The Cold Road (Book 1)

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Paul Perette found his palms sweating as he walked up the path to his father-in-law's house. Two other cars, beside his own, sat in the driveway. The hood of the yellow Chevrolet was still warm, Plant must have interceded and had it removed from evidence. The engine of the other car was cold and icicles hung from the window.

The interior of the house smelled of dry sweat, musk and stale cigarette smoke of a bygone age. Years before when Rico Belberra was a young man and held wild parties paid for by money syphoned off from his logging company. His house was out of the way of many prying eyes and the walls soundproofed for the many deeds that took place inside.

Perette stepped daintily over piles of rubbish that now lay on the floor. He headed towards the back of the house. The smell was disgusting; everything that was exposed was permeated. The only part of the house untouched by the decay was that of the three bedrooms in the far back of the house and the basement. The mess was merely a front to ward off visitors. Perette tried not to touch anything as he walked. The mess was enough to ward him off but he had business.

The entrance to the back room was guarded by a padlock and a rusting bolt, Perette pulled the padlock off, kicked the bolt and the door creaked open. He stomped into the dark, hands in his pockets and arms tucked to his side. He headed down the stairs to the basement. A light streamed out from under the crack of the door ahead of him. The lock on this was higher class, number locked. He banged on the door twice to let them know he was there and keyed in the number that unlocked the door.

Entering the room, Perette breathed in the fresh air and relaxed. This was clean. He could walk on the floor happily and not worry about his shoes sticking to the floor and coming off. He could touch the walls and not have to worry about scrubbing with a metal wool scour to get rid of the dirt. Belberra waved him to a seat from his position near the kitchen sink. Seated at the table was Amsler, fat and glowering at the wall, his hands clasped tightly to his chest. Perette glared at the man and took his seat on the other side.

'Good day, Paul,' Belberra addressed him, smiling through yellow teeth. Perette grimaced in reply to them. They sickened him, yet with all the money his adoptive father possessed he refused to change one iota of his appearance for the better. 'So glad you could join us. You said you had something to share?'

'We have a situation,' said Paul, pulling off his jacket and placing it on the table. 'I want James Holland's head.'

Belberra moved away from the wall and seated himself at the head of the table, puzzled. 'Paul?'

'I want James Holland gone. Liquidate him. Remove him from this town and country,' snarled Paul. 'He came to see me this afternoon. While you were being released. Told a very interesting little story about a mole and a gutter snake feeding him information.'

Hearing this, Amsler opened his mouth to reply. Belberra held up a hand, his face darkening, silencing Amsler.

'He knows positively this time what we are up to,' continued Paul. 'He was there last night. He watched everything, which is how he knew to be there this morning. He tried to goad me into admitting I was there just before! He knew it, I knew it,' finished Paul, breathing deeply as veins in his head pulsed.

'Did you admit anythin'?' asked Belberra, watching calmly.

Paul looked up sharply, his eyes narrowing at the almost placid tone of Belberra. The man sat still in his chair, his feet placed on the seat of another.

'He's no longer on guesswork, he has evidence that could fix us!' said Paul.

'Did anyone besides him hear you confirm his accusations,' asked Belberra, his eyes falling lazily on Paul. Perette shuddered. They were cold and milky blue eyes, drugged up on one of the many substances the man took. They were peaceful now, but Paul knew his father well enough to know a ferocious fire burned beneath the cool demeanour.