He’d never failed like that before. He lay restlessly in the bed, haunted by self-blame, tormented with questions. Where was Kristen? Was she okay? When could he see her?
The ward clock was showing eight thirty by the time Ben finally decided he needed to get out of here and find some answers before he went insane. He was just about to throw back the bedcovers and get up when a hospital orderly, an ancient man with wizened arms protruding from his blue smock, who looked like he should be in one of the beds himself, appeared with a trolley and brought Ben his meagre, tasteless breakfast. Ben told him he didn’t want anything and turned the tray away, inquiring urgently about Kristen. The old guy just blinked at him and tried to urge him to eat. Ben told him to go away.
The exchange drew the matron to his bedside. Up close, she was a veritable bison of a woman, who berated him for skipping breakfast and thrust some painkillers at him. After he’d grudgingly washed them down, he asked her the same questions, thought he saw a look flash through her eyes and wondered what it meant.
‘Where is she?’ he repeated. ‘Is she all right? Tell me. I need to know.’
‘I can’t tell you.’
‘Then I’ll find someone who can,’ he said, flipping back the sheet.
‘You can’t just wander about the place,’ she said fiercely, drawing herself up so that she looked even larger.
‘Where are my clothes?’ he demanded, getting out of the bed and eyeing the matron with a look of savage intent that made her back off a step.
‘I see our patient is feeling sprightlier this morning,’ said a voice. Ben turned to see Dr Prendergast walk in. His paisley bow tie was even more garish than the one he’d been wearing last night – but what instantly caught Ben’s eye instead were the grim-looking pair who had followed him into the ward. They certainly didn’t look like medical personnel.
‘You have visitors,’ the doctor said.
Chapter Nine
Oklahoma
It was 2.30 a.m. and Erin Hayes couldn’t sleep. She stood at the window of her dark motel room, gazing blankly out. There was nothing to see out there but the blinking neon sign that said ‘Western Capri Motel’ and the lights of the occasional passing vehicle on West Skelly Drive beyond. But even if there had been, Erin would barely have registered it. Her mind was focused inward on what she’d witnessed just two nights ago at the cabin by the lake.
Thinking back to it was like trying to recall the fragments of a nightmare. Some things her memory seemed to be trying to blank out, as if to protect her from the horror of what had happened; other things she remembered as vividly as if they were happening to her right this moment. She pictured herself running, running through the woods, stumbling over the uneven ground, thorny undergrowth biting at her bare feet, branches lashing at her face. Reaching the road, her aching soles pounding on the hard surface as she willed herself to get far away, the breath tearing out of her lungs. Glancing back in terror every few seconds in case they were chasing her.
The lights of the car coming up behind had almost stopped her heart with fear. She’d wanted to leap off the road and run back into the trees, but it was too late. They’d seen her. The car had slowed as it came near. The window had wound down.
And a woman’s voice had called from the driver’s seat, ‘Are you in trouble, honey?’
Erin had quickly thrust the gun out of sight into her backpack. Saved! For now.
Maggie was a waitress returning home after her shift at the all-night bar where she worked outside the town of Foyil, a few miles east. She’d been only too happy to give Erin a ride back into Tulsa, joining Route 66 and heading southwest through sleepy Claremore and Catoosa. She’d kept asking if Erin was okay, and so Erin had made up a story about having had a terrible bust-up with her boyfriend. A few years ago, with Darryl, that might’ve been true enough. A veteran of four stormy marriages, Maggie could empathise. She kind-heartedly insisted on driving all the way across town to Crosbie Heights and dropping Erin off right outside her door.
It had been late when Erin had finally run up the porch steps of the tiny two-bedroomed house and let herself inside, triple-locking the door behind her. In the bathroom, she’d nursed the tender, inflamed soles of her bare feet before padding downstairs in fresh socks and pouring herself a stiff drink. Quickly followed by another, it had done little to settle her nerves as she wondered what to do.
Nothing else for it, she’d thought. I have to call the cops. Angela’s family will be torn apart. The Desert Rose Trust won’t survive the scandal. I’ll lose my job. I’ll lose everything. But I have to call the cops anyway.
The evidence, she’d remembered. The evidence was in her backpack. She fumbled the phone out of the bag and replayed the video she’d taken. With luck, she was just going crazy and she’d simply imagined the whole thing.
To her horror, the video playback confirmed that she hadn’t imagined any of it. Worse, the quality of the footage was terrible. You could hardly see a thing except grainy shadows and overexposed glare. Quickly searching out a USB cable, she’d connected the phone to the computer in the little room she used as an office and downloaded the video onto that, but it hardly looked any better on the larger screen. For just one moment, there was a clear glimpse of Angela’s husband standing there, but he’d been facing away from the camera and only his outline and the back of his head could be made out. Even the sound was garbled and booming and virtually incomprehensible.
Her first thought had been Shit! How can I go to the cops with this? Nobody will believe me.
She’d been standing there, frozen in indecision, when the sudden ringing of the phone on her desk had made her jump. Who would be calling her at this time of night? She’d hesitated, shaking, then picked up the handset.
‘Hello?’
No reply. The caller had just hung up without a word.
Erin had dialled to check their number, but it had been withheld. It could have been anything. It could have been a wrong number.
Or it could have been them.
What if they’d discovered the things she’d had to leave behind in the cabin? What if there was something among them to identify her? Or else, what if Angela had innocently mentioned Erin’s visit to the cabin to her husband? Or what if Joe, the driver, had said something? There were any number of ways that her presence there could be found out.
They know where I live, she’d thought. And that was them calling. Now they know I’m home.
Convinced that it wasn’t safe to stay put another minute, she’d acted fast. The video evidence wasn’t great, but nonetheless she’d quickly burned it onto two blank DVDs. Like Daddy had said: always have a backup. Then she’d hurried upstairs to pull on an old pair of running shoes from her wardrobe. Stuffed a few more things into her backpack. Unlocked the steel ammo cabinet under her bed, taken out all three of the ready-loaded Springfield magazines she kept in there, and dropped them into the zippered side pocket of her backpack together with the pistol itself. There was a can of Mace in a bedside drawer, put there as a last defensive resort in case of a home invasion when she didn’t have her gun to hand. She tossed the Mace in the pack, too. Now she was ready.
Outside, the sleeping street had been empty. No suspicious-looking cars were parked nearby, no sinister watchers spying on the house. Hobbling slightly on her tender feet, she’d left the house at an awkward jog that quickly became a run.
And she hadn’t been back there since.
Now here she was holed up in this motel, two nights later and eleven miles outside the city, unable to sleep, barely venturing outside except when hunger drove her the quarter-mile to the greasy diner the other side of the highway. She was still racking her brains night and day as to how to deal with what she’d witnessed, and going nowhere.
All she knew was that she daren’t return home right now. There was nobody else she could go to, either. Darryl, her ex? Forget it. Her friends? How could she burden them with this? Her mother? No chance. Now she’d hooked up
with her new man – was that the fourth since Daddy died, or the fifth? – she spent her days in the trailer they called home, steadily obliterating what was left of her brains with cheap liquor. They hardly even spoke any more, and Erin was damned if she was going to turn up there looking for help or shelter.
Maybe she should just take off. Hit the road in Daddy’s old car and keep going, get as far away from Oklahoma as she could and find a place to begin again.
It wouldn’t be the first time she’d had to start a whole new life.
Chapter Ten
After a quick check, the doctor determined that Ben was in a fit state to receive the visitors. The police detectives sat either side of the bed and a screen was pulled around the three of them to serve as a flimsy shield against the curiosity of the old guys on the ward.
The male officer, who introduced himself as Detective Inspector Healy, was a nervous, sallow little man in his fifties, with eyes that wouldn’t stay still and never seemed to blink. Ben took an instant dislike to him, but there was nothing so unusual about that. His female sidekick, Detective Sergeant Nash, was about twenty years younger and looked a little more human.
Ben knew why she was there. Send a woman officer in for the gentle touch when there’s bad news to break. Just in case the weaker ones break down.
‘Let’s have it,’ he said to them before they could state the nature of their visit. ‘Was she killed or was she kidnapped?’
‘Why would you think she’d been kidnapped?’ Healy said with a curious look.
‘We’ll get to that,’ Ben said. ‘Talk to me.’
‘I’m afraid Miss Hall was dead when we arrived on the scene,’ said Nash, as gently as it could be said. ‘She suffered very extensive wounding. It wouldn’t have been possible to save her. Next of kin have been informed and family members are on their way. I’m very sorry.’
Ben took a deep breath. He remained silent for a long moment as he absorbed the news. So now he knew. His worst fears were confirmed. He’d let her down, and now she was dead as a result. If he’d had all his wits about him and hadn’t been rat-arsed on Scotch, weak and unfit and softened up by weeks of wallowing in self-pity, the two killers wouldn’t have had a chance. Not if there’d been three of them, or even four. Kristen Hall would still be alive now.
‘What kind of extensive wounding?’ he asked, and saw DS Nash almost flinch at the question. When he looked at Healy, he could see the sudden pallor in the man’s face. He knew right away that they’d both personally seen the body; and that whatever injuries Kristen had sustained were like nothing either police officer had seen before.
Nash began, ‘Mr Hope, I think it would be best if we didn’t—’
‘I want to know.’
‘Miss Hall suffered, ah, multiple stab wounds to every major organ,’ Nash said with difficulty, after a pause. ‘Extensive lacerations to the face. They … they—’ She stopped, as if she couldn’t bring herself to say it. She looked pale, almost ready to throw up.
‘They punctured her eyes and slit her throat,’ Healy finished grimly. ‘The cut was so deep it almost severed her head. We don’t know whether she was still alive by that point.’
Ben felt something rip in his hands, and realised he’d been gripping the hospital bed sheet so tightly that he’d torn it. Now he understood why Nash looked so sick. He thought about Kristen, saw her face in his mind, heard her voice, her laugh. He wanted to be sick too. He swallowed hard and steeled himself.
Healy cleared his throat and went on, ‘We have two witnesses, a couple on holiday from Antwerp who are staying at Pebble Beach Guesthouse and observed a pair of men get out of a vehicle and pursue Miss Hall along the beach. They witnessed the whole thing: the attack, your intervention, you being struck over the head and knocked to the ground, after which one of the attackers produced a bladed weapon. The male witness got a detailed view of it all through binoculars. He’s, uh, what do you call it?’
‘An ornithologist,’ Nash filled in.
‘So he saw the stabbing take place?’ Ben asked.
Nash nodded. ‘Moments later, the two suspects retreated to a vehicle that had been reported stolen from Ballyvaughan earlier in the day.’
‘The car was found abandoned and on fire late last night, down the coast near Lahinch,’ Healy said. ‘A local saw the blaze and called the Garda.’
‘And no sign of the two men.’ Ben wasn’t asking.
‘Everything is being done to trace their whereabouts,’ Healy replied insistently. It was the usual line, designed to make it sound as though the authorities were in full control of the situation.
‘Doesn’t sound to me as if you have a lot to go on,’ Ben said. ‘They’ve covered their tracks pretty well so far.’
‘We’re hoping you can help us there,’ Nash said.
‘Meaning I’m the only one who saw them up close and personal. The only one alive, that is.’
‘Would you recognise them?’
‘I’d know their faces.’
‘Can you describe them?’
Ben shrugged. ‘Both white. Not young, not old. Maybe around my age, late thirties, early forties. Both physically fit, lean build, able to handle themselves. Neither of them spoke a word, so no telling if they’re Irish, or English, or what. One a little taller than the other, say six foot. Short hair, military style. Navy jacket, synthetic, maybe nylon.’
Nash had taken out a pad and was rapidly scribbling notes.
‘The other had a hoodie on,’ Ben continued. ‘It was green, a couple of shades darker than olive. I didn’t get such a good look at his face. He’s left-handed.’
‘How do you know that?’ Healy asked.
Ben looked at him. ‘It’s not rocket science, detective. That’s the hand he was holding the baton in. Both of them were wearing boots. Steel toecaps. I know that because I can still feel them.’
‘This is good information,’ Nash said.
‘You think?’
‘Anything else?’ Healy asked.
‘The one with the green hoodie smelled of mint,’ Ben said.
Nash paused in her scribbling. ‘Mint?’
‘Gum. But not ordinary gum. Particular smell.’
‘Particular how?’ Healy said, narrowing his eyes.
‘Nicotine gum,’ Ben said. ‘You know what that is, detective? The disgusting stuff people chew on when they want to give up smoking.’
‘You’re sure?’
‘I tried it once. You don’t forget.’
‘Okay,’ Nash said, resuming her note-taking. ‘Anything else?’
‘Just general impressions,’ Ben said. ‘These men are no strangers to violence. They know what they’re doing.’
‘And you’d know that because …?’
‘Because I’m no stranger to violence either. You might be dealing with a couple of psychopaths here, but they’re trained, professional psychopaths. By trained I mean army trained. I recognise one when I see one.’
Nash and Healy glanced at one another. ‘We’re aware of your background,’ Nash said.
‘Only what you’d be allowed to know.’
‘Then perhaps you could fill in the blanks for us,’ Healy said.
Ben shook his head. ‘I wouldn’t consider that appropriate. Neither would the Ministry of Defence. With respect, detective, that information is way above your pay grade.’
‘I see,’ Healy said, clearly stung. ‘You’re on file as being the director of something called the Le Val Tactical Training Centre. In France, I believe.’
Ben nodded. That part of his history was open record. ‘Normandy. I don’t work there any longer.’
‘And what is it you do now?’
‘Nothing,’ Ben said.
‘Nothing,’ Healy repeated, with an eyebrow raised. ‘But we can assume that you yourself are highly trained in certain, ah, skills?’
The question hurt. ‘I used to be.’
‘I thought training like that stayed with a man forever.’
‘I drink,’ Ben said. ‘I’d been drinking when the attack happened. It slowed me down. Otherwise, you’d have had two dead men to clear up off the beach instead of one dead woman.’
Nash stared at him. ‘You’d have killed them, is that what you’re saying?’
‘You’d have had to pick them out from between the cracks in the rocks.’
‘See, now, that’s the kind of talk we don’t like,’ Healy said, staring at him closely.
Ben stared back. ‘Join the club. I’m not wild about your line of questioning, detective. It sounds as if you’re trying to connect me with the attack.’
‘That’s not what we’re saying,’ Nash cut in, with an anxious glance at her superior.
But Healy was on a roll. ‘And let me tell you how seriously concerned we are when members of the public take it upon themselves to “do something”.’
‘You think it would be a better society if people stood by and did nothing?’ Ben said.
‘I think nothing good ever comes of citizens intervening with undue force in situations that can all too easily become aggravated.’
‘Undue force,’ Ben repeated. ‘You think that’s what I used? Kristen is dead.’
Healy nodded. ‘Absolutely. Under different circumstances, this incident might not have escalated into a life-threatening situation. What may start as a minor crime can sometimes get out of hand. Especially when there’s alcohol involved.’
‘It looked a little out of hand before I got there,’ Ben said. ‘And I didn’t see any of your goons stepping in to save her, either. They’d have run a mile.’
‘Seems to me you have a bad attitude, Mr Hope,’ Healy said.
‘You have no idea,’ Ben said.
Healy glowered. Ben glowered back. The cop would never know how close he’d come to having his teeth smashed down his throat that morning.
The Forgotten Holocaust (Ben Hope, Book 10) Page 6