Age weakens the body far more than the mind accepts. I guess the chief is much the same age as Oberton and still believes his generation capable of putting up a good fight against a younger, fitter opponent.
‘Supposing your man does spot this killer stalking Oberton. What then? One man can’t be expected to take down a serial killer.’
‘He’s to call for backup and protect Oberton. If possible he’s to make an arrest.’ The chief’s voice is strong but lacks conviction. His eyes are landing on everything except mine.
‘Seems like a lot for one man to do, doesn’t it?’ I keep my tone conversational but I can tell he doesn’t like what I’m saying.
A hand slaps down onto the desk. ‘Have you a better idea? I’ve got no spare manpower and cannot guard every damn fool who refuses to heed my advice.’
‘We’re repeating ourselves. We went over all this earlier. I’ve been thinking about it and while I know you’re doing the best you can, I feel there’s more that can be done to protect him.’
‘You got a squad of detectives I don’t know about? Or perhaps a few trained bodyguards?’
I pay no heed to his sarcasm. In his shoes I’d be way more caustic.
‘I’ve got me.’ I fix him with a determined stare. ‘Until something else happens, there’s nothing I can do but sit and think. I don’t believe the coroner’s report is going to contradict anything we’ve already worked out about the last two victims. If I’m going to be sat motionless, I may as well do it where I can be of some other use.’
His head shakes left to right in a slow deliberate motion. ‘Thank you for offering, but there’s no way I can let you put yourself at risk like this.’
I stand up. ‘Is there a way you can legally stop me from going where I want provided I don’t break any laws?’
‘No.’ He doesn’t move from his seat, but a hand snakes across the desk and lifts the telephone. A button is pressed on the console before he puts the receiver to his ear. ‘When did you last hear from Steve?’
He listens with an inscrutable expression on his face then fixes me with a stare. ‘Last we heard from Steve was an hour and a half back. Everything was okay then.’
‘When’s he due to check-in next?’
The chief’s face takes on a sheepish expression. ‘There’s no fixed schedule.’
‘Then at least get someone to message him that I’m going to be in the area too.’ The last thing I want is for some overeager cop to put a bullet in my back by mistake.
He nods. ‘Is there nothing I can say to stop you going out there?’
The click of the door latch is my answer.
By the time I’ve reached my car, I have a growing feeling that I’ve just been played.
56
I pull into the parking lot of the Nature Reserve where Oberton works and head towards the main building. Behind me the Mustang’s engine is ticking. If it was human it’d be gasping for breath.
Entering the long, low building, I find the ticket kiosk and push to the head of the queue, ignoring the loud protests of a Canadian-sounding woman with more than her fair share of dewlaps. The woman issuing tickets is a regular at the Tree and recognises I’m not being rude for the hell of it.
I memorise her instructions on how to get to where Angus Oberton will be working. As I thank her and make for the door she’s pointing at, the Canadian woman steps in front of me to share her indignation. And halitosis.
I don’t bother to hide the involuntary recoil my body gives as she gets into my face. ‘Excuse me, young man, but it’s about time you learned to show some manners and not barge your way to the front of a queue like that.’
Contenting myself with the knowledge that if she’d been male I’d have knocked her unconscious by now, I put my right hand on her right shoulder and start walking forward.
The move is designed to either force her backwards or spin her enough to allow me past.
Something in my eyes must tell her I’m not going to take her nonsense as she yields before I’ve taken a second step.
I can hear her shifting her aim onto the girl in the kiosk and offer thanks she hasn’t tried to follow me.
It only takes me a few seconds to make my way through the back rooms of the centre. I find the exit door and turn the handle with care.
I wonder if I should don one of the ranger uniforms hanging from a peg before going outside. Deciding against it, I go outside and find myself on a worn trail through dense bushes.
There’s a vibration in my pocket. When I retrieve my cell, I see I have a new message.
ARE YOU STILL ALIVE? I KNOW I’M ONLY YOUR MOTHER BUT IT WOULD BE NICE TO BE KEPT INFORMED OF SUCH DETAILS.
As usual when reading her messages, I’m not sure whether to smile or to launch the cell into orbit.
I settle for sending back the happy emoticon. I don’t like using them, but I know she despises them with a hatred she normally reserves for politicians and rap musicians.
As I advance forward, I assess my options. If the killer is already stalking Oberton, seeing me approaching his target will scare him off. In a similar vein, if I try to find a good vantage point to watch over him, I could either warn the killer of my presence or stumble across him.
I’ve no problem with an encounter, but I’m realistic enough to know the killer is too clever an opponent to be found by chance. The likelihood is he’ll be aware of me coming and will set an ambush.
There’s no point in cursing myself for not having thought about this on the journey here. That can wait. I follow the trail until I reach the end of the cover afforded by the bushes and shrubs.
The trail winds through the scrubland but I can follow it with my eyes. It goes towards a low valley between two hillocks. According to the kiosk girl, Oberton should be working in a cleft a few hundred yards into the valley.
I look over the terrain hoping I’ll see something to inspire my next move. I see plenty of sage brush amid the sparse rocky ground but not a lot of cover.
Decision time beckons me. Waves me forward into making a choice.
Covert or blatant?
As I take a half step to my right with the intention of trying to sneak into a good vantage point, I hear a scream.
It’s not one of excitement or laughter. It’s a scream of pure terror.
Instinct takes over my body. Legs and arms pump as I race towards the scream. My eyes are scanning the public areas I’m racing towards. Rapidly they assess the body language of everyone I see. I ignore the turned heads of people looking to identify the screamer. It’s the rigid stance of the horrified I’m looking for.
My heart sinks when I find her. A girl of about twelve is wrapped in what I assume are her mother’s arms. Her mouth is wide open as more screams pour forth, while her eyes are screwed tight in case they again see whatever made her scream.
I hear soft words of comfort. Gentle questions about what’s wrong but I don’t hear anything from the girl except screams.
I can guess what has caused her distress. It’s what I steel myself to look for now. Angus Oberton. The latest victim.
The mother takes steps backwards rather than letting go of her daughter. I approach them – my intention is to guide the mother so she doesn’t trip. A man sprints around the corner.
My fist is clenched and travelling back ready to surge forward, when I see the concern on his face.
He sees the cocked arm and lifts his own hands.
I drop my fists but his stay raised as he advances towards me.
This is the last thing I want. Right now I’m more concerned about finding whatever made the girl scream than fighting anyone.
‘Olly. It’s okay. He’s helping us.’
The hands go down as Olly embraces the woman and girl.
‘What happened? What’s wrong?’ He bends his lanky frame so he’s on a level with the girl who has her face buried into the woman’s neck. ‘What’s up, Harriet?’