The Blue Rose

by Anthony Eglin

  A shot rang out.

  Kingston crumpled to the ground. He wasn’t moving. Alex stared in sickened disbelief.

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  When the rose perishes, the hard thorn is left behind.

  Ovid

  Kate stood on the painted wood porch of Compton’s bungalow, both hands gripping the wooden handrail of the balustrade that ran across the front of the house. She was trying to make up her mind what she should do next. Stay put until the police arrived, or go back to find out what was going on. Since it was Sunday – she was convinced now that it was – and also in the depths of the country, it could be some time before the police showed up. She still didn’t know for sure whether Alex was here. And what, she wondered, had happened to the caretaker and Marcus? She hoped she was wrong in thinking that the old man would be no match for Marcus. Then there was the shotgun blast – had he shot Marcus? And what about the other man – the American? Where was he and what was he doing?

  She stared out over the grounds considering her next move. It didn’t seem a good idea to stay at the house, waiting for the police to arrive. Now Marcus knew where she was, that might be the worst thing she could do. No, she was going back to find out what was happening. She would just have to be very, very careful.

  As she let go of the handrail, small flakes of white paint came off on her hands, which were sticky with perspiration. She brushed them off on her jeans and ran down the four steps to the path. Quickly she retraced her steps and was soon back at the barn where she’d last seen Baldie marching Marcus off to God knows where. She wasn’t sure which way to go. Where was everybody? The only sound came from the wind and the leaves falling on the corrugated roof of the barn. Knowing that she had called the police, had they all taken off? Then she heard men’s voices. She couldn’t make out what was being said. She had to get closer.

  She took a few tentative steps watching for any movement in her peripheral vision. She was beginning to wonder whether she should have stayed at the house.

  The voices stopped.

  Kate did, too.

  The jarring crack that followed hurt her eardrums. The sound of the single gunshot echoed off the buildings. Ears ringing, she turned and ran to the barn wall, crouching sideways against it as if it would protect her. She waited like that for half a minute or so, but no shots followed. The shot had come from beyond the end of the barn. It certainly wasn’t Baldie’s shotgun.

  Edging forward, telling herself to remain calm, she reached the end of the barn. Flattening herself against the rough wood siding, she paused, expecting the voices to resume any moment, but there was silence. The temptation, despite the risk, was too great. She had to step out of the cover of the barn to see what was going on. She only needed to walk a few steps.

  What Kate saw sent a ripple of panic through her. She almost screamed but at the last second clasped her hand tightly across her mouth.

  Not much farther than a stone’s throw away, Kingston was curled up on the ground. Clearly he had been shot and was injured. Alex was bending over him. Twenty feet or so beyond them, a tall man in a windbreaker, holding a gun by his side, appeared agitated and was talking to Marcus. Behind them stood two other men. Petrified, she stood with her hand still raised to her mouth, unable to move or speak.

  ‘Kate!’

  Alex had seen her. ‘Kate,’ he screamed. ‘Get out of here. Run!’

  She hesitated for a second. Then, out of the corner of her eye, she saw Marcus leap forward. God! He was coming after her. She spun round and started running down the path past the barn.

  Then she heard the gunman’s voice bark out. The words echoed in her ears. ‘Go get her, Marcus. Go get the bitch!’

  Kate couldn’t run any faster. She knew that her chances of outstripping Marcus were slim. If she stayed out in the open he would soon be breathing down her neck. He probably had a gun, too. Up ahead she saw the opening to the barn. She stopped in her tracks, skidding on the dirt path, almost losing her balance. The entrance: it was her only chance. She knew it was risky, aware that she could easily be cornered in there. She took a quick glance behind – still no Marcus – and stumbled into the barn.

  Coming from daylight into the semi-darkness of the cavernous barn, she was running almost blind for the first several yards. She never saw Baldie, strapped to the post. She staggered right by him, part running, part walking, stumbling over debris as her eyes adjusted to the dim light. Her ankle struck something hard and metallic and she fell to the ground. Her eyes filled with tears of pain. Grimacing in agony, she got up, hobbled a few yards and started running again.

  She could see better now. Sufficient light was coming into the barn through cracks and knotholes in the siding. She was scrambling through a narrow dirt corridor with stalls on each side, apparently once used for stabling. She stopped and listened. The muffled sound of Marcus’s stumbling feet was getting closer. She leapt forward, running as fast as she could along the path, praying that it wouldn’t lead to a dead end.

  Suddenly the path widened and she was in a large rectangular area that looked like a hayloft. Frantically she looked around. She was trapped. Then she spotted a flight of stairs built against the wall. Without hesitating she ran up it into the loft. In the half-light she could see cartons, plastic bags and barrels stored across the width of the shed. Some were stacked high above her head. Nearby, old galvanized irrigation pipes, rolls of wire fencing, tools and lumber were stored along the wall. Gasping for breath, she hesitated on the landing, gripping the railing, uncertain whether to venture farther into the darkness.

  Marcus’s words made her spin round.

  ‘You might as well come out now,’ he taunted. ‘Don’t make me come up and get you.’

  She still couldn’t see him but knew he was right below her somewhere.

  ‘All right, bitch!’ he shouted.

  Then she saw him racing for the steps, a gun in his right hand. She catapulted into the darkness of the loft.

  Hurtling blindly across the loose planks, banging into objects in her path, Kate encountered a dark looming mass. She had stumbled against a tall stack of plastic bags. By the smell, they contained fertilizer or manure. They were piled on a platform extending the length of the barn. Kate jumped up on the platform and ducked around behind the bags. She was up against the barn’s inner wall. She crouched in the dark, pulse racing, unsure whether to stay put or move farther along the wall. The stench from the manure was starting to make her retch.

  There was a sharp crack, then an almost simultaneous thud, as something smacked into one of the bags next to her. Christ! A bullet. She stifled a gasp. A tabby cat, hissing and yowling, leaped from the bags right in front of her and skittered across the shed to safety.

  A mixture of tears and sweat was coursing down Kate’s face. The blouse under her jacket was soaked and clinging to her skin.

  There was the tread of a cautious footstep on the floorboards – and then another. He was now very close.

  The footsteps stopped.

  ‘You’d better come out. That bullet was not meant to hit you.’ A pause followed. ‘The next will – believe me.’

  His words raised the fine hairs on her arms. Her heart was thumping.

  A floorboard creaked as he shifted his weight from one foot to the other, edging toward her. Then the creaking stopped.

  She had to move. With her back flattened against the rough timbers of the wall, Kate crab-walked along the narrow gap between the stacks of plastic bags and the wall, praying that the floorboards wouldn’t give her away. Splinters of wood pulled at her jacket.

  She heard a shuffling noise.

  Then stillness again.

  She stopped and held her breath. The cat meowed plaintively in the distance.

  Inch by inch, she edged along the wall. In front of her, the bags were now stacked much higher – almost up to the crossbeams of the roof. At last, she reached the end of the loft. It had dead-ended. She was trapped.

  A crash
ing sound made her recoil.

  Another crash followed.

  Then another.

  Oh, God! He was heaving the bags off the platform. In only seconds, he would reach her. ‘Come on, lady.’

  ‘Jesus,’ she breathed.

  ‘You wanna play games? Fine by me.’

  Her stomach convulsed.

  ‘Come on,’ he taunted.

  He was standing directly below her, she reckoned. This was it. It was her only chance. And she would only get one shot at it. She braced her back against the pile of heavy plastic bags, and then put one foot up on the plank wall in front of her. She took a deep breath, then pushed off with all the force she could summon. The bags didn’t budge. She grimaced. She needed more leverage. Manoeuvring her spine as high up as possible on the bags, she was about to push, when he spoke again. This time his tone was deliberate and mocking. ‘Last chance, babe. Come out or start saying your prayers.’

  That did it. Kate shoved, taxing every muscle in her straining body, every inch of nerve and sinew, mobilized in one superhuman effort. Suddenly the bags gave way. Unable to check her momentum, Kate went over with the bags, tumbling helplessly off the platform.

  Shaken but unhurt, she managed to stand up on the slippery bags. There was no sign of Marcus. She looked down at the lumpy pile. My God, she realized, he could be right underneath her. She had to move fast. She’d hardly taken a step when his hand lunged out from under the heavy bags and grabbed her ankle.

  ‘Gotcha! You bitch!’ he shouted.

  Kate screamed. He was gripping the ankle she had bloodied earlier. Looking down, she saw that he was still partially buried under bags but his hold on her ankle was giving him the anchorage he needed to pull himself out from underneath.

  He jerked hard. She tottered awkwardly, then lost her balance, falling, face down, shielding her head with her crossed arms and hit the floor hard. She winced as needle-like slivers of wood pierced her palms.

  His relentless grip on her injured ankle was making it numb. In a matter of seconds he would be free.

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  Sweet rose, whose hue, angry and brave,

  Bids the rash gazer wipe his eye:

  Thy root is ever in its grave

  And thou must die.

  George Herbert

  Kate dug her fingernails into the floorboards and pulled. She couldn’t break his hold. She screamed, redoubling her effort, but it was no use. She had nothing to hold on to and simply hadn’t the strength to break free of his grip. She began to cry tears of pain and frustration. Trying to blink them away, her eyes came to rest on a broken posthole digger and a garden fork. They were among a jumble of old implements stacked against the wall. Close to her, less than an arm’s length away, was a shovel. The long wooden handle was weathered and grey. Despite age and rusting, it looked sturdy. She reached for it, fingertips barely touching.

  Marcus jerked her backward. Turning her head, she could see that his upper body was now almost free of the bags. She could make out the tendons stretching in his neck. She looked at him with revulsion. His dark, ferret-like eyes bore into hers like black marbles, relentless and vengeful. She lunged forward, straining for the shovel. She barely managed to grasp the bottom of the handle before he jerked again. Kate turned, pulled herself up to a kneeling position, raised the shovel above her head, and swung it down with all the strength she could muster. She closed her eyes just before it crashed down on his head. A hard, metallic sound echoed around the barn. It made her stomach turn. She tensed, expecting him to scream. But no sound came, as he lay slumped, eyes closed, his cheek distorted grotesquely on one of the bags. She turned away from the sight.

  Her leg now free, she scrambled to her feet and started to stagger towards the steps. As she did, her foot struck something small and metallic that slid along the wooden planks in front of her.

  The gun.

  My God! He’d dropped it!

  She stooped and picked it up. Gripping it in her right hand, she turned and ran.

  She could see a patch of daylight ahead: the entrance. What would confront her when she returned to the paddock, she wondered? She was fearful but determined to find out. She was almost out of the barn when she heard a strange noise. She stopped and looked to her left. Alongside a small tractor, Baldie – still strapped to the post – was furiously thumping the ground with his feet. He stopped when he saw he had her attention.

  Kate put the gun in her pocket and ran over to him. Remembering Baldie’s knife, she reached in his pocket, unfolded it and cut through the duct tape. She let him pull the tape off his mouth.

  Cursing profusely, he told her how Marcus had out-smarted him. His shotgun was nowhere to be seen – Marcus had undoubtedly taken it. In turn, she explained briefly everything that had happened to her, finally telling him that the police were on their way.

  Together they headed toward the paddock.

  The fog was thicker than ever, swirling in grey curtains, beading the grass with moisture and deadening sound. From behind the cover of the barn, Kate brushed the damp sheen off her eyebrows and lashes and stared into the paddock. Barely visible, though no more than thirty feet from her, the tall man in the windbreaker she’d seen earlier was pacing back and forth as if waiting for somebody or for something to happen. He was still holding the gun. Immediately behind him, looking out of place in the empty paddock, was a large shrub in a wooden container. Two men still stood by it. In her panic she must have missed it before. It took a few seconds to register on her. It was the blue rose.

  A few paces off to the left of the rose, she could make out the blurry figures of Alex and Kingston sitting on the grass-tufted dirt.

  All this time Baldie, standing behind her, hadn’t said a word.

  ‘They’re waiting for Marcus,’ Kate whispered over her shoulder.

  ‘Is that your husband over there?’

  ‘Yes. And our friend, Lawrence, with him. Look,’ she said, ‘I’ve got Marcus’s gun,’ and she took it out of her pocket.

  ‘It’s too risky, going out there,’ he said, shaking his head. ‘That bloke looks like a nasty piece of work.’

  ‘He is. He shot Lawrence.’

  The faint sound of a siren interrupted them. As they listened, it came closer.

  ‘Thank God,’ said Kate.

  Baldie gripped her arm. ‘Wait! Looks like he’s about to do a runner. Quick, gimme the gun.’ Without thinking Kate handed it to him. The minute she did so, she knew it was a mistake.

  Baldie took careful aim at Wolff, but sufficiently over his head so as not to hit him, then fired. ‘Drop the gun and stay where you are,’ he shouted over the din.

  Wolff, who had already started running, stumbled, then stopped, dropping into a crouch. With his gun raised straight-arm at eye level he panned it slowly from left to right, his eyes searching for signs of sound or movement. Kate froze, knowing that a mere flinch from her or Baldie could be catastrophic.

  The sirens were loud now. Kate bit the inside of her cheek, determined to remain motionless, her eyes riveted on the gunman. It would only be moments before it would all be over, but in those few nail-biting seconds she knew anything could happen. What did happen was the last thing she expected.

  Out of the grey drizzle a body hurtled horizontally through the air aimed directly at the gunman. It was Alex!

  The man collapsed under the jarring impetus of Alex’s perfectly executed rugby tackle. Kate closed her eyes for an instant, opening them just in time to see the man’s body twist grotesquely and smash into the planter box.

  It was as if she were watching a slow motion black-and-white movie. A sickening crack followed as the bone of his forearm snapped on the sharp edge of the planter box. His pistol went spinning through the air.

  Unable to break his fall, the man had plunged face-sideways into the rose.

  She gasped and looked away for a moment as his scream echoed around the paddock. Turning back, she saw the man writhing on the ground, one bl
oody hand splayed across his face. Alex had picked himself up and now stood over the injured man, panting heavily.

  ‘Alex! Alex!’ she shouted, running toward him through the mist.

  Turning, he staggered a dozen steps, and wrapped his arms around her in a bear hug. Kate was shaking convulsively. ‘Oh, thank God, Alex. Thank God it’s over,’ she breathed in his ear.

  Alex was kissing her, on her lips, her cheeks, her eyes, her hair. ‘You’re safe now, darling. Nothing else matters – nothing else.’

  She was about say something when Alex put two fingers gently on her closed lips.

  ‘Shhh,’ he murmured over the wail of the sirens.

  For a short time they stayed locked together listening to doors slamming and shouting from the parking area.

  She jerked her head in the direction of the man on the ground, not wanting to look at the grisly sight again. ‘Who is he, Alex?’ she asked.

  ‘His name’s Wolff. Ira Wolff.’

  ‘His men kidnapped me.’

  ‘We know, Kate.’

  ‘Marcus, the one who chased me, is up in the barn. I think I might have killed him.’

  ‘If you did, he bloody well deserved it. Let the police worry about him.’

  ‘My God! What a nightmare.’

  ‘It’s ended, Kate. Finally.’

  He held her away from him and leaned forward to kiss her forehead. ‘Wait here, Kate, while I get that gun.’ He let her go and walked over to where Wolff ’s gun lay on the dirt, and picked it up. Going back to Kate he passed close to Wolff, who was now half sitting, propped up on his good elbow. His face was a mask of dirt and blood oozing from a latticework of deep gashes. He held a blood-streaked hand splayed over his cheek and ear. The other hand dangled uselessly from his broken arm. He looked up at Alex through venomous, blood-caked eyes. His voice was laced with hate. ‘I’m not through with you yet,’ he growled. He coughed, wincing with pain. ‘You’ll be hearing from me, you bastard.’