Shadow of a Killer

by David Anderson

  It would be an easy shot through the bushes. Even I couldn’t miss. But would Bautista come?

  I lay flat and waited.

  Chapter 58

  The light suddenly became significantly brighter. Puzzled, I looked up at the sky and concluded that I must have had another short spell of unconsciousness. Now, in the better light, the bushes I hid behind appeared worryingly scrawny. Bautista would spot me if he really looked hard.

  The dawn chorus of local birds picked up, drowning out all other sounds, including Bautista’s rustling or crawling sounds if there were any. Everything now depended on my line of sight but I dared not raise my head too high – the movement would surely attract his attention like a magnet. I had to content myself with what I could see through gaps while lying low. Across from me lay the edge of the trees, where Bautista would have to emerge. I scanned them left to right, back and forth, again and again. Nothing moved.

  Have I got it wrong again?

  Then something disappeared. I shook my head and for a second thought I was hallucinating. Then it dawned on me; the tall, dark shape I had taken to be just another tree trunk, glimpsed between branches, had been Bautista himself. He was on the move. To somewhere better, closer to me.

  Instinctively, I glanced behind me as if he could suddenly appear out of nowhere. He wasn’t there, not being a miracle worker or the invisible man. I felt angry at myself, then smiled. My nerves were strung out. Of course they were. Bautista and I were like exhausted heavyweight boxers about to enter the final round, and the winner would be whichever one of us could deliver a last, deciding punch.

  He kept me on tenterhooks for several more minutes until I finally saw the tall grass move where I had started my belly trek across to the compost box. He must have found my first dribbles of blood. Now all he had to do was follow them . . . He crawled slowly along the trail I’d so exhaustingly and painfully made for him. I watched as grass parted and low bushes stirred in response to his progress. My plan was working. It just had to keep working all the way along.

  At the halfway mark, where I’d left a spurt of fresh crimson blood, Bautista paused. The top of his shiny black hair showed from behind a patch of prickly, dark weeds. Like a dog sniffing the air, he was checking the area ahead of him, around and above the compost box. His head rose higher and glaring white eyes inspected my position. For a heart stopping moment I was certain that he was staring straight at me. I knew if I made the slightest movement those demonic eyes would lock on me.

  Slowly the head disappeared and the wild grasses began to part again. I expelled a long held breath through sieved teeth.

  Closer . . . ever closer. As he neared the compost heap he paused again, but this time only for a second or two, before starting to crawl up the far side of the mound, out of sight of anyone hidden behind the compost box. I was sure now that he’d set his mind on making his way over to the box, approaching from immediately behind it. My grip tightened on the Sig Sauer.

  When he got to the narrow area between the bushes where I was hiding and the compost box, I would have to act fast. Once he looked down behind it and saw that I wasn’t there, he’d immediately be on highest alert. He didn’t have far to go now. I wiped a trickle of blood from my eyebrows, rose ever so slowly to my knees, and waited.

  Suddenly he was there, his body slanted forward, head low, peering down. He held his arm out ahead of him, parting the grass, his thick sausage fingers clenched around his automatic. The intent beast of prey, ready to fire the instant he heard the slightest sound in front of him. He put his head over the top of the bank and looked down.

  Now was the perfect moment, it was now or never. I stood up, my heart pounding in my chest, and took silent cat-like steps around the bushes; my Sig Sauer aimed at Bautista’s broad back. Another silent step . . . must get a little closer. At that moment, the sun chose to emerge from a cloud over my shoulder behind me. My dark shadow moved across Bautista’s body up to his head.

  Suddenly he froze. Every muscle in him seemed to swell and turn to stone. He knew what the sudden shade over him meant.

  “You’ve lost, Bautista.”

  He tilted his head until he was looking at me out of the corners of his eyes. I could tell exactly what he was thinking.

  “Don’t do it,” I said, and his gun arm became still again.

  “Then you do it, if you can,” he spat.

  I brought up my other arm so that both hands held the Sig Sauer, steadying the barrel.

  “You can’t, can you?” Bautista sneered, “You can’t even do it. You didn’t deserve her, you worthless shadow of a man.”

  “Wrong,” I replied. I took another step towards him. Now I completely blocked the sunlight, making Bautista’s prone form black as night. “I’m the shadow of your death, Bautista, the last thing you’ll ever see. As far as you’re concerned, I’m the shadow of a killer.”

  I pulled the trigger hard, again and again, firing shot after shot into Bautista’s broad back. His body jerked several times then lay slack and still.

  Chapter 59

  I eased into the cramped pilot’s seat and sat still, feeling my heart pounding. This was the moment of truth. Either I took off now or I resigned myself to never flying again. The latter simply was not an option. This was the final chapter in my personal story of the last year, and I intended to write a happy ending.

  My hand shook a bit as I inserted the key in the ignition and ran my eyes over the instrument panel. It all looked very familiar and my hand moved instinctively to the stick. In normal circumstances, I wouldn’t have considered myself fit to fly; I was utterly exhausted, my bruised thigh hurt like hell, my left ankle was swollen like a pineapple, and my right foot ached and throbbed. Not to mention the hole in my arm and the loose flap of skin on my head. But it was now or never. Adrenalin would keep me awake and sufficiently alert, and I could compensate for my foot injuries by using my heel only, for both the rudder and the brake.

  In spite of the pain and stiffness, it felt great to be back, captain of my own plane again. Though strangely frightening too. I cast off the holding rope and taxied the Super Cub floatplane out from the quayside, into deeper water. Like my last proper flight, which seemed a lifetime ago, there would be no radioing a control tower for permission to take off. But this time for the simple reason that there was no tower. The plane belonged to Tony Swanson, an old friend of mine. Tony, now in his early seventies, was a lifetime aviator. As well as this Super Cub fitted with floats, he also owned a beautiful, bright yellow World War Two Harvard and at least one other plane. The Cub he kept at his secluded cabin up in a place called Sunshine Bay, just south of Britannia Beach, where Tony spent the summer months.

  At the cottage in Fort Stuart, I’d taken a long, lukewarm shower, changed into fresh clothes and bandages, and tidied up the place as best I could. I rescued my backpack from the hangar and covered up any obvious bloodstains I could find. The smoke bomb cases I buried in the front garden under a bush and put the singed laundry in the washing machine. Then I’d driven Bautista’s Audi to an old, disused wooden pier on the other side of Fort Stuart, released the handbrake, and pushed the car into the Fraser River where it sank until completely submerged. The two automatics I flung far out into deep water, together with all the spent bullet cases I’d been able to find.

  On the walk back I used Bautista’s cell phone to call Walter and told him there’d been a break-in at the cottage by vandals when I hadn’t been at home. Nothing taken, but several windows smashed and some smoke damage from a small fire in a bedroom. He’d been pretty annoyed but I thought he believed me. He didn’t have any reason not to, I suppose, and, knowing him, he’d be well covered by insurance. After that I’d removed the SIM card from the phone, tossed the now dead phone into a thick bramble hedgerow and dropped the SIM card down an old iron grating.

  It had taken the rest of the morning driving up Highway 99 to get to Tony’s place. Managing the pedals was murder on my aching feet and ankles bu
t the half dozen extra strength Tylenol I’d swallowed at the cottage killed a good deal of the pain, at least for the first hour or two. Tony and I had sat on his back porch, overlooking the lake, which suited me perfectly as it meant I didn’t have to take off the thin woolly tuque I was wearing to conceal the head injury. It made my scalp itch and must have looked a bit strange, but Tony didn’t ask about it. My long sleeved shirt and fresh pants concealed the rest of my injuries pretty well too.

  I ate a much needed late breakfast and told my old friend a bit of the truth; I had recovered physically and mentally from my mountain experience, but I hadn’t piloted a plane for over a year. At the end, I put my coffee down and asked him the Big Question.

  “Tony, you know how it is after a bad crash. I need to get back in the cockpit, and I need to do it well away from chartered flights, customers and deadlines. Well away from cameras and microphones too. Will you let me take the Cub up?”

  The sun reflected off Tony’s wiry grey hair as he slowly nodded his head. He looked straight in my eyes. “Of course,” he said. But I could see hesitation on his face. He was agreeing to this despite his better instincts. And despite what his accountant and his insurer would have said.

  “I won’t let you down, Tony. Just a short flight and straight back. I’m determined to succeed.”

  Again he nodded. He led me inside and got the keys from his desk drawer. As he placed them in my palm he said, “I’ve complete confidence in you.”

  Half an hour later, sitting in the pilot’s seat, I lowered my head and tears tumbled down. Great big sobs consumed me, heaving my chest and making me gasp. Months of pent up emotion poured out of me in long overdue release. So many tears, they seemed to be running not only out of my eyes but also out of my nose, my mouth, every pore of my face. I cried so hard I wasn’t sure I could go on.

  After several minutes, I grew calm again. I took off the stupid woolly toque, dried my eyes with my shirtsleeve then stood up and peeled the shirt off completely. The weeping fit had made me unbearably hot on a day that was intensely humid and sticky, even on the water. I was sweating profusely and my bandaged arm itched worse than any rash. When I’d cooled off a bit, I put the shirt back on again, buttoning it all the way up.

  Dress like a pilot, man, then act like a pilot. You’re going to fly this plane, and you’re going to do it now.

  A picture of María came into my head and a fresh flood of emotion overcame me. I blinked her image away and ran through the necessary checks before taking off. The upper branches of the trees lining the water were almost still – there was little wind to speak of, and that was confirmed by the tiny waves on the water. My eyes ran over the cockpit instruments again until there was nothing left to check.

  Suddenly I was terrified. I paused and sat completely still until I regained my composure. No, I’m not flying alone. I fingered the rosary around my neck. I’m flying with her, and perhaps with God. Just like the old priest told me.

  A calm assurance settled over my mind. I pushed the throttle forward, heard the steady rev of the engine, felt the power of it under my control, eased forward and accelerated. Familiar bounces over the water surface and in a few seconds I was airborne.

  I climbed to three thousand feet and set a course south-west for the Strait of Georgia. The plane was very stable in the air bumps and visibility was excellent. Gray-green water passed rapidly beneath me until it became almost black – deeper and deeper, almost 1,500 feet at rock bottom. I checked the GPS and made sure I was indeed over the deepest trough in the entire Strait. There was a very good reason why I wanted that.

  Now that I was in position, my heart beat like a piston. I checked my location one last time, knew I was right where I needed to be, and flew over the spot in a wide circle. Twice more I repeated the same circular pass. On the fourth flyover I unhooked the door flap and folded it down, then did the same with the side window, pushing it up and fixing the clasp so that it stayed in place. There was now a yawning gap on my immediate right and it extended all the way back to the passenger seat behind me. The very full and well utilised passenger seat.

  I flew low and steadied the plane. Reaching back, I grasped the rope I’d tied around the long object I’d secretly placed on the passenger seat earlier. Tony kept his plane in a sheltered cove shrouded by thick trees. I’d driven right up to the short quay and transferred the heavily wrapped load from the trunk of the Hyundai straight into the Cub. The chances of Tony, or anyone else, seeing me do this was remote. Even if someone did, all I was doing was loading the plane with a large, heavy bundle.

  ‘Heavy’ being the operative word. I’d wrapped Bautista’s body in a couple of thick green garbage bags, then added about fifty pounds of old pipes and chipped bricks that I’d found in the cottage shed. There was a roll of rusty chicken wire in there too – perfect for keeping the weights tightly in place. I tied several more garbage bags tightly around the body, perforating them so there’d be no trapped air to keep the load from sinking, secured the whole lot with a length of old rope, and the job was done.

  Getting it in and out of the trunk and into the plane had nearly broken my back but the effort was going to be worth it. What I was doing was illegal but I felt it was justified. It meant no police enquiries, no long interviews with detectives, no TV cameras, and no media microphones stuffed in my face. No publicity or awkward questions of any sort. No ensuing psychiatric relapse and return to strong medication. No further career disruption for me. One covert action and I was done with it all, forever.

  I pulled hard on the rope and the corpse fell forward. After several more pulls the body was hanging over the gap. I gave it a last shove and it tumbled out and fell down onto the floats below, as I knew it would, shaking the plane with the suddenly shifting weight.

  I veered around and banked the plane severely. The well wrapped load slid down the float to the narrow end and disappeared. I stuck my head out and watched it splash into the waves and immediately disappear.

  Submerged fifteen hundred feet below sea level, or thereabouts, the corpse would be attacked by marine life and degrade over time, causing the limbs to separate. The chicken wire would keep it all together though, preventing any body parts from floating to the surface and coming ashore. I’d read about it somewhere, a long time ago.

  An hour later I lay between fresh, clean sheets in Tony’s spare bedroom. As soon as my head touched the pillow I was out to the world, and slept for twelve hours straight, awaking stiff and sore all over. Tony didn’t bat an eyelid, nor ask any awkward questions, just brought me a tray of fried eggs and bacon, and lots of orange juice.

  When I’d finished eating, Tony returned, holding a big white case with a red cross on it. It turned out that he’s a dab hand at first aid too.

  “I learned to treat combat wounds in the RCAF before you were born. Luckily for you, it’s all coming back to me now,” he said as he replaced the bandages on my arm and head, and fetched icepacks for my thigh and ankle.

  As he was about to leave the room, he turned and gave me a cheeky grin.

  “Another thing I learned in the Force was how to keep my mouth shut,” he said, “In other words, confidentiality among comrades. What happened here was that you got some scratches and bruises from a bad fall. We’d too much to drink one night, and you tripped on the stairs. A few days here and you’ll be as right as rain again.”

  “Thanks, Tony,” I said and lay back on soft, welcoming pillows.

  Chapter 60

  Six months later.

  Calls from literary agents and publishers have slowed down now but I still get them occasionally on my answering machine. “We’ll get a professional ghostwriter to do it for you,” they promise, “Your survival story deserves to be told.” Some add, “This is your chance to set the record straight.” Despite all this, plus promised advances and royalties, I continue to scrub the messages automatically.

  As it turned out, no ghostwriter was necessary. My psychotherapist, Abby with t
he multi-toed cat, encouraged me to write my story down, get my thoughts onto paper or at least a computer screen. I’ve done just that. It’s an even better story than the agents and publishers realise, as it has the Bautista saga running right through it. It’s what they call a ‘man on the run’ story as well as a survival saga; if it was published, it would be two true life adventures for the price of one.

  Maybe one day I’ll even send it off to Harper Collins or Knopf Canada. Simon and Schuster do a nice job on their books too. Until then, the manuscript will stay hidden on a memory stick I keep in a very secure place. Flash drives are getting smaller and smaller and this one is really tiny. It’s in the shape of a small silver cross, quite ornate really, that I carry with me on a chain around my neck, replacing María’s rosary which I now keep in a drawer beside my bed.

  My physical injuries have all healed now, leaving only a few thin white scars to remember them by, and I’m busy working for a great new boss; myself. When Tony Swanson made me a proposal to become my silent partner and financial backer in a new business enterprise, it was far too generous an offer to refuse.

  With Tony’s support, I’ve set up a small aviation company of my own. So far, it’s just a couple of refurbished floatplanes, but it’s doing well. There are only three of us; a younger guy and I do the flying, while Rachel Ryan looks after bookings and the everyday running of the place.

  Rachel and I are spending a lot of time together, both during and after work. We’re getting along great, and we’re being careful not to rush things. As well as the usual stuff – going to movies and having dinners together – we’re happy just to sit and talk. Sometimes sitting silently with her, holding hands and watching the sun go down and shadows lengthen, is even better than talking.