Crossfire (The Clifford-Mackenzie Crime Series Book 1)

by R. D. Nixon

‘I hate you, Mackenzie!’ Jamie yelled up at the vent. Despite his warning to himself, he was breathing heavily with exertion and anger, and the bravado went out of him in a rush as he felt his throat close up. He forced himself to count slowly in his head, banging a closed fist against the wall in time, and trying to slow his heart down. He would get out, somehow, and if anything had happened to his mother, he would find Mackenzie and, and... Well, nothing better have happened.

  Listening to the waterfall was having another effect on him as well, and this one was growing uncomfortably urgent. He bit his lip, trying to distract himself, but it was no good, and eventually he stood up, went to the corner farthest away from where he’d been sitting and let the hot, stinky stream go. The smell wasn’t too bad at first, but he knew it would get stronger over time; he only had to remember his mother’s complaints about bathroom splashes to work that one out. He hoped it was the worst he’d have to do, but if he was stuck here for much longer things might take an even nastier turn… He’d better not think about that.

  He didn’t know how much time had passed, but the close call of that last attack had been frightening, and now he was moving slowly around to keep warm, trying not to breathe the chilly air too deeply. He felt his stomach gurgle, and whereas it had always sounded funny before, for the first time he was aware that being hungry could actually hurt. This wasn’t like at school; in a quiet classroom during the period before lunch, one whiff of chips could turn peckishness into the noisy, pleasant feeling of anticipation. But although his slight pangs were not really painful yet, he was starting to get an idea of what it would be like when they were.

  He fished the now misshapen Mars Bar out of his pocket and broke off the end of it, feeling saliva squirt into his mouth, but winced as his jaw stretched to accept the chocolate. He rubbed at the spot where he had smashed into the floor last night – there was probably a really good bruise there, but a few prods told him that the pain wouldn’t get any worse if he opened his mouth a bit wider.

  He could see a piece of chocolate hanging free, suspended in caramel like a tiny chocolate ice floe in the most delicious sea imaginable. Fascinated by that idea for a moment, he pushed out his tongue and watched, slightly cross-eyed, as the caramel stretched and stretched, the chocolate starting to slide downwards towards his waiting tongue. Mustn’t eat it all. Just a nibble, just a bit. Somehow, he ate only a quarter of the sticky chocolate, and managed to get the wrapper back on before shoving the rest of the bar out of sight back into his jeans.

  His feet ached. There was nothing on the floor to hurt him here, but they were so cold. He rolled back the legs of his jeans and found the wrinkled bottoms of his pyjamas underneath. Pulling them out as far as he could, he quickly pulled the jeans cuffs back down and covered his feet with the blissful warmth of the pyjamas.

  He tried trapping the material between his toes to keep it there, but it kept sliding back. In the end he gritted his teeth, removed both jeans and pyjamas and put his jeans back on. Then he was able to wrap his feet properly, the body warmth from the pyjamas stealing into his chilled skin.

  For a while it was enough. He sat with his back to the wall, breathing slowly and calmly, telling himself what a great time he would have recounting all of this to his friends at home, but now and again he felt his lip tremble. He’d think of his mother, all those times when he’d resented her protection of him, and how one act of disobedience had put them both in such terrible danger.

  ‘I’m sorry, Mum,’ he whispered, forcing his eyes wide so as not to give in to the tears he could feel there. If he closed his eyes, he wouldn’t be able to help crying, and then anything might happen. The empty inhaler in the corner mocked him and only made it harder. But as he stared at it, hating it, something else caught his attention. He kicked the wrappings off his feet and, keeping his gaze locked on the corner of the room, crawled over for a closer look. He frowned; he was blocking his own light now and had lost the image that had seemed to stand out. He sat back, then checked over his shoulder at where the light fell and moved to the side. There!

  The uneven stone floor rose in bumps in various places, leaving gaps in several areas, but right there by the wall someone had made a point of plugging one of the gaps up. The others were left, dark little spots where you could see right through to the packed, peaty earth on the other side, but this one, right in the corner...

  Curiosity drew a temporary but comforting curtain across his fear, and he reached out and touched the jagged stone that had been pushed into the gap. Not a perfect fit, but still a snug, deliberate placement, out of place in this old wall. He pushed at one side of it, hoping the other side would pop out enough to be able to grab hold of it.

  What if this was a secret passage? In his mum’s old Famous Five books there was always a secret tunnel activated by a stone like this. And look at Indiana Jones, and the guys in the Mummy movies... Maybe a section of the wall would slide to one side, and he’d be off down the inside of the mountain in no time. Suddenly convinced, he shoved and dug at the stone, now and again putting his sore fingers into his mouth, sucking blood from the tiny cuts the sharp stone inflicted on his cold skin.

  After a while he remembered the hotel room key in his pocket, and had one of those moments where you want to slap yourself on the forehead. He pulled the key out and set to work again, and at last he did it. The stone finally lay at an angle where he could take hold of one side, and he did so, drawing it out, holding his breath while he waited for its secret to be revealed – whatever it was.

  Nothing happened. The wall stayed as solid and unmoving as ever.

  Bitterly disappointed, Jamie threw the stone at the far wall, where it struck hard and broke into two. He pressed the heels of his blood-slicked hands into his eyes to hold back the fresh, hot tears and then, still sniffing, turned an angry, betrayed glare on the gap. As the light wriggled pale fingers under there, he saw something that might have once been white, but was now a dirty grey-brown. Gingerly he used the key to lever it out, and saw it was a loose piece of cloth, wrapped around something about the size of a cricket ball but flatter.

  He reached in and tugged at it until it rolled free. It lay in his hand, filling his palm; a weighty object wrapped in now-bloodied cloth. It didn’t look too impressive, but someone had made really sure it was kept hidden – that loose stone would have been hard for anyone to notice, never mind shift. So what was it? A spare key in a box? He began unwrapping it, bit by bit, rolling it over as the wrappings gave way under his fingers, revealing another cloth underneath, this one black and soft. He was starting to get irritated by the whole ‘pass the parcel’ feeling, when the last piece of cloth fell away and there it was. He blinked. A stone. Another stupid, pointless stone.

  He tried to take a deep breath to scream in frustration, but his airways narrowed alarmingly and the breath started to whistle as he dragged at it. He tried to count again, to force himself to use the small amount of air he was getting in order to relax, but it wasn’t working well this time. In fact it was getting harder and harder to breathe at all – and it was all the fault of this ugly little stone; angry and scared, he lifted it to throw it after the one he had pulled from the wall, and stopped, eyes wide.

  He looked again at the stone. Lying in his palm, shadowed by his eager, bowed head, it had been just a dark piece of rock, another disappointment to be smashed against the wall of his prison. But as he’d moved, he’d been struck by a sudden, fiery beauty that flashed from it, and the peace that stole over him at the sight slowed his panicked breathing and his racing heart until he barely noticed them.

  He turned the stone in all directions; the colours, mostly reds, seemed to roll out at him from its depths however he held it, and when he held it up to the thin light coming through the vent, he found he could actually see right through it. He stared at it for what felt like hours, turning it, holding it, its warmth seeming to seep into his hands when he cupped it, as if it were a living fire protected by dark crystal. The
longer he stared, the more vibrant the stone seemed to be, like a friend, sharing that dancing brilliance, but only with him. He clutched it tightly to his chest, suddenly certain that someone would come and take it away from him. Then he looked again, worried he might have dimmed it somehow by smothering it, but the fury of the colours only seemed brighter, and he smoothed it with one trembling finger.

  ‘Keep me safe,’ he whispered. ‘Keep me company. Help me breathe.’

  Although his voice sounded strange there in the echo of the stone room, the dark gem in his hand sent out soothing shafts of comforting fire, and Jamie held it tight.

  Abergarry

  A text from Maddy confirmed that the electoral register had come up trumps on Doohan’s address, and Mackenzie grabbed his bike keys and helmet and headed out, slamming his front door behind him. Shivering as he looked up at the hills, for once his first feeling was not the yearning for a child forever lost, but hope for one who might yet be saved. In the nine years since he’d taken over Maddy’s father’s job in the partnership, he’d dealt with a number of missing persons, but none of them had been children, and that was probably down to Maddy’s protective instincts.

  This time, though, she’d not been there at the start of it to deflect his attention, and he could tell she was worried about him, about how he’d deal with a parent’s worst fears without transmitting his own. This boy must be reunited with his mother, and only then could Mackenzie begin to explore which part of his heart Charis Boulton had sneaked into: the sympathy, the obligation, the curiosity... Or a much deeper part, that had been locked for thirteen years. In the meantime there was work to be done.

  The road seemed endless, with no sign of the landmarks he’d been searching for, and eventually Mackenzie stopped, flicked the bike into neutral with the toe of his boot and pulled out his phone. Balancing the bike between his legs, he pushed his visor up and opened the text again, grateful for Maddy’s dislike of abbreviations and text-speak.

  Robert James Doohan,

  Aonach View,

  Spean Bridge,

  Fort William,

  PH34 8NF

  When you get to Spean Bridge, take A86 for about two miles, then turn right onto minor road (unnamed, far as I can find out). Doohan’s cottage around three miles down on the right. Just over bridge crossing River Spean. Sheltered but can just see from road, apparently. Don’t get lost!

  Maddy xx

  NOW will you invest in a new Satnav?

  He gave a soft snort; this would teach him for putting it off. Probably. Well, he’d followed Maddy’s instructions to the letter, turning onto this narrow road about a million miles back, crossing over the tiny, humped bridge, so where was the bloody house? He felt a low tingle again as he thought about the name of Doohan’s home: Aonach View. Anticipating the familiar ache, he looked across to the imposing slopes of Aonach Mor. He stared for a long time, distantly aware of precious time ticking away, but also of a strange diminishing, inside. He took a deep breath, realising what had both surprised and liberated him.

  ‘I don’t hate you any more,’ he said aloud. The mountain stared down at him, unmoved, and Mackenzie smiled; what had he been expecting – music? Choirs? Beauty and colour to spring forth and bathe everything in golden light? He touched the knotted leather with his gloved finger, staring up as far as he could see through the swirling mist, trying to encompass all of it. It was just a heap of rock – Kath and Josh were no longer there. They were here, with him, where they belonged.

  Now it just remained to get the boy Jamie back where he belonged. He caught a flash of white as he moved his head, and peered through the trees again. As his eyes adjusted to the need to filter out the spiky branches and leaves, he saw the cottage and, squinting closer, the roofs of two cars. Neither one appeared abandoned or particularly old. Mackenzie’s right thumb hovered over the ignition button, but something made him hesitate; why would one man, living alone, need two decent cars?

  He took off his helmet, heeled the bike over onto its stand and climbed off. Still trying to peer through the tangle of branches to the clearing a hundred yards away, he clambered into the hedge to get a closer look. Immediately he identified the larger of the two cars – his heart skipped and he hissed a curse. Talk about mixed blessings; that was Bradley’s new blue Discovery, which at least was a pretty good indication that he was in the right place. On the other hand, if Bradley took the figurines now, the chances of finding them again were close to zero. And if Bradley saw Mackenzie following, he’d go straight off and demand answers of Stein. Which meant he would then find out about Jamie.

  Then again, if Bradley didn’t have them with him, precious rescue time would be wasted while he himself backtracked all the way out here and tried to succeed where the superintendent had failed. Mackenzie was as certain as he could be that they were here; if not, they might be literally anywhere in the world, and that didn’t bear thinking about.

  He looked around for somewhere to stash the bike. Reluctant to start it up again, he pushed it back up the road until he found a place where the rain ditch was crossable. He wheeled the bike round into the trees, as far out of sight as possible, then chucked his helmet after it, and after a moment’s thought followed suit with his creaky leather jacket. The sweat of exertion quickly chilled, leaving him shivering as he crept through the heavily wooded area around the back of Aonach View.

  The damp from the ground started to creep up his legs as he stopped by the barn. The long grass brushed against his calves, leaving cold trails on his jeans, and he was glad of his bike boots, even if trainers were better suited to this creeping around. He leaned against the rough wall of the barn and cursed under his breath; how much longer was Bradley going to be in Doohan’s cottage anyway? And was Sergeant Rottweiler with him? Mackenzie had a good view of the Discovery, but couldn’t risk going any closer to the cottage itself; too many windows. Still, he’d be able to tell if Bradley had found anything useful, and he’d soon be able to catch them up on the bike. At that point it would be worth the risk of being seen.

  The door clicked open; Mackenzie jumped, and pressed himself tighter against the side of the barn. The voices he heard were raised in anger, but even if they hadn’t been, they’d have carried clearly through the still air to where he stood.

  Mulholland spat his words out. ‘I told you he’d be no fucking use to us!’

  Mackenzie narrowed his eyes; he’d not had much to do with the skinny officer since that day, but something was different about him now, something about the way he carried himself. He seemed less sulky than usual, more belligerent. Even Bradley seemed to be keeping a deliberate distance between them as he pointed the key fob at the Discovery.

  ‘And I’m telling you, he knows the bloody things are still out there.’

  Mackenzie slumped again, fighting bitter disappointment. This had been a wasted trip after all. He’d have to go back to Charis and tell her, and the thought of that... But Mulholland was speaking again, and Mackenzie strained to catch the words over the smooth clunks as the two officers opened the Discovery’s doors.

  ‘We’ll just have to watch him then, see where he goes.’

  ‘Fat chance! Thanks to you the poor bastard’ll be lucky if he’s out of hospital before Sarah gets into the country. And if she gets to him first it’ll be—’

  The doors slammed in unison, drowning out the conversation, and Mackenzie stared at the cottage, torn. He couldn’t just leave if Doohan had been hurt. But then, from the sounds of it, there was no point in following Bradley anyway, so he waited until the jeep had disappeared up the lane and, hoping he’d hidden the bike as well as he’d thought he had, he left the shelter of the barn and pushed open the front door.

  He stared around the sitting room in shock. This must have happened before he’d arrived outside, or he’d certainly have heard; the place had been torn apart. Furniture had been thrown aside and crockery smashed; on the floor in the corner, he saw a shadow move. Mackenzie took a step f
orward, but stopped as the man held his hands in front of his face.

  ‘I’m tellin’ you, I don’t have them!’ His voice quivered, but not with fear, as Mackenzie had expected. With rage.

  ‘Robert Doohan, I take it?’ Mackenzie said. He moved back and waited, and the man dropped his hands.

  ‘You take it right.’ After a moment’s consideration, and evidently accepting Mackenzie as friend rather than foe, or at least non-violent, the anger faded from Doohan’s voice and was replaced with a certain waspishness. ‘Well? Are you just going to stand there and leave me on the floor?’

  Mackenzie reached out again and helped the man into the one chair still standing on its four legs. ‘I believe you were just entertaining Superintendent Bradley. Champion of the elderly of his community.’

  ‘Aye, wee gobshite that he is. Him and his weaselly buddy.’ Doohan grunted as he settled himself, and Mackenzie switched on the light to get a better look at the damage to both man and home. The room would easily be put right; beyond the crockery breakages and a crooked fire surround it wasn’t as bad as it had first appeared. Doohan, however, was looking pale and sick, and Mackenzie could see a nasty thick seepage of blood running from behind one ear to the collar of his neatly pressed shirt. He wasn’t nearly as old as he’d sounded, probably early sixties, no more.

  ‘Are you badly hurt?’ he asked, reaching to put the phone back on the coffee table.

  ‘I’ve no idea, lad. I’m a bit numb, to tell the truth. Who are you anyway?’

  Mackenzie lifted the receiver and put it to his ear. Nothing. ‘My name’s Mackenzie. Your phone’s not working, by the way. I’ll use my mobile.’

  ‘Oh aye? Good luck to you, the signal out here’s non-existent.’

  Doohan was right; Mackenzie’s phone refused to connect to a network, which meant he’d not be able to call Charis either – on the plus side, it also meant Bradley probably wouldn’t be able to get hold of Stein yet. He crouched beside Doohan’s chair to check the injury to the man’s head. Doohan’s expression was alert, studying him with sharp interest, which was a good sign, but Mackenzie wasn’t convinced.