The Devil's Anvil Page 8

  Noah shot Adam a look of incredulity. It was understandable: he was the one with the thumping headache and grotesque hand, muddy and covered in crap, while Adam sat pretty in his brand new hiking gear. Still, I wasn’t kidding when I said I didn’t have much time. The longer I wasted here with these two amateur detectives, the longer Billie was at risk from someone who did mean her harm. I clicked my fingers. ‘Let me see your hand.’

  ‘You broke it,’ Noah groaned. ‘I need to see a medic.’

  I waited a few seconds, just staring at him. My mouth was set sternly, I guess, because he grimaced at me. But eventually he took out his hand from his armpit, studied it, then turned his face away as if in disgust. Slowly he began to extend it. I waited no longer. I grasped his finger in my left palm and folded a fist around it, gave a hard jerk and let go. Noah howled, but the sound was quickly curtailed when he realised that I hadn’t torn the finger off. He held his hand in front of his face, studying it, surprised to find everything in the correct place. He made a tentative attempt at a fist, hissed, unfolded his fingers, then tried again. It was easier second time. He blinked in astonishment.

  ‘You’ll be fine. First chance you get, strap your index finger to the middle one, give it some support, otherwise it might pop out of joint again.’ I tossed his revolver down on the forest floor. ‘And don’t try to pick that up with your right hand. Put it away with your left.’

  He looked at the gun, up at me. ‘I’m not a complete idiot,’ I told him and allowed the bullets I’d emptied from the cylinder to trickle from my hand. ‘You won’t need those, I’m not sure you’ll be firing a gun any time soon. You’ll have some tenderness in the joint for a few days, but if you take things easy with it your finger should be fine.’

  ‘Why’d you care?’ Noah huffed.

  ‘I don’t. You know, there’s a lesson in this for you. Unless you’re prepared to shoot, don’t go drawing your weapon.’

  Noah scowled. He checked for where I’d put my SIG. It was in its carry position at my lower spine, and he couldn’t see it for my clothing. But he knew it was there, and most likely that I’d been holding it ready when I’d walked up on them. ‘Could say the same for you,’ he pointed out.

  ‘Oh, worry not. I was prepared to shoot. I just didn’t have to.’

  My last was an insult I hadn’t intended, but it was too late to retract it without losing my position of dominance. I wondered if Brandon Cooper would be proud of me for restraining my killer instinct. I was pretty sure that Rink would be.

  On the fallen log, Adam stirred. ‘Is it OK for me to move my hands now? Seeing as we’ve straightened out our misunderstanding.’

  His friend wasn’t so sure. As far as he knew, I was some guy working for Procrylon who’d almost busted his head, dislocated his finger, then, for some reason unknown to him, reset it. Perhaps so I could dislocate it all over again.

  ‘You can move, but don’t go getting fresh,’ I warned Adam.

  Relieved, he took out his hands and worked some blood flow into them. The skin on his hands was the same pattern as the bark on the tree, only much paler. He quickly rubbed at the end of his tickly nose with a palm, squinting in relief.

  Noah took my relaxing of the rules as permission to stand. He used the fallen tree for support. Adam offered a helping hand, but Noah shrugged him off. ‘I’m not totally useless,’ he growled, but to me he was trying to convince himself rather than his friend.

  ‘Sit down before you fall down,’ I told him. He still looked cross-eyed from the smack round the head. He perched himself unsteadily alongside Adam. ‘We’ve established that you’re not the bad guys. For the record, neither am I.’

  Noah touched his head, unsure of the sincerity of my statement.

  ‘That’s the thing,’ Adam said. ‘You know who we are, but you haven’t explained yourself. Are you just a friend of Billie Womack’s or something else?’

  ‘Can’t I be both?’

  Apparently Adam wasn’t that sharp when it came to a subtle response. He frowned, trying to figure out what I meant.

  To speed things up, I decided to be more forthright. ‘I’m looking after her.’ I eyed them pointedly. ‘Some strange guys have been following her around recently.’

  Adam glanced at Noah, and had the grace to appear abashed.

  ‘He doesn’t mean us,’ Noah told him. ‘He’s talking about this “Procrylon” outfit.’

  ‘How long have you been here?’ I asked.

  ‘Here in the woods?’ Adam wanted clarification.

  ‘Baker’s Hole, in town.’ I swept our surroundings with an all-encompassing gesture. ‘Since leaving the city.’

  ‘Three days,’ Adam said.

  Noah clucked his tongue at the looseness of Adam’s.

  ‘What?’ Adam raised his palms. ‘You’d rather he beat the truth out of us?’

  ‘Doesn’t look like he touched you,’ Noah pointed out. ‘Yet.’

  ‘I only want to know if you’ve noticed anyone else hanging around,’ I reassured them.

  Noah rubbed his fingers over his scalp, wincing at the pain – whether in his hand or his head I couldn’t be certain. Then he made a quick gesture towards Billie’s house. ‘Couple of days ago some guys turned up and spoke with Billie. They looked official. Feds maybe.’

  That would have been Brandon Cooper and his colleagues. Cooper had told me they’d come to the farm and spoke to Billie. That was when he’d suggested she get in touch with me. ‘No one else?’

  ‘Just you,’ Noah said.

  I wasn’t wholly surprised. Their surveillance skills left something to be desired. I paused, peering out across the valley to where the farm buildings crouched alongside the lake. It was growing cooler and mist was beginning to rise off the water. Soon it would veil Billie’s house. Anybody could be out there watching and I’d be none the wiser, but for one thing. I got that prickling sensation that I was in somebody’s crosshairs, something I’d experienced many times in the past. When I was in the army I’d grown to believe in what was sometimes termed Rapid Intuitive Experience: the fabled sixth sense. It was nothing to do with psychic ability, just a throwback to the natural instincts we all had when we were still prey to larger animals. It warned of impending danger, and right then my hackles were raised. There was someone out there much more dangerous than Noah and Adam, and I felt that they’d show themselves soon.

  11

  Billie had poured herself a glass of wine. Probably not a good idea, but I didn’t say anything. If she’d reached for the bottle for a top-up I’d’ve diverted her, although the alcohol might help calm her. She was livid that her insurance company had the temerity to disbelieve her claim was lawful, and to send investigators to spy on her.

  ‘They’re not the only ones who believe that your husband might still be alive,’ I reminded her. There’d been a high profile case back in Britain a few years ago when a supposedly drowned canoeist was found to be alive and well and living off the proceeds from a life insurance claim lodged by his wife. I supposed there were other claimants who had got away with similar ploys in the past.

  ‘I buried my daughter,’ she said, her voice cold. Her statement didn’t prove the point that Richard was dead, but to her it was all that mattered. I could see her eyes glittering and it had little to do with the small amount of wine she’d consumed. Feeling a little uncomfortable, I perched myself against her kitchen counter. Billie was sitting at her large table. Once it had accommodated an entire family; now the table was far too big for a single woman. She looked like a tiny child sitting in her dad’s chair.

  ‘I think they’re the least of your problems,’ I said, trying to take her mind off her dead child. ‘If you made the claim in good faith, I’m not sure there’s anything they can do to get the money back even if Richard does turn up.’

  ‘Do you think I care about the money?’

  Judging by the basic, faded furnishings that surrounded us, I took it that Billie didn’t enjoy the most extravagant
lifestyle. Her belongings appeared to have been collected from various sources, primarily yard sales and thrift stores. Except, I reminded myself, she was an artist and shabby chic was probably more to her taste. For all I knew her furnishings came with a ‘retro’ price tag, and were more expensive because of it. Plus her home and adjoining land must have been worth a packet.

  ‘I make enough from my art to live off,’ she went on, as if having to prove her point.

  I attempted another diversionary tactic. ‘You mind if I have a drink?’

  ‘Wine?’ She lifted the bottle.

  ‘Water will do. Or coffee if you have it.’

  Without answering she got up from the table and joined me alongside the counter. She began spooning grounds into a coffee maker. ‘How strong do you like it?’

  ‘Strong strong.’

  ‘Do you think there’s any truth in it?’

  ‘In what?’ She wasn’t talking about coffee.

  ‘About Richard being alive.’

  ‘To be honest I’ve no idea. You seem pretty certain that he’s dead. That’s good enough for me.’

  ‘Is it though, Joe?’ She stopped what she was doing and stared at me.

  ‘I don’t know what you mean.’

  ‘Sure you do. There’s a reason Agent Cooper encouraged me to contact you.’

  ‘He trusted me to protect you,’ I said.

  ‘But there’s more to it, isn’t there?’

  Billie wasn’t a fool. And I wouldn’t insult her intelligence by lying. ‘He asked me to watch out for you, but, yeah, he also asked that I watch out for Richard. I’ve to give him a heads-up if he shows his face.’

  ‘Priority?’

  ‘You. Always,’ I said. ‘If he is still alive I honestly don’t care what happens to Richard. If what I hear is right and he killed your daughter, then to hell with him.’

  ‘It is right.’

  ‘Then I’m here for you.’

  Billie nodded, but from the way she hugged herself she wasn’t convinced. ‘You don’t know me. You don’t owe me anything, and vice versa. Yet, listening to you, you sound as if you’re prepared to go beyond the call of duty on my behalf.’

  I just looked at her. She hadn’t exactly asked a question, but I got her meaning. ‘You’re wondering why,’ I eventually offered.

  She continued preparing my coffee, using her silence to obtain the information she was seeking.

  ‘I used to be in the military,’ I said, but that was nowhere near enough for her. ‘I volunteered for a special unit and spent fourteen years there. At the time it felt right: I was saving people. But to do that I’d to also kill, and now when I look back I’m not sure that everything I did was as honourable as I thought at the time. I’m not proud of some of the stuff I did back then. You might say that since I left the unit I’ve been trying to make amends in some way. I want to help people who need my help, and to do that I will risk my own neck. I’ll fight for them,’ I lowered my voice for my final words, ‘and kill for them if necessary.’

  ‘You’re trying to make amends by following the same exact lifestyle? The same violent path?’ Billie grunted out a humourless laugh.

  ‘No. As hard as it is for you to understand, it isn’t the same now. Back then I was acting under orders. I didn’t question them. I was a good soldier.’ I offered my own humourless laugh. ‘The difference now is that I’m steered more by my moral compass. I choose who to help . . . who to hurt.’

  ‘What gives you that right? You choose who to hurt! God!’

  ‘I phrased that poorly,’ I admitted. ‘What I meant to say was that these days I haven’t got some self-serving hierarchy pointing me at targets; these days I choose to help people in need and only hurt those intending them harm.’

  Billie’s features were flat, emotionless, as she absorbed my words.

  ‘I guess I’m not too good at explaining myself,’ I said.

  She shook her head. ‘No. It’s not that. I understand what you’re saying. It’s just that I’m surprised how alike we are.’

  ‘You seemed disturbed by what I was telling you.’

  ‘I was. No, I am. But you don’t disturb me. I realised that – given the chance – I’d do exactly the same. If my husband is alive and does make the mistake of showing his face I’m pretty certain that I’ll be his judge, jury and executioner. Without hesitation. For what he did to our daughter I’ll gladly shoot him dead, or smash in his head with the heaviest object to hand.’

  Pouring coffee from the jug, Billie watched me for a reaction. She didn’t get one. When you talk about killing from your moral standpoint, you can’t be judgemental of others without sounding like a hypocrite. I took the offered mug, and nodded gratitude. Perhaps Billie took my gesture as a seal of agreement because she smiled, and immediately changed the subject.

  ‘When did you last eat?’

  It was back when I was in Seattle. Far too long ago, I understood. My stomach growled its own agreement.

  ‘I can make you something if you like,’ Billie said. ‘There are some leftovers I can warm up.’

  ‘Please.’

  She went to her fridge and began rummaging. While she was engaged in the task of cooking something up, I went through to the living-room window and peered outside. Dusk had settled in, but even with the lowering of night’s shade and the mist building over the lake the view was still spectacular. For the last few years I’d been living on Florida’s Gulf Coast near Mexico Beach, working mostly in Tampa. As much as I enjoyed the warmth and the beauty of the coastline, my heart always longed for a rugged mountainous skyline, forests and lakes. It very much reminded me of home. As a young man I regularly spent time in the wilder areas of Scotland, or in the Cumbrian Lake District. I could imagine myself living at Baker’s Hole, or somewhere like it. I turned and looked through the open doorway and watched Billie pottering around. She glanced briefly my way, and offered a smile. I smiled back at her, before she moved out of view. I could imagine myself living in a place like this with some female company, I thought.

  Billie Womack wasn’t a classical beauty. But then again neither was I. She was pretty though, and looked younger than I knew she was. Perhaps it was the boyish way she wore her fair hair, the dimple that showed when she smiled lopsidedly, the way in which she bounced slightly on the balls of her feet when she walked, but I found her quirky looks and slightly spiky mannerisms more attractive than the faux beauty presented in movies and celebrity magazines these days.

  We were alike in many ways.

  We each carried a burden of loss. Billie had lost a daughter, and had been vilely betrayed by her husband, and she probably hurt constantly. Though my grief was different, at its base it was similar. I’d been in a couple of short-lived relationships recently, and though I occasionally thought about both, missed them, I didn’t still yearn for Imogen or Kirstie. Both women had gone on to enjoy happy, trouble-free lives, and were the better for me being out of them. I hurt when I thought about Kate Ballard. We’d barely begun our relationship when a murderous bitch acting on behalf of an enemy snatched her from me. I see Kate’s murder as my major failing, and often wonder how my life would have turned out if I’d been better at my job. More than Kate even, I missed Diane. She wasn’t dead, but we had divorced, and the decision to do so hadn’t been mutual, just necessary for her. Diane had remarried, and was enjoying her new life, and yes, it too was all the better for me being out of it.

  I returned my attention to the window, and the view beyond. In the reflection on the glass I was aware of Billie passing to and fro across the kitchen. I watched her, sure that she was unaware of my perusal. I caught her pausing in the threshold and casting lingering glances at me, appraising looks that told me she was equally satisfied that I was as unaware of her interest. I allowed myself to enjoy the little game. Adjusting my vision slightly I could see my own face reflected back at me, and I noticed that I was wearing a sad smile. With some effort I straightened my face. I’d no right thinking abou
t Billie in any way other than as someone I was employed to protect. In other words, I should keep my mind on my job.

  I searched beyond the window.

  Again I experienced that sensation of being watched.

  I knew that Noah and Adam were probably still out there somewhere. Because of the mist their original position on the hillside would be a fruitless lookout, and I supposed they’d moved closer despite my friendly warning to back off. I had no real right ordering them away; like me, they had a job to do. But I’d told them that if Procrylon’s people were indeed here then they might not be as affable. Despite getting off on the wrong foot with those guys, I held no animosity towards them. In fact, I felt mildly responsible for their safety and hoped that they didn’t get caught in the crossfire.

  Perhaps I was assuming a lot. There was no proof that Procrylon’s hired guns were here, other than that Brandon Cooper had said they would be coming. But Cooper was certain, and for that reason so was I. The point being, he knew a lot more than he was letting on. Earlier I’d admitted to Billie that Cooper was using me as his eyes and ears on the ground. That contradicted what I’d told her about me now acting solely under the guidance of my moral compass. Except I’d been telling her the truth when I also stated that she was my priority, contrary to what Cooper wanted.

  I wondered how soon Rink would arrive.

  One man can’t effectively protect another person; it doesn’t matter what level of skill or experience you possess. I wasn’t superhuman, and despite my over-indulgence in caffeine I had to sleep some time. At a minimum it took two people to stand guard around the clock, and more was better. The only good thing I could think of about our current predicament was that if a team did come for Billie, then they wouldn’t wish to kill her. What good was she to them dead? They would want to learn what she knew of Richard’s whereabouts, and then would prefer to keep her as bait to draw him to their trap. But again I was assuming a lot. There was so much I didn’t know about this case that I felt hamstrung.

  While she finished preparing our meal, I went out to the rental car and fetched the extra items I’d requisitioned from Agent Cooper.