by P. A. Brown
Continuing silence greeted a second knock. The living room looked much as it had during their first visit; the anthuriums had been replaced by fresh roses. Two glasses of half-empty beer sat on the end table by the sofa. Chris strained to hear a sound, any sound that would tell him there was somebody in the house.
Nothing.
David tried the front door. It opened with a click.
Then from inside: a muffled scream. Chris nodded toward the back of the house. David took the lead. Chris followed. They passed through a modernized kitchen and down a short hall. A half-opened door led into a darkened room.
David tried the door. It popped ajar; he eased it open and they listened. Now they could hear harsh breathing and another muffled whimper that raised the hairs on the back of Chris’s neck.
“You like it, don’t you bitch?” Daryl’s almost unrecognizable voice said. “You bitches are all alike; think you’re better than us.
Lead us on, make us hard then say no, like you got that right.
Now how do you like this—”
Before Chris could react, David slammed his weight into the door, sending it crashing open, rebounding hard enough to catch his shoulder when he followed. Chris had a brief glimpse of a partially unclothed Daryl pinning Imani to a rumpled bed. One hand held her struggling limbs down and another covered her mouth. Her hair was askew and one side of her face bore an ugly bruise. Her nose was bloody. Daryl reached down to wrench her 210 P.A. Brown
skirt up and tried to untangle her underwear. Before he could enter her, David had him by the scruff of his neck and threw him onto the floor.
Daryl rolled away from the impact, flying to his feet and kicking David in the knee caps. David fell back, catching Chris by surprise, limbs tangling. They both went down. Daryl lunged at the bed and grabbed Imani’s arm. Before either Chris or David could react he had shoved the curved blade of a knife against her bare throat. He dragged her off the bed. “You’re coming with me, bitch.” He waved the knife almost languidly at David. “Back off, big brother, or you’ll have another one to bury.”
Imani only had time to throw one more terrified look at Chris and David before she was hauled out of the room.
Seconds later they heard the roar of the pickup truck’s engine as it was red-lined. They caught a glimpse of Daryl racing onto College Hill Road, nearly sideswiping a Jeep Liberty exiting the driveway next door.
Chris jerked his BlackBerry out of its case and hit 911. David watched him, eyes glittering.
“What good is that going to do? You really think anyone’s going to believe you enough to go chasing after someone in this storm?”
It was true. The storm had picked up in the little time they’d been inside. Tree tops whipped from side to side, spraying the ground with leaves and limb-sized branches.
He had to shout to be heard over the growing roar. “Well, what are we gonna do? We can’t just let him take her and do nothing.”
David ducked into the makeshift garage. At the back of the structure, Imani’s bike was propped up on its kickstand. A helmet sat strapped to the vinyl seat.
“We take that,” David said.
“Are you serious?”
“You got a better idea?”
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Chris didn’t. “Where’s the key?”
David checked the bike. Nothing. He stomped into the house and scoured the kitchen, still nothing. Chris followed helplessly, until he remembered the jacket Imani had worn the last time he’d seen her. It was hanging up in a front closet along with jackets presumably belonging to Baker, the unfortunate Joel, and Jay.
No sign of Baker. They would have to hope the man was simply elsewhere. And safe.
The bike keys were in the side pocket of the denim jacket.
Without a word, Chris and David hurried back outside. David straddled the bike that looked minuscule under his greater bulk.
Chris gingerly swung his leg over the pillion seat. He clutched David’s leather clad arms. “You ever drive one of these before?”
David glanced back over his should as he fired the engine up.
“No. It can’t be that hard. Kids do it all the time.”
Before Chris could say maybe they should rethink this thing, David had spun out of the garage and skidded onto College Hill. Chris screamed, the sound swept away by the wind that threatened to tear him from his perch. He molded himself to David’s body, for once not thinking of anything but getting out of this in one piece.
He was sure they had lost Daryl, but on the way to Middle Road they spotted the pickup truck ahead of them, the way blocked by a fallen palm. The driver’s door was open. They could see Daryl standing outside it with Imani, his hand clutching at the hair at the back of her head to keep her from fleeing, staring at the natural barricade. Then he spotted them and jumped toward the open door, shoving Imani inside before leaping back in the truck cab. A heartbeat later the truck spun onto a sloping lawn, tearing up great clods of sod and mud as he fishtailed around the fallen palm.
Chris thought for sure the truck was going to get stuck and he braced for the inevitable fight, knowing Daryl had a knife.
However the truck caught purchase and lurched around until it was back on solid ground and roared north.
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David barely slowed as he followed his path through the rutted yard. Chris felt the viscous mud splattering his legs and soaking through his thin socks. He hugged David even tighter as the bike skidded and wobbled around the blockage until finally, it was back on the road.
At Middle Road Daryl turned east and in less than five minutes on the empty road, spun out onto North Shore Road. Without hesitation, David turned east.
Chris remembered Imani saying Daryl’s family lived in St.
David’s, the town across the bay from St. George’s. They owned a deep-water fishing fleet. Shit.
“He’s going to St. David’s,” Chris shouted into David’s ear.
David barely nodded to let him know he’d heard and understood.
He gunned the 100cc engine and demanded more power out of the tiny bike.
The wind picked up even more. The sky was now a roiling mass of dark clouds and when they got to the North Shore, ocean surf pounded the shoreline, sometimes scarcely a foot from the roadway. Water swamped the narrow concrete ribbon of road from all directions, as they fought to stay upright. Chris pressed his face against David’s sodden jacket. Both of them were hunched forward in an attempt to minimize the impact of the wind and pounding rain.
He struggled to keep his balance neutral, neither hindering nor trying to help David as he slipped and slalomed around curves and obstacles blown into the road. Thank God there was no other traffic.
Each time Chris was able to look up, it was obvious Daryl was pulling away from them. He was only slowed by the odd tree limb crashing in front of them, or the violent gusts of wind that sent the small tuck rocking. One violent gust sent their bike slewing left, nearly plowing them into a jagged pile of limestone and throwing them into the roiling surf. David righted the bike, and without pause continued their pursuit of Daryl and Imani, Chris clinging on even tighter. His arms and legs were beginning to cramp as the muscles were chilled and locked in their death BeRMudA heAt 213
hold. He didn’t dare loosen his grip to try and get the circulation back in to them. He clenched his jaws against the growing pain.
Every bump was agonizing; every jerk sent jolts of agony along his nerve endings, as the bike responded to the erratic road conditions.
And still Daryl widened the gap between them. They passed the Bermuda Aquarium, heading toward the market where they had bought wine for Joel.
The only consolation was that Daryl wasn’t going to be able to further harm Imani. It had to have taken two hands to travel at the speeds he was going and maintain control. So as long as she had started out okay, she would remain that way for now.
Small comfort.
Saturday 7:10pm, Shelly B
ay Beach Park, Hamilton Parish, Bermuda
Palm fronds cart-wheeled across North Shore Road, clattering against the undercarriage of the bike as David slalomed around wind-blown obstacles on the road. Thankfully there was no other traffic, though Chris could understand why. They had to shout now to be heard above the roar of the storm. Even then it was hit or miss, and half the time the words were snatched out of his mouth.
Trees were bent in supplication at nearly 90 degree angles.
Some had lost the battle and lay like broken soldiers on their sides. The rain was coming down in sheets now. Even with his head bent down till his chin hit his chest, Chris could barely breathe without inhaling water. He couldn’t imagine what it was like for David, who couldn’t avoid the rain.
Chris thought he recognized the Grotto Bay Resort on their left. This time there were no tourists and no pink and blue buses carrying them in and out of town.
Around the curve was the causeway. A police car blocked the 214 P.A. Brown
entrance to the long narrow bridge. Chris’s heart sank. Behind the car, probably what he was guarding, were two cement barriers.
To punctuate the message, a palm tree had been blown across the road.
Chris could see no sign of the pickup, not that it meant much.
He could barely see the beginning of the Causeway. But he knew there’d be no way Daryl could drive out onto it, not with this barricade in place. What would he do with Imani then?
Just before they reached the stone barrier Chris saw something down a narrow dirt road, half concealed by hibiscus bushes and palmettos.
“What’s that?” he screamed, pounding David’s back.
David glanced where he pointed, then threw the bike into a fishtail as he braked. David scrambled off the bike and bulled his way through the battering wind and underbrush. Chris hurried after him.
“What—?”
It was the pickup. Empty. Both doors ajar. Chris stared at the water-logged seats. They were devoid of any sign of struggle. No blood. Chris sucked in his breath and released it in a tremulous sigh of relief.
David must have felt some of his tension fade. He turned to meet his gaze, then grabbed Chris’s arm and hauled him away from the abandoned pickup, toward the Causeway, still unseen behind a screen of horrendous rain. Winds howled around them, whipping their hair off their face one minute, covering their eyes the next. Their open jackets flapped madly in the gust, acting like mini sails that the wind tried to grab and send racing headlong into the storm. Ahead, the blue and white vehicle loomed out of the growing gloom.
The Bermudian police car had been parked where the Causeway ended and the road began. Behind it lay the concrete barriers that had been put up to stop traffic from crossing the Causeway.
David gestured broadly that he meant to approach. Chris BeRMudA heAt 215
tugged his hand and shook his head, his hair splattering across his forehead. Angrily he dashed it back.
“No,” he shouted. “What if they arrest you?”
“We have to let him know what’s going on. Maybe he can call for help.”
Chris and David moved, bent over at the waist against the force of the wind and the slashing rain, toward the checkered Opel with the yellow stripe. There was no motion inside the vehicle and Chris began to feel goose bumps crowding his skin under his sopping wet jacket.
“What are you going to say to him?” Chris asked.
“I don’t know,” David said. “The truth, maybe.”
“Hasn’t done you much good before this.”
“This is different.”
Chris hoped he knew what he was doing. “Something’s not right—”
David tapped on the window. Nothing. They could vaguely make out a man-shaped figure in the driver’s seat. David rapped again.
Chris wasn’t surprised the cop was loath to leave the dry warmth of his patrol car.
“He’s not about to come out of there,” Chris said. “Not as long as he can stay warm and dry inside.”
The car was facing away from them, looking out over Castle Harbor. There was no way to tell what the driver was doing.
Dozing in his cozy haven? Listening to radio chatter? David had often told him how in his early days on patrol in the streets of L.A., that boredom was a cop’s worst enemy. And out here there wouldn’t be that sense of danger that an LAPD cop grew inured to. He could only imagine the excruciating boredom that the constable would face under these conditions.
David yanked the door open.
Chris screamed when the uniformed constable toppled out 216 P.A. Brown
onto the sodden pavement with a meaty thud. One arm flopped over his head, his wrist watch clinking against the road.
Chris stared at the open, glazed eyes and the gaping wound across the man’s throat. Daryl’s attack had been so savage he had nearly severed the constable’s spine. The car seat was saturated with viscous blood that still looked fresh. He watched, appalled, as David approached the open door. Before he could object, David crouched by the body and felt for a pulse, though even Chris could see the guy was beyond help.
David stood up. Chris could see his fingers were smeared with blood, which quickly washed away in the relentless rain.
“He hasn’t been dead long,” David said. “Less than thirty minutes.”
Chris hugged himself as he looked out across Castle Harbour.
The water was rough now, pounding against the Causeway, sending salt spray over Chris’s face. He couldn’t tell if he was crying or if it was just seawater.
“Don’t look,” David said. “Get back, Chris. We can’t help him now.”
Chris obeyed, blindly staggering toward the nearest concrete abutment.
David followed and took him in his arms, pulling him tightly into his embrace as Chris buried his face against David’s chest.
“D-David?”
“I’m sorry, hon.”
“God, what’s he done to Imani?”
David stiffened. “Wait here,” David said. Without waiting for him to comply, David spun around and headed back toward the patrol car.
“Where are you going?” Chris demanded.
“I have to go see if I can call for help. They need to know what’s going on.” He slapped the abutment. “Stay here.”
Chris made no move to follow. He turned so his rump was BeRMudA heAt 217
pressed against the concrete, sagging against the solid support.
Chris wasn’t surprised to realize his shoulders were shaking.
Tears poured down his cheeks.
Then David was back, enfolding him into his embrace. “Oh, hon.” He reached for Chris, awkwardly patting his denim-clad back. Chris’s fists closed over his jacket and nearly strangled him with the ferocity of his grip. “It’s going to be okay. I promise, hon. It’ll be okay.”
Something in him snapped. Chris jerked away from him, pounding his fists against David’s chest. “No, you’re a liar. It’s never going to be okay again. Never!”
David grabbed his wrists and held him tight until finally his rage was spent and he had dissolved into tears in his embrace.
He murmured against his hair, wordless soft sounds that finally penetrated his fury.
Chris hiccupped softly. “Did you get through to anyone?” he asked.
David nodded. Wearily he tilted his head back. “I don’t know how fast they’ll be getting out here. Things are pretty hairy back in town.”
“In other words we’re on our own,” Chris said.
“Yeah.”
They both turned to look out toward St. David’s, where Daryl had fled. If anything, the wind had picked up and the rain was heavier, pounding the ground and abutment with machine-gun intensity.
“Wait here for the police,” David shouted. “You can let them know where I’ve gone.”
“No,” Chris said so low David had to stoop down to hear it.
Chris dug his fingers into the lapel of David’s jacket. “I’m not staying here.”<
br />
“Chris—”
“I’m going with you.”
218 P.A. Brown
David stared at him for several heartbeats before nodding.
“Okay, but stick close.”
“You seriously think he walked out on that?” Chris asked, staring out at the small stretch of causeway he could see through the blur of rain and sea foam.
“You don’t think he was desperate enough?”
Chris stuffed his hands into his pockets.
“I think he was,” David answered his own question, peering at the water covering the cement like sheets of flawed crystal.
“And I won’t leave Imani to his madness.”
A blast of salt water and grit slapped Chris in the face. He gasped and buried his head in his chest, rubbing his eyes. He leaned over and spit salt and sand into the storm. Laughter with an edge of hysteria burst out. Talk about spitting into the wind.
David hunched over and moved along the length of the abutment, with Chris following. Every so often a gust of wind would attempt to hurl them to the ground. Chris found it hard to keep his feet under him, the ground was slippery and the sodden debris made it even more treacherous. It was like trying to walk on marbles.
Chris’s feet skidded out from under him. He went to his knees, feeling a muscle wrench in his thigh. He swore and climbed back up, biting his lip as hot shards of pain lanced down his leg. Strong hands clamped under his armpits and hauled him upright. He hugged David, pressing his sodden face into David’s equally soggy chest.
“Why don’t you go back and wait?” David murmured against his hair. Chris shivered and clung to him. “You can hole up in the pickup, out of this. I can do this quicker alone.”
Chris savagely shook his head. “No.”
“Come on, Chris. It doesn’t take two of us to do this.”
“N-no?” His voice was shaky. “But it does take both of us to protect each other’s back. I’m not letting you stay out here alone.
Don’t ask me to.”
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He could feel David sigh. “Okay, champ. Let’s do this.”
Together they inched their way onto the Causeway, sidestepping fallen branches and slick piles of sandy mud.