Chase ran over to Myles. The storm stopped as suddenly as it had started and the sounds of fighting died down. Myles was no longer blue. Chase knelt down beside him. Myles had been hit in the upper chest. Blood was pouring from his mouth and he gasped for breath trying not to strangle on his own blood. He lifted his head to stare at Chase.
“I didn’t do it you know.” Myles tried to speak between choking gasps. He grabbed Chase’s arm. “It was Dominick. He wanted her. I liked Sophie.” Chase put his ear down as Myles’ voice grew weaker. He listened grimly as Myles with his dying breath spilled out the ugly story of Sophie’s murder.
Eventually Chase became aware that the others had gathered round him. Brian, Joe and Willie knelt with him. Myles finished his story and with a final shuddering effort he pushed himself off the ground and grabbed Chase again. “Get him.” He whispered hoarsely. Then his hand slid slowly down and Myles Hickman died.
Brian placed his hand on Chase’s shoulder. “Dominick’s not here. Joe and his boys checked.”
Chase looked around. The compound was devastated. The bikers and Indians stood quietly respecting the moment. Chase went over to his men and thanked them, checking for injuries. He was relieved to find only a few had been injured and none seriously. They would wear their wounds proudly.
The plan was for both Chase and Joe’s’ men to clean up the compound and destroy any evidence. Willie would supervise. All that would remain would be the evidence of a brush fire, which unfortunately destroyed the lab and everything in it. Joe’s men were already busy freeing the turtles from their covered tanks.
Brian had found an axe. The storm machine now lay in a hundred pieces scattered over the ground. It too would be burnt in the fire. Some of Chase’s men stripped the buildings, destroying any paperwork as they found it. Two bikers carried the sleeping pit bulls to safety.
Once Chase assured himself that everything was taken care of, he, Brian and Joe considered what to do next. Chase rubbed his beard wearily. “He must be somewhere in the park. His car is still here and he is no country boy. He should be wandering around out there with no clue. Joe, who’s your best tracker?”
Joe didn’t hesitate. “I am.”
“Well let’s go. My sister’s murderer is out there and I want him.” Chase moved off, Joe and Brian close on his heels.
Seventy-two
The three men moved off at a trot in single file behind Joe who modified his loping run so that the white men could keep up with him. They had been running for about twenty minutes when Joe stopped holding up his hand for silence. He let out a low whistle and received one in reply. Shortly two Indians came out of the woods at a run. Shanna’s captors.
Chase and Brian waited impatiently while Joe, frowning his displeasure interrogated his men in his native tongue. Finally Chase could stand it no longer. “Well. Where’s Shanna?”
Joe gave his men an evident tongue-lashing and sent them off toward the compound with a wave of his hand. “They got too involved in listening to the battle. Shanna gave them the slip. They have been searching for her ever since. They were chasing a naked white man when they heard us coming and doubled back.”
“A naked white man? Don’t tell me there’s some pervert flitting around out here in the middle of all this.” Brian was obviously amused at the thought.
Joe smiled. “If he got a look at my war painted warriors he may have thought his wildest dreams had come true.”
“Enough.” Chase was worried. “What about Shanna?”
Joe was instantly contrite. “Your call, my friend. Which trail should I follow?”
“Damn it.” Chase knew his duty. They must make sure that Shanna was all right, but he could not bear the thought of letting Dominick get away. The anguish of his decision was plain on his face. Finally, he turned to Joe. “Let’s see how good you are. We must find Shanna first and then we will catch up with Mr. Dominick Wilding.”
“Follow me.” Joe set off picking up the pace again.
Chase glanced at Brian who had remained silent. Chase knew that Brian’s mission was to destroy any and all evidence surrounding the formula. So far they had achieved that objective admirably but there was one loose end. Dominick. Brian’s priorities would ensure that he single-mindedly follow that directive. There was nothing he could do about that. “If you find him, save him for me.”
Brian nodded. “I’ll do my best, old man.” He held out his hand. Chase took it. There were no other words. Brian nodded to Joe. Without a word he turned and was gone.
Chase watched him for a moment and then turned back to Joe. “Let’s go.”
They had traveled about three miles when they found Shanna face down and unconscious. After a cursory inspection, Joe pulled out a small medicine packet and wafted some herb under Shanna’s nose. She came to slowly, groaning.
Looking at her, Chase knew his chance at Dominick was gone. As he and Joe carried Shanna between them, he hoped that Brian was having better luck.
Seventy-three
Chase sat on the beach in the moonlight, puffing contentedly on a small cigarillo. It was quiet and peaceful here. No sound except for the gentle lapping of the water.
There had been no repercussions from the destruction of Myles’ lab. Everything had gone as planned. Annie would be okay. She was already driving everyone nuts with her demands. Annie made a terrible patient. Dear Annie. And Shanna. Well Chase would have to think about Shanna later.
Chase watched his empty beer bottle as it bobbed on the surface, making its way out to sea. He fancied it was heading out to Sophie. This was their secret place, warm and silky as only a tropical hideaway can be.
“Well sis, one down, one to go. Don’t you worry none, we’ll get him too.”
Further out a wave rippled and Chase was sure he could see Sophie out there riding the waves, an ethereal mermaid never allowed to return to shore.
“I love you Soph.” Chase said softly. “You go on now. Don’t miss out on Valhalla. I’ll be there soon enough and we can catch up then.”
There was a splash and Chase swore he saw a glittering tail dive into the water. He tasted salt on his cheek, but it was only his own tears. “Bye Sophie. See ya.”
Chase flicked the remnant of the cigar into the water. He took a last look behind him and then headed back to his bike.
Epilogue
Dominick ran down the steps of his hotel in Sydney at a brisk trot. He was going to like this town. These Aussies were something else. They had to be the most gullible people in the world. He was going to do very well here. Dominick looked around with satisfaction before hoisting his briefcase and heading over to a cruising taxi.
Across the street, a rangy longhaired guy in tats and a tee shirt stopped tinkering with his Harley. He reached into the saddlebag and came out with a cell phone. He dialed and then listened for a moment before speaking. “That dude you were after, mate, the short balding one? I’ve got him in my sights as we speak.” The man listened and then laughed wolfishly. He pocketed the phone and straddled the bike.
Vroom.
The chase was on.
###
Following is an excerpt from the opening pages of the next Chase Larsen novel
KILL DEVIL
Chapter 1
Jake coughed, a drawn out, unnervingly human protest of pain. He no longer streaked after rabbits in joyous, noisy pursuit and his nemesis the possum, kept at bay for so many years, now scrabbled in the yard with impunity. Nowadays the old guy spent his time snoring on the sofa.
Chase sat on the tailgate of his old truck watching Jake’s arthritic putterings in amusement tinged with melancholy. These long outings, just the two of them and the old ’50 pickup were mostly a thing of the past now and Chase missed them. It hurt to see his old friend struggle to run a few paces in wistf
ul hunt mode, then turn away in a masterful act of studied disinterest. Watching Jake, Chase felt the beginning of yet another empty space and fought to ignore it. It was not yet time.
He wondered idly if his own adventures were also coming to an end. His one remaining relative, his sister Sophie had suffered a horrible death and Jake was all the family that remained. Somehow Chase had never found time for wife and children and now time sped by, too busy for him. The anniversary of Sophie’s death always made him reflective and depression should have no part in such a glorious day. Sunshine danced along the shoreline dressing the tiniest object in glittering clarity. Sophie had reveled in this weather and so would he.
This stretch of beach was remote and hard to access. Today it was empty of people and Jake could paddle undisturbed. The storm season had been harsh this year. The stand of dead trees bunched at the edge of the water, pale and bare as ancient pedestals, were fewer than they had been last year. Erosion had claimed all but a few feet of sand, but it was still fine and sugary, with a glistening coat of shells and sharks’ teeth. The sea rushed in to reclaim its treasure of shells leaving a carpet of seaweed strewn in scattered clumps. Jake sneezed as he snuffled into it and came up for air trailing a long strand.
An osprey screeched as pelicans came swooping in, ungainly as gooney birds, yet so graceful in flight. This one small spot healed the soul, its timeless beauty unmarred by the occasional cloak of wind and rain. Chase had scattered Sophie’s ashes here in the place she loved best and he and Jake came once a year to visit.
Time to go. He had to meet Joe downtown. Every week they picked a spot to watch for the return of Dominick Wilding. Chase could be old and crippled, blind and deaf, but he would never give up on finding his sister’s killer again. He had lost the man once. It wouldn’t happen twice. Chase lifted Jake into the truck and they headed home, the one grimacing with new resolve, the other, grinning hugely, nose in the wind, shaggy hair blowing, turning occasionally to give his master a grateful lick.
Chapter 2
“Tom, no.” The old man’s voice sliced through the tension, sharp with anxiety, and that, and the presence of Tom’s mother and sister saved Sloan Cutler from serious harm. Tom stopped short of his headlong rush, his face a fluctuating picture of conflicting emotions, ending nose to nose and toe to toe with Cutler.
Cutler showed no reaction as Tom’s flattened fingertips jabbed into his chest, punctuating each word in staccato cadence. “You’ll pay for this, you slimy little toad. I promise you that.” Shaking with rage, hostility etched into every taut muscle, Tom pivoted and stalked back to his family.
Sloan Cutler enjoyed every second of it. He smiled nastily, then curled his thick lip in a taunting sneer. “I can’t wait.” Cutler made a show of brushing off his jacket as if brushing off Tom. He would rather have wiped his face of Tom’s spit but didn’t want to acknowledge it was there. Drawing out his pleasure, Cutler waited a moment, watching Tom before delivering his final blow. “Slimy little toad, you said? You can do better than that.” Cutler smirked, not bothered by the insult. “After all, I just took away your life. I now own this house and everything in it and I want you all out by the end of the month. It shouldn’t take long since you won’t be taking anything with you.” Sloan smirked again, gratified at the shocked expressions ranged before him. Finally, the Ramsey family had bowed to their superior.
Tom’s father sat on the sofa attempting a bland expression but his face had paled to an ashen gray and he looked shrunken and tired. His wife, Margaret sobbed, while Pamela, dear little Pamela, was openmouthed with shock. Princess Pamela, debutante of the year, the darling of the Palm Beach social set. She didn’t look so social now and with her mouth hanging open that way Sloan wondered why he had ever thought she was the most perfect creature ever to set foot on planet earth.
“Well, Pam, want to reconsider my marriage proposal now?” Sloan didn’t wait for an answer. He looked her up and down with deliberate contempt. “Sorry dear, too late. You have nothing to offer now.”
Sloan stopped smirking as he sensed Tom rushing from around the sofa and whirled triumphantly, fast as a snake. “C’mon then, go for it hero. I’ll add assault and battery to the list. How will you help them from a jail cell?” He relaxed, disappointed, when the senior Ramsey grabbed Tom, who was choking with rage, and moved in front of him, halting the younger man’s onslaught. Tom’s attack would have given Sloan an opportunity he craved to efface those patrician good looks. Thwarted, Sloan turned his attention back to the pathetic group now ranged before him.
“The high and mighty Ramseys,” he sneered. “You're nothing now. Get used to it.” The final blow delivered, Sloan stalked out slamming the door as he went. That hadn't been as much fun as he thought. Perhaps the eviction would be more entertaining. He would see the press got hold of it. They would love to see some Palm Beachers reduced to life on the other side of the bridge. The Ramseys might just be able to afford one of the trashier trailer parks. Sloan sniggered at the prospect. Sloan had planned to move his own parents into the vacated Ramsey premises, back to the luxury that was rightfully theirs instead of the crummy little place they now inhabited. He had been thwarted there too.
Expecting respect and gratitude, he got only recrimination. Horrified, Sloan’s family first pleaded with him to leave the Ramseys alone, then stood on their dignity, ordering Sloan from their lowly home. Well, let them rot in hell too. The last remnants of the Cutlers were a sniveling bunch of weaklings with no backbone. He didn’t need or want any of them.
Still smarting from the remembered slight, Sloan strode out into the balmy Palm Beach night, ignoring the man walking towards him, some nobody from across the bridge by the looks of him. Annoyed that the man was blocking his path, Sloan started to brush past only to find a firm hand planted in his chest. Now angry at the man’s temerity, Sloan stopped.
“Good evening Sloan.”
The man was shorter than Sloan, balding, dressed like a cheap lawyer.
“I don’t know you. Who are you? What do you want?” Sloan noticed the man was carrying an old issue of Time Magazine, the one with Sloan’s picture on the cover. That was an old issue, when Sloan was the idol of the scientific community, a different life, one Sloan wanted no part of now. He pushed away the hand that was still planted in his chest. The little guy didn’t budge an inch.
“Wilding, Dominick Wilding and no, we don’t know each other yet, although I have been on your legal team for some time now. I have a proposition for you I think you will find very interesting.” Wilding stuffed the magazine into his pocket and shoved a business card under Sloan’s nose.
Sloan batted the man’s hand away without looking at it and once again attempted to go on his way. The nerve of the man. “I’m retired and not interested in anything you have to say. Now will you please get out of my way, I’m in a hurry.”
Wilding didn’t move. “Afraid not Sloan. You and I are going to be business partners. We’ll get along fine once you’ve heard my proposition.”
“Are you deaf, or stupid or both?” Sloan was in no mood for this. This Wilding fellow wasn’t going to budge and he exuded an irritating air of amused arrogance, increasing Sloan’s impatience. Sloan pushed.
Wilding’s demeanor changed. “Don’t do that Sloan. I don’t like it. Keep the card. It has a date and time on it. Be there. We have a lot to talk about.”
Sloan lost his patience. “Certainly not. Now get out of my way before I call the police.”
Dominick smiled. “Oh you won't do that Sloan. Here. I made a copy just for you so you can read it at your leisure. It’s quite comprehensive.” Dominick shoved a file against Sloan’s chest, turned and headed off down the street. He turned around once said, “don’t be late” and was gone.
Sloan grabbed at the file before it fell. His first impulse was to throw it in the gutter but curiosity got the better of him. He carried it to the car and under the dome light found a complete dossier
on himself, so inclusive there were things in there no one knew except Sloan Cutler. Sloan looked up in puzzlement in the direction Wilding had taken.
Dominick Wilding had been right. Sloan would keep his appointment.
Diary of an Airedale
Sample chapter
August 12th
A journal? Airedales don’t write journals. Well, of course they don’t. I dictated it. Voice to text software has come a long way. Now it can translate any language, taking us into uncharted areas, like my mind. See, all things are possible. So read on, I have lots to say. Hmm, where to start? Well, the beginning might be a good place.
Being the intelligent person you are, I’m sure you’re aware that we belong to the species canis familiaris (dog to you), though I’m not just any dog, not this guy. I’m six weeks old and too smart for my own good, which is how I’m sassy enough to talk to you like this. I belong to a distinguished family, members of the Airedale Terrier tribe, and I’m mindful of the standards I need to uphold. You see, terriers are hunters and Airedales are royalty, kings of the terriers, superior beings in many ways as you will see. We’re handsome, brave, keen-eyed, long-legged, fiercely loyal, well you get the picture. The list of our character traits is endless and let’s not forget, we’re indisputably British, true aristocrats.
Right, let’s start with some history. Bet you didn’t know the Romans were first to classify us into groups – house dogs, war dogs etc. They also began the werewolf legend. They treated their animals with callous indifference and left them to roam the streets. Homeless dogs get hungry and fight for food. There’s no one to teach them manners, and it’s scary alone so they ran in packs, scavenging and terrifying any unfortunate people who crossed their path, hence the legend. Did you know that?
Yokche:The Nature of Murder Page 26
