The Doomsday Prophecy (26 page)

As the morning rolled by, Ben could feel his strength slowly returning and his impatience mounting. He lay on the rumpled sheets reading his Bible, working through all the facts in his head.

He couldn’t stop thinking about Slater. Who was he? Not an agent. Not a cop. He wasn’t a warrior like Jones. He was a leader, an organiser, a brain. Obviously a man with considerable power at his fingertips. One of the movers and shakers. A politician, maybe, but not a prominent figure – Alex had never heard of him. Perhaps one who preferred to stay in the shadows, working behind the scenes. And one who, for some reason that was still a complete mystery, was politically interested in Clayton Cleaver and, by extension, politically threatened by Zoë’s ostraka discovery.

Religion and politics. Cleaver was aiming at governorship, but he was still only small potatoes in the larger game. What if someone else, someone far higher up the ladder, someone with much more to gain or lose, had a stake in this too? Votes and power were a big motivator, worth killing for.

But some inner voice told Ben there was something else to it. Did political ambition alone explain how Slater, or the forces he represented, was apparently able to hijack CIA resources to enable his plans? There was something bigger going on.

And as Ben leafed through the Bible on the pillow next to him, that thought kept returning in his mind and chilling his blood.

After a while he couldn’t bear the inactivity any longer. Just after midday he got to his feet, feeling a little woozy but much stronger. He was wearing only a pair of shorts. Alex’s dressing was tight around his chest and shoulder.

He picked up the ring and hung it back around his neck. Walked over to the window and looked out at the farm buildings and paddocks, the sweeping prairie and the mountains in the background.

Something caught his eye. In one of the barns, among old farm implements and junk, was the rusting hulk of an ancient Ford pickup truck. He gazed at it for a moment, then nodded to himself.

He went to the wash basin and splashed cold water over his face, then walked back over to the bed and pulled on the jeans that had been left out for him. They fitted well, and he wondered whose they were. Not Riley’s, not with a thirty-two-inch waistband. He remembered the old man had mentioned a helper, Ira. He pulled on the shirt that had been left out too.

The aroma of coffee was floating up from downstairs, and someone was moving about down below.

Ben ruffled up his hair in the mirror and made his way down the wide wooden staircase.

He found Alex down in the big farm kitchen, standing at an old cylinder-fed gas stove, frying strips of bacon in a battered pan. She turned in surprise as he walked in. ‘I was just about to bring you something to eat.’

‘What other US political figure uses the Bible as a campaign platform?’ he asked.

Alex stared at him for a moment. ‘You mean, apart from a President who said God told him to go to war with Iraq?’

‘Lower down the scale,’ he said. ‘Someone working hard to make it to the top.’

‘There are a thousand evangelical political wannabees out there,’ she answered. ‘Some are bigger than others. But I can’t just pluck one name out of the hat. Why are you asking about this all of a sudden?’

‘It’s nothing. Just thinking. Probably way off the mark.’

‘You shouldn’t be up so soon.’

‘I feel a lot stronger.’

‘You look it. But you can’t just spring up like a jack-in-the-box. You should rest a while longer.’

‘I’m not going back to bed. There’s a truck out there. Looks old, but maybe it’ll get us out of here. I’ll give Riley double what it’s worth, so he can replace it with a better one.’

‘Nice thought,’ she said. ‘But we’re not going anywhere in that, at least not yet. I already tried it. Battery’s all right, but the starter motor seems to be gone.’

‘A doctor
and
a mechanic,’ Ben said.

‘Make good coffee too. Want some?’

‘Love some.’ He gratefully accepted a mug from her and took a sip.

‘I made French toast, too. And some bacon and beans.’ She laughed at his expression. ‘You don’t have French toast where you come from?’

‘I only know Irish toast,’ he said. ‘That’s regular toast, soaked in Guinness.’

‘Try some. It’s fried bread with sugar.’

He sat down at the table and ate. ‘Where’s her ladyship this morning?’

Alex jerked her thumb upwards. ‘She won’t come out of her room.’

‘Riley?’

‘He’s stubborn, like you,’ she said. ‘He’s limping around out there tending to the animals. Tough old bird. Told me he was a marine once.’

‘Vietnam?’

‘Korea,’ rasped a voice. They turned. The front door creaked open and Riley hobbled into the kitchen, his gnarled hand clutching a stick. ‘Something smells good.’ He lowered himself stiffly into his chair at the head of the table. Alex passed him a piled plate and he muttered a few words of Grace before he dug into it. The three of them ate in silence for a while, then Ben mentioned the old truck in the barn.

‘If you can get it going, it’s yours,’ the old man said. ‘Tell you what, you dig real deep in the back of that old shed, you’ll find another truck there under a tarp. Engine gave out years back, but I reckon the starter
on that one’s still in good shape. Might be worth a try.’

‘We’ll check it out.’

Riley reached across and took a bottle from a nearby cupboard. It was filled with clear liquid. ‘I always have a drink after a meal. Care to join me?’ He popped out the cork and sloshed some into three mugs. He took one for himself and slid the other two across the table. ‘Mighty good stuff,’ he said. ‘Distilled it myself.’

Ben sipped it. It tasted about twice the strength of Scotch. ‘Reminds me of poteen. Irish moonshine.’

‘Knowed a guy who ran a ’69 Dodge Charger on it,’ Riley muttered.

Ben watched him appreciatively. He was a tough old man, but with a good heart. ‘I wanted to thank you for letting us stay here. There was no need to give up your bedroom for me. I’d have been happy with the barn.’

Riley scratched the white bristles on his chin and smiled sadly. ‘That’s Maddie’s old room. I don’t go there much. She’d have wanted you and your lady here to use it.’

Ben and Alex exchanged glances and didn’t reply. Then the door creaked open and they all turned to see Zoë standing there uncertainly.

‘Pull up a chair, miss,’ Riley said.

Alex stood and went over to fetch the pan from the stove and a fresh plate. ‘Come and eat something, Zoë.’

Zoë looked subdued as she sat at the table and picked at the food that Alex pushed in front of her. Ben ignored her. Riley finished his food, licked the plate with relish
and drained the last of his moonshine. ‘That was darn good.’ He leaned back in his chair and took out a battered pack of Lucky Strikes. Ben accepted one, and they lit up.

Zoë glanced over at the cheap plastic phone that hung on the wall in the corner of the kitchen. ‘Ben,’ she said sheepishly, ‘would it be OK for me to call my parents?’

Ben was about to say no, but before he could speak Riley cut in. ‘Phone don’t work, miss,’ he said. ‘Been gathering dust there for the last two years. Never paid the bill. Maddie, she used to call up her sis once in a while. But I never much liked talking on that thing anyway. I like to look a person in the eye when I talk to them.’ He jerked his thumb back over his shoulder. ‘Nearest phone’s at the Herman place,’ bout nine miles west across the ridge there.’

Zoë turned to Alex. ‘What about your cellphone?’

‘You won’t get reception up here,’ Riley said. ‘Hermans don’t get it neither.’

‘Fine. Then I’ll go to the Herman place,’ Zoë said. ‘Is there a horse I can borrow?’

‘You’re not going anywhere,’ Ben warned her.

Just then, the sound of hooves in the yard made him turn to look out of the window. Through the dusty pane, a bronzed young guy with glossy black hair and a denim jacket was dismounting a tall grey horse and tying it up to a rail.

‘That’s Ira,’ Riley said. ‘Must have found that steer.’ He rose from the table and hobbled outside to join the young guy.

Zoë was watching keenly out of the window. Ben followed her gaze and knew what she was thinking. Ira looked as though he had a lot of Native American blood. He was handsome and fit-looking, about twenty-three.

‘Remember what I told you,’ Ben said. ‘You stay indoors. People are out there looking for us.’

She didn’t reply.

‘Good,’ Ben said. ‘Now let’s see if we can get this truck started.’

‘You’re going to round off that nut,’ Alex was saying. ‘Then you’ll never get it loose.’

Streaks of sunlight shone through the gaps in the old wooden slats of the big barn, casting bright stripes across the dirt floor and the farm junk that lay around inside, piles of fencing posts and stacked-up tools and drums of oil, sacks of fertiliser. Some hens were scratching and clucking in the hayloft up above.

Ben peered out from under the chassis of the even more ancient pickup they’d uncovered at the back of the barn. His face was sprinkled with red flecks of rust from where he’d been trying to loosen the bolts holding on the starter motor.

‘Use the chain wrench instead.’ She passed it down to him.

He laid down the spanner he’d been using and took the wrench from her. Looking up at her, her attractiveness struck him for a fleeting moment. It wasn’t the first time he’d noticed it. Her auburn hair was tied back, wisps falling out, tousled and sexy. It was hot in the barn and she’d rolled up her shirt sleeves to the shoulder.
There was a smear of oil on the shiny, toned muscle of her upper arm. The check shirt was unbuttoned a long way down. She brushed a lock of hair away from her eyes.

‘You learned this mechanic stuff in the CIA?’

She grinned back at him. ‘Try growing up with four older brothers who were all car crazy.’

Ben got the chain wrench around the stubborn bolt head and it loosened with a crack. He soon had the starter motor free, and pulled himself out from under the truck. He stood up, wincing.

She reached out and placed a hand on his shoulder. Her touch felt soft and warm through the denim shirt. ‘You should take it easy,’ she said. ‘I can do this.’

‘You’ve done a lot already.’

She looked at the starter motor in his hands. It was just a heavy lump of rust, trailing wires. ‘Think it’ll work?’

‘Who knows?’

She took it from his hands. The touch of her fingers on his lingered a little longer than it needed, almost a caress. She looked up at him. ‘I’m glad, though.’

‘Glad about what?’

‘Despite all that’s happened, everything that’s going to happen, I’m glad I met you. Glad you’re OK. Glad to be here with you like this. I’m just scared I might not know you for long.’

He made no reply. They stood there for a few moments. Her blue eyes gazed into his, holding them, letting him look deep into them. Her lips were slightly parted. ‘You’re lonely, aren’t you?’ she murmured. She touched his hand again, firmer and longer, her fingers
intertwining with his. ‘I know. I can see it. Because that’s how I feel. Lonely. Alone. Needing someone.’

Feeling his heart pick up a step, he stroked her bare arm. Her skin was warm and smooth. He moved his hand up to her shoulder. Caressed her hair and cheek. His thumb ran close to the corner of her mouth, and she bent her head down to kiss it tenderly. They moved closer. Her hand gripped his more tightly, almost urgently.

When the kiss came, it was hungry and passionate. He pulled her close to him, exploring, feeling her arms around his back, the heat of her body, her hair on his face.

Then he pulled away, with an effort. ‘I can’t.’

‘Why are you afraid to kiss me?’ Her eyes searched his. ‘We both want to. Don’t we?’

‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I do want to. But this can’t happen.’

‘But why? Why fight it? We don’t have a lot of time together.’

He couldn’t find the words. He’d never been able to find them, even just thinking about it alone, even in his darkest moments.

‘I lost someone,’ he whispered. ‘Someone close. Closer than I even knew. Not long ago.’

She bit her lip and sighed. Stroked his hair. ‘I saw the ring.’

He closed his eyes. Nodded slowly.

‘You want to talk about it?’

‘She died,’ he said.

‘What was her name?’

‘Her name was Leigh.’

‘How did it happen?’

He looked up. ‘She was murdered.’

Hearing it like that, the finality of it, the horror of it struck him all over again. Suddenly he was seeing the whole thing in his imagination, like a nightmare film reel that wouldn’t stop turning.

He saw the black blade of the knife. Going in.

Piercing deep inside her, taking away her life.

The last look in her eyes. Things she’d said as she lay dying that would stay with him the rest of his days.

He took a long, deep, slow breath. ‘It was my fault. The man who killed her was someone I was supposed to have protected her from. I failed. He came back, and he took her away from me.’

He was quiet for a long time. Then he whispered, ‘I miss her. I miss her so much.’

Alex laid a hand on his arm. Her touch felt warm and reassuring. ‘You didn’t kill her, Ben. That isn’t a burden you should be carrying.’

He shook his head, feeling the pain rise up. He swallowed it back down. ‘I might as well have,’ he said. ‘Every day I ask God to forgive me for letting it happen. But I don’t think God’s listening to me. In fact I don’t think he ever has, not once in my whole life. He deserted me a long time ago.’

‘You don’t mean that.’

He took her hand and squeezed it gently. ‘Find a better man than me, Alex. I’m not what you need.’

‘You are a better man,’ she said. ‘I hardly know you, but already I can see it.’

He said nothing.

That was when they heard the chopping beat of rotors, and the gunfire churning up the farmyard outside, and Zoë’s scream.

Zoë had been wandering idly about the house, bored, listless. After being cooped up for such a long time, she felt full of pent-up energy and hated lying around doing nothing.

Out of the window she could see Ira in the paddock a hundred yards or so from the house. He was training a young horse, the colt that had pulled Riley off his feet and twisted his ankle. The sky was cloudless and blue, and the meadow grass was swaying gently in the breeze. Suddenly she was desperate to be outside, to be out talking to Ira. He was so attractive. She loved the loose, easy way he moved, athletic and supple and toned. She smiled to herself, imagining the feel of his skin.

Ben had told her to stay indoors, she remembered.
Stuff him
. Did he think she was stupid? She’d hear a helicopter long before she saw it, or it could see her. She was tired of being treated like a child.

She walked out to the paddock, feeling the sun on her face and the breeze in her hair. Ira saw her from a distance, and she approached him with a warm smile. ‘Hi. I’m Zoë. You must be Ira.’

Ira jumped down off the colt’s back, wiped his hands and met her at the paddock fence. ‘Good to meet you, Zoë,’ he said.

Zoë had always liked to flirt, and she was good at it. Ira responded to her quickly – she knew that not many pretty young blonde women turned up on his doorstep like this. Within a few minutes they were laughing and joking comfortably together, lots of eye contact, lots of touches, most of it coming from her. Ira was a little overwhelmed by her attentions, but she could see from the look in his eye that maybe being stuck out here in the wilderness would have its compensations.

‘You like to ride?’ he said.

‘Yeah, I ride. Never used an American saddle before, though.’

‘It’s easy,’ he said. ‘Like a big armchair. Want to give it a go?’

‘Will you give me a leg up?’ She clambered through the fence and she enjoyed the feel of his strong fingers on her leg as he helped her into the saddle. He’d done a good job of breaking the colt in, and she found him responsive as she walked him up and down the paddock, getting the measure of him. Then she put him into a trot.

‘Don’t rise to it,’ he called. ‘Keep your butt down in the saddle. Go with his rhythm.’

She mastered it quickly, then flipped the loose end of the rein left and right to urge the colt into a long-striding canter. Ira stood in the middle of the paddock and she rode round and round him with her hair
streaming out behind her, dust flying up from the colt’s hooves.

‘This is great,’ she was about to say. But the look on Ira’s face shut her up and made her turn and look. She gaped in terror at what she saw. The colt wheeled, unsettling her in the saddle.

The shadow passed over her.

The helicopter roared in out of the sun, nose low, tail up.

The colt reared, and Zoë felt herself flying. She tumbled into the dust. Ira was running to her, eyes wide with alarm. The black chopper moved in closer, like an attacking shark, its noise filling the air, hurling up dust and dirt with the wind blast. Zoë scrambled to her feet. The red dot of a laser sight raked across her body. She screamed. The colt was rearing and bucking in a crazed panic.

Then suddenly the ground was whipped up by automatic gunfire.

Ira had Zoë’s arm and was dragging her out of the paddock and back towards the house. The man with the rifle, hanging out of the side of the chopper with one foot on its skid, let off another prolonged burst that kicked stones up in her wake as she sprinted and stumbled. She threw a terrified glance over her shoulder and her eyes met those of the man she’d hoped she would never see again.

Jones grinned at her over the top of the M-16. He fired again, savouring the moment, the rifle hammering in his arms. His heart gave a little jolt as the bitch tumbled and fell. But then the Indian was yanking
her back to her feet and he realised that she’d just tripped.

He yelled at the pilot to hold the chopper steady, and brought the gun back up to aim. But the targets had made it to the house, staggering inside, slamming the door shut. He cursed and let off a long blast that strafed the front porch. Windows burst apart and splinters flew as bullets tore through the fabric of the house.

Inside, Ira was dragging Zoë across the floor, covering her body with his own. Glass shards flew around them. The curtains fluttered, ripped to rags by the gunfire that punched through the walls and churned up the floor. Zoë was screaming.

Ben and Alex ran from the barn to see the chopper hovering over the yard, just twenty feet from the ground. Ben drew the Beretta from the back pocket of his jeans and raised it up as the chopper veered round to face them, coming lower, skids almost on the ground.

Ben had recognised the figure with the rifle instantly. He didn’t hesitate to fire. Jones quickly withdrew and scrambled out of sight as he loosed off a string of double-taps that punched holes into the fuselage. Then the chopper veered off suddenly, climbed steeply and roared overhead. Ben put a couple more shots into its underbelly, but 9mm ammunition just wasn’t enough to make an impression. He swore.

They ran to the house as the chopper made its escape. Ben pounded up the porch steps and threw open the door. He saw Ira inside, lying protectively across Zoë’s body. ‘Anyone hurt?’ he shouted. Ira shook his head, dazed, getting up and helping Zoë to her feet.
Riley came stumbling into the room, eyes bulging in horror. He was clutching a scarred Ithaca shotgun in his fists.

The dust was settling in the house, silence descending in the aftermath of the attack. Ira helped a weeping Zoë upstairs as Riley paced the wrecked kitchen, still clutching his shotgun and cursing loudly.

Alex followed Ben back outside. He stood on the porch steps and scanned the horizon thoughtfully, his eyes narrowed against the sun. ‘That was Jones. And he’ll be back.’

‘He’s going to bring an army with him,’ Alex said. ‘A few hours, tops. We should get out of here.’

‘See if you can get that starter motor transplanted.’

‘Where are you going?’

But Ben was already heading back inside. ‘Riley, I need to know if you have some kind of rifle in the place.’

The old man stared at him for a second. There was a gleam in his eye, a fire that looked like it was returning after lying dormant a long time. He grunted and beckoned for Ben to follow. He hobbled down a passage and pushed open a door leading down some wooden steps to a crumbling basement. On a home-made rack on the wall was a rifle. It was slender and compact, walnut and blued steel. The old man lifted it down and handed it to Ben without a word.

Ben examined it. It was .22 calibre underlever Marlin. Welcome, but more of a rabbit or squirrel gun than anything else.

Riley saw Ben’s face and smiled. ‘I know what you’re thinking, son. It’s heavy iron you want.’

Ben said nothing.

‘Let me show you something.’ The old man hobbled across the basement, into the shadows where packing cases and broken furniture were piled up and thick with dust and spiders’ webs. He started clearing things out of the way, panting with the effort. He stooped down low and dragged something heavy across the floor. Ben looked down. It was an old trunk.

‘I haven’t opened this since I came home from Korea,’ Riley said. ‘Guess part of me never wanted to see it again. But if there’s any truth in fate, maybe now I know why I hauled the damn thing back halfway round the world.’ He blew dust off the lid, and opened it.

Inside the trunk was a load of old packing material. Riley scooped it out and dumped it on the floor. Underneath was a layer of sacking cloth. It was smeared with grease and smelled strongly of old gun oil. Riley gripped the edge and peeled it back. ‘Here it is,’ he said. ‘I couldn’t hardly lift it no more. But I was pretty useful with it, back in the day.’ He stepped away to let Ben see.

Ben blinked. ‘I don’t believe it. You’ve got a BAR.’

Browning Automatic Rifle. It was a model he’d only seen once before, a hefty American light machine gun that had been used from the First World War and been decommissioned during the sixties. The kind of weapon that belonged in a military museum – but this one looked brand new. Grey gunmetal and oiled wood and iron battle sights, the way things used to be before the era of rubber and polymer, red dot optics and lasers.

Ben reached inside the crate and lifted it out. It was heavy and oily. He checked it over. The rifle was in perfect condition, the bore clean and the action slick. Even the canvas sling was as new. The magazine was long and curved, and there were five more like it in the bottom of the trunk.

Riley smiled. ‘Special high-capacity anti-aircraft version. We used to shoot down planes with these babies.’ He waded deeper into the basement and knocked some more junk out of the way. Reached down with a grunt and dragged a heavy metal ammo case into the middle of the floor. It was olive green, rusty around the edges with faded yellow lettering on the side.

Riley flipped the steel catches and the lid creaked open. Old brass gleamed dully from inside. Neatly stacked bottleneck cartridges, more than a thousand of them. They were.308 military issue, well preserved, lightly greased. Over half a century old, primers still gleaming. ‘All you need to start a goddamn war, son.’

‘This is where it’s going to happen,’ Ben said. He unclipped the magazine and started pressing rounds into it.

The old man watched him, and nodded to himself. ‘You got the look of a soldier. Tell me I’m right.’

Ben nodded. ‘Was, once.’

‘Unit?’

‘British Army. Special Air Service.’

‘I heard about you people. Black ops. Iranian Embassy siege in London, right?’

‘Ten years before my time,’ Ben said. ‘I served in the
Gulf. Afghanistan. Africa. Mostly covert ops. Things you don’t want to know about, and neither do I.’

Riley snorted. ‘Classified shit.’

‘Doing the dirty for the men in suits to feather their nests. Never again.’

‘Same men in suits that have business with us today.’

‘Pretty much the same species,’ Ben said. ‘But it’s me they have business with. This isn’t your war, Riley. I’d appreciate it if you stayed out of the way.’

Riley spat. ‘We’ll see about that, boy. I’ve been at war with the damn government for fifty years. And you saved my ass. Least I can do is return the favour.’

‘These are bad people.’

‘I ain’t exactly an angel myself, sonny. I’m old, but I can still kick ass when I have to.’

Ben nodded his gratitude. ‘There are some other things I’m going to need,’ he said.