But he was going to do just that. He left the bag where it was and set off.
He took slow, measured paces so as not to make noise, and he went from tree to tree, using each one as cover so he could check the terrain between that tree and the next. He had no landmarks to go by, just his own sense of direction. He’d left no tracks that he could follow back to the road, and didn’t want to follow tracks anyway: they might belong to a truffle hunter; they might belong to a pursuer.
But the whistled messages between his two pursuers were as good as sonar. Here came the first call… then the response. He held his breath. The response was so close he could hear the final exhalation of breath after the whistle itself had ended. The man was moving slowly, cautiously. And very, very quietly. Reeve knew he was dealing with a pro. His fingers tightened around Lucky 13.
I’m going to kill someone, he thought. Not hit them or wound them. I’m going to kill them.
The man walked past Reeve’s tree, and Reeve grabbed him, hauling him down by the head and gouging into his throat with the dagger. The pistol squeezed off a single shot, but it was wild. Still, it would have warned the others. Even dying, the man had been thinking of his mission. Reeve let the body slump to the ground, the gaping wound in the neck spurting blood. He took the pistol from the warm, pliant hand and looked at the man. He was wearing camouflage, black boots, and a balaclava. Reeve tore off the balaclava but couldn’t place the face. He did a quick search but came up with nothing in the pockets.
It was time to go. Another whistle: two sharp staccatos. Reeve licked his lips and returned it, knowing it wouldn’t fool his adversary for longer than half a minute. He set off quickly now, hoping he was heading towards the cars. But he knew his direction was off when he came out into a clearing he knew. There was the house, sitting in darkness. He looked up but couldn’t see any halogen lamps hidden in the trees. Maybe the enemy had disabled them.
Had they taken Marie back to the cottage? It looked unlikely, there were no lights in there. He walked forward to check… and now there was a burst of halogen, lighting the scene like a stage-set in a darkened theater.
“Drop the gun!”
A shouted command, the first words he’d heard for a while. It came from the trees. Reeve, standing next to the cottage window, knew he hadn’t a chance. He pitched the automatic pistol in front of him. It landed maybe six feet away. Near enough for him to make a dive to retrieve it… if there was anything to shoot at. But all he could see were the trees, and the halogen lamps pointing at him from high up in the oaks. Great security, he thought-works a treat. And then a man walked out from the line of trees and came towards him. The man was carrying a pistol identical to the one on the ground. He carried it very steadily. Reeve tried to place the accent. American, he thought. The man wasn’t saying anything more though. He wanted to get close to Reeve, close to the man who had slaughtered his comrade. Reeve could feel the blood drying on his hands and wrists, dripping off his forearms. I must look like a butcher, he thought.
The man kept looking at those hands, too, fascinated by the blood. He gestured with the pistol, and Reeve raised his hands. The man stooped to retrieve the other automatic, and Reeve swung an elbow back into the window, smashing the glass. The man stood up quickly, but Reeve stood stock-still. The man grinned.
“You were going to jump through the window?” he said. Definitely American. “What, you think I couldn’t‘ve hit you? You think maybe the telephone’s working? You were going to call for help?” He seemed very amused by all these suggestions. He was still advancing on Reeve, no more than three feet from him. Reeve had his hands held up high now. He’d cut his elbow on the glass. His own blood was trickling down one arm and into his armpit.
The man held his gun arm out straight, execution-style, the way he’d maybe seen it done on the Vietnam newsreels. Then he heard the noise. He couldn’t place it at first. It sounded motor-ized, definitely getting closer.
Reeve dived to his right as Foucault flew out through the window, sinking his jaws into the man’s face. The force of the dog knocked him flat on his back, the dog covering his whole upper body. Reeve didn’t hang around to watch. He snatched up the pistol and ran back towards the track. A few hundred yards would take him to the cars. He heard another vehicle in the distance, something bigger than a car. Maybe it’s the cavalry, he thought, someone from the farm.
But now there was another whistled command. Three low and long, two higher and shorter. Repeated five or six times. Reeve kept on moving forwards. Van doors closing. Engine revving. As he turned a bend he saw the car he’d smashed into and his own vehicle. He couldn’t see anybody lying under the Land Rover, and there was nobody in the smashed car.
There was a sudden explosion. It threw him backwards off his feet. He landed heavily but got up quickly, winded but still aiming his pistol at whatever the hell had happened. His Land Rover was in flames. Had they booby-trapped it maybe? Then he saw what they’d done. They were disabling it-that was all-so it would be here when the police arrived. The police would find evidence of a firefight, maybe bodies, certainly blood, and a missing journalist. They would also find a British car… a car belonging to Gordon Reeve.
“Sons of bitches,” Reeve whispered. He moved past the burning wreckage and saw that the front car had gone, along with whatever vehicle had turned up towards the end. He kept hearing that whistled command. It sounded like the opening of a tune he recognized… a tune he didn’t want to recognize. Five beats. Dahh, dahh, dahh, da-da. It was the opening to “Row, row, row your boat.” No, he was imagining it; it could have been another song, could have been random.
He wondered about checking the woods for Marie Villambard’s body. Maybe she was alive, maybe they’d taken her with them. Or she was lying somewhere in the woods, and very dead. Either way, he couldn’t hope to help. So he set off the other way until he recovered his bag. He had a landmark this time though. The corpse with the cut throat was still lying slumped on the ground.
Row, row, row your boat. He detested that song, with good reason.
Then he froze, remembering the scene outside the crematorium in San Diego: the cars turning up for the next service, and a face turning away from him, a face he’d thought was a ghost’s.
Jay.
It couldn’t be Jay. It couldn’t be. Jay was dead. Jay wasn’t alive and breathing anywhere on this planet…
It was Jay. That was the only thing, crazy as it seemed, that made sense.
It was Jay.
Reeve was shaking again as he headed back to the cottage. There was a body cooling on the ground next to the window, but no sign of Foucault. Reeve looked into Marie Villambard’s Xantia and saw that the keys were in the ignition. Car theft probably hadn’t been a problem around here. Nor had warfare and murder, until tonight. He got in and shut the door. He was turning the key when a vast bloodied figure pounced onto the hood, its face framed by pink froth, growling and snarling.
“Got a taste for it, huh?” Reeve said, starting the engine, ignoring the dog. He revved up hard and started off, throwing Foucault to the ground. He watched in the rearview, but the dog didn’t follow. It just shook itself off and headed back towards the cottage and what was left of its supper.