by Graham Smith
The bulletproof vest I’m wearing under my shirt is cumbersome and inhibits my movements but I didn’t grumble when it was suggested and I’m not complaining now.
All of the Watcher’s kills have taken place up close, but I’m not prepared to gamble on being his first distance kill.
As I climb into the Mustang, I wonder if turning the key will trigger an explosion. I hesitate for a moment before rationalising it has spent the day sitting outside a police station beside a busy thoroughfare.
I turn the key as Cuthbert reaches for the door lock. Three times he presses the button down without success.
‘It’s bust.’ I’ve been meaning to drop it off with Lunk for weeks now, but have never gotten around to it.
His sigh carries more criticism than a dozen of Mother’s shouty messages.
We’re halfway to the motel when Cuthbert startles me with some of his typically abrupt sentences.
‘There’s a red suburban three cars back. It has followed us from the station. Norm Sortwell drives one of those.’
I curse myself for missing it and resist the urge to bury my foot into the gas pedal. It’s tempting to floor it and get to the safety of the motel quicker but the sudden burst of speed would be a red flag to Norm. So would me taking detours along side streets in an effort to lose the tail.
What is needed are calm nerves and a steady behaviour. There’s two of us, we’re both carrying guns and we’re in early evening traffic. He’s never broken cover by doing anything in a public place. As long as he thinks he’s undetected, he’ll wait for a chance when he feels the odds are in his favour.
Taking a left onto Fourth, I’m watching the mirror as much as the road ahead when I hear the parp of a horn. Seeing I’ve crossed halfway onto the other side of the road, I jerk the wheel to return the car to where it should be and fix my eyes on what’s in front of me.
Clearing Fourth I swing onto I40 a half mile from the motel. It’s a straight drive now along a nice piece of highway. If it comes to it, I’m confident my Mustang will outrun his suburban.
As we’re approaching the railroad crossing the barrier starts to lower and the lights flash their amber warning. I consider stamping on the gas but the gap is too small and there’s no point risking our lives to escape someone who isn’t yet trying to kill us.
I glance in the rear-view mirror as I draw to a halt. I see nothing but darkness behind us. No headlights, no dark shapes that could be cars without lights on. Nothing.
The train arrives at the crossing in a rumble of clanging metal and repetitive clatters as it thunders across the rails. It’s one from the oilfields, which means it’ll be a long one. A mile or more in total, still accelerating, it’ll take a couple of minutes at least to pass.
Reassured by the lack of headlights behind us, I relax a little and rotate my shoulders to try and alleviate the tension which is knotting them. It doesn’t work.
Cuthbert is looking round the car like a human lighthouse. The faint light from the train is casting shadows and shapes back at us, along with our own reflections in the windows.
Something hard lands on the car’s roof just above my head causing both Cuthbert and I to look to my side of the car.
There’s the tiniest fraction of a second between a second clunk and the passenger door being opened. Norm Sortwell is there and he’s holding a Taser in his free hand.
There’s a buzzing sound and a blue flash as the Taser hits Cuthbert’s neck. So quick is Norm’s movement, the FBI agent never gets a chance to even see his aggressor.
I know my hand is reaching for the gun I’ve placed in the centre console, but all my senses are focused on Norm and the gadget in his hand.
A whiff of scorched flesh assaults me as I fumble for the weapon.
I’m too slow.
The last thought I have as Norm reaches over Cuthbert’s twitching body and presses the hot tines of the Taser against my neck is that I’m about to be at his mercy. Instead of trying to get the gun I should have been trying to knock the weapon out of his hand. Or maybe opening the door so I could stand up and fight him.
As he presses the button on the Taser, I feel my body convulse as the current does its job and incapacitates me. There’s pain at first, but that gives way to a confused anger as my limbs refuse to obey any command I try to give them.
I’m aware of things but they don’t make sense. All five of my senses are gathering information as usual but my brain isn’t able to process it. Instead there’s just a jumble of mixed-up data.
The rattle of wheels on rails is fighting the smell of cooked flesh. My limbs bang of various parts of the car as they spasm. My eyes see the kaleidoscope of shadows thrown by the passing train and my mouth is filled with the acrid taste of defeat.
I don’t know where Norm has got to, but I can’t control myself enough to look in one direction with any clarity. Even if I do know where he is, I can’t mount any kind of defence in this state.
Nothing happens for a minute except Cuthbert and I thrashing about as we try to garner control of our bodies. He’s making some kind of gargling noise. At first I think he’s struggling to breathe, then I realise he’s trying to speak. Maybe it’s his tongue or my confusion, but I don’t understand what he’s trying to say.
My door opens and a shadow appears. I recognise Norm as strong hands bunch into my shirt, haul me out of the car and dump me onto the tarmac.
I try to fight him as he drags me by the collar, but the Taser’s effect hasn’t dissipated enough to give me any control of my arms or legs.
Norm stops dragging and stoops over me. I feel my shirt being torn off my back and the bulletproof vest being removed. A hand grasps my belt and another rests underneath my armpit.
The tarmac below me gets further away as Norm lifts me into the trunk of his car. My feeble attempts to struggle resemble a baby splashing in a bath. The lid comes down and I’m left in darkness. Cramped in a small space with twitching limbs.
78
I focus on my watch’s second hand to drive away the confusion in my mind. As the pointer begins its fourth trip around, a measure of control comes back to my arms and legs.
From the front of the car I can hear loud music. It’s the kind of stuff played at the Tree. I recognise the song as ‘Drowning Man’ by U2 just as it fades out and the bluesy opening of ‘Black Water’ by the Doobie Brothers filters in.
With brain and body functioning again. I run through my options. They’re more than limited.
First I concentrate on trying to escape. The lock mechanism of the trunk is encased in the bodywork of the car. If I had a set of wrenches and sockets I may be able to gain access and pop the lock.
Wriggling around, I use my fingertips to search for a release lever. If I can get into the back seat, there’s a chance I can overpower Norm before he brings the car to a halt. I fumble along the rear of the seats but find no release catch or lever.
With escape ruled out, I shift my focus onto defence. Believing attack is always the best kind, I start feeling around for a weapon. Anything will do – a screwdriver to jam into his gut, a wrench I can use as a club or ideally one of his murder tools. All I find is a plastic bottle filled with some kind of liquid.
I unscrew the cap and sniff the contents. I’m not certain, but I think it’s brake fluid. It might work as a temporary distraction if I can splash some onto his face and eyes. While he’s recovering, I can jump out and land a few heavy punches before he gets his sight back. If he drops the Taser so he can rub his eyes I’ll be able to use it against him.
As much as the confined space allows me, I stretch and move my limbs to prepare them for a sudden assault.
I hear the familiar and distinctive riff of Smoke on the Water followed by Ian Gillan’s voice as I reach down and unpick my laces. I kick off my boots, gather them to my chest and re-thread the laces through the top eyelets only.
Wrapping my left hand into the loose end, I leave a clear foot between my hand and the boo
ts. It’s a rudimentary weapon, but it’s the best I can come up with.
A pat of my pockets shows I have my cell with me. The battery might be dead but it may still be traceable. As soon as Cuthbert raises the alarm, Alfonse’s first idea will be to triangulate my cell. I just hope he’s quick.
Another concern is Cuthbert has been killed. While taciturn and monosyllabic, he isn’t a bad guy. I’d hate to be the reason he lost his life. I know I’d feel guilty for the rest of mine.
The music changes again, but I don’t know this song. In the quiet of the changeover, I also detect the sound of tyres on gravel. The car is moving slower and the road rougher.
I tense, expecting the car to stop as soon as it reaches its destination.
79
The car draws to a halt. Every fibre of my body is tensed ready to spring into action. I’ll only get one chance to attack Norm. I have to make it count.
I’ve rehearsed this moment in my mind at least a dozen times. Splash the brake fluid in his eyes, leap out and swing the boots into the side of his head. Then it will be a case of throwing endless punches until I’ve subdued him.
Like all plans it can fall apart due to the slightest miscalculation.
I hear the car door slam and footsteps crunching gravel. The trunk pops open but the lid doesn’t rise at once. I wait for a Taser wielding arm to snake in.
It doesn’t come.
There’s two more footsteps, then the trunk lid is raised.
I don’t see any sign of Norm.
What’s his game? Is he playing with me? Hunting me?
Whatever he’s up to, I can’t do anything about it lying here. I swing my legs out and look around. It’s too dark to make out where we are, but my nose is picking up country smells.
I see him standing at the side of the trunk, out of immediate reach.
I try throwing the brake fluid anyway, but he sees it coming and ducks his head away.
Using his movement to my advantage, I stand up and swing my improvised weapon at his head.
A boot catches the edge of the trunk and collides with its mate, knocking my swing off target. The boots hit Norm’s shoulder, but they’ve lost most of their momentum and don’t have the desired effect.
He straightens as I throw a vicious right cross. It’s a glory punch, but I’m desperate. My intention is to lay him out with a single blow and end this fight.
Norm sees it coming and jerks back, roaring in pain as my fist crashes into the side of his nose.
The momentum of my punch carries me past him and I feel a solid fist hitting my ribcage a second before I feel the sting of his Taser on my chest.
Once again it incapacitates me. I lie on the gravel trying to force some control into my thrashing limbs without success.
I’m aware of him wrapping something around my arms, but confusion has returned to my mind and I know little other than the fact he’s binding me.
I also know I’ll be unable to offer any resistance if I’m tied up, so I struggle harder but with the same lack of cohesion. If I can’t get free he’ll be able to kill me at his leisure.
It’s useless; the jolt from the Taser has done exactly what it’s supposed to.
His hands grab my ankles and I again hear the rasp of tape being pulled from a roll. He turns me over and puts a knee in my back as he binds my feet together.
The rough gravel scrapes my face but it’s the least of my concerns. Now I’ve been tied up, I’m at his mercy. My only hope of rescue comes from Alfonse tracing my cell via a signal that may no longer be transmitting.
Norm flips me onto my back and raises me to a sitting position.
Strong hands grab my arms and I’m hauled upright. He bends a knee and places his shoulder into my gut.
A second later he straightens and sets off walking with me slumped over his shoulder.
He’s only been carrying me for a minute before I hear a sound that chills me to the bone. It’s a pleasureable sound to most, but it scares me more than anything Norm can do.
The smell of lake water rises to my nose. Combined with the lapping of small waves, I figure we must be at Panchtraik Reservoir.
Norm carries me along a small jetty and dumps me into a small motor launch. It’s about twenty feet long at most and there must be a dozen or so of them on the reservoir. They’re used for fishing and family days out.
As I’m dumped into the stern seating area, I spot the name Melanie stencilled onto a life preserver.
It was his wife’s name. Therefore, this must be his boat.
Terror freezes me as I remember the songs he was listening to as he drove here. There’s no question about it. He plans to drown me. The watery thread running through his choice of music was him wringing every drop of pleasure from the experience.
I search the bottom of the boat for anything I can use as a weapon. My eyes find nothing but shadows. As my night vision increases, I see there is nothing there but the sterile base of the boat.
He starts the engine and casts off. The engine putters until he clears the jetty and then as he opens the throttle it deepens. I get the impression he could go faster but he’s wanting to draw this out for me. He wants me to know what’s coming and fear it.
I won’t admit it to him, no matter what he does to me. But if he’s trying to terrify me, he’s more than succeeded.
As I try and struggle free of the tape binding my wrists and ankles, I feel something scratch my arm. It’s a rough screw head or something like that, but it may just be sharp enough to cut the tape.
I wriggle until I can feel the screw head snagging on the tape. Moving with care, I rub the tape back and forth hoping it doesn’t resist the short spike. Another concern is the noise of the tape snapping could alert Norm. I have to do this in silence.
I feel it digging into the tape without any of the effect I’m desiring. Pressing harder, I keep going in the hope it will wear its way through.
My shoulder aches from the yank it received yesterday. Although the pain is a lot easier to ignore than the prospect of drowning.
Five minutes of rubbing later, I hear the engine note change. It softens to a gentle throb as it slows until it’s ticking over on idle. Putting my muscles to work, I pull against the tape and feel less resistance.
80
Norm turns away from the controls and faces me for the first time since casting off.
‘You’ve gotten off lightly, Boulder.’ His voice is filled with contemptuous malevolence. ‘I wanted a far worse fate for you than drowning. One that would have you screaming in agony. Leave you begging for death. Instead the fates have been kind.’
I want to ask him how, but the tape over my mouth prevents it.
‘When I picked the method out of the bowl, you got lucky. They say drowning is one of the most peaceful ways to die.’ His grin is wicked in the pale moonlight. ‘You’ve dodged being doused in gasoline and set alight, being buried alive or having your flesh peeled off as I towed you along the highway. But instead of getting any of those excruciating ways to die, you got lucky, you got an easy way.’
Listening to him speak, I’m struck by the lack of reality he’s experiencing. He’s not just killing people; he’s selecting the most horrific ways imaginable. Not content with taking their lives, he has to exercise his superiority by having them plead and beg.
It’s what he wants from me.
As much as the thought of drowning terrifies me, I’m not prepared to give him the satisfaction of hearing me ask for clemency. Given the choice, I’d take buried alive over drowning every time. Even the short-lived but excruciating agony of incineration seems preferable to having water force its way into my lungs.
‘I see the terror in your eyes. You know I’ve won. As clever as you may think yourself, you’ve just lost the most important game of all. You’re going to be my thirty-fourth victim. I’ll be remembered as one of the greatest serial killers ever. You’ll be just another line on the list of my victims.’ He raises a hand as if sca
nning a headline. ‘Jake Boulder. Drowned.’
Not if I can help it I won’t. His megalomania isn’t going to cost me my life. All the time he’s been talking, I’ve thrashed as if trying to free myself, while continuing the sawing movements against the sharpness behind me.
I can feel my bonds starting to give. Not enough to break free, but enough to suggest that moment isn’t far away.
He bends down and looks at me from a distance of two feet. Too far to strike with a head butt, yet far closer than I want him to be. The meek Norm has been replaced by a feral killer enjoying his work.
He pulls a knife from his pocket. Despite being stiletto thin it catches the moonlight and my attention.
What I wouldn’t give to be the one holding the knife. I’ve never before felt such fear. Or the level of hatred I’m experiencing. The MacDonald blood may be rushing in my ears, but my every focus is on the knife as it moves towards my face.
Norm is in no hurry. The knife takes an age to come forward. So long, I have time to consider throwing myself forward onto it. If I get the angle right, the knife should slide through my eye and pierce my brain.
A far preferable death to drowning, it will also rob him of his chosen method. It would be a hollow victory, but a hollow victory is always better than a resounding defeat.
I dismiss the idea. I’m not ready to die yet. There’s still fight in me.
‘Keep very still and you won’t get hurt.’ He gives a maniacal laugh, uncaring about anyone else who may be on the lake. ‘Yet.’
The tip of the knife pushes at the tape covering my mouth. Once, twice then a third time he makes a tiny hole.
I understand what he’s doing. Air and water will get in but shouts for help won’t get out.
The knife is returned to his pocket.
The clenched fist that hits my temple moves so fast I don’t see it coming.