‘You filthy, stinking whore! I’m going to skin you alive for that.’
Imogen shrieked in denial, throwing her weight against the upright beam. She felt it shift, heard the agonised squeal of nails pulling loose. Rickard squinted up at her, then dashed salty water from his mouth with the back of one hand as he reached for his ceramic knife with the other. Imogen became frantic. She stamped at the boards, throwing her shoulders against the beam, bumping it and bumping it with all her might. The beam split, triggering a small cloud of rotted particles. Rickard snorted at her attempt at escape, then waded forward and placed a palm flat on the walkway to aid him in stepping up. Imogen kicked at him again but Rickard easily avoided the blow. Suspended by only the cuffs, Imogen skidded and fell, twisting awkwardly. She screamed in pain as her wrists were lacerated by the tight metal hoops. There was a low rumble from above and more dust and slivers of wood rained down.
Rickard surged forwards once more, a wave pushing ahead of him, his attention alternating between Imogen and the suddenly dipping roof. Leaning over, he reached to grab at Imogen’s ankles, but she swung sideways, avoiding his grip, and again threw her entire body weight into her escape. This time she didn’t work against the beam but away from it. The effort almost dislocated her shoulders but the beam pulled away from the roof and fell, showering her with shards of broken planks. The roof sagged, but, held firmly by the remaining upright beams, it didn’t collapse on them. Immediately she got her feet under her and yanked free from the broken end of the beam. Then she scrambled away from Rickard, who changed direction and waded quickly towards the earth ramp.
Imogen slipped on to one knee. But in the next instant she was up again, barely avoiding the swipe of Rickard’s knife as he slashed at her. Rickard came on wordlessly, Imogen trying her hardest to avoid his gaze as if by doing so it would ensure her escape: as pointless as an ostrich burying its head in sand.
Running was difficult with her arms cuffed behind her, but adrenalin gave an extra lift to her heels and she raced along the walkway towards the double doors. When Rickard had brought her inside, he hadn’t locked them – a padlock was useless when the wood supporting it was so rotten. She skidded up to the doors, banged against them with her shoulder and they burst open. Imogen charged outside into the cold and softly falling rain. She felt neither of them on her hot skin.
‘What in God’s name is going on?’
Imogen barely made sense of the words, but the figures looming up in front of her made her collapse to her backside and she rolled on the floor at the feet of the two men standing over her. From her ignominious position in the dirt she stared up at a burly old man and a slighter built teenage boy. Both were shocked to find a semi-naked, handcuffed woman lying at their feet and the rifles in their hands drooped ineffectually.
‘Help me,’ she screamed. ‘He’s trying to kill me!’
Rickard appeared in the open doorway, dripping wet and vibrating with anger.
The younger man saw him, made sense of the knife clutched in Rickard’s hand and let out a croak as he slapped at his father’s arm. The older man, made of sterner stuff, brought up his rifle.
‘Hold it right there, mister,’ he barked.
‘Shoot him,’ Imogen yelled. ‘He’s a murderer. Shoot him, for Christ’s sake!’
The older man tensed his finger on the trigger, but he wasn’t ready to fire yet. His mind was in too much turmoil to shoot a man without all the facts at hand. To the teenager, he said, ‘Best you ring nine-one-one, boy.’
The younger man back-pedalled, then raced up the trail towards a nearby house.
Rickard stood stock-still. He still held the knife in his hand, but he was staring directly into the eyes of the older man.
‘This is no business of yours,’ he said.
‘It became my business when you moored in my boathouse,’ said the man. ‘I thought you were only trespassing, mister, and I’ve been waiting for you to come back to put you straight. Now I see that what you’re up to is
much
worse.’
Rickard shook his head. ‘Get out of the way and you won’t get hurt.’
‘There’s only one man going to get hurt round here. Take another step and I’ll drop you.’
Imogen crawled round behind the man, placing him between her and Rickard. She came to her knees. ‘Shoot him.’
The old man ignored her, steadying his aim on Rickard’s chest.
‘I’m warning you, mister, I did two tours in ‘Nam. It was a long time ago, but I still remember how to fire a gun. Now drop the knife and step out here where I can see you.’
Rickard only sneered at the man. Then his gaze shifted to Imogen.
‘We’re not finished, bitch. You think you’ve got a protector, but no one will stop me. Not him. Not Joe Hunter. I’ll see you again.’
Then he turned quickly and disappeared back inside the boathouse.
The old man grunted, started after him, but Imogen’s warning cry brought him to a halt. ‘He has a gun in there.’
The man retreated, took hold of Imogen’s arm and heaved her up. Holding her, he moved backwards with his rifle braced against his shoulder, watching the doorway in case Rickard reappeared.
They made it part-way up the trail when the roar of an engine sounded from within the boathouse.
‘Damn it, he’s going to get away,’ the man muttered. ‘Where’s that fool boy got to with the police?’
Beside him Imogen didn’t seem to care. She was sobbing and trembling in relief. Or maybe it was fear, because Rickard’s warning had been served with a certainty that was chilling.
Chapter 16
We heard the news about Imogen’s miraculous escape on the car radio and a tsunami of relief crashed through my senses and left me dizzy. I’m not a praying man, but I said my silent thanks to God.
We’d bypassed Culver by then, but Rink immediately spun the car in the road and headed for the small town. It was taking a big risk because the area would be swarming with cops, but I needed to satisfy myself that Imogen wasn’t merely safe but unharmed. I also wanted to speak with her. It was possible that she could tell me who my enemy was.
We were still a couple of miles from Culver when Rink’s phone chimed. He put it on speaker so we could all hear. Harvey Lucas was already doing his magic with his computer.
‘Law enforcement’s trying to track a plane that took off from Trenton without filing a flight plan. They think our boy’s on board ’cause the pilot’s doing his damndest to avoid radar.’
‘Direction?’ I asked.
‘South.’
‘Back towards Florida,’ Bryce Lang assumed. ‘We came here for nothing, just like I said.’
‘Not for nothing,’ I told him. ‘I came here for Imogen Ballard and I’m not leaving until I’m sure she’s out of harm’s way. I owe her that: she shouldn’t have to suffer for our crimes, Bryce.’
‘Everything we did was lawfully sanctioned, Hunter.’
‘Lawfully sanctioned, my arse! Even if it was an approved hit, does that make what happened to Jimena and the boy OK with you?’
‘That’s the way of war. Collateral damage is—’
‘The death of innocents,’ I finished for him. ‘Whichever way the CIA looks at it. And I’m not prepared to let that happen to Imogen.’
‘It hasn’t happened to Imogen,’ Bryce argued. ‘She’s safe now. We should go after the killer instead of wasting any more time.’
I stared at him until he closed his eyes in defeat. The silence was rather strained. Harvey coughed, maybe to remind us he was still at the other end of the phone. ‘What’s the latest from Tampa, Harve?’ I asked.
‘Mixed messages at best. Ballistics have shown that the weapon used to kill the two cops was an M40 sniper rifle. They know now that you couldn’t’ve been the shooter, but your guess that they’d assume you had an accomplice is still the main theory.’
‘So they’re still looking for me?’
‘Big style,’ Harvey said. ‘Rink, too, seeing as he’s harbouring a felon. And because he has marksman training.’
Rink grunted, sounding amused.
It stood to reason that we’d be on the Most Wanted list, but right then I didn’t care. If we stopped the real killer everything would be put right. I was thinking about the rifle that the shooter had used to kill Castle and Soames. The M40A1 is a specialist rifle developed for and handmade for Marine Corps snipers by craftsmen at Quantico, Virginia. Based on the Remington 700, it was a heavy barrelled rifle, bolt action and fed by an internal magazine of five 7.62 mm rounds. Not the kind of gun that was readily available on the open market. It made me think again that the shooter came from a military background. Maybe he’d even trained at the Marine Corps Training Unit in Quantico.
I told Harvey my theory.
‘I’ll look into it and cross-reference names against anyone who has served in Colombia.’
‘Thanks, Harvey,’ I said. ‘Keep us updated with anything on the plane’s whereabouts, OK?’
‘Will do. What’s your plan now? You heading back home?’
‘Not yet. I have to see Imogen first.’
‘Right,’ he said. ‘Give her my best, huh? I’ll see y’all back in Florida.’
‘You’re flying over?’
‘I am. I’m more use to you there than I am in Little Rock.’
We said our goodbyes while Rink aimed the 4x4 along the last quarter-mile of road to Culver. The town was very small, with the number of cops on scene boosting the population tenfold. Really it was just a collection of houses strung out along the road that hugged the coastline. Most of the police cruisers were parked near to a timber-framed house that looked like the one Norman Bates called home. A narrow track was cordoned off with crime scene tape, leading no doubt to the boathouse where Imogen had made her break for freedom.
‘She’ll be gone from here by now,’ Rink said.
‘Nearest hospital?’
‘More likely she’s been taken to a police station,’ Bryce said. ‘They’ll want to interview her as soon as possible.’
The parked police cars bore the livery of the Hancock County Sheriff Department and also some from the local police. Often the sheriff and police departments shared offices to keep down running costs, so it was no stretch of the imagination to think Imogen had been taken to Ellsworth, the nearest large town.
Rink was cautious passing the throng of police and we barely registered with them as we went past. Then he stomped the throttle and we headed for Ellsworth. On the way I came to a decision.
‘No way can I con my way into a police station. Neither could you, Rink. By now our faces will be on every bulletin board in the USA.’
Bryce peered across at me. ‘You want
me
to do it?’
He didn’t appear too happy at the idea.
‘No, Bryce. I have to do this myself. I have to see Imogen face to face.’
‘They’ll arrest you.’
‘Probably,’ I said. But I’d been taken prisoner by worse jailers than the HCSD before now, and no one had managed to hold me long. The only difference here was that on those other occasions I’d hurt people – killed others – and that was unthinkable this time. ‘I’m not worried. I can prove I had nothing to do with the shooting of the cops.’
‘There’s always Jessica and her father. They still think you were responsible for that,’ Bryce said.
‘That was before the real killer targeted Imogen. Her testimony can clear things up.’
Rink stirred. ‘Not necessarily, Hunter. Before he died, Linden Case named you as his attacker and his daughter’s murderer. Even if they don’t arrest you they’ll have to talk to you about it. They’ll want to know every detail about how the two cops died in Tampa. Whether you’re behind bars or not, you won’t see the outside of a police station any time soon.’
His words made sense, but I wanted to reassure myself of Imogen’s safety more than I was concerned about my liberty. Also, I was growing tired of running from something I was innocent of and the few hours it would take to clear my name would be time well spent. I’d rather be chasing this man without having to keep one eye over my shoulder in case a well-meaning cop put a bullet in my spine.
‘If I’m still inside when Harvey gets back to you, it’ll be down to you guys to take the asshole out.’
Rink grunted assent, but Bryce looked fearful at the notion.