He turned towards the doorway to see the solitary cop from the cruiser running up the path towards the guesthouse’s front entrance. The cop was hatless, in a tan deputy’s uniform shirt and black trousers, a drawn pistol in his hand. It struck Ben as a little odd to send just one officer to attend to the scene of a violent crime, but he supposed that the fact that they’d managed to send anyone at all so quickly was fairly impressive, given that this was the rural Deep South. The UK was no better, at the best of times. There were enough accounts of residents in the middle of London waiting twelve hours for a response to a 999 call.
As the cop approached the house Ben recognised his face. Fleshy, pasty features burned red by the sun. Brown hair, spiky on top and shaved up the sides like a Marine. It was the deputy called Mason, one of the pair who’d accompanied Sheriff Waylon Roque to the scene of the liquor store holdup in Villeneuve. The one Roque had said was as sharp as a bowling ball. Better than nothing, Ben thought, and ran through in his mind what he needed to tell the guy.
But Ben never got the chance to say much at all. As Mason hurried up the steps and entered the hallway, he saw Ben standing there and raised his drawn weapon to aim at him. The cop’s finger was on the trigger, which definitely wasn’t correct protocol for dealing with a nonthreatening civilian. Ben noticed that the gun wasn’t Mason’s issue sidearm, either. His Glock was still tucked and clipped into his duty holster, next to his cuff pouch, baton holder, Taser and CS canister. What he was aiming in Ben’s face, with a little more aggression than Ben felt was warranted, was a big black revolver. Probably a forty-four, going by the size of the bore and the chamber holes in the cylinder.
Ben put his hands up at shoulder height, palms facing the cop to show they were empty. ‘Easy, Officer. I’m a witness to a murder. If you wanted to shoot someone, you should’ve been here when the bad guys were still around.’
The deputy made no move to lower the weapon. He came closer. Ben retreated a couple of paces, carefully stepping back around Lottie’s body, slow and easy, no sudden moves, keeping his hands raised and in plain view. Mason came on another step, still keeping the big revolver pointed squarely at Ben’s face.
He was standing on the bloodstained area of the floor. His weight was pressing blood up from the carpet pile, so that it welled and bubbled up around the soles of his large, black police issue shoes. Lottie’s body was between him and Ben, right there in the middle of the hall, a large mound of dead flesh with an antique sabre sticking up grotesquely from its highest point, like a banner raised on some conquered hilltop. It wasn’t a sight that was easily missed. And yet Mason hadn’t given Lottie’s body even a single glance from the moment he’d entered the house. His focus was fixed totally and intently on Ben.
Hands still raised, Ben wagged a finger towards the floor and said, ‘Watch you don’t trip, Officer. There’s a body on the floor.’ Sharp as a bowling ball. Maybe it was true.
The deputy gave a grunt and shook his head, still holding the gun steady. ‘Boy, y’all sure know where to go lookin’ for trouble. Reckon you found more’n you bargained for, this time.’
Which struck Ben as a curious thing to say, under the circumstances. Very calmly he replied, ‘Maybe you should lower the weapon so we can have a conversation about what happened here.’
Mason didn’t lower the weapon. Ben could see his fingertip whitening against the blade of the trigger. Properly speaking a .44-calibre handgun was really a .43, firing a bullet of .429 of an inch diameter. But it was still plenty big enough to blow a fist-sized hole right through the middle of a man’s chest. Hunters used them for killing grizzly bears. And the way Mason was pointing it at Ben, he seemed pretty serious about killing him with it too.
Ben considered his appearance, and it flashed through his mind that someone all covered in blood the way he was might, in a cop’s way of seeing things, look exactly like the kind of person who’d just smashed their way into an innocent woman’s house wielding a sabre and turned her entrance hall into a slaughterhouse. From that point of view it was fairly understandable that Mason was wary of him.
But none of that explained what happened next.
Mason fired. The BOOM of the big revolver in the confines of the hallway was stunningly loud and its muzzle flash was a tongue of white flame that spouted a foot from its muzzle.
If Ben hadn’t seen it coming, there would have been two corpses on the hallway floor and a lot more blood. Even as Mason’s finger tightened all the way on the trigger and the hammer was released and the firing pin began its short arc of travel, Ben was in motion. Superfast, he crossed the space between himself and the gun and deflected the barrel sideways and upwards from its point of aim, hard and brutal, so that the gunshot discharged into the ceiling.
The blast and shockwave from the revolver were tremendous. He would have tinnitus for days, but a little ringing in the ears is preferable to fifteen grams of hardcast lead alloy entering your skull at over a thousand miles an hour.
Ben’s training, and the way he taught his students, was to first take control of the weapon and then neutralise the assailant. In the same single continuous fluid movement that had been rehearsed a zillion times and saved his life for a percentage of that number, he twisted the revolver out of Mason’s hand and kept hold of his wrist as he sidestepped in towards him and used his own body as a fulcrum to yank Mason off his feet and dump him hard on the floor.
Ben could have finished his disarming move with a stamp to the neck or an arm-breaking twist, or beaten the guy’s brains out with his own ASP expandable baton. Instead, not wanting to hurt him any more than was strictly necessary, he just reached down to where Mason lay half-stunned on the floor and snatched his badge wallet, then removed his duty belt and tossed it away across the room.
In retrospect, Ben could come to see that as his first mistake.
Relieved of Glock, cuffs, tear gas and baton, Mason wriggled away across the floor like a beaten dog. His uniform was all bloodied from the mess on the carpet, his face mottled with anger. Ben quickly examined the revolver, then shoved it into his own belt behind the right hip. Pointing at Lottie’s body he said to Mason, ‘That there is a murder victim. I’m a witness to said murder. You’re a cop. Remember how this goes? Are you going to behave now?’
‘You’re in deep shit, Hope,’ Mason rasped. ‘You just assaulted a police officer.’
Ben flipped open the badge wallet. It had the deputy’s six-pointed Clovis Parish gold star on one side and a police ID card on the other, giving his full name as Mason F. Redbone. Ben tossed the wallet away and shook his head.
‘Wrong, Deputy Redbone. You’re guilty of discharging a firearm without provocation at an innocent member of the public. All I did was protect myself in such a way that avoided using undue force. There isn’t a mark on you. Which any police misconduct investigation panel in the country would agree puts me right in the clear. They might have a few questions for you, though. Such as what you’re doing in possession of a non-issue weapon that’s had its serial number filed off. And why you attempted to kill me with it just now. I’d kind of like answers to all those questions myself, so you’d better start talking.’
Mason muttered something that Ben didn’t catch. He leaned closer. ‘Speak up, Mason. Thanks to you I’ve got ringing in my ears.’
Leaning closer was Ben’s second mistake.
Mason was lying on the bloodstained carpet, his head and shoulders propped against the skirting board, his feet drawn up under him, knees bent, his body quite still except for the deep rise and fall of his chest as he breathed. His eyes were full of fear and hatred. Then his right hand suddenly darted down the length of his right leg, whipped something hidden from inside his right boot and flashed towards Ben.
Ben twisted away to avoid the knife, but he’d been leaning too close and he reacted half a second too late. He felt the razor-sharp steel puncture his flesh, below the ribs on his right side. The pain shot through him.
Mason lun
ged up at Ben, to stab him again. Ben was ready for him this time. He palmed the incoming knife aside and rammed a savage upward blow with the heel of his hand into Mason’s philtrum.
The space between the nose and upper lip is one of the most vital points of the human body. Done hard enough, the strike would drive a man’s nose bone backwards into his brain and kill him instantly. Ben knew that, because he’d inflicted the same technique on plenty of enemies, with lethal results. He didn’t want Mason dead. Just totally incapacitated.
Mason dropped without a sound, unconscious before he hit the floor. He lay on his back side by side with Lottie, arms and legs splayed out like a starfish.
Ben reeled backwards a couple of steps. He pressed both hands to his belly and saw the blood leaking out between his fingers.
And that was when two more police cruisers screeched up outside and a bunch more cops came running into the guesthouse.
Chapter 15
There were four of them, clad in blue uniforms with gold piping and dimpled campaign hats with gold badges and silver cords and acorns. The insignia on their arms said LOUISIANA STATE POLICE. A sergeant and three troopers, two with pump shotguns and two with Glocks. The sight that greeted them as they swarmed inside the hallway was what they took to be a dead fellow officer lying prone beside the body of a female murder victim, along with one man still on his feet who had a gun in his belt, blood all over his clothes, and could more or less be assumed to be the perpetrator of both assaults.
If Ben had been inclined to think about it, he couldn’t have blamed them for jumping to conclusions. They had much better reason than Mason had for supposing that he was the threat here.
The hallway filled with the sound of hoarse urgent yelling as the troopers fixed him in their sights and all began screaming and bellowing at him at once. DROP THE WEAPON DROP THE WEAPON DROP THE WEAPON!
As he stood there reeling from the stab wound his options flew through his mind at lightning speed. If he didn’t respond one way or another in the next two seconds, the chances were they would all open fire at once and take him down. He could try to calmly explain the situation to them, which he wasn’t too sure he could do with blood pouring out of him. Or he could whip the revolver from his belt and start shooting before they did. Five rounds, four targets. Maybe just shoot them in the legs, to avoid causing unnecessary harm.
Alternatively, he could throw down his gun and surrender. But he didn’t fancy his chances of receiving fair treatment. Not after he’d already taken down one of their own. By the time the ambulance arrived the five state troopers would have beaten Ben to a pulp.
So Ben took the only realistic option open to him. He ran. Ignoring the agony in his belly and the tremors of shock jangling every nerve in his body.
Shots rang out and bullets cracked into the wall and splintered the banister rail as he charged up the stairs three at a time. He made it halfway up the staircase to the switchback, then flew up the second half heading towards the first floor landing. Three troopers thundered after him while the fourth stayed below, yelling into a radio that they had an officer down and needed assistance.
Ben raced past the open door of Lottie’s bedroom and reached the drop-down staircase just as the police sergeant appeared on the landing behind him. The sergeant racked his shotgun and repeated his command to stop and throw down the weapon.
Ben pounded up the drop-down staircase, up through the hatch to the attic floor, turned and crouched at the edge of the hatch and grabbed the rope loop that worked the pulley mechanism and tugged it hard. The staircase folded in half, and the whole assembly slid upwards on smooth runners to retract through the hatch. Ben hauled up the length of rope that dangled down to enable it to be opened from below, then closed off the hatch with the stair panel that acted like a trapdoor. Definitely a fine piece of carpentry, and just the job when you were being pursued through the house by multiple armed opponents.
He’d bought himself a little time, but it wouldn’t be long before they figured out a way to reach him. Nor would it be long before the whole street and surrounding area was swarming with every state trooper they could muster, along with SWAT teams and K9 units. He could hear the sound of frantic voices and crackling radios from beneath his feet as he ran into his bedroom. His legs were feeling like jelly. He had to grit his teeth and close his mind resolutely to the knowledge that he was badly hurt. He had to keep going.
He snatched up his bag from where it lay at the foot of the bed, crammed in the few items that he’d unpacked earlier, then pulled on his leather jacket and looped the bag over his shoulder. He went over to the dormer window and yanked it open. With an effort that felt like a halberd tearing out his guts he gripped the window frame and hauled himself up and through, scrambling out onto the slope of the roof.
The night sky was ink-black and starry. The air was warm, but felt like ice on his skin as the sweat poured from his brow. He felt woozy for an instant and almost lost his footing and went tumbling into space, then managed to regain his balance.
Got to keep going.
Careful not to slip and fall, he made his way over the sloping tiles. He peered over the gable end of the guesthouse and could see Mason’s Sheriff’s Department Crown Victoria and the two white state police cruisers in the street below, their engines still running and the big light bars on their roofs bathing the whole area in swirling blue. More windows of neighbouring homes were lit up now, as residents awoke to the drama and peeped out to see what was happening. Old Mr Clapp across the street had ventured into his front yard to spectate.
Ben kept low and stayed in the shadows as he padded along the slope of the roof to the point where the gap between Lottie’s house and that of her neighbour was at its narrowest. He could see no lights in the next-door windows. Either the neighbours were sleeping through all the excitement, or the house was empty. He eased himself down as close as possible to the edge and readied himself to jump, visualising it in his mind’s eye before he committed himself, and knowing it was going to hurt like hell. It was a long way to fall if he fluffed it. He took a couple of deep breaths, counted to three and then launched himself into space.
He cleared the gap easily, but his landing on the neighbour’s roof almost made him cry out in pain. He knew he must be leaving a fine trail of blood spots as he moved on, keeping low so that the roof’s ridge hid him from the street side. He ran with light fast steps along its length towards where he could see a big old hickory tree standing in the garden close to the far end wall.
This was going to hurt even more. And it did. Ben reached the edge and leaped into space. He dropped ten feet and then the foliage was ripping and clawing and scraping at his face and body as he went crashing downward through the branches. His fingers locked on to a thicker limb and he managed to arrest his fall. He scrambled down the tree as far as the lower branches, until his legs dangled free. It was maybe an eight-foot drop to the patchy grass of the back garden. He steeled himself and let go. The agony as he hit the ground went through him like a spear, but he didn’t make a sound.
The neighbour’s garden was all in shadow. Ben remained in a still crouch at the foot of the tree for a few moments, catching his breath and listening hard until he was sure his escape from the guesthouse hadn’t been observed. Then he picked himself up and ran for the back fence and scrambled over it into the next garden, hoping he wouldn’t drop down the other side into the waiting jaws of someone’s pit bull. He landed in the bushes and kept running.
A tumult of sirens was growing steadily louder. It sounded as if every cop in Louisiana was racing to the scene. Probably a couple of ambulances, too, one for Lottie and one for Sheriff’s Deputy Mason F. Redbone, who would soon be enjoying a little holiday in hospital. It was less than he deserved.
Ben crossed that garden, and the next, and then pushed through a hedge over a low wall and found himself in an adjacent street, maybe a couple of hundred yards from the guesthouse as the crow flew. The homes at this end of th
e neighbourhood were all in darkness, as if the residents here didn’t care what kinds of major emergency situations took place up the road. That suited Ben just fine.
He kept going. A blind man could follow the trail of glistening spots and spatters that marked his route, but there was nothing he could do about that. The best he could achieve was to get away from here before he passed out from pain and shock and blood loss and collapsed in the street for the cops to find.
Quarter of a mile away, in a quiet little avenue on the edge of Chitimacha far away from the hubbub and excitement, he came across an old Ford pickup truck parked under the shadow of a spreading oak tree.
The SAS had taught him how to steal cars to make him an efficient operator behind enemy lines, when you sometimes had to improvise modes of transportation. He’d had a lot of practice at it since those days. Old vehicles were the best to steal. The older the better, as long as they were driveable. No alarms, no immobilisers, no on-board GPS trackers. Thirty-nine seconds later he was inside the Ford’s cab, bleeding all over the cheap vinyl seats as he got to work hotwiring the ignition. Another half minute after that, he was gone and disappearing into the night.
Chapter 16
Ben drove fast away from Chitimacha, knowing that he couldn’t stay on the road long. The state troopers would already be cordoning off the whole area, roadblocking every exit and stopping and searching any car within a perimeter that would rapidly expand state-wide as the manhunt intensified. Every hotel, motel and hospital would be flushed looking for him.
By dawn the horror story of the sabre murder would be airing on local TV, in all its gruesome detail for citizens to relish over breakfast. By midday the whole parish would be so jumpy about the desperate killer on the loose that they’d be loading up their guns and watching out of their windows for any sign of a suspicious-looking stranger lurking about the vicinity. By mid-afternoon he wouldn’t be able to walk down the street without getting his head blown off by some trigger-happy Louisianan doing their civic duty.
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