by Kris Pearson
I attempted a smile. My whole face felt trembly. “I need to buy a new phone. Mine got thrown in to the water when they saw me texting you.”
His piercing blue eyes narrowed and his lips pressed together briefly before he said, “Honey, I’m sorry. Let me pay for it.”
I stared at him, amazed he’d even think of offering. “But you rescued us. You don’t owe me a thing. I’ll check with my insurance company.”
“Not quite how I feel about it,” John muttered. “If I hadn’t brought you here you wouldn’t have been grabbed or lost your phone.”
“And poor old Margaret would still be stuck in the cottage with them, scared stiff,” I pointed out.
He hitched a shoulder in an apologetic shrug. “If you call your provider they should be able to transfer your account over pretty fast. You want me to take you to buy a new one tomorrow?”
*
Of course John knew ‘someone in the business’ who could give me a deal. Monday flew by in a flash, and with the TV shooting approaching fast, so did Tuesday.
Graham was just about beside himself with worry and protectiveness after the recent action and danger. He phoned me from the office much more often than usual, making sure I was safe, that I had the door locked if I was working, that I didn’t need him to come home and provide company. Honestly, he was as clucky as an old hen. He was a jolly nuisance sometimes, interrupting my concentration as I was trying to unscramble Elaine O’Blythe’s manuscript with the help of her delicate watercolors. But… yes… it’s nice to be thought about so I tried not to snap at him. I may have rolled my eyes quite a lot while he couldn’t see my face.
Wednesday dawned bright and clear. The excitement level for some of us was ramped up to ridiculous as we milled around in front of Kirkpatrick’s barn. Both helicopters gleamed in the sun. Presumably someone had polished the Squirrel for its starring role because it looked amazing. Even so, I caught Erik rubbing his elbow on something that was possibly a tiny smear.
Heather was her composed self, a clipboard tucked into the crook of her elbow, and her hair in a gorgeous French twist up-do. Ten Ton Smedley looked like a double-size Tom Cruise in his Top Gun gear. Well, maybe it was his mechanic’s overalls, but with aviator sunglasses he seemed pretty cool to me. He was obviously itching to leave the ground. John and Erik were as chill as ever, but Bailey, Pete and Mac resisted all of Lisa’s efforts to calm them down.
“You’re in charge of them,” she muttered to me out of Ten Ton’s hearing.
“He’s their dad,” I protested.
“He’s flying John and that’ll keep him plenty occupied. He’s got the bag with the kids’ spare clothes. Because of his size, no other passenger today.”
Paul and I looked at each other doubtfully. What had we got ourselves into? I had indeed squeezed myself into the dreaded Spanx before hauling on my best dark jeans and a wine red blouse. He – no doubt also at Heather’s instruction – wore khaki shorts and an oatmeal-colored T-shirt. With any luck I’d disappear into the shadows and he’d look like a plant hunter from the tropics with his very good legs and tousled dark hair.
I peered at him more closely. Although there was a light breeze, not a hair moved. I suspected Heather had taken to him with some sort of ‘product’. The effect was tres sexy.
“I like what she’s done to your hair.”
“Stiff as concrete,” Paul muttered, tapping a cautious finger against an artful lock that had been arranged to droop over his brow.
“Very Hugh Grant.”
His big brown eyes shot wide open. “Really?”
“I’ve always thought there were similarities.”
He sent me a shy smile. “Both English,” was all he said, but the pleased grin hovered around for quite a while.
I waited for Erik to yell something like ‘Listen up, people!’ like they do in movies, but instead it was Heather who reached into Paul’s car, gave a loud blast on the horn, and waited for silence.
“Right,” she announced. “Paul, Merry, Erik and the children into the Squirrel with me please. John will shoot us taking off, flying low, flying higher. Then he and Ten will follow and overtake so they can shoot us landing.” She slammed the car door. “Can you lock this, Paul?”
Obediently he reached into the pocket of his shorts and found the key-ring with the remote. The car beeped and flashed.
Off we went. The new machine was definitely a step up from the other one, and now I knew a little more about what to expect I enjoyed the views enormously. Erik flew straight along Drizzle Bay Road. “Look down there,” I said, pointing out the vet clinic to Bailey, Pete and Mac. I suspect they were way ahead of me, but they politely indulged ‘Mum’s friend’ with smiles and nods. The harnesses at least kept them confined in their seats.
“Drizzle Farm,” I said, spotting the glittering gateposts Alex had decorated. I hadn’t done our loquat tree out the front yet – maybe later today?
“Devon Downs,” Erik informed us all a minute or two later. “So we’re going up over this range of hills and then you’ll see the conservation area.”
We soared on, following the smaller machine and waiting until it had landed. “No smoke today,” I said for Erik’s benefit. The vegetation stretched green and peaceful down to the stream.
“No truck either,” he said when we reached the big flowering pohutukawa. “Looks like the Police have removed it.”
Ten Ton had set John down well to one side of the big flat area, and his camera was already mounted on a tripod as Erik eased the Squirrel to the ground as gently as a bee settling on a flower. The children needed no encouragement to race around looking as though they were having an excellent time. A little more coaxing was required before they agreed to hide in the trees and change into their swimming gear, but soon they were all splashing energetically with the cascading waterfall as a fantastic backdrop. Paul and I were expected to stand to one side, holding hands like a happily married couple keeping an indulgent eye on ‘our’ offspring.
He continued the warm grip even when I was sure it was no longer necessary, but then Heather called out, “Lay your head on his shoulder, Merry.”
I’d never laid my head on anyone’s shoulder while out on a picnic with children, but it was no hardship to stand there in the sun leaning on a handsome man. Paul let go of my hand and wrapped his arm around my waist as we stood together waiting to be instructed to break apart. Heather must have forgotten us because no instruction ever came.
Instead, a picnic hamper of the Burkeville’s best treats appeared, and John shot close-ups of Mac biting into an over-filled croissant, Pete rolling his eyes with glee as he pulled a strip of bacon from a big slice of quiche, and Bailey licking the frosting from a strawberry cupcake as though she was a fastidious kitten. The cupcake looked to me as though it had come straight from Iona’s kitchen. I raised an eyebrow at Heather and she winked back. Maybe she was drumming up trade for her new boss?
“Prettier than a muffin,” she murmured, handing around bottles of water. We all joined in the feast and I was amazed to find it was already well after midday.
“So that just leaves some ‘straight to camera’ pieces from me,” she said, consulting her clip-board after we’d eaten. She glanced at the sky. “We could do them another day because those clouds are going to be over the sun in a few minutes.”
We all squinted up. Sure enough it looked as though the weather was changing fast. The clouds were thickening and changing from fluffy white to threatening bruise-like hues.
“You warm enough, kids?” Ten Ton asked. “Mum packed towels and fleeces in the bag.”
Little Pete gave a theatrical shiver. “It’s getting colder.”
“I’ll grab it,” Paul said, bouncing to his feet and jogging across to the smaller machine. By the time he returned Heather had the picnic leftovers stowed and the air was definitely chilly. It was growing darker, and all around us the trees exuded quiet menace. Then I realized the birds had stopped singing. “
Feels like thunder, maybe?” I said.
“Noooo…” Bailey wailed. “I hate thunder.”
“Of course it won’t,” Ten Ton rumbled. But I saw him looking up at the sky, and I also saw him and Erik both cocking their heads and listening intently. John had packed his camera and tripod away and was already standing.
Then we heard the first gunshot – the sharp explosion and the eerie whistling through the air.
“Ten – take the kids and GO!” John yelled. Ten Ton raced his tribe of three across the rough ground, practically threw them in, slammed the door, and swung himself up into the pilot’s seat. It seemed an age before we heard the blades start their slow thumping rotation but I suppose it’s not like switching on a car engine. Meantime we were grabbing anything we could and diving toward the other machine as shots grew louder and nearer, and spatters of rain started to fall.
Something large crashed through the trees, making no effort at stealth. It grew nearer and nearer, screaming incoherently. Definitely human, which was probably a relief; at least no previously undiscovered dinosaur or hairy yeti was going to attack us. I might have heard a second voice as we slammed our door.
I guess clear windows are no great protection, but anything… anything… between us and what was out there was good. My heart tried to thump out of my chest and I found my hands were freezing when I wrapped them across myself for comfort. They say all the blood leaves your extremities and races to your vital organs when fear kicks in. Fear had certainly kicked. Hard. No doubt my feet and nose and ears were icy too.
“Going to be nasty,” Erik grated, and we held on to each other as he alternately coaxed and swore at the Squirrel until it was a roaring live thing, lifting off with a lurch that had Heather and me gasping. He immediately spun the machine to present a smaller target to whoever was shooting.
We’d gained only a few meters of height when the first shot thwacked one of the skids. Then the second. I’d rather the skid than the cabin, but this was way too close for comfort. I wanted to vomit up my pounding heart.
“Asshole!” Erik yelled, which seemed pretty mild compared to many of the words he could have chosen. I chose something worse.
Paul was now deathly white and had buried his head against Heather. He gabbled a long, never-ending stream of prayer. She wrapped her arms around him and held him tightly, rocking him like a baby.
John reached over for my hand, jaw clenched. His warm, strong grip felt amazing. As though it was protection against anything evil in pursuit of us. Erik sat like stone, tendons in his neck and arms tight as he fought the machine up into the sky. I wanted to bury my face in my freezing fingers, but John’s hand felt so good. Would I rather my last memory was of a gorgeous man holding my hand or of the ground racing up to meet me? I kept my eyes open, but as John’s gaze flicked sideways my own followed.
A figure with a bushy dark beard burst out from the trees and ran into the open. I saw the spit of shots leaving the barrel of his rifle and flinched as they whistled by somewhere horribly close. They missed the skid this time, and thankfully the cabin, too.
A second or two later another man sprinted from cover, his mouth wide open in a silent scream. Then he leveled his rifle and fired at the first shooter, just as the man dropped onto one knee to steady himself.
In horrible slow motion dark-beard collapsed onto the ground. His much paler friend stopped running, gazed up at us, flung his rifle aside, and raced to the body. Already I could see the blood.
John made some sort of signal to Erik who spun us a hundred and eighty degrees and stopped our climb. We hung there, safe but shocked. “Beefy Haldane,” John bellowed.
It was so loud. Everything had happened at such speed we didn’t all have our head-sets on. The engine hauling us up into the sky clattered and whined and deafened us. But I’d heard that yell of ‘Beefy Haldane’ for sure. So did that make the other man Roddy Whitebottom?
I shook Paul’s shoulder, trying to get him out of his funk, knowing his PTSD had taken him over again. Heather shot me a glare and tried to push me away.
“He knows him,” I screamed. “I think that’s his friend Roddy from Afghanistan.”
At that, Paul let go of Heather and stared at me. I laid a hand against his face and made sure he understood me. “Roddy. Your friend Roddy.”
He was still white and shaking, his features pinched. I’m sure my freezing hand must have felt more like punishment than comfort.
“Stop it!” Heather demanded, but Erik had sized up the situation and brought us back down again. Beefy Haldane lay dead. Nothing was surer. And the other man was crouched beside him, the picture of contrition.
The Squirrel settled a safe distance from them, but no-one was threatening us now. Beefy had toppled over onto his weapon, and Roddy had thrown his well out of the way.
We scrambled out and trooped across to the sad scene. Paul managed to rally sufficiently to accompany us but was still deathly pale.
“Roddy needs your help and your prayers,” I insisted, hauling him along. Heather kept trying to tug him back. What were we even doing outside? This was men’s work, Military men’s work. A book editor and an actress were surplus to requirements for sure.
“Secure the other weapon,” I heard Erik say to John.
Mercifully Ten Ton had high-tailed it right out of the valley to keep his children safe. Just as well.
“Padre,” Roddy gasped, recognizing Paul. “He moved. He dropped…. I didn’t mean… I only intended to wing him.”
He looked so young and so contrite, my heart went out to him. “You saved us all,” I insisted. “We saw how it happened.”
Roddy bent over double, wrapping his arms around himself as though that could contain the pain and guilt.
“We’d all be dead if you hadn’t immobilized him,” Erik agreed.
“Killed him,” John corrected, inspecting the wound as dispassionately as if it was a melon hit by a spade and not a human head burst apart by a bullet. Cold. The Black Ops thing roared back into my brain and wouldn’t be leaving anytime soon. “Nice flying, Jacobsen,” he added. “Another few dollars I owe you.”
Erik’s grimace was nowhere near a smile. He moved beside Heather and slid an arm around her, urging her to turn away from the grisly scene.
Paul laid his hand on Roddy’s shoulder. “Shall we pray for his soul?” he suggested, dropping to his knees on the grass beside the shocked and grieving man.
Roddy uncurled, drawing in a huge gulp of air. He touched Beefy’s blood-spattered shoulder. “Too much happening all at once for him,” he said hoarsely. “After what he went through in Afghan. One chopper arriving here he might have coped with, but when two flew in it was the war all over again.” He looked across at Paul. “His father still refused to acknowledge him and then sold the farm, so that was the end of his hopes in that direction.”
“No wonder he couldn’t kick the drugs,” I heard Paul say.
Roddy moved his hand down Beefy’s back in a brief caress. “And then he was told his son was killed on the beach. Shot through the heart, execution-style.” He turned his gaze up to John. “What did the kid do to deserve that? Steal a bit of pot?”
The rain fell gently over the group of us, diluting the blood from Beefy’s hair so it ran down the side of his face. I couldn’t look. “We may as well get back into shelter,” I suggested.
Erik grunted possible agreement and led Heather away. I watched as he prowled around the helicopter skids and photographed the sites where the bullets had hit. He also, once the rest of us had made our way there, came back and photographed Beefy and the general area.
“I’ll stay with him,” Roddy said as the rest of us climbed aboard. “Can you…?”
“Doing it now,” John said, holding up his phone before scrolling to Bruce Carver.
“I’ll stay too,” Paul said, pulling himself together with a massive effort. “Won’t leave you alone with him.” He shivered. His T-shirt was dark where the rain had soaked int
o the oatmeal-colored cotton.
John reached into a bin and tossed a couple of tightly rolled bundles to them. “Waterproof. We’ll get the ladies home next.”
Paul and Roddy shook the garments out.
“We’ll come back if the cops are going to be a while,” he added, returning to his phone call.
Decorating the loquat tree was now the last thing on my mind.
13 – Christmas Lunch
It’s a time-honored tradition in Drizzle Bay on the Sunday before Christmas; everyone is welcome at the community lunch provided they bring something to share. It can be as small as a posy of flowers to decorate a table if money is tight… as large as three quarters of a prime Angus cattle beast if that’s what the Police find when they search the property of the sister of a man accused of rustling.
After we’d discussed my abduction at the Point, Bruce Carver told me the poor woman was greatly relieved to have her threatening no-good brother in custody and his unsightly big walk-in chiller out of her small back garden.
Butcher Bernie Karaka offered his services to slice the perfectly hung carcass into steaks and roasts for the assorted gas and charcoal barbecues offloaded at the shops by local citizens. He turned the rest into his own special-recipe sausages and patties, which were almost more popular than the steaks.
Lord Jim Drizzle also provided succulent new season’s lambs for spit-roasting. Lady Zinnia donated a painting to raffle – and for once I liked it. A dazzling red poinsettia in a pot on a windowsill, with a background that was recognizably Drizzle Farm.
Iona brought an abundance of Christmas cakes and puddings, thanks to Heather’s help in her kitchen. Betty McGyver from Horse Heaven rolled up with huge tubs of stewed plums and apricots from her trees. The Mini-mart obliged with commercial-sized containers of ice-cream and gallons of cream and custard.
Wives admired the colorful salads prepared by their neighbors, secure in the knowledge their own creation would be just a little crisper and tastier than any of the others. Husbands brought bottles of home brew to sample and share, and for a couple of hours the liquor licensing laws were relaxed. As indeed were many of the good citizens of Drizzle Bay once the beer started flowing. I’ve no idea where all the wine came from.