Chasing Summer

by Nicola Claire

  Tia needed to know. Heck, Darren and Nana Rika needed to know.

  I needed to know.

  My hand reached out and checked the bulge in my handbag, making sure my gun was still in there. There was no reason for it not to be; I hadn’t let the bag out of my sight since taking it out of my safe earlier. But nerves made me jittery, and my neck made me breathe a little too quickly. A tap-tap-tapping had started at the base of my skull. Either a headache forming or the quickened pace of the second hand on that stupid mental clock.

  I knew in my gut that I had to find Mikey today. If I didn’t, it would be too late. Too late meant a lot of things, but in this case, considering the players I’d uncovered, it would undoubtedly mean Mikey’s death.

  I couldn’t do that to Tia. Whether she was as much a part of the Rika marijuana machine as her brothers or not, Tia Maria was my friend.

  The first location was closer to Doubtless Bay than Kaitaia which was helpful. My neck offered no help as I circumnavigated the shearing shed in the Micra. It was open to the elements, the odd hay bale here and there. A half-full wool bale propped against the north facing wall. I contemplated getting out of the car and checking inside, but that tapping picked up speed, and the lanolin had disappeared entirely.

  I took that to mean that this one was a bust and drove on.

  The next location was north of Kaitaia, which meant I would be doing a heck of a lot of backtracking if I followed Stan’s numbers to the letter. I decided I’d take the first eight and check them in the order of closest to farthest from me. That meant I checked location four, then two, then six before I made it to location three.

  Location three was a hit. So much so, that for a moment I had to gather myself, steel my stomach contents, and breathe through my mouth. My skin felt clammy. My head felt light. When I looked in the mirror, my face was pale and dark shadows appeared beneath my eyes.

  I’d never been so affected by my feelings before, but the sense of urgency tied up with the sense of danger the situation brought had me feeling all kinds of freaked out.

  I turned the motor off, slipped Stan’s map into a pocket, and slid the gun out of my handbag. I didn’t want the thing banging around my hip and side and distracting me. I checked the chamber and then the safety. Then grabbed my PI license and cell phone and slid them into my shorts’ pocket.

  With the gun in hand, my heart in my throat, and sweat under my arms and down my back, I slid out of the car on shaking legs.

  I could have phoned Danvers, but despite being absolutely sure that Mikey was here, I felt an overriding urge to check first. To be sure. Danvers would come if I called; I knew that. But what if I was wrong? What would he think then?

  My gut/neck told me I was right and Mikey was here. My skull and that incessant tapping told me to hurry, and I didn’t have time to text Detective Douche.

  I crouched low and surveyed the field that surrounded the shearing shed. It was hidden from the main road, and I’d only got close enough because I’d taken a private track that had seen recent traffic on it. The police would not have entered the property without reason, and I was thinking the owner would have made sure they didn’t have reason to do that.

  I operated within the parameters of the law but also outside of the police’s restrictions. I could investigate an open case as long as I announced my presence and reason for being there.

  “Private investigator,” I whispered, too quiet for even a field mouse to hear. “Open case,” I added for good measure. “Need to be here.”

  That done, I crept forward. There was no cover between the trees that lined the dirt track I’d parked on and the shed, so I ran full tilt towards the side of the building, my breaths coming in frantic pants as my heart tried to beat out of my chest. I pressed my back against the shearing shed and only felt marginally better for the shade and shadow the walls provided.

  Making my way carefully around to the back of the shed, and therefore the least likely to be observed by anyone I thought, I kept my head cocked and tried to determine if there was movement inside. All I could hear was the drone of a plane in the distance as it sprayed a field, the buzz of a lazy bee as it circled a thicket of gorse, and the wind as it whistled through the holes in the eaves of the building beside me.

  It was eerie, and I thanked every deity I could think of that it wasn’t the middle of the night.

  Of course, being late afternoon, I was limned in light when I ducked in the small doorway and took shelter in one of the sheep pens. The scent of sheep droppings and lanolin assaulted me. The wood was worn smooth and coated in oil, making it darker than it should have been. The creak of one of the clipper arms sent shivers down my spine as it gently swayed above me in what should have been a non-existent breeze inside the barn. There was no clipper attached to it, but that didn’t mean it didn’t look threatening.

  I crept forward, checking the sheep pens I could see and as much of the more open space I could manage where they sorted the wool and sheared the sheep. By the time I reached the front of the pen I was in, I was fairly certain all that was in the open part was discarded wool, a couple of brooms, and possibly an abundance of mice.

  But no Mikey.

  I was inside a pen which had a spring-loaded door. I couldn’t climb over it; there wasn’t space. And I sure as heck couldn’t climb under it; it was there to keep the sheep contained. Which meant opening it. I held my breath, straining to hear any sounds, and then grimaced as I pushed the door open. It creaked.

  Of course, it did.

  But then so did most of the things in the shearing shed even when nothing was pushing against them.

  I bit my lip and slipped out, letting the door shut as quietly as I could manage. My eyes darted from shadowed alcove to shadowed alcove and then up into the rafters. There was nowhere above for Mikey to be. I wasn’t sure if there were pens beneath the building; I had climbed a ramp to get in through the sheep door. But my gut seemed to think that wasn’t likely. Or that was my sense of spatial awareness. It was hard to tell when I was panicking.

  Was Mikey here? Wasn’t he?

  I couldn’t hear anyone and no one was visible in what I could see of the building, so I stood up and started checking the pens.

  I found him in the last one.

  Tied up. Beaten to a pulp. But breathing.

  Chapter 20

  I Froze Like A Meerkat

  “Summer,” he said when he cracked open swollen eyelids. “You shouldn’t be here.”

  “Neither should you,” I said, crouching by his side.

  The ropes were stiff and smelled of fish. I was betting the dillholes who’d done this had taken them from the wharf. Which linked them to the scene of the murder.

  And also linked Mikey to it, too.

  I slipped my gun into the back of my shorts, trying not to listen to my firearms instructor berate me inside my head. Then I got to work on Mikey’s restraints.

  He groaned, his head lolling, and for a second, I thought he’d passed out again.

  He looked dehydrated. His lips were cracked and covered in dried blood. His cheek was swollen, and I was pretty sure his nose was broken. The skin around his wrists was raw. The little finger on his right hand was sitting at an odd angle. When I brushed against his side and chest, trying to reach a particularly difficult knot, he flinched, swore, and then passed out completely.

  I gently lifted his dirty singlet and eyed the bruises to his ribs. Was that a boot print? I shook my head and got back to work.

  By the time I’d freed his arms and had moved onto his feet, which were devoid of boots but luckily still covered in stinky socks, he was awake again.

  “Summer,” he said, voice dry and sandpapery. “They’ll be back. The sun is low.”

  I glanced at the shadow on the wall and noted he was a right. The sun had gone down some since I’d found him. I wasn’t sure how many minutes had passed, but my neck was itching, and my head was thumping, and the shadows were getting longer and darker.r />
  “About when do they come?” I asked.

  “When the shadow hits the top of the wool bale.”

  I checked how far the shadow had to go and felt my stomach drop. My heart rate picked up conversely, and I wiped at the sweat on my forehead. I was not leaving him. I was not. Even if I left and went out to call Danvers for reinforcements, where would I wait? I was pretty sure I had parked in the gang’s parking spot.

  My forethought astounded me.

  “Why did they keep you?“ I asked. I needed something to take my mind off the impending clusterstorm I’d created.

  “Summer,” Mikey said, reaching up and touching my hair. His hand shook, but it didn’t stop him from running his fingers through the ginger strands. “You shouldn’t be here.” He sounded sad as if he thought I was trapped now as much as he was.

  I refused to believe that and doubled my efforts on the stubborn knot between his feet.

  He was still in his leather pants, but they’d removed his leather jacket. I could see his tats standing out in stark relief against pale skin. Mikey was Māori; his skin was brown, not white. But, criminy, he looked pale right then.

  I thought he’d lost weight too, which meant the dillholes weren’t feeding him. His cheeks looked hollow beneath his scruffy beard, and his stomach dipped, showing the top of his hip bones. It was summer, so he wouldn’t have frozen to death. But he would have been cold at night and hungry. And in pain. And alone.

  What did they threaten him with? Slow death? A rescue that wouldn’t come? These guys certainly thought they were untouchable.

  It had been my experience that gangs were like that. Especially the types of gangs that operated around here. The Rika boys were top of the food chain in Doubtless Bay. They knew it. Everyone knew it. And most stayed out of their way. In Kaitaia, I couldn’t imagine it being any better.

  I took the time to pull my cell phone out and handed it to Mikey.

  “Call Darren,” I said.

  I could have said call the cops. But Mikey would have baulked at that, and my hands were full; there was no way he could undo the binds that held his feet together; it was up to me to do it. As it was, it took him three goes to enter Darren’s number into my phone. He held it to his ear and closed his eyes.

  I shook him when I thought he’d drifted off.

  “Daz,” he said, his voice cracking. “Summer found me. We’re in trouble.”

  Hearing it said aloud made every hair on my body stand on end.

  And then I heard something else.

  The slamming of a car door.

  “Shit,” Mikey said.

  I rattled off the location’s GPS coordinates from Stan’s satellite map loud enough for Darren to hear. Then I finished with the freakishly tenacious rope’s knot between Mikey’s legs and started to help him to his feet.

  “Won’t make it,” he said.

  “Yes, you will,” I growled.

  “Summer.” He cupped my head. “Run.” He kissed my temple and then pushed me away, sinking down to the floorboards again.

  “Damn it, Mikey Rika,” I snapped. “Move your lazy butt, or I’ll shove my foot right up it.”

  The door to the front of the shearing shed creaked open.

  I froze like a meerkat. Like every other prey animal who knows a top predator has caught them. My chest hurt, my heart was beating so hard. A ringing had started up in my ears. I looked at Mikey. He looked angry I was still standing there.

  And then I spotted the sheep door at the rear of the pen. It had been covered by a thin bit of plywood, but not nailed in place. I scampered across the pen and hauled it out of the way, not bothering to be silent about it. Boots thudded across the open space of the barn. I reached for Mikey, who was right behind me, swaying, deathly pale, but still there. He shoved me between the shoulder blades, making me lurch forward and through the hole, banging my shoulder in the process. I stifled a cry and rolled down the ramp, ending up face-planting in a pile of mud. Or sheep droppings. Or both. I didn’t care. I was on my feet, reaching for my gun in the next heartbeat.

  Mikey slid down the ramp on his arse.

  With what had to be the last of his energy and willpower, he staggered to his feet, gripped my hand, and we started to run.

  The first bullet thudded into the ground to my right. The second hit the post as we clambered over the wire fence. The third hit Mikey.

  He let out a grunt, stumbled slightly, and then kept ploughing forward. I could see the trees and bushes in the distance that promised shelter. That promised a place to hide. I could almost count the number of footsteps required to reach it.

  The fourth bullet spun Mikey around and sent him to the grass.

  We were close. So close. But Mikey was done.

  I spun, landed on one knee, gun up, sighting down the barrel. “Private investigator!” I shouted. Then I fired once. Twice. Close enough to send a message. Far enough away to let them know I was playing nice.

  Two men ducked and then threw themselves behind small lumps in the field between us. It was barely enough to hide them, but it was better than what we had going on.

  I glanced over my shoulder at the trees; still too far away to reach while dragging an unconscious Mikey. I glanced at Mikey. He was breathing, but his breaths were stuttered. He made a sound, half groan, half death rattle.

  It was then that I knew I’d stuffed up.

  Darren was still half an hour away. Danvers could have been here with me if I’d only swallowed my pride.

  I’d stuffed up and not only got Mikey killed, but myself as well.

  I checked my gun. I made myself as small as I possibly could. And then I settled my stance and accepted that this would be where I made my final stand.

  I had eight bullets left in the gun and two dillholes to hit with them. I could do it.

  And then someone fired, and blood misted the air; a puff of it spraying out like a halo around the head.

  I gasped. Dillhole One collapsed face first into the dirt.

  Dillhole Two turned his gun on whoever was firing from behind the shearing shed.

  “Mikey,” I said, gun still raised, my eyes darting all over the chaotic scene before me. “Can you move?”

  He groaned, but no words of encouragement were forthcoming. I flicked the safety on the gun, slid it into the back of my cut-offs again, and then gripped Mikey beneath the armpits and started dragging him to the shelter behind us.

  It took so much longer than I would have liked, but the shooter, or shooters, kept Dillhole Two busy, and we made it before the guns went silent.

  I collapsed against the trunk of a pine tree, sucking in lungfuls of air, shaking and sweating and out of my mind with anxiety. Mikey groaned and flicked open his eyes as far as the swelling would let him.

  “Summer,” he whispered.

  I shook my head and held up a hand for him to remain quiet, and then peered cautiously around the side of the tree, narrowing my eyes.

  Both dillholes were down. By the look of the blood all over their bodies, they were dead.

  No one had announced themselves. Not police or private investigator or milkman. Whoever had fired and killed the gang members had not been doing it in an official capacity.

  I almost stepped out from behind the cover of the tree and called out Darren’s name. But there were more players in this scenario than the two drug gangs. Could the shooter have been Big Wig or his men? My unknown stalker friend?

  I couldn’t see who had fired. No one was stepping forward, perhaps aware we were still here and I had a gun.

  And then I thought, maybe they’re circling around behind us. Keeping our focus on the shed and the dead, and sneaking up from behind to silence us.

  “Mikey,” I whispered, still keeping an eye out for movement. “Give me the cell phone.”

  I’d call in Danvers. He’d bring in the Eagle Police helicopter. We could have cops swarming this property in ten minutes flat. I just needed to keep my wits about me and ration my ammunit
ion.

  I held my hand out for the cell phone and Mikey slipped his larger hand into it.

  “I lost it in the shed,” he said, squeezing lightly.

  I could have kicked him in the butt.

  “You did what?” I growled.

  “Sorry, Summer. I dropped it when I fell down the ramp.”

  It was either in the mud and sheep droppings or on the floorboards of the shearing shed. Either way, we were screwed.

  “OK,” I said because he looked really cut up about it. Or just in an enormous amount of pain. “We just need to get ourselves out of here.”

  “Dazza will come.”

  “Darren is still half an hour away in Doubtless Bay,” I told him. “We can’t count on your brother; someone is already out there.”

  “Who?”

  “You tell me, wise guy. What the heck is going on?”

  He blinked at me, his head swaying slightly from side to side as if he was a sapling in a breeze. I thought he’d keel over at any moment and then I realised, I hadn’t checked his wounds. I had a first aid kit in the Micra. But the Mighty Micra was in enemy territory, surrounded by tanks. I wasn’t going to rescue it, let alone rescue ourselves any time soon.

  I knelt down, keeping the shearing shed in my periphery. Then I ran my free hand over Mikey’s body; there was no way I was relinquishing my gun to the man, he’d probably drop it in a cow pat or something.

  He winced, sucked in breaths of air, and my hand came away bloody. But the wounds when I inspected them were better than I’d feared. A graze on his calf. And a through and through to his right shoulder. I ripped off two strips from the bottom of his singlet, and wadded them both up, placing them over the wound on his shoulder; front and back. Then I wrapped his belt around it all and cinched it tight. The calf would have to manage on its own for a while. The bleeding had slowed, and Mikey pressed his other leg to the wound to help it along some.