Turning Point (13 page)

Pulling off her specs, Hilary rubbed at her eyes with her undamaged right hand. She held up her left, wrapped in its blood-soaked duster. ‘I'll live.' The portent of her words echoed round and round. ‘Great driving, Scott,' she hastily slotted in.

Too late. Scott's thoughts flew to the figure left lying on the pavement. He kicked open the door and hurled himself out, staring blindly into the hedgerow, a few skeleton leaves still clinging to the matted layers of beech and blackthorn. He felt Hilary behind him and swung round to see the blue of her eyes faded and full of pain. Without thinking, he stretched out his arms. She took a step forward and he wrapped them round her slight frame, hugging her tightly to him.

For a long moment neither of them spoke or moved, no thoughts, no anguish, a sense of peace from the gentle countryside enveloping them like a warm blanket, the pain of events absorbed into the blue haze of darkening sky.

Eventually, it was Scott that broke the silence, whispering into the soft strands of Hilary's hair the words that were uppermost in both their thoughts. ‘He's not going to make it, is he?' He felt Hilary respond with a tiny movement, an infinitesimal shaking of her head. ‘
He was going with us back to the States
. It was all arranged. I didn't want to go. I didn't want to leave you.' The words came out on an agonising shaft of pain, Scott imagining, yet again, the savage pain of bullets tearing through his body.

Hilary pulled away. She stared up at him as if trying to penetrate his mind, her face intensively white. ‘
Why you, Scott?
Why do they want you dead?'

‘Me? That's r-ridiculous,' Scott stuttered. ‘It's Dad they're after. They want him dead… I heard them say it.'

Hilary grabbed his arm, her nails digging in. ‘
No. They were waiting for you, Scott
. Tulsa saw it and got between you. That's why he's dead. I should have seen it too. He jumped in front of you.
Get it!
They wanted
you
dead. But w
hy? Why?
' She screamed the words into the air and a scavenging magpie alarmed by the sudden noise took off with a loud rustle of its wings.

Puzzled, Scott replayed the scene in Geneva over and over again, remembering the busy streets of the capital city so different from here, where the evening sky was quiet and tranquil. Did the gunman fire at their limousine before or only after catching sight of him? He sighed. ‘I don't know.' Pulling open the back door, he grabbed his bag ferreting inside for his phone. He pulled it out, dialling quickly. ‘God, no! The answerphone's on.
Dad, get hold of Sean Terry and call me back
,' he said into the receiver. ‘Did you hear? There's been a shooting at school; Tulsa's…' He stumbled over the word and came to a breathless halt. ‘Call me,
please
.' Quickly closing the connection, he dialled another number. An empty ringing tone floated out from the black plastic rectangle. ‘His mobile but he won't answer, he never does.'

He leapt back into the driving seat. ‘We must warn him. When they can't pick-up our trail, they'll head for the cottage.' He beckoned, every instinct screaming at him to hurry, to get home. ‘Try and remember that number. I may loathe Sean Terry, but we desperately need him now.'

‘Scott, I'm so sorry. I'm hopeless with numbers.' Hilary fumbled her way into her seat, using her undamaged right hand to shut the door. ‘It'll be on my computer… Sean said to memorise everything and use disposable cell phones, so there's no record. But that didn't work for me. I entered my numbers in code on my computer – just in case.'

‘Where you live?' Hilary nodded. ‘Hell! That means going all the way back into Falmouth!' Scott turned the ignition key. ‘We'll check Dad first. Sean Terry could well be there. If he isn't, Dad's bound to have the number. As a last resort, we'll find a way to get to your place.'

‘I'm sorry.'

‘
Stop saying that!
I told you. You can talk about honour and devotion all you want, but none of this is your fault.' He took a deep breath attempting a lighter tone. ‘Besides, having your mobile blasted to bits is not an everyday occurrence. I'm not sure if there is even a clause in the insurance contract to cover bullets.'

He pushed the car into gear and moved off along the narrow lane, his head twisting awkwardly to see out through the hole in the wind screen. ‘This lane runs parallel to the dual-carriageway from here on.' Scott said, keeping his tone in neutral. ‘I know I shouldn't say it – and I know you'll hate me for saying it – but I'm ever so glad you're here. Last time, I was alone without anyone to trust. I didn't even trust you.'

There was no reply.

Shifting sideways, he saw Hilary staring through the shattered glass, her expression rigid and unmoving, her hands gripped tightly together. He knew what she was seeing, the blood-soaked body of Tulsa on the ground.

He switched his gaze back to the lane, the rapidly vanishing light making it almost impossible to distinguish between solid bits of road and treacherous rain-soaked verges. Anxiously, he reduced his speed still further. Slipping the gears, he let the heavy vehicle free-wheel to a stop, the entrance to the dual-carriageway only a few metres ahead. The road seemed deserted. He checked again, searching for the tell-tale trace of sidelights or evidence that a vehicle might be waiting for them, ready to pounce. He flinched back as a solitary lorry came into view heading south along the main artery that criss-crossed Cornwall, its dipped head-lights cutting a neat pathway across the tarmac road. Then, taking a deep breath for courage, he gunned the engine and flew across the wide carriageway, slowing as he hit the muddy surface of the lane on the far side, the mirror image of the one they had just left, its tall hedgerows hiding its occupants from the view of anyone travelling along the main road.

‘Where does this come out?' Hilary's voice sounded wooden, her words emerging through clenched teeth.

He gave her a painful half-smile. ‘Another field. Runs up to the back of the cottage. George Beale, the local farmer, owns it but he doesn't use it much. Says the grass is only suitable for silage. Dad and I use it as a short-cut to the village. He doesn't mind.'

The surface of the lane was badly pitted, their vehicle jolting savagely from one pothole to the next. Branches and twigs armed with long thorns scratched noisily against the side panels as they lurched past, making Hilary jump. She reached over. ‘You can't see a thing, Scott. Get your lights on.' She pointed to the hedgerows, their tops taller than the car by almost a metre

‘No.' Scott slowed to a bare crawl. ‘We daren't risk it. Anyone up high looking down would spot them and come running. We haven't exactly got much of a population round here. Except for George Beale and us, most people live in the village.'

Abruptly the lane came to an end, a padlocked gate barring their way. Hilary made to get out but Scott stopped her.

‘I'll turn first.' He swung the steering wheel hard round. ‘I don't know what the insurance company's going to say about this little lot when they see it.' The tyres grated over the rough surface as he pulled forward facing the way they had come. ‘It has to be a write-off.' Hilary leaned back to pick up her bag, briefly glancing at the mess of glass littering the floor. A pattern of holes had ripped across the back seat where bullets had strafed it exposing the wire springs, cotton stuffing gaping out of the wound like the innards of some sea monster. ‘Don't bother with that, you can get it later. Come on, we need to hurry.'

In only a few minutes full darkness had taken over. Under their feet, individual blades of grass had dissolved into a general sense of nothingness, making it difficult to identify anything except by touch. Knowing the path blindfold Scott strode on ahead, leaving Hilary to catch him up, a terrible sense of foreboding crawling its way into his chest. If the men had lost him, they would have headed for the cottage, aware he'd have to return sooner or later. He found himself fixating on Sean Terry's words, that he had sent for extra men.
Surely Tulsa would never have left his dad alone.

A noise cut across the gentle silence of twilight, a settling of leaves in a ditch, a crumb of earth breaking. Recognising the staccato clattering of a sub-machine gun, Scott broke into a run. The sound had always reminded him of a tribe of belligerent woodpeckers, their busy tapping amplified a million times. That had been one of the lessons Tulsa had taught him. A single round took so many seconds, with a number of seconds between rounds – long enough to take cover or draw a weapon and fire back. A fourteen-bullet magazine in a pistol – equally as quick, and much more accurate, much more deadly.

The high rattling vibrated through his head, making him want to scream out.

‘Scott… No!' Hilary hauled on his arm.

‘Give me the gun.' He lunged for the weapon in her right hand.

‘It's too late,' Hilary backed away.

‘I can shoot – Tulsa taught me. I've got to do something… please.'

‘No, Scott. There's two – listen.'

Scott caught the sound he'd missed before, a second rhythm, a slightly different pitch, much lower, a different make and model of gun.

Catching Hilary off guard, he grabbed the pistol from her hand. ‘I don't care.' Fumbling for the safety, he ran towards the menacing sounds that had vanquished the silence of early night. He ducked behind the low wall edging the garden, cautiously peering over. The firing had stopped. No one in sight, nothing moving. A light flared briefly and he heard a door slam. An explosion rocked the air, hurling him to the ground.

He crash-landed against a cattle trough, striking his head on its metal side. Dazed and bruised he sat up, the pistol dangling forgotten in his hand. A ball of fire was sweeping through the cottage, flames spiralling into the sky like an ancient warning beacon alerting villages to the approach of invaders. Except, the warning had come too late. A second explosion brought Scott back up onto his feet, watching the studio vanish in a pall of smoke and flame; a tearing of wood and metal battering his senses as its roof caved in.

‘Dad,' he screamed heedlessly into the noise. His mobile burst into life, the strident bars of music piercing the roaring of the flames like an arrow.

A shout from the yard. ‘It's the boy – get him.' A figure cut through the gloom ahead.

Then Hilary was tugging on his arm.
‘For God's sake, run, Scott. Come on.'

‘Dad!' he shouted, ignoring her. ‘I have to find Dad!'

Bullets struck the ground behind them; clods of earth flew into the air striking him in the face. Dazed, Scott stared round as if he'd been sleepwalking and had abruptly woken up.

Clasping Hilary by the hand, he tore back along the field, leaping the tussocks of grass oblivious to the ground beneath his feet, Hilary stumbling along beside him.

‘Slow down,' she screamed, ‘I'll fall.'

Thunderous footsteps sounded in the darkness behind. Ignoring Hilary's protest, Scott accelerated, dragging her forcibly along. Seeing the gate ahead, he dropped her hand and leapt over, diving headfirst into the four-by-four. Cramming the keys into the ignition he started the engine, impatiently leaning across to open the passenger door, waiting only long enough for Hilary to get her foot in.

Using his headlights now, he flew along the narrow lane, ploughing straight through the ruts and ignoring the ominous swaying of the vehicle. At the end of the lane he accelerated automatically turning towards Falmouth, fishing in his jacket pocket for the betrayer, the Judas, the mobile phone with its noisy ringing tone that had exposed them to the enemy. He tossed it over. ‘Who was it?' he muttered, keeping his eyes on the road.

‘I'm sure your father's okay, Scott.' Hilary patted him on the arm, her tone soft and compassionate.

‘Stop treating me like a child.' He flung the words into the air. ‘I'm not. I'm old enough to work things out for myself.'

Hilary rubbed the tears from her eyes and flicked up the caller ID. ‘It's Travers.'

‘Get him back.'

Travers picked up straight away. ‘Scott there?'

‘Yes, he's driving. We're in trouble.'

‘I'll say you are.' Travers' voice on speaker phone echoed loudly across the silent interior. ‘I caught the news on local radio. They said Scott killed a man at school.'

‘I didn't,' Scott shouted.

‘I know that. Where are you? For God's sake, don't come here, it's the first place the police'll look.'

Scott screeched to a halt. Ramming the gears into reverse, he jammed his foot on the accelerator, hurtling back along the dual-carriageway. Cars speeding towards Falmouth swerved past blasting them with their horns, the occupants turning to glare. Scott ignored them, concentrating on keeping a straight course. He swerved the vehicle into a side road impatiently pulling on the handbrake, rocking to a halt.

‘So where can we go? I need the bike; the car's a wreck. If they're looking for me, they'll be searching for it too. And someone's just blown up the cottage.'

‘My God, no!'

‘Dad's missing. Is yours there? Let me speak to him. He may know something.'

‘That's just the problem. It's only me and Natasha. Mum's going mad; she can't get hold of Dad either. He told us he was running across to France but he seems to have disappeared. She's on the phone to the coastguard right now. She's no use. Can't get a sensible word out of her.'

‘Travers, can you meet us somewhere with the bike?' Hilary took over, her voice icily calm.

‘I guess but… hold on.'

Silence.

Scott bit his thumb, drumming his fingers nervously on the dashboard.

Travers' voice sounded again, the line crackling as if the battery was about to die. ‘The police are at the door,' he said softly. ‘Looking for you. Mum told them you've not been here – but they're not buying it. She's phoning Dad now. What the hell's happened to him, why doesn't he pick up? Listen up, Tash says she'll load your bike on the boat trailer and slip out the back. But where? You'll never get through Falmouth. Hell!'

‘What?' Hilary yelled.

‘They're flashing Scott's picture on the telly. How did they get hold of that?' Travers said indignantly, forgetting to whisper. ‘They don't waste any time. It says you're armed and dangerous. Scott, what have you done?'

‘Nothing! I promise. They were trying to kill us…'

‘Who?'