The Chase: A Novel

by Brenda Joyce

  “We were not close,” she said stiffly. “He was too odd. Let me see. He was nine, I believe, and I was eighteen when I married Randolph. I do recall trying to befriend him initially, but he laughed at me for my kindness. Not overtly, but the laughter and the scorn were in his eyes. I do hope he is dead,” she said as if commenting on the color of the flowers on the side table.

  Claire’s radar went up. “Why?”

  “Well, do they not claim he was a spy for the Germans during the war?”

  “Yes, they do,” Claire said. But she sensed that Lady Elgin’s antipathy went deeper than that.

  Ian suddenly said, “Did you ever meet my uncle, Lady Elgin? He was an American in the RAF, and he was in love with—and eventually married to—Lionel’s cousin, Rachel Greene.”

  She blinked and smiled. “Eddy Marshall? Of course I met Eddy, but only once. They spent Christmas Eve here, and that was the first time I’d seen Rachel in years. Oh, they were such a lovely couple, and they were so in love! She was so pretty and so kind, and she was in the women’s auxiliary air force, you know, and he was so dashing and so handsome. It was just wonderful seeing them together.” She hesitated. “Lionel did not like him. I feel certain it was because he had feelings for Rachel.”

  Claire looked at Ian, who stared back at her. Then Claire faced her hostess. “What do you mean?”

  “Lionel clearly did not like Eddy. That evening was so tense. I could see he wasn’t pleased to learn that Rachel had married him secretly. I think, in his own odd way, Lionel loved her himself.”

  Claire was still. So was Ian. Then Ian said, “I hadn’t realized their marriage was secret.”

  Lady Elgin nodded. “I am sure it had to do with her being Jewish. I only met her father once, but he was a difficult man. Very set in his ways.”

  Claire almost fell off her chair. Ian seemed equally stunned. “Rachel Greene was Jewish? But. . . how was that?”

  “My husband’s sister ran off with Rachel’s father, and was disowned.”

  “Wow” Claire said, her mind spinning. She could barely begin to imagine the Romeo and Juliet story of Rachel’s parents, and then Rachel must have gone through the very same thing.

  “It was a terrible scandal for the Elgin family,” Lady Elgin continued. “That was well before I ever married Randolph, but I was present when he tried to reconcile with the Greenes. There was no reconciliation to be had. It was far too bitter and far too late.”

  Ian seemed to be dying to speak. He was leaning forward in his chair, his eyes glittering. After a pause, he said, “You were one of the last people to see Eddy alive.”

  “Yes. He disappeared that night, and I believe his body was found somewhere not far from Elgin Hall a few weeks later. It was so terrible, especially for poor Rachel.”

  Claire could imagine Rachel’s frenzy, hysteria, and later, grief. For if Eddy had been at all like Ian, the loss would have been too terrible to bear.

  She stiffened, stunned by her own train of thought.

  Ian said, “Do you have any idea what could have happened?”

  “No, I do not,” Lady Elgin whispered. “But it was such a tragedy. He was a fine young man. And he was a famous pilot, a real RAF hero. And then to have Rachel die the way that she did, a year later. . .” She trailed off. “Perhaps it was for the best, as they were so in love. Maybe she did not want to live without him.” Lady Elgin shrugged.

  “Rachel Greene died a year later?” Claire gasped, sharing a look with Ian, who was also stunned.

  “Yes, she did. In fact, I do believe the last time I saw Lionel was at her funeral, which was over the holidays in the winter of ’forty-one.” Lady Elgin frowned. “He did not shed a tear, but I could tell that he was very upset.”

  “Over the holidays,” Ian echoed. “You mean, like Eddy, she died around Christmas?”

  “I believe so.”

  “How did she die?” Claire asked, shivering. She had a very unpleasant feeling now.

  “She was hit by a car,” Lady Elgin said.

  “Where do you want to have breakfast?” Claire asked when they were ensconced in their tiny rental car after she had won their brief argument about whose turn it was to drive.

  “Very funny. You ate three scones.”

  “I’m starved,” Claire said, lying. She had no appetite. She was so sad. And on top of everything, Lady Elgin hadn’t been able to identify anyone in the photos Ian had shown her. “I need beef.”

  “Beef? It’s eleven in the morning. What happened to the veggie thing?”

  “That was yesterday,” Claire said.

  “You mean this morning,” Ian corrected.

  “Look at the map,” Claire ordered instead. “Let’s have our date somewhere on the sea.” She drove down the driveway, thoroughly shaken. Had Rachel’s death really been an accident?

  He stared at her and shook his head. “You’re not serious. Not about the date. About beef.”

  “You’re right—I ate three scones, and there’s mad cow disease.” Her smile fell apart in spite of her best intentions. “I’m trying to distract you,” she said.

  “I know,” he said quietly, “and you don’t have to be so upbeat when I can see the sadness in your eyes.”

  “I’m wearing black sunglasses!”

  “Claire.”

  “All right.” She glanced at him. “I smell a rat. And his name is Elgin.”

  Ian was silent for a moment. Then he said, “Look, Claire, we’ll probably never know if Rachel was an innocent accident victim or not. However, I can’t even begin to tell you how many innocent civilians were injured or killed by motorists because of the blackout during the war.”

  “Really? Or are you just saying that?”

  “Really.”

  She glanced at him as they cruised down the country road, heading for the motorway. “It is a big coincidence, first Eddy, then Rachel.”

  “Maybe. Maybe not.”

  “You’re holding out on me, Marshall. I can sense it. There’s something you’re not telling me.” Claire exited onto the A525, going north, paying attention to the traffic cruising ahead.

  As she did, Ian glanced behind them.

  She glanced once in the rearview mirror but then focused on merging into the traffic. “So what shakes, Dick?”

  “Nothing. Who the hell is Dick?”

  “Dick Tracy.”

  Claire caught him glancing over his shoulder again. “Claire, move back into the right lane,” he said quietly.

  Claire didn’t like his soft, calm tone. She glanced into her mirror and saw that a BMW which had gotten onto the motorway with her had moved into the left lane behind her. She signaled with her blinker. “Ian, we’re not being followed. That only happens on TV.”

  “Just move into the right lane and let’s find out. Speed up while you’re at it.”

  He was for real. He thought that someone was following them. Her heart sank as she obeyed, slipping into the center lane while increasing her speed. She looked into her rearview mirror, and for a moment, nothing happened. Claire pressed down on the accelerator, eating up the distance between her and the next car—leaving the BMW behind.

  She was relieved. She turned to smile at Ian. “Nuts. I really thought this was my big break. Did I ever tell you my secret dream is to be an actress? An action heroine?”

  “Shit,” Ian said.

  At the same time, Claire saw the big black car out of the corner of her eye. The BMW swerved abruptly, weaving in and then out of the left lane, slowly but surely catching up to them. “We’re being followed,” she whispered, stunned.

  “Yes, we are. Stay calm,” Ian said.

  “Easier said than done,” she muttered, because her hands had become wet on the steering wheel. “What should I do?” The BMW was keeping one car length behind them, even though Claire had changed lanes again.

  “We’ll get off at the next exit,” Ian said calmly. He sounded almost bored.

  They had just passed the exit fo
r Rhuddlan Castle. Claire nodded and looked in the mirror again. The driver was so close she could see that he wore aviator-style sunglasses.

  The driver blared his horn at them. Ian was twisting to look. “Do you know him?” Claire asked hoarsely.

  “No,” Ian said as the BMW came abreast of them.

  Dread washed over her in sickening waves. Claire turned her head, too—and was met with the direct and reflective stare of the driver of the BMW. She realized that he was gesturing to them. He wanted her to pull over to the shoulder of the road.

  Claire’s fear skyrocketed.

  “Don’t pull over,” Ian said. “Keep up your speed. Ignore him now. And when I tell you to go, pop onto the shoulder and hit the brakes. Jam into reverse and back up to the Rhuddlan exit.”

  Sweat trickled into her eyes. “Okay,” Claire whispered, clenching the steering wheel. Could she do as Ian asked? What if she destroyed the gears? She was a good driver, but could she reverse at high speed without causing an accident?

  “You can do it, Claire,” Ian said matter-of-factly.

  Claire nodded, not sure if she believed him or not.

  “Go,” Ian said.

  Claire didn’t think. She wrenched the wheel hard and swerved onto the shoulder of the road, slamming on the brakes. They screamed. Tires burned. The BMW sped past.

  Claire jammed into reverse, hit the gas, and began driving backward along the shoulder. Horns blared at her from the passing cars on her side of the road.

  Claire didn’t have to look forward to realize that the BMW had gotten off the road, was also on the shoulder, and pursuing her in reverse.

  Still in reverse and on the shoulder of the road, Claire passed the exit. More rubber squealed and burned as she slammed on the brakes and shifted into first. Facing them was the BMW, reversing at an impossible speed, seemingly intent on ramming them from the front.

  “Go, Claire,” Ian shouted. “Go, damn it, go.”

  She shot forward, wrenching the wheel and turning onto the exit ramp, missing impact with the other car by centimeters. Tires squealed again. Claire knew the other driver was doing exactly what she had done.

  Sweat was pouring into her eyes. Claire floored the gas pedal. A stop sign was ahead. “Don’t stop, he’s right behind us,” Ian shouted at her.

  “Shit” was Claire’s reply, because the intersection was not empty.

  Two cars had just entered it as Claire shot through. Both vehicles veered away from her to avoid a collision and almost collided into each other instead.

  Claire swerved around the pair, straightened out, and stomped down on the gas.

  “Good driving, Claire,” Ian said, relief in his tone.

  “Fuck,” Claire said in reply. The Fiat flew over the now bumpy road. She looked back. The BMW was going around the two stopped cars, and he was farther behind her now. “What does he want?” she cried.

  “He wants me.”

  Claire had to look at him.

  “Watch the road!” Ian shouted, grabbing the steering wheel and straightening them out. “We need to get to the next village. We’ll be safe there. We need to ditch the car, call the police, and stay in public.”

  Claire faced forward grimly. They were on a country road, just one lane in either direction, with no clear demarcation in the center. “Is there a village on this road—” she started to ask, when Ian cursed and the Fiat jerked abruptly forward, hit from behind.

  Claire screamed, looking in her mirror—the BMW was back.

  This time the driver was going to ram them until they spun out or crashed.

  Ian cursed, moving to hold the wheel with her. He looked back. “Watch out—here he comes!”

  Claire held the wheel as hard as she could and felt another huge impact from behind.

  This time it was so brutal that the wheel was wrenched out of both of their hands, and the Fiat, going fifty or sixty miles an hour, went screaming into a 360-degree spin.

  Claire felt her head and neck snap from whiplash as the little car spun around and around, rubber burning, trees and bushes whirling in her vision, and then it veered off the other side of the road, hitting a huge bump. Claire realized what was happening—the road paralleled a ravine of some sort. She screamed again when the Fiat shot into the air as if launched by a catapult.

  It landed with a thud, bouncing again, spraying water, landing a final time, and coming to a quivering standstill.

  Claire sat there, paralyzed.

  Ian spoke first. “Are you okay?”

  Claire didn’t know. The car sat in a small creek or river. She wiggled her shoulders. Christ. She seemed to be intact. “I think so.”

  The water was just lapping the hood of the car.

  Ian was already unrolling the window, then reaching for and unsnapping her seat belt. “C’mon. Through the window. Now.”

  Suddenly Claire heard the sound of a car door closing—above and behind them.

  Breathless, Claire watched Ian shove his considerable frame through the window. The seconds seemed to be ticking by. She craned her neck around but could not see onto the bank above them. “Hurry, Ian,” she whispered.

  He made it. Claire followed quickly, easily. The frigid waters of the Clwyd stunned her, taking her breath away. Ian gripped her hand as they found their footing and started slugging through the waist-high water to the opposite bank.

  The water began popping around them.

  “Hold your breath, Claire!” Ian shouted, as Claire realized they were being shot at by a gun with a silencer. She inhaled as Ian pulled her under water with him.

  It was pitch black beneath the surface. The water was rippling around them; Ian continued to hold her hand. And then the ripples stilled. Claire’s eyes began to adjust to the darkness, and she could finally see Ian’s hands, his face. She made out his eyes. Ian tugged on her hand and she nodded and they crawled along the bottom on all fours, continuing in the direction they had been going before.

  Her lungs began to beg for air. They hurt. Claire tugged on Ian’s foot. He understood, and together they lurched upward and through the surface of the water, gasping for air.

  The Clwyd wasn’t wide, and they were only two feet from the opposite bank and knee-deep in water. They staggered through the last bit and up onto the muddy embankment, still panting.

  Claire glanced over her shoulder as Ian pulled her forward and into a run. On top of the ravine on the other side of the Clwyd stood the driver of the Mercedes, a huge and frightening silhouette in dark clothing. Claire watched him raise the gun. “Ian!”

  They dove into a line of several trees, and the dirt began popping up all around them. Grass and dirt were flying.

  The pings stopped. So did the bursting of the earth. Ian and Claire crouched behind a tree that was just too narrow to provide any comfort or protection. Ian wrapped one arm around her. “Listen to me.”

  She met his gaze, nodding, unable to speak.

  “We’re going to have to make a run for the ruins. We can hide there—try to trap him. When we get there, we split up. Don’t worry. Just find a spot to hide. I’ll try and come up on him from behind.”

  “That’s the plan?” she managed. “You don’t have that gun with you, do you?”

  “I can’t carry it out of the States,” he said, holding her gaze. “Claire.” He touched her face. “It will be okay. I promise.”

  Time slammed to a standstill. Claire looked into his eyes and knew he meant his words and felt herself fall hopelessly for him.

  “Let’s go,” Ian ordered, as if he were a marine.

  Claire looked back and saw the gunman scrambling down the ravine, about to wade or swim through the river.

  Claire looked ahead. A wide-open expanse of green faced her—and beyond that, the ruins of the castle.

  They ran.

  They ran across the meadow, Claire praying that there would be tourists at the ruins. The car park was on the other side of the fortifications, so she couldn’t see if any cars were p
arked there or not. She hated Ian’s plan—she didn’t want to split up—but she knew it was the only way to save their lives.

  Claire glanced over her shoulder, stumbling on the uneven ground as Ian pulled her at an impossible speed—he was stronger and faster than she was. The gunman was emerging from the river, and now he was running up the bank. In a moment he would hit the stand of trees they had just left.

  Claire gasped raggedly and drove her aching legs even harder. They reached one of the first sections of broken wall and darted behind it. Ian grabbed her by both shoulders, and their gazes locked. “Go left. Hide behind anything you can. Just stay there.”

  Claire nodded fearfully. Before she could tell him to be careful, he disappeared around another section of wall.

  Fear overcame her. Claire did as he had told her, turning left around another corner, and another, until she could see into the heart of the ruins and past that into the car park. It was deserted. She wanted to collapse and cry.

  Claire backed between two jutting sections of stone, crouching down. She was so afraid. Ian was unarmed. And even though he had said the gunman was after him, Claire wasn’t so sure. They were in this together, after all—she knew so much. And then she heard the footsteps.

  She knew they weren’t Ian’s.

  Claire picked up a rock and tried her best to melt into the stone wall at her back, praying the gunman would walk right past without ever seeing her. She raised the rock in case he did not. Waiting for him to step around the corner on her right.

  Silence.

  It yawned about her.

  Vast. Frightening.

  Claire’s own heartbeat was now interfering with her ability to hear. Worse, her labored breathing was loud and resonant—giving away her position.

  Claire knew he was close. She could feel him. Every hair stood up on her body. She held her breath.

  He stepped out from an adjacent wall on her left.

  Claire looked into the muzzle of the gun. It was pointing directly at her.

  Then she looked at the gloved hand holding the gun—and she saw the finger on the trigger. Then she looked up, into the man’s face, into his eyes.

  She didn’t know him, but their eyes met and held, and she knew she was looking into the eyes of death.