Because of his cunning and concealment from the eyes of the law, it was still solely between him and me. Nobody could help me but myself. My mind worked frantically, seeking a way forward. That I must go head to head with him was now inevitable and, if I was to survive it, I would have to change the rules of the game in my favour. I couldn’t stop him finishing his vengeful hunt, but I must try to impose my own terms.
There was no alternative; my real or pretended vacations had to end. I had to get back to normal daily life; to crowded Vancouver streets, regular walking routes, standing on rail platforms and at traffic lights without fearing a hard shove in the back, eating food without having to worry about being poisoned.
I paused these frantic thoughts from tumbling through my mind and cleared my throat. “I never knew that. She told me her name was Saurez and you were her brother.”
“Lies.”
“No, the truth. And an avalanche killed her, not me.”
The eyes became fire again. This time he did stand up and sent a great gob of spittle into my face, partially blinding me.
“SIT!” I shouted.
Eventually he complied. Rage roiled up in me – I was more offended by him calling me a liar than the fact that he wanted to kill me – and I felt like getting up, turning my back on him, and walking away. But I knew it would have been suicide to do so. My pride would have been appeased at the cost of my existence.
I wiped my eyes clear with the back of my hand. The action seemed to improve more than just my physical sight. It was like wiping dewy cobwebs from my psyche. The clarity I’d been seeking came at last.
“I owe you a plane,” I said, “A pretty fancy one. Cessna Skylane, the Jet-A version. I could never afford a beautiful model like that. How come you could?”
Bautista made no response.
“Must have been useful for flying cargo from one country to another. I ruined that when I crashed. That’s really why you – and no doubt the owners of the plane – are so angry, isn’t it? It’s what this is really all about.”
The whites of his eyes seemed to burn like magnesium flares.
“I ruined your masters’ drug smuggling business and now I have to pay with my life, like some sort of mafia vendetta thing. Right?”
Bautista looked away and I knew I’d hit home.
“In fact, I’m pretty sure they’ve told you it’s my life or yours, haven’t they, Bautista?”
He turned momentarily. “It will be yours,” he spat.
I felt a long lost confidence returning to me. The psychologically damaged survivor was put aside and my old, assured self was coming back. I took a deep breath and felt it fill up and expand my chest as if for the first time in a year.
“You have no children?” I asked.
It was his turn to look surprised. “A son, if it’s any of your business.” He must have read discomfort on my face and tried to increase it; “By another woman.”
Wrong move. I’m relieved it’s not María’s.
“Good. A successor and descendants. That makes it easier what I have to do to you.”
“Enough of your damned talk!”
“Your poor boy will overcome the shame of his father.”
Bautista’s right arm began to move. Quicker still, I raised the Sig Sauer. We sat like that for several seconds then both our arms returned to their former positions.
“I’ve given you every chance to believe me,” I said, “But facts don’t matter to you. Now you’ll have to take the consequences.” My own words sounded to me like a different person speaking, a braver and more self-reliant one.
“If I’m a liar then you’re a madman,” I continued, “And you’re right, I can’t kill you in cold blood. Nor will I let you kill me. So I only see one way out of this.”
“To hell with what you see.”
“Right.” My newfound confidence brushed aside his attitude. “Then accept the end game I have in mind and tomorrow you can fly home to that son of yours. I’m going back to the cottage where I’ve been staying. You’ve been there and know it well, inside and out. Tonight, when the sun goes down, come for me. I’ll be waiting there alone for you.”
“You’ll call the police. Or get your friends to set a trap.”
“The most the police could charge you with is possession of an illegal weapon, as I assume you got that automatic on the black market after you arrived in Canada. And I wouldn’t put a friend in the way of your bullets.”
“Then you’ll barricade yourself inside.”
“I give you my word; I will leave the cottage unlocked.”
A loud snort told me what he thought of my word. “You’ll run away again.”
“No, I won’t. You’d find me, and I don’t intend to spend the rest of my life looking over my shoulder.”
“I told you, I accept none of your conditions.”
“I thought you wanted to end it? Too afraid?”
“Afraid you’ll run away.”
From somewhere deep inside me a laugh swelled up and came out of my mouth. “She was right to leave you,” I goaded, “You’re a coward in a fair fight.”
His eyes lit up again. I’d finally penetrated his armor. “The only thing I’m afraid of is dying before I can kill you,” he said evenly.
I knew that was true.
“But that can’t happen.” Bautista stood up, arms at his sides. “So I accept your stupid proposal. If you’re not telling more lies, then I’ll kill you tonight.”
Chapter 49
I paced around to and fro from the living room to the kitchen and back, again and again, like a caged animal. Outside, the sun was crawling its way down to the horizon. The cottage was stuffy and sometimes I felt like I could hardly breathe. I was gripped by a sort of paralysis, unable to make myself do anything constructive. My newfound confidence seemed to have fled me.
After making his statement in the graveyard, Bautista had turned on his heel and walked away. I had hurried back over the fields, running part of the way, not trusting my opponent for a moment. When I got to the cottage I locked the doors behind me and got ready for the evening ahead.
Now, hours later, hunger rumbled in my belly. I heated another can of baked beans from the cupboard and filled a jug with cold water straight from the tap, being careful to keep from standing directly in front of the window. Tension tightened like a knot in my chest. I stood in the doorway between the kitchen and living room and ate; too wary and nervous to sit even for a few minutes.
If he didn’t come earlier, and I thought he probably wouldn’t, I was certain he would come after dark. Then it would end, one way or the other. Objectively, I had an advantage in knowing he was coming. On the other hand, he had the aura of an experienced killer, was obviously well used to using a gun, and seemed to have little fear of dying. Not the sort who would flinch at the last moment.
Was I? Perhaps; time would tell. I’d brought this to a head and if he got me . . . well, despite my repulsion for the man, I had to admit there’d be a certain perverted justice in it. But I wouldn’t make it easy for him. If I could lull him into making a mistake, I would get him. For the first time, it occurred to me that there would be justice in that too; he wouldn’t terrorise or harm anyone else ever again. No more innocent postal deliverers would die. I could almost look on it as a public service, a vigilante execution. Assuming I got away with it, and I had vague ideas about that already.
I made myself sit on a high stool, my back leaning against the wall, and tried to relax a bit. But rest is in the mind and mine was working frantically. I took the automatic out of its homemade holster and checked it for the twentieth, thirtieth, time. Safety was off; there was a bullet in the chamber. Then I ran upstairs, grabbed the binoculars off the bed, and scanned the area outside the front window. The sky was overcast, with thick grey clouds in the distance. It looked like rain was coming.
All the better to hide him.
Well, it would hide me too, if I had to suddenly leave the house. What
concerned me more was the sudden change from heat and sunshine to a sort of blanched and barren landscape in which dim shady patches dwelt unnoticed. The stark contrast between bright sunlight and jet black shadows was gone, making movements and hiding places harder to spot. It also affected my mood, pulling me down into a deepening loneliness.
I examined the area with the binoculars and confirmed there was no sign of Bautista, then went to the back bedroom and did the same for the open fields and the thicket of trees. Satisfied, I grabbed my backpack from the bottom of the wardrobe and worked on a mental list of emergency items I’d need to keep with me at all times. First in went the two spare ammunition clips, followed by a rubber-handled flashlight with fresh batteries. My new Swiss Army knife, bought to replace the old, ruined one. A small roll of adhesive first aid tape that I hoped I wouldn’t have to use. I looked at my trusty Nokia cell phone for a long time and finally stuffed it into my hip pocket. This was between him and me, no-one else, but I didn’t want to be entirely alone if I had him trapped, or I’d finished him but taken injuries myself.
As I packed, my confidence came back to me. I thought about what my tactics should be. I had no more doubts whether I had to kill him – I didn’t have a chance in hell of living if I didn’t. Which made it pointless to worry about my legal position. After my welcome experience of clarity on the graveyard bench, I no longer felt anger. Or mercy either, for that matter. I’d had enough of this damned nonsense and now bullets from the Sig Sauer would have to end it.
Bautista’s advantages were his cunning, ruthlessness, experience of killing, the madness that flared in his eyes, and the fact that he did not really care whether he died or not as long as I did. All I had to set against that were readiness and the truth of my cause.
My most important decision had to be where to set up for his coming. If I stayed in the cottage, should it be front or back? Ground floor or upstairs? Which room? Or, if outside, where was the best location? My inclination was to get into the thick belt of trees behind and to the right of the house. Bautista would have to attack me through the dense undergrowth of old, dried out sticks and wizened leaves. It would be impossible for him to approach silently.
But he could be waiting for me there, right now. Best to stay inside, at least until nightfall.
I went through the spare clothes I’d brought and changed into dark grey canvas pants and a black t-shirt. If things dragged on into the night I wanted to be hard to spot. I put a fully lined zip-up black jacket over the t-shirt to keep me warm in the small hours and switched footwear to a pair of navy blue running shoes, darkening the white strips on the sides with a black felt-tip marker.
As I prepared, I scanned the landscape through the windows and paused every minute or two to listen. Far away, across the fields behind the cottage, I thought I saw something moving. Then it was gone.
The sun was now dipping into the horizon and it was time to set the scene for Bautista’s arrival. I had given him my word that I would leave the place unlocked and that would be true. The front door anyway. First, I shoved the big kitchen table against the back door, then I stacked the chairs on top of the sink to block the long window above it. They wouldn’t keep him out but the noise he would have to make moving them would alert me in plenty of time. I left all inside doors open and kept the lights off even as the rooms darkened in the twilight gloom.
Finally, I slipped the lock off the front door, grabbed my backpack, and took my place at the top of the stairs.
My eyes grew used to the gathering darkness as I sipped on a bottle of water I’d filled from the tap. Bautista was coming, of that I was a hundred per cent certain. I had a good view of the front hallway and would only have to descend a few steps to have a clean shot at the front windows if he chose that route. If he climbed up a drainpipe to enter by an upper window, I’d hear him and be able to reposition rapidly. I was as ready for him as I could be.
I didn’t have long to wait. As I was zipping up the backpack, an almighty crash of breaking glass sounded from the back bedroom.
Chapter 50
I rushed into the room and panned around with my flashlight. The window was shattered and there was glass all over the floor. A big, bulbous object lay on the bed. It looked like it was wrapped in tin foil and had a long tube coming out of one end, from which thick, dense smoke poured. For a moment I thought it was another of Bautista’s parcel bombs, then I realised if it was it would already have gone off. This had to be a homemade smoke bomb.
He was trying to smoke me out. As I backpedalled out of the room, another crash came, this time from the front bedroom. Through the open door I saw another bomb, spinning madly on the polished wood floor, and spewing out great clouds of ugly black fumes.
Why hadn’t the smoke detectors gone off by now? There was one in every room. I couldn’t figure it out. They should trigger the house alarm and the fire service in Fort Stuart would send out a hose truck.
What the hell’s going on?
I flicked a light switch and nothing happened. Bautista must have cut off the power. Wouldn’t that by itself trigger the alarm? Apparently it hadn’t.
More breaking glass below. I rushed halfway down the stairs and saw that the living room had already filled with smoke. It poured out into the hallway and filled my nose, mouth and throat. I choked and sputtered, grabbed my backpack and ran down the last few steps, then into the kitchen.
A volley of rocks hit the long kitchen window, shattering the panes and deafening me. Instinctively I crouched low and the rocks were followed by at least three smoke bombs. The first two hit the chairs I’d stacked above the sink but the third got through and landed on the floor in front of the fridge. In seconds the room was filled with suffocating smoke.
I had no time to think about it. Either I got out or I’d smother to death. Thrusting the flashlight into the backpack, I hastily unlocked and flung open the back door and dived out into the dark night.
A shot was fired and I felt something pull at my right arm. I kept going, veering sideways to the left. This instinctive movement, unconscious and automatic, probably saved my life. Another two shots rang out and hit the wall immediately behind where I’d been standing a second earlier. Something I’d once read flashed into my mind, about doorways being “fatal funnels” that had to be cleared as quickly as possible. It was the logical place for Bautista to aim and I’d fallen right into his trap. I couldn’t let that happen again.
I dropped to the ground and crawled into some tall grass. Black smoke poured from the smashed windows. As fate would have it, there was only a thin sliver of moon in the black sky and high clouds must have been keeping even the stars dim. When my eyes had grown used to the dark again, I scanned around and tried to figure out where Bautista might be. I thought he had to be staying back in the absolute darkness where he was completely safe. Any closer and his bullets would have finished me already. So he would have to come and get me. And Bautista, in this situation at least, would not be a patient man.
Long minutes ticked by. Then my vision latched onto something to the right. I carefully parted the grass and tried to make out whatever it was that had attracted my eyes. Gradually a darker shadow formed and grew in size as it approached.
I eased the Sig Sauer out and slowly brought it up in front of me, holding it tightly with both hands. My finger closed on the trigger. I aimed and pulled the trigger back.
The gun jumped and a shot rang out. The shadow jerked and seemed to raise his arm, his hand going to his neck or ear. I’d grazed him! My heart pounded and I fired again and again, letting off several rounds in quick succession.
But the shadow had already disappeared. I cursed under my breath and crawled forward, trying to spot him. He was gone, vanished. There was no dead or moaning body lying on the ground where he had been. I’d missed my chance. If only I could have ended it already. Instead, he was still out there and would be more cautious from here on. I was unlikely to get another opportunity as good as this one.
There was no time to mope about it and, realising I was in a vulnerable position, I crawled away quickly, bearing to the right toward the trees. It was slow going as I had to drag the backpack along beside me, not daring to wear it on my back, where its bulge might give me away. I frequently stopped to listen. For all I knew, I could be approaching his hiding spot; if so, the best I could do was have my automatic ready in my free hand. I had to keep moving somewhere.
His hasty retreat would have led him naturally into the copse of trees where the old well was located. I’d scouted this pretty thoroughly and knew there was dense scrub further in, that would be noisy and difficult to penetrate in darkness. So I reckoned he was probably on the fringe, well concealed in a hollow in the ground behind a tree trunk. If that was the case, I would work my way around and approach him from my right. I was hoping he’d assume I’d gone left, which would have been the more natural route for me to have taken. With luck, that would be where his attention was now fixed.
I looked back at the cottage and realised I was hoping to see tall flames pouring out from the windows. Though I had told myself that I wanted this to end tonight, whichever way it went, at this moment I would have been very glad to hear Fort Stuart fire trucks come tearing down the road. But there was no chance of that. The smoke had died down and the house was in utter darkness. Walter’s brand new bedding materials and furnishings had proven admirably heat and spark proof.
As I neared the copse I came upon a slight fold in the ground that led diagonally to the trees. I slipped down into it and immediately felt safer. Tall grass stems fringed the edge, just high enough to screen me. I slowly crept along the fold until I was only about ten or twelve yards from the tree line. Here the slight depression in the ground ended and I paused to consider. My night sight was now needle sharp and I could see that from this point forward there was a clear patch of ground. I’d led myself into a dead end.
Shadow of a Killer Page 17
