by Matt Hilton
A figure vaulted over Elsa from the platform, landing between them.
She was as stunned as her abuser at the sudden appearance of the tall, broad-shouldered man, especially when he held up a knife.
The newcomer obviously wasn’t a cop.
He was clad in soiled denims, and his dark hair was plastered to his brow. He glimpsed once at her, and she caught a flash of turquoise, and his mouth turned up at one end.
Had she called it all wrong? Did her abductor have a confederate, who’d come to assist him now that things had gone haywire? Otherwise, why would a knife-wielding man be here?
‘Is this ugly creep bothering you, ma’am?’ he asked.
Elsa, who had defied every effort made by her abuser to knock her cold, fainted, but this time through sheer relief.
FORTY
Sirens caterwauled in the distance. Through the rain and wind it was hard to tell how far away the police were, but they couldn’t be more than minutes. Thank God Detective Ratcliffe had put away any doubt and brought plenty of officers, sirens competing.
Jasmine was slightly ahead of Tess, pushing through the foliage that obscured the path, but they were nearing the point where she’d entered the structure with Pinky, and that meant they weren’t far from the Mustang.
They were soaked through, but Jasmine looked as if she could care less – she was only relieved to be out in the open air. Tess thought it remarkable that after weeks of confinement, suffering constant abuse, the young woman could put a foot in front of the other, let alone run.
They passed the animal trail Tess and Pinky had used earlier, and Tess urged Jasmine on. ‘It’s not far now, and then we’ll be safe.’
‘Wh-what about the others?’ Jasmine asked and almost came to a halt. Tess ushered her on, one palm on her shoulder.
‘We found Lucy and Maria; one of my friends got them out.’ She hoped Pinky had got them out. ‘That’s when I came back to find you.’
‘But what about Elsa?’
Tess thought of the screams she’d heard earlier, and how they’d abruptly ceased. The ensuing silence didn’t bode well for Elsa Moore’s chances of getting out alive, because they had been the screams of someone at death’s door.
‘Don’t worry, I’ve another friend helping Elsa.’ She wanted to add, ‘If anyone can get her out safely it’s him,’ but she couldn’t be certain Po had gotten to her in time. Best remain hopeful, she thought, and kept quiet.
‘Elsa managed to ring you in time?’ Jasmine asked, and again almost halted. ‘Thank God!’
‘Yes,’ Tess said. She pressed Jasmine on. ‘Thankfully she got out a call.’
She didn’t understand the circumstances behind it, but now knew who was responsible for switching on Jasmine’s cell. Elsa hadn’t gotten out a call, but the fact that the phone had connected to a network had been enough to pinpoint its location. Without that one lead, she doubted she’d have found any of the girls in time. How ironic would it be if the girls’ saviour were the one to pay for her heroism with her life?
Please, Po, she prayed silently. Save Elsa.
They rushed along the cinder trail, and came out on the low ground adjacent to the old foyer. There was a set of steps up to a dais that bridged an ancient gulley. But Tess didn’t send Jasmine up them. When she’d first come down from the parking area, she’d come off the old wooden steps on to a foot trail. She looked for the way back up. It was muddy and rocky, not an easy route for Jasmine with her bare feet. ‘That way,’ she said, and turned Jasmine for the concrete steps. Jasmine’s strength finally failed her. She paused at the bottom step, hands on her thighs as she bent and wheezed. ‘Not far now,’ Tess reassured her. ‘We only have to go a little further, I promise.’ She wrapped an arm around the girl’s shoulders and supported her upwards. She could feel Jasmine’s bones through the thin, sopping T-shirt and understood how emaciated she was; no wonder she lacked the strength to haul herself up those last few steps.
As they gained the platform, Tess spotted the wooden steps up to the car. If she had to carry Jasmine up them on her back she would. She looked for Pinky, but the angle didn’t afford a view to where they’d left the Mustang.
‘I’ll help you up,’ Tess said and offered her hand. Jasmine took it gratefully. But before she got going, Jasmine tilted her head up to the rain, and let it patter on her face. She licked the moisture gratefully.
‘Come on, there’re drinks in the car,’ Tess told her.
Jasmine’s dark green eyes sparkled at the prospect of quenching her thirst, and took the first step. Tess supported her, surprised by the strength in her injured wrist. There was a time not too long ago when she feared her hand would never recover from almost being chopped off.
‘Hold it right there!’
A jolt of cold electricity shot through Tess. She recognized the voice, and couldn’t comprehend how Calvin Hopewell had found his way to the remote site. She turned, bringing up the Ruger.
‘Drop your weapon,’ Hopewell snapped, even before she’d got a bead on him.
He had emerged unnoticed from the foyer building as she’d supported Jasmine on to the first step, and his stance was firm, his gun held steady. He was toting a semi-automatic Glock 17. The man had trained as a Marine, he would know how to shoot. Tess allowed the revolver to slip from out of her grip, and swing over, so that she suspended it by her forefinger through the trigger guard. She held it out by her side as she completed her turn to face him.
‘Let’s not have any Annie Oakley shit,’ Hopewell said. ‘Drop the gun and kick it over here to me.’
Beside Tess, Jasmine was struck dumb. She sank on her butt, and a moan of defeat wheezed out of her. Tess reached back to her, keeping hold of her hand, and gave a reassuring squeeze. The woman sobbed.
‘There was a time when I considered taking you,’ Hopewell directed at Tess, ‘came very close to it too, until you stuck that gun in my neck. You aren’t going to be as lucky a second time. Drop the gun, or I’ll put a bullet in your gut.’
She dropped the revolver, and toed it away.
‘That’s better,’ Hopewell said and edged forward. He peered past Tess at the person he was really interested in. ‘Hi, Jazz. Long time no see.’
Jasmine buried her face in her shoulder.
‘So you’re going to try pulling that coy crap again? I didn’t buy it then, sure as hell don’t buy it now.’ Hopewell took another step, but his aim didn’t shift from Tess. His gaze swept over both women. ‘Help her up, Tess,’ he said.
‘Can’t you hear those sirens?’ Tess asked. ‘You must know you’ve no hope of getting out of here. Give it up, Hopewell.’
‘I hear them. That’s why I want you to get Jazz up. There’s a car up there and we’re leaving before the cops arrive.’
‘No,’ Tess answered firmly. ‘She isn’t going anywhere with you.’
Hopewell tilted his head, squinting at her. ‘No? You aren’t in a position to refuse. Get her up, or I swear to God I’ll put you down then drag her the fuck to my car by her hair.’
‘You won’t touch her again, you son of a bitch!’
‘Get her up. Last chance, Tess.’ He pointed the gun at her face.
Tess peered directly down the barrel of the gun. It looked depthless.
‘You’ll have to kill me first,’ Tess assured him.
‘You don’t think I will? You don’t think I’ll blow your fucking brains out?’
‘Cal,’ she said reasonably. ‘You haven’t killed anyone yet. You hurt some people, Maxwell Carter kind of bad, but you’re not a murderer. Not yet. Let us go, forget Jasmine and leave. That’s your only chance.’
Hopewell laughed. ‘That’s what you know. How’d you think I got here, bitch? Remember a guy by the name of Trojak?’
Tess couldn’t help the frown that etched her brow.
‘I made him follow you here,’ Hopewell confirmed. Then he mimed shooting. ‘Then … Pow! Put one in the back of his head. So you see, it’s too late for
him, and it’s too late for me. NOW GET JAZZ UP!’
The savagery of his yell set Tess back on her heels.
The sirens were now so close that Tess expected cops to swarm down the steps any second. She had to keep Hopewell talking, buy them some time.
He stormed forward, and rammed the Glock into her throat.
‘How does that feel? Enough to motivate you?’
Jazz pulled on her outstretched arm.
‘Stay there, Jasmine,’ Tess said.
‘He’s going to kill you,’ Jasmine croaked. She attempted to stand, hanging on to Tess for support, but Tess shrugged her loose and she slumped down on her backside again. If she got up and Hopewell forced them to a car, there’d be no stopping him from taking them both. She was seriously encouraging a bullet to her throat, but she stood her ground.
‘You’re a brave one, I’ll give you that,’ sneered Hopewell. ‘But bravery doesn’t cut it. Get moving.’ He pushed Tess around, just as she caught a flash of movement. Her face must have betrayed her surprise, because Hopewell suddenly snapped around.
Pinky, with his iron pipe raised overhead like a club, charged from the foyer.
Hopewell cursed, swinging the gun away from Tess. She screeched a warning, but it was too late, and Pinky’s only hope was to land a solid blow to Hopewell’s head. Tess threw herself on Hopewell, just as the gun fired.
Pinky stumbled and fell, the pipe sliding from his fingers.
No! Blackness swept Tess’s mind as she watched her friend collapse only feet away. She fought the shock, pulling at Hopewell, who took a step towards Pinky and aimed at his head. She dug her fingertips into his face, and he jerked his head aside. She rammed her shoulder into him but he outweighed her by half again. He set his feet, and swung the elbow of his gun arm into her face.
Stunned, Tess dropped on to her backside, just as Jasmine launched at Hopewell. He caught her under the chin with his free hand, held her at arm’s length as she squealed and clawed. He ignored her, sneered down at Tess, and said, ‘You’re proving more trouble than you’re worth.’
He jammed the gun to Tess’s forehead.
She was terrified, but at least Pinky was safe from an immediate coup de grâce.
FORTY-ONE
The clusters of poorly etched tattoos on Jesse Randall’s hide reminded Po of some inmates’ body art he’d come across during his time at Angola, Louisiana’s notorious maximum-security prison better known as the Farm. Mostly black inmates populated Angola, but there was a minority of white prisoners who formed allegiances and marked themselves to show it: mess with one, and you messed with all. But Jesse’s tats didn’t resemble any of those displayed by any gangs Po was familiar with, and he suspected they had been inked into his skin for effect. The horrific mutilation of Randall’s face he did believe was a product of his time inside: that wound looked like a punishment delivered by another prisoner who took umbrage against the sex offender, to mark him out as a beast. To your run-of-the-mill, law-abiding citizen, his appearance would be intimidating, but the scary image meant as little to Po as the man’s steroid-induced muscles. He looked like a fearsome monster, but it didn’t make him one.
Po held his knife close to his right hip, but the shiny metal kept drawing Randall’s gaze. He repeatedly made fake lunges at Po, the table leg swinging but falling short. He would launch a genuine attack soon, once Po was off guard, but he wasn’t ready yet to test his weapon against a blade.
‘Give it up,’ Po told him. ‘The cops are outside, and you’re going to prison, f’sure. Come at me, though, and you’re going down permanently.’
He couldn’t begin to understand the mind of the psycho, but Po guessed Randall wasn’t thinking clearly. His best bet was to run for it, to try to evade the police, but he wasn’t showing any sign of trying to make a break for it. Randall kept up the ineffective lunges and stabs with his club, as if trying to find a way through to Elsa Moore, who Po recognized from the photographs shown him by Tess.
‘It’s over, Randall,’ Po went on. ‘I’m taking Elsa out of here and I’m not going to let you stop me.’
Randall’s face pinched when he heard his name.
‘Yup, we know who you are, and what you’ve been up to. You’re finished; it’s up to you how you want to go out.’
‘I’ll kill you!’ Even at a shout Randall’s voice slurred, as if forming words was troublesome for him.
‘I’m not going to stand around and let you,’ Po warned.
Randall took another clubbing blow, but this time followed the action with a stamp of his foot. Po didn’t flinch. Randall backed away again.
‘There’s the door.’ Po indicated the gaping hole in the roller shutter. ‘You could try to run.’
The big man glanced once at the prospect of freedom, but he returned his glare to Po’s knife, and shook his head. One option declined, he was weighing the others. Perhaps he thought Po was afraid of a fight, the reason why he’d offered a way out. Po wasn’t scared to engage; it was simply that Elsa’s safety remained his priority. The girl had fainted, but he could hear her coming around. Once she was able to move, then so could he.
The rain still thrummed on the roof, and the wind made a dull roar as it blustered over Quabbin Reservoir, yet a new sound could be heard. Police sirens. In his state of mind, there was no telling what Randall made of them, but Po guessed the police’s impending arrival would force the muscle-freak’s hand.
Elsa muttered something.
‘You OK, ma’am?’ Po asked, without taking his eyes off Randall.
‘Trapped,’ Elsa croaked.
‘Move back along the table, try to free the chain,’ Po suggested.
‘I’m trying.’
Randall let out a shout and sprang forward, this time with commitment.
Po didn’t dodge, because that would give the man a clear line at Elsa. He drove into Randall, getting up his left forearm, jabbing in with his right.
Randall’s arm impacted Po’s and the club whistled down over Po’s head. The tip struck him low on the back, but most of the force had been redirected. His knife went in and out, but Randall gave no indication he’d been stabbed. He simply didn’t know it yet. Po braced his legs, throwing his weight into the giant and forced him back. Randall disengaged, struck again with his club while he was moving backwards. This time Po had to take the impact on his arm, but thankfully he’d angled his elbow out, and the club glanced from him rather than breaking bones. He retracted his cramping arm. But darted out his blade to keep Randall on the back foot. Behind them, Elsa rattled free and fell on her side.
‘Get up on the platform,’ Po told her.
He had to trust she obeyed because Randall came at him again, this time more determined now that he’d hurt Po.
Po sank his weight, and the club missed his head by a whisker. He jabbed in, and sheathed his knife in Randall’s side. The man’s momentum pulled him off the steel with a sucking sound. This time he knew he’d been cut, and he slapped a palm over the wound. ‘Naaaaaahhhh!’ he hollered in denial.
‘Too freaking right,’ said Po.
Swinging his club, Randall charged, and this time Po was forced to dance aside. He spun on his heel, a matador avoiding the goring horns of a bull, and back-swiped his blade at Randall’s body. The man’s sleeveless shirt partially saved him, but he was still scored across the ribs. The punctures to his lower abdomen were more troubling; he simply didn’t know he was bleeding to death. Unhindered by his wounds he battered at Po again, and then lunged after Elsa. She drove away from him, leaping and getting her elbows over the edge of the platform. She scrambled to haul herself up, but was too weak. Randall clutched a flailing ankle and dragged her down.
He raised his club, targeting her head, but Po crashed into him. They went sideways, Randall’s grip wrenched loose. Po had an arm round the bigger man’s body, rolling with him off the wreckage of the trestle. As they hit concrete, they spilled apart. Randall had lost his club, but so too had Po lost h
is knife. It was buried to the hilt in Randall’s side.
Po found his feet first as Randall crawled clear.
He didn’t resume his attack but went to the girl. She was stunned, barely able to get up, so Po lifted her towards the platform. She snaked an ankle over the edge, then slid on her backside, aided by Po.
‘Go,’ he said, ‘leave this scumball to me.’
He turned as Randall came to his feet, emitting a howl of rage. Randall felt for the knife hilt, got his fingers round it, and yanked it out. Blood pulsed from him in three separate streams. He swayed as he studied the knife, then tried to staunch his ebbing life with the flat of his other hand.
Unarmed, Po beckoned him forward.
As reckless as his taunt appeared, there was purpose to it.
Drops of blood pattered the floor between Randall’s splayed feet.
‘Come on, you spineless freak,’ Po taunted again, curling his fingers to draw in an attack. ‘What’s up, you can only hurt helpless girls? Can’t handle it when someone gives you a real fight?’
Randall attacked.
He barrelled in, his arm swiping up to skewer Po’s guts on the knife. Snapping back his hips, Po’s crossed forearms met the upswing, and immediately he transferred his grip so both hands were around Randall’s wrist. The force of the man’s attack lifted Po off his feet, and as he braced his arms, he was carried a few feet as Randall continued to drive into him. As Po’s heels contacted the floor, he was still pushed unerringly backwards. He allowed the man to strain to sheath the knife in him, and more blood gouted out of Randall’s wounds. Po twisted under Randall’s arm, from the outside in, without releasing his grip. As he pivoted, it folded Randall’s arm back on his own elbow. Po yanked down, and Randall had two options: sit down or have his elbow snapped. Students of Aikido or Japanese ju-jitsu familiar with the shiho-nage, or four directions throw, were conditioned to going with it, and tumbling safely out of the lock, but Randall had no such skill. He attempted to meet force with force and there was only one outcome – the tendons supporting his elbow joint were ripped apart. Pain took him down on his back, even as Po stripped the knife out of his failing grip.