Chapter Thirty-three

The unopposed extradition hearing was a formality, a rigidly structured legal quadrille with everyone dancing to a muted tune. The application was considered in camera, to prevent the reported evidence influencing any subsequent American trial, and the emptiness of the court added to the overwhelming and pervading sense of foreboding. No-one spoke without reason and those who did, did so in whispers. The judge, Sir Roger Black, was a fat, over-indulged man who normally dominated his court with a voice and personality matching his size. Now he hunched over his note ledger studiously avoiding eye contact or discussion with anyone but most of all with Taylor, who lounged even more than usual in the dock, content with – and enjoying – the effect his mere presence was creating. Without an audience he was actually uninterested in the proceedings, regarding them more than anyone else as an irritating, delaying necessity to get him to where he wanted to be next.

Cedric Solomon, with Ross Kirkpatrick acting as his junior, consciously lowered his usual sonorous tone as he outlined the facts of the American murders, in advance of calling Powell, Amy Halliday and forensic expert Barry Westmore for their supporting evidence. For little other reason than to relieve his boredom Taylor amused himself silently engendering the palpable fear, particularly during testimony, staring with fixed, unbroken intensity at every witness until finally, always despite themselves, they looked back into his blank, expressionless eyes to realize they were being put on to a vengeance register for the future. Taylor achieved his greatest disconcerting effect upon Westmore, whose scientifically tramlined mind couldn’t accept what he’d seen and who, being examined himself with microscopic intensity, stumbled so badly through a lot of his forensic presentation that Ross Kirkpatrick thought some of it might have been devalued by concentrated cross-examination, which Jonathan Fry didn’t attempt at all. Powell, by complete comparison, openly challenged by staring back and didn’t stall, which got him put on the top of Taylor’s mental list. Amy’s faltering wasn’t so bad – she even tried, futilely, to outstare him at first – but he undermined her in the end, watching her colour grow, from embarrassment and anger or maybe both, at the mistakes for which she had to apologize and then had to correct.

What he was never to know – but would have been delighted about if he had – was that the courtroom pressure he created caused the first ever argument between Powell and Amy.

It was at the end of the initial day, with Powell midway through his evidence, which Amy was to follow. No-one was speaking very much outside the court, either, but Amy had lapsed into complete silence during an uneaten dinner and unthinkingly, preoccupied himself, Powell asked what was bothering her.

‘Jesus Christ, Wes! What the fuck do you think’s bothering me!’

‘It was a stupid question. I’m sorry. But it doesn’t help.’

‘What the fuck will? Tell me because I’d really like to know!’ demanded Amy, attacking the only available target.

‘Talking to each other,’ he tried, desperately.

‘Harold Taylor or Myron Nolan or whoever the hell he is isn’t on trial!’ she persisted. ‘He never has been and never will be. Ever. It’s us. You and me and everyone else. We’re going to die. Whenever he chooses. And if it’s not us it’s going to be Beth and any other kids we have …’ She gulped to a stop, full awareness settling. ‘You know what that means! That means for us to have any kids will be like doing it knowing we’re passing on some gene or medical condition that’s one day going to kill them. So we shouldn’t. Have kids, I mean. Can you believe that: honestly fucking well believe that! The bastard’s ruined our life together, before we’ve even started!’

Powell hadn’t considered it in those terms. Badly – stupidly again – he said, ‘He won’t. We won’t let him.’

‘Good,’ she said, scornfully. ‘I knew you’d work it out. So how are you going to stop him?’

‘If there’s a way I’ll find it, I promise. Nothing’s going to ruin us.’

Spacing her words, leaning towards him as intensely as Taylor had that day from the dock, Amy said: ‘He can’t be stopped!’ She was red faced, hardly in control.

He didn’t have an argument against her but he didn’t want to concede she was right, either. ‘It’s all happened too fast. No-one’s had time properly to think. We’ve got to talk to psychologists and religious experts for ourselves. Try to understand it all better.’

‘What’s to understand! He dies, he comes back to life, he kills everyone he thinks screwed him in the past. End of story. End of us.’

‘Amy, give me a break! You think you’re telling me anything I don’t already know? Am not already terrified of? It’ll end here in England soon. Just days. Then we’ll all get back to America. Get Taylor back to America, where he can be locked up for the rest of his life and not do any more harm to anyone.’

‘And we just wait!’ she challenged. ‘We move house, we going to send him change-of-address cards, make it easy for him?’

‘No!’ said Powell, temper finally gone. ‘But if it takes something like that, we’ll do it. We’ll go into the Witness Protection Program. Change our names, location, Social Security, everything. We know from Durham that he has to find his victims, when he returns. We’ll make it so he can’t find us or our kids. Ever.’

Amy’s anger stemmed, faltered. She looked at him curiously, head to one side. ‘Could that work?’ she asked, hopefully.

‘The Bureau’s keeping hundreds of people alive like that,’ exaggerated Powell. ‘And for us it would be easier than most. The greatest difficulty is for an already established family totally to change everything. But we’re hardly established yet. We’re not even married and Beth hasn’t moved in with us. And she’s only seen me on Saturdays and some holidays for the past three years. We were all three of us going to have to learn new lives anyway.’

Amy’s face softened at last, as the idea took hold. ‘It would be a way, wouldn’t it?’

‘I promised I’d find one. And that’s only my first shot.’

‘What about you and the Bureau, if that’s what we’ve got to do?’

‘What about you and the Bureau?’ he asked back.

‘I don’t know,’ she said, wearily. At once she added: ‘I mean I do know, of course I do, if it comes down to the Bureau or us. About staying alive. But we can’t think everything through this quickly. Whatever we do has got to be right, first time.’

‘It will be,’ promised Powell.

Solomon’s submission that sufficient evidence had been produced for extradition to be granted took five minutes and Jonathan Fry’s response, that the application was uncontested, even less. Mr Justice Black still didn’t look directly at Taylor when he declared the extradition granted and hurried from the court.

Malcolm Townsend hosted the farewell party, although both the Police Commissioner and the Chief Constable made brief token appearances. There were toasts to a brilliant investigation even more brilliantly concluded from men made famous who knew their careers and promotions were assured, and promises of reunion at the Texas trial, which both Townsend and Basildon, together with their support officers, were flying to America to attend as potential witnesses. But the bonhomie was forced, like the drinking, and at one stage Basildon said quietly to Powell, ‘Thank Christ he’s going to end up with you. I’d be frightened to be in the same country as the bastard.’

The FBI plane was not scheduled to depart until the following afternoon. Powell had intended seeing Janet Hibbs in the morning but unexpectedly she’d accepted Townsend’s invitation to the party.

Powell said, ‘We had to cut a deal. The only way we could get him back to America was on the undertaking he wouldn’t be executed.’

‘So I don’t get to see him die,’ accepted the woman. She’d maintained her recovery, looking even better than she had in court.

‘There’s still going to be a trial.’

Janet snorted a laugh, shaking her head. ‘I’ve been through one of those already. There’s only one thing I wanted to see happen. Now it won’t. The bastard won!’

There was silence between them for several moments. Amy was across the room with Lobonski. She smiled but didn’t come to join them.

Powell said, ‘You’re looking great.’

Janet smiled, genuinely this time. ‘I got almost half a million for the house: fifty thousand more than the agents estimated. Notoriety value. Isn’t that sick?’

‘God knows how much sicker it’s going to get before …’

‘No,’ she agreed, picking up from his pause. ‘It’s not going to get any better, is it?’

He took out a card and offered it to her. ‘Keep in touch. Amy and I have been talking about it. Maybe we’ll think of something.’ She’d been a chief witness. She qualified for protection.

‘I’ve been offered a huge amount of money, more than a million, to write a book,’ Janet said. ‘“I was going to marry a reincarnated monster”, that sort of thing.’

‘Are you going to do it?’

‘Be a revenge of sorts.’

‘You want revenge that much?’

‘Yes,’ she said, shortly, positively. There was another moment of silence. ‘You frightened?’

‘Yes. You?’

‘I’ve got more reason than anyone to be. I’ve seen him in action.’

Although it was an FBI plane and the transfer between legal jurisdictions was under Bureau control it was the US Marshal’s Service which officially took Harold Taylor into American custody aboard the aircraft in the private section of Heathrow airport. It was done totally unannounced, without any of the court journey hysteria. Taylor was smuggled from the still besieged prison in a closed, unmarked van initially without police escort; and when it slotted into place it was discreet, the two cars again unmarked and the solitary motorcyclist using neither siren nor flashing lights.

There were six marshals and because they were armed they did not physically disembark on to British soil. While their commander signed official acceptance of the prisoner, two more immediately hand- and ankle-cuffed Taylor, although not with the complete manacle chains which were laid out in readiness.

The aircraft was a Boeing 737, but without the conventional interior. There was a central conference area, with side desks equipped with telephones. Two held television sets. There were also five easy chairs, set against the bulkhead. The next cabin was given over to a communications centre, manned by an operator. There was a secure area at the very rear, with airline-style seats but with arm and leg mountings to which Taylor’s hand-and leg-cuffs were attached. Taylor docilely allowed himself to be tethered, at once pressing the armrest button to recline his seat back as far as possible and closing his eyes: there was no useful performance to give here. Beyond the conference room and its adjoining galley and bar, to the front of the plane, were two executive office suites, also with telephones, and a final area, just before the flight deck, with three made-up bunks on each side of the bulkhead.

The rest of the Americans boarded half an hour after Taylor and his now departed English police and prison warder escort. As the agent now in official charge Powell went at once to the rear, to check upon his prisoner. Taylor kept his eyes shut, although he was obviously not asleep. The chief marshal, a former Green beret, said, ‘Can’t see what all the fuss is about.’

Powell said, ‘I hope you don’t.’

The group had spread themselves around the conference section, the largest area available, by the time Powell returned along the aircraft. The pilot came back immediately after take-off. His name was Al Jones, he was a Texan and he said at once there was a lot of bad feeling in the state that Taylor couldn’t face the death penalty.

‘People know about the deal before, the governor would never have got re-elected.’

‘You’re going to get your trial and your excitement,’ promised Powell.

‘He really do that stuff with his face?’

‘He’s a hell of an act,’ said Geoffrey Sloane. Bitterly he added: ‘I wasn’t called. So it was a waste of time my being dragged into it.’

Everyone except the pilot knew the protest was at being identified by Taylor. The Texan promised that the bar was stocked and there were food boxes, cold meats, salad and fruit, for them to help themselves, and said, ‘Think I might take a look-see in the back. You think he might do it during the flight?’

‘Al,’ said Sloane, the irritation obvious in his voice. ‘You know what happens if he gets to know you? Thinks you’re an enemy? He kills you, cuts you up, in his next life. You get to die.’

Jones smiled, although uncertainly. ‘You mean it’s true? You believe him?’

‘We believe him,’ said Powell. ‘We wish we didn’t.’

‘Maybe I won’t go back,’ said the man.

‘Best you don’t,’ said Powell. It was difficult to believe how very recently he would have been embarrassed at a conversation like this.

The forensic expert volunteered to be bar steward, serving himself a large Scotch first. The rest of the men took beer. There was hardly any conversation. Westmore kept drinking but the specially recalled Lobonski and Sloane stopped after one beer. Both settled in easy chairs, closing their eyes but not sleeping. No-one considered using the bunks. The pilot came back from time to time with flight details.

‘We’re going to get quite a reception,’ he said, on the third visit. ‘I thought we’d go into Andrews Air Force base, for security, but it’s to be Dulles, for everyone to see.’

‘I’ve been told,’ said Powell.

‘Director’s going to be there himself.’

‘I heard that, too.’

Clarence Gale was patched through when they were an hour out of Washington. Powell took the call on one of the side desk telephones.

‘How’s it going?’ demanded the man.

Powell closed his eyes at the inanity of the question. ‘How it should.’

‘What’s he doing?’

‘Pretending to sleep, in the secure area.’

‘He manacled?’

‘Hand-and ankle-cuffs.’

‘I want him fully manacled when he arrives.’

Powell sighed. ‘OK.’

‘There’s going to be a press conference. I want you beside me.’

‘OK,’ said Powell again, careless if the contempt sounded in his voice.

‘Everyone’s to stay in the plane until I come aboard. Understood?’

‘Understood,’ said Powell. As he made his way to the rear of the aircraft Powell wondered, cynically, if Clarence Gale had allowed himself to be photographed holding the pointless conversation. When he told the marshal in command about the manacles the man said they’d intended to do it anyway.

Taylor wasn’t pretending to sleep any more. He said, ‘You and Amy together?’

Powell was glad he was half turned away from the man, hoping his reaction didn’t show. ‘No.’

‘Lot of body language between you, in court.’

Powell turned to confront the man. ‘All in your mind … whichever one you’re using.’

‘I’m never wrong.’

He had to turn the conversation! ‘Then how come you’re in chains, on your way back to life in a penitentiary? I got to keep reminding you of that?’

There was just the slightest familiar tightening around the eyes. ‘You and Amy got me, didn’t you? You and her, working together.’

‘Which is what we do. And did. Worked together to catch you. Which was easy.’

‘It won’t be, next time.’ Should he tell the arrogant bastard?

‘Think about it!’ demanded Powell. ‘You committed suicide, as Maurice Barkworth—’

‘To get back quicker,’ interrupted Taylor. He would! He’d terrify the motherfucker.

‘You’re a failure. Always caught!’

‘It doesn’t matter! I can always come back!’

‘You’re twenty-five. I’m going to see to it that you’re wrapped in velvet for the next forty years at least. Solitary confinement, so another Jethro Morrison can’t get to you. Food tested. Doctors’ checks, all the time. You’re going to be the most cosseted man in the world. And when you die, years from now, it’s going to be about a decade before you reincarnate. And by then I’ll have seen to it that everyone you want to harm will have disappeared.’

‘We’ll see.’

‘Forty years in a federal prison? Hell of a long time.’

‘Not if I do commit suicide. And then possess next time, not wait to reincarnate. I can, you know. Possess someone. That would screw your timetable, wouldn’t it?’

‘Packed in velvet. Watched every minute of every day, like the freak you are.’

‘Good act, Wes.’

Powell ached to get away but was determined not to give Taylor the satisfaction. ‘You think I’m frightened of you?’

‘I know you’re frightened of me. You’ve every reason to be. You know why I wouldn’t make a statement without you? Wanted to see who you were; what you were like. Always necessary for me to know the targets. I expect a lot of people who got in my way this time – people like you and Amy, everyone on this plane who know I’ll punish them – will go insane. Lose their minds before they lose their lives. What about that, Wes? You think you and Amy will go mad?’

‘No,’ said Powell, as strongly as he could. ‘You’re not going to send me mad.’

The pilot’s landing announcement broke the confrontation. As Powell turned to leave Taylor said, ‘But I do frighten you, don’t I?’

Powell turned, at the door. ‘You don’t frighten me. It’s what you are that frightens me.’

‘Good!’ mocked the other man. ‘That was the truth. Denying you and Amy are together wasn’t. It wouldn’t have saved her, even if it had been.’

At the pilot’s invitation Powell went on to the flight deck for the Dulles landing, astonished at the scene he could see through the window. From their approach height it appeared they were coming into the only cleared space amid a seething, ant-like mass stretching out from the perimeter, engulfing the car parks and the approach roads, a solid mass of people. There was an odd impression at the touchdown, a surge of movement – people raising their arms, beseeching, praying, kneeling, weeping – but no immediate sound above the whining engines as the aircraft taxied to where it was directed. Only when the engines were turned off could the noise of so many people be heard; it was even greater when Jones opened his flight deck window. The comparison came at once to Powell, who’d taken Ann to Niagara Falls during their honeymoon. But that was scarcely an analogy. This was a much greater, continuous sound, thousands upon thousands of voices making up a deafening, numbing roar. The entire perimeter of their parking area was ringed by three solid lines of arm-linked soldiers and National Guardsmen and police and when the aircraft finally stopped those lines bulged inwards from every side as the crowd attempted to surge forward.

Powell was aware of Jones demanding permission to take off and of the control tower’s reply that so many people had inundated the airport that it had already been closed to all commercial traffic and that there was insufficient runway length left for him to leave.

Incredibly the three-strand line held. A limousine, followed by two television vans, appeared along the narrow lane kept open to the terminals and control tower buildings and a set of old-fashioned, platformed disembarkation steps, not the normal Dulles elevated passenger carrier, was manoeuvred into place. The copilot and flight engineer swung the door inwards and the noise became even louder.

Harold Taylor appeared from the rear of the aircraft, shuffling in his ankle restraints now linked by chains to those tightly locking his hands, in turn tethered to his thick, leather and chained waistband. A marshal was attached, either side, by a further linking chain.

Too late Powell realized that Amy was sitting in the seat next to the door to the rear security area, She hurried up when Taylor emerged but stopped as the man spoke and Powell saw her already pale face blanch.

Powell pushed by the man and his guards, physically reaching out to Amy. ‘What did he say?’

‘That next time he’s going to possess someone already living … that we won’t escape.’

Powell couldn’t think of anything to say, and before he could any words were impossible above the roar from outside that filled the aircraft when the doors were opened. The space was abruptly filled by the urgent figure of Clarence Gale, swathed in the odd, almost heavenly light of the television strobe lights behind. His normally stick-thin body was bulged by a protective bulletproof vest.

The Director thrust out his hand to Powell, who automatically responded, and then gestured to the rest of the FBI personnel. He looked finally to the chain-encased Taylor, who smirked and said ‘Boo!’

‘You’ve got nothing to laugh about,’ said Gale, beckoning Powell to the chained group’s other side for them to emerge on the step’s platform at the same time. Powell obediently slotted himself into place. He smiled ruefully at Amy, who grimaced back.

The noise reached an even more deafening crescendo as they emerged. It was impossible for them to see, because of the lights glaring up at them. They halted at Gale’s arm wave, posing there. Powell wondered how five of them, three chained together, were going to be able to descend the steps without looking ridiculous.

The shots were never heard.

Powell was aware of the marshals thrusting back into him and of suddenly losing any feeling in his left arm and of the splattered wetness of Taylor’s blood. One of the marshals was also hit, swinging the group around towards Powell who was suddenly confronted by Taylor’s body – but that was all: most of the head upon which two faces had once appeared had gone. As he fell backwards, towards the plane, Powell saw Amy, screaming soundlessly, and she was covered with blood, too. He reached out, but couldn’t get to her. He realized it wasn’t an aimless scream – her mouth was forming the same word, over and over again, and then he knew what it was.

Amy was saying ‘Who?’ and what she was asking was who would Harold Taylor choose immediately to possess, not giving them any time, any place, to hide.

THE END