Sinema: The Northumberland Massacre (39 page)

The driving snow stung at his face as Bryce limped round to the side of the doctor’s house. Blood was gushing freely from his wounded thigh, splashing the deep brilliant white snow with crimson. The dark and the blizzard were closing in around him, making him feel enclosed, despite being outdoors. It sapped his fading strength with alarming speed.

The storm still showed no signs of letting up, the black sky utterly hidden by a blanket of seething storm clouds. The wind whipped up the lying snow like playful nymphs as it continued to deepen still further.

The combination of the bullet wound and the knee high snow made progress slow and painful with his already exhausted body. As he rounded the corner, he lent back against the cold wet stone, gasping for air. He stole a moment to grip his wounded leg at the knee, clenching his jaw against the flaring pain.

After a few seconds of catching his breath, he glanced round the corner back to the front door. The darkness and the thick falling snow combined to distort his vision. Squinting, he struggled to see the opening, and struggled further to see if anyone had followed him.

He cursed himself for running. Panic had overwhelmed him. He had left Carol and Jimmy defenceless against that psychopath. How could he? Immense guilt conspired with the elements to debilitate him still further. The rifle sagged in his aching arm like a dead weight.

He had to go back; had to save them. There might still be time. He started forward, but then paused, fear and doubt fuelling his indecision. He could be waiting at the door, ready to kill him as soon as he appeared. But wasn’t he also running out of time? Surely, waiting could no longer be an option. His mind reeled with possibilities and options.

“Fuck!” he cried out in frustration. The word was instantly whipped away from him on the wind. Shivering, he wiped his sodden face with an icy hand.

“You can say that again, big fella.”

In horror, Bryce spun around at the sound of the voice wavering amidst the tempest.

Whitman was standing right behind him, having rushed around the other side of the house. He grabbed the barrel of the rifle and thrust it upwards as Bryce tried to swing it around to him. The crack of a gunshot rang out above the howling wind.

Lying still on the floor, Jimmy’s shallow breathing was the only noise to be heard above the moaning wind blowing in through the curtains. Carol was nowhere to be seen. His head was light from the loss of blood and his mouth dry. Occasionally, he half-opened his eyes to peer with blurred vision at the arc of the room that he could still view, including the door to the hallway.

A loud bang startled him, wrenching his eyes open once more. His foggy mind thought it to be Bryce’s rifle at first, but he quickly realised that it was the front door slamming. The call of the storm diminished only a fraction with it and there was a moment of near silence, save for the flapping of the curtains. Then, footsteps approached and Jimmy’s eyes grew wide with fright. After what seemed like a lifetime, a blurred figure appeared in the doorway.

“B-Bryce?” Jimmy asked in a croaky voice loaded with fear.

“Our survey says … uh-uh!” Whitman said humourlessly. Strolling casually over to the prone man, he added, “So Carol left you, eh, kid? What a bitch, eh?” He was dripping wet and red-faced and holding the pistol down by his side. It trembled slightly in his freezing hand. The cold had at least numbed the knife wound in his shoulder to a dull ache.

“Fuck you,” Jimmy muttered with a profound sense of resignation. “I made her leave. Someone’s got to tell the world about you.”

Standing over him, Whitman shook his head sadly. “Misguided, but can’t blame you for that. Even if by some miracle Carol did survive, which she won’t, but if she did, no one will
ever
know my true identity.” His smile was laced with predatory pleasure, but it seemed forced. Bruised rings encircled his eyes and his face was furrowed from a mixture of cold, pain and fatigue. “I’m a ghost, the boogieman … a legend.”

“Modest too, like,” Jimmy snorted, closing his eyes once more in drained disgust. The words were all but a sigh that seemed to evaporate as they drifted loose from his blue-tinged lips. The tension in his body had abated, leaving him almost restful as he lay splayed out on the carpet, surrounded by his own blood.

“Positive thinking, fella, that’s all.” Unenthusiastically, Whitman angled the pistol towards Jimmy’s head. “Dug out a fresh mag from the getaway car. This is going to hurt you a lot more than it hurts me.”

In one slurred movement, Jimmy revealed the open lock knife that had been concealed under the palm of his hand and swiped at Whitman’s leg.

The young man’s reactions were severely hampered, so Whitman had plenty of time to react. He lifted his leg out of the way of the blade, allowing the hand to slide beneath and then stamped his snow-covered boot down. There was a sharp crack.

Jimmy moaned softly. He had no energy left; that one last futile attempt had expended the last of what he had to give. He was utterly spent and fading fast. Even the fresh pain in his broken hand was easily ignored amongst the gentle lapping of the onset of unconsciousness.

A flash of movement caught Whitman’s attention. Carol had jumped up from behind the sofa and launched herself towards him. Startled, Whitman hesitated just a second too long. She slammed into him with teeth-jarring force. There was a tearing of flesh as her knife struck his arm at the bicep, slicing deep into flesh and taut muscle. As they both staggered backwards, the gun dropped from his suddenly feeble fingers and clattered to the floor.

Screaming with pain and anger, he spun and cracked her across the side of the face with the back of his other hand. The action renewed the pain in his shoulder and sent fresh warm blood oozing from the wound. For Carol, the blow sent sparks dancing across her vision and knocked her back into the small oak coffee table. Her legs buckled as she sprawled backwards over the top of it, casting the candle and tea plate across the floor. The stump of candle puffed out as it struck the carpet, melting a small hole, and banishing the soft orange glow.

“Bitch!” he screamed at her, clutching his wounded arm as it hung limp and useless by his side. Blood was now pouring freely down both sleeves and dribbling onto the carpet.

Bending down, he painfully retrieved the gun in the better of his two hands, cursing and gasping under his breath. As he rose, a sound just below the drone of the wind caught his attention. Standing, bleeding, he strained to hear.

Then, as the sound grew louder, he recognised it … sirens.

“Times up …” Jimmy uttered softly with his eyes still closed and his lips barely moving.

With a tut, Whitman turned the gun back on Jimmy’s head and said, devoid of humour, “It is for you, sunshine.” Then he pulled the trigger. The bullet struck Jimmy in the forehead, above his left eye. His head dropped to the sticky carpet with a soft thunk. Blood gushed through his tangled hair, drenching the carpet around him.

Scrambling to find her feet, Carol screamed, “Jimmy! No!” She gawped, horrified, at his still form. Her last friend in the world was gone.

Whitman swung the pistol on her, snarling, “And you, you bitch. Say goodnight!” He fired several rounds at her.

Screeching, Carol scrambled behind the sofa, crashing over the table in the process. Several rounds whizzed past her, lodging in the wall or zipping out into the storm through the window. One grazed the side of her face, slicing a burning groove across her jaw line, and then a second struck her hip. Her face was numbed from its earlier pummelling, so only barely registered the heat from the graze, but her hip exploded as the bullet shattered her pelvis. She slumped, in helpless, squirming agony behind the sofa, clutching her leg and waist and totally immobile. The gun clicked empty.

Whitman stood with the smoking gun still pointed at the sofa, listening to Carol’s agonised cries. He thrust the gun into his jacket pocket and went for the hunting knife. He paused with his hand on its hilt.

The sirens were much louder.

“Shit,” he muttered to himself. After a moment’s hesitation, he made his decision. “I’m gonna have to love you and leave you, Carol. Hopefully that last bullet will finish you off before they can get you to a hospital, but if it doesn’t, know this … I will come back for you and finish the job.” The utter certainty in his voice stayed her cries momentarily. She turned her attention away from her hip and looked at the back of the sofa to where Whitman lurked beyond. Her bleeding jaw quivered, working soundlessly.

Without waiting for a reply, he turned and ran to the door.

In the doorway, he stopped abruptly and turned back, causing blood to spray across the door and frame. Carol had started sobbing quietly. His tone matter-of-fact, but with a seething undercurrent, he said, “No one will be able to protect you. You can make book on that, missie.” Then he was gone.

Lying behind the sofa, Carol gripped her wounded hip and bit hard into her bottom lip to try to stem the pain. Her face was caked in the dried blood from her smashed nose, with both nostrils blocked from thick blood and snot. Fresh blood was dribbling from the gash across her jaw and pooling around her waist from her pelvis. She was shaking uncontrollably and staring with terrified eyes at the back of the sofa, expecting Whitman to return at any moment and finish the job.

She quickly grew faint and her vision blurred. Her trembling abated and the gloomy light slowly faded. As her world grew dark, her breathing grew ever shallower. As the seconds ticked by, she slowly drifted into unconsciousness.

CHAPTER 16

Slaughterhouse blues.

The Northumbria Police helicopter set down, throwing up gusts of snow, in the middle of Main Street, between Moe’s and the Green. All directions were awash with flashing lights and activity amidst the swirling maelstrom of the continuing storm. Sergeant Wilkinson jumped down first, then turned back to help Chief Superintendent Hewitt down from the passenger cabin, whist shielding his eyes from the clouds of snow being tossed up by the rotor blades.

Hewitt took his hand begrudgingly and dropped into the thick churned up snow, freshly gouged up by dozens of police, emergency and army personnel. The street was filled with Land Rovers and other four wheel drive vehicles, with a myriad of different markings; Police, Ambulance and Northumberland National Park Search and Rescue Team (NNPSRT), as well as several with the woodland camouflage of army units out of Otterburn Army Training Estate (ATE). Two further canvas-topped four-tonne Bedford trucks were parked further down the street, next to Belmont Motors. In amongst all the flashing lights, people in thick winter clothing rushed to and fro.

The first thing Wilkinson noticed was that a sizeable number of those rushing around were armed, including the soldiers, armed with L85 assault rifles and, what looked like the entire Armed Response contingent of Northumbria Police, armed with Glock 17 pistols and Heckler & Koch MP5 carbines. A cordon had been set up around the village with armed sentries and temporary gates set up to block the main entrance into the village. Unseen sniper teams would no doubt be setting up in vantage points in and around the village as well.

Overall, his initial thoughts were that of a war zone, not a crime scene. Wiping snow from his eyes, he noticed rows of black body bags laid out by the roadside further up the street beyond the Miller’s Arms. As he watched, more were placed there by shuffling soldiers and paramedics with each passing minute.

A uniformed police officer approached them at a stoop, holding his hat down with one hand as the wind from the rotor blades blew the snow from the top of it. As he approached, the helicopter lifted jerkily off the ground and rose up into the darkness, buffeted by the high winds.

“Chief!” he called to them above the din with more than a hint of relief in his frayed voice. He was panting hard from the cold and exertion, the cold air betraying him with every hot breath.

“Hasslebrook?” Hewitt asked, taking the man’s hand.

“Yessir. The search has uncovered over two hundred bodies so far, including Detective’s Wright and Mitchell and PC Bainbridge.”

Hewitt let out an angry grunt then asked, “Survivors?”

“One so far, but she’s in a critical condition, so we have not been able to glean any information from her at all yet. We managed to persuade the GNAA to fly her out about ten minutes before you arrived. They don’t normally fly at night or in these conditions, but under the circumstances …” His voice trailed off, unsure how to finish.

Hewitt nodded, content for him to leave it there.

“Still no suspects?” Wilkinson asked almost dreamily, his head unable or unwilling to move beyond the body count, and reeling to digest the sheer scale of the nightmare unfolding around him. With the helicopter gone, the swirling snow died down somewhat and the roar of the wind with it.

“We have one; a certain Hannibal Whitman who Wright and Mitchell were up here to interview.”

“Could one man possibly murder all these people?” Wilkinson uttered, his eyes starting to stream from the icy snow. He wiped his face with a gloved hand and glanced from Hasslebrook to his superior.