He felt pretty good. He had the girl and he began forming a little plan that might make him a few dollars. Perhaps even plenty of dollars. He would take the girl for himself too, he decided. Yes, he felt pretty good, he mused, and there was nothing to prevent him from coming out of this a good deal richer. And once he had used the girl, he would dispose of her.
Inspector Bain’s eyes snapped open when the phone rang. He had been watching the news on television and fallen asleep. The shrill ringing of the phone slashed into his brain like the savage assault of a wild animal and he sat upright immediately, his heart thumping in his chest. The television sound had been muted, and he knew that his wife had been into the room to do that while he had been asleep in the chair.
He reached for the phone. “Bain here.”
“Sir,” the voice said. “We’ve lost Maclean.” Bain was instantly awake and sat bolt upright. “The voice went on. “He duped the boys tailing him and took off in a boat. He’s heading north and we think we know where he’s going.”
“Where?”
“He has a place up in the north swash land. We’re going now, sir. Do you want us to pick you up?”
Bain frowned. “How long have we known that he has a place up in the swash land?” he asked.
“I know what you’re thinking, sir, but we only learned about it fifteen minutes ago. We had to lean on the owner of the bar; threatened him with closure. He put us on to one of Maclean’s associates. We had something on him,” he said unnecessarily.
“I’ll be out front,” Bain told him and put the phone down.
Maclean throttled the engine back until the boat had lost most of its forward motion. The wind rocked the boat and the sea splashed against the sides, sending the occasional wavelet into the boards. He studied the shoreline, picking out salient features in the moonlight. He had been cruising at a near walking pace for thirty minutes, searching for the creek he wanted.
Suddenly he saw it and edged the throttle forward, guiding the boat gently towards the open mouth of the creek. It was about fifty feet wide where it spilled out into the open sea. He kept the boat in mid channel, using the moonlight to guide him.
The creek split into two and he took the left fork. The gnarled mangrove roots closed in on him, bumping against the hull. He followed this narrow inlet for about a mile. From time to time he would close the throttle right down and listen very carefully for any unusual sounds, allowing the boat to drift under its own inertia.
He looked up at the moon and then at the low skyline. There were no hills to mark and no man made features, just an endless miasma of pine and mangrove. But Maclean knew exactly where he was.
A light flickered in the corner of his eye. At first he thought it was a light from a cabin; there were several dotted around the swash land area he was in, but it was very early in the morning and he hadn’t expected any sign of life.
The light appeared again; a flicker behind the trees. It came from a road in the distance, Maclean was sure of that. It had to be a car. Then he saw another light and frowned; there was more than one car, which probably meant trouble. He moved the throttle forward, pushing the boat faster through the narrowing creek. He figured he had about another half mile to go before the creek split into several meandering streams.
It had to be the police, he decided. And if it was, they would have to stay on that road for a further ten miles or so before it swung north east. Then they would be on little more than a track, which meant slow progress. Twenty minutes perhaps. No more.
The hull of the boat bumped into submerged roots, throwing Maclean forward. He fell into the cockpit and struggled to get back up. Then he reversed the boat away from the obstruction and inched forward again.
He encountered more obstacles, which he would normally have avoided, but the situation was fraught and it was not the best time to try and negotiate these narrow creeks. And because he believed the police might be in those cars up on the headland, he could not use the boat’s powerful searchlight for fear of drawing attention to himself.
When he finally reached the landing stage, no bigger than a table, he knew he had taken much longer than he wished. The creek was too narrow to turn the boat round so he had no choice but to tie her up facing inland.
He jumped ashore and carefully negotiated the rough-hewn path through the mangroves to the safe-house. It was in total darkness. He waited on the edge of the clearing and listened. Faintly, but without any doubts in his mind, he could hear the cars in the distance. He knew they were coming this way.
He sprinted across to the house; a ramshackle affair, weathered and needing paint. The stiff breeze was rattling some of the timbers on the roof and threatening to rip them off. When he reached the house he went in through the back door, but did not switch on any lights. He dragged the kitchen table across the floor until it was beneath a ceiling hatch. He clambered on to the table, reached up and pushed the small door up out of the way, then put his hand in the opening and began feeling around.
His hand touched the cold metal of an Uzi machine gun. Beside it were two magazines taped together in such a way that either could snapped into the gun. He jumped down from the table, checked the magazines. Both were full; a total of sixty four rounds. He opened a cupboard door in the kitchen, still without light and pulled out a box of cartridges, stuffing them into his jacket pocket. Then he grabbed a flashlight and went out of the house at a run.
Helen was asleep inside the shack. Her sleep was a sleep of total exhaustion. She hadn’t eaten for twenty four hours and had been in fear of her life and her sanity. All her attempts at escape had simply reduced her to a hysterical wreck. Several cages had been knocked over. One had burst open and the rats inside had scattered, leaving Helen living on the edge of her nerves.
The first she knew of Maclean’s presence was when the door burst open and he stood framed in the moonlight. The light from his torch stabbed through the darkness.
Helen didn’t scream because she knew instinctively it was Maclean. She shrank away from him in terror, shielding her eyes against the glare of the flashlight. He kicked the door shut and flicked the torch beam around the shack until he saw a length of chord hanging from a hook from on a wall. He pulled it down and stood over Helen.
“What are you going to do?” she cried in alarm.
“We’re going away, missy: you and me.” He passed the chord around her waist and knotted it tight. Then he tied a loop round his own waist and dragged her to her feet. He paused at the open door, taking care not to leave the torch switched on and looked out. Then he turned to Helen and pulled her through the door. As they stepped out into the yard, a loud, hollow voice boomed out.
“Maclean, this is the police. Give yourself up!”
Maclean pulled Helen in front of him, lifted the Uzi machine gun and fired a scything arc at the shadows. Helen screamed in mortal fear. Maclean grabbed her hair and started to run. The voice boomed after him.
“Maclean, leave the girl. Maclean!”
Maclean raked the shadows again, peppering the darkness with bright flashes from the breech. Someone cried out and Maclean laughed. Helen was still screaming as he dragged her down towards the boat.
Each time Helen fell, he just lifted her bodily to her feet. He wasted no time, clutching her like a sack and urging her to keep up with him. They reached the boat and he pushed her on board. He slipped the painter, started the diesel and whipped the gear stick into reverse.
Not afraid now to use the powerful spotlight now, Maclean turned it on and swivelled the beam along the creek. He could hear the police crashing through the trees in their desperation to get to him, but he was in his element now: in control.