The Deer Leap (27 page)

Jury switched the motor off far enough from the gate that he doubted anyone could have heard the car approaching.

“I don't believe it,” said Melrose Plant. “I mean I
do,
but it's so —”

“It's so. And it was simple, really. Foolproof. A killer not even around when the victims die. Just scare the hell out of Una Quick, find out she's told Sally MacBride about that snapshot with the name ‘Lister,' and Sally would probably have told Donaldson.” Jury's smile was grim. “ ‘Probably.' Why the hell take chances? Una
did
muck about with the post.” Jury hit the steering wheel. “Damn it! The post, the bloody post! It should have been so obvious.”

“Hindsight always is. And as you said, anyone could have seen Carrie outside the Silver Vaults. And gone home with her. Or followed her home.” He looked from the lab to Jury.
“Trompe l'oeil,
is that it?”

“That's it. You weren't at ‘La Notre' that first day. Come on, let's get in there.” They got out, walked across the squelchy ground. “God, you'd think Fleming would have floodlights on that place, wouldn't you?”

As they drew nearer, Jury saw the door on one end, the main door, and assumed there was probably one on the other end. “I'll take the door on one end, maybe you can go round to the other.”

“I forgot my keys,” said Melrose.

“Very funny. You don't know how to pick locks?”

They were in the process of hoisting themselves over the wall. “I can't
imagine,
” said Melrose, “invading the privacy of others in such a way.”

In spite of everything, Jury smiled.

A
nd Constable Pasco knew how to use a handgun. He held it in both hands, crouching slightly. “Put it down!” he yelled.

“Where's Bingo?”

“I don't know about Bingo. Dammit, Carrie, I've had enough from you. I was driving from Selby. This place should have been lit up like Harrods at Christmas —”

 • • • 

The shot threw him twisting into the air. And then he fell, a dead weight in the corridor.

Carrie stared.
Constable Pasco.
She watched the blood slowly ooze through the back of his shirt and thought for one nightmare moment she must have fired.

Who was out there?

There were tiny steps that seemed to recede in the distance, running. Sweating, she reloaded the shotgun, switched off her torch, and did what she'd seen all the police do in those films she went to with the Baroness. Quickly, she stepped into the corridor and fired straight down it at a figure
all in black — including a kind of ski-cap thing. The typical demonstrator.

Or someone pretending to be. It could have been anyone, and it disappeared into one of the rooms farther down the hall. Carrie ran into the next room, where dogs were barking.

But through the sound of the dogs she could hear breathing, fast breathing, and her name whispered.

There was no time to load up the shotgun, and she hoped the torch would blind whoever it was at least for a second or two when it fell on a figure in the corner. “Neahle!”

Neahle Meara was crouched down and crying, her hands fisted against her face.

Carrie went over to her. “Neahle, I might have killed you —” Neahle kept shaking and shaking her head, weeping soundlessly, quiet as the cats. Carrie knelt beside her and whispered, “How'd you get here? How'd you get in?”

“The door at the other end.” She kept shaking her head until Carrie put her two hands on Neahle's own to make her stop. “Listen, we'll be still as mice. Okay? I'll sit here beside you.” And she did, back flat against the cinder block. She whispered, “I've got this gun, Neahle. No one can do anything. Okay?”

Neahle had stopped the sobbing, was rubbing her eyes, and Carrie shut hers tightly, thinking only of the dead rabbit. And then shocked at herself for not thinking of Constable Pasco first. He was her friend, even if she pretended not.
God, please
—she stopped the thought; she did not believe in God.

Neahle was holding her hand. “I knew something bad was going to happen. I knew you were in trouble when —”

They both froze. The sound of other feet. But the feet stopped. And Carrie knew whoever was there had to look into each room. The gunfire hadn't given her away; it had confused the person coming down the corridor. Thank God it was a long one.

Carrie took out more ammunition, loaded the .412 again, and tightened her grip on Neahle's hand. “When what, Neahle?”

“The man from Scotland Yard. He had a picture of this place, but I was afraid they were looking for you. So I didn't tell them. I took the short-cut through the woods and ran all the way. I didn't tell.” Neahle shook Carrie's arm. “Did I do wrong?”

She had steeled herself seven years ago against tears. Now the disappointment was overwhelming. If only Neahle
had
told him. “You did right.”

Neahle put her head on Carrie's shoulder. Those footsteps were coming nearer. Neahle whispered, “We're going to get killed, aren't we, Carrie? And Bingo?”

“Anyone that walks through that door is going to get a hole blown in him a deer could jump through. You take the torch. When — I mean
if
the door opens, switch it on. It's a strong light, like hunters use.”

Neahle merely nodded, looked down at the electric torch, back up at Carrie. “What if it's the wrong person that walks through?”

It was what Carrie needed. She started to giggle and clamped her hand over her mouth and so did Neahle, giggling too.
We're probably both going to die,
thought Carrie,
and we're laughing.

“Neahle. Do you believe in God?”

“I guess.” And then, disconsolately, “But, then, I'm Irish.”

This made them clamp their hands to their mouths again and hang on to one another to keep from making any sound. They had to choke back the silliness.
Death,
thought Carrie,
is silly. It sure doesn't get you anywhere
— and she had to put her head down in spite of the steps coming closer to keep from laughing and it was Neahle who had to shake Carrie this time and tell her,
Listen!

For there were other footsteps. Different.

Neahle was clearly frightened when Carrie stood up. Carrie heard her name spoken in a whisper.

It was a voice she would have known anywhere — Superintendent Jury's.

Who didn't know what he was walking into.

“Stay right there,” said Carrie. “Quiet.”

“Carrie?” said Neahle.

There was a small but mounting hysteria even in the one word. “You're all right, Neahle.
We're
all right.”

“Carrie?” said Neahle.

Neahle didn't believe her. Carrie reached round her neck and undid the little clasp of the necklace. She dropped the necklace and amethyst ring into Neahle's hands. “Besides Bingo, this is what I like most. You know that. So hold on to it for me. Okay?” There was no logic in this, and Carrie knew it. But Neahle wouldn't. To her, it would be an icon, something to trust in.

The steps were muted but getting nearer. Carrie picked up the shotgun, simply held up the palm of her hand to Neahle's indrawn breath, and went toward the door.

She opened it a slot narrow as a penny. Superintendent Jury. No.

There was a sound from the other end of the corridor he was walking down.

No.

Carrie opened the door, butted the shotgun against her shoulder, and aimed at the figure halfway down the corridor.

“Carrie!” yelled Jury.

Carrie had lowered the gun because she couldn't understand why she was aiming at the figure in black, now without the mask. Gillian Kendall.

And Gillian's handgun was trained not on her, but at Superintendent Jury.

No,
thought Carrie, leaping in front of him.

The shot caught her as it had Pasco. She looked up at Jury. “Neahle,” Carrie pointed behind her.

But Gillian brought the gun up again. He said to Carrie, “Neahle will be okay. So will Bingo.” Then he looked down the corridor. Ruth Lister.

“I'm pretty easily taken in, Ruth. Aren't I?”

Carrie's eyes were closed, but the lids fluttered. “Ruthie? The zoo . . .” Her eyes closed again.

The zoo,
Jury thought. “It was you who took Carrie. Of course, she would have gone with you.”

Ruth Lister nodded, but her attention was wholly on the girl she thought she'd put paid to for the second time. Carrie was still breathing.

The gun moving slightly, she said to Carrie, “If you'll give me the necklace, love, I promise it'll all be over.”

She was insane, thought Jury. How could it be over? How did she think she'd get away with this?

Torch the lab. Just another crazy demonstrator. Nothing but bones. And she'd have the little ring to prove that Carrie Fleet, Carolyn Lister, was dead. Whatever her story. She'd be capable of any story. A very plausible woman. Jury looked down at Carrie, whose eyes had opened again. She was smiling. There was only a bit of blood . . . .
For God's sake, Plant. . .

“How'd you find Carrie, Ruth? I mean after you missed getting her from the Brindles? You wouldn't have taken the chance on presenting yourself to old Joe, surely, and asking her whereabouts?”

“Not as myself. But social services really
must
know where its charges are.”

Jury kept Gillian talking. “You didn't simply end up in Ashdown by accident, did you?”

She laughed. “No. And I certainly wouldn't have pressed myself into service with the Baroness Regina. I was following Carrie. Did you know it was me, then? How?”

“Not until tonight. Not until I thought that the one person who had most to do with the post would be, of course, the secretary. You simply took the snapshot which the Brindles had sent with the letter out of the envelope.”

“But Una had seen it first. And told Sally MacBride. Who
might
have told Donaldson. One has to cover all bases.”

Jury felt blood oozing through his fingers. “How did you know Una Quick had told Sally MacBride?”

She smiled slightly, shaking her head. “Richard. You think things are so complicated. I merely asked her. Called her on the Monday night and threatened her. Actually, I hoped that would finish the job, but to make sure, I told her to be at that call box on Tuesday. Richard, this is fascinating, but I can't believe you came alone.”

“Wiggins is trying to get ahold of Paul Fleming.”

“Well. My little affair with Paul at least got me a key to the lab and the drug to give Grimsdale's hounds. It took some working out, you see. I knew that getting Carrie's dog here was the way to get
her
here.”

From the shadows at the other end of the hall Jury at last saw the shape of Melrose Plant emerge.
Took you long enough.
It was the ragged breathing of Carrie Fleet that enraged him. More than this woman who had led him right up the garden.

“And the other animals —?”

The safety on the gun snicked back. “I suppose I owe you something. Another minute, perhaps.”

Carrie Fleet groaned and raised her hand to ward off whatever devils were forming in her semiconscious state. “No.”

Gillian said, “Red herrings, Richard. Easy enough to dose the cat up with aspirin — which is, incidentally, what I took tonight. Not a sedative.”

“It was a convincing act. Hysteria, the works.” He watched as Plant got closer, moving in total silence. “Do you
know how much you look like Carrie? The perfect profiles. The first day at ‘La Notre,' I should have seen it. Like seeing double.”

“Bingo,” said Carrie.

“The damned dog's all right. He's in the last room down the corridor.” She raised the gun up and brought it down. “About you, Richard, I'm truly sorry.” She smiled.

Melrose was behind her. “Mind dropping that?”

Ruth Lister laughed. “Lord Ardry.
Not
Sergeant Wiggins.” She paled, but kept the gun steady. “Knowing you, I doubt very much that's a gun at my back.”

“It isn't.”

Jury watched her expression turn from a ghastly smile to a blindfold look. She seemed to stand stock still for a long time. And then she dropped like a stone.

Melrose pulled the swordstick from her back and let it clatter to the floor.

Then he went into a room at his right and came out with the terrier, Bingo, which he put on the floor beside Carrie.

Jury called Neahle's name and she came running from her hiding place in a room down the corridor. He wanted to tell her that things were all right.

Things were not.

Jury was holding Carrie in his arms, his head against her silver hair, his hands sticky with blood.

There was blood everywhere. Pasco. Gillian. It snaked down the corridor.