The Dead Tracks Page 42

  'Constable,' I said to one of the uniforms holding a flashlight. He looked at me. 'Could you shine your torch into the woods over there?'

  He frowned, 'Why?'

  I glanced at Crane. He was staring at me, his face stoic. 'Just for a second.'

  The PC was young, mid twenties. He probably liked the fact I'd come along for the ride because it meant he wasn't bottom of the food chain any more. He shook his head. 'No. I do what DCI Phillips tells me, not you.'

  The PC looked back up the trail to the group. Defiant.

  The remaining SFO was standing behind me. I turned to him. 'Can you get him to shine the torch into the woods?'

  'Why?' he replied.

  The PC turned back to face us.

  'Because Crane doesn’t give a shit about what's happening up there,' I said, nodding to the group at the crate. 'But he can't keep his eyes off the woods.'

  They looked from me to Crane, then to the woods. Crane didn't meet their eyes. He was staring up the trail, watching as Phillips, Hart and both uniforms tried to prize the lid of the crate away. A crack sounded, and - beyond the fall of rain - Hart said something. The lid had shifted.

  The SFO watched me for a moment, MP 5 hanging diagonally across his waist. 'Okay,' he said, and looked at the PC. 'Do what he says.'

  Crack.

  The lid had come away. Everybody stepped back, leaving Phillips on his own. He placed his hands either side of the lid and lifted it up, dropping it on to the path with a dull whup. The group stepped up to the crate and looked inside.

  'It's empty!' I heard Hart shout from the crate.

  And then the PC shone his light into the woods.

  About fifteen feet in was the Hanging Tree, the distinctive T-shaped oak I'd seen in photographs online, and the place Milton Sykes had built a treehouse as a child. Tied to the trunk was Jill. She'd been bound and gagged. Rope had been looped around her throat, pinning her to the bark, a semicircular piece of skin hanging from the top of her face. It took me two or three seconds to realize what it was: her forehead. The flap of skin covered one eye; the other was closed. She had bruises everywhere: her face, her arms, around her collarbone. Her clothes — a pair of jeans and a thin long-sleeve sweater — were soaked through with blood and rainwater, the sweater torn, exposing her stomach. Scrawled across her skin in black ink was 8.5.

  Phillips sprinted towards us, his eyes fixed on Jill, and told me to hold back. I wanted to get to Jill. I wanted to tear her down from the tree and rip Crane apart on the way through. He was fully facing me now, his back to her. Finally I couldn't wait any more: I stepped past him, about three feet from the tree line, unable to take my eyes off the body strapped to the tree.

  'What the fuck have you done?' I said.

  'I didn't get time to finish her,' he replied in a matter-of- fact voice from behind me, bringing his handcuffed wrists up to the side of his head and scratching a spot next to his eye. 'So we'll call her eight and a half. Would have been good to have had the time to sort out that terrible skin of hers. But while I usually prefer to finish my work, I'll accept this one for what she is.' He paused. His eyes drifted to the woods behind me. 'A marker.'

  A second later he dropped to the floor.

  Fnip. Fnip.

  To my right, the SFO's head exploded into a shower of blood. His gun flipped off to the side, landing with a thud in the grass. Fnip. Next to him, the PC went down, a bullet pounding into his chest, close to the heart. I dropped to the floor. Rolled towards the grass at the opposite tree line.

  Fuck. It's a set-up.

  From behind where I'd been standing two men in balaclavas emerged from the woods, both armed with silence pistols. At the crate, the SFO lifted his MP 5. Fnip. Another uniform went down, falling against the crate and crushing it beneath him. Fnip. Someone else. Maybe Hart. I couldn't tell any more.

  The SFO started firing.

  It was a thunderous noise, ripping across the woods and echoing away. The two men retreated back into cover, into the trees and bushes. The remaining SFO was left out in the open. One man against the darkness.

  I grabbed the MP 5 lying on the ground next to the dead SFO and made a break for the other side of the trail, where Jill was now disguised by the night again. Fnip. Fnip. Bullets hit the path close to my feet. My body automatically tried to avoid them, and the move unbalanced me: I stumbled forward, hitting the undergrowth hard beyond the tree line. A split second later, another bullet hit a tree about six inches to my left. Bark spat out, dusting me as I tried to move deeper into the darkness.

  Fnip. Fnip. Fnip.

  Someone cried out. A woman.

  The paramedic.

  Fnip.

  Close to me, the sound of a body hitting the grass. Then the dogs barking. I wasn't sure who was still standing and who was already dead. MP 5 gunfire erupted, brief flashes of light illuminating the trail. I could see Crane flat to the floor. Bodies strewn next to him. Torches on the ground — one facing off along the path, one into the side of the woods the men were in.

  And right on the edge of its light: a shape.

  He was hunkered down behind a tree trunk. Changing magazines. The SFO wouldn't hit him from the crate. He wouldn't even see him.

  But I could.

  I brought the MP 5 up slowly to my shoulder. Stock against my body. Finger around the trigger. I was surrounded by oily darkness, as thick as the inside of a tomb. But as soon as I fired, I would give my position away. I had to get it right.

  Aim.

  Concentrate.

  I thought of my dad teaching me to fire guns. Of him running through the woods behind our farm with me when I was a teenager. Firing a replica Beretta at targets he'd assembled.

  Concentrate.

  I squeezed the trigger.

  The noise was immense. It crackled across the path seconds after the bullet went through the gunman's face. One side to the other. In the periphery of the light, I could see a flash of red. And then he was down. Slumped to his side. Half in the woods, half on the path.

  I got to my feet and ran.

  Fnip. Fnip.

  Bullets hit the space behind me. I clipped a tree with my shoulder, unable to distinguish it as I moved further away from the two torches on the path. Then I hit another and almost knocked myself out. I fell back into the undergrowth.

  Quiet.

  Nothing now. Just the gentle patter of rain against the canopy. My thoughts were racing: would they hear the gunfire from the road? How long would it take them to get support teams here? It had taken us thirty minutes to walk this far. That probably meant half that at a run. I rolled over. Grass and fallen branches cracked under me.

  On the other side of the tree line, about thirty feet away in a diagonal to my right, was another dead PC. His torch was pointing towards him, right up close to his face. It turned his skin red, and the blood at his mouth even redder. Beyond that, further up the trail, was what was left of the crate, just a vague shape against the night. I could see a dead PC lying alongside it. Back the way I'd come, Crane was still down on the floor. He hadn't moved. It meant the last SFO was still alive — or the remaining assassin couldn't be sure. If he knew for certain, Crane would just get up and walk off.

  Movement.

  Opposite me, across the trail, on the other side of the woods. I squinted into the darkness. Nothing now. Just the tree line and the swathes of black beyond.

  But then it came again.

  More movement.

  Suddenly, gunfire erupted from the direction of the crate, and the whole area lit up. The bodies on the trail. Jill strapped to a tree, further back in the direction I'd come. Crane on the floor of the path. The SFO, MP 5 to his shoulder, was firing towards the space I'd seen movement. And the source of the movement: the other assassin, hidden behind a tree, facing in my direction.

  We were looking at one another.

  And his gun was aimed.

  I ducked — late - as two bullets whipped across the trail and hit the tree behind me
. They'd missed me by an inch. Through the undergrowth, on my side, I saw him for a second. And then he was gone. The SFO had stopped firing.

  The Dead Tracks were black.

  No sound but the rain.

  I very gently sat up and shifted sideways, moving on my backside, dragging myself through the undergrowth as quickly and as quietly as I could. After about ten feet, my arm hit a tree. I stopped. Lifted the MP 5 to my shoulder and aimed it back in the direction of the gunman.

  Click.

  The SFO was reloading. I was closer to the crate now, could hear the gentle sound of the magazine being fitted back into the gun. A brief moment of silence.

  Then more gunfire.

  The SFO's bullets hit the tree the man was using as cover. But he was protected. His cover was good.

  Except he'd made a mistake.

  He was still facing the same position I'd been in before. As soon as the MP 5 lit up the woods, he fired twice into the space I'd been. But I wasn't there. Through the sights I could see his balaclava, eyes showing: a moment of hesitation as he realized I was somewhere else. He scanned the woodland, moving left along the edge of the trail. Then surprise as he picked out my position about thirty feet across from him.

  Aim. Concentrate.

  Hit the target.

  I fired.

  His head ruptured, blood spattering against the tree, and his body fell backwards against the floor of the woods. No sound. Through the corner of my eye, I saw the SFO look in my direction and nod. He'd known I was there. He'd tracked my movement from the first time I'd fired. I nodded back. We both realized he'd used me. He'd given me enough light and enough time to take the shot and banked on me hitting the target. I wasn't an expert marksman. With less time to line up the shot I might have missed. But I knew enough to hit two stationary targets, both of which hadn't seen me first. Maybe he knew what I could do. Maybe he'd read what the police had on file about me. Or maybe he'd just taken a chance. Either way it had worked.

  Movement to my left. I swivelled.

  Crane was up and on his feet, sprinting away.

  I headed after him, bending down to pick up the torch lying next to the dead PC's face. The burnt, nauseating stench of gunfire drifted along the trail, and there was the tang of blood in the air, thick and fresh. Crane looked back at me, then veered right, into the woods. I followed. I shone the torch out in front of me and saw him about fifteen feet ahead, my heart thumping in my ears, my hands greased with sweat and rain. He was trying to get some distance between us. Trying to pull away. Trying to lose me and fade into the night. But without a torch, the woods were like a maze.

  A second later he fell.

  Out of the night, a huge oak tree emerged, springing from the dark like a wall of wood. He clipped it with his shoulder as he went to avoid it. Stumbled. Shifted to his left. As he tried to stop himself from falling, a bramble grasped at his foot, reaching up from the forest floor. He lurched forward and toppled over, hitting the ground hard, the wind thumped out of him, his wrists - locked together — catching under his body. He rolled over, looking up, breath forming in front of his face.

  For a moment, he couldn't focus. He stared up in my direction but slightly off to the side. Then he rocked his head from left to right, his eyelids fluttered and he readjusted. His eyes fixed on me. I shone the torch down at him, off to the side of his face, so he could see me as clearly as the darkness of the woods would allow.

  'Who were they?' I said.

  'Russians.' He coughed then smiled, blood and saliva smeared across his teeth. They were scared about what I might be forced to tell the cops. They can get to me in prison. But they can't get to me in a police station. So I made a deal.'

  'A deal?'

  'The Ghost needs his face doing again. He's paranoid. Thinks the police are closing in on him the whole time.' He paused, ran his tongue across his teeth. 'So I told his people that if he got me out of this, I could delay the police - and I'd do Gobulev's face for free.'

  'This was about a facelift?'

  'No, David,' he said. This was about protection. Have you any idea how valuable I am to the police? Have you any idea how much I've seen? The Russians were taking out an insurance policy. And anyway, how many plastic surgeons do you think there are in this country willing to work for people like Gobulev?' He paused. 'I'm the star witness. I'm the key. I'm God?

  A trickle of blood escaped from his lips and ran down his face. He reached up with his handcuffed wrists and brushed it away. It smeared across the scar on his chin.

  'How did they know?' I asked him.

  'Let's just say, when I asked for a phone call, I didn't call my lawyer.'

  As I stared at Crane, a wind whipped across us, passing through grass and bushes and leaves, as cold as a sheet of ice. A gentle whisper followed in its wake; a far-off noise like a voice repeating itself over and over again.

  From the ground, Crane studied me. 'You can feel it.'

  'I don't feel anything'

  'But you knew what I was talking about.' In the light from the torch, his eyes widened in delight, flicking back and forth across my face. 'It has a power, this place. All the secrets, the lies, the death, the destruction. It leaves its mark.'

  'You're done,' I said quietly.

  He shook his head. 'I'm not done yet, David.'

  I looked at him, studied him, his eyes flashing in the subtle glow of the torchlight. I brought the MP 5 around and placed it against his head. His eyes crossed for a moment, focusing on the barrel above his eyes. Then he looked back at me.

  'We're the same,' he whispered.

  My fingers touched the trigger. My left hand squeezed the barrel. The stock cut in against my shoulder. All this misery. All this pain. If I pulled the trigger now, no one would cry for him. No one would miss him. He'd be buried in a cemetery somewhere with no one at his graveside. If I pulled the trigger, no one would mourn him.

  'We're the same, David.'

  But if I pulled the trigger, he'd be right.

  I moved the MP 5 away from his face and tossed it into the undergrowth behind me. His expression dissolved. He thought he'd still been in control, even as he looked down the barrel of the gun. He thought we were the same. But we'd never be the same.

  Not now. Not ever.

  'You were right about me,' I said to him quietly. 'I've killed. But I did it to survive. I did it because the alternative was dying myself. And there hasn't been a day that's gone by - not a single day - I haven't wished I could have done it differently, even though the people I hurt were men just like you: men who feel nothing when they take a life. There's not been a single day when I don't think about what I've done. So you can hunt me, and you can torture me, and you can try to kill me. And one day, who knows, maybe one of you will succeed.' I reached down, grabbed his collar and pulled him to his feet. 'But don't ever say we're the same. Because you'll never understand me. You'll never know who I am. And we'll never be the same.'

  And then I led Aron Crane back through the darkness of the Dead Tracks.

  * * *

  Chapter Seventy-six

  Three weeks later, police were still trying to unravel the lie that was Aron Crane's life: his wife, his child, his victims, his reasons. The six women he'd left floating in formalin were there for reference. He could have buried them in the ground like Milton Sykes had, but as he got closer to working on Megan, he needed to be able to refer to the problems he'd encountered during surgery, and the mistakes he'd made along the way.

  To start, as had been the case when he was first arrested, he refused to talk. But he did open up a little eventually. Police brought in the best psychologist they could find and he worked some details out of Crane. Small details, like how he pushed his wife Phedra off the decking on the top of his house. Whatever his reasoning, the psychologist failed to illicit any emotion from Crane about the moment he leaned over the railings and looked down at his dead wife, pregnant with his child. Any sign he missed her, or regretted what he'd done. H
e buried them in the woods, and in all the time people tried chipping away at him, it proved the only chink in his armour. The only way to get him to talk. Crane may have been a wall of silence, but Phedra was the tiny hole that would never seal over.

  He pleaded guilty to murdering the six women he preserved in formalin, killing Susan Markham and kidnapping Megan, Jill and Sona, but said virtually nothing during the trial, other than to confirm his name. After four days, the jury found him guilty and he was given seven life sentences, to run concurrently. I watched the news every day during that time, waiting to see an egotistical flash, or hear how he'd smiled at jurors while recounting the horrific things that he'd done. But reporters always described him as subdued, and after a while I realized - without his project, without the opportunity to move from one stage to the next — he had nothing left. When he was even incapable of expressing any regret over what he'd done to his wife and child, it was obvious there were no hidden depths to him. Nothing else to his make-up. With no control and no power, there was no Aron Crane.