CHAPTER 52
Haynes huddled in the entryway of the sheriff's office and hammered on the door. He and the detective were already soaking wet, just from running a few yards from the car. He peered through the glass. The office was dark, except for an eerie glow coming from a back room. "I don't think anybody can hear us," the detective shouted over the wind.
Haynes tried the door, and it swung open, banging against the wall. The two men hurried inside and, together, managed to get the door shut.
"Who's that?" a voice called. A man stood silhouetted against the light from the back room. "It's Captain Ed Haynes, Atlanta PD. You the sheriff?"
He stuck out a hand. "I am. How the hell did you get here from Atlanta?"
"We drove."
"You must be out of your fucking mind," the sheriff said, his face incredulous.
"Probably so, but when this storm lifts, I want to be on that island at the earliest possible moment."
"Come on in my office, and I'll give you some coffee," the sheriff said, escorting them into the back room. A television set glowed in a corner. "That's running on my emergency power," he said. "Everything's out around here. Take a look at that, will you?" He pointed to the television and the detective peered at the screen. "Is that a hole in the storm?" he asked, tapping the glass. "That's the eye of the hurricane," the sheriff replied. "It's right over Cumberland now."
"It's a pretty big hole," Haynes said. "Could we get over there in a chopper?"
"I was right, you are out of your mind." The sheriff laughed, pouring coffee. "We aren't in the eye here, yet, although we might see some of it. If we go over there, there's still the backside of the storm to worry about, you know, although it's supposed to break up pretty fast over land."
"How long?" Haynes asked. "A couple of hours, maybe, if we're lucky. I've tried phoning the inn a dozen times, but I'm getting no answer. They've only got the one cellular phone over there, and it's in Germaine Drummond's office. I doubt if anybody can even hear it over the storm." Haynes sipped the coffee and stared at the eye of the hurricane. 'I've never felt so frustrated in my life," he said. "I'm what-five, six miles from a murderer, and I can't get to him."
"You might as well be a hundred from him, until this hurricane passes," the sheriff said. "I just hope my chopper survives the storm."
CHAPTER 53
Liz hammered on the door lock, forcing it down. The central locking secured all four doors and the tailgate. Baker slid off the roof of the car and into kneedeep water. Baker's face, streaked with blood from his torn ear cartilage, smirked at her from outside the Jeep. He drew back with his right arm and drove his elbow at the window glass. Liz recoiled as he struck, but it did not give. Oh, wonderful, strong car, she thought, to stand up to Baker Ramsey! Baker looked as surprised as angry; then he disappeared. Some cloud scudded away, and more blue sky appeared, sending more light down onto the scene. Dawn is coming, and the change in the storm is remarkable, she thought. She still couldn't see Baker. What am I doing here? Why am I waiting for him to come back? she asked herself. She restarted the car and struggled to get it into four-wheel drive. As she was about to drive away, she realized that she was sufficiently disoriented not to know where the dike lay. If she moved ahead, she might drive along it to the other side, or she might simply drive off it into deep water. Then she remembered what was in the water, and she froze. The windshield exploded into a thousand fragments. Shielding her eyes, she could see that it was still held together by the lamination. Then she caught a glimpse of Baker outside the car. He had what looked like a fence post, and he was drawing back to swing again. He hit the windshield again, and this time the post penetrated, leaving a hole as large as her head. Baker's arm followed it, snaking inside toward her. She rolled sideways on the seat, and reached the passengerside door, clawing at the lock. She got the door open and jumped out, looking over her shoulder, determined to keep the car between her and Baker. He was wading around the front of the Jeep.
She moved toward the rear of the car, and, as she did, she suddenly became aware that another vehicle had pulled up behind hers. The door of the pickup opened, and Keir climbed out. He seemed to be struggling, and there was pain in his face. In his hand was a light ax, the tool from the back stoop of the cottage. Baker did not seem to notice the truck; his eyes were riveted on Liz as he rounded the front of the Jeep and moved toward her. Liz stood her ground, waited for him. His path would bring him near the truck. Then, as he came around the rear of the Jeep, he saw Keir, too late. Keir had leaped to the hood of the pickup, and he was swinging the ax. The flat side of the implement struck Baker alongside the neck, and his head snapped sideways, followed by his body.
He let go of the fence post and fell down. Liz thought he must be dead, but she had reckoned without the training and the muscle-building drugs that had gone into the development of that neck. Baker struggled to his feet, and, his face distorted into a mask of insane determination, came after Keir. There was something in Keir's face Liz had not seen before: a coldness and cunning, a deadly calculation that excluded reason. She knew what he meant to do.
Keir started his swing, and this time the blade of the ax pointed the way. With a sound like a lumberjack striking a tree, the ax drove into Baker Ramsey's neck, and the handle snapped. Blood sprayed both Keir and Liz, who was no more than three feet from where Baker still stood, a look of astonishment on the once handsome face. Then, slowly, like a great tree in the forest, Baker Ramsey fell forward, gushing blood, into the knee-deep water. Liz, horrified, jumped out of his way, and his momentum carried him, face down, off the dike and into the rushes at lakeside, painting the water red with each faltering beat of his dying heart. Liz stared at him for a moment, then turned to Keir, who had slumped to a sitting position on the hood of the pickup.
"Are you all right?" she asked, reaching for his hand.
"I don't know," he replied, and there seemed little strength in his grip. Then he was looking past Liz, with an odd expression on his face. Liz turned and followed his gaze. Baker Ramsey was moving again. In a blur of motion, Baker turned over on his back, then sat bolt upright, his jaw slack and his eyes blank. He was in that position for a split second, then his head snapped back, the ax blade still embedded in his neck, and he went backward under the water.
"What is he doing?" Liz said, staring in wonder.
"He isn't doing anything," Keir said, a small smile on his face, "Goliath is."
Suddenly, a huge, wet trunk broke the surface; then the twenty-foot alligator's head came out of the water, clutching Baker Ramsey in its enormous jaws. The beast whirled furiously on its own axis, whipped its head sideways, and a snapping sound seemed to come from Baker's body. Then the two vanished under the lake. The water churned for a moment, then slowly became quiet, ripples lapping against Liz's legs. The wind was rising again and the blue in the sky disappeared. Liz went to the truck and helped Keir into the cab. She brushed the golden hair away from his eyes, which looked up at her gravely. "Keir, are you all right?" she asked him a second time.