Wanted (20 page)

But in spite of Danny’s burgeoning
hunger
that a day of reckoning might finally be at hand, his heart was pounding, not because of what Ray might find, but because of what Danny might lose.

He was worried sick about Lexie. What would it do to her to know that the PSS Killer was alive? And not just alive, but doing to others as he’d done to her brother and mother. And not just anywhere, but here in the country where Lexie had made her fresh start.

And his fears didn’t stop there. Because if the PSS Killer was alive and at large, then he, too, would have seen what Danny had been accused of. He would have seen that Danny had been forced to snatch his own daughter and go on the run. He would have seen the photos of Lexie, of the beautiful young woman she’d become. And – this thought made Danny’s fist close so tight around his iPhone that its frame creaked – he might decide he could finish what he’d started, that she might once again be his.

He thought of Lexie’s school, its address compromised. He thought of her friends, several of whom had already been interviewed by the press. All of them were now compromised too. He thought of his homes in London and the Caribbean, their locations publicized across the world. Danny had known these people and places were off limits for as long as he was a wanted man, but he’d hoped that his life – and, more importantly, Lexie’s – might return to normality at some point.

But now he saw this could not be. The PSS Killer would be able to find him and Lexie whenever he wanted. Far from the two of them happily surfacing in the event that Danny cleared his name, they’d now have to stay in hiding. At least until the PSS Killer was stopped. At least until he was dead.

But it wasn’t only Lexie Danny was fearful for. It was Ray. How old was he now? Sixty? At least. He was tracking the PSS Killer without back-up – and there wasn’t a damn thing Danny could do to help, even though he was in the same goddamn country.

No.
That wasn’t true. There
was
something Danny could do. Not to help capture the PSS Killer but to protect Ray from further danger. And to preserve whatever leads he’d discovered.

Danny could call him off. He could tell him to hold back and wait. Wait until he had cleared his name so that he could join him. Or, if not that, at least wait until Danny had been able to arrange back-up for him.

He began to type:

Do nothing. Await further instructions. Do not do this alone.

Ray’s head was throbbing. His vision was blurred and it was all he could do not to throw up. He staggered sideways, grabbing at the wall for support. But there, in front of him, he saw the gun. Right there, framed in a flicker of lightning coming through the open back door.

He grabbed it and lurched towards the door, wondering how badly the lunatic was injured. He’d moved fast enough just then, all right. But the knife Ray still had in his hand was slick with blood.

The blood, he thought. It was all the proof he’d need that the PSS Killer was back. He could match it to the sample taken from the snow outside the cabin where Danny Shanklin’s family had been attacked.

But a body would be even better. You can do this, he told himself, taking the final stride to the open door. You can take the motherfucker down. You can bring him in dead or alive.

He froze in his tracks, as a deafening roar of sheet lightning crashed outside in the gathering storm, revealing that the silhouette at the window was still there. Ray raised his pistol to fire, then saw how he’d been tricked.

A scarecrow. The killer must have taken it from an outbuilding or nearby field. He must have seen Ray breaking in and used it to fool him, so he could sneak up on him from behind.

Ray heard him then, the crashing of metal. The killer must have run into something nearby, at the front of the house. He set off after him, but he was still reeling from where he’d been hit and was now feeling nauseous too. He was moving so slowly he might as well have been wading through water. He could feel every one of his sixty years.

But he would not quit.

Through a crosswind of rain, and a strobe of lightning, he glimpsed the killer on the driveway ahead moving even slower than he was, dammit, at a crazy angle, one arm clamped to his side, to staunch his wound.

Ray watched him stumble and fall. He’s yours, he thought. You can still end this now. You can take this mother down.

But then – while Ray was still twenty yards away – the killer got up and set off again. Ray lifted the pistol and tried to aim, but his arm wouldn’t keep still. Too weak. He needed to get closer if he was going to stand a chance in hell of hitting him.

Ray staggered after him, but with every step he felt his strength fading. He reached the spot where the killer had fallen and saw it was a deep pothole, half full of water. Something was floating on it – a piece of white paper. He sank to his knees and picked it up. A fresh flicker of lightning illuminated it. A parking ticket, it looked like. He stuffed it into his pocket.

He puked then. A gutful. His skull felt all wrong, his hearing too. He was more than likely concussed.

Ahead, he saw the PSS Killer stumble again. Ray forced himself to his feet and lurched after him. Maybe he’s dying, he thought. Maybe even right now he’s breathing his last breath . . .

He pressed on, cursing as the killer reached a screen of trees near the end of the driveway. Got to get to him, he thought. Got to get to him fast. Got to stop him before he reaches whatever vehicle he came here in.

He put his hand into his pocket. His phone wasn’t there. Must have lost it in the struggle.

He heard a car start up. He heard its engine rev and its tyres shriek, as it raced down the road, away from the village, further east.

Ray was panting. He felt disoriented. He sank to his knees and then rolled onto his side. He tried to sit, couldn’t. He rolled sideways instead. Not just because he thought he was about to throw up again, but because he couldn’t help himself. Something wasn’t working. Some connection between his brain and his body had snapped.

Just for a second he was back on a camping trip as a little kid with his father. He’d crawled out of their tent in the middle of the night for a pee and, on the other side of their burned-down fire, he had stared into the coal black eyes of a bear. And Ray had frozen. Whatever impulse had normally fired his muscles into life had switched off. He’d frozen and the pee had run down his leg. The bear had watched him for a minute or more, before slowly turning and trudging away.

That was what he remembered now as he lay on his side, staring up at the flashing, booming sky. He remembered powerlessness. He remembered not knowing whether he would live or die.

Even though Danny Shanklin hadn’t asked Ray to reply, he couldn’t stop himself toggling back to the email window on his iPhone screen over and over to see if he had.

But as the seconds trickled by, he heard nothing. Did it mean Ray had received his instruction to back off? Or had it reached him too late?

Tink.

He jolted in his seat. He looked first to the caravan window, thinking someone was there.

Tink-tink.

Then he stared at his iPhone, shut down his mail app and logged out.

The Rest Cure café filled his screen. Jackal had not moved from the table he’d been at before. But he was no longer alone. Another avatar, dressed in newbie clothing also, only distinguishable from Jackal by his blond hair, was sitting opposite him at the small corner table.

Tink-tink-tink.

The sound was the noise of someone attempting to speak to Danny’s new avatar, Jackal. He read the message scrolling across the dialogue at the bottom of the screen:
IF YOU STILL WANT TO TALK ABOUT FISHING, THEN FRIEND ME AND SWITCH TO DM.

The avatar who’d sent it was named Melville. In spite of Danny’s exhaustion, a smile crept across his face. Herman Melville, the author of
Moby Dick.
Some might say the greatest fisherman of all time, who’d sought the greatest prey.

The Crane Danny had dealt with over the years at InWorld™ had always displayed a wry enough sense of humour, which gave him hope. But so had the Kid. The Kid had always liked riddles and had known how to make Danny laugh. So this could just as easily be him.

Danny tapped Melville’s avatar, bringing up the raft of basic details publicly accessible for any InWorld™ avatar. Melville had been created less than five minutes ago. Almost certainly as a reaction, then, to the message he had posted on the Public Contact Board.

He checked his watch. Minutes. That was all the time he had to establish whether this was Crane or not, and if so, whether to trust him and the integrity of this form of communication to request the help he so desperately needed. Bare minutes. Then he and Lexie had to be gone from here, with this phone destroyed, if they were to be sure of escaping any attempt to ensnare them that this online contact might already have instigated.

Pulse rising, he accepted the friend request from Melville, then hit the DM option. The Rest Cure café receded into the background, while the images of Jackal and Melville’s avatar faces ballooned to the fore, until it was just the two of them filling the screen.

A cartoon bubble emerged from Melville’s mouth, growing to accommodate the words that scrolled across it like tickertape.

Melville: ‘Fate comes in many guises.’

Another pun, with whoever was acknowledging that Danny had got rid of his old avatar F8 and turned into someone new.

Melville: ‘And shows itself in unexpected places.’

Whoever this was might mean that they were used to meeting Danny in Harry’s Bar at Noirlight. But, again, this could as easily be the Kid as Crane.

Danny thumbed in a reply and watched as it scrolled across the speech bubble emerging from Jackal’s mouth.

Jackal: ‘Your old house is no longer safe.’

Melville: ‘I know.’

If this was the Kid Danny was talking to, he’d know because he’d hacked Crane’s virtual safe-house himself. If Melville was really Crane, he’d know because he’d have been locked out.

Time was ticking . . .