Who Dares Wins

by Vince Vogel

  “That made me look for murders involving a police officer and a school teacher on an island back in 1995,” she said. “But there were none. Not even in the years surrounding that time. Then I found something else.”

  It was a house fire on the Outer Hebrides island of McGuffin. 1995. The time of her disappearance. A husband and wife with their five-year-old daughter had died. The bodies had been ash by the time the fire was out. She realized that it was her. She was sure of it.

  Then the dreams became clearer. She began recalling intricate details from them. One nightmare stood out specifically. The night of her parents’ murder. Men entered the house. Her mother ran into her bedroom and told her to get out by the window. She climbed out and landed on top of the flat kitchen roof. She jumped down and ran to the end of the garden. She watched hidden in the tall grass, scared out of her mind, her wide eyes watching the lit up windows of the house.

  “I saw what they did to them,” she said with horrified eyes and tears running down from them. “They did it in the living room. The curtains were open and the lights were on. They didn’t care who could see.”

  At that moment, the hatch to the bunker opened and the chunky legs of Patricia Johnston appeared, followed by the more nimble ones belonging to her two dogs. Abigail and Dorring turned to her as she reached the bottom of the steps. There, she shook off her raincoat and removed her plastic rain bonnet.

  “The weather’s gettin’ evil out there,” Patricia said. Then noticing Abigail’s sad face, she said, “My lord. What is ever the matter, poppet?’

  A benevolent look filled the old woman’s face then as she gazed at her.

  “We were talking,” Abigail said, wiping her face with the cuff of her jacket.

  “Well, don’t let me stop you,” Patricia said.

  “What’s going on out there?” Dorring asked.

  “Oh, they’re real hot on you two. They’re going around with your photographs.”

  “How close are they to here?” Dorring asked Patricia.

  “Pretty close. They’ll be here before midnight.”

  “How’re the traps looking?”

  “I checked them before I came in. They’ll alert us alright.”

  The old woman came to the table and sat at one end. The rain battered the place and it accompanied their thinking for a moment. A dog basket was in one corner and the two Dobermans curled up with one another inside it.

  “So,” Patricia Johnston said, “what was it you were talking about?”

  “That,” Abigail said, pointing at the photographs on the wall—specifically to the large question mark.

  “You mean the killer?”

  “Yes,” Abigail said before turning back to Dorring and continuing. “When I went to see John Chalmers,” she said, “he told me that my father was involved in a very bad case back in ’95. A body had been found. A girl. Her body was badly cut up and only another human could have been capable. A monster, Chalmers called him. From what I gathered, my father had figured out who it was. The killer was somehow connected to Patrick Appleby. My father went to him and demanded the person give himself up. Patrick Appleby offered him a deal to keep it quiet. My father refused. For that, they killed him and my mother.”

  Patricia Johnston’s mouth widened and she pointed a bony finger at Abigail.

  “Simon and Rose Mclaughlin,” the old woman said. “But you can’t be Kate. They said you were dead.”

  “I escaped,” Abigail replied, turning to Patricia. “I managed to get to the harbor and get on a boat. I was found in Hull.”

  “Who killed your parents?” Dorring asked. “Surely you saw him through the window.”

  “A young man,” Abigail said, turning her haggard, jade eyes back to him. “But it wasn’t Bruce Appleby. I’m sure of it. It was someone else. Someone similar, but not him. Another man hurt them. A young man who laughed at them as he cut them with a knife. Then when they were finally dead, he and the others covered them over in petrol and set fire to the place. That’s when I ran.”

  “And what brought you back?” Patricia asked.

  “I was working for the NCA. Appleby came up. I was briefed and it seemed like serendipity.”

  “You believe in fate?” the old woman said sharply, her eyes and face very stern.

  “Yes, I do,” Abigail said.

  “Then it were fate.”

  “Did John Chalmers know the identity of the killer?” Dorring asked.

  “He said it was Appleby’s half brother. But he didn’t know who exactly. Said he was a secret. That only a few knew who it was.”

  “His half brother?” Dorring said.

  “Yes, but I checked. He hasn’t got one.”

  “Oh yes he does,” Patricia Johnston said, and they slowly swiveled their heads to her.

  “Who?” Abigail asked.

  “His bastard brother. See, Bruce’s father Patrick Appleby had a child by one o’ the villagers here. A young woman who suffered some defect at birth which had struck her mind.”

  “She was mentally handicapped?” Abigail asked.

  “Yes. The whole thing were a scandal and caused a big stir back in ’75 when all of a sudden her ma an’ pa, who she lived with in town, noticed her belly getting larger. Came out o’ the blue. I remember when the doctor confirmed it. The mother blamed the father and kicked him out. For a whole week he sulked in the pub, claiming he never touched the girl.”

  “But it was Patrick Appleby,” Abigail suggested.

  “Oh yeah,” Patricia said. “The daughter used to run away from home and go walking in the woods beside Appleby Manor. They say one day she was found with Patrick Appleby and her clothing was all out of place. They say the girl never said much about it. But they used to find her a lot out in those woods. Find her with her clothes out of place. So after she gets pregnant, the father of the girl goes to see the Lord. Threatens him. The Lord tells him that he’ll see to the boy’s upbringing as well as supporting the whole family so long as they keep his secret. Of course, over the years—what with gossip being what it is in a small community—many of the details have escaped.”

  “Who is the son?” Dorring was keen to know.

  “Who knows?” Patricia said. “The one thing that’s never got out is his name. Who he actually is. The boy was sent off to the mainland to live with relatives when he were only three. They changed his name.”

  “But he’s back now?”

  “I heard a rumor that supports that. Yes.”

  “Where’s the mother and grandparents?” Abigail asked.

  “Hammy, Dorene and Susie are still here. Living in town.”

  “I know them,” Abigail said. “The father, Hammy, is…”

  A bell rang above their heads and Abigail stopped dead. The three of them looked up from the table at the small bell as it jingled on a hook they’d placed it on earlier. Then another bell, one beside it, began to jingle. There were four in all, but the other two bells stayed dormant. Wires stretched from each of them and went out of the hatch. They were linked to several tripwires.

  “They’ve entered the north and east sides,” Dorring said. Getting up sharply from his chair, he added, “Okay. I need to go.”

  He ran to the steps and climbed up through the hatch. Below him, Abigail and Patricia took their shotguns and stayed down there. Inside the shed above the hatch, Dorring grabbed a large poncho he’d made earlier from dark brown tarpaulin. He threw it over himself and tied it with rope. It would hide him when he was amongst the trees and brush. Over his hair and face, he quickly spread thick engine oil he’d found earlier in a tray, feeling it sting as it went over the cuts.

  Then he grabbed the assault rifle, flung it over his shoulder, and entered the rain and lightning outside. That’s when he heard the first of their screams.

  32

  Conner heard the scream through the lashing rain. He was creeping through the woods with the others, assault rifle gripped in his hands, tactical body armor covering him, night
vision goggles lighting the place in green.

  “Who’s down?” he asked in his comms.

  “Landry, sir,” came back in an exasperated voice. Heavy breathing. “My ankle… it’s broken… He’s laid a fucking mantrap.”

  “Everyone be real careful,” Conner whispered. “There may be…”

  “AGH!”

  This one was close. Conner flashed his eyes left and saw his nearest man stumble. He ran to him through the undergrowth, lifting his rifle up above the high leaves of the bracken. The guy’s foot was caught on something and Conner knew immediately what it was.

  Something moved in the bushes.

  He threw himself forward just as the spikes came swinging down from the branches and buried deep into the bark of the nearest tree. He turned around and looked up at it. If he’d been there a split second longer, it’d be his body and not the tree that had the spikes buried in it.

  Conner went back to the guy crying out. He was holding his ankle, a distraught look on his face. Coming beside him, Conner kneeled down to see. The trap had closed right up on it and snapped the ankle almost all the way through.

  “Agh!” the guy groaned as he tried to pull the jaws of the mantrap apart.

  “Shh! Keep quiet,” Conner snapped.

  Machine gun fire suddenly burst in his ears and Conner stood up sharply, his assault rifle back in his hands. Scanning the trees through the sight, he saw bursts of muzzle flash about ten yards away.

  “What are you firing at?” Conner asked in his comms.

  “I saw him,” came back.

  Conner went to look in the direction his bullets went, but a sudden flash of lightning made him turn back to the man firing the gun. He was standing beside a rock. When the lightning illuminated the trees, Conner saw a silhouette crouched on top of it.

  “He’s above…”

  It was too late; the silhouette threw itself onto the man and they rolled off into the undergrowth.

  Teeth gritted together, Conner ran towards them, but by the time he reached the place they’d fallen, all he found was his man with a cut throat.

  Frantically, Conner dashed the aim of the assault rifle about. Nothing. More cries in the rain. Off in the distance. Too far for Conner to see. He was beginning to panic. Something he hadn’t done since his early days in the marines. Long before he felt himself battle hardened enough to join the SAS.

  More gunfire. Muzzle flashes far away in the tall, black trees. Another scream. This one closer. Conner ran hard through the rain and the brush. He had no time to think of the tripwires or the traps. It was all about luck now.

  One of his men lay in a slight gorge beside a thick oak tree. He was holding something on his stomach, trying to pull it free of him. When Conner dropped into the gorge to see what it was, he found a log lined with spikes stuck in the guy’s stomach. He looked up helplessly at Conner as he tried to prize the thing off. It took everything he and Conner had to get it free and when it was, the guy crumpled into a heap on the ground.

  Gunfire.

  Conner turned sharply to see. One of his men sprinted past, firing his gun. Crawling out of the gorge, Conner stayed low and moved cautiously through the bracken in the direction the man ran.

  Lightning struck the top of a slight slope to his right, drenching everything in bright light. A silhouette amongst the tall trees. Conner pointed his weapon and fired. The silhouette dived to the side, but there remained another silhouette in its place. By the time Conner realized, he’d already sent several bullets into the chest of his own man.

  “Agh!” Conner screamed as he rushed up the bank. But there was no one there except the dead body of his man. The one he’d just killed. He pressed his eyes to see, glaring in the direction Dorring had gone. Another flash of white. The silhouette darted between trees. Conner sprayed bullets at it. Dorring jumped. Grabbed his side. Then dived into the bushes.

  It was the first time anyone had hit him. And Conner could tell the bullet had only skimmed the flesh. Otherwise he would have gone over.

  Conner ran after, but when he reached the spot Dorring had dived into, he found only blood being washed away from the leaves by the rain. A few yards to the side, the brush quivered and looked like a man had only just passed through. Should he follow? Conner asked himself. No, he decided. It would be a trap for sure. Instead, he’d circumnavigate the spot and try to cut him off.

  Conner felt gradually naked and alone as he stalked through the wet forest. In his ear up until that point, he’d heard the sounds of his men. Now he heard nothing except groans or silence. He pointed his eyes about at the rain and trees. No more muzzle flashes. No more gunfire in his ears.

  “Anybody out there?” he whispered into the comms. “Jarvis? Croft? Frank? Anyone?”

  “Conner?” came back in a whisper.

  “Frank?”

  “Yeah. I’m on the east side of the house.”

  “You got eyes?”

  “Negative. But I’ve seen him. He moves in the bushes. Fucker’s covered in tarp or somethin’.”

  “Okay. Stay there. I’m coming.”

  Back in the bunker, Abigail and Patricia waited for Dorring. For the past minute or so, the only sound they’d heard was the rain, and it worried them as much as the gunfire.

  “You think he’s okay?” Patricia asked.

  They both stood on the steps at the top, their ears pressed to the hatch.

  “I don’t know,” Abigail said. “You think he needs help?”

  “Maybe.”

  “But he told us not to leave.”

  “Yeah, but he might be hurt.”

  Abigail bit her lip.

  “Okay,” she finally agreed. “We’ll take a look.”

  The hatch was gingerly lifted by Patricia. When it was open a foot, she peeked her eyes out. All she could see out the open door of the shed was the rainswept yard. Lightning burst and illuminated the woods at its edge. In the split-second there was light, the old woman thought she saw something in the trees.

  She thought she saw a hooded figure.

  Must be Alex, she thought as she opened the hatch wide and began climbing out. Abigail followed. While they stood at the door, there was another flash and this time the figure was gone.

  “I saw something in the trees,” Patricia shouted in the howling rain.

  “What?”

  “I think it might be him.”

  Abigail was about to say something when the two dogs started barking behind them. Turning, they saw the dogs glaring out into the rain. Glaring at the spot Patricia had seen the figure.

  Suddenly, the Dobermans dashed past them and out of the shed, sprinting into the trees. Beside herself, Patricia ran after them from the shed.

  “Flotsam! Jetsam!” she cried out.

  “Patricia!” Abigail cried out herself, running after her with the shotgun dangling in her arms.

  Entering the woods, Abigail could see nothing except the outlines of trees and bushes. The rain splashed in her eyes and she had to constantly wipe it out as she dashed through the wood in search of Patricia.

  The dogs barking and snarling were all she got. Concentrating, she gathered the direction it was coming from, the hum of the rain not helping, and sprinted off that way.

  Coming over the ridge of a hill, she saw something moving below, in the middle of a clearing. A flash of lightning and she saw a large figure in a hood, the snarling dogs about a foot in front of him as he backed into the wide trunk of an oak. A few yards behind the dogs was Patricia, her shotgun held on the figure.

  “You’re not Alex,” the old woman said. “You’re one of them. My boys know evil. You’re him, aren’t you? The bastard killer.”

  She raised the shotgun, but the dogs were too close. She risked shooting them along with the figure. This was the disadvantage of a big spread.

  “Flotsam! Jetsam!” she called. “Leave off.”

  But the dogs wouldn’t move. They’d become fixated with the man in the hood. One couldn’t wait
any longer. It flew at the man, who caught the dog on his forearm. In his free hand he held a knife and it plunged into the dog’s chest as it held on. It yelped pitifully. He swung the arm it held and tossed the dog at Patricia Johnston. It hit the old woman so hard in the chest that she flew backwards into the scrub, losing her footing and landing on her behind. The other dog had ahold of the man’s leg. Grabbing it with one hand, he held the dog still while he plunged the blade into the base of its neck. Another terrible yelp and the dog was dead.

  The hooded figure, head down, stomped menacingly towards Patricia as she attempted to get up. When he reached her, he placed a foot on the shotgun she held and pressed his weight into her so she couldn’t raise it from her chest or get up.

  This was the moment Abigail stood up on the ridge. She aimed the shotgun at him and fired. But it was the first time in her life that she’d fired a shotgun. The first time she’d held a rifle even. The shot went too high. Only a part of it hit him. Some pellets on the outer edge of the blast caught his cheek and cut it. But that was it.

  “Agh!” he cried, recoiling away.

  It was only single barrelled. She had to quickly pop the thing open, remove the old cartridge, find another in her pocket and put it in. All with frantically trembling hands. She was attempting to prize one out of a tight pocket of her jeans when the figure raised a handgun at her. All she could do was dive to the side as he sent several bullets her way.

  Conner made it to the east side of the house as cautiously as he could, trying to stay hidden in the bushes. Going slowly, he came across two more tripwires that hadn’t been set off. He avoided both. He came across a couple of his men lying in the scrub. One had been shot with an assault rifle. The other had had his neck broken.

  “Conner!?”

  He stopped dead.

  It had come as a faint, despairing cry from the distance. He was sure that it was Frank, the man he was attempting to meet up with. He sounded in pain. Then it came again.