Everything slowed down, so that each second seemed drawn out fine as a thread as he looked right at her, and then brought the barrel of his rifle up, drawing sight on her like she was a rabbit caught out in a field, too far from the sanctuary of hedge or bramble. The entire world became that slice of gleaming metal, the mouth of the barrel invisible but seeming as though it held all of time and space in its maw. One shot, two, and then three. The young man’s body jerked like a badly controlled puppet. Four. She felt a thunk near her ribs, and then a slice of burning pain. Please God let it just be shattered cobblestone cutting her.
The car was slowing further and she knew she was out of time. She was going to have to run and hope to hell she could somehow elude them. She waited until the car was slightly ahead of her and then jumped up and whirled around and ran hell-for-leather in the opposite direction. She didn’t know exactly where to go, she only knew she needed to hide as quickly as possible. She heard the constable yell and the car took off with a squeal of its tires. Time moved so slowly that it was distorted, vision and hearing drawn out and drowning in a sticky muddle of adrenaline, terror and one single pinpoint of clarity that was yelling ‘RUN!’ in her head at full volume. She had hardly gone twenty feet when her right foot landed on a shard of glass. It bit hard into the arch, and she wanted to howl with the pain, but she had neither time nor breath for it. They would keep looping the streets until they found her. The pavements were empty, even the echo of the gunshots had not brought anyone out to see what was going on. These men could not afford to leave her alive.
Christ, Christ, Christ—it was half plea, half imprecation. If they caught her, she had a feeling they wouldn’t kill her at once. Having been at too many death scenes, she knew just how preferable a quick death would be in contrast to the alternative.
There was a blind alley to her left and she dashed down it just as she heard the car come around the corner to the south of her. There were two long buildings which lined the alley and both appeared to be abandoned. She needed to find somewhere to hide and fast, it was only a matter of a minute or two before they realized she wasn’t on the street anymore and would start to hunt her in a more organized fashion. She couldn’t let her panic get the upper hand and miss a hiding spot through blind terror. She forced herself to stop and take a breath. Her eyes were adjusted to the dark and she combed the buildings for entry—broken windows, crumbling brick, an alcove—anything that might buy her some time. Dirty brick walls, slick with rain, towered up into the night. There were windows but far too high to present an escape route. Under the hiss of the rain, though, there was the sound of water gushing in a sizeable stream. She ran toward it, certain the car was going to turn into the alley any second now.
There was a window well, deep and old, with a pipe sluicing mucky water into its depths. The pipe was draining into one corner of the well. It looked as if it had been an actual well at one time which had been bricked over but with a spot left for drainage from the pipe. It could be very weak, and she might plunge right through it like Alice down the rabbit hole, with far less happy results. She was going to have to risk it, because she couldn’t see anywhere else to hide. She stepped down carefully, testing her weight on one foot before bringing her full weight to bear with the other. The floor held. She reached a foot into the pipe and lowered herself as quickly as she dared. The pipe was narrow, but she thought she could just shimmy into it. She went in feet first. It was awkward and she was instantly soaked in the filthy water draining from the pipe. If she could push back far enough, she hoped she would be completely hidden. Her skirt rucked up as she slid in, and her thighs scraped against substances which she was glad she could not see. Her side was burning with pain, and there wasn’t enough room in the pipe to reach her hand down and assess just how bad the damage was. She didn’t think it was life-threatening, and frankly, at present, she didn’t want to know because there was nothing she could do about it.
The car had pulled into the alleyway, she could smell the exhaust and feel the thrum of the engine reverberate through the pipe. She put her fist to her mouth so that even her breath was dispersed and hoped it would not drift out of the pipe and give her away. The odds of survival right now were probably about ninety to ten, and not in her favor.
Her ears strained for every little noise, the rain on the pipe pounding as loudly as a drum. Car doors opened, three of them—click, click, click. Three men. If they found her, she wouldn’t stand a chance. Flashes of the scenes she had photographed recently flickered through her head. The sheer raw hatred, the pain and terror suffered by the victims seemed to thrum all around her. She would lose her mind if such a death awaited her. Being a woman would only make it that much uglier.
Forgive me, she said silently to Conor and to Isabelle. To Jamie and Patrick, too. And to Casey, wherever he was, because he would be furious with her for simply being in this fix. The footfalls were close now, soft and menacing. Somehow she knew it was Constable Blackwood. Like any true predator he would be the one to smell blood first. It was something she had learned over time, that such men could smell their prey, and seemed to almost have a radar that swept the area around them and told them where their quarry crouched, trembling in terror.
There was a narrow lip that hung over the mouth of the pipe, which should shield her if she chanced to look. She slowly rolled her head to the side and then tilted her face up just enough so that she could see. There was a man standing off a little way, she could only see him from mid-shin down, but she recognized his boots, those ugly bone-cracking boots.
“Any sight?” she heard another voice ask.
“No, not yet,” the constable replied. He sounded perplexed and slightly excited as if he loved the hunt more than the actual catch. She had seen the results of previous catches and suspected he also loved that part all too well. She was certain the three men standing in the alley right now were the men who had been inflicting torture and death on all the Catholics killed over the last several months.
She didn’t even dare to let out an ounce of her breath, despite the fact that her chest was a burning agony. Just then something brushed against the sole of her right foot. It took everything she had not to exclaim out loud. Her adrenaline was coursing so hard she was amazed the constable didn’t hear it thudding and swooshing around her body, for he was standing only two feet away from her at most. A thin line of sweat was running down her spine, despite the frigid chill of the air. Something touched her again, on her leg. Her entire body was on high alert, making her skin extra sensitive so that she knew immediately it was whiskers brushing up against her. Dear God in heaven—there was a rat in the pipe with her. She felt the plump, sleek body trundle along beside her leg and then there was a sharp tiny nose sniffing at the back of her knee. There was blood seeping from the cut on her foot and soaking the side of her coat. Were rats attracted to the scent of blood? If the rat bit her she didn’t know if she could stop from crying out. She had been bitten by a rat as a child, and had been possessed with an irrational terror of them ever since. She wondered wildly if there was a patron saint of rats to whom she could pray. Frankly, though, saints seemed a wee bit thin on the ground this night. And then she remembered that there was a specific prayer for the exorcism of rats. Casey had told it to her after she had seen a rat in the basement of the walk-up they had lived in while in Boston and flown up the three flights of stairs to their apartment in an utter panic.
We entreat you, Lord, be pleased to hear our prayers; and even though we rightly deserve, on account of our sins, this plague of rats yet mercifully deliver us for your kindness’ sake. Let this plague be expelled by your power, and our land and fields be left fertile, so that all it produces redound to your glory and serve our necessities; through Christ our Lord.
She could hear Casey’s voice in her head speaking it, his broad, rough tones, which had been the cadences of love to her for a very long time. A strange calm stole through her as though he were here beside her, his big hand h
olding hers, telling her everything would be all right.
Almighty everlasting God, the donor of all good things, and the most merciful pardoner of our sins; before whom all creatures bow down in adoration, those in heaven, on earth, and below the earth; preserve us sinners by your might, that whatever we undertake with trust in your protection may meet with success by your grace. And now as we utter a curse on these noxious pests, may they be cursed by you; as we seek to destroy them, may they be destroyed by you; as we seek to exterminate them, may they be exterminated by you; so that delivered from this plague by your goodness, we may freely offer thanks to your majesty; through Christ our Lord.
She clutched her St. Jude’s cross in her hand, the chain she had worn for so long, which also held the beautiful silver St. Bridget’s cross Pat and Kate had given her for her last birthday. She could use the help of every saint in the canon just now.
Constable Blackwood dropped down into the window well, scattering her prayer to pieces. The blood in her veins turned to ice, while still pumping so furiously that she could hear each thud in her ears of pulse to vein wall.
“Come on man, the bitch isn’t here.”
“Just a second,” he said and started to bend down. She wanted to close her eyes, so she wouldn’t see his face, and could be blind as he grabbed her and pulled her into the living nightmare that would be her last hours. Just then the rat poked its head past hers and reared up out of the pipe. The Constable stumbled back out of the window well, swearing and furious. The rat startled as well, scuttling back in by her neck, close enough that she could feel its small, hot breath in her hair. Her mouth was so dry with fear that she couldn’t swallow and her eyes were stinging because she hadn’t blinked for several seconds.
“It’s no matter,” Constable Blackwood said, “I know where the bitch lives.”
There was the sound then of the constable’s hobnailed boots retreating toward the purring engine. She didn’t move a muscle, just waited, no longer worrying about the rat beside her. If he bit her, it would be a small price to pay for the service he had just rendered her.
She waited until she couldn’t hear the car engine before she let the air in her lungs out a little at a time, not wanting to startle the rat, which was still sitting beside her neck. She then counted out another five minutes before pulling herself out of the pipe. She was soaked and so cold that she couldn’t feel her feet or hands, which she thought might be a blessing just at present. Her legs were cramped and she rose unsteadily on them, frightened lest the departing car had been a distraction, and the man was still standing in the street waiting for her to emerge. But the street was empty as she pulled herself up out of the dank well, and she couldn’t sense anyone about. The rain had died back to a mere drizzle and fog was starting to gather in luminous clouds, hovering above the narrow alleyway.
She turned back to find the rat peering up at her from the edge of the pipe, as if it was bidding her farewell.
“I think you just saved my life, so thank you for that and sorry about the noxious pest bit,” she said as though the rat might have read her mind during the silent prayer, “you’ve been really rather decent.” The rat fixed her with bright, beady eyes and tilted its head, before scampering off into the fetid depths of the pipe.
She walked as fast as she dared, not wanting to attract attention by running, sticking close to the dark shadows that clustered thick at the base of the old warehouse. Her entire body was prickling, and she startled at every noise or movement in the shadows. Within a few blocks she had oriented herself and knew where she was and which direction to head. She was certain she could feel eyes on her back every step of the way, targeting her through a rifle scope.
She made it back to the car without incident however, the streets deathly silent around her and the fog thick enough to limit her vision to a few feet in front of her. But if she couldn’t see very far, neither could anyone looking for her. She had come to a decision on the journey back to her car. She understood only too well that Constable Blackwood would keep hunting her until he killed her, and so it was up to her to make certain he did not get another chance. His last words had made it clear that she was on borrowed time. She started her car and headed to the one place and the one person that made sense in this situation. South Armagh and Noah Murray.
The guard knew to let her in, and as befit someone who worked for Noah he didn’t even blink an eye at her bloody, wet and bedraggled form. He merely nodded and put the radio to his mouth. He would let Noah know to expect a knock at the door.
Noah was standing in the door yard, the sodium light near the byre turned off, so that he was no more than a silhouette, but she saw his wary stance, and the rifle that was casually canted over his elbow. He gave her a swift and assessing glance as she got out of the car, his eyes sweeping her from head to toe.
“Come in, an’ tell me what’s happened.”
He opened the door and she stepped inside gratefully. She stood on the mat, her clothes dripping, feet still bare, stockings in tatters, and utterly relieved for the moment to be somewhere safe and with the slightly hazy feeling that came after a massive dose of adrenaline.
Noah looked at her dispassionately. “Ye look like ye laid down in a pool of blood. Let’s get ye out of yer coat, I need to take a look at ye. The blood—is it yers?”
“Some of it. I was shot at and I think one of the bullets hit me, but it’s not bleeding anymore.” In her determination to get here quickly she had ignored the pain in her side, but with Noah’s words it came back full force, making her distinctly woozy. He took one look at her face and crossed the floor, stripping her out of the coat quickly. Then he picked her up and carried her to the kitchen table and laid her down on it.
She looked up, vision blurring a bit, so that Noah’s outlines were fuzzy. She was trying to judge just how serious the wound was by the level of concern on his face. Then she remembered just whom she was dealing with—she could be dying and he would look as calm as a sunny day in May.
“Lie still,” he said gruffly, “I need to look and see what’s happened.”
He pulled her sweater up and she winced as the air hit her wound. He gazed down at her, a look of chill assessment on his face. It wasn’t the most reassuring expression and it didn’t help that he suddenly went off into the depths of the house, leaving her alone on the table. She tried not to panic. He hadn’t spoken a word of reassurance, though being that it was Noah, that was likely neither here nor there as to her actual condition.
He was back in a moment, a lantern in hand, which he set down on the table beside her. It cast a strong light and she was afraid of what it might reveal. He handed her a length of leather which looked like it had once been a belt.
“This is goin’ to hurt, so ye’re goin’ to want to bite down on somethin’, better this than yer tongue. I’m goin’ to have to check an’ see if there’s an entry wound.”
She put the leather between her teeth, feeling sick to her stomach in anticipation of the pain. He hadn’t exaggerated either. He touched all around it, rolling her flesh a little and checking to see if there was a bullet entry. He looked down at her and nodded curtly. “Ye’re not goin’ to die. The bullet must have grazed ye, but it didn’t go in.”
She thought she might pass out from relief. She’d had a bullet graze her ankle once and had survived that just fine, other than Casey being in a rare temper about it for a good week.
“Don’t move, a bit of material is stuck in yer side. I’m goin’ to have to get the shirt off ye to clean this up properly. I’ll get ye somethin’ warm an’ dry to wear once I’m done here. Can ye lift yer arms up? Otherwise I’ll have to cut it off ye.”
“I…I can lift my arms,” she said shakily. The pretty lavender sweater was likely ruined with the blood but Casey had given it to her as a gift and she did not want it cut. Noah helped her to sit up and then drew the sweater carefully over her head. He was gentle but the mere movement of her arms sent a fresh trickle of bloo
d down her side. She felt distinctly faint and still somewhat afraid.
“All right then, lie back down an’ I’ll figure out what I need to do for ye.” He dropped her sweater on the floor.
She felt horribly exposed under his gaze, lying there as she was in only a bra and bloody torn stockings and a ruined skirt. He put his fingers to the wound and she sucked her breath in and closed her eyes.
“All right, ye can breathe. It’s a wee bit deep an’ needs a few stitches to close it up. I’m goin’ to get ye a tot of whiskey.”
She tried to take his advice and attempted a deep breath. The breath caught on her ribs and she gasped at the sharp stabbing pain. Noah came back with a glass filled almost to the top with whiskey in one hand and the bottle in the other. She wondered if he was planning to knock her out cold before he attempted cleaning up her side. He put the bottle down on the table, well away from her and then put his free hand to her back, propping her up so that she could manage the glass.
“Drink,” he said harshly, “ye need to get yer blood sugar up so ye don’t go into shock.”
She sipped at the golden liquid without any real enthusiasm; she had never cared for the taste of whiskey, much to the chagrin of Jamie’s master distiller who had been certain that given time and encouragement she would develop a palate for it.
“I said drink,” Noah said with no small impatience, “sippin’ at it like it’s rat poison won’t do ye a damn bit of good. Drink it, or I’ll pinch yer nose an’ pour it down yer throat.”
She knew he meant it; he would have little compunction about pouring the entire bottle down her throat if she didn’t do as he said. She took a breath and swallowed the entire glass in three gulps. It went down easily enough, but the whiskey hit her belly and sent up a strip of fire which singed the back of her nose and brought tears to her eyes.
“Ye’re all right, then,” he said gruffly, in what she thought was meant to be a comforting manner. “I can suture it for ye an’ while ye’ll be stiff an’ sore for a week or so, it shouldn’t give ye any bother more than that. What’s goin’ to hurt is washin’ it out with the whiskey.”
In the Country of Shadows (Exit Unicorns Series Book 4) Page 59
