough to pay to rectify her smile. She could try to go through the public health system, but that involved a city excursion; again, an expensive endeavour, and it required waiting periods of up to a decade. Julia checked her upper lip and saw that the swelling had decreased. It didn’t hurt as much as before. The punch from Ian O’Brien had almost cut her mouth open. Luckily, the tooth had given way otherwise it would have pierced her skin and formed an irreparable scar.

Hating Ian didn’t come naturally to her, but she knew, deep down, that she did. She harnessed it, for motivation. Julia also had come to recognise her shame for what it was. She felt it, even though it had become masked after tolerating his abuse for most her life. She buried the shame. She had become one of ‘those girls’.

But I love him, those girls would say.

Mothers, sisters or best friends would try to reason with them, with logic like... But he hits you.

Having spent time being that same brave voice of advice, she