by C. M. Ewan
I stood there, clenching and unclenching my hands. The gates slowly separated and swung apart. The Land Cruiser eased forwards. Brodie drove out of shot.
My chin dipped to my chest. My brain felt sluggish. I had no idea what to do, how to respond. The monitor continued to transmit sketchy darkness and a wash of faint grey tree cover for several more seconds. Then the feed blacked out.
I stepped back. Thoughts and theories hurtled through my mind but none of them would stick. Across from me was the shattered kitchen window. I stared at it, trying to get a handle on what it meant. The men wouldn’t have needed to smash it if Brodie was part of this. He could have given them a key to get into the lodge. So did that mean Brodie was in the clear? Or was it a bluff – a way to hide his involvement from a police investigation?
I didn’t know. I was terrified of getting it wrong.
I stepped towards the window with the rubber mallet in my hand, being careful not to tread on any glass. I listened for the Land Cruiser. For the clunk of a car door opening. For the murmur of hushed conversation between Brodie and the bigger man. Or for the explosion of a shotgun cartridge in the dark.
All I could hear was the bluster of the wind outside.
My two minutes were up. I thought about running outside. If I sprinted for the woods right this second, maybe I could let Rachel and Holly know what was happening. I could warn them not to approach Brodie until we knew if it was safe.
But it was already too late.
The jagged window glass glittered in the dazzle of the Toyota’s headlamps.
I ducked and cowered against the cupboard beneath the sink. I could hear the low bass idle of the Land Cruiser’s engine. The pop and crackle of gravel under big rubber tyres.
The engine stopped. There was the slow creaking of a handbrake cable. The sound seemed to crawl up my spine.
Silence.
I inched up and peeked out. Brodie had parked in the middle of the gravel yard between the lodge and the carport. He opened his door and stepped into the bright outdoor lighting with his bearded face to the wind and one hand on the roof of his car.
I wondered if Rachel would call to him. I hoped not. It wasn’t a risk we could take.
My chest tightened as I thought about Buster. What if he barked?
But no, normally he would have done that by now. He would have darted from the tree cover, yapping and bounding. So perhaps Rachel and Holly were pinning him down, gripping hold of his muzzle. Or perhaps he was too punch-drunk from the tranquilizer to respond.
The bigger man wasn’t with Brodie.
Was this a trick? A lure?
Brodie swivelled in my direction. I crouched and huddled, trembling so hard the cupboard door rattled.
Footsteps approached. I heard the crunch of gravel. Then a lull.
There was a long, long moment where nothing happened. I was pretty sure he was right above me but I was too afraid to look.
Then the footsteps started up again, receding this time. I heard the clunk of a door latch and a wheezing, pneumatic hiss.
I closed my eyes and told myself to stay where I was. Didn’t work. I had to know. I eased up from my thighs, wrapped a hand around the porcelain sink and peeped out again.
Brodie had opened the Land Cruiser’s boot. He removed something from under a blanket or a coat. The object had a blackened finish that shone wetly in the hard outdoor lighting.
My stomach quivered.
A pistol.
My legs almost gave out. I jumped as Brodie closed the boot and shut the driver’s door. He locked his car. Then he set off towards the deck with the gun held out in front of him in a two-handed grip, damp gravel rasping under his boots.
Think.
A private investigator with a gun? It was possible, I supposed. But a bad guy with a gun? I’d already seen two of those tonight.
I slumped to the floor. I had nowhere to go. Brodie would be inside before I could make it to the stairs. If I rushed down the corridor to the pool room the smaller man would hear me. I could try climbing out through the kitchen window, but what if the bigger man was waiting for me out there?
Think.
The laundry room? I could just about make it. Maybe. In another lifetime, with legs that weren’t locked with fear.
I glanced around me, my breath hot and heavy. I looked at the fitted cupboards and drawers. At the cooker and the big American fridge freezer.
At the pantry cupboard.
Go.
I dived, scrambling inside the cupboard on my hands and knees, pulling the door closed in front of my face.
It was dark and cramped on the inside. The walls that surrounded me were lined with shelving. The shelves were stocked with groceries and kitchen supplies.
I waited.
My heart beat in my ears.
The darkness seemed to close in around me. It crept inside my eyes and mouth. The space seemed to shrink. The room felt airless, weightless. Like a portal to another dimension. One where there was only me and the darkness and my own breathless fear.
I had that feeling – the one where you know you’re at a fork in the road. I had a choice to make now. A big one. An impossible one. Did I trust Brodie or not? If I got it wrong, it would cost me my life. And worse, it would leave Rachel and Holly to fend for themselves.
Shout out a warning? Or stay hidden?
Think.
I went with another compromise. Another lawyerly fudge.
I cracked open the pantry door until a blade of light sliced through the gap. I put my eye to it and looked out.
Brodie crossed in front of the wall of glass at the front of the lodge. He crabbed sideways with the barrel of the pistol up by his face. He paused at the open door, saw my hiking boots, the spill of rain on the timber floor.
‘Rachel?’ he whispered. ‘Tom?’
Don’t fall for it. It could be a trick.
He scoped out the room. His gaze lingered on the plastic sheeting and the holdalls. He frowned.
Was he genuinely surprised, or was it an act?
If he was working with the two men, why hadn’t he been here from the start? Maybe to deny any involvement. But maybe that had changed when we’d locked ourselves inside the wine cellar. Maybe the men had summoned Brodie because he knew a work-around for the system. But if that was the case, why was he whispering our names now?
‘Rachel? It’s Brodie. Are you here?’
That fork in the road.
Trust him or don’t trust him?
I eased back from the gap in the door. Wiped the sweat from my face. This decision felt too weighty. I couldn’t afford to get it wrong.
There wasn’t any sound now except my own breathing. I put my eye to the gap again. Brodie was climbing the floating staircase. He passed out of sight. I listened to his footfall on the treads. There was brief spell of silence when he reached the top. Was he looking at the damage to Holly’s bedroom door? The bullet hole in the ceiling?
I almost opened the door and stepped out but then I flinched and ducked as the ceiling boards above my head shook and flexed. It sounded like Brodie was pounding along in the direction of our bedrooms.
Was he really here to help?
Again, I was poised to step out. But then I saw something else and a jab of fear stopped me.
The bigger man had walked in through the sliding glass door in his mask and coveralls.
42
He was holding his shotgun crossways in front of his body.
Oh no. Please tell me he didn’t find Rachel and Holly. Please not that . . .
He scanned the room, checking every angle. Then his hooded head snapped up towards the top of the staircase. He started to climb. He was fast, but careless. His rubber boots hammered on the polished timber treads. The noise rebounded in my heart.
I thought of darting out of the pantry. Out through the window. Tearing into the trees.
‘Rachel?’
It was Brodie, calling from above.
I c
ringed in the darkness, unsure what to do. If I warned him, the bigger man would hear me. He had the shotgun. All I had was a mallet. And this could still all be a trick.
I opened the door. Took two shaky steps towards the window. And stopped.
There was a grunt of surprise above me. A blunt, plosive gasp. Like one of the men had been hit hard in the stomach.
I looked up towards the mezzanine, then back at the window.
Go for it or don’t go for it?
I flinched. Something – or someone – had crashed into a wall. There were scuffed footsteps, grunting, a struggle.
A gun went off.
I crouched. The noise was shocking and enormous. A roaring, sharp clap in the stillness of the lodge. I stared in horror down the corridor towards the pool room, feeling like my feet were nailed to the floor.
There was scuffed footfall, grunting, then a ringing clang against the banister rail that fronted the mezzanine.
After that came a choked shout.
Something heavy slammed to the ground in front of me.
I jumped back inside the pantry. But not before I’d seen who’d hit the ground.
Brodie.
He was lying on his front, his arms splayed, groaning. His pistol had sprung out of his hand and skidded away across the floor towards the plastic sheeting near the log burner.
I stared after it from the crack in the pantry door.
That fork in the road.
I’d messed up badly. He’d come to help.
I could see blood. Lots of it. Brodie looked to be bleeding from somewhere low down on his left calf. The blood was seeping out through the jeans he had on, dark and glossy against the pale flooring.
I didn’t breathe. Didn’t move.
I stared at the gun.
Brodie wheezed out a breath and tried pulling himself forwards. He didn’t have the strength. I knew he was going for his gun. I knew he wouldn’t get there. If I was braver, stronger, maybe I would have run out to help. But I didn’t.
I didn’t know how to shoot.
The bigger man was charging down the staircase with the shotgun.
And I could hear shouting and footfall from along the corridor. It was the sound of the smaller man rushing this way.
I cringed, then reached up to pull the door closed.
I didn’t manage it unseen.
Brodie glanced back just in time to spot me. His eyes widened. I went dead still.
A voice yelled, ‘What’s going on? What are you shooting for?’
It was the smaller man, sounding vexed and low on patience. His boots clomped down the corridor. The bigger man leaped to the ground from the stairs.
I framed a look of desperate apology and watched through the tiniest slit in the door as Brodie swung his head forwards and strained to crawl to his pistol again. The bigger man came thundering towards him. He bounded over the plastic sheeting. He swung his right foot back at the knee, whipped his leg forwards from the hip and kicked Brodie full in the ribs.
Another plosive gasp. An agonized, wheezing groan.
I hunched back, like I’d been kicked myself.
Brodie tried to cover up but the bigger man grabbed his arm and rolled him over onto his back, then placed the toe of his boot on Brodie’s throat and pointed the shotgun at his face.
I went cold.
‘What the fuck is he doing here?’ the smaller man asked.
The two men lined up next to one another, looking down at Brodie with their backs to me. The smaller man had a pistol in his gloved fist. I felt a scratching in my scalp, like he was pointing it at my head.
‘He brought a gun.’ The bigger man nodded towards where Brodie’s pistol had fallen. He waited until the smaller man had paced over and picked the gun up and studied it closely. ‘He just pulled up right outside.’
‘Yeah?’ The smaller man slipped Brodie’s gun into a pocket on his coveralls. Then he cast a long, questioning look along the corridor towards the reading nook and the wine cellar. He stroked his chin. ‘They must have contacted him from in there. I don’t know how, but they did. Right?’
The bigger man shrugged and leaned his weight down on the shotgun until Brodie’s skin dimpled around the muzzle and his face tightened in pain.
So the bigger man hasn’t found Rachel and Holly. They still think we’re in the cellar.
The smaller man got down on his haunches. ‘Did they call you? Message you? What?’
‘Go to hell,’ Brodie snarled.
The bigger man snatched the shotgun away, spun it in his hand and stabbed the butt down hard on Brodie’s left knee. I flinched. The noise was terrible. Like a snooker ball thrown against a chalkboard. Brodie’s leg bounced off the floor, spilling blood from the wound in his calf. He roared with pain and tried rolling away but the bigger man had his foot clamped on his throat.
If I was a better person, maybe I would have taken a chance on sneaking up on the men with the mallet that was shaking in my hand. Maybe I would have attacked them. Maybe, against all odds, I would have come out on top.
But the truth is, I’m not an action hero. I’m a husband. A dad.
Brodie had come here to help us. I didn’t know how or why but he had. I knew I was failing him and maybe failing myself too. And yet, at the same time, I had to prioritize Rachel and Holly. If I got shot, what would happen to them?
And all right, perhaps this is a lot of self-justification to explain my actions, but that doesn’t mean I didn’t loathe myself for just watching as the smaller man strode off across the room, snatched up the wire recliner over by the wall of glass, set it down in the middle of the plastic sheeting and then worked with the bigger man to haul Brodie into the chair and bind his chest and biceps to it with the roll of silver gaffer tape.
43
Let me save you the gory details of what followed. Trust me, you don’t want to hear about what it’s like to watch someone beaten in front of you. And I don’t particularly want to tell it.
One thing I can say is that it was fast. This was no prolonged torture scene.
Mostly they focused on Brodie’s face. They also pummelled his chest and ribs and they threatened to gag him when he struggled to breathe. At one point, the bigger man twisted the muzzle of his shotgun into the bloody wound on Brodie’s leg and he screamed so wildly I knew there was no way that Rachel and Holly couldn’t have heard it. They would have heard the gunshot before that. My throat closed up as I thought about how scared and distressed they must be right now. Did they think I was dead? Probably. How would Holly cope with that? Would she be able to hold it together enough to run with Rachel to the stargazing pod? Would they leave Buster behind? I doubted it, but I hoped they’d find a way into the pod. I hoped there was a phone there. I hoped very badly they’d survive this terror, because now that I’d seen what these men were capable of, I was terrified I wouldn’t.
Brodie had given us a chance to get through this and I hadn’t taken it. I knew I could never forgive myself for that.
The men shouted a series of rapid questions as they beat him. First and most important, they wanted to know how to get through the steel door into the cellar. Brodie told them they couldn’t if it was locked from the inside. Not even a reset code would work.
They asked him why he’d come. He told them a silent alarm had been triggered inside the cellar. The alarm had flashed up on his phone. It was his job to respond.
Then more questions, some of them overlapping. The entire interrogation couldn’t have lasted more than a minute but it felt like much longer.
They asked him if the police had been notified. He said no.
They asked him if he’d called the police himself. He said no again.
Then they stepped back, panting heavily. Brodie’s head lolled. He dribbled blood onto his chest through his sweat-drenched beard. His face was mashed and torn and swollen.
My stomach dropped.
He hadn’t given me away and, while I was enormously grateful to him for t
hat, I felt an overwhelming burden of guilt. I told myself that maybe he was hoping the men would leave him alone and I could untie him. Or maybe he’d lied to the men. Maybe the police really were on their way and he was trying to stall until they got here.
I hoped so. But I had no way of knowing. Neither did the bigger man or the smaller man, and that was a huge problem for them.
I hugged myself tight as the smaller man waved the bigger man towards the kitchen. They grouped up just metres away from me, breathing hard, swearing harder.
I didn’t shrink back from the door. I was too afraid of making a sound. I breathed through my mouth in shallow gulps and focused on staying still, not knocking any groceries off the pantry shelves. I could feel hot sweat in my hair, under my arms, in the small of my back, on my eyelids. The mallet grew heavy at the end of my arm. I was so afraid of dropping it that my fingers cramped.
The men conferred in low whispers, like they didn’t want Brodie to hear what they had to say. I tried to listen but the thunder of the blood in my ears was too loud. Soon, they moved off and returned to Brodie, standing on either side of him with the smaller man on the left and the bigger man on the right.
‘You know who we want,’ the smaller man said.
He took hold of Brodie’s hair and tugged his face upright. His bloodied nose was putty. His right eye was a ghastly pouch of swollen and puckered skin. I flashed on what had happened to Holly in that alley. I’d thought it had been bad, but now I saw how much worse it could have been.
I waited for Brodie to look my way and tell them where I was hidden. To signal the men. To choose the obvious way out.
But he said nothing.
My heart ached.
The smaller man clipped him with his gun. A stinging backhand blow that opened a welt across Brodie’s forehead and whipped his head to one side.
Brodie dribbled blood onto his shoulder. ‘I don’t . . . know . . . who . . . you’re talking about. I don’t know . . . why . . . you’re here.’
‘Oh, you don’t? You think you can investigate us and we won’t know about it?’