‘I’ll tell you when you can get out.’ Chico’s voice crackled from the phone still in the boat.
Chico left him in the freezing water for another five minutes before his tinny little voice sang out. ‘Get out and keep going to the other side. Make sure you tie it up securely. I don’t want it floating back for anybody else to use.’
Evan clambered back in, hauled anchor. Rowed as fast as possible to warm himself up. He made it to the far jetty in a couple of minutes and tied up. There was a closed-up wooden shack. A van parked off to the side.
‘The key’s already in the van. There’s a nice surprise for you in the back as well. Take a look.’
Evan grabbed the bags and sloshed his way to the back of the van in his sodden shoes. He pulled the doors open, jumped backwards at the sight of the guy lying in the back. His lifeless eyes stared straight at him, half the back of his head missing. A wheel with a flat tire lay across his stomach.
Chico’s taunting voice came down the line.
‘I think he’s about your size. And his clothes are dry. Maybe a few stains on them. It’s your choice.’
Evan threw the bags in the back. Pushed the spare wheel off the guy. He grabbed hold of him by the ankles, pulled him out. There was no point in being squeamish. He’d leave the guy his underwear but he’d take the pants and shirt. He stripped off his wet clothes, ripped the defunct wire off his chest and pulled on the stiff’s pants and shirt. He didn’t bother with the shoes.
‘I left a phone for you. It’s only got this number on it. Call me back.’
Evan found it and rang back.
‘Now stomp on your phone and send me a photo. And I mean really stomp it. Pretend it’s my face if that helps.’
Evan did as he was told.
‘Ha! Looks like you did too. I’d get rid of the body if I was you. You don’t want to get caught with that in the back.’
Evan followed his instructions and dragged the guy down to the river. He untied the anchor rope and wound it around the body, rolled the whole lot off the edge of the jetty. Then he turned the boat over, left it floating upside down above the sunken corpse. Whoever came along and turned it back up the right way was in for an unpleasant surprise.
‘Just so you know,’ Chico said, ‘there’s a GPS jammer hidden in the van. You’re on your own now. Don’t waste your time looking for it. It’s very well hidden.’
Evan climbed in the van and set off. He felt very alone.
***
EVAN TOOK THE FIRST right and drove for twelve miles before taking the next one. As he knew it would, it took him back over the river. A couple of miles further on, he made a left back onto the original road. The police would be down on the river bank by now, staring at his car, wondering where the hell he went.
In the back pocket of the dead guy’s pants he felt a wallet. He leaned forward and fished it out. Shook his driving license loose. Todd Strange. He was an ugly son-of-a-bitch even without half his head missing. He shook the rest of the contents onto the passenger seat. A slip of paper fell out along with a few dollars. It landed face down. He picked it up. Turned it over, one eye on the road, one on the paper in his hand.
He stared at the address in disbelief, all his attention on it.
The van suddenly shuddered and shook violently. He looked up. Saw a curve approaching way too fast. Nearside wheels already on the shoulder, dust and debris kicking up behind him. He hit the brakes. Wrenched the wheel down hard left. The back end of the van slewed around. There was a loud crack. He was thrown up and out of the seat as the nearside rear wheel slammed into something solid. He landed back on his butt, stomped harder on the brakes. The van skidded to a halt, its rear end sagging.
He jumped out, ran around to the back. The nearside tire was completely shredded. And he knew exactly where the spare was—he’d seen it in the back lying on top of Todd half an hour ago. It was flat too.
Two flats? Chico would think it was a trick.
He had to get off this curve. He drove away slowly, the metal rim of the wheel screeching on the blacktop, sparks flying, as he looked for a rest area. He found one a mile further on, a wide gravel pull-off. No amenities but at least nobody was going to rear-end him.
There was something he had to do before he called Chico. He re-read the address on the slip of paper. There was no mistake. It was the address he’d visited earlier that morning, the gym where Guillory had stashed the money. Right down to the locker number.
There were only two people who knew that address and he sure as hell hadn’t told Todd. That left Guillory. She must have given the address to Chico who sent Todd to pick it up. But Todd never made it. Wound up dead in the back of the van. And Chico knew he was dead—There's a nice surprise for you in the back as well. Take a look. What the hell was going on? Was Kate already dead having outlived her usefulness?
He picked Todd’s wallet up off the passenger seat, pulled it wide open. Looked to see what other surprises might be lurking in there. A couple business cards was all, stuck in the bottom. One of them had a phone number manually written on it under Todd’s printed name, cell phone number and PO Box address. He copied Todd’s home address from his driving license onto the back of that one, slipped it into his pocket.
Then he picked up the phone and called Chico. He heard his death in the silence that came down the line, the sound of shovels in the dirt.
‘Are you serious? This better not be a trick. You’re playing with your friend’s life here.’
‘It’s not a trick. And the spare’s in the back with a flat. Lying on top of Todd.’
‘Todd?’
‘I saw his driving license—’
‘Todd. Right. I’m with you.’
Something wasn’t right. It wasn’t that he was surprised because Evan knew Todd’s name—he hadn’t recognized the name Todd at all.
‘We call him TJ. He hates being called Todd.’
Bullshit.
He was trying to cover his slip. He hadn’t known who the dead guy was. And for some reason he didn’t want Evan to know he didn’t know. It made Evan very pleased he’d got one of Todd’s cards in his pocket.
‘Where are you?’
‘About ten miles beyond where I re-joined the main road.’
‘Wait there.’
‘I want to talk to my partner.’
But the phone was already dead.
Chapter 80
KATE GUILLORY SNAPPED AWAKE at a sound outside the door of the cabin. Early morning sunlight filtered through the weave of the hood over her head.
Damn.
She’d fallen asleep. After the guy left she’d felt so utterly weary that all she wanted to do was put her head on the cool stone floor, rest for a minute before thinking about trying to get free.
Now she’d lost eight or ten hours easily.
The noise at the door came again. She held her breath, ears straining. Relaxed. It wasn’t footsteps or a door opening. It was a breathy, snuffling sound. A forest animal foraging for its breakfast.
She needed to get out.
If the guy was coming back at all, it would be to tie up the loose end permanently. There was a faint smell of a long-dead fire in the air. Cold iron pressed against her wrists behind her back. The guy had cuffed her to a stove, through the ties on her wrists and around the stove’s leg. She braced her feet on the floor, pushed backwards. The stove’s feet scraped a grudging inch along the floor. Another push, a half inch.
She slid her hands down the stove’s leg, tried to find the bottom of it. Worked her fingernails between the metal and the floor. Couldn’t get them in far enough to get any purchase.
She sat upright. Shuffled forwards on her butt, tried to drag it with her. All she did was wrench her shoulder. She jerked her arms in frustration and anger. Felt a quick stab of pain as sharp metal cut into her flesh. The rough edges of the cast iron hadn’t been filed smooth, left unfinished to save a few cents on the manufacturing costs.
Thank God for che
ap materials and shoddy workmanship.
She moved her arms carefully along the length of the leg until she felt the plastic cuff catch on the rough spot. Systematically working the cuff up and down. Ten minutes and it gave way. She fell forward with a jolt as the plastic parted, rolled onto her side.
She tried to stand. Got to her knees without a problem. As soon as she put any weight on her legs, the right one gave way and she landed on her ass, jarring every nerve in her body. She lay on her side for a good long while enjoying the slight easing of tension in her shoulders and neck. Then she shuffled into a sitting position again.
She had to get the hood off.
She jerked her head violently from side to side. Then up and down. All at once. Got on her knees and bent double, shook her head like an excited terrier with a rat.
Whatever she tried, it just wouldn’t shift.
Suddenly it came to her. The stove must have a handle on the door. She shuffled back across to it. Twisted around, feeling behind her until she located it. Ten minutes and a lot of bad language later, she caught the flapping hem of the hood on the protruding handle. She worked it up between her cheek and the side of the hood. But every time she tried to pull her head out, the hood caught on her chin on the other side.
There was no way to get it off gently, to avoid more pain to her bloodied, swollen face. She got the hood hooked solidly on the handle. Got her feet under her and dived. There was a loud ripping sound as her head came clean through the top. Then the sacking parted completely.
She landed half on her shoulder, half on the side of her head. Skidded across the floor on her ear. Rolled onto her back, the bright sunshine dazzling her after the hood, blinding her. She heard a sound like a door opening. Felt a cool breeze on her face. Blinked her eyes open, stared up at a man’s legs looming over her.
Chapter 81
CHICO WASN’T ANY MORE paranoid than the next guy. But the more he thought about it, the more convinced he became that everything had been one big plan starting from the point where Diego and the other guys were supposedly hijacked by Dixie and Carly and the money went missing.
That set in motion the sequence of events that resulted in Dixie’s death and—if the conspirators’ plan had worked—being killed himself in the ambush. With the two of them out of the way, it would have been wide open for whoever was behind it all to take control.
The smart money was on Diego.
He thought back to the night he captured Buckley and his partner. It was Diego who was so insistent they go after Carly and the money—that he should go with Buckley while Chico set off for the ranch. But he wasn’t interested in either the money or Carly. He had much bigger fish to fry. Like taking over the whole operation. That’s why he let Buckley go. He didn’t escape, Diego let him go. How else did he get away from them so easily?
One thing always leads to another, even if you’re not paranoid. Why would he let Buckley go? Because they’re in it together. Always had been. And where did that lead? What would they do now that their plan to get rid of him had failed? They’d have been back to the site of the ambush by now, would know they hadn’t killed him. So they would come up with a second plan . . .
It was a trap.
The meeting with Buckley was a trap.
He’d assumed Buckley involved the police because of the text he’d seen on his partner’s phone. He didn’t actually know whether the police were involved at all. What made more sense was that Diego went back to the ambush site and discovered he wasn’t there—next thing you know, he gets a call from Buckley wanting to set up an exchange.
Add to that a convenient breakdown in the middle of nowhere. What was the likelihood of the same vehicle getting two flat tires in as many days?
Almost zero.
It was definitely a trap.
Or was he being totally paranoid? He’d find out soon enough when he met Buckley. He touched the pocket of his jacket instinctively, feeling the comforting shape of the filleting knife he’d threatened Carly with. If he’d known then what he knew now he’d have killed her there and then. And Dixie would still be alive. He didn’t want to think about that now, think about the fact that all he had was Dante Ortega’s word that Dixie had been a cop. If Ortega was about to enter into a new partnership with Diego, he would say that, wouldn’t he?
Buckley had some of the answers. Diego had the rest. Difference was, he knew where Buckley was.
He put his foot down harder on the gas, keen to get this over with now, trap or not. What had started out as an inconvenient trip all because of a flat tire had suddenly become something much bigger.
If today was the day he went to meet his maker, so be it. But he sure as hell wouldn’t make the journey alone.
Chapter 82
GUILLORY SHOOK HER HEAD. Blinked a couple times to clear her vision. Then laughed. Laughed so hard it hurt. Made her stomach and her chest and her head and just about everywhere else hurt but she couldn’t stop herself. All the stresses and strains and pain of the last forty-eight hours ebbed away until she was left panting for breath, tears in her eyes, staring up at the dark blue mechanic’s coverall that hung from a rafter, gently swaying in the draft from a broken window banging in the wind.
She stood, her strength returning. Looked around for what she knew must be there somewhere. She saw it leaning by the door. A felling axe. She kicked it onto the floor. Lowered herself into a kneeling position, straddling it with the handle between her knees, the head between her heels.
The axe was sharp. She was still shaky. And she didn’t have eyes in the back of her head. Her first push downwards missed the cuff. Took a slice off the heel of her hand. She swore, moved her hands into position again. More carefully this time. She pushed down, took it easy. Felt the razor edge bite into the cuff. Then her arms flew apart as the plastic gave way.
She washed the blood off her hand in the sink then dropped into the only easy chair. Massaged some life into her hands and arms and shoulders. The shack didn’t have a telephone. But she found something almost as useful. A half-full bottle of whiskey which was very quickly a quarter-full bottle of whiskey. She felt a hell of a lot better for it. But the feeling was soon forgotten when she saw her face in the bathroom mirror. She looked like she’d been taking a nap in a field when a combine harvester drove over her face. It would be a long time before a touch of lipstick was all she needed to make herself presentable again.
Outside everything was quiet. She did a lap of the property, the axe held loosely in her hand. There was nothing of any use. Not even a rusty old bicycle. Might as well start walking now. Then she heard it. The faint sound of a car approaching. Her pulse quickened, the axe handle smooth and reassuring in her hand. She crossed the yard, hid behind a tree.
Something wasn’t right.
She heard music.
On top of the sound of the car’s engine laboring up the bumpy track, she heard loud music playing. It couldn’t be the killer, advertising his return. It didn’t sound like a van, either. It sounded like a small car.
She knew for sure it wasn’t him when an old Mazda MX-5 convertible appeared out of the trees, stopped in front of the cabin. A young guy of about twenty was at the wheel, a girl in the passenger seat. An empty beer bottle suddenly flew through the air. It landed a few yards away from Guillory’s feet. The guy switched off the engine. The music stopped abruptly. He leaned across, kissed his girl.
Guillory stepped silently out from behind the tree. She walked towards the car, a hint of a smile on her lips, the axe swinging idly at her side. The guy was twisted right around in his seat. Looking backwards over the girl’s shoulder as they kissed. He opened his eyes. Caught sight of Guillory. Then he saw the axe. He jerked away from the girl, let out a yelp. Nearly bit her tongue in half. An indignant squeal bounced off the trees. Her head snapped around to see what the problem was. She screamed. Guillory remembered what her face looked like. She glanced down at her shirt. It looked as if she’d wiped the floor of a slaughterh
ouse with it. She was suddenly aware of the axe in her hand.
The engine fired. The car reversed at her in a curving arc as the guy turned the wheel hard right.
She dropped the axe. Held up her hands.
‘Stop. It’s okay. I’m a police officer.’
That’s what she thought she said anyway.
What they heard:
Stop. I’m going to chop you up with this axe. I’m Freddy Krueger’s sister.
She jumped sideways to avoid being hit. Caught her foot on a root and fell over backwards. The driver slammed the shift into first. Stomped on the gas. Dirt and gravel peppered Guillory’s face. The little car took off back down the track, the girl’s hysterical screams trailing behind it. Guillory clambered to her feet, tried to run after them. Gave up after a couple of paces.
She couldn’t blame them.
The best she could hope for was if they called the local police. Somehow managed to persuade them they hadn’t been watching too much TV while they got high on a cocktail of sex, booze and drugs.
On balance she doubted they’d make the call.
She picked up the axe and went back inside the cabin. She did everything she could to clean up her face then got ambushed by one of those thoughts that come at you from out of left field.
What would Evan say when he first saw her?
She needed to ditch the blood-stained shirt. She stripped it off, pulled the coverall down from its hook and tried it on. It was too big but it would do. She rolled up the sleeves looking like she’d stepped off a World War II poster for female war production workers. All she needed was the red polka dot head scarf. At least she was less likely to scare any motorists.
***
SHE MADE IT BACK down to the main road in a couple hours. She’d imagined she was much further into the depths of the woods. And it had been mainly downhill. She’d used the axe as a walking stick to support her when her legs felt like they might give way. And the name Liverman repeated over and over to support her mentally when she felt like giving up, felt like lying down, closing her eyes.
Hunting Dixie Page 31