“No Amanda, don’t you die on me,” George shook her violently, her head snapping back and forth. The action had the desired effect and Slocum fluttered open her moist eyes, though they maintained their distant glaze.
“I’m… so… tired,” she said drowsily.
“Amanda, I need to know where he is. Are my children safe?”
Slocum fought hard against the darkness that threatened to steal her away. Finding some energy she faced George, and spoke for the last time:
“He’s gone up the stairs, looking for the children. He’s hurt, I put a bullet in him, but it didn’t stop him. I didn’t… have… time… to warn the…” she trailed off, and this time George allowed unconsciousness to take her.
“Hold on Amanda, just a little while.” George stepped over the woman he’d assigned, not only as a babysitter for his children, but as a lookout and protector for his whole family. Under the guise of a friend of the family, he’d never let on where he’d first come across Amanda Slocum. The truth would have been a hard pill to swallow. It was better for all concerned that they never know. Had Harriet or the children known of her colourful past, more questions would have been asked, it was inevitable; things would then naturally get complicated. He wasn’t yet prepared to reveal the hard facts of his past life, knowing that his wife wouldn’t understand and the kids were too young. He was also afraid.
Afraid that they wouldn’t forgive him for what he’d done and what he was soon going to do.
Reaching out for the handgun, George released the clip of bullets and saw that the magazine was still half-full. Using the heel of his hand, he pushed the magazine back into the gun, chambered a round, and quietly entered his house.
Passing into the hallway he could see the staircase a dozen or so feet ahead of him. Droplets of blood speckled the wooden flooring, and a trail, like breadcrumbs, spattered a path to follow up the stairs. George stealthily moved forward, taking a larger step over the first stair, knowing that the board was slightly loose and creaked under the merest weight. He didn’t want to give away his position.
From upstairs, George heard laboured movement. Floorboards creaked and heavy feet fell.
“Where… are you… you… BITCH?” The words sounded close... pained and embittered. A few seconds later the sound of a closed-door was smashed open. Light spilled out at the top of the stairs, highlighting both the way ahead and the location of Slocum’s attacker.
Quickly, and quietly, he climbed the rest of the way one step at a time. Although difficult, he tried to put thoughts of the dying woman lying across the entranceway to the back of his mind. His primary concern was now for his kids.
Reaching the stairs’ landing, George levelled Slocum’s gun ahead of him and steeled himself to use it. Standing stock-still, he strained to hear where exactly the intruder currently was, poised to react should he appear in front of him. A long time ago, he’d been taught to shoot first and ask questions after; it wasn’t very diplomatic, but this didn’t appear to be the occasion. His finger was steady on the trigger. The safety was off.
He was calm. He was ready.
He was waiting.
Chapter Nineteen
Cooper
Cooper had not expected any resistance as he’d crept into the house via the back door. Sure, he knew the girl everyone had been talking about was here – after all, he’d watched her alight the bus in the town’s centre after getting off the train, then pursued her from a safe distance, watching her through the binoculars, the heat signature mode in place – but he hadn’t expected the housekeeper to be armed and waiting for him in the kitchen, standing by the hallway door. Had he not had his wits about him, he was certain he’d now be dead.
“Hello laddie,” she said as he’d gently, quietly closed the back door behind him, the element of surprise he’d intended totally backfiring. She was curious as to why he was wearing night vision goggles strapped to his head considering it was broad daylight and there was next to no darkness within the detached house. “Are you after somethin’?” In her hand was a small handgun. A Sig Sauer 1911 .45 calibre pistol, its magazine capacity was eight bullets.
Cooper jumped, quickly regaining his composure. He smiled reassuringly and offered his hands in supplication, his own weapon concealed beneath his baggy but rather sweaty T-shirt.
“Easy,” he said soothingly, “I think I’ve made a mistake.”
“Damn straight you have sonny. You have no idea!”
Lightning quick, Cooper reached down to the Browning tucked beneath his waistband, thumbed the safety catch, raised the weapon and was diving for cover behind a pinewood dining suite, all in one fluid movement. Righting himself, he brought the handgun down to bear on the woman, ready to pull the trigger, finding that she’d retreated into the hallway, the door swinging closed behind her. He cursed aloud at his misfortune.
I bet Dominic Bloody Schilling never had this luck, he thought to himself. He then remembered: Dominic Schilling had been reported dead.
Standing up, he slowly crossed the kitchen-diner to the doorway − beyond which the woman had disappeared − and pushed the door open.
The way appeared clear. Where was she?
Making to step through, his progress was immediately halted by a double staccato burst of gunfire:
BANG! BANG!
Pain flared in his stomach as a .45 slug tore into his abdomen, the second shot smashing into the doorframe, just missing his head, raining wood splinters and fragments about his face like rice thrown at a wedding, mingling with his hair. Managing to retain his balance, and seemingly of its own accord, the Browning was up and three quick bursts echoed around the hall, sending its deadly loads in seemingly random directions, but Cooper knew differently:
BANG! BANG! BANG!
Two bullets gouged holes harmlessly into the wall, kicking up a cloud of plaster, dust and debris; the other took the woman to the centre of her chest, knocking her off her feet cinematically. She flew three or four feet backwards and smashed into the wall beside the front door, slumping to the floor.
Feeling exposed and unexpectedly weak from the gunshot wound, but wanting to salvage his mission and his integrity, Cooper laboured up the stairs two at a time; a sideward glance down the stairs saw the woman regain her feet and go to the front door.
Go for help, see if I care. I’ll finish you off in a bit. By the time anyone comes it’ll be too late.
On the last step, Cooper stopped and surveyed the stairs’ landing ahead of him. It was unnaturally dark for the time of day. All the doors were closed and he faced five of them.
Edging above the last stair, he took a furtive step towards the first door that stood to his left. He faced a short corridor on which two doors were set to his left, two on the right, and one at the end − he could make out their outlines through the goggles (set to night vision with a subtle touch of a button).
Multitasking with his right hand (he was still holding the gun), slowly, awkwardly, he squeezed down the handle on the first door and applied a little downward pressure. The door opened with only a little protest, the hinges creaking with a pitchy whine.
Beyond the door there was just a bathroom, white porcelain wash basin, matching toilet and a bathtub with a combined shower unit placed above in the corner, a glass shower screen enclosing it in. Water dripped from the showerhead – drip drip – spaced out by a few seconds, echoing in the small room. The walls were tiled, also white. Cooper found the brightness of the room intense through the night/heat seeking goggles, the window above the wash basin was west facing, and the sun now receding slowly down the afternoon sky made the room glow ethereally. Cooper shielded his eyes, turned away from the room and closed the door behind him. He blinked to readjust his vision to the gloomy hallway once again.
“Sophie!” he called, his voice echoing in the enclosed
hallway. “I know you’re here. I only want to talk.”
The next room on the left wasn’t as bright to Cooper’s relief. The curtains were drawn, but like the bathroom, it was void of life. A single bed was made up along the furthest wall. No other furniture cluttered the room, but Cooper could tell that its inhabitant was male, probably the youngest child going by the toys strewn across the floor. A variety of toy cars, dinosaurs, action dolls, cuddly toys and other pre-school play things cluttered the room. Cooper retreated swiftly from the room, unaware that he continued to leave a trail of blood behind him; crimson droplets spattered the bedroom’s carpet and marked the wooden flooring within the landing area.
“No one else needs to die, Sophie… I promise I’ll let the children live, just come out. Cross my heart… I will spare the boy and the girl. It’s only you I want. It’s up to you.”
The door at the end of the landing was the master room, so large that it was unmistakeable. Cooper could tell by the king-size bed, the type of furniture and the clothing he spied through the gap of the fitted wardrobe that this room belonged to George and his wife. The bed was made and the smell of a woman’s perfume still lingered. Something inexpensive, he reflected, though in truth he couldn’t tell the difference between a good bottle and a cheap one (an ineptitude he shared with wine tasting) having never purchased such items, not for a girlfriend, sister or his mother; he had none of them to coddle or spoil. A quick glance to the dressing table made him none the wiser. Bottles of Chanel No.5 and Vera Wang sat amongst deodorant sprays, moisturisers and other feminine beauty products.
Tommy Girl, he considered, having not a clue. It never ceased to amaze him how the smallest of details overwhelmed his thoughts, no matter how utterly wrong or incongruous his thoughts actually were. He was sure the fragrance so strong, so cloying, was Tommy Girl though.
Upon a bedside cabinet an electric alarm clock displayed the time: 5:21 p.m.
The curtains were open, but as the window was north facing, the sun was not causing him any issue. A quick scan confirmed that this room, like the two before it, was empty.
Knowing that his options were reducing, he started to feel a tingling sensation in the fingers loosely wrapped round the butt of the Browning.
Anticipation, or excitement, he could never tell the difference, pumped adrenaline around his body – but despite his excellent sense of smell, intuition, sight and hearing, he failed to comprehend that the feeling in his hands and circulating his body was the result of the blood that he was steadily losing from the hole that gaped in his stomach. His left hand was still pressed to the burning agony that ripped at his abdomen; thick, mucilaginous, warm blood coated his hand, oozed between his tightly pressed fingers and continued to drip-drip-drop to the floor, leaving a slightly larger puddle whenever he stopped, even momentarily.
Running out of choices, he kicked open the next door − what would have been the second door on the right (now the first to his left). Cooper readied himself to take a shot at whoever it was he faced first. His concentration was starting to wane; the reasons for this mission were beginning to sound fuzzy in his head and less important, almost like it were part of a dream he’d fought hard to retain memory of. Through the goggles his vision was beginning to go a little distorted, a little blurred, and somewhat doubled. It took all his concentration to maintain focus, albeit unsuccessfully for the most part. He was starting to feel weak and increasingly tired.
Staggering into the room he was irritated further to find that, like the three rooms before it, this one was also deserted.
“Where… are you… you… BITCH?” his voice was laboured and high pitched, breathless and almost desperate.
He took a moment to take in the room’s effects but was losing interest fast. In addition to a single bed there was a desk and a few boxes stacked up in the corner. Some toys lay about, but the room was much neater than the previous child’s room. Cooper no longer cared who the rooms belonged to but could tell simply by its contents that the older boy slept in here. There was a telescope aimed towards the sky and other sundry items easily associated to a male child.
“Where are you!” he screamed like a lunatic, not bothering to shield his annoyance. “You can’t hide forever!” Exiting the room he concentrated on composing himself. He closed his eyes and willed the pain burning in the pit of his stomach to go away.
Just one room left. Nowhere left to run. The job was nearly done. He took a deep, jagged breath and closed his eyes to the blurry images. He tried to forget the bleeding hole at his centre that pumped his life fluid effortlessly between his fingers despite the effort extended to stem the flow; he knew medical attention was desperately needed. Grimacing, he tried to ignore the excruciating pain.
Tightening his grip on the Browning, Cooper backed out of the bedroom and quickened his pace towards the final room, expectation and wanton success giving him renewed energy.
Using a booted foot, he kicked the last bedroom door open and extended his gun arm, moving it shakily from left to right, concentrating with even more effort to focus, sweat now adding to his visual impairment, dripping beneath the straps of the goggles, into his eyes, further encumbering his mission.
The bedroom door creaked closed to just a crack behind him.
“I know you are in here Sophie, so let’s not do anything rash – you wouldn’t want me to kill anyone on purpose!” Cooper spoke through gritted teeth.
At first glance the bedroom was like all the others, void of life, unexpectedly empty, but something told him otherwise. He could tell that a girl occupied this room; pink bed linen, flowered curtains, Barbie dolls and other sundry items that clearly defined the room. It was without a doubt Meredith’s room.
Although not seeing anyone, not hearing the slightest of sounds, Cooper knew they were in here – somewhere. Call it instinct, gut feeling (what was left of his gut!), hubris, or just a keen aptitude for knowing these things, Cooper was almost never wrong.
And then, there it was, the telltale moment that he was waiting for. Ordinarily it was all that he would need. Like an act of God or call it a sign, confirmation was granted. There came a sound... or a movement.
It was both. Cooper’s attention was drawn to the most likely hiding place in the bedroom. The place everyone chooses to hide.
Meredith’s bed, or specifically underneath it.
“Come out, come out… wherever you are,” he said in a playful, singsong voice, though it sounded sinister, malevolent. “No one is going to get hurt,” Cooper stooped for a better look beneath the bed, wincing as he did from the pull and crease of the bullet wound. “I promise.”
Behind him an ornament fell to the floor from the window ledge, disturbed by the curtain, smashing against the floor.
Startled, Cooper whirled round and fired a single shot blindly, tearing a hole in the wall beneath the window. He cursed at himself, at his nerves, at the waste of a bullet and the uneasiness he felt, and returned his attention back to the bed, the place Sophie and the other children were most likely hiding, this he knew with growing certainty.
“Okay, I lied… someone IS going to get hurt.”
Stanley let out an audible whimper. Cooper smiled.
“I know you are under the bed little ones. The question is: is Sophie there with you?”
Cooper started to crouch down again, grimacing from the pain that burned in his stomach and began to peer under the bed.
With his back to the door, he failed to hear its gentle creak as it ever-so-slowly opened. He didn’t even notice the silhouette of a man enter into the bedroom behind him, his gun silently pointing to the back of Cooper’s head.
Chapter Twenty
Sophie
“Quiet! Did you hear that?”
Sophie had stopped eating; her mouth half-full with the remnants of chewed Doritos, cheese and a piece
of bread; she stood up with a start from the bed – not that Meredith or Stanley had noticed. For the moment, Stanley had removed the special glasses for the umpteenth time and was oblivious to the invisible girl’s whereabouts, a feat which he would never tire of.
Sophie crossed unseen to the bedroom door. She pressed her ear up against its wooden surface and listened carefully, blocking out all other sounds that threatened to impede her concentration.
There were voices, though muffled. Two of them. She heard:
Easy… I think I’ve made a mistake. Male voice. Calm and exacting.
Damn straight you have sonny. You have no idea! A woman; Slocum, Sophie surmised. She looked over her shoulder at Meredith and Stanley. Both were obediently quiet but their breathing was loud. Meredith had retrieved the glasses from Stanley and had placed them back atop the bridge of her nose. She was now watching with keen interest.
BANG! BANG!
Sophie flinched but remained at the door, listening intently. Meredith gasped, cocking her head up in alarm. Stanley’s eyes widened.
BANG! BANG! BANG!
Something akin to a yelp was heard from below them; then silence. Sophie slowly turned the key in the lock, weakly securing the plywood door with the two-lever mortice sash lock. She turned around fast, a look of concentrated effort etched across her face. It was soon gone as her genetically enhanced intelligence grappled with a plan − not a grand scheme that involved an elaborate offensive, but one which would help them evade detection. Spending little further time to think, Sophie returned to her backpack, which had been left by the side of Meredith’s bed alongside the large sports holdall. Reaching in, pushing Flopsy to one side, then knocking it to the floor altogether in her haste to reach the item she sought, which had inconveniently wormed its way down to the bottom, she retrieved the handgun she’d liberated from one of the attackers at the apartment. A full magazine of bullets was already loaded; all she had to do was remove the safety and she would be ready.
The Girl in the Mirror Page 17