by A P Bateman
The man wobbled a little, took another step backwards and tried to regain balance. His foot broke through the leaves and debris and the thin material it concealed. The drop was only a foot or so, but every inch of it ran over the sharpened spikes. It wasn’t the drop that did the damage, but the man’s reaction. He tried to pull his leg out quickly and each sharpened stick dug deeply into his flesh. He screamed in agony and like a trapped animal fought frantically to escape, only tightening the grip and effectiveness of the trap and driving the spikes deeper. He fell down awkwardly onto one knee, the other twisting as the spikes gripped firmly deep into the flesh of his calf.
Stone approached cautiously, pulled the rifle out of the man’s grip and looked down at him. The man stared up defiantly. Stone pulled the knife out of the man’s chest and a gush of thick, dark blood followed. Stone wiped the blade carefully on the man’s shoulder, cleaning the blood away on his ripped and tattered shirt. “This was my brother’s knife,” he said calmly. “He carried it all his life. Showed me how to throw it into trees when we were kids.” He looked into the man’s eyes as he folded the blade and slipped it back into his pocket. The man’s breathing was labored, but he still looked defiantly at Stone.
“I enjoyed killing him,” the man rasped.
Stone said nothing as he reversed the rifle and held the barrel in both hands like an axe. He raised it high above his head and in a motion of absolute power and brute force brought it crashing down on the man’s skull. It was a devastating blow and the man sagged lifelessly, his skull crushed and bloody.
Stone looked at the man’s motionless body, then turned his back on him and walked over to Isobel. He took the knife back out and sliced at her bindings and she fell forwards into his arms. She said nothing, didn't need to, and they held on to each other tightly and listened to the wonderful silence of the forest which had now enveloped them.
FIFTY SEVEN
It was dark and cold when they walked into Deal. The town was deathly quiet and the only light shone from within the houses. There didn’t appear to be any street lamps. They were tired and looked a sight in their ripped clothes and muddied and bloodied skin. The Sheriff's department was closed, but there was a direct dial telephone hanging up in a box outside and Stone called through to Sheriff Harper at his home number. He was short with the sheriff on the phone and requested that he come over to meet them immediately. Harper said he would be there in twenty minutes and that was the best he could do. One horse towns.
They walked across the street and went into Sally’s Diner. They were served by a waitress, who barely gave them both a second glance and they took their hot coffees and two donuts each over to an enclosed booth. Stone had ordered them two club sandwiches that the waitress started to prepare. Just one member of staff doing it all. The donuts barely touched the sides and nor did the clubs, which were both heavy on turkey breast and maple smoked bacon and came with a side of fries. They were halfway through their refill coffees when they saw Sheriff Harper draw up outside the Sheriff s Department in his cruiser.
He looked around for them, and then looked over towards the diner. He noticed Stone at the booth and jogged across the road and straight up the steps. “Evening, Jodie,” he said to the waitress behind the counter as he entered the otherwise empty diner. “A coffee, please...” He made his way over towards them, and stared at their appearance with much interest and amusement. “Been taking in the sights? I hear the mountains are good for walking at this time of year.”
“Funny man,” Stone commented flatly. “Take a seat before you fall down laughing.”
Sheriff Harper sat beside Isobel, held out his hand. “Please to meet you, Ma’am.” He took her hand softly and shook it. “Sheriff Harper. Call me John.”
“Isobel,” she replied.
Stone coughed, and both Harper and Isobel turned their attention to him. “Good, now that the pleasantries are out of the way, let's get down to business. Sheriff, we have an incident to report. And no time to hang around and help you with your inquiries.”
Harper leaned forward and put his hands on the table. “Sounds as if you're both in a bit of a pickle.”
“It could have been worse. There's a town not too far from here called South Chesterton, you know it?”
Harper smiled. “We're not in Hicksville. We do know who our neighbors are,” he paused. “About ten miles in all, other side of the valley. We play them at Sunday league softball. They suck.”
“Does your jurisdiction run to there?”
“When it has to.”
“Good, just see that it does on this occasion. There's a dead hobo, out by the fishing hole. Well, he wasn’t actually homeless, he had a cabin in the woods. Lived off the grid though. His body can't have been discovered yet, otherwise you would have heard about it.”
“I’ve heard of him. There’s a few vets out here living in the woods. Iraq and Afghan now too, not just veterans of Vietnam. What happened?” Harper looked up, then suddenly held his hand to silence Stone, as the waitress drew near with an empty cup and a pot of steaming coffee. She poured the coffee to fill the cup, and then walked away, sensing that she was intruding. “Sorry about that, small town, big gossip.”
Stone nodded. “The man, Joe Carver, was shot in the throat and head from across the lake with a rifle, an M4 assault rifle, actually.”
“That's a very precise description, what else can you tell me?”
“The gunman is lying dead, in the forest about four or five miles or so away from here, up on a plateau. He was trying to kill us. His vehicle, a big silver Mercedes sedan is abandoned on the road about three or four miles below and to the West.”
“Sounds like that plateau is up on Beaumont Ridge. Judging from the road below. Good deer and elk shooting up that way. Plenty of water runs down and pools up there. The deer like that. What about the man's weapon?”
“The rifle is hidden in a clump of bushes twenty feet in a direct line from his head. I've made it safe and his knife is beside it.” Stone took the Glock 9mm he’d recovered from the forest out from his holster and slid it across the table to Harper. “This is his also, you’d better hang on to it. There is a Sig Sauer pistol up there too, it’s mine, but I couldn’t waste any more time searching for it.” He looked at the sheriff intently. “Now, we are on a tight schedule, I can answer any questions you have, but I just can't spare the time involved in a formal investigation.”
“State Police will get involved in this, that's a certainty. I have no other choice but to let them in on it,” he paused. “Of course, I could just play dumb, until you get yourself back here and let me know what happened. Let nature take its course, so to speak. Once the body of the hobo has been reported, I can take my time with the investigation. I won't have to let State Police know until the body of your gunman turns up, that way there will be an obvious connection and I'll have no choice but to inform them. But until then, you'll have all the time you need. And at this time of year, not many people are going to start heading out to Beaumont Ridge.”
“Why is that?” Isobel asked.
“Bears, Ma’am. Whole damn lot of them been sighted out there, and they're real hungry, trying to get fat stores for winter. They shouldn't be approached. Best to stay out of the area completely.” Harper paused. “At least, that's the warning I will put out at first light tomorrow.”
“Sheriff,” Stone stood up and held out his hand, “I like your style.”
Harper took them back to his house where they both showered and borrowed some clean clothes. Harper's pants were a little baggy on Stone's trim, muscled waist and Mrs. Harper was a good two sizes bigger that Isobel, but she was grateful for the clean jeans and sweatshirt that the sheriff's wife willingly provided for her. Stone swabbed his cuts with some antiseptic and patched himself up with some sutures and band aids.
They drove out to the fishing hole on the outskirts of South Chesterton and the police cruiser's headlights lit up the deserted parking lot, deserted except
for the bright red Ford Mustang, illuminated in the darkness by the cruiser's bright beams.
Stone opened his door and looked at both Isobel and Sheriff Harper. “Both of you wait here,” he paused, picking up the flashlight which was fixed to the console of the car with a special holder. “I wouldn't be surprised if that sick bastard tampered with my car as an insurance policy. Give me a few minutes to make a check.” He stepped out of the cruiser and slammed the door behind him.
The Mustang was parked on a stretch of dry dirt, its rear end raised slightly because of the contour of the ground. He approached cautiously, tracing the beam of the flashlight around the ground all around the vehicle. He walked slowly and surely, until he had completely circled the vehicle. Next, he got closer, and visually searched the wheel arches and under carriage, the chassis and underneath the engine. He opened the trunk with his key, carefully ran his finger along the open space, and then opened it all the way, all the while checking for contact wires or tripping devices. He opened both doors equally as carefully; taking the same precautions, then popped the hood and shone the beam all around the engine bay. The car appeared to be clear, and he had made sure to observe the minute detail, such as greasy finger marks on the coachwork. It was as thorough a job as he could hope to achieve in the darkness and he knew that the likelihood of the car being booby-trapped was slim. The assassin had been a master marksman, would have prided himself on the precision method he favored.
Stone slipped the key into the Mustang's ignition and fired up the engine. Part of him flinched, the other part regained self-control and composure. He walked over to the cruiser and bent down to the Sheriff’s window. “Thanks for everything you've done. Perhaps you could do one more thing?”
“Shoot.”
“Get that Mercedes off the road and away from any opportunistic thieves. I want to order a thorough examination of it at a later date. See what forensics can come up with. Put some surgical gloves on when you move it.”
“No problem,” Sheriff Harper smiled. “Now get yourselves out of here. You've caused me enough trouble tonight. So much for an easy life.”
It was an eight-hour drive to Washington. Flying down would have taken the time down to a mere fraction, but Stone had wanted the time in which to think, to make sense of the recent events. The roads were quiet and the car sat happily at sixty to seventy miles per hour and with such little revs running, the twin exhausts made hardly any noise. It was only at an idling tick-over, or at full throttle or under heavy engine breaking that the exhausts sucked the noise from the mighty V8 and resonated like the clap and rumble of thunder.
Isobel had slept for most of the way, or least she had pretended to in that manner one does when there is little conversation to be gleaned mutually. She was aware that Stone was heavy in thought, and after the first few attempts to converse were rebuked, she settled into the journey and the company of her own thoughts. After a while, both of them were so deeply in thought that the journey appeared to rush past and before long they were around the halfway mark. They had stopped for fuel and refreshments and a moment to stretch their cramped legs at an all-night service station. Stone noticed that Isobel was becoming increasingly withdrawn. He decided that she was coming down from the adrenaline rush that had taken hold of them and ploughed them on through their ordeal.
Since the moment the gunman had squeezed the trigger in New York, they had been constantly running, persistently heading towards an objective. Isobel herself had undoubtedly been under the strain for a longer period of time, as she had been running scared since the moment she had taken the flash drives from the bioresearch facility. She now looked thoroughly drained, exhausted.
They had drank full-sugar sodas and eaten some less than healthy glazed pastries that tasted a day or two old and bought some gummy candy and bottled water for the remainder of the journey. After they had stretched their legs around the deserted floodlit parking lot they had returned to the car and continued with their journey.
They had arrived back in Washington DC a little after four AM and reached Stone's apartment soon after. Stone decided that Isobel’s apartment was out of the question and besides, the Secret Service agent preferred to be on home ground when he felt under threat. Although the assassin was out of the picture, lying dead and trapped somewhat in the darkness of the Vermont forest, they had no idea of how many people were after them, nor if they were still under immediate threat.
Stone had shown Isobel to his own bedroom, given a clean bathrobe to her as well as some fresh towels from the linen closet and had said that if she wanted anything, then she was simply to help herself or come and wake him up. He had closed the door on her at four-thirty. Before he had collapsed on the couch, he took a loaded Glock model 19 pistol out from the back drawer of his bookcase, checked the magazine and breach and tucked it under his pillow. He was asleep two minutes later and awake a minute after that when Isobel came creeping out of the bedroom, had lifted the sheet and cuddled up beside him on the couch. Her breathing was soft, and her actions and body language had demanded nothing more than the comfort of sharing their sleep. Stone felt her soft flesh on his back, felt her knees resting into the back of his own, tensed as she wrapped an arm around his waist. And relaxed as he sensed her fall asleep against his back. He closed his eyes, relished the warmth of her breath on his skin, and was asleep before he could even begin to wonder why she had joined him in such a way.
When Stone woke at eight forty five, he was aware that he was now lying alone on the couch. Had he dreamt her presence? He didn't think so. There was something innocent and comforting about her actions, as if she were a scared and lonely child seeking comfort from a parent or sibling after a bad nightmare, although her gentle touch and the way in which they had lain together suggested more.
He rolled onto his back and stretched, yawned, then sniffed the air. There was the aroma of frying bacon and toast under the grill. He swung his legs over the edge of the couch and rubbed the sleep from his blurry eyes. He felt cheated, his sleep having passed by in a blink.
He flinched suddenly as his cell phone let out a shrill tone and started to vibrate on the table. The table was topped with a plate of thick polished glass and the tiny device started to perform an intermittent pirouette. He watched it for a moment, wondering whether it would in fact complete the circle. He cut the performance short: “Stone here.”
“Hi there, Sheriff Harper here, from Vermont.”
“Go ahead, Sheriff.”
“Got that fancy Mercedes all secured, back at my place.”
“Good. Can you keep it there?”
“Shouldn't be a problem, for too long. Just one thing, though.”
“What's that?”
“It's like god damn mission control in there. Laptop computer, wireless modem connection booster. Military grade, I reckon. Even a receiver for a bug, or tracking device, or some damn thing,” Sheriff Harper paused. “And the trunk was kitted out like an armory. Sub-machine pistol, customized job with a silencer, a sawn-off pump-action shotgun next to the car and a number of pistols and ammunition tucked here and there.”
“The man was a professional assassin. I guess it's just the tools of his trade.”
“Well, whatever it is, I don't like having it all in my possession without the paperwork, you can understand that?”
“I understand, Sheriff. How about hanging in there for another twenty-four hours, that's all I ask. If haven't got back to you by then, call it in.”
“Ok,” Harper replied hesitantly. “Anyway, no word's come from the fishing hole out at South Chesterton. We've had heavy rain this morning, ain't nobody going fishing today so I guess you'll be clear for a while.”
“Thank you, Sheriff. And thanks for your call, I appreciate your position. Look, one more thing. Joe, the hobo guy. He was a veteran. I feel bad him being out there like that. If there’s no next of kin or sufficient funds, I’d like to pick up the tab for his funeral. Please contact me closer to the time, than
ks Sheriff.” Stone cut the connection and stared thoughtfully into space. There was more on his mind now and he wondered what a difference Harper's call would have made. The sheriff would be in a tight spot if Stone could not come up with another lead soon.
Isobel appeared in the doorway of the lounge, a plate of food in each hand. “Hi,” she said, a little awkwardness in her voice. “Hungry?”
Stone covered his shorts with part of the sheet. He smiled, “Sure,” he said. “You've been up a while?”
Isobel sat down beside him and handed him a plate and a fork. “Yeah, about thirty minutes,” she said. “I thought we might have a lot to do today.” She took a mouthful of scrambled egg, chewed a few times and swallowed. “What do you think?”
Stone hurriedly took a mouthful. It was smooth and creamy and had a little dried basil and black pepper in it as he always thought it should have. There was a little pat of butter on top, and the heat was melting it. It looked glossy and rich. “Delicious,” he said.
“Not the egg, stupid,” she teased. “Whether we might have a lot to do today, that's what I was asking. Anyway, who was that on the phone? You look worried.”
Stone felt dumb. He cut a piece of bacon off with the edge of his fork and scooped some scrambled egg onto it. He ate it, chewing thoughtfully. When he had finished the mouthful, he frowned. “That was Sheriff Harper, just reporting in, nothing to worry about,” he said. “And to your first question, and not mistaking it for your cooking this time, I reckon our only way forward is to take the direct approach. Take the bull by the horns and give him the shock of his life.”