Fatal

by Michael Palmer

  Fire!

  Verne had carelessly tossed his butt aside when the deer dashed past him. Larry’s first thought upon smelling smoke now would be to blame the man he had just called a jerk. At least that was what Matt was counting on. He took a book of matches from the carryall, then reached deeper down and removed one of the two flares he carried, and a box of gauze pads to use for kindling. Next he made his way back to the woods opposite the cabin. Cautiously, with agonizing slowness, he hauled several armfuls of brush across to the corner of the porch. Pausing for a few seconds, he chanced looking through the window. Larry, a holstered revolver tucked under his massive left arm, had settled onto a slat-backed chair at the foot of the bed. Nikki lay on her back, sleeping deeply, her right hand twitching rhythmically every few seconds.

  Another time check showed nineteen minutes.

  Matt chose the Viper for cover. With any luck, Larry’s back would be to him when he made his move. If not, Matt had reason to believe he’d be dead before he had injected even a drop of the Ketamine. He knelt by the brush and jammed the paper-wrapped gauze pads into place. Next he lit the paper in several places and made certain it was blazing. Just in case, he inserted the flare unlit. Setting it off at this point might be too much noise.

  Keeping low, the syringe tucked in his right hand, Matt raced around to the far side of the Viper, flattened out, and watched underneath the car as the brush pile began, ever so slowly, to burn.

  Come on, baby. Burn, for crying out loud! Burn!

  One twig caught, then another. He should have chanced the noise of packing the brush down a little, or maybe even set the flare off. The twigs were taking way too long to catch.

  Fourteen minutes.

  He hoped the odor and sound of the fire would be enough to get Larry outside. Failing that, plan B was simply to make some sort of nonspecific noise and hope for the best. It was a plan with little chance of success and a potentially lethal downside, but time was running out. He was preparing to make some sound when he smelled smoke. Risking a peek over the hood of the Viper, he saw that the cardboard box from the gauze pads had caught, and branches all around it were going up. There was crackling from the pile now, too.

  Okay, Tubby. Wake up and smell the bonfire.

  “What the—?”

  Larry clomped across the porch, down the single step to the fire, and began kicking at it with the toe of his shoe.

  “Fucking Verne,” Matt heard him say.

  Holding the syringe like a dagger, with his thumb on the plunger, Matt got some purchase for his back leg against a root and sprang ahead. At that instant, the flare ignited with a burst of light and heat that sent Larry stumbling backward several steps, holding one arm up to shield his eyes. He was two or three inches taller, but Matt had his move planned. He leapt from several feet away, slamming against Larry’s back and hooking his left arm around his throat. Simultaneously, he jammed the needle to the hilt at the base of the giant’s skull, and an instant after that pressed down the plunger. Larry, who had staggered forward only a step from the force of Matt’s assault, bellowed and swung around with the power of a steam shovel. Before the Ketamine load could be fully delivered, Matt and the syringe were sent flying.

  Nostrils flared, eyes wide with surprise and fury, Larry charged. Matt rolled over once, then again, but he wasn’t quick enough to avoid being kicked in the belly. The hulk was winding up again when Matt made an awkward half somersault and scrambled to his feet. Larry lunged for him, but missed short. He was fumbling for his gun when Matt took off, zigzagging down the drive in an effort to make himself less of a target. There was a shot, then another, but they sounded strangely far away. Matt kept pounding ahead, into the protection of the darkness, but he was reluctant to get too far from the cabin. He checked over his shoulder. Larry had broken off his pursuit and was standing at least fifty yards back, hollering something Matt couldn’t make out, but probably could have guessed.

  The stopwatch was at thirty-five minutes now. Only five minutes or so remained before Grimes was expected back.

  The Harley was just a few yards away. If Larry decided to come after him again, he might not get the bike uncovered and started before he was in range. Still, it seemed worth a try. He had blown things big-time. There was little chance now to get past Goliath to Nikki. The only option that made any sense was to race into town and try to get help. But by the time he returned—if he returned—she would certainly be gone, and Grimes, Larry, and Cowboy Verne would have bullets marked for him.

  What a screwup!

  He threw aside enough branches to expose the ignition, then jumped aboard and burst through the brush onto the driveway, prepared to dodge gunfire. Instead, he saw Larry standing motionless right where he had been, a hot-air balloon silhouetted against the light from the cabin. Matt stopped the bike and watched as in slow motion the behemoth cross-stepped gracelessly from one side to the other, then flapped his arms in the air once and collapsed. Wary of a trap, but feeling there was room to speed past the man and around the cabin, Matt rolled up to where he lay. The whale was beached, his head lolling impotently from side to side. The snub-nosed revolver lay a few feet away. His eyes fixed on Larry, Matt bent over, picked it up, and dropped it into the carryall.

  “Sweet dreams,” he said, knowing that fearsome nightmares often accompanied the awakening from Ketamine sleep. Sweet dreams.

  He slipped the clutch and spewed a rooster tail of dirt as he sped to the cabin. The brush was still burning. In fact, a corner of the structure was smoldering and beginning to flame. His stopwatch was passing forty-four minutes as he raced inside.

  “Hey, you, time to wake up,” he said, taking Nikki’s hand in his and gently cradling her head.

  Nikki blinked dreamily and actually smiled up at him before suddenly remembering where she was.

  “Matt, it’s Grimes, he—”

  “I know. Listen, we’ve got to get out of here. Grimes’ll be back any moment. Can you walk okay?”

  “I’m a little wobbly and my head is still pounding, but I think I can walk.”

  “Hurry, then. I’ll help. My bike is outside.”

  “Bike?”

  “Motorcycle. Please.”

  She let him pull her upright, then used his arm for balance.

  “Sit up in front of me until I’m sure you can hold on,” he said. “Just keep your feet right here, away from the engine, or you’ll be burned. Hold on to my arms or the handlebars. Ready?”

  “Ready. How did you—?”

  “I’ll explain everything after we’re out of here.”

  Headlight off, Matt accelerated. He slowed briefly as they passed Larry.

  “Is he dead?” Nikki asked.

  “I don’t think so. He’s taking a voyage on the good ship Ketamine.”

  “Matt!”

  “It’s them.”

  Ahead, the dirt drive swung sharply to their right. Through the trees, they could see headlights bobbing toward them. Matt waited until the approaching high beams were just about to reach them, then he threw on his own high beam and accelerated. Before a startled Verne could react, the motorcycle had sped past. Matt caught enough of a glimpse of Bill Grimes in the passenger seat to see his recognition. Through the rearview of the bike he saw the Land Rover make a rapid two-part U-turn.

  “Hold on tight, Nikki,” he said. “This isn’t going to be easy.”

  CHAPTER 21

  MATT SPED DOWN THE DIRT DRIVE WITH SOME confidence. The Land Rover was far better on the ruts than his street bike, but at the end of the drive, he could make a right turn and head to the wooded trail at the end of the road. The Harley certainly wasn’t equipped for off-road riding, but from what he remembered, the trail was too rugged and narrow for a car of any kind, even the one pursuing them.

  “Duck down a little bit and the windshield will keep things out of your eyes,” he cried out.

  The small windscreen was sloped to deflect air—and bugs—up and over the head of the driver a
nd anyone on the passenger seat. Their arrangement, though, with Nikki in front, placed her face directly in the jet stream. She hunched over as he suggested and continued to be a perfect passenger, flowing with the turns of the bike rather than trying to help Matt make them happen, and keeping her exposed feet and ankles away from the scalding exhaust system.

  As they neared the end of the drive, Matt risked a peek over his shoulder. Verne and Grimes were still a ways back, but it appeared as if they had made up some ground.

  “Hang on tight!” he yelled as the end of the long driveway suddenly appeared.

  He downshifted and just managed to lean through the ninety-degree right turn without sending the bike skidding out from under them. When he was a teen he had done some dirt-bike racing and even a little motocross, but the kids he topped in Geometry and English at school consistently trounced him on the track. Now what skills he did have were about to be sorely put to the test. They were on a six-hundred-pound touring machine headed toward the woods. He added just a bit of throttle and, engine screaming, they shot forward. Moments later he saw the high beams of the Land Rover dance against the trees as it, too, turned onto the road. After half a mile or so, the pavement turned to gravel, then to uneven, rocky dirt. The shocks on the Harley were more sluggish than those of an off-road machine and Matt had to slow a bit to keep the two of them from being bucked off.

  “You okay?” he hollered.

  Nikki nodded and ducked her head even farther down beneath the windscreen. The night was too cool and breezy for her to be comfortable in a set of scrubs. Her hands clutched his forearms with some strength, but he doubted she would be able to hang on tightly enough to remain aboard the passenger seat.

  You bastard, Grimes, Matt was thinking, holding her in place. If it’s the last thing I do, you’re going to pay for this.

  He scanned ahead, looking for the expected trail. They had already gone farther than he remembered. Instead of narrowing, though, the roadway actually seemed to widen and become more smoothly graded. Just then his high beam reflected brightly off the white of a billboard-sized sign up ahead, featuring artwork depicting happy boaters, fishermen, swimmers, tennis players, golfers, and barbecuers.

  COMING SOON

  SHADY LAKE MANOR ESTATES

  A GATED PLANNED COMMUNITY

  WASHAW, WEST VIRGINIA

  THE PLACE TO BE

  IN THE EASTERN MOUNTAINS

  BUILDING LOTS GOING FAST

  RESERVE YOURS NOW

  PLANNED COMMUNITY! SO much for the narrow dirt-bike trails. They had just cruised through the forest that Matt had anticipated would separate them from Grimes and his henchman. In fact, they were out of Belinda entirely and into the next town. Trouble.

  The lots of Shady Lake Manor Estates might have been going fast, but the landscaping and construction still had a long way to go. The land had been clear-cut, but at the moment, the place to be in the eastern mountains consisted of a maze of interconnected dirt streets demarcating large dirt lots. There was no lighting, and very little in the way of heavy equipment, and Matt wondered if the project might have gone under. He hoped so. To his way of thinking, such “communities” gouged the landscape as much as any strip mine. But while there was little in the way of construction paraphernalia throughout Shady Lake Manor, what there was, everywhere, were signs. Street signs, directional arrow signs; future-home-of signs, lot-number signs; a sign by a broad, shallow foundation hole that read: CLUBHOUSE; another nearby that boasted: CENTRAL POOL.

  Well, Mr. and Mrs. Jones, that number 281 stuck in the mud over there may not look like much at the moment, but . . .

  There was no question Verne was gaining on them now. Less than fifty yards separated them. There was virtually no terrain over which the Land Rover didn’t have a heavy advantage. In fact, the situation at the moment was so one-sided that Matt actually had a vivid image of Grimes laughing at them.

  Matt scanned ahead for some way to put more distance between them. The Land Rover was way too close to consider trying to search out a place to hide. The only hope he could see was to work toward the far side of Shady Lake Manor by making sharp, unpredictable turns, and hope that they could find the opening to a narrow track and escape into the woods. He tried cutting across some lots and hit a steep slope of firm, packed dirt that sent the Harley airborne. The landing was anything but smooth. Nikki cried out as her head snapped forward against the windshield. Behind them, Verne took the same jump with ease.

  Back on one of the streets, Matt sped onto rolling, sparsely treed land that was probably a golf course in the making. They were bouncing viciously now. Matt did his best to avoid the major pits and rises, but they were moving too fast for him to do much in the way of prevention. Then, up ahead, his headlight glinted off a vast, uniform darkness. Before he could completely analyze the situation, they were airborne again, sailing over the edge of what was one day to be Shady Lake.

  “Sit up straight and hang on!” he screamed.

  Just as Nikki did so, the bike landed with surprising gentleness on the side of a steep embankment, maybe twenty-five feet high. At the bottom of the slope, as far as Matt could see, was water. What there was of the lake could have been six inches deep or six feet. There was no way to tell. They were out of control, speeding and skidding downward toward the smooth blackness. But Matt had been riding motorcycles of one kind or another for most of his life. By staying upright, using his outstretched feet, and delicately playing the front and rear brakes, he was able to skid the Harley into a right-hand turn and onto a stony rim just a foot or so from the water.

  Nicely done, he thought.

  He cut the lights and braked to a stop. Nikki sighed loudly, straightened up, and sank back against him. He quickly stripped his jacket off and helped her get it on.

  “I knew I’d hate this,” she groaned.

  “What are you talking about?”

  “This is my first time on a motorcycle. Now I know why I said no thanks so many times.”

  “But this isn’t exactly—”

  “Rutledge!”

  High up and behind them, Verne had pulled to a stop at the rim. The twin beams of the Land Rover knifed out over the huge crater. Against the bright night sky, Matt could make out Grimes’s silhouette, standing hands on hips on the edge of the embankment.

  “What?” Matt yelled up, using the light from the Rover to scan the nearly empty lake. The sides, as far as he could see, were too steep to ride back up, but he sensed he was viewing only a small portion of the excavation. The lake bed itself was lined with three- or four-inch stones, extending up a foot or so beyond where they were standing. If the water wasn’t too deep, and if the stones covered the entire bottom, it was possible they could ride across. Big ifs. And ride across to what?

  “There’s no way out of there except on foot, Matt. Come up and let’s talk.”

  “Sounds good to me. You’ve always been an upstanding, trustworthy guy. Just turn off those lights and we’ll be right up.”

  “Rutledge, my man has a rifle and he’s a damn good shot. Come out of there now and I can keep you from getting killed.”

  “Just how do you plan on doing that?” he asked, buying a little time. “Nikki,” he whispered, “how’re you holding up?”

  “My kidneys are still bouncing, and my heart hasn’t slowed down from that little ride down the cliff, but at least I’m not thinking about my headache anymore. Where are we?”

  Matt was pleased to hear her humor, and if anything, her voice sounded stronger.

  “We’re in Disneyland a year or two before Mickey arrives,” he replied. “Listen, if you can handle it, I’m going to try and motor around the lake just in case the slope gets any less someplace and we can drive out. Can you hang on?”

  “Would it be easier if I was on the back?”

  “Not if you fall off.”

  “I can do it.”

  “Keep your feet on those rests at all times. If you hit the exhaust with your bare to
otsies, you’re going to need smaller shoes.”

  “Rutledge, this is your last chance!”

  “Okay, we’re coming, we’re coming,” Matt called out, buying time. “Nikki, you all set?”

  “Is there something I should be holding on to?”

  “Those railings beside your seat, or else me.”

  She slipped her arms around his waist, squeezed tightly, and pressed her cheek against his back.

  “Go,” she said.

  Matt squinted through the darkness to gauge how far ahead he could see in order to skirt the water’s edge without turning on his headlight. Then he picked up a stone and threw it across the water as far as he could. Along with a splash, he heard the distinct click of rock hitting rock. That far out at least the water was very shallow.

  “Rutledge!”

  Matt shifted into first and gunned the Harley ahead. If there was a rifle crack from overhead, he didn’t hear it. Ten, twenty, thirty mph. The magnificent bike surged forward over the stones. Over his shoulder he could see that the Rover had backed up and was now paralleling them overhead, a short distance back. The darkness made speed difficult, and Matt finally gave in and switched on his light for a short while. The lake, while not quite as vast as he had thought, was an oval, maybe half a mile long and a quarter mile across. If, in fact, it had actually been a shady lake, there might have been some trees overhead to slow up or even detour Verne and Grimes. But as things stood, they were having no trouble racing along twenty or thirty feet above them. The engine noise from the Harley reverberated off the water and the steep walls, making it impossible to tell if they were being fired on or not.