Devils cure, p.40
Devil's Cure, page 40
“Are you all right? Do you need a rest?”
“I’m okay.” He wouldn’t turn to look at him. “You’ll take me home, right?”
“If you want,” he lied. An urge to talk, to tell his son of his plans for him, swelled within him. But he knew it was only likely to horrify the boy, the idea of being separated from his mother. He needed time to adjust, to accept his father. If only he could get him to understand that he wanted the best for him, what was right.
The hollow caught his foot and he fell hard, landing on top of the canister, its spout catching him in the breastbone and punching all the air out of him. Gasping on the ground, he saw Sean turn, look, and then start running.
It took him several seconds to lurch to his feet.
“Sean!”
The boy was fast, propelled by fear and adrenaline, and he had the advantage of being small, dodging more easily through the lush undergrowth, skipping over the roots and tangled detritus of the forest. David lurched after him, branches spearing him in the side, in the face. In the distance, the boy’s yellow T-shirt flashed through the trees.
“Sean, slow down! You’re going to get lost!”
For a moment, the paternal tone seemed to confuse the boy, and David saw him falter, turn round to look. But then he was off again, and then—he was gone. David charged ahead in panic. The ground was starting to level off, and roll, and who knew when they would finally come out at a campground, a road, a town.
He knew now that the boy would never love him, never come to know him. It was fantasy to think otherwise. He’d been poisoned by the world, by his mother. This is what all earthly lust and pride came to. He’d lied to himself and said no to God, and he’d put everything at risk, all he’d worked for over the years.
He ran harder, but the knapsack and the canister were slowing him down, and the boy was running on unencumbered, putting more distance between them. David saw the pieces of his rifle in his knapsack, put them together in his mind’s eye in a split second. No, there was no time, he’d never catch the boy. Catch him first, before he makes it out from the trees, before he reaches a campsite or a house.
Then: do what he should have done back at the house.
After ten minutes, Laura saw a narrow bay cut into the shoreline, with a single rickety cottage perched over the steep slope. At the base of a precipitous path down to the water was a slip with a small motorboat. Kevin swung alongside and tied up, and together they started up the path.
Halfway to the top, Laura heard raucous marching band music wafting down on the wind, getting louder by the second; by the time they reached the door it sounded like the Oktoberfest parade. As they skirted along the side of the cottage, looking for the door, she realized that more than just music was emanating from the cottage’s open windows: she flinched as she caught a pungent whiff of the most diabolical fish smell she’d ever encountered. She saw now that some of the windowpanes were steamed up, with little wisps floating out and up into the open air. They rounded the corner, and parked out in front of the cottage was a VW Bug. A narrow dirt track curved up through the woods.
The screen door was ajar, and Kevin knocked hard on the doorframe. “Hello?”
He waited only a few seconds before walking in. Laura followed. It was an appalling place, raw floorboards all but invisible under fishing gear and tackle, piles of yellowing newspaper, cardboard boxes overflowing with tin cans and plastic containers, and all manner of junk. It looked like a scrapyard. After the sunlight, it seemed particularly dismal. Inside the smell was almost unbearable; she doubted it could be any more intense were she actually inside a fish. She held a hand cupped over her nose.
“Hello!” Kevin shouted.
They walked straight back, past a couple of rooms, similarly cluttered. At the end of the hallway, to the right, was the kitchen, more of a narrow galley. There didn’t seem to be a refrigerator, but there was a disproportionately large gas stove, with flames raging under four huge, steaming soup pots. Tending to them was a tall man with a head of white hair and a long, briny beard that extended down to his sternum. He was wearing only a pair of olive drab army surplus shorts, cinched around his emaciated hips by a cloth belt. The thin arms and legs were all bony protuberances and razor-wire tendons and ligaments; his feet for some reason reminded her of nothing quite so much as dinosaur feet, all hamstring and joint.
He jolted when he caught sight of them and reached up and turned down the volume on his portable radio, set on a shelf among various tins and bottles of spices.
“Didn’t hear you come in,” he said, without sounding the slightest bit annoyed. His head wobbled slightly from side to side, some kind of tremor, Laura supposed. Looking at his face she saw that he probably wasn’t past his mid-fifties, but all that white hair made him look much older. Out of politeness, she’d removed her hand from her nose, and she was trying to breathe only through her mouth to avoid smelling whatever was in those pots.
Kevin showed him his badge. “There’s a fugitive on the island, David Haines.”
The man showed no sign of recognizing the name.
“He’s got a boy hostage and he abandoned his boat on the south shore about half an hour ago. He’ll be looking for gas, or another boat. Do you have a phone?”
The man pointed. Laura saw, mounted to the wall by the sink, an old black rotary phone. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d seen one.
“You might want to think of heading into town for the time being,” he told the man as he dialed. To Laura he said, “I’ve got to call the field office, then the local police. They’re going to need to set up a cordon and start warning people who live nearby. Lee, it’s Kevin …”
The man just stared at Kevin in amazement as he talked into the phone, as though he’d never seen anyone use such a device in quite that fashion before. The smell was starting to make Laura feel ill. She smiled at the man and started backing out of the kitchen; she needed air. She made her way to the door and stuck her nose out, inhaling greedily.
The boy came out of the woods so quickly, so quietly, that for a split second, Laura thought he was some kind of woodland animal, a faun motionless by the roadside, taking a timid glimpse at the world of man. She half expected him to turn and bound back into the trees.
Sean.
Rooted in place, fifty yards up the dirt path, just before it curved out of sight into the trees, he stared down at the house. It was as if, after making it this far, he was suddenly transfixed by the sight of sanctuary. Why didn’t he run? Didn’t he see her? Maybe he did, and the sight of a grown-up was enough in his mind to make him feel safe. Or else he was simply in a state of stupefied exhaustion.
She stepped out the door, lifted her hand, waved in a high arc, beckoning.
“Sean!”
Still not moving. The boy needed help. And obeying a primal instinct she started running towards him up the dirt path, her eyes darting into the trees, wondering where Haines was. At first Sean just stared at her, almost in alarm, and then, when she was less than ten feet from him, he suddenly broke into a run, and flung himself against her. Laura closed her arms around him, holding him tight. He was trembling.
“You were at our house,” he rasped, as if to reassure himself.
“Yeah. Where is he, the man?”
“He fell, and I ran. Back in the woods. He was chasing me.”
“Let’s get inside, Sean, right now.”
She turned and with a start realized how far she’d run to meet him. The house seemed impossibly far, shrouded by trees. A horrible premonition electrified her, a sense they’d never make it back, and at that moment, David Haines stepped out from the woods, halfway down the path, blocking their return.
He was panting, already unslinging his knapsack from his shoulder, unzipping, and extracting pieces of metal. Snapping them into place with frightening speed.
“Kevin!” she screamed, and then again, “Kevin!” his name raw against her throat. In Haines’s hands, it was as if the gun was assembling itself. Grabbing Sean’s wrist, she ran, pulling him off the path and into the woods. She had no idea if Kevin had heard her inside the house, on the phone, those pots boiling furiously, the Biergarten music, goddamnit.
Through the trees, not knowing where she was going, branches whipping at her face, her sandals skidding on buckled roots and stones, tangles of dead bush and twigs tearing at her bare ankles like barbed wire. Impossible to even see the ground sometimes it was so overgrown with enormous ferns and low-lying shrubs. Over her pulse’s roar, she thought she heard a gunshot. Sean slipped his damp hand from her grip and pulled ahead of her, as if he knew where he was going. She risked a glance over her shoulder and couldn’t see Haines, but she wished the trees were thicker here.
After a few minutes, her chest and throat burned, and she put her hand on Sean’s shoulder to slow him down. “Wait, wait,” she whispered, and she crouched low behind a huge trunk, panting, listening. She knew she couldn’t just keep running headlong forever. She needed to find a road, a house, somewhere safe. Where was safe when a man had a rifle? She needed a plan, and right now it was all she could do to gag back the acidic wash in her throat and catch her breath.
She heard a distant crackling, a rustle of leaves, then nothing. Cheek pressed against the bark, she edged one eye around the tree trunk. He was standing so still, her eyes almost passed over him, there in the distance, the rifle held with both hands diagonally across his body. Like a hunter, listening.
Move or stay, move or stay? Maybe he’d walk right past if they were quiet enough. She looked at Sean, and he looked right at her, a gaze so penetrating, so expectant, she almost couldn’t bear it. You’ll take care of me, the eyes said. Christ, when had she been able to take care of anyone? He was twisting his hands together, less frightened when he was running. She was worried he would make a sound, whimper, give them away. Where was Kevin, why wasn’t he coming?
Move.
She couldn’t stand it any longer. The impulse to get away was undeniable; she had to get farther away from Haines. She put a finger to her lips and gestured Sean to go forward. Crouched over, she followed, steering him with her hand, trying to keep the big tree between them and Haines.
Impossible to walk quietly. Every time she took a step it seemed something crackled or rustled, or maybe it just sounded monstrously loud to her own ears. Could he see them? Was he lining them up in his crosshairs even now? She turned, scanned the trees, saw nothing. She hoped to God they were far enough away now. Taking Sean’s hand again, she broke into a run.
Up ahead the trees thinned, and there was a sudden metallic flash of light through them. A car. A road. She ran faster still, bursting out from the woods, leaping the ditch, running to the edge of the two-lane asphalt road. The car she’d seen had already disappeared out of sight. She crossed the road with Sean, dipped into the trees on the other side, and kept moving; she wanted some cover as they watched the road and waited for another car.
They walked for several minutes. Then, with almost no warning, a hatchback was flashing through the trees.
“Stay here,” she told Sean. The car was already fifty feet down the road when she reached the asphalt; she shouted, running into the middle of the road and waving her arms. At first she thought it wouldn’t stop, but then, with huge relief, she saw the brake lights flare and the car crunch over onto the gravel shoulder.
“Sean, c’mon!” she called. She hurried to meet the boy, scooping him up into her arms, barely feeling his weight as she ran for the hatchback.
“What’s wrong?” said the driver, a young man, stepping out. “Is he hurt?”
She was choking for air. “There’s a man. With a gun. Chasing us.” She sucked more air into her lungs. “Get back in! Just drive us out of here!”
He was looking at something past her, down the road. She knew what she’d see, even before she turned. Haines was stepping out onto the road, rifle leveled.
“Shit,” breathed the man.
Laura threw open the back door and heaved Sean inside on top of the camping gear strewn across the seats. She squeezed in beside him as the driver slung himself behind the wheel. A young woman was in the passenger seat, face stricken.
“Keep down,” Laura cried, pressing Sean down behind the front seat. The driver turned the key, hit the gas, and the car lurched and stalled.
“Shit!”
“You’re in third!” Laura shouted at him, seeing the gearshift. He slammed the stick up into first, started again, and this time the car lunged forward with a roar. The driver rammed the car into second, picking up speed now. Thank you, thank you, thank you—
Laura heard the crack of the rifle, and the driver’s companion shrieked. Third gear, and a second crack sounded, and suddenly the car pulled hard to the right.
“I think he hit my tire!” the man said, braking and turning the wheel wildly to the left as the car went into a skid. Laura grabbed hold of Sean as the car left the road, spun on the gravel, and tipped over into the ditch.
The doors on the right were blocked. Laura kicked open the opposite door and struggled out, holding it with one arm so it wouldn’t swing back on top of her.
“Sean!” She reached back and pulled him out.
They were all out on the grass now. She turned and saw Haines sprinting towards them.
“Just run!” Laura said.
Back into the woods, and she was aware of the driver and his companion running alongside them for a while, but then suddenly they peeled off, maybe thinking they were safer on their own, away from the gunman’s quarry.
Sean was beginning to flag, and so was she. A cramp sent a jittery spiderweb of pain through her left side. Suddenly through the trees she saw a dirt drive, flanked by tall trees, and almost ran straight into a low fence, three parallel strands of barbed wire marking off a property line. She lifted Sean into her arms and hopped over, running closer to the drive. There, at the end, was a big farmhouse; behind, a barn and all sorts of other buildings bathed in the red light of the coming dusk.
“Okay, Sean, we’re gonna be okay now.”
With Sean straddling her hips, she ran for the big farmhouse. They could call the police, maybe they had guns there, maybe they had a big truck or van they could all drive off in—and run over Haines while they were at it.
It wasn’t until she was almost at the generous veranda that she realized the screen door slouched on broken hinges, the central pane of the front bay window was smashed, everywhere the paint was peeling and, oh my God, it was like some movie ghost town. To her left, all the fields were overgrown with high grass: why hadn’t she noticed that sooner? Not a vehicle in sight, a car, truck, a goddamn tractor. No signs of life at all. She vaulted up the steps, threw open the screen, and hammered on the front door, then gave up and peered in the smashed bay window: the room was dark and emptied of all its furniture.
“Hello!” she called into the empty room, and her voice rang dully through the house. Glancing back down the long dirt drive, into the trees, across the wild fields, she saw no sign of Haines. She looked down at Sean, who was watching her worriedly.
She faltered. Head on into the woods some more, now that the light was failing, or get inside? Maybe it was a pathetic notion of a safe haven, the house, inside, that made her want to stay. She could run some more, but not for long, and if she had to carry Sean … They needed to rest.
With a fractured piece of wood from the porch railing, she quickly knocked away the jagged remnants of the windowpane.
“Okay, Sean, let’s get inside.”
She lifted him up and through, and then squeezed herself in after him. She had no idea if she was making the right choice.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
HE DROPPED THE PHONE THE MOMENT HE HEARD LAURA SHOUT HIS name, and he was at the front door just in time to see her and the boy rushing off the dirt drive into the woods. David was already turning to him, the rifle to his cheek. Kevin jerked back inside the house, heard the gun’s clap, and saw the mesh of the screen door pucker as the bullet went through and took an oblique strip out of the wall.
“Stay back!” he shouted to the man in the kitchen.
He moved over to a small window and peered out. David was running up the path, disappearing into the trees after Laura and Sean. Shit. Fingers tightened around the Glock, he burst out the screen door and into the trees on the opposite side of the drive, deep enough for some cover, watching for Haines across the way. Would he take time to lie in wait for him? Risk letting Laura and the boy get away? He’d want the boy, but why hadn’t he killed him yet? God knows he’d had plenty of time.
Kevin paused for a moment, listening, hearing nothing. He grimaced, sucked in air, and charged out into the open, across the drive and into the trees on the other side, welding himself to a broad trunk. He forced his eyes to make a slow, careful sweep, deep into the woods.
In the distance, David disappeared over a rise. Kevin ran. But by the time he’d got there, and carefully cleared the top of the slope, he couldn’t see David anywhere. His impulse was to keep running, but he knew it was probably futile. He could run around for days in here and not find them, keep missing them by a hundred yards, circling endlessly.
He forced his mind back to his days here on the island. This part he’d known well, and he tried to conjure up an aerial view, superimposing roads. Laura would know that there must be a main road somewhere; she’d head for that—if David didn’t force her away from it, if she wasn’t too terrified to think. She’d head for a road and try to flag someone down.
He turned and ran back the way he’d come, and within five minutes he’d reached a two-lane road. Laura would turn to the north; she’d seen the mountainous south shore from the water, she knew it was pretty much uninhabited. She’d head north.
The two gunshots, within seconds of one another, seemed to reach him from all directions at once in the still air. Eyes closed, he strained to trace the last remnants of sound, and then ran.
By the time he was halfway round the slow bend to the north, he could see the hatchback tipped over into the ditch. Please, God, no. Laura and the boy must have been inside. He ran towards it on the far side of the road, screened by trees. Alongside the car now, panting, he couldn’t see anyone inside, but the angle was bad, and he was still too far away. If they were dead, they’d be slumped out of sight down on the ditch side of the car. He crossed the road, eyes never straying from the trees.
