by Michael Kerr
“You’ve lost the plot, Hugh,” Jim said. “I thought that you were repeatedly killing your mother for what she must have done to you. Why are you doing this? It isn’t part of your demented, delusional crusade.”
“If it hadn’t been for you and Laura, I would still be at the farm with mother, and still be a copper. You’ve both ruined everything. You have to pay.”
Hugh turned to Laura, raised the gleaming blade of the knife to her eye, and then let the point trace a line over her cheek, to follow her jaw line down to her neck, and further, to linger at the side of her right breast, then caress the nipple to involuntary erection with the cold steel. He smiled at the unbridled fear that manifested in her wide eyes and frantic expression. It was time. He was aroused, and began to moan in anticipation as he made the initial cut at her right shoulder and started in on the wet work.
CHAPTER FORTY
VIC Buchanan took deep breaths, fighting nausea, ignoring the pain in his head and clenching his teeth until his cheek muscles ached. Reaching up in the darkness he could feel the deep gashes in his scalp and the wetness of blood in his matted hair, which also trickled down his forehead into his right eye. He was surprised to have survived, though, having believed that Parfitt was going to kill him.
Easing round, knees bent, Vic put his feet together and started kicking against the back of the car’s rear seat. It gave way on the fourth attempt, and he rested, pacing himself, hoping that he wouldn’t pass out before he could nail the bastard who’d attacked them and may have already killed the copper and her boyfriend. He had no way of knowing how long he’d been out. Maybe it was already over.
With supreme effort, Vic found the willpower to pull himself through from the boot into the rear of the car. His gun was in the foot well, and he slipped it back into his shoulder holster as he leaned forward to look at the dashboard clock. The green numerals were fuzzy, his blurred vision almost doubling them. He concentrated, narrowed his eyes and fought to focus. It was 11:38 PM. He had been out cold for at least thirty minutes, maybe longer. Reaching over to where Marty was slumped, he put his fingers to his partner’s neck, to feel only the stillness he had expected.
Opening the car door, Vic fell out onto the grass verge, his legs weak, trembling. Lying there for a minute, he battled against an insistent voice in the back of his mind that urged him to just close his eyes and go to sleep for a little while. It was with an iron will that he forced himself to stand up and stagger across the narrow road to the cottage. And it was mainly anger that fuelled his determination; an unbridled resolve to deal with the lunatic who’d murdered Marty. He lurched drunkenly as dizziness disoriented him, and slammed into the gate, folding over it, pitching forward onto gravel that bit into his cheek and temporarily revived him. With what took monumental effort, he climbed to his feet again and wove his way to the door like a Saturday night drunk; his free hand pressed against one of the head wounds that bled profusely. He could have been twelve again. Back then, the boy he had been had woken with terrible stomach pains. His mother and father were at work, and he was off school, it being half-term. For weeks he’d suffered with a dull pain in his side, but had ignored it, said nothing, and hoped that it would go away.
With his pyjamas saturated in sweat, the young Vic had set off on the longest journey of his life. The pain was so intense that he could not climb out of bed, but had to roll onto the floor and crawl. Every movement was a colossal challenge. He made it to the top of the stairs on his hands and knees, and then passed out. When the escalating agony brought him round, he edged down the stairs one at a time with a continuous moan escaping his lips, and tears mingling with the perspiration on his chubby cheeks.
The journey along the hall and into the living room at the rear of the house took him almost twenty minutes. And the effort to gain his feet next to the sideboard and snatch the phone from its cradle was an act that took strength of will he had not known he possessed. After dialling 999 and telling the operator that he needed help, Vic had passed out again, to be found unconscious by the ambulance crew that forced entry to the house. Within forty minutes of arriving at hospital, Vic was being prepped for emergency surgery. His appendix was on the cusp of perforating, and had he not found the fortitude to reach the telephone, then he would have most likely not survived.
A minute passed. For sixty long seconds Vic leaned heavily against the wall next to the door to rest and summon up enough strength to be able to function. He waited until tattered sails of fog drifted across the face of his mind to leave it clearer. Adrenaline swept through him as he readied himself and took deep breaths. He drew his gun and curled his finger purposely around the trigger. He reckoned he might have one slim chance. If he could kick the door open, he would have to use the split second of surprise to find his target and shoot. If the door held, blowing the lock out was his only other option, and would result in him losing any element of surprise.
The sudden scream from inside the cottage galvanised Vic into action. Disregarding his injuries, he stepped back apace, and with all the force he could muster, kicked the door at a point an inch to the side of the brass handle, relieved as with a splintering crack the aged wood gave and shot back, ripped away from the lock. Vic entered a hall, rolled forward and came up on to one knee at an open doorway, searching for the rogue copper, his gun now held two-handed, the barrel moving in coordination with his eyes. In an instant he saw the man who had attacked him and Marty. The killer was now turning to face him, holding a knife in his hand. Vic also noticed the naked woman, standing against a wall with her arms raised, and the Yank sitting at the foot of a spiral staircase, apparently tied to it.
“Flinch and I’ll empty the mag in you,” Vic said, his Browning Hi-Power sighted on the man’s chest. “Drop the knife and take three steps towards me, and then lay face down.”
Hugh was totally shocked by the sudden, dramatic entrance of the armed copper. It was hard to believe that the blood-drenched figure was still breathing, let alone conscious. Or that he could have escaped from the boot of the car and managed to break down the door. That the man was swaying, almost out on his feet, and that blood was still flowing from the deep lacerations to his head, was encouraging. Hugh knew he had a chance; play along and wait for the man to keel over. It was only willpower that was keeping the stupid plod standing upright.
“I said, move,” Vic slurred. “You need to know that if I even think I’m going to pass out, then you’re history.”
“Okay, okay, take it easy, don’t get your knickers in a twist,” Hugh said, dropping the knife and stepping forward, to slowly lower himself to his knees and adopt a prone position on the carpet.
Vic pushed himself up, using the wall at his back for support. He walked towards the stairs with faltering steps, not taking his eyes off Hugh for a second and giving him a wide berth. Picking up the knife, he went to Jim and sliced through the tape that held his neck against the stairs, and then cut through the plastic tie that bound his wrists. It was all he had the strength left to do. Vic had given his all, lost consciousness, and fell across Jim’s lap.
Taking his chance, Hugh crawled across the floor to the coffee table and grasped hold of the gun he had taken from the other copper. He leapt to his feet, turned and fired twice.
One slug hit the staircase next to Jim’s head, to ricochet off it with a loud pinging sound and imbed in the wall scant inches from where Laura was hanging. The other bullet thudded into the shoulder of the insensible police officer, causing his limp body to jerk.
Jim snatched the Browning from the inert copper’s hand and returned fire, loosing off three shots without having time to take proper aim.
Hugh felt a searing pain in his thigh. He fired again wildly as he limped-stumbled-careered into the kitchen, to unlock the door and stagger away from the house, across the back garden and into the woods that loomed; a black wall in the night at the end of the small lawn.
Jim eased the cop off him on to the floor, got up and went to
Laura.
“No, Jim, finish it. Kill the bastard,” she said. “I’ll live.”
Hugh ran through the thick bracken for twenty yards, grunting with pain, half-hopping, to finally trip and fall into the waist-high ferns. He sat up and scrabbled backwards, pushing with his uninjured leg until he was up against the trunk of a tree. This, he decided, was where he would wait, knowing that the Yank would follow and search for him. His only chance of making it the half mile back to where he had stashed the car and caravan was if he killed Elliott. His first shot would have to count, or his pursuer would take cover and pin him down. He should have hesitated the extra second it would have taken to aim properly in the cottage. He had actually panicked. All he could do now was listen and watch and be ready to end this fiasco. He still had the advantage, and would not waste it. He took off his belt and buckled it around the top of his thigh, pulling it as tightly as he could bear, before securing it. He would need treatment, but at the moment that was the least of his problems.
Jim saw the trail of blood; shiny black on the paving stones of the patio under the silver glow of the moon. He followed the direction of the glistening teardrop-shaped spots, running, bent low, zigzagging to present as small a target as possible, out across the lawn and into the trees beyond. He had hit Parfitt, seen the entry hole appear in his leg, four or five inches above the knee. It was a wonder he had not gone down. With a little luck the bullet had ruptured his femoral artery, though that was wishful thinking; there would have been much more blood. One thing he was sure of, the bastard would not have got far, and was probably waiting for him nearby, concealed in the semi-jungle of ferns and saplings that blanketed the forest floor. He assessed the situation and moved on, now without stealth, purposely treading on dry twigs and cones to announce his presence. He then stopped, eased the magazine out of the gun butt and fired twice; the loud metallic clicks followed by an exclamation of “shit!” being the bait to draw his quarry out.
Hugh heard the snap of twigs and the crunch of pine needles underfoot. The sounds grew louder as the Yank drew near. He then saw his outline, black on dark grey amid the tree trunks, standing, working his gun. The two hollow, echoing sounds of the mechanism, and the low oath that followed, confirmed that the weapon had jammed, or the mag was empty.
Pushing himself up on his good leg, Hugh levelled the pistol at Jim, took careful aim and squeezed the trigger.
Jim heard the rustle and scrape of clothes on bark, off to his left. He dropped to his knees, discarding the gun and shrugging the crossbow – which he had taken the time to collect from the bedroom before leaving the cottage – from his shoulder in one smooth movement as he stood back up.
The whoosh of the nine-inch bolt hurtling through the air was masked by the roar of the Glock. Jim felt a slug tug at his side as he pulled another bolt from the retaining clips of the bow and reloaded. In the gloom, as his night vision returned following the blinding muzzle flash, he could see Hugh, standing against a tree. He fired again, wondering why the other man had not continued to shoot at him.
Hugh felt an impact in his throat as he fired. The back of his head was slammed into the rough, fissured bark of the eighty-foot-tall pine, and he could not move. A pulsating pain shot up into his brain, and down into his shoulders and upper arms, causing him to drop the gun and reach up to the source of his agony. His shaking fingers found the feathered fletching of the shaft that protruded from just a fraction to the left of his larynx, and by touch, he guessed that it must be an arrow. His mind was numb with astonishment, unable to comprehend the manner in which he had been wounded. And as he attempted to come to terms with his plight, a second piercing stab of pain; a lance of fire in his chest, resulted in him being pinned even more securely to the tree trunk. He clawed frantically at the fresh source of throbbing, cramping torment, but could only feel the very end of the bolt; the slotted plastic nock standing proud from his right breast like a third nipple. He pulled forward, trying to rip free of the two aluminium shafts, but the tearing pain was unbearable. Again, he tugged at the metal arrow in his throat, but was unable to grip it and find purchase as his blood-covered, fumbling fingers slipped off the viscid projection. Finally, he stopped, fixed to the trunk, a low, keening, almost inhuman howl issuing from lips that bubbled with a bloody froth.
Jim dropped the crossbow. He retrieved the Browning and rammed the mag home, working a shell into the chamber as he approached the moaning figure. Reaching Hugh, he stopped in front of him and realised that it was over, so pushed the pistol into the waistband of his trousers.
“Shit on a stick, eh?” Jim said, studying the now helpless killer.
Hugh tried to spit in Jim’s face, but the blood pulsed out of his pursed lips with no power, to dribble down his chin and drip onto his bloodied shirt front.
“How does dying feel?” Jim asked, smiling at Hugh and acknowledging that he was satisfied with the payback he had meted out.
Hugh attempted to answer, but could only produce an unintelligible wheeze as he tried to ask Jim to finish it and put a bullet in his brain. He felt death invading him, slowly creeping through him; a sly, stealthy but unmistakable final adversary that could not be evaded, bargained with or fought off. He experienced clarity of thought that he had not known since something had snapped inside him, back when he had been a teenager standing next to his mother’s grave. His rage was now subdued by a stronger emotion; uncontrollable dread. He shuddered as a flash of lucidity forced him to face the full weight of all the abhorrent acts he had committed. He knew that he had been deluded to have imagined that his mother was alive and wholesome; capable of movement, speech and all living functions. That he could have vented his anger at the corpse of the person it had once been by killing so many innocents was now beyond his newfound power of reasoning.
The piercing scream that Hugh somehow found the strength to emit sent ice-cold ripples down Jim’s spine and raised gooseflesh on his arms, stomach and thighs. He could feel the hair stiffening on the back of his neck as he watched the dying man arch his back and pull his head forward, straining to uncouple himself from the bolts that skewered him to the tree. With the sucking sound of a boot pulling free from thick mud, Hugh’s head shot forward, free of the impediment, to droop down onto his chest.
The brief struggle was over, and the insight that Hugh glimpsed through the many faceted, stained-glass window of his fragmented personality, consumed him. He shut down, unable to face the reality of what he was, or the enormity of what he had done. He retreated, back in time, erasing the years as though he were in a lift, plunging down past many floors at sickening speed, away from the present, to finally open the doors on a warped memory of a long gone episode that still haunted him.
He was almost thirteen again, outside the chicken shed at the farm, trying to summon up the courage to open the door and enter. He felt the cold wind whipping through his clothes, and looked up at the low, lead-bellied rain clouds that were about to discharge their load. His numb fingers ached with the force he exerted on the egg basket he held. Steeling himself, he pulled back the door and entered the shed. The fowl were at once crowding, milling about him; a solid circle of hot, stinking, feathered, fluttering avian horror that began to tear at him with snapping, fang-lined beaks. They flew up into his face, hung from his arms, covered him from head to foot in a suit of feathers, and then dragged him down into the slimy, shit-coated straw, their frenzied clucking filling his mind and drowning out all thought.
In his befuddled state, as the black tide of death surged through his brain, Hugh’s last image was of the corpses of his parents entering the gloomy hut, their accusing eyes holding a promise of merciless, unrelenting purgatory for all that he had done.
Jim saw a look of pure terror materialise on Hugh’s face, as the dying man raised his head and stared at some hideous vision that only he could see. He coughed, and a welter of blood spurted from his nostrils and cascaded from his gaping mouth, overflowing from his liquid-filled lungs. With one re
tching gurgle, he became still, and all expression faded from his now lifeless blue eyes.
Back inside the cottage, using the wounded police officer’s radio, Jim summoned the emergency services, then wrapped a blanket around Laura and supported her weight as he held a glass to her lips and allowed her to sip a little brandy.
“You’re sure that he’s dead?” Laura said.
“He’s pinned to a tree with a crossbow bolt, Laura,” Jim replied. “I put one through his throat, and another in his chest. I watched him die. Believe me, it’s over.”
“What a way to spend Easter,” Laura quipped, somehow finding black humour at her state of crucifixion, and the manner in which Hugh had met his fate.
“It isn’t Easter,” Jim said, managing a strained smile, admiring her strength of character; a flood of relief almost overwhelming him at what seemed a near miracle that had saved her from a fate he could not bring himself to properly imagine.
The officer – who Jim had dragged a few feet away from the bottom of the staircase – was now conscious, sitting up with his back against the wall and his shoulder wound padded with a towel. Jim had already thanked Vic profusely, acknowledging that he had undoubtedly and radically changed the course of events by performing his duties to a level far above and beyond all expectation of a man in his injured state. His heroism would not go unsung, though both Jim and Laura owed him a debt that could never be repaid.
“Well it feels like Easter, hanging here,” Laura said. “Can’t you use the claw end of that hammer and get these nails out?”
“No, Laura. The fire-fighters will do it. They have special equipment for removing women from oak beams.”