The corridor was painted pale cream. There was a duty desk, empty at this time of night. The corridor was lined with pictures of men on the wanted list: rough-looking characters, Josh noted, with pinched, violent faces, full of malevolence and anger. / wouldn't be surprised to see either O'Brien or Morant up there along with the rest of the losers and psychopaths.
'This way,' he said softly. Josh walked briskly towards the back office. He could feel his pulse racing. Last time he'd been here, he'd been chased away by a helicopter. So far as he could see, the place looked a lot quieter this evening. Or maybe it just appeared that way.
The corridor led into a large open-plan room. A lingering smell of sugar and coffee filled the air. About twenty desks were arranged opposite each other, all made from the same cheap wood, each with a regulation grey bin at the side. One cop who looked like a local guy was sitting alone at a desk close to the entrance. Another pair were checking their revolvers before heading out on a night patrol. It looked like there were only three of them.
In my jeans and T-shirt I don't look much like an FBI agent, thought Josh. But in the middle of the night, I'll pass.
'Agent Canestra,' he said, showing his badge, his tone clipped and purposeful as he nodded towards the one cop sitting at a desk. The man, nearing fifty and with a balding head, was looking down at a pile of papers, ticking boxes one by one.
'Need to check the computers,' continued Josh.'That okay?'
The man glanced up, grunted something that Josh didn't catch, then went back to his work. Us Feds aren't very popular around here, Josh figured. Treading on their turf, and
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nobody likes that. He noticed the other two cops clock him as they left to go out on patrol.
He chose a desk in the far right hand corner of the office. So far, so good, he told himself with quiet satisfaction. There's a chance I might get away with this.
O'Brien followed him as he sat down, bringing up the opening page on the computer. His eyes started scanning down the rows of files. It took a few minutes to start navigating his way around the system. There were files on local laws, state laws, and federal laws. Procedural files and training files. Budgets and duty rosters. All of it operated from the same central database. Josh couldn't be certain, but it made sense that the local police would keep files on every murder case in the county. And the most likely place to keep those files would be on the computer.
'Open files,' said an icon on the screen.
Josh clicked on it. A list of names scrolled up onto the screen. Josh started scrolling through them alphabetically until he found what he was looking for. Lippard. 'Open,' he commanded the computer with a click of the mouse.
Josh started reading. The main report told him little that he didn't already know. Ben had been shot between eleven and twelve on the morning of Monday, June the first. Four bullets had been found in his body, fired from a Smith & Wesson Mountain Lite revolver. No trace had been made on the gun, nor had the weapon been found. There were no witnesses to the shooting, and the police had so far identified no leads and had no suspects.
Just like I thought. They are groping around in the dark.
Tiny jabs of pain were starting to hammer the inside of Josh's leg. He glanced down and saw that blood was dripping from the side of his thigh. It had seeped into the cloth of his jeans and was trickling down onto the tiled surface of the floor. A tiny trail of red droplets was leading from the doorway to this desk. He glanced anxiously at the cop in the corner.
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He was standing up. He can't miss it, the bastard, thought Josh. Even the drowsiest cop has to see a trail of blood leading through his own office.
I haven't got much time.
He scrolled further through the files, his fingers moving swiftly across the keyboard. Against the back of his neck, he could feel O'Brien breathing heavily. 'Quick,' O'Brien muttered. 'All these cops are making me uncomfortable.'
Three words flashed up: 'The Third Man.' Josh clicked on the file, bringing the Word document up onto the screen. He glanced anxiously towards the door. No sign of the cop.
Josh started reading. 'Crime Scene Report, 6/1/05: Report File No: 34521DF. Reporting officer: Dick McNamara. Traces of blood were also found at the scene of the crime, just a few yards away from Lippard's body. Initially that was assumed to be Lippard's blood, but a test showed that it belonged to another person. The blood sampje was sent to the National Crime Laboratories in Washington for DNA analysis. The NCL replied three days later. They had identified the person, and were awaiting security clearance before releasing the name and details of the person to the Boisdale sheriff's office.'
The third man? thought Josh, sitting back in his chair and staring intently at the screen. Security clearance? Christ, what the hell am I doing in this country?
'What did you say your name was again?' said a voice behind him.
Josh spun around. ^
The cop was looking straight down at him.
His face was puffy and tired, but the message in his eyes was clear enough. He had decided that Josh was not who he said he was. Now he was weighing up what to do about it.
'Agent Canestra,' snapped Josh.'This is my colleague Dave Freemantle. We're busy, if you don't mind.'
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'You don't look like Feds,' said the cop, delivering his words slowly. 'You've got a weird accent. And there's a trail of blood leading from the doorway to your desk.'
I've got two choices, figured Josh, his mind tabbing quickly through the available options. I can bluff my way out of this. Or run.
He's probably already called in reinforcements. Maybe that's why he disappeared for so long. That patrol car has probably turned round and is on its way back now. He just wants to keep me talking until they show up.There's nothing to gain by trying to talk my way out. Run, man, while you still have the chance.
'Like I said, we're busy,' snapped Josh, his tone rising.
'Then what about the blood?' asked the cop.
Josh's elbow snapped backwards, crashing into the side of the cop's jaw. Josh could feel his bone striking against the other man's, the point of his elbow joint digging deep into the soft flesh of the policeman's cheek. At the same moment, O'Brien drove his fist into the man's neck.
The cop reeled, then regained his balance. There was more strength in him than Josh had expected: he was a big man and his rolls of flesh turned out to contain as much muscle as fat. His hand slammed down on the desk, steadying himself, then his knee jerked upwards, smashing into Josh's chest. He could feel his ribcage vibrating with the impact, a bolt of pain shooting out into his body. Josh stepped backwards, steadying himself, then swung his leg forward, driving it hard into the cop's side. Then O'Brien gripped his neck between his forearms, jerking it backwards, and Josh could see the man's face turn red.
Josh heard a snapping sound. Christ, is that his neck breaking?
'Punch him out,' hissed O'Brien. 'Punch him out.'
Josh drew back his fist. He could see a look of fear flash across the cop's face. He was wriggling like a fish on a hook, but O'Brien's lock on his neck was strong.
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I'll make it quick, pal, thought Josh. You're better off with me punching you out than you'd be with either of these other head cases.
Josh punched first with his right hand, then with his left, delivering a swift uppercut straight below the cop's jaw. A trickle of blood started to seep from the man's mouth and nose, and his eyes closed.
'He's out,' snapped O'Brien.
'Then let's get the hell out of here,' said Josh.
He started moving swiftly towards the street door. It was ten yards away, and some blood was flowing more freely now from the opened wound on his leg, spattering the floor with more red droplets. They've got my DNA already, even if they don't know who I am. They will know that the third man has been here. And they'll turn over every last grain of sand in the desert to find me.
The sound of a siren ripped through the quiet of the nighty sky. Josh lunged towards the doorway, looking out along the road. He could see Morant waiting in the Taurus. The car swung out into the road to meet him. But up on the main street, maybe three hundred yards away, Josh could now make out the patrol car accelerating towards them, its siren wailing and its warning strobe sending arcs of blue light spinning out into the night sky.
'They're bloody onto us,'Josh shouted, throwing himself into the passenger seat of the Taurus. Behind him, O'Brien was slamming his own door shut.
'Just bloody drive,' yelled Josh. ^
Morant was gripping the steering wheel of the Taurus hard. His foot slammed down on the accelerator as the car sped out onto the road leading out of town. Josh glanced behind him. The patrol car was already ramped up to full speed. It was travelling at a hundred, maybe a hundred and ten an hour, gaining on them with every second.
'Faster,' he muttered under his breath.
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I've assaulted their office, and punched out one of their own men. They're not going to be in a mood to take any prisoners.
'I'm going blindfold,' Morant warned. He switched off the headlamps, plunging the road ahead into darkness. The patrol car was throwing off some light, but that was still two hundred yards behind them. This far from the town there were no more street lamps. Josh could see nothing ahead, not even the curve of the road.
He gripped the side of the seat. This was going to be a rough ride.
Looking across at the speedometer, he could see the Taurus gaining pace. It was hitting a hundred and twenty an hour, and Josh could hear the engine straining as it struggled to gets the revs it needed for that kind of speed. Another glance back. The patrol car was still gaining. A hundred yards behind, figured Josh. A hundred and fifty if we're lucky.
'The fuckers, they're fast,' shouted Morant, a gleeful wild edge to his voice.
'Cross-country,1 shouted O'Brien from the back seat.
Josh couldn't be sure whether it was a question or a command.
'Hell, yes,' shouted Morant, struggling to make himself heard above the roar of the car's engine.
The Taurus swerved viciously to the right, its suspension shuddering as the tyres collided with the rough surface of the scrubland. This is just a suburban cruiser, realised Josh. Not an SUV or a 4x4, and it wasn't designed for driving off-road. Every crevice, curve and rock is going to hit me straight in the spine.
'The river,' shouted O'Brien from the back seat. 'Head for the river.'
Josh searched the ground ahead. He was peering through the windscreen, trying to figure out where they were going, but it was impossible to make out anything apart from a
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few murky shapes. They could be boulders, they could be plants. It was impossible to tell. The car was skidding across the dusty ground like a stone skimming across the surface of a lake, hardly touching its surface.
The river? What the hell do they mean, the river?
He checked the mirror. The patrol car had been thrown as they turned off the road. It had taken the driver a few seconds to react. But now powerful headlamps were beaming out across the open countryside, picking up the trail of the Taurus.
He might be four, five hundred yards behind us, realised Josh. But he's still got us in his sights.
'Left, left,' shouted O'Brien.
Josh could feel himself being pressed against the door as the car swerved viciously to the left. Something collided with the car's side with a terrifying thump, crashing "into the metal. He could hear screeching and tearing as the Taurus's frame started to buckle. 'Harder left,' shouted O'Brien.
Josh drew a breath. At his side, Morant flashed him a smile. 'Hold on to your seat, boy,' he snapped.
'Why?'
Morant laughed. 'Trust me, you don't want to know.'
Josh gripped the black cloth seat of the car. He wondered whether he should put his safety belt on but decided against it. Whatever the health-and-safety monkeys said, seat belts killed as many people as they saved because they stopped you getting out of the car quickly*
And I may well want to get out of this one in a real hurry.
Josh looked ahead. All he could see was darkness. What Morant was driving by, he couldn't tell. Instinct, or an encyclopaedic knowledge of the terrain. Either way it was working. So far.
Suddenly he could hear nothing. The sound of the tyres rubbing protestingly against the surface of the rough ground
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disappeared. Christ, Josh said disbelievingly to himself. We're flying.
The idiot's driven off the edge of a cliff.
Prayer time.
Next, there was a deafening crash as the car hit the ground. Every bolt in the Taurus shook loose, a huge cloud of steam rose up from the engine, and the lights started flashing on and off. Water was gushing all around them, spitting up against the windscreen and seeping through the door until the carpet at Josh's feet was a sodden mess.
This is what he meant by the river.
The engine coughed, then roared. Josh could see Morant stabbing at the brakes, but to little effect. Broken, Josh realised. The steering was erratic, and the suspension had broken in at least two places, making every turn and twist a strain on the car. One thing's certain. This machine's not passing its MOT.
'Swing right,' shouted O'Brien.
Morant was twisting on the wheel but the power steering was gone, and Josh could see that the wheels were submerged in two feet of fast-running water. The car was sliding as much as it was being driven. Morant tugged harder on the wheel, and the car started drifting right, skimming across stones and pebbles, then picking up speed as it started to drive along a narrow tributary that -- in the direction they were going -- led away from the river.
Josh looked behind him. He could see nothing, only darkness.
No sign of the patrol car. Maybe we lost them. The brakes still weren't working, so Morant killed the engine and let the car drift slowly to a halt. 'Shit, that was fun,' he said, climbing out of the car.