To Catch a Rat

by S J Grey

  His thigh was still blissfully numb from the local anaesthetic when they stitched him up, but he had a bump on his head the size of an egg, and a headache that painkillers didn’t even make a dent in. He rubbed his temples with his fingertips and tried to think.

  Sandra hesitated when Mark mentioned Rush. Was he there with them? Listening to the call?

  One thing was for sure—Mark wasn’t staying in hospital overnight, while Emma was God knew where. He had one week to fix this, and the clock was ticking.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  The first item on Mark’s To Do list was to get out of hospital. While he had no compunction about discharging himself, he needed transport, and his wallet had gone missing at some point. It either dropped out of his pocket—unlikely—or Rush had taken it. He hoped the guy would be dumb enough to use the credit cards, but that was also unlikely.

  Mark placed a call to Jonathan, his local liaison. “Any sign of my replacement ID and cards yet? I need to leave before the trail goes cold. I also need a ride back to Emma’s house, to pick up my car.”

  There was a pause, and then Jonathan’s dry voice. “Hello to you too. I thought you were staying overnight?”

  “Change of plan.”

  “Gimme half an hour, and I’ll pick you up.”

  “I… uh… need a change of clothes too. And a replacement laptop.”

  “Sure. Anything else? Breakfast in bed? Executive Suite at the Hilton?”

  He didn’t rise to the bait. “Thanks.”

  His next call was to DS Miller. “Hi. This is Mark Penney. How long is Emma’s house going to be sealed up for, please?”

  “It’s a crime scene, as you know, Mr. Penney. Maybe tomorrow afternoon.”

  Okay, that was good news. It meant Em wouldn’t be going back there just yet. If she really was going away, it had to be with Rush. That tiny hesitation in Sandra’s answer was confirmation enough.

  Mark allowed himself to feel a flicker of excitement. Find Emma, find Rush. And while Em was pretty tech-savvy, she could have been surgically attached to her cellphone. As soon as his new laptop got here, he’d track the GPS position of her phone.

  Would he be okay to drive? The injury was in his right leg, and that would make it difficult. His thigh stung from the stitches, with a bone-deep throb from where the knife went in.

  Rush had clearly picked up new tricks, while in prison. His records showed no preference for any weapon prior to this, or any violence at all, if you excluded beating his stepfather’s head against a brick wall. Some said Bill Doyle deserved his fate, but the court agreed it wasn’t up to Caleb to dispense justice. Mark was close to certain that Rush never intended to kill his stepfather, but somebody had. Who else would want to see Bill Doyle dead?

  While doing his background research, Mark had watched the videoed trial many times and agreed Rush’s lawyer was shit. Mark could’ve done a better job. Hell, Mark’s grandmother would have kept Rush out of prison, and she was a sweet old lady with no interest in the law.

  Mark jerked awake. Fuck. He was nodding off, and his mind was wandering, and neither was good. It was probably down to the painkillers the hospital pumped into him, and the high dose of antibiotics, in case the knife had been dirty. He couldn’t afford to fall asleep. Jonathan would be here soon, and Mark had to be ready to leave.

  He scrubbed his hands over his face, slugged back a glass of water, and then rang the bell to summon a nurse.

  Twenty minutes later, he clutched a prescription for painkillers and antibiotics, and a discharge note. When Jonathan breezed into his room, messenger bag over one shoulder and duffel over the other, Mark was as ready as he’d ever be.

  “Thanks,” he said and took the duffel. He peeked inside. Clothes, toiletries, and a cheap wallet with new credit cards and a bundle of cash. Two-hundred dollars in twenties. He tugged on a T-shirt, and then eased painfully into a pair of new jeans. The denim was stiff and scratchy, and hurt like fuck when he pulled them over the dressing. He gritted his teeth and breathed through the pain.

  Yep, there was no way he could drive anywhere like this. “I need you to take me up to Reikorangi, to Emma’s parents.”

  “Dude, do you ever say please?”

  “Gordie said you reported to me, so that makes me your boss.”

  “Also makes you an asshole.”

  Mark huffed out a breath. He was tired, in pain, and fucked off with everything, but Jonathan was right. There was no need to act like a dick. “I’m sorry. Thank you for being quick to sort this out, and would you please drive me to Reikorangi?”

  Jonathan gave him a beaming, if sarcastic, smile. “You got it, boss.”

  It took every ounce of Mark’s energy to limp to the car park with Jonathan. It would be a sign of weakness, to ask Jonathan to bring the car to the nearest exit, but Mark was damned near exhausted by the time he sank into the passenger seat.

  When he got his breath back, he fired up the laptop—thank God Jonathan had pre-configured it—connected to the hotspot on his phone, and activated the GPS tracker. Emma’s phone was stationery, at her parents’ house. If they hurried, he might get there before she left. To his surprise, it was dark outside. He checked the time. Half past nine. It was over an hour’s drive to Geoff and Sandra’s house, and that meant, if Emma hadn’t left yet, she was unlikely to leave before morning.

  His flagging spirits rose. They expected him to stay in hospital overnight. For once, he might be ahead of the game.

  He turned to face Jonathan. “Time to call it in. I think he’s there.”

  “Based on her phone?”

  “That, and gut feel. Her mother was cagey, and I hit a nerve when I mentioned Rush.”

  “Okay, boss.” Jonathan called his office and was connected to his team leader. “We have a possible location,” he said over the hands-free system. He gave Geoff and Sandra’s address. “Our ETA is eighty minutes, and we’ll need local backup.” He glanced at Mark.

  “I’ll make contact with the residents first,” said Mark, keeping his voice crisp and business like, and not like a red-hot poker was searing into his thigh. “Jonathan is going to drop me at the location and then fall back. I’ll confirm via text. Keep all backup units out of sight.”

  They were fifteen minutes away, it was almost eleven, and Emma’s phone was still in the same place. This was good. Mark drank some water and organised his thoughts. What was he going to say to her? Surprise. I discharged myself so I could come see you? Maybe not. He just hoped he didn’t say something stupid in his debilitated state. Emma was collateral, and he had to remember that.

  When they pulled up outside the house, lights showed behind the lounge and kitchen windows, and Mark sat up straight in his seat. This might be it—the culmination of over two years work.

  Jonathan opened the car door for him, passed him the two bags, and waved as he drove away.

  Mark took a deep breath, and then hobbled to the front door. He reached out to ring the bell, just as the door swung open.

  It was Geoff, with a shotgun in his hands. And he looked beyond angry.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  “Well?” asked Geoff, standing in the motion-activated spotlight on the front doorstep. “Which part of you’re not welcome here are you struggling with?” His grip was steady on the shotgun, and that was a relief. Mark didn’t fancy another trip to hospital today.

  Mark lifted his hands, palms open. “Come on, Geoff. You’re not really going to fire that thing, are you?”

  “This is my property, and you’re trespassing. I’m well within my rights.”

  Mark sighed and drooped his shoulders. “Please, Geoff. I’m desperate to see Em, and”—he swallowed—“I’ve nowhere else to go. Please, may I come in?”

  “You got this far. Call your taxi back.”

  “It wasn’t a taxi. It was one of the hospital staff, who was heading this way and offered me a ride. I’m throwing myself on your mercy, Geoff. Please, let me stay tonight. I’ll fig
ure something else out in the morning.”

  “You upset my daughter, boy. You broke her heart.”

  Mark didn’t need to act any more. He felt like shit at those words. “I never meant to hurt Em. I love her, Mr. Blackthorne. Whatever it is she thinks about me, she’s wrong. Someone’s fed her a bullshit story, and it’s wrecking me that she believes it. I need to put things right between us. Please, Geoff. Please let me talk to her. I can stand here. I don’t even need to come inside.”

  “She isn’t here.”

  Was that true? What about her phone? Mark groaned and shifted his feet, before dropping the duffel to the ground. He leaned forward, one hand cupped protectively around the wound. “I shouldn’t even be here. I was supposed to stay in hospital, but I couldn’t stand the idea of Emma hating me. I’ve done nothing wrong, Mr. Blackthorne.”

  “I’ll call you a taxi, and you can fuck off back to wherever you like.”

  This was hopeless. Time for Plan B.

  Mark took a half step backwards, crumpled at the knees, and slumped to the gravel path. The shockwave that blasted through his thigh hurt like a bitch on steroids, and this time, his groan was genuine.

  “Oh, bollocks.” Geoff finally gave in.

  Through half-closed eyes, Mark saw him break the shotgun and hook it over his elbow.

  “Sandra,” Geoff shouted. “I need a hand.”

  Mark allowed himself to be helped into the house, apologising profusely along the way. “So embarrassed. Really sorry. I lost a lot of blood. Couldn’t stay away from Em any longer.” They settled him on a sofa in the lounge and lifted his feet onto a stool. Sandra fussed over him with gentle hands and a soft voice. Did he need a doctor? An ambulance?

  “I just need to rest,” he whispered, the image of an exhausted man. “Thank you. You’re very kind.”

  He accepted the hot, sweet tea, and with a pang, thought of his grandmother. She dispensed tea at the drop of a hat. No matter the scale of injury or disaster, tea was the cure, and preferably Earl Grey with a dash of milk. He’d be incensed if someone tried to deceive his gran, and some part of him twisted inside, at the way he was fooling Geoff and Sandra. They were good people. Under other circumstances, in another universe, he’d be hoping to have them as in-laws.

  His mind was drifting again. He needed to lock down that emotional shit.

  He sipped the tea and assessed his surroundings. The shotgun had disappeared, and Geoff sat with Sandra in opposite armchairs, eyes on Mark. His bags sat near his feet.

  He tried a feeble smile. “Thank you,” he said again. “Is Emma around?”

  “I told you, she’s not here, lad,” said Geoff, but the anger had gone from his voice.

  That was good. He was softening. Mark could work with that. “Isn’t that her phone on the table?” He nodded towards the device with its distinctive patterned case. “Did she leave it behind?”

  Sandra glanced at Geoff. “Yes,” she said. “She wanted us to intercept any calls or texts from you.”

  Ouch. In his heart, Mark never wanted to hurt Emma, but he’d done a piss-poor job of that. “What if there’s an emergency? Is she in contact via email?”

  Geoff thinned his lips. “No. She’s got a burner phone, and before you ask, we’re not giving you the number. You might have snuck in here for the moment, but we respect her wishes, and she’s adamant. Emma doesn’t want to speak to you again.”

  This wasn’t a spur-of-the-moment departure, if she’d had time to collect a burner. This was something she planned. Mark pondered the news and made sure to look crestfallen, as though contemplating his broken heart. It wasn’t hard. “You know, I think Caleb Rush was one of the people that broke into Emma’s house. I think he’s the guy who stabbed me.” He gestured to his thigh to emphasise the point. “This is twice he’s come after Emma. Are you sure she’s safe, wherever she is?”

  Again, Sandra glanced at Geoff before speaking. “Why are you so sure it was Caleb?”

  “He recognised me. He had a knife. There are two reasons.”

  Another weighted look passed between the couple. Apart from Emma’s whereabouts, what were they hiding? It must be Rush. Mark had to tread carefully and avoid alienating himself. He had to play on their concern for their daughter.

  “Look,” he said. “I know Caleb, and I know that prison has changed him, and not for the better. He’s a fugitive. He’s liable to be dangerous if he’s cornered, and I’m scared that Emma might not have much clarity where he’s concerned. If she’s planning to meet him, please warn her not to.”

  “According to Emma, you don’t know Caleb at all.” Geoff was firm.

  Mark twisted his lips, as though regretful. “Someone’s told her that, and it’s completely bogus. I showed Emma a picture of me with Caleb and a bunch of others, and she left me a message—you heard her—saying that I’d tampered with the image. I didn’t. There was a large group of us did the run that day, and we took several group photos. That’s why I’m in some, and not in others.”

  His explanation was as limp as a two-day-old lettuce, but it was the best he had on the spur of the moment. It had to be plausible, and Emma’s parents seemed to be considering it. Time to push a little.

  “Has Rush been here?”

  They stared at him with equal defiance. That was as good as saying yes.

  “Did he threaten you? Is he still here now?”

  Geoff cleared his throat. “Caleb didn’t break into Emma’s house, because he was talking to me at the time.”

  “He talked to you on the phone?”

  “No.” Geoff squared his shoulders. “He was here. That’s how I know he wasn’t trashing Emma’s house or stabbing you.”

  Yes. Finally, a breakthrough. Mark felt like running around the room footballer-style with his hands in the air. He kept his excitement to himself. “Is he still here now?”

  “No, he’s gone. I’ve no idea where.”

  Fuck. Surely not? “Emma didn’t go with him, did she?”

  “Enough, Geoff.” Sandra’s voice was sharp. “We’re not telling you. She’s safe, is all I’m saying.”

  God dammit. That was another yes.

  It seemed likely that Mark would be invited to stay the night, but he wanted to be sure. A little humility wouldn’t hurt. “Thanks for taking me in. I appreciate everything you’ve done for me.” He managed a brave smile. “I need to figure out somewhere to go tonight. Can you suggest a motel? I know it’s late.”

  Sandra rolled her eyes. “You can sleep in Emma’s room, but don’t push your luck.”

  “No, ma’am.” He pushed himself to a standing position, and was assaulted by a genuine wave of dizziness. He groped for the arm of the sofa, and waited until the room stopped spinning. “Thank you.”

  “You’ll have to share with Minerva,” said Sandra. “We’re not letting her mingle with the other cats for a couple of days.”

  Great. He’d be sneezing like a bastard in the morning. It was no less than he deserved.

  “No problem,” he said.

  He grabbed his bags, limped down the hallway to the bedroom, and gazed in the bathroom mirror at the lump on his head. The bruise extended onto his forehead and was a jolly shade of purple. It’d been a shit day all around, but his gut didn’t lie. Caleb Rush was here, only a few hours ago. He sent a text update to Jonathan.

  The eagle has flown the nest. We didn’t miss him by much. Tell the troops to stand down. More updates tomorrow.

  Now that Mark had the opportunity, he wanted to review the footage from the security cameras he fitted at home. At Emma’s house. The intruders managed to bypass his main alert system, but he’d been sneaky and had a redundant system running in the background. Whoever it was, they figured out how to create a loop, to prevent detection, but his secondary cameras picked them up. The quality wasn’t as good, but it was better than nothing.

  He sat on the bed, earbuds in place, and loaded up the stored footage, listening carefully in the hope of picking up voi
ces. He’d been blinded in his assumption that Caleb was one of the guys, and now he needed to be objective.

  The camera over the front door picked up a black panel van stopping near the top of the drive. The registration plate wasn’t visible, and neither were the people that climbed out. He saw three distinct heads wearing ski masks, and then the feed fritzed out. They jammed it, was his best guess, before the system could send an alert. They clearly knew what they were doing.

  The next footage was brief, from his backup system, a camera embedded in the smoke alarm in the hallway. It tracked three men, all a similar height and build, as they worked through the house, tearing it apart and clearly looking for something. The feed was intermittent. Whatever signal jammer they used was good but didn’t knock it out completely. Instead, it allowed him to see their progression as a series of stills. He saw the moment he entered the house, but not when he tackled one of them and was laid to waste. To his frustration, there was no sound, apart from a low-level buzzing. He turned the volume to max, shoved the earbuds in as tight as he could, and leaned forward, his total focus on the screen.

  “Come on”, he whispered. “Talk to me.”

  Something brushed the back of his neck, and he nearly jumped out of his skin. He held onto his little-girl shriek by the narrowest margin, but jerked forward, laptop slipping to the floor and a thousand hot pins digging into his leg at the sudden movement. Twisting in his place, he looked behind him into the wide, green eyes of a striped cat.

  “Fuck,” he said aloud, his hand on his chest. His heart was galloping. Minerva. She perched on the headboard, her tail waving softly. That must have touched his neck. “Christ. You nearly gave me a heart attack,” he said, not convinced that wouldn’t yet happen. And his new laptop lay on the floor. Wonderful.

  Mark leaned over the side of the bed and retrieved his laptop. The feed had paused, but the device looked intact, unlike his heart, which was still in fight-or-flight mode. “We need to have a little talk, kitty-kat,” he said to Minerva. “We might be sharing a room, but the bed is mine. ’Kay?”