by Eva Hudson
“Paintballing!” they all said in unison.
Swell. Ingrid forced a smile. “Sounds like fun.”
After five minutes on the road from the station, the mini-van turned off onto a muddy track and pulled through a ranch-style, wide wooden archway. It then bumped along a rough unmade road for about a half mile before depositing them at the opening of a long narrow marquee. Ingrid watched the taxi leave wishing she were still on board. Paintballing for God’s sake. Definitely not her idea of fun. A man dressed in army fatigues stepped out of the marquee to greet them.
“Hello! You’re a bit late. Your opposition have already gone into the forest. Not to worry. Let’s start off by grouping you into pairs.”
Mills glanced at Ingrid but made no move.
“Nisha!” McKittrick said. “How’s your aim?” She marched over to the Indian woman and threw a mischievous smile back at Ingrid.
Cath Murray had looped her arm through Jane O’Brien’s.
Mills cleared his throat. “A fait accompli.”
Ingrid was feeling decidedly set up. What did McKittrick think she was doing?
A sudden throaty wail sounded from somewhere in the distance.
“What the hell was that?” Murray asked.
“Primal Scream. We have a men’s warrior course on at the moment. Like a boot camp for your emotions,” the man in fatigues explained.
“Stupid bastards,” McKittrick said. “Haven’t they got better things to do on a Sunday?”
Ingrid was thinking just that about this whole excursion. She could have been enjoying a ten mile run right now. She reached across to a long table at the entrance of the marquee and picked up a glossy brochure. Flicking through it, she discovered the establishment also offered a wild food foraging course, basket weaving and whittling, and archery using traditional Navajo bows and arrows. As if anyone in England would know the first thing about it. The paintballing arm of the operation seemed incongruous to say the least.
“Right, first of all you need to sign a health and safety form indemnifying Nature’s Playground against any claims for injuries.” The group leader handed them all a clipboard with a sheet of paper attached that contained such tiny small print it was impossible to decipher in the gloom of the forest.
Ingrid signed her form using a false name and quickly handed it back. The man in the fatigues gave her a bright orange bib and a half-inch diameter length of bamboo. Ingrid inspected what she supposed was a weapon. A small trigger was attached to one end of the stick, next to the trigger was a circular chamber. “What is this?” She inspected the trigger more closely. The whole contraption looked lethal. No wonder they had to sign a form.
“It’s based on an Cherokee blowpipe. Originally we used a completely authentic design, but discovered that most punters don’t have the necessary puff to send the paint pellets much further than a couple of feet. With the pneumatic pump,” he said, pointing at the chamber, “everyone can achieve a range of twenty-five to thirty feet. It levels the playing field.”
Ingrid slipped the orange vest over her head. It was so bright, they might as well have painted a target on her chest.
“A blowpipe? You’re not serious,” Cath Murray said. “Where are the unfeasibly large bazookas?” For some reason that comment elicited hearty guffaws from her teammate, Jane. “I wore my Ellen Ripley white vest especially for the occasion. Jesus, Ralph what have you got us into?”
Everyone turned to glare at Mills. He held his hands up in surrender. “Let’s make the best of it, shall we? You never know—we might actually enjoy ourselves.”
The organizer ran them through an all too brief demonstration on how to fire and reload the blowpipe, and told them their prey were three other couples, dressed in bright green vests.
“One clean shot to a member of the opposition’s back or chest retires them from the game. Last person standing wins for the team.”
“What’s the prize?” Murray asked.
“The satisfaction of a job well done.”
Murray, Kapoor and O’Brien groaned.
“Let’s make it a bit more interesting then, shall we?” Murray said. “The couple with the most ‘kills’ gets to… enjoy an intimate Sunday lunch at a venue of their choice.”
Mills glared at her.
Ingrid made eye contact with McKittrick, who quickly looked away. McKittrick was so going to pay for this.
28
The three teams split up and fanned out across the forest. After fifteen minutes or so, Ingrid and Mills had covered a lot of ground. The unnerving sound of grown men howling at the sky had even subsided a little. So far they hadn’t spotted a member of the opposition.
“We should maybe slow down. Start to circle back a little.” Ingrid pulled the vest over her head and shoved it in a pocket. “No point in advertising our presence.”
“Isn’t that cheating?” Mills said. He seemed genuinely alarmed at the idea.
“Do you want to win?”
“Not especially.”
“What?”
“I just want to have a bit of fun.”
“Nothing wrong with doing both.”
They doubled-back and stopped in a small clearing. Ingrid held a finger to her lips. They listened. After a few moments Mills shrugged at her.
“What do we do now? Just wait for someone to stumble past? That doesn’t seem very sporting.”
“How are your tree climbing skills?”
“Wait in ambush for them? Shouldn’t we be using our highly tuned detective tracking skills?”
“I left my eyeglass and deerstalker at home.”
Mills looked around the clearing. “None of these trees look particularly climbable. I suppose… I mean, we could use the opportunity to get to know one another a bit better.”
“Tell me you weren’t part of this whole goddamn set up.”
“No!” His hand shot up to his mouth, the word had come out a little loud. “No, not at all,” he whispered. “But as we are both here… where’s the harm in being friendly?”
Ingrid was just about to remind him how inappropriate that would be, given she was an engaged woman and all, when a sharp crack echoed around the forest: the sound of a tinder dry branch snapping. She pointed in the direction of the sound and Mills nodded back at her. They crept to the side of the clearing and slipped behind the thick gnarled trunk of an oak tree.
They waited.
After a couple of minutes Mills started to get restless. Ingrid laid a hand on his arm and looked up into his eyes. She felt the muscles in his forearm flex. He held on to her gaze for a moment longer than she was expecting. But, never one to look away first, Ingrid continued to stare back at him. An unexpected and unwanted thrill ran up her spine.
Another crack sounded. Much louder this time. Coming from directly ahead of them. Ingrid lifted the strange blowpipe contraption to eye-level and steadied herself. She saw a figure dash between two trees. Too fast to get a shot. The figure wasn’t wearing a vest either. Without the hi-vis marker it was impossible to identify their opponent. Could it be one of their own team? The individual was too tall to be McKittrick, too fast to be Jane and too broad-shouldered to be Kapoor or Murray. From this distance, Ingrid couldn’t even work out if it were a man or a woman. She continued to stare hard in the direction of the movement until her eyes started to water. She pointed behind where the figure was standing, away from the clearing and raised her eyebrows at Mills. He shrugged back at her.
She leaned in close and lowered her voice. “We should try to circle around and come at them from behind—use the element of surprise.”
Mills nodded.
They started to move further into the forest, using the trees for cover, both taking extra care to step over twigs and fallen branches as quietly as possible. Continuing this way for two hundred yards or so, Mills stopped, forcing Ingrid to pull up sharply. Her forward momentum sent her crashing into him. For a moment she felt the intense heat coming off his body like steam. She quic
kly withdrew. They both stood there, staring at one another. Motionless. Listening. Ingrid’s heart was pounding. She wasn’t entirely sure why.
Another sharp noise sounded out, not the same as before. This was more like a splintering, creaking sound. Then it came again. Emanating from some place above their heads. Ingrid looked up to see an arrow sticking out of the trunk of the tree right next to them, fifteen or so feet up.
“What the fu—”
Another arrow whizzed past them. The quill close enough to brush Ingrid’s cheek before it slammed into a tree trunk not two feet from her head. She dropped to the ground, dragging Mills down with her. They half crawled, half snaked along the ground, scrambling onto the other side of the tree that had been hit. Now Ingrid’s heart was banging so hard and so fast she thought it might stop. She drew in a deep, slow breath. She listened. Heard footsteps crashing over the undergrowth. She couldn’t tell if they were heading toward them or retreating. She tried to speak, but her mouth was so dry her tongue had stuck to the roof of her mouth. She swallowed.
“Hey! I don’t know what you think you’re playing at, but this isn’t a game. Put the bow and arrows down and your hands above your head. You picked on the wrong people to have a little fun with.”
“Police!” Mills shouted. “Stop pissing about now and this doesn’t have to go any further. Step into the clearing and make yourself known.”
The footsteps had slowed, but they were louder now.
Ingrid whispered to Mills, “How fast can you run?”
“As fast as I have to.”
“If he doesn’t cooperate, we need to head back to base, just as fast as possible. Don’t run in a straight line, zig-zag and change direction as often as you can.” She pulled herself up into a crouch. “OK, this is your last chance,” she hollered, “make yourself visible and put down your weapon.”
The footsteps stopped.
Ingrid and Mills looked at one another.
Moments later, another arrow hit the tree right next to them.
Dammit. “Ready?”
Mills nodded back at her.
They both sprinted away from their temporary refuge, Mills heading left, Ingrid going right, creating so much noise herself, it was impossible to tell if the shooter was in pursuit.
Until another arrow flew past her head.
This one was so close it nicked the skin of her right temple. Now she knew two things: he was following and for the moment at least, she was his target. Some crazy sky-howler had gone berserk with a lethal weapon in his hands.
She carried on crashing through the forest, trying her damnedest to keep her pace up while zigging and zagging her way around trees, sticking to the most densely wooded areas. She leaped over a fallen trunk and landed heavily on the other side on a mulch of leaves and moss, the surface too slippery to keep her footing. She thumped onto the ground, her right hip and shoulder taking the worst of the impact. She lay there for a moment, just listening for footsteps behind her. When she didn’t hear any, she scrambled to her feet.
Big mistake.
An arrow hit her shoulder, skidding off the thick leather strap of her backpack, and deflecting upward, narrowly missing her face. She ran, faster than she’d ever run before. Pumping her arms, willing her weary thigh muscles to carry her further. On and on, she went, forcing her numb brain to remember to adjust her direction every few strides.
Her lungs were screaming at her to stop, but she blundered blindly on. Hoping she was still headed in the right direction, disoriented by the number of times she’d adjusted her course. Her limbs started to feel loose and weak. Still she managed to maintain her speed.
At last she reached the marquee. Mills was already there, a cell phone stuck to his ear, a grim expression on his face. When he saw her his mouth fell open.
“Jesus Christ! You’re bleeding!”
She collapsed at his feet.
29
Although Ingrid was unable to persuade Mills not to phone for emergency medical assistance, she at least managed to convince the two EMTs that arrived thirty minutes later that their time would be better spent elsewhere, attending real emergencies. They took a look at the wound on her temple, decided it didn’t need stitches and stuck on a dressing. Before they left they examined her shoulder and told her it was badly bruised, but nothing was broken.
After she’d made it back to the marquee, Mills had refused to leave her side, like some kind of loyal rescue dog, when all she wanted was a little time alone to properly get her breath back. To gather her thoughts. To try and work out how some crazy guy had managed to get his hands on a bow and a seemingly endless supply of arrows.
As far as she could tell—no one was telling her very much of anything—the local cops had tried, in vain, to secure the area. The adventure facility was just too big to cordon off. Given that the lunatic with the lethal weapon hadn’t hung around to take pot shots at anyone else, she had to presume he had made his escape long before the police arrived. But did that mean he was still out there, lying in wait for some other innocent member of the public to cross his path?
The staff at Nature’s Playground had confirmed that one of their Navajo bows was missing, together with around a dozen arrows. All the customers who had been on the archery shooting range had been accounted for. So they were certain the person responsible had nothing to do with their organization.
“Shame they didn’t keep their weapons better secured,” Mills had complained to no one in particular.
Forty yards or so away, a uniformed officer from the local Hertfordshire force was speaking earnestly with a plain clothes colleague, glancing in Ingrid’s direction every now and then. They were keeping her out of their conversations, like some kind of frail invalid. But she was suffering from no more than a superficial head wound and extreme fatigue. Mills had been fielding any approach by the local officers and sending them away again, acting like a one man human shield. He couldn’t protect her from their interview forever. Everyone else in their party had been interviewed and made statements. Not that they would have seen anything.
With some effort, Ingrid struggled to her feet. Immediately Ralph Mills hurried to put a supportive hand under her elbow. His concern would have been touching if it hadn’t been irritating the hell out of her for the past half hour.
“It’s OK, Ralph—I think I’ve got this.” She pulled away her arm, but maintained a fixed grin as she did so—she didn’t want to hurt his feelings. Her legs were very weak, but she managed to limp over to the plain clothes detective from the Hertfordshire force. “I guess you need to speak to me.”
The detective scrutinized her through narrowed eyes then glanced in Mills’ direction. “You sure you’re up to it? Wouldn’t want to overtax you.”
“I’ll survive. I’d prefer to get through your questions sooner rather than later—I wouldn’t mind getting myself into a hot bath.”
“Of course. Shall we talk in the car? You can take the weight off.”
“I’d like to stand. Sitting down for so long doesn’t work well for me.” She smiled and took a closer look at the detective. He was in his fifties at least, had a tired face, thinning gray hair and his back was stooped as if a great burden were bearing down on him.
“Can you give me a description of your attacker?”
“I didn’t see him. I didn’t stick around to find out what he looked like.”
“You’re sure it was a man?”
“An assumption on my part. He or she was pretty damn fast. And not a bad shot. Thankfully not quite good enough though.” She paused for a moment, reliving the moment the fourth arrow struck her shoulder. Immediately the area just below her shoulder blade felt a little more tender. “I did see a figure between the trees shortly before the shooting started. He was just a blur. I think that was a man, just from the way he moved. He was pretty well camouflaged against the trees. So I guess he was wearing green, or gray, or maybe light brown clothes.”
“Height? Build?”
“And you think this may have been your attacker?”
“I have no idea.”
The detective let out a weary sigh.
“I’m sorry I can’t be more definite. It all happened so fast.”
“Is there anything else you remember about the attack that might be relevant?”
Ingrid tried hard to think of something, some nugget of information she could give the guy. In the heat of pursuit her mind was focused on nothing more than survival. Her observational skills pretty much deserted her. She felt a little ashamed she couldn’t be more helpful.
The cop handed her his card. “Anything else occurs to you, however unlikely… I don’t need to tell you that… just call me, anytime.” He turned away and trudged back toward his uniformed colleague.
“Detective!” Ingrid called after him. “Am I free to go?”
He turned slowly back. “Do we have your contact details?”
Ingrid nodded.
“We’ll be in touch.” He dismissed her with a cursory wave of his hand.
McKittrick and Mills, who had been keeping their distance while Ingrid was talking to the cop, both approached her.
“I’ve just been talking to one of the PCs,” McKittrick said. “They’ve done a quick search of the area and found no arrows.”
“Well they need to do a slower one.” It wasn’t possible a crazy man wielding a bow and arrow would tidy up after himself. “They just haven’t looked hard enough.”
“Forensics will be a nightmare,” Mills added. “Too many pairs of feet trampling through the area. I don’t envy them.”
“Do you want someone to stay with you tonight?” McKittrick said and glanced in Mills’ direction.
“What, you think someone should sleep on the floor of my hotel room like a guard dog?”
“I was more thinking along the lines of the futon in my spare room.” McKittrick raised her eyebrows.