Hunting Angels (Box Set) (The great horror writers (Masterton, Saul, Herbert) and now Jones)

by Conrad Jones

  The blue light was closing quickly and I figured it was about a mile behind me. I had to make a decision: stop and hope that my bizarre version of events would be believed, or run and let things come out in the wash. The next exit was five minutes away and there was no way we would reach it before they caught up. The truck simply couldn’t go much faster, and as I said earlier, I don’t do fast. I couldn’t outrun a high-powered police interceptor on a three-lane stretch of motorway, but the steep banks on either side gave me an idea. I decided to see how effective the four-wheel drive was. I’d used the truck in the snow many times and it stuck to the road like shit to a blanket when the four-wheel drive was engaged. If I couldn’t outrun them, maybe I could out-think them. I waited for the ideal stretch of motorway, where the grassy banks veered steeply up from the tarmac and there were gaps in the hedgerows and treelines beyond.

  I slowed down and turned off the headlights. Selecting low-ratio four-wheel drive, I steered the truck up the steep incline. Despite the cloudburst, the fat tyres gripped the slope and the truck climbed the bank with ease. I pressed the accelerator and it roared up the slope without slipping once. When I reached the top, I could see the police car screaming to a halt on the motorway. I saw them leaning across the car to get a better look, talking frantically into their radio as they watched me smash through a fragile three-rail fence with ease. Calling for aerial support was out of the question while this storm raged. As I took the truck over the crest of the hill I saw them attempt to drive their Volvo up the bank, but it only climbed a few yards before the wheels stuck in the mud. Soil and stones flew in the air as their wheels spun uselessly. Evie slept on through the panic. We’d had a lucky break and I patted the steering wheel lovingly as the truck ploughed on unhindered.

  I drove across open farmland, which from the number of fluffy white animals that I had to circumnavigate I surmised was used for sheep-grazing. It was undulating, but no problem for the Navara. I carried on for fifteen minutes before turning the headlights on and our progress quickened. Five minutes further on there was a five-bar gate, which took me onto a farm track. Staying on the fields wasn’t an option. The rain was hammering down and the already sodden ground would soon turn to impassable swamp. Sooner or later we would come to a stone wall or deep water and we would have to travel miles in the wrong direction to avoid them. Eventually the police would realize that my whereabouts were not only a concern but a priority, and then every available resource would be thrown at finding me. I couldn’t risk the weather breaking and a police helicopter finding the truck on open land. We wouldn’t stand a chance of escaping that. The farm track was the best option and the farmer had considerately left the gate unlocked. As I steered the truck out of the field, I could see the lights of Lancaster in the distance and I drove the truck towards them. Heading back to the main roads or the motorway was too dangerous. If I could get through Lancaster town centre, the roads beyond weaved their way across the dales to the mountains of the Lake District. The roads there were narrow and unlit. We could blend into the night and lie low in the daylight hours. All we had to do was find our way off the farm and we’d be travelling at speed again.

  The Staffie woke up and sensed my relief, and she sat between the front seats and licked my face. At that point I thought we had outrun them, but I underestimated the power of the press and the influence that some news programmes have. Every mistake is a learning experience, but you can’t make mistakes when you are a murder suspect. As we reached the end of the farm track, we approached the farmhouse and the outbuildings which surrounded it. The track weaved through the farm and was the only way that we could reach the roads beyond. The farm buildings were in darkness as we drove through the farmyard, but as we reached the entrance to the yard, a huge dark shape blocked our path. The Staffie suddenly pricked up her ears and I knew she sensed danger. A deep growl came from her chest.

  I stopped the truck but left the engine running while I assessed the situation. A massive combine harvester blocked our path to the road. The truck’s headlights picked out the shape of a man wearing heavy overalls and a black donkey jacket. There were two black and white mongrels sat at his feet. He levelled a single barrelled shotgun at the windscreen. I had to laugh to myself. I envisaged him shouting, “Oi, gerr orrff my land!” but something told me it wouldn’t be that simple. I’d driven roughshod across his land and he would have seen the headlights coming across his fields. He was protecting his farm, that’s all.

  I had hidden my shotgun behind the backseat and I couldn’t reach it, but I thought an explanation would be more appropriate than the Remington. Thieves steal thousands of pounds worth of farm equipment every year and I had driven my truck across his land in the middle of the night. How could I expect anything else? I opened the door and stepped out. The rain soaked me in seconds. Evie Jones was snarling at the mongrels, so I had to close the door to stop her jumping out and attacking them.

  “Hi, I’m sorry I came across your land, but it was an emergency. I was trying to get away from someone on the motorway,” I lied. “I need to get into Lancaster. Can you tell me the best way to go?”

  “I know who you are,” the farmer growled. “You’re that writer fella they’re talking about on the television. Turn off the engine and put your hands up.”

  “Okay, take it easy,” I said. I swallowed hard and debated my options. Was the farmer one of them or had he seen me on the news? If he was one of them then I was as good as dead. If he wasn’t I was looking at a long stretch behind bars and Evie would get the needle. I couldn’t let that happen either way. My mind conjured up too many scenarios for me to make a rational decision. Were the police officers who chased us Niners? Could they have traced the landowner and contacted him? Was that feasible?

  “Look, you don’t need to get involved in this,” I said calmly, although I didn’t feel that calm. “Just let me on my way.”

  “I don’t want to shoot you, but I will.” He cocked his head and winked in a “stupid uncle” type of way. “They asked me to keep an eye out for a truck crossing my land. They told me that you’re that writer fella who everyone’s after.”

  “Who asked you?” I was losing my cool. I was losing my mind if the truth be told, but I didn’t want to fight with this man if he was just protecting his land. “The police?”

  “I pay no heed to the police, young man. Don’t matter to me if you’re alive or dead when they get here, so I’d be turning off that engine if I was you,” he winked again. “Doesn’t matter if I’m alive or dead?” I muttered his words under my breath. Now my blood was boiling. “There was no need to threaten me, but I’ll open the door and turn the engine off, okay?”

  “Do it slowly, like I said. I don’t want to shoot you, but I aren’t bothered either way,” he warned with his irritating wink. I was getting sick of being threatened and I needed to get away from there. Once again I was left with no choice. I opened the driver’s door and the Staffie bounded out of the truck like a whirling dervish. I turned off the headlights and dived behind the truck. The farmer fired his shotgun at me as his mongrels met Evie Jones. If he really wasn’t bothered whether I lived or died, then I owed him the same respect. Flight was no longer a valid option, which meant only one thing.

  I could hear Evie tearing into the yelping mongrels. There was only ever going to be one winner, and she tore into them and tossed them around the farmyard like rag toys. The farmer kicked out at Evie trying to save his dogs, but he stumbled and grabbed for a drystone wall to catch his balance. He broke the gun to discard the empty cartridge and scrambled for another one. His stumble cost him valuable seconds and I bolted from the back of the truck towards him. In a few strides, I closed the gap between us and pulled out the blade from my neck knife. He was closing the barrel as I reached him, but I was travelling too fast.

  I gripped the knife in my right hand with the blade pointing outwards near my thumb and slammed it into his temple. I was running at full speed when I hit him; the tungs
ten blade pierced the side of his skull as if it were eggshell, and his eyes rolled into the back of his head as his body went limp and collapsed onto the floor in a crumpled mess. I couldn’t let go of the knife for some reason. Blood pumped down my hand and trickled around my wrist. Its warmth had a creeping, repulsive feeling. I wanted to wipe it off as quickly as possible. His mouth was moving slightly and his tongue lolled from the side of his lips. His legs muscles went into spasm and he farted loudly. It’s strange what you learn about the human body when you are so close to death.

  I released my grip on the handle and wiped the blood from my hands on his jacket. I felt the urge to wash them thoroughly, but that would have to wait. Taking the shotgun from his hands, I turned to see how the Staffie was doing. It was clear to see that one of the dogs was dead and she had the other by the throat. She was dragging it like a toy and flinging it from side to side. There was no fight left in its broken body, but Evie was making sure that it was dead. I should have done the same.

  I tried to recover the knife, but it was wedged deep into the skull and it wouldn’t budge. I put my foot on the farmer’s head and pulled with all my strength. There was a slushy noise as the blade came free. Using the sleeve of his jacket, I wiped the blade clean on one side and then the other before sliding it back into its sheath. Blood flowed freely from the wound, but there was a rhythm to it. Every heartbeat increased the flow slightly. I should have realized then that he wasn’t dead.

  Suddenly, his eyes cleared and he grabbed for the gun. I was so shocked that I slipped on the saturated grass and fell awkwardly onto my elbow. I was almost on top of him. His strength surprised me. He scratched at my eyes with one weather-beaten hand while he tried to wrestle the gun from me with the other. I broke free of his grip and managed to kneel up. I twisted my body and slammed the butt of the gun into the bridge of his nose, smashing the delicate bone and slicing a rent across his cheek. He released his hold on the gun and I brought the butt down again, onto his forehead this time. His damaged skull cracked and imploded, spraying me with grey brain matter and pink goo. It splattered onto my face and neck, and a globule of grey tissue dribbled off my nose onto my lips. I spat it out in disgust and slammed the gun into the remains of his face again. His body twitched as I rammed the heavy stock into his head repeatedly. The rain bounced off my back as my frenzy reached a terrifying crescendo. I lost count of the number of blows it took until he finally stopped moving. I’d splattered his brains over a three-yard area of the farmyard, but I didn’t stop smashing the gun into the mushy remains of his head until I was completely out of breath.

  I was soaked, my muscles ached and I knelt on all fours, gasping for air. Sweat mingled with the rain. It poured down my face and trickled down my back. As I looked at the mangled remains of his head, I felt bile rising in my throat and my stomach launched its contents back up the way it had come. I retched until there was nothing left to hurl, and the stomach acid stung the back of my throat. In the space of a few days, the world had become a surreal nightmare. I had killed three people in one evening and had no qualms about it. What had I done? The Staffie ran over, licking the blood from my hands and face. I patted her for saving me again, but I needed to catch my breath. I gathered my nerve and stood up, but my body was trembling with shock and exertion.

  “Good girl.” I held her head close to my chest. “What the fuck are we going to do now, Staffie?” I asked her. I heard my voice breaking and knew that tears were not far away. Evie Jones licked my face and she took my right hand gently into her mouth. Whatever it means to her, it made me get a grip on reality. There was no time for self-pity or self-recrimination. If we were to remain free, then we had to move.

  I looked around before we climbed back into the truck and I found a weak point in the farmer’s perimeter fence. I bypassed the harvester by forcing the truck through the hedge to the left of the big machine. I had not seen the gap as we had approached earlier. If I had, the farmer and his dogs probably still be alive, but we all have choices to make and he made the wrong one.

  I could no longer take anything for granted. I will never know if he was one of them or if he was an upright citizen trying to apprehend a suspected murderer. Once he had fired that shotgun, it made no difference to me. I had to treat everyone as my enemy. My lesson learned, I placed the farmer’s shotgun on the front seat where I could grab it quickly. My cache of weapons was growing, as was the number of pursuers. I drove down the access road and joined the main drag towards town. As we trundled through the empty streets of Lancaster, Evie Jones stretched out on the backseat, panting. She was knackered. So far, it had been a long night.

  Chapter 21

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  We encountered no problems as we crossed Lancaster and headed north over the hills towards the mountains. I stuck to the quiet roads and avoided the tourist towns and villages; some of the back roads don’t even show up on a map. We travelled all night without seeing another vehicle on the road and reached the Lakes as the sun was coming up on the horizon. The rain stopped as dawn broke and I pulled the truck into a small car park on the edge of Wast Water. It is the deepest of all the lakes, yet it is one of the more isolated, unfrequented by most tourists. More people view it from the peak of England’s highest mountain, Scafell Pike, than from the road where we were. There are no rowing boats, swans or nearby chip shops, just the lake and surrounding peaks. A single track road hugs one shore; grass and weeds form a living green line along the middle of the tarmac. The far shore rises into almost vertical slopes which are dangerously loose. Extending the length of the south-east side of the lake are the Screes, consisting of millions of fragments of broken rock. Rising from the floor of the lake to a height of almost two hundred feet, they give the lake an ominous appearance. The shale slopes offer no solid foundation to walk on.

  It’s a place which has inspired poets and painters for centuries, and the peace and tranquillity was a startling contrast to memories of the previous night. The lake was as smooth as a mirror and the hills reflected from the water as if you could walk on the surface itself. It’s such a peaceful place to be, and considering what had happened over the last few days, it was exactly where we needed to be. The mountains had a humbling effect on my soul, and although I had lived through a gruesome nightmarish night, the beauty of the Lakes wasn’t lost on me that day.

  I washed the dried blood from my hands in the freezing water and I looked at my reflection. I hardly recognized the man that I saw. He frightened me. I looked like a maniac. My eyes were sunk deep into my head and my face was smeared with blood and brain matter. I remembered the horror movie Dawn of the Dead. It frightened the life out of me. I looked like an extra from the film. If I’d held out my arms and walked like I’d crapped in my jeans, I would have made a great zombie, no doubt about it. The blood would wash off and the horrific memories would fade, but what was I going to do now? My life as it was had gone. I had killed three people, one of which could have been a perfectly innocent farmer. His remains would shock the most hardened forensic team, and where was the evidence that he’d fired at me? There wasn’t a scratch on my body and none of the shot had hit the truck. The evidence would tell the police that I’d bashed his brains out with my bare hands. I was a killer on the run and I was armed. They would shoot me on sight if I didn’t surrender.

  No one would believe my version of events. A random case of research working alongside a murder detective had mutated into a brutal killing spree – why? Because of Jennifer Booth, the suspect in yet another brutal murder. The authorities had sectioned and detained her in a secure mental health unit, but I had believed she was innocent when no one else would listen. They would think that I needed to be sectioned. They would either shoot me if I resisted arrest, or lock me up and throw away the key.

  There was no easy option and no magic solution. I had to wait and see what the next few days would bring. I wasn’t thinking clearly enough to construct a solid plan of action. I needed some sleep and Evie Jo
nes needed feeding. She was pottering around at the edge of the lake, lapping thirstily at the water. Every now and then she’d come running back to me before scooting off again. It suddenly occurred to me that she wasn’t on her lead. I looked around and the nearest sheep was half a mile away up a mountain. She deserved a little run after what we’d been through. The dog had saved my life several times in one night. I wouldn’t have made it this far without her. She waggled over to me and rolled over onto her back, wriggling her hips against the grass. We were on the run from every police force in the British Isles and we were being hunted by a murderous satanic sect, but obviously it was tummy-tickling time. She had her priorities right.

  The next few weeks were a blur. We spent the first three days in lodgings behind a pub called the Drunken Duck. I was wary about using public places because of the news coverage my plight had received. But we met the landlord by chance. We’d parked near a tarn which we used to bathe and keep Evie’s water bowl full when we met a ruddy-faced man walking along one of the footpaths. He made a huge fuss of her because she reminded him of a dog that he’d had for seventeen years before it died. Apparently her markings were identical. He introduced himself as Graham and asked me where we were staying. I mumbled something about needing to be away from other tourists and dogs.