Cry of the Hunter (15 page)

‘You’re sick,’ the old man said. ‘You’ve got to lie down.’

Fallon pointed the Luger straight at him. ‘Move!’ he said harshly. ‘I’m going to Doone if it kills me.’

The old man shook his head. ‘You won’t even get to the door,’ he said. For a moment he looked directly into Fallon’s face and then an expression of great compassion showed in his eyes and he stood to one side. Fallon staggered out into the hall, wrenched open the front door, and lurched down the path.

The van started at once. He moved rapidly away from the white light, away into the darkness and the rain on his last journey. His mind seemed to clear for a while and he began to think coherently again. He noticed that he was still holding the Luger in his right hand. It was awkward and hindered him from handling the wheel properly. With a casual, unthinking gesture he threw it out of the window into the night. The upper part of his body was naked except for the bandages and yet he felt no cold and was conscious of no discomfort. He was going home and Anne would be waiting for him – that was all that mattered.

The rain increased into a heavy downpour that flooded across the windscreen so that he could hardly see ahead of him. It didn’t matter. Nothing mattered. There was nothing to fear any more. He was going home and nothing could stop him - he had to keep his appointment.

A house appeared on the right and then another and another. He topped a rise and went down a short hill that was lined on each side with houses and he knew he was at Doone. He swung the wheel sharply at the bottom of the hill and turned into a long, tree-lined avenue and there at the end, under the floodlight, was the border post.

He felt no fear because there was nothing to be afraid of. He was going through and nothing could stop him. No one would hinder him. They would know. There was a man in a heavy raincoat standing under the light in the porch out of the rain. Fallon halted the van and waited.

His mind was no longer a part of his body. It ranged high in the rain, looking down on the small border post and the men within it. The man in the blue raincoat started towards him from the porch and then a voice called. A tall figure emerged from the interior of the hut. He stood, erect and handsome in his uniform with raincoat thrown carelessly over his shoulders, and held a rapid conversation with the Customs’ man. The other went into the hut and the tall man stepped down into the rain and came towards the van.

When he was a few paces away he recoiled suddenly and a startled gasp came from his mouth. Fallon smiled and said, ‘Hello, Phil. Fancy meeting you here.’

Stuart moved forward and leaned in at the window. There was utter horror in his face. ‘Martin!’ he cried. ‘For God’s sake, Martin!’

Fallon glanced down. There was blood coursing over his chest. He looked vacantly at Stuart and said, ‘I’m going home, Phil. I’m going home. Don’t try to delay me, old man. I haven’t much time.’

For a moment Philip Stuart stared helplessly at him and then a peculiar expression appeared on his face. Walking slowly like a man in a dream, he moved to the bar that stretched across the road and raised it.

Fallon drove straight through without looking back. He felt strong and powerful again. He had done it. He was back across the border and he was going home. The road dipped and he splashed through a ford and swerved into a side road on the other side.

Below him was the valley and down there beneath the mountain a solitary light gleamed. He pressed his foot against the boards and the car flew through the night like some great bird returning home. He braked hard at the bottom of the hill, his wheels skidding in loose gravel and turned into the final road for home. The gateposts jumped out of the darkness to meet him. He braked again and swung the wheel but his hands had lost their strength. The van lifted on two wheels, spun in a half-circle and crashed against a gatepost.

The door opened to his touch and he fell out on to the ground. For a moment he lay there and then he scrambled wearily to his feet and began to walk towards the cottage. The light in the window seemed to grow brighter and there was a sound of voices. The door was flung open and a long shaft of light picked him out of the darkness. There was a sudden silence.

Fallon stood there, swaying slightly, his feet braced apart. He was aware of the coldness of the rain as it fell on his bare skin and somehow, he had lost a shoe and a stone was cutting into his foot. His eyes were dazzled by the light so that he had difficulty in seeing properly. He recognized O’Hara and Doolan was standing at his shoulder and then they were pushed aside and she was there. For one long moment he looked at her and tried to smile and then he took a single, hesitant pace towards her and fell forward.

He opened his eyes and saw O’Hara bending over him. ‘We’ll avenge you, Martin,’ he said. ‘We’ll not forget.’

Fallon began to laugh. It all seemed so stupid and meaningless now - words, just words. And then O’Hara was pushed aside and Anne was kneeling in the rain and he was in her arms. He tried to speak but the words wouldn’t come. He wanted to tell her that he loved her, that she was the thing that had been missing in his life.

It was no use. She was crying and he wanted to comfort her but he felt very weak. It had all been such a damned waste – his whole life had been wasted.

She was crying steadily now, her arms tightly wrapped around him. He smiled contentedly and turned his face towards the warmth and then it was cold – very cold and everything was slipping away from him. It felt as if a great wind was trying to lift him up and carry him away to the other end of time. For a little while longer he clung to her and then he let go and turned his face towards the darkness.

A Biography of Jack Higgins

Jack Higgins is the pseudonym of Harry Patterson (b. 1929), the
New York Times
bestselling author of more than seventy thrillers, including
The Eagle Has Landed
and
The Wolf at the Door
. His books have sold more than 250 million copies worldwide.

Born in Newcastle upon Tyne, England, Patterson grew up in Belfast, Northern Ireland. As a child, Patterson was a voracious reader and later credited his passion for reading with fueling his creative drive to be an author. His upbringing in Belfast also exposed him to the political and religious violence that characterized the city at the time. At seven years old, Patterson was caught in gunfire while riding a tram, and later was in a Belfast movie theater when it was bombed. Though he escaped from both attacks unharmed, the turmoil in Northern Ireland would later become a significant influence in his books, many of which prominently feature the Irish Republican Army. After attending grammar school and college in Leeds, England, Patterson joined the British Army and served two years in the Household Cavalry, from 1947 to 1949, stationed along the East German border. He was considered an expert sharpshooter.

Following his military service, Patterson earned a degree in sociology from the London School of Economics, which led to teaching jobs at two English colleges. In 1959, while teaching at James Graham College, Patterson began writing novels, including some under the alias James Graham. As his popularity grew, Patterson left teaching to write full time. With the 1975 publication of the international blockbuster
The Eagle Has Landed
, which was later made into a movie of the same name starring Michael Caine, Patterson became a regular fixture on bestseller lists. His books draw heavily from history and include prominent figures—such as John Dillinger—and often center around significant events from such conflicts as World War II, the Korean War, and the Cuban Missile Crisis.

Patterson lives in Jersey, in the Channel Islands.

Patterson as an infant with his mother, grandmother, and great grandmother. He moved to Northern Ireland with his family as a child, staying there until he was twelve years old.

Patterson with his parents. He left school at age fifteen, finding his place instead in the British military.

A candid photo of Patterson during his military years. While enlisted in the army, he was known for his higher-than-average military IQ. Many of Patterson’s books would later incorporate elements of the military experience.

Patterson’s first payment as an author, a check for £67. Though he wanted to frame the check rather than cash it, he was persuaded otherwise by his wife. The bank returned the check after payment, writing that, “It will make a prettier picture, bearing the rubber stampings.”

Patterson in La Capannina, his favorite restaurant in Jersey, where he often went to write. His passion for writing started at a young age, and he spent much time in libraries as a child.

Patterson visiting a rehearsal for
Walking Wounded
, a play he wrote that was performed by local actors in Jersey.

Patterson with his children.

Patterson in a graveyard in Jersey. Patterson has often looked to graveyards for inspiration and ideas for his books.