by Eva Hudson
How about a poem?
There was a young lady from minnesota, who… used up the state’s hog feed quota
Is that it?
Her pigs were so big, she needed to dig…
Huh?
Nope sorry… run out of rhymes
Gurley let out a long sigh and shifted in his seat. “If this mission is getting in the way of something more important, I could just complete it without you.”
Ingrid turned to look at him. His expression was fixed in a grimace. He really wasn’t joking. “From now on, it has my undivided attention. How about that?” She tapped another quick message to Ralph:
Expect u to get it finished by next time i see u
She hesitated before sending. That reply would mean she was suggesting another date. She considered deleting it, but with Gurley breathing down her neck, she hit send before she got to the end of the thought process. Ralph had almost written her a limerick, for God’s sake. No one had ever done that for her before. That fact alone was definitely worthy of a second date.
I’ll do my best… good luck with mission/gurley
Ingrid’s phone buzzed again twenty minutes later: Natasha McKittrick calling. She dismissed the call, not wanting to give Gurley another excuse to question her commitment to the case. Her phone vibrated again to let her know she had a voice message. Dammit, Gurley was making her feel like a misbehaving schoolgirl. She turned away toward the driver window, shoved the phone against her right ear, and listened to the message.
“What have you done to my detective?” McKittrick said, her tone completely deadpan. “He’s got the stupidest grin on his face and is practically bloody useless. I’ve had to send him out for coffee in the hope that the fresh air might blow some sense into him. Call me as soon as you pick this up.”
Smiling to herself, Ingrid deleted the voicemail and slipped the phone into a pocket.
“Whoever that was, she has a voice that carries,” Gurley informed her. “You might want to let her know.”
“Thanks for the tip.”
“I’m so glad this operation is giving you plenty of time to organize your social engagements.”
Why was Gurley so pissed at her? She wondered if maybe he didn’t have much of a social life himself. Working in Security Forces on a base in the middle of the English countryside had to be a pretty lonely existence. Maybe she should feel sorry for the guy.
Three and three-quarter hours later, just as the daylight was starting to fade and Ingrid’s behind was aching due to the thin layer of foam between the worn upholstery and the rock hard driver’s seat, she turned to Gurley. “I think maybe we should call it a day.”
Gurley tapped a big forefinger on his watch. “Fifteen more minutes.”
“Nothing’s going to happen now.” Ingrid adjusted her position and tried to shake some feeling back into her numb right foot.
“You agreed to four hours.”
“OK!” She threw up her hands in surrender.
A few minutes later, Yvonne Sherwood appeared at the door of the pub. She was carrying a large sports bag. The woman struggled with the bag to a nearby car and dumped it on the passenger seat.
Gurley mumbled something about patience being a virtue and slid a little further down into his seat. “Remember not to get too close.” There was a definite smug tone to his voice.
“I have tailed a few vehicles in my time.” Ingrid could tell Gurley was frustrated not to be sitting behind the wheel.
The pub manager’s dinky silver car pulled away from the curb and Ingrid started up the Land Rover once there was a distance of fifty or so yards between the two vehicles.
The silver car stopped a minute later outside the convenience store and Yvonne Sherwood jumped out. She looked up and down the street, her gaze lingering in their direction for more seconds than was comfortable.
Ingrid held her breath.
A moment later Sherwood turned away and disappeared inside the store. She re-emerged after a few minutes with a bag of groceries. She shoved the bag onto the passenger seat of the car. Then, instead of getting back behind the wheel, she returned to the store. She pulled something from her purse and headed for the ATM next to the door. She removed the thick wad of cash that came out of the slot, found another card in her purse and repeated the process. They watched her do the same thing with another two cards, then shove all the cash into a pocket.
“Goddammit,” Gurley said, when Sherwood headed back to her car. “I knew I was right about her.”
26
In the deepening gloom Ingrid and Gurley trailed behind Yvonne Sherwood for fifteen minutes, not daring to put on the headlights of the Land Rover, edging along the narrow country lanes.
“We’re going to lose her, put your foot on the gas.” Gurley was leaning so close to the windshield, his nose was practically pressed up against the glass.
“Maybe now’s the time to call the cops. Get some backup.”
“They made their attitude quite clear this morning. I won’t have them swarming all over the countryside and screwing everything up. We call them when she’s led us to Foster.”
“If that’s where she’s going. We’re still working on a hunch here. What if we lose her?” They turned a sharp bend in the road and Ingrid could just make out the beams from Sherwood’s headlights in the distance. It felt more like luck than judgment.
“Maintain this speed and we won’t lose her. We don’t need backup. I’m not sure the local cops could find their own asses with a— What the f—”
Ingrid yanked the steering wheel hard right and stamped on the brake as an overhanging branch loomed up at the windshield in the twilight. She yanked the wheel in the opposite direction just a few inches from a dense thicket on the far side of the road. Her heart lurched in her chest. She felt as though Gurley was watching her every move, waiting for her to make a mistake. She was determined not to give him the satisfaction. “You must work with the cops here all the time. Are you seriously suggesting they can’t do their job?”
“I don’t work with them a whole lot. They leave us to deal with our men as the Air Force sees fit. They get on with their business and leave us to ours. And that’s just the way I like it.”
“I’m sure they’re really not as bad as you make out.” Ingrid didn’t know why she was defending the local force, but now she’d started she felt as though she had to follow through. “I’ve worked with a lot worse police departments Stateside.”
“Then maybe the whole world is screwed.”
“Yet military cops remain shining examples of perfect policing that everyone else should emulate? You don’t have such a great record yourselves. Maybe you should think twice before you start throwing stones.”
“I can only judge on what I’ve seen so far. And it don’t impress me much.”
“As long as you know I’m calling the cops as soon as we get Foster.” Ingrid squeezed the steering wheel harder.
“That’s just fine with me.”
“Good.”
“Great.”
After another couple of minutes twisting around tight bends, the road straightened and Ingrid could clearly see the taillights of Sherwood’s little Nissan a hundred or so yards ahead of them. Fifty yards later the silver car slowed right down and took a left. Ingrid drove past the dirt track Sherwood had disappeared down and stopped on the other side of the road. As she came to a halt, the driver side wheels sank into a ditch and the Land Rover lurched sideways.
Gurley huffed out a sigh.
“Maybe you should have brought along the night vision goggles.” Ingrid used the flashlight function on her phone to avoid landing in the ditch herself as she climbed out.
They both closed their doors quietly and jogged back to the dirt track. “She might be driving miles down here,” Ingrid whispered.
“Lucky we’re both in such good shape, wouldn’t you say?” Gurley lengthened his stride.
Unlike Gurley’s, Ingrid’s boots weren’t designed for uneven
terrain. She did her best to tread carefully and avoid the worst of the exposed stones and random divots underfoot. Right now, straining or twisting her ankle would be nothing short of disaster. Forced to make two strides for every one of Gurley’s, she felt a little like a small child trying to keep up with its older sibling. After a few more strides she picked up pace a little and overtook him. As she passed, she noticed his breathing seemed labored. Maybe he wasn’t as fit as he’d claimed.
Less than two hundred yards down the track, Ingrid saw the Nissan parked up close to a wide wooden gate. The interior light was on, but there was no sign of Sherwood inside the vehicle. Ingrid shoved out her hand in front of Gurley, who had already slowed down. They ducked sideways into a nearby hedge.
“Where the hell is she?” Gurley whispered.
“Wait a second.”
A moment later, the top of Yvonne Sherwood’s head appeared above the headrest of the driver’s seat. As Ingrid had suspected, the woman had been bending low over the passenger seat, where she’d dumped the heavy sports bag and the groceries earlier. She then climbed out of the car, ran around to the passenger side and, with some effort, heaved the bag out. She hauled it onto her back and immediately seemed six inches shorter.
“What does she have in there?” Gurley leaned out of their hiding place to get a better look. “We have to move in closer.”
“Can we just wait for a moment?” Ingrid grabbed his arm and pulled him toward her.
They watched in silence as the petite manager of the Hare and Hands struggled to the wooden gate with the bag. She fumbled with something where the gate met the gate post, then shook the gate with both hands in frustration. With great effort she heaved the bag over the top of the gate and let it fall on the other side. It landed with a loud metallic clank that echoed down the track. Sherwood then climbed the gate and swung one leg over, sitting on the top for a few seconds, staring toward the muddy field beyond.
She awkwardly swung her other leg over and jumped down the other side. Then she grabbed hold of the heavy bag and dragged it behind her as she stumbled toward the middle of the empty field.
Crouching low, Gurley quickly slipped across the dirt track. He reached the fence that ran alongside the field, and, still keeping his head low, headed toward the gate. Ingrid followed him. Although her eyes were adjusting to the gloom, the darkness seemed to be closing in on them fast. If it hadn’t been for the light pink sweat top Yvonne Sherwood was wearing, Ingrid might have lost sight of her all together. She strained her eyes a little harder and managed to figure out the bar manager’s destination. Two-thirds of the way across the field was a small trailer. It looked like it had no wheels. Its windows were boarded with wooden planks and the door was hanging half off.
A few feet ahead of Ingrid, a good thirty or so yards from the gate, Gurley stopped. He pulled a small pair of binoculars from a pocket.
“Can you see any sign of life inside that trailer?” Ingrid asked. “Can you see anything at all?”
“I can’t see anything happening on the inside and Sherwood is at least fifty feet away from it.”
Ingrid peered into the grayness of the night. She could just about make out a lonely figure standing completely still in the middle of the field. “What’s she doing?”
“Looking around. Waiting.” Gurley moved in closer to the fence and lowered his head. “Stay very still. She’s more likely to notice movement.”
“Is that so?”
“She’s walking again. Headed straight toward the trailer.” He slowly scanned the field with the binoculars. “No signs of life anywhere else. She’s opened the trailer door now and she’s putting the bag inside.”
Although Gurley’s running commentary was starting to grate, Ingrid wouldn’t have known what the hell was happening without it.
“She’s not climbing inside the trailer,” he continued. “She’s walking around it.” Gurley watched for a few more moments then, grabbing Ingrid by the arm, dropped suddenly to the ground. “Dammit. She’s headed back toward the gate.” He lay flat on his belly and dragged Ingrid closer to him.
“We can’t stay here. We’re too exposed. She’ll see us when she drives past,” Ingrid hissed at him.
“We can’t exactly get up and hightail it back down the track either.”
Ingrid peered through the fence into the churned up field. Running along the length of it, parallel to the fence, was a trench, two-foot wide. “Can you wriggle under this wooden bar?” She hit the bottom of the fence with a fist.
“It’d be tight.”
“I figure if we time it so that we roll into the ditch when she’s climbing over the gate and stay low, she won’t notice us.”
“You’re suggesting we roll into a ditch?”
“You have a better suggestion, then make it fast.” Even without binoculars, Ingrid could see Sherwood was striding quickly across the field. She’d reach the gate in no time.
Gurley was already slithering toward the bottom of the fence.
“Deep breath in, major.”
“It’s not my stomach I’m concerned about.”
As Gurley wriggled closer to the fence, Ingrid noticed for the first time just how big his ass was.
Sherwood grabbed the top of the gate and started to climb.
“OK, you’ve got to go now,” Ingrid told Gurley and watched with alarm as his buttocks got wedged beneath the low wooden strut. “Relax your glutes,” she told him.
“Don’t you think I’m trying to?”
Ingrid grabbed his ass and started to push.
“What do you think you’re doing?”
“Helping.” She shoved harder. “Come on, she’s on top of the gate now. I’ve got to get under there too.” She took hold of his hip with both hands and pushed with all her strength. Gurley’s ass finally submitted and he slid the final few inches into the field. Ingrid quickly followed behind him, rolling into the ditch and onto Gurley’s back. She shuffled backwards fast, into her own section of the trench, and was rewarded for her haste with a mouthful of dirt. She spat it out. She was grateful there wasn’t a pool of stagnant water at the bottom of the ditch. In fact it was remarkably dry. She exhaled.
They stayed exactly where they were, not daring to move a muscle, until they’d heard the Nissan chug along the track a couple of minutes later. Ingrid lifted her head and shook dirt from her hair. Gurley adjusted his position so that he could prop the binoculars on the edge of the trench and train them toward the trailer.
“I guess all we can do now is wait.”
As the cold, silent minutes passed, Ingrid wondered if she should make the most of the forced intimacy and try to get Gurley to open up a little. There was something going on with him that she couldn’t put her finger on. But staring at his impassive, motionless back, she quickly decided she’d need a crowbar and a dose of sodium pentothal to make him tell her anything about himself. “Do you think Foster is hiding in an identical ditch on the opposite side of this field, watching the trailer just like us, making sure Sherwood wasn’t followed?”
“We can’t rule that out.”
“That’s got to be difficult, with an eight-year-old boy in tow.”
“You’re assuming Tommy’s still alive.”
“I’m certain he is.” Something about the way Rachelle Carver spoke about Foster had convinced Ingrid that the boy was safe with his dad. She hoped to God she wasn’t wrong.
“Must be nice to be so sure about things.” Gurley started to lift his head, then froze. “Did you see that?”
“How can you see anything in the dark?”
“Ten o’clock, movement in the bushes. There it is again.”
Ingrid saw it this time. A gray shape about a hundred yards away, making a beeline for the trailer. When the figure was just a few dozen feet from the door, Gurley lurched to his feet. He started to race across the field in the darkness, stumbling and tripping as he went, somehow managing to stay upright.
What the hell did he think h
e was doing? Why hadn’t he waited until Foster had disappeared into the trailer? His impatience had completely blown their cover.
Ingrid scrambled to her feet, but rather than follow behind Gurley, she ran in the opposite direction, aiming to approach the trailer from the other side. Hopefully she could stop Foster if he ran away across the field.
She ran as fast as she could without losing her balance. When she was just thirty or so yards from the trailer, Gurley started yelling.
“Stop right where you are, Foster. Put your hands above your head.”
From her position, the trailer was now obscuring Ingrid’s view. She accelerated forward, stumbling as she went. Just a few feet away she saw a figure come hurtling around the side of the trailer.
It wasn’t Gurley.
She picked up speed and hurled herself at the running man, grasping his legs and bringing him crashing to the ground in a classic quarterback tackle.
Gurley caught up with them a few seconds later. “Got you,” he yelled. “You sonofabitch!”
27
The man on the ground reared up against the pressure Ingrid was applying to his butt and lower back. Gurley stamped a boot between his shoulder blades.
“You stay just where you are.”
He moved his foot upwards and pressed on the man’s head, forcing it further into the ground.
“Who the hell are you?” the man managed to say before his voice was muffled by the dirt.
Gurley glanced at Ingrid. The man had spoken with an English accent.
Holy crap.
Ingrid scrambled to her feet. Gurley released the man’s head, grabbed his upper arms and hauled him upright as if he were as light as a child. Once he was vertical the man started to cough violently. Grabbing his knees he bent forward. He vomited onto the ground, retching for long moments. Finally he stopped, wiped a sleeve across his mouth and, gasping for breath, managed to stand up straight.
