No Going Back - 07 Read online

  It taught him he wasn’t invulnerable. He could be cut or burned like any man, his bones could be broken, and even if he didn’t feel the debilitating agony, he could still perish from his wounds. Shot twice, he’d have died as quickly as any man if he hadn’t sought medical assistance. Now, with his wounds cleaned and dressed, his body swathed in compression bandages, he felt OK. He couldn’t be irresponsible about his injuries though. If he opened his wounds again, or they grew infected, he’d be in real trouble. He had a slight temperature, and though he didn’t feel the corresponding pain, his body was stiff and less agile than normal. He couldn’t immediately go after that bastard Englishman – not for a couple days at least. Frustration was building inside him, causing his innards to flutter wildly, and he supposed the weird feelings must equate somewhat to the pain ordinary people felt. It was a strange sensation and an alien one.

  All of this had come about due to sensation. But not his.

  His cousin Carson had an unhealthy appetite for sex, and it was something that Brent had inherited from his father. He didn’t comprehend their need for forcing themselves on women. Pleasure he believed was very close to pain, and someone whose neurological system was impaired could experience neither the way others did. The only time he derived any satisfaction was when a woman – or man for that matter – was squirming in agony beneath his fingers. But it seemed that his kinsmen were slaves to their desires. He’d known all along that it would bring them trouble of the worst kind. His sadism came hand in hand with another condition: that of apathy. He couldn’t care less for those that Carson and Brent kept as their playthings, but even in that uncaring state he could see that it was wrong, particularly when they’d started in on his younger sister. Not that he cared what they did to Carla, for he felt no attachment to her in any way. It was wrong because he knew it would lead to their downfall.

  When Carla had finally snapped, and had gone for Carson with a knife, he had responded in the first way he could think of. He’d struck his sister hard in the side of the jaw, knocking her down. He hadn’t meant for the base of her skull to slam the corner of the stone hearth, but what was done was done. Carson and Brent were both distraught as they’d buried her out in the desert, not because of what had happened but because they had lost the object of their fixation. It had been his idea to get another one.

  He had seen Helena Blackstock and thought she bore a passing resemblance to Carla. He took his kin to the bar where he’d learned that she was drinking with her husband, Scott, to show her to them. Maybe it was a good job that the police walked in when they did, or Carson and Brent might have tried to snatch her there and then and this trouble could very well have come on them much sooner. They’d had to be patient; they’d waited things out, and allowed enough time to pass that they wouldn’t be immediate suspects in Helena’s abduction. When they did finally take her, Carson had pulled favours with the police department. He wasn’t surprised that Lewin had agreed to cover for them, in exchange for favours of his own. Whoever had dropped the gene that controlled the sexual urge, he must have been on Carson’s side of the family. Lewin was the illegitimate child of Arlene and Carson before they were wed, and a half-brother to Brent. No one knew the full story of how the boy was raised by a distant cousin in Holbrook, but there was no denying that he was a Logan.

  Because familial ties didn’t affect Helena the way they had Carla, they’d had to keep the woman a virtual prisoner, chaining her in the barn, and at night locking her in the box they’d constructed in the desert. They only released her when Carson and Brent required appeasement, and that was when they’d taken to making her parade naked before their eyes.

  If she hadn’t slipped her bonds that time, sneaked away into the desert, he wondered if his kin would still be alive. While searching for Helena they’d come across the others at Peachy’s gas station. Again it was he who’d had the idea to take the women. Christ, you couldn’t look a gift horse like that in the mouth. Two for the price of one: a woman to replace Helena and a girl to keep and nurture for when the first was worn out. The third bitch was all his to do with as he pleased. He’d had big plans for Jay Walker. He still had big plans.

  But he had to get well first, and that wasn’t something he could do while he was so frustrated. He needed to hurt someone, and he’d just thought of the very person.

  He was in the back office of Doug Stodghill’s auto shop, the owner sitting on the chair opposite him. The man had been that way since finishing dressing his wounds.

  ‘How bad are my injuries?’

  ‘The one in your shoulder is superficial. It didn’t hit any major arteries or bones and should heal OK.’

  ‘What about the other?’ Samuel touched the bandage that was wound tightly around his ribs. Blood was leaking through the crêpe, pink rather than red.

  ‘It could cause problems if you aren’t careful. The bullet went through your latissimus dorsi muscle, but ricocheted off your ribcage. It broke one rib, cracked the two either side of it. The greatest threat to your health is if the wound becomes infected. Even if that doesn’t happen, it will impede movement, particularly on your left side.’

  ‘So I should be able to use my right arm OK?’

  ‘Uh, yeah.’

  ‘Good.’

  ‘Wounds like yours,’ Stodghill went on, ‘they’d put anyone else in a hospital bed. I can’t believe you’re even on your feet, never mind using your arms.’

  ‘I’m a man on a mission, Doug. I won’t stop for nothing ’til I’m done.’

  ‘You should, Samuel. Give it up now. Get away from here as fast as you can.’ Stodghill’s face was moist with perspiration, and it wasn’t through hard labour. After stealing the abandoned police cruiser, Samuel had realised that he must ditch the vehicle at the first opportunity and had called Stodghill to meet him at the wrecking yard he had part shares in. The cop car had gone through the crusher and was then buried beneath a mound of other squashed cars bound for smelting. Then Samuel had demanded that Stodghill put his previous trade to use. The man had done a tour in Vietnam, and had trained as a medic. It was decades since he’d treated gunshot wounds, but it appeared he hadn’t lost his touch. Samuel didn’t think of him as a loyal friend: he had helped Samuel out of fear. Now all he wanted was for Samuel to be gone, out of his life for good. Samuel wasn’t leaving. He knew that the first opportunity Stodghill had he’d run to the police and give him up.

  Samuel tested his right arm. It seemed to be fully functioning, and though he could feel a pulling in his opposite side, it didn’t impede him. He smiled at Stodghill.

  Stodghill smiled nervously in return.

  His mouth stuck like that as Samuel’s hand shot forward and clamped tightly round his windpipe.

  ‘Sorry about this, Doug, but you gotta go.’

  Stodghill could barely inhale let alone argue for his life.

  Samuel pulled the mechanic out of the chair, then propelled him backwards so that his spine cracked painfully against a workbench. There were tools scattered on it, plus sheaths of oil-smeared documents, an old manual typewriter, and a chipped mug. The man grimaced in pain, and Samuel took a moment to study his features, watching blotchy pink patches grow on his cheeks. Samuel squeezed tightly, feeling cartilage popping under his powerful grip.

  ‘You know something, Doug? I think you’re correct. My right arm seems to be working fine.’

  ‘Pleeeaaasssseee,’ Stodghill wheezed.

  Samuel ignored him, as he lifted his left hand and formed a fist. ‘But look at this. This you got wrong. My left works just fine too.’

  Since his days as a medic, Doug Stodghill’s outlook on life had changed. Back then he was concerned about his patients and it was his only desire to patch them up; never would he have dreamed of hurting them. But that was then, and none of them were trying to kill him at the time. He was almost blacking out from lack of oxygen, but his natural instinct was to fight for his life. His hand scrabbled along the workbench until he found the
coffee mug. He snatched it and, with all the power he could muster, slammed it against the side of Samuel’s skull.

  Samuel blinked. Blood trickled from a gash in his hairline, following the contours of his ear and neck to pool in the trough formed by his clavicle.

  Yet he hadn’t felt a thing.

  ‘OK, Doug. I’ll allow you that one.’ He bared his teeth in an exaggeration of a smile as he continued to exert pressure on Stodghill’s windpipe. ‘But you don’t get to hit me again. From now on, only I get to do the hitting.’

  31

  ‘You think he might try to take Nic back again?’

  The women had returned to their hotel rooms to freshen up, and it was left to me to deal with their parents who had arrived in Holbrook only a short time earlier. Their reunion had been an emotional affair, at first dominated by tears, then mild recrimination, followed by more tears, but within minutes it had segued into laughter all round. While their mothers accompanied Jay and Nicole inside, Jameson Walker, and Nicole’s dad, Herb, had cornered me in an alcove adjacent to the exit door of the Tipi Hotel. Jameson looked like the burly landowner from a John Wayne Western; in contrast, Herb Challinor was a small balding man who shared the same bone structure as his daughter. We made an odd-looking grouping. Nearby, hotel guests sucked on cigarettes that had been denied them inside, but none of them was in earshot. Both men wanted to show their gratitude to me for bringing home their babies. There was more hugging. I didn’t grow up in a family where men hugged, and it was something I’d had to grow used to after meeting Rink. Lately though, I’d kind of had my hug quota and was a little embarrassed.

  My get-out was to mellow the proceedings by informing them of my fears that Samuel had survived and still represented a threat to the girls.

  ‘Yes, Mr Challinor. That may very well be the case.’

  ‘Herb,’ he said. ‘Please call me Herb.’

  Nodding, I went on, ‘I’m not going to run out on you, so don’t worry. If you want me to, I’ll stay until Samuel has been captured.’

  ‘How long must the girls stay here?’ Herb asked.

  ‘The police may need to speak to them again, but I’m sure they’ll be allowed to return home soon.’

  Jameson surveyed the hotel, and it seemed to his satisfaction. ‘I’ll arrange rooms for us all here, as well as one for you, Hunter. If there’s anything else that you need, just tell me, and it’s yours.’

  When I’d set off on this search it had been as a paid employee; now the cash was secondary. Ordinarily I’d have refused his kind offer, but this five star joint was beyond my usual expense bill and it was important that I stay close to the women. I nodded my thanks.

  Then I touched on a subject that I would rather have avoided like the plague, but it was necessary. To Herb I said, ‘You’re taking Nicole to a clinic?’

  My words engendered a typical response from a loving father. Tears sprang from the corners of Herb’s eyes, and he chewed down on his bottom lip. The blood drained from his face. His hands curled into half-formed fists and I knew if Samuel chose to show his face now, the little man would likely rip it off.

  Nicole had endured rape. She had undergone examinations by doctors engaged by the Navajo County police department, but that had been for forensic evidence. Now she must tolerate a second round of tests. As horrific as the notion might sound, any of those beasts could have been carrying a sexually transmitted disease, but, worse still, Nicole could be pregnant. I haven’t given the subject of abortion much thought in the past, but here was a firm argument for termination. With luck that wouldn’t be an issue and Nicole would be given the all-clear.

  ‘Do you think that this . . . this man could make a try for her at the clinic?’

  ‘I can’t see how that’s possible, Herb. I’ve no doubt that he’ll find out Nicole’s identity, the story has been in all the papers and on the TV networks, but he’ll be too busy avoiding the police at present. I think it’ll be a day or two until he’s ready for his next move. That’s if it ever comes. I shot him twice. Best-case scenario is that he’s out there in the desert somewhere, his corpse being picked at by the buzzards.’

  ‘You don’t believe that though, do you?’ Jameson had jammed his thumbs into his belt. I could imagine a pair of six guns holstered on his hips.

  He was right. I’d just been trying to allay some of Herb’s fears. ‘If he has survived, I’m going to be waiting for him.’

  It was apparent that Jameson and Herb had spent some time together in the last few days, and the subject of my legend had come up during their discussions. Jameson must have spoken well of me because Herb looked reassured by my promise. Still, I was only one man and couldn’t be there twenty-four hours a day.

  ‘If necessary I can call in more help.’

  ‘Hopefully things won’t come to that,’ Jameson said.

  After our telephone discussion yesterday, I had caught a bus back to Holbrook, but on my return to my room at the motel I’d called Rink again to organise where I should collect my weapons. He’d already had one of his employees send them overnight to a nearby Fed-Ex depot.

  ‘You’re expecting trouble, don’t deny it. Just give the word and I’ll be there,’ Rink had offered.

  ‘We’ve fought psychos before. But this one’s different: I don’t think that Samuel will come here.’

  ‘I think it’s a given. You attract the frog-giggers like you’re some kinda magnet to nut-jobs.’

  ‘That doesn’t say much for you.’

  ‘Opposites attract, brother.’

  If there was a sliding scale for measuring this kind of thing, then Samuel Logan and I would be at opposite ends.

  Jameson and Herb went inside to check on their daughters. There would be more hugging and tears, so I elected to keep out of the way. I bought vending-machine coffee from the lobby and again stood outside with the smokers, craving something as acutely as they did nicotine. I spied to the north, fading out the nearby structures as though I could see through them all the way back to the Logans’ ranch.

  Jameson Walker was a very wealthy man now, but things hadn’t always been that way. It was only in the past few years that his business had boomed, and that the dollars began rolling in. It explained why Jay hadn’t attended any of the Ivy League universities but the state-run Pennsylvania State University. Due to her enrolment at Penn State the family had found an affinity with Pennsylvania, but since their wealth had grown, Jameson had purchased further properties down the Eastern seaboard, and amongst others he owned a penthouse on Park Avenue with a view of the Empire State Building. The apartment in the heart of Manhattan could be easily defended but there was too big a risk of collateral damage in the heart of the city. Once the police were finished with us and the women free to leave I’d requested that the family go to one of their other properties and Jameson had suggested a beach house at Ellisville on Cape Cod. For the purpose of protecting both the women, Herb had agreed that Nicole could stay over with Jay for as long as she liked.

  It was a dilemma. The remote house had its obvious problems, notwithstanding the fact that if Samuel took me out first, then help for the girls could be long in coming. But I was thinking more of the advantages. If I chose to fight Samuel in New York City, or any of the other major conurbations where Jameson had property, then I’d be on a timeline of minutes before the police came down on us like a ton of bricks. Out on that wooded coastline, where the nearest neighbour was over a half-mile away, I’d have the time needed to put Logan down without any outside interference.

  When I was with the Special Forces the message had been drummed into me over and over: preparation is the key. Some of the lads called it the Six Ps. Proper planning prevents a piss-poor performance. Although plans are something I often frown at, because speed and the ability to think on the move beat anything static, it does make sense to plan some things in advance. When thinking of the situation: protecting the girls at all costs – and the objective: killing Samuel – and achieving bot
h within a short time frame, then it was imperative to choose your battleground wisely. The house at Cape Cod was surrounded by woodland and shallow inlets of salt water, with only one road in and out. Ordinarily it would be a trap, but this time it would provide the ideal location in which to ambush a killer.

  Yet I wondered now if this was another wasted plan.

  I had a hunch that our final battle would not play out in Massachusetts, but here in this desert where it had begun.

  Still staring into the distance, I hoped that I was right and the bastard was coming. Like my nearby smoking friends who were dragging hard on their cigarettes, it was the only way I could feed my addiction.

  ‘Where are you Samuel, you sick son of a bitch?’

  I wasn’t conscious of having spoken out loud, but I received a dirty look from an elderly woman tugging a wheeled suitcase behind her.

  ‘Uh, excuse me, ma’am,’ I said.

  She pursed her lips, shaking her head, like she was sucking on a sour grape. Then she flagged a cab pulling into the hotel’s forecourt. She looked back at me as the cab pulled away, shook her head again. I don’t know if her disapproval was for my bad language or the look of murder on my face.

  32

  After beating Doug Stodghill to death and jamming him inside a locker in the office at the rear of his auto shop, Samuel had taken the keys to a vehicle that the mechanic had just finished fixing. The car he stole gave him a head start, but he knew that would only last for so long. Soon, the car would be on the police BOLO system – an all points bulletin otherwise known as ‘be on the look out’. Samuel had driven the car via desert roads that he was familiar with, going beyond the border and into New Mexico. He’d dumped the car in a weed-choked lot behind a taco stall and hot-wired another car a little further up the road. It was an ancient Oldsmobile and the suspension creaked ominously but it carried him to Gallup. There he spent a night in a ‘no questions asked’ flophouse where he used some peroxide purchased from a drugstore to both lighten his dark hair and clean out his injuries. Most people would have screamed as the chemical invaded the raw wounds; Samuel barely felt an itch. The wound in his shoulder was knitting together nicely, but the one in his side was more troublesome. It felt mushy where the bullet had struck his ribs, and he guessed that the bone would take much longer to heal than did his flesh. The thought was troubling.