In an act of self-preservation, Roscoe threw himself to the ground, rolling forward, desperately trying to take cover behind a Tribeca vehicle.
Her car continued its forward momentum, veering to the side at the last moment to avoid a head-on collision. Swerving, she clipped the front of the Tribeca car, before accelerating away towards the exit.
Scrambling to his feet, Roscoe jumped into his car and, without a second’s hesitation, continued the pursuit.
Hitting the accelerator, he rapidly increased his speed through the parking lot. Looking ahead at her racing down the exit ramp, he could see the barrier was down.
*
Looking ahead, racing down the exit ramp, she could see the barrier was down.
Squeezing harder on the accelerator, she closed her eyes, feeling the car rise upwards as she tore straight through the barricade. Slamming to the ground with a crash, she spun a hard left, her tyres screeching as she hit the side road.
Oblivious to oncoming traffic, she accelerated again, turning onto the main road in front of the hotel. In a blur she saw a runner standing frozen, crossing from the royal park.
She didn’t care.
This was her war.
And war had casualties.
She was going to hit the runner.
She was going to hit the runner.
Roscoe could see it all.
Instantly he knew.
The runner was Martin.
His heart hammering in his chest, he pushed the high-powered SUV engine to its max.
Pulling alongside, he looked directly at her.
Her face possessed by greed, she never flinched.
He knew he had no choice. It was her or his son.
He turned his car directly into hers.
CHAPTER 33
AMELIA RYLANDS’ SPORTS convertible twisted skywards, before smashing into the towering stone wall that surrounds London’s Tribeca Luxury Hotel. Falling back to earth, it speared itself onto the hood of Roscoe’s SUV, before crumpling to the ground.
The media throng divided equally between those seeking cover and those wanting to secure the final desperate picture in the Harvey and Amelia Rylands saga.
Pushing open his car door, Roscoe ran straight across to Martin, who stood ashen-faced and motionless in the middle of the road. Putting his arms around his son and holding him tightly, he said, ‘Maybe next time you’ll listen to your dad when he says don’t run on the road wearing headphones.’
Still in shock, Martin said nothing, burying his head into his dad’s chest.
Continuing to hold onto his son tightly, Roscoe watched as Stanley walked from the front gate of the hotel, along the road to Amelia Rylands’ car. Finding her impaled through the throat by the steering column, her head almost severed, Stanley simply looked across at Roscoe and shook his head.
With his arm still tight around his son’s shoulder, Roscoe slowly stepped through the media scrum, ignoring the photographers’ flashing cameras, and headed up the driveway to the front of the hotel.
‘So, you going to tell me why you were out running on your own?’ asked Roscoe, halfway up the drive.
‘Dad, I’m sorry,’ said Martin hesitantly, stopping to face his father. ‘I quit the track team.’
‘If I know you, it’ll be for a good reason,’ said Roscoe.
‘Coach Davis. He wants us to win at all costs.’ Martin paused for a moment. ‘He’s been pressuring some of us to take steroids. He never quite made it on the track himself, so now he’s desperate to be the coach of a national champion. He doesn’t care what he has to do to get it. I threatened to report him. And then I quit the team. I’m sorry I lied to you, Dad.’
‘I couldn’t be more proud of you,’ Roscoe said, pulling his son close.
CHAPTER 34
THE ESPRESSO BAR at the Tribeca Luxury Hotel in the Mayfair district of London serves some of the best coffee available in the capital city. Courtesy of Jessie Luck’s Auntie’s Bakery, it also serves the very best baked goods money can buy.
Sitting with Martin and Anna, Roscoe tried not to think about how close he came to losing his son but, as he savoured his coffee and watched Martin devour a chocolate brownie, he gave thanks for the wonderful young man he had done his very best to raise over the past fifteen years.
‘So, Dad, if Amelia Rylands already had more money than she could ever hope to spend, why did she try to kill Elegant Daniels?’
‘Because Elegant was a threat,’ said Anna.
‘Exactly,’ said Roscoe. ‘A threat to everything Amelia felt she had worked so hard to achieve; a threat to her wealth, to her status.’
‘But why?’ asked Martin, helping himself to another brownie.
‘Over twenty years ago, Harvey Rylands and Amelia Madison killed his first wife, Barbara Turner. I don’t know exactly how, but if I’m guessing, Harvey suffocated her in her own bed while they were sailing around the Great Barrier Reef. Once he’d killed her, he and Amelia dumped the body overboard. It was an easy step from there to say she had drunk too much and drowned.’
‘Once that was done,’ said Anna, ‘Harvey was free to marry Amelia.’
‘I bet Michael Madison got dumped real quick,’ Martin said. ‘He must have felt pretty sore – but not as sore as when you knocked him out, Dad!’
‘A couple of million dollars softened the blow,’ said Roscoe, ‘and at least today he helped get the answers he’s been looking for, even if his jaw is a little tender.’
‘But why kill Elegant Daniels?’ asked Martin. ‘Wasn’t she just another one of Harvey’s women?’
‘Yes and no,’ said Roscoe. ‘It must have started like that. Harvey was introduced to her by the Prime Minister, who was probably looking for an easy way to slow down his own relationship. But Harvey broke Amelia’s golden rule.’
‘“Don’t fall in love,”’ said Anna. ‘It was fine for Harvey to have all the women in the world, as long as at the end of the day he came home to Amelia.’
‘And once Harvey had told Amelia he planned to leave her for Elegant, Elegant’s days were numbered,’ continued Roscoe. ‘Who else could have found such easy access to Elegant’s house and to Harvey’s car? Nobody – except Harvey’s wife. Amelia was determined no one was going to take the Rylands fortune away from her.’
‘Do you think Elegant genuinely thought Harvey had attacked her?’ asked Anna.
Roscoe shrugged. ‘We can’t be sure. But she was angry – angry at Harvey, angry at the world. So she decided to use her appearance in court to take her revenge.’
‘And why did Amelia leave the rubies at the scene?’ asked Martin.
‘Sheer hatred. And she needed to be certain Harvey knew who had carried out the attack.’
‘Because there was nothing he could do about it?’ said Anna.
‘Nothing,’ said Roscoe. ‘They were rubies from the very mine Harvey had inherited after killing his first wife, in the very same way, twenty years before.’
‘So, Dad,’ said Martin, considering the evidence, ‘Harvey’s in prison for a crime he didn’t commit?’
Roscoe smiled at his son.
‘It’s a funny thing, justice. He wasn’t directly responsible for attacking Elegant Daniels, but it all stemmed from the murder he did commit many years before – a murder it’s impossible to prove. I think it’s time he served his sentence.’
CHAPTER 35
ROSCOE WAS LOOKING forward to a weekend in Scotland with his two daughters, Aimee and Lauren, but he had one stop to make before he hit the road north.
Pulling through the gates of Martin’s school, he listened on news radio to a statement from the Prime Minister that, for family reasons, he was announcing his resignation with immediate effect.
He left his car at the edge of the sports field and walked across the damp grass to where Coach Davis was training with a group of teenage kids.
Seeing Roscoe approaching, Coach Davis walked in his direction. As the father of one of the school’s star
athletes, Roscoe was known by the coach, who offered his hand in greeting. Ignoring him, Roscoe took one step forward and, with a single punch, knocked the coach to the ground, relishing the sound of breaking the man’s jaw as he fell.
Blood was running from Coach Davis’ mouth as Roscoe knelt beside him.
‘Push drugs on kids again and next time, I promise, I will kill you.’
He stood up and towered over the floored man lying prone on the ground.
‘And, Coach Davis,’ said Roscoe, ‘I expect to hear by the end of the day that the Prime Minister is not the only man who has announced his resignation with immediate effect.’
A MOTHER’S INSTINCT to protect her child—the most powerful force on the planet.
Right now I’m bursting with it. Overwhelmed by it. Trembling from it.
My son, my precious little boy, is hurt. Or, God forbid, it’s worse.
I don’t know the details of what’s happened. I don’t even know where he is.
I just know I have to save him.
I slam on the brakes. The tires of my old Dodge Ram screech like hell. One of them pops the curb, jerking me forward hard against the wheel. But I’m so numb with fear and panic, I barely feel the impact.
I grab the door handle—but stop and count to three. I force myself to take three deep breaths. I make the sign of the cross: three times again.
And I pray that I find my son fast—in three minutes or less.
I leap out and start running. The fastest I’ve ever moved in my life.
Oh, Alex. What have you done?
He’s such a good kid. Such a smart kid. A tough kid, too—especially with all our family’s been going through. I’m not a perfect mother. But I’ve always done the best I know how. Alex isn’t perfect, either, but I love him more than anything. And I’m so proud of him, so proud of the young man he’s becoming before my eyes.
I just want to see him again—safe. And I’d give anything for it. Anything.
I reach the two-story brick building’s front doors. Above them hangs a faded green-and-white banner I must have read a thousand times:
HOBART HIGH SCHOOL—HOME OF THE RAIDERS
Could be any other high school in America. Certainly any in sweltering west Texas. But somewhere inside is my son. And goddamnit, I’m coming for him.
I burst through the doors—But where the hell am I going?
I’ve spent more hours in this building than I could ever count. Hell, I graduated from this school nearly twenty years ago. But suddenly, the layout feels strange to me. Foreign.
I start running down the central hallway. Terrified. Desperate. Frenzied.
Oh, Alex. At fifteen, he’s still just a child. He loves comic books—especially the classics like Batman and Spider-Man. He loves video games, the more frenzied the better. He loves being outdoors, too. Shooting and fishing especially. Riding his dirt bike—shiny blue, his favorite color—around abandoned oil fields with his friends.
But my son is also turning into an adult. He’s been staying out later and later, especially on Fridays and Saturdays. He’s started cruising around the county in his friends’ cars. Just a few weeks ago—I didn’t say anything, I was too shocked—but I smelled beer on his breath. The teenage years can be so hard. I remember my own rocky ones. I just hope I’ve raised him well enough to handle them. . . .
“Alex!” I scream, my shrill voice echoing off the rows of metal lockers.
The text had come from Alex’s cell phone—Miss Molly this is Danny—but it was written by his best friend since first grade. I always liked Danny. He came from a good family. But rumor was, he’d recently started making some bad choices. I’d been secretly worrying he’d pressure Alex to make the same ones someday.
The moment I read that text, I knew he had.
Alex did too much. Not breathing. At school come fast.
Next thing I remember, I’m in my truck roaring down Route 84, dialing Alex’s cell, cursing when neither of them answers. I call his principal. I call my brothers. I call 911.
And then I pray: I call in a favor from God.
“Alex!” I yell again, even louder, to no one and everyone. “Where are you?!”
But the students I pass now just gawk. Some point and snicker. Others point and click, snapping cell-phone pictures of the crazy lady running wild through their school.
Don’t they know what’s happening?! How can they be like this, so . . .
Wait. Teenagers spread rumors faster than a brushfire, and it’s way too quiet. Maybe they don’t know.
He must be on the second floor.
I head to the nearest stairway and pound up the steps. My lungs start to burn and my heart races. At the top, the hallway forks.
Damn it, which way, where is he?!
Something tells me to hang a left. Maybe a mother’s intuition. Maybe blind, stupid luck. Either way, I listen.
There, down at the end, a growing crowd is gathering outside the boys’ bathroom. Kids and teachers. Some yelling. Some crying. All panicking.
Like I am.
“I’m his mother!” I push and shove toward the middle. “Move! Out of my way!”
I spot Alex’s legs first, splayed out limp and crooked. I see his scuffed-up Converses, the soles wrapped in duct tape, apparently some kind of fashion trend. I recognize the ratty old pair of Levi’s he wore at breakfast this morning, the ones I sewed a new patch onto last week. I can make out a colorful rolled-up comic book jutting out of the back pocket.
And then I see his right arm, outstretched on the ground. His lifeless fingers clutching a small glass pipe, its round tip charred and black.
Oh, Alex, how could you do this?
His homeroom teacher, the school nurse, and a fit youngish man I don’t recognize wearing a HHS baseball T-shirt are all hunched over his body, frantically performing CPR.
But I’m the one who’s just stopped breathing. “No, no, no . . . Alex! My poor baby . . .”
How did this happen? How did I let it? How could I have been so blind?
My knees start to buckle. My head gets light. My vision spins. I start to lose my balance. . . .
“Molly, easy now, we got ya.”
I feel four sturdy hands grab me from behind: Stevie and Hank, the best big brothers a girl could ask for. As soon as I called them to say what had happened, they rushed right over to the high school. They’re my two rocks. Who I need now more than ever.
“He’s gonna be all right,” Hank whispers. “Everything’s gonna be fine.”
I know he’s just saying that—but they’re words I desperately need to hear and believe. I don’t have the strength, or the will, to respond.
I let him and Stevie hold me steady. I can’t move a muscle. Can’t take my eyes off Alex, either. He looks so thin, so weak. So young. So vulnerable. His skin pale as Xerox paper. His lips flecked with frothy spittle. His eyes like sunken glass orbs.
“Who sold him that shit?!”
Stevie spins to face the crowd, spewing white-hot rage. His voice booms across the hallway. “Who did this?! Who?!”
The crowd instantly falls silent. A retired Marine, Stevie is that damn scary. Not a sound can be heard—except for the wail of an ambulance siren.
“Somebody better talk to me! Now!”
Yet no one makes a peep. No one dares to.
But no one needs to.
Because as I watch the last drops of life drain from Alex’s body, my own life changed and dimmed forever, I realize I already know the answer.
I know who killed my son.
THE OLD JEEP rattles slowly down the long dusty road, like a cheetah stalking its prey. A symphony of crickets fills the hot night air. A passing train whistles off in the distance. A pale sliver of moon, the only light for miles.
Gripping the steering wheel is Stevie Rourke. His eyes gaze straight ahead. A former staff sergeant in the United States Marine Corps, he’s forty-four years old, six feet six inches tall, and 249 pounds of solid muscle. A
man so loyal to his friends and family, he’d rush the gates of hell for them, and wrestle the devil himself.
Hank Rourke, trim and wiry, younger by only a few years, with a similar devotion but a far shorter fuse, is sitting shotgun—and loading shells into one, too.
“We’re less than 180 seconds out,” Stevie says.
Hank grunts in understanding.
The two brothers ride in tense silence for the rest of the brief trip. No words needed. They’ve discussed their plan and know exactly what they’re going to do.
Confront the good-for-nothing son of a bitch who killed their fifteen-year-old nephew.
Stevie and Hank both loved that boy. Loved him as if he were their own son. And Alex loved them both back. Molly’s worthless drunk of a husband had taken off when the boy was just a baby. But no one had shed any tears. Not then, not since. Molly reclaimed her maiden name for her and Alex. The whole Rourke family was already living together on their big family farm, and with no children of their own, Hank and Stevie stepped right up. The void left by one lousy father was filled by two incredible uncles. And Alex’s life was all the better for it.
Until today. When his life came to a heartbreaking end.
Both brothers dropped everything as soon as Molly called them. They drove together straight to the high school, their truck rattling along at over a hundred miles per hour. They were hoping for the best. . . .
But had prepared themselves for the worst.
The doctors and sheriff’s department are treating Alex’s death as an accident. At least for now. Just two kids being kids, messing with shit they shouldn’t have been.
But it was an accident that didn’t have to happen.
And somebody is going to pay.
Their destination soon comes into sight: a cluster of lowslung wood and metal buildings that seem to shimmer in the still-scorching desert heat. Hank surveys the area with a pair of forest-green binoculars.
“Don’t see anyone on patrol. Maybe we can sneak up on him after all.”
Stevie shakes his head.
“That bastard knows we’re coming.”
The Verdict: BookShots (A Jon Roscoe Thriller) Page 8
