Florida Key

by Neil Watson

  “Don’t you dare try any funny business with that, y’hear?” Ozborn growled. Unaware that Oliver had actually been using his phone already, Ozborn’s gaze returned to the road ahead. Nearly there, he thought. One more mile or so, and they’d reach the turning to Flatrock Creek up ahead on the left. Oliver continued cowering, when a minute later, without warning and hardly slowing at all, Ozborn swung sharply left onto the dusty stony track leading towards some hills in the distance.

  Bouncing along at great speed, Oliver began feeling ill. “Can you slow down, please? I think I’m going to be sick,” he pleaded with Ozborn.

  “You’d better not throw up in my truck, for your sake,” was Ozborn’s angry response, as he continued driving at the same speed, following the track as it weaved past the various trees and shrubs along the way.

  Probably caused by constantly looking downward at his phone, and the beer he’d consumed earlier, Oliver felt worse than ever with every bump the truck’s wheels made, and his face turned noticeably pale as the sensation of nausea engulfed him. When they got closer to the hills, he could make out what looked like an old timber building up by a river, about a mile away.

  Ozborn drove the truck fast down a dip in the track, and up the other side, swerving left and right. At the top of the mound, the vehicle actually took off and landed with an almighty crash as it careered along its way. This was the final straw for Oliver. Without warning, vomit projected forth all over the interior of the cabin, on the seat between him and Ozborn, on the dashboard and up to the windshield. Ozborn was incensed. “Fuck you!” he hollered, and slammed on the brakes, causing the truck to skid side to side before eventually halting right next to some large bushes.

  Seizing the opportunity, Oliver grabbed the door lever and tugged it upwards, then put all his weight behind the door itself. As it opened, still feeling faint and dizzy, he literally fell out of the cab and into the bush. Dazed but fully conscious, he knew instinctively that this was his moment to escape.

  Fuming with anger, Ozborn began to slide his way across to the passenger side to get out after Oliver, then realised that his hands were now covered in the mess created moments earlier by his passenger. “Oh, Christ!” he looked down. “You better get back here boy. Now!” he called, madder than ever. Not wanting to cover his jeans with the vomit on the seat, Ozborn decided to slide back and get out of his side and run around the rear of the truck instead.

  Despite it being January, the heat of the bright afternoon sun bore down on Oliver, making him feel even worse. But he knew this was his only chance to make a run for it. Those precious extra seconds gained could mean everything, and it was now or never. There was no telling what Ozborn was capable of doing in his fury. With youth on his side, Oliver darted behind a bush and ran to the next one, scrambling on all fours to the next and the next, all the time out of sight from Ozborn. Ozborn could be heard shouting and swearing, completely enraged as he tried in vain to see which way Oliver had headed.

  Taking a few seconds to catch his breath, Oliver crouched down low and didn’t move a muscle as he planned his next move. The old timber buildings he’d seen in the distance were likely to afford him better protection than being out in the open, so that’s where, he decided, he’d aim to get too. It looked like the trees and shrubland continued all the way up to his destination. Once there, he could try calling for help, assuming there was a signal on his phone.

  “Oh, no!” he sighed. As he reached down he realised the phone was no longer in his pocket. He must have dropped it when he’d freed himself from the cab, he guessed. He had a quick look back towards the first bush, but there was no sign of it. As he heard Ozborn’s frightening yells and shrieks, the adrenalin pumped through Oliver’s system, enough to overcome his dizziness. He made a dash for it, using all the stamina and strength in his legs that his frequent cycling had developed. He ran as fast as he could, scratching himself to pieces as the shrub branches caught against his clothes and arms. He was gaining precious ground on Ozborn, who could still be heard shouting some way behind.

  Looking in every direction, Ozborn couldn’t see Markland anywhere. There was less ground cover back towards Highway 150, so he guessed the old buildings up at Flatrock Creek were where the boy was headed. Probably familiar with the old sheds better than most, Ozborn reasoned that he had a good chance of finding his quarry in whatever hiding place he chose. He was not a man who liked to be beaten.

  With cold and calculated determination, he gave up trying to run after the boy—his ageing body wasn’t up for that sort of exercise, and was no match against someone more than three times younger. Instead, he walked assuredly back to his truck and got in. With the engine still running, before putting it in gear, he casually lit a Marlboro. The boy would be caught, no problem.

  Initially, his plan had only been to give the boy fair warning that he should get the hell back to England, and maybe offer him some extra encouragement with a demonstration of his shooting expertise. But it hadn’t taken him long to realise that this Young Sherlock had connections. He presented a real serious danger and a more permanent solution was needed to take care of the problem. The mess in his stinking cab had been the final straw. The boy, through his own stupid fault, had now changed the game plan. “I’ll teach the young son-of-a-bitch a lesson,” Ozborn ranted away to himself. “He’ll wish he’d never even heard of the name ‘Young Sherlock’ by the time I’m done with him!”

  It took Oliver only six minutes to reach the first of the buildings, sprinting as fast as he could all the way. In the distance behind him, he heard the low rumbling sound of Ozborn’s truck, gradually becoming louder by the second. Then he heard a deafening ‘Crack’ as the vehicle must have been only two hundred yards away. “I’m coming to get you!” Ozborn shouted through his open window while he pointed his gun and shot randomly upwards in the air. That should scare the boy, he thought.

  “Shit. This is getting deadly serious,” thought Oliver, now petrified, as he entered the first building through a large, rotten barn door and into the dark and dirty interior.

  ***

  Back at the Terre Haute Daily Times office, Detective Hardy watched on as Siobhan worked her phone and waited for it to pick up a GPS signal. There was a total of nine other people present in the room, all leaning forward to watch as well. Wherever Oliver’s location turned out to be, they all wanted, but without stating yet, to join the reconnaissance mission. Especially Peter and David, the News and Photographic Editors, respectively.

  Everyone stared at Siobhan’s phone, watching for what seemed ages, as the little wheel on the screen went round and round. Then, slowly to begin with, a map began to appear. “It’s working!” Ursula proclaimed, excitedly. Secretly, she was already imagining the next morning’s headline: ‘KIDNAPPED YOUNG SHERLOCK BRAVELY RESCUED BY OUR TEAM’. She hoped she wasn’t getting ahead of herself.

  The map continued to load, and then, as if by magic, a small red dot also appeared on the screen, indicating the position of Oliver’s phone. “He’s north of Paris, near Georgetown. That’s almost an hour from here.” Hardy stated, straight away making a call. “Get all available units over to the vicinity of Georgetown. This is an emergency. Approach with caution. We have a young man’s life potentially at risk.”

  Then, while still on the phone he turned to Siobhan. “Can you zoom in any further?”

  Not familiar with the app, she quickly touched the screen with forefinger and thumb to expand the map. Horrified, she watched as the screen suddenly went blank. She must have done something wrong. Detective Hardy didn’t hide his frustration. “Jesus Christ, girl! What are you doing?” he said, curtly.

  His attitude certainly didn’t help the situation, and Siobhan began to feel her eyes well up with tears, not helped by the emotional day that she’d already endured.

  Ursula intervened robustly in no uncertain manner. “I’d appreciate you not talking like that to my niece, Sir. I’d remind you we’re dealing with her—our—fr
iend, so Siobhan is understandably stressed enough as it is, without you making things worse.”

  She turned back to Siobhan who was now shaking, and spoke calmly to her. “See what you can do, dear. Just do your best.”

  Siobhan snivelled and sniffed as she composed herself again and reloaded the app. This time, she was more careful, and cautiously touched the ‘plus’ icon on the screen. That did it! The red dot remained in the centre as the map grew larger and more legible around it, enabling Hardy to read the location. “He’s at Flatrock Creek!” he shouted into his phone. “Repeat: Flatrock Creek. All available units.”

  “Good job, Siobhan,” he said. “And I apologise for earlier. Let’s get going, shall we? You coming?”

  Siobhan turned to her aunt, who nodded her approval. “Be careful, sweetie.” Ursula then turned to two of her colleagues. “Peter. David. Grab your cameras and you follow too. Safety is paramount, but don’t forget, getting a good story and pictures is a very close second. Go!”

  Detective Hardy raced out of the room and down the stairs, followed closely by Siobhan, Peter and David. “Peter—you go ahead and bring the car round to the front while I go back to my office and grab the cameras,” instructed David.

  “Be quick!” commanded Hardy, as he and Siobhan ran to his car. “Every minute counts.” He pulled out a magnetised blue light and attached it to the roof of his car. Siobhan jumped in the passenger side, and they both waited a few seconds before Peter’s car pulled up behind. David came running down the steps and jumped in.

  Hardy revved the engine and sped off, tyres squealing. “Hold on tight!” he called out. The acceleration pushed Siobhan firmly back in her seat as they sped towards the highway, with Peter and David not far behind.

  “God, I hope Oliver’s all right,” shouted Siobhan above the noise.

  “So do I,” said Hardy. “So do I.”

  CHAPTER 41

  (MONDAY, 22ND JANUARY, 2018)

  Oliver Hides

  from Danger

  O nce inside the timber building, it took Oliver a minute or so before his eyes adjusted from the brightness outside, so much so that momentarily he thought he’d gone blind. The sickness feeling had thankfully gone, but he did feel very thirsty, with the dusty atmosphere not helping. When he could eventually see properly, he took in his surroundings and ran forwards towards the large space ahead. It was empty except for some old sawing machinery, a rack of rusty hand-tools and a collection of picks and axes, brooms and poles. Further over and propped up against the right wall was a large wooden ladder, wide at the bottom and narrow at the top. Up above, Oliver’s gaze settled on a first-floor landing and the remains of a staircase. Only the uppermost two stair-treads still existed, hanging precariously by some nails attached to the underside of the landing. The ladder would be the only means of reaching the next floor, but not in its current position.

  Oliver didn’t know what he’d find up there, but he did know what was down on the ground—not much. There was nowhere to hide and there was only one other room adjoining the large one that he was in, but it was locked. However, he was able to see up above that at the end of the landing was a passage leading along a narrow corridor. It looked like the corridor was running above the position of the locked door below. Maybe there were also three closed doors up there as well, Oliver thought, but his view was restricted and he couldn’t be sure. What he was sure about was that in the distance outside he could hear the rumble of Ozborn’s truck engine, idling away. All then went quiet as the engine was switched off, and Oliver heard the familiar-sounding click when the car door was opened, and then a loud clunk when it was slammed shut.

  With no choice but to try to get to the landing before Ozborn entered the building, Oliver prayed he might find some refuge if in fact there were further rooms up there. He ran to the ladder so he could move it and gain access to the landing, but it was much heavier than he imagined, and impossible to carry. He tried shifting it along but it was too much for him to manage. All he could do was to slowly walk it, one upright rail at a time, in a near vertical position.

  All was going well, until the left rail hit an uneven mound of loose ground. Oliver struggled to hold the ladder in place, but it was simply too heavy. As he lost control, the whole thing began to tilt, and the more it tilted the less control he had of the weight. Although Oliver did his best to hold tight, it was no use. He had to let go and leap backwards as the ladder became top-heavy and came crashing to the ground.

  Any moment now Ozborn would reach the entrance, and the noise of the ladder falling was a sure giveaway of his location, Oliver was in no doubt of that. Looking back across to the barn door he’d just come through, he noticed a solid timber bar attached on the inside that could be moved across and engaged in a housing at the door’s side, like a huge latch. If he could just close the door and slide the bar in place, that would give him some valuable time to have another attempt with the ladder.

  “Sherlock! You in there? I’m coming for ya,” called Ozborn from outside, having been alerted, as Oliver anticipated, by the sound of the crashing ladder. Oliver darted over, pushed shut the door and pulled the bar across, securing it from inside. There! That would keep Ozborn out, at least for a while. Then, rushing back to the ladder, Oliver thought out his next move.

  It was imperative to get up to the landing. The only way he would be able to raise the ladder would be to drag it against the wall, lift one end and prop it sufficiently to crawl underneath and push upwards with all his might. Inch by inch, he managed to get it almost upright. Then, with one final burst of strength, he managed to push it across so that the top fell against the edge of the open landing. The top of the ladder only just reached, but it would be enough for Oliver to climb up.

  “Sherlock!” boomed Ozborn again, even louder than before, as he banged on the barn door. Oliver was confident that Ozborn wouldn’t be able to get in, and he felt a little safer. That was until he heard Ozborn call out some more: “You think you’re smart, Sherlock, don’t you? But I’m smarter than you because I know another way in.” Was he bluffing, Oliver wondered? Without waiting to find out, Oliver clambered up the rickety rungs as far as possible. When he reached as high as he could, he rested his stomach on the landing floor, grabbed at some heavy timbers lying on the floor, and pulled himself up with his hands.

  At last, he was relatively safe, he thought. Exhausted, Oliver rolled across the old floor that was inches thick with years of dust and pigeon droppings, and took in his surroundings.

  If indeed there was another way for Ozborn to get in the building, Oliver assumed it must be on the other side of the locked partitioning door on the ground. The timber of the door had looked rotten, and Oliver guessed that, with one hard kick, Ozborn would probably be in and then he’d be able to get to the ladder as well. With that in mind, Oliver decided to push the old ladder away from the landing so that it crashed to the ground again. It might mean that he couldn’t get down, but it would certainly make it more difficult for Ozborn to get up.

  It was unhelpfully dark up on the landing, with the only light coming through the cracks between the exterior slatted wall and a couple of small holes in the roof, probably where birds could find their way in. But the illumination was sufficient for Oliver to find his way along the narrow corridor, where his assumption of there being three closed doors turned out to be correct. He tried each of the doors as he went past. Luckily, they weren’t locked, but the first two opened into completely empty rooms, about twelve feet square, and offering absolutely no hiding place whatsoever.

  At the end was the third door. Oliver tried the handle and found this to also be unlocked, opening into another space almost identical to the one he had just come from at the top of the ladder. He guessed he must now be in the area of the building above the other side of the locked door on the ground floor.

  Now he was standing on a landing area that went all the way around the four walls, just like the previous space. Oliver could see that
this one also had a non-existent staircase, except for the few treads hanging from the landing’s underside. From his position, Oliver commanded a clear view of the whole area below, including more saw-cutting machines and other tools. He could also see what must be the second way in to the building, to which Ozborn had referred.

  Stacked against the walls were several old crates and boxes, and many planks of wood of all lengths and thicknesses piled on top of one another. Oliver crouched down behind the pile of timber, so that he could just about still see everything on the ground level. All was silent, and at last he had a chance to catch his breath and rest. He was sure his heart could be heard a mile away, it was pumping so hard.

  Oliver tried to calculate his chances of rescue. The longer he could keep this guy Ozborn at bay, the better, he reasoned. If only he still had his phone. It’s at times like these, he thought, weighing up his predicament, that he could really do with phoning a friend. Who’d want to be a millionaire if you’re dead? His mind raced ahead, thinking all sorts of ridiculous thoughts. The intensity of the situation he found himself in brought out a bizarre sense of British humour, and he allowed himself a slight grin.

  But when the potential danger he was facing sank in, he felt terrified, so much so that he literally began to shake with fear. The Co-op job in Wivenhoe might have been less exciting, but it was certainly far safer than this, he thought.

  ***

  According to the inbuilt satnav computer, Detective Hardy’s car should reach Flatrock Creek in 32 minutes, the device indicated. Hardy had hoped that some other Police units might have already arrived at the scene, and begun dealing with the crisis. But en route he’d learned via police radio that today was a particularly busy one, what with a serious accident on Interstate 74 further west, and the baseball playoff in the nearby town of Effingham later that evening, where crowd control preparations were underway. Most local forces were already tied up attending to their duties, and it meant that only one other unit was available.