What’s he doing? What’s he wanting me to do?
Maybe Gerber had changed his mind about finishing him, knowing the weight of shit that would descend on his head if he added cop-killer to his list. Maybe he was waiting outside to apologize. No. Of course he wasn’t. Caffery knew what was going on: he was being flushed. Gerber had a gun and was waiting for him.
If that was the way it was going to be, then that was the way it was going to be. Simple as that.
He let the second hand move round his watch five times, then pulled himself back up the ladder. On a deep breath he gave the lid a hard shove.
It flew open and rolled away with a deafening clang. Light flooded in. He clung to the ladder, breathing hard, good foot coiled into the rungs, one hand up, ready for whatever came flying at him.
High above him the sky was blue, completely cloudless. He waited, making calculations. The swimming-pool was about a hundred yards from here. There was a pump-house at the deep end, if he remembered rightly. And the maintenance shed with the stepladder in it. There’d be something in there. A hacksaw. An axe, maybe.
Three minutes passed. Then, using his good leg as the dynamo, he vaulted clumsily up and out of the hole, and rolled quickly away. He scrambled head first across the lawn, threw himself down behind the pump-house, where he crouched, hands pressed hard against his leg to stop the wound opening and bleeding again.
It was as hot as an August day: the trees, the hedges, even the grass stood motionless, their outlines a little hazy in the heat. When the pain stopped he raised himself cautiously and looked out at the grounds. Gerber’s car sat in the driveway soaking up the sunshine. Caffery’s own car, as he’d expected, wasn’t there. It had been hidden from anyone standing at the entrance to the house, but from here it was easy to spot: covered with a tarpaulin, its nose pointed up against the doors of a derelict barn about a hundred yards away.
He limped quickly to the car, threw back the tarp and rattled the doors. All locked. He could see through the window that the glove compartment was open, so he’d been right: the bastard had taken the gun.
It felt better to hold his bad leg as he walked, so he gripped it in both hands and half carried it across the lawn, past the swimming-pool to the shed. He found a chisel and a screwdriver on the magnetic tool rack. No axe.
He continued up to the house. The front door was ajar. Using the tip of his finger he pushed it. It swung open soundlessly to reveal the office where the attack had happened. It was empty. The curtains had been half closed, the biscuits swept to one side, and he could see where the great ribbons of blood on the floor and sofa had been hastily scrubbed. He went inside and stood for a while, looking around. Where was Gerber hiding?
He limped to the desk, pulled open the drawers, riffled through the contents, seeing paper clips and pens, old business cards. He straightened and looked at the glass bookcases. In one there was a tooled-leather keepsake box. He took it out and opened it. Inside a plaque read: ‘To Georges, with much love and respect from the staff and patients of St Hilda’s clinic, 1998’. Set into the moulded blue velveteen were six gold-plated surgeon’s instruments – haemostats, tweezers, scissors and three scalpels. Caffery pocketed the scalpels with the chisel, replaced the box and went back to the corridor.
The door to the refrigerator room was closed. He put his ear to it, took a breath, then lightly turned the handle. Just once. Listened.
Nothing. Just the vague electronic hum of a fridge, the tick of a clock.
He rested the scalpel hard and snug in his palm. The chisel was ready too, its handle sticking out of his left pocket. He gave the door a shove so it flew wide open, banging against the interior wall, then shrank back into the corridor, flattening himself against the wall, scalpel at the ready.
Again, nothing. He took a deep breath and swung into the opening, doing a quick 360-degree sweep, checking the ceiling too – he’d been caught out on that one before – then stepped neatly inside, his back to the wall.
The light was off, the room was empty. But the door opposite was ajar. He could hear the distant sound of birds floating down the steps into the room. He went to it and opened it, waiting to see if the sound drew any movement from above. It didn’t. Gerber wanted him here. Wanted him to see the things he’d done. But where was he? Maybe he wasn’t in the building at all. Maybe this was just the beginning of an elaborate game.
Caffery moved around the room, gathering weapons: a long fleshing knife and the awl Gerber had used. It still had a scrap of grey fabric on it. His trouser leg. He put the awl in his sleeve, the knife in his pocket. Feeling as armed as an Apache attack helicopter, he went quietly up the stairs, concentrating on not making them creak. His leg had almost stopped bleeding, yet, even so, when he got to the top of the stairs and looked back he could see one or two dark blood spots. The CSIs would thank him for that – if he survived and they ever got to find out about this place.
A door shut off the top of the staircase, this one also open a crack. He put the tip of the fleshing knife on it and pushed. It swung open with a slow creak. The moment he saw what was ahead he took a step back, letting the fleshing knife come up in front of him.
It was a corridor, a replica of the one below except for one detail. About eight yards away, nearly at the far door, with his back against the wall, sat Gerber.
He was turned slightly away from Caffery, half in profile, one leg crossed over the other. He had changed and was wearing a white shirt and a beige travel coat pulled down off his shoulders. His right hand, nearest to Caffery, was stuffed into the pocket. The other was out of sight, resting near his thigh. That’d be where the gun was. When the door opened he didn’t turn immediately. He continued to stare out of the window, almost vacantly. That was his way, thought Caffery. He was content to sit and wait for his prey, a half-smile on his face. Snake in a hole. He had been clever enough to kill Lucy Mahoney. And Susan Hopkins. Clever enough to almost get away with it.
Caffery kept his back against the wall, out of range. ‘Show me your hands.’
Gerber didn’t react.
‘You heard me. Show me your fucking hands.’
Gerber allowed his right hand to flop out of his pocket, palm up. It was empty. Then he lifted the left about five inches above his thigh. It was holding the Hardballer. But it wasn’t pointed at Caffery. It drooped, hung limply for a second, then fell, clattering across the floor and landing up against the wall, only a foot away from Caffery.
Gerber’s eyes followed the gun but he didn’t make any attempt to pick it up.
Caffery scanned the corridor, the windows and the door at the far end. What was supposed to happen here? That door beyond – was it locked? He looked at the gun. ‘Whatever you think you’ve set up it ain’t going to work,’ he told Gerber. ‘You’re not going to dictate how this ends. I am.’
Gerber breathed out noisily. He turned his head a fraction and stared at Caffery. His face was pale, his lips painfully swollen.
Caffery frowned, puzzled. Something was very wrong here. He took a step forward and swiped up the gun, pointing it at Gerber’s head. Still Gerber didn’t move. If anything his chin hung a little lower, as if it was difficult to keep his head up.
Caffery took another step forward. Then another. Gerber stared at him with his heavy eyes, a drop of saliva gathering on his bottom lip.
Caffery stopped just out of arm’s reach and stood with the gun held out, contemplating the strange little man, with his wiry hair and his pale, flaky-skinned face. Now he was close he could see Gerber was trembling. He waved the gun in his face. Gerber’s eyes followed the barrel dully, but he didn’t move – didn’t try to grab it. The saliva grew into a long string, then broke and dropped on to the floor. Caffery peered at the glob on the walnut floor. There was blood in the saliva. He was beginning to get the first wave of understanding. He raised his eyes to Gerber’s face. ‘What’ve you done?’