A very happy Christmas or non-denominational winter holiday to all! This is a good news, bad news situation. The good news - well, read the chapter and see, but the bad news is that I won't be able to post again until the New Year. My family is flying in from England today and after Christmas we're all off to the computer wasteland vacation house again!
A big thank you again to Della and to all of you wonderful people who leave reviews - that's my Christmas present!
Chapter 11
The rain had tapered off to a mild drizzle, but both earth and air were saturated and moisture accumulated quickly on anyone braving the elements. Steve remained oblivious to the droplets pooling on his exposed skin, not even pausing in his observation of the Devlins' house to brush them away as they combined to trickle slowly down his face.
He had been lying almost motionless in the grass, concealed by darkness and shrubbery and protected only by light waterproofs, for nearly two hours. During that time, he had used night-vision binoculars to track the activities of the building's occupants as closely as possible. To the best of his knowledge, there were three men, now in bed and hopefully asleep, and a fourth, almost certainly awake, at the bedside of the invalid.
There had been no discernible movement from inside for half an hour so Steve calculated it was time to move in. The thick layer of nimbostratus clouds blanketed all celestial sources of light and there were no street lamps this far into the canyons, so only the faint orange glow of the ubiquitous light pollution from the city provided any illumination. To deter burglars, two outside lights had been set up that worked on motion sensors, but Steve hoped that wildlife set them off frequently enough for the residents to ignore them if he inadvertently strayed into their radius.
He approached the house at an oblique angle from the back, employing all the stealth acquired as a soldier in the jungles of Vietnam, alert for any indication that the occupants were more vigilant that it appeared. For a long minute he waited, a motionless shadow against the dark wall, but the silence was only cracked by the soft drip of water. The odor of damp wood caught in his nostrils, oddly different from the sea spay scent to which he was accustomed, accentuating the foreign nature of his actions.
He was about to break into a house, but the illegality of the act was causing him surprisingly little concern. He reflected momentarily on the irony of how well his career of enforcing the law had prepared him for this criminal enterprise. Although he'd had little practice, disabling burglar alarms, picking locks and discerning the best method of entry into a locked building were well within his acquired expertise.
He knew that if he were discovered, his job was over. The act of unlawful entry was effectively burning his bridges and even if he found something incriminating, it would be inadmissible in a court of law, but still a sense of urgency drove him onwards.
'A father for a father.' Jack Devlin's phrase replayed continually in his thoughts like a bad tape stuck in a loop. Had it merely been an idle choice of words, a barb meant to satisfy his own grief or had it a deeper meaning? Michael Devlin was clearly fading fast and Steve's instincts told him that Mark's fate was connected to that of the dying man.
Ultimately, Steve chose Kitty Lynn's method of ingress and cut a hole in the glass of a sliding door, using the small opening to undo the lock. Before entering, he divested himself of his waterproofs and, after a moment's hesitation, his shoes, realising that leaving wet, muddy puddles in his wake would not improve his chances of remaining undetected.
He stepped silently inside the dark room, mentally adding breaking and entering to his list of dubious accomplishments. He had noted the telltale red light of a motion sensor alarm high in a corner on his earlier visit, but trusted that with the night-time movements necessitated by round-the-clock nursing of the Devlin patriarch, the system had not been armed. The blinking light registered his presence with an extra flash but remained quiet and Steve just hoped that confirmed his theory and that it hadn't sent a silent signal to the local police force.
Slipping through the furniture more by memory than sight, he arrived at the door and gently turned the handle to peer into the lighted corridor beyond. Here, no concealment would be possible if his timing coincided with a late night snack hunt by one of the residents, but there were no sounds from the rooms beyond so, with pulse jumping, he soundlessly coasted down the hall. He had no idea what he was looking for specifically, trusting only that he'd know it when he saw it. The kitchen seemed as good a place as any to start -- a possible repository for drugs and incriminating paperwork.
His penlight stroked over the contents of the fridge, making its contents ripple and gleam in its specially focused beam, and he duly memorised the labels in the medical containers although none of their long names were familiar. No drawers offered anything remotely promising, so he decided to move on. He was hoping that one of the rooms beyond the sickroom was an office and would offer better pickings.
However, the hall was bare and well-lit and this was unknown territory. A misplaced step on a creaky board could easily betray his intrusion. He was tense as a bowstring, cold trickles of sweat sliding down his back and the erratic thumping of his heart threatening to drown out all other sounds. He sucked in a deep but quiet breath, attempting to clear his mind. The knowledge that no back up would be forthcoming either from colleagues or friends was profoundly isolating yet also gave him the freedom to act, since being suspended, his actions would not reflect so badly on the department. His fear of discovery lay not in concern for his personal safety, although having attempted at least two murders, he was sure the Devlins wouldn't cavil at a third, but in the awareness that capture meant failure.
His stealthy tread was assisted by the carpet pile, and he had crept noiselessly to just beyond Michael Devlin's room when a loud exclamation caused him to spin around in alarm. Heavy footsteps pounded closer to the door, a voice within crying out, "Jack, Jack!"
Unsure whether this sudden activity was a response to his presence, Steve sprinted for the nearest door, hoping the unavoidable noise of his movements would be cloaked by the rousing of the household. He dove into the room like a rabbit down a bolthole, retaining enough presence of mind in the darkness to close the door quietly behind him, poised to stage a defense if indeed he had been discovered. However, it soon became clear that the commotion had been caused by a change in the senior Devlin's condition. The old man was fading fast and the family had been summoned for a final farewell. Clearly Steve's time was limited.
Curious as to where he'd ended up, he slowly swept the narrow beam around the area, keeping half his attention on the voices outside. It seemed to be a storage room where boxes had been haphazardly piled around some dusty furniture. The deliberately narrow ray of the flashlight had been designed, with burglary in mind, not to illuminate more than its immediate focus so Steve jumped in startled fright as a bed, obviously occupied came into view.
Recognition was almost immediate. "Dad!" he whispered wonderingly. Shock chased down his spine as the sight literally tore the breath from his chest. His emotions scudded wildly, ricocheting between unrestrained joy at the realisation that Mark has not perished at the bridge and anguished despair at the sudden fear that perhaps after all he'd arrived too late. He stood frozen, as if caught in that fraction of a second between a very vivid dream and the waking from it, his eyes searching for signs of life and his heart gripped by the icy embrace of dead fingers reaching from the grave as he realised that Mark was unrestrained in an unlocked room.
"Dad?" This time his voice was louder, utterly oblivious to anything beyond the motionless form on the bed, his heart pounding so loudly he couldn't hear beyond its thunderous roar. He dropped to his knees, tentatively reaching out a hand, shaking a shoulder even though all instincts told him it was futile. There was no response and Steve remained kneeling in numb disbelief, light headed, heavy hearted, blood roaring through his veins. His flesh was searing, not from heat but from an icy coldness that welled up from deep inside.
Wait! Cold! An inconsistency registered in the small part of his mind that was still capable of rationality and he shifted his hand higher, resting the palm on his father's cheek. It wasn't particularly warm but lacked the lifeless chill of a corpse. Now hopeful, he searched for a pulse, impaired by the tremor in his fingers and it was long moments before he found it, unnaturally slow but definitely present, pushing warmly at his fingertips. "Oh, God!"
Drugged, his mind supplied and the diagnosis was confirmed by a glance at the needle marks on Mark's arm. The release of fear and adrenalin transformed his muscles to jelly, and he rested his head on his father's shoulder in the agony of sheer relief as he fought against the emotional tsunami seeping his body. As the all-consuming fear that had dominated his life since waking up in the hospital dissipated, it was replaced by a murderous rage and if Jack Devlin had happened to venture into his sight at this moment, Steve would have had little compunction in sending him a small metallic greeting.
He shook his head unconsciously as he closed his eyes and tried to remember how to breathe. The image of his father, mistreated, doped and then dumped into this small, dark room like so much trash caused his chest to ache as if his ribs had been pried apart. He desperately hoped Mark had been unconscious and not suffering throughout his ordeal, but felt the need to reassure anyway. "Dad, everything's going to be fine. I'm going to get you out of here."
He checked Mark over quickly for hidden injuries, but apart from some bruising on his face and arms, there was nothing obvious, and he sat back on his heels. "I haven't the faintest idea what to do right now, Dad. This is your area of expertise, not mine." He rubbed Mark's hand gently, hoping for some sign of life, but there wasn't the slightest twitch in response.
With a strange mixture of joy and anxiety, Steve considered the options available to him. His first choice was to call for help, but his cell phone had been broken in the crash and he hadn't thought to help himself to Jesse's. It might be possible to reach a phone in the house, if it wasn't in use, but to have a chance of success he'd have to leave his father unprotected and vulnerable and that was unthinkable.
He was unable to fathom why Mark had been left alive so far, but suspected it had something to do with Michael Devlin. However, the older man's restraining presence was clearly finite and Steve wanted to get his father out of the house as quickly as possible. He was armed with his back-up weapon and if he took the household by surprise he might possibility keep them all subdued, but the odds of four against one were not favourable and, handicapped by Mark's unconscious body, he would prefer evasion to confrontation.
He now regretted leaving his shoes outside, although it was probable he would have been discovered before now if he'd retained them. The prospect of carrying his father to the car he'd hidden down the road was daunting enough without adding bare feet. With an encouraging pat and a murmured, "I'll be right back," Steve padded to the door. The faint murmuring of voices emanating from the sick room and a quick peek showed him that the door was open and he resigned himself to the impossibility of retracing his steps.
He needed to explore in the opposite direction for an escape route and he was determined to take Mark along in the process. He hadn't given much consideration to the problem of toting a fully grown unconscious man -- he'd had training and practice in the proper techniques for lifting and carrying as a volunteer fire-fighter -- but it hadn't occurred to him the difference a recent bullet wound would make.
Remembering the intensifying rain outside, he wrapped Mark securely in a blanket then with a grunt of pain, he hoisted his father expertly onto his shoulders, keeping up a soft monologue of information and reassurance in the hope that, like a coma victim, Mark was aware of his surroundings.
It was hard to combine surreptitious movement with the heavy load, but Steve shifted deftly out the door and down the corridor, horribly conscious of the susurration of nearby voices and their exposed position. He chose the room at the opposite end of the hall, easing the door open quietly and dipping sideways to maneuver inside. It appeared to be the office he'd sought earlier, but now the only item of interest to Steve was the window reflecting his image in the narrow beam of his flashlight.
"It's easier to break out than in, Dad," he muttered. Although that was undoubtedly true, a flick of his fingers unlocking the latch, it was also immeasurably harder to squeeze through a limited space while carrying an inert body. After a couple of false starts, he elected to slide Mark through the gap feet first then, supporting his father's torso, slither down awkwardly to the ground himself.
Mark's complete and prolonged limpness was disconcerting and as worry solidified into a chilled mass in the pit of his stomach, he reached again for his father's pulse. Only marginally reassured by the lazy rhythm, he was attempting to close the window behind them when the furious cry of, "He's gone," assailed his ears quite clearly, a warming of imminent discovery penetrating the vacant dark room between them.
With scant ceremony, Steve hoisted Mark back into a fireman's life and set off at a shambling run for the cover of the bushes. Within seconds, his socks were sodden and the wet fabric provided little traction in the muddy ground, compelling him to retard his headlong flight for fear of pitching headlong. A gravel pathway offered more hope of progress, but their combined weight thrust him down viciously onto the small stones which sliced through the thin material and into the soles of his feet. However, Steve was oblivious to all physical discomfort as the front door was flung open in a burst of light and the opening disgorged armed men like army ants swarming from an anthill to fight an intruder.
Fear prickled at the base of his spine as they fanned out between him and the gate, cutting off his easiest route back to the car. He faded back into the night, heading for the periphery of the property, not relishing their new role as prey in this deadly hunt. He felt trapped, caught in the spider's web of the Devlins' estate although it covered a large area. Earlier, he had vaulted over the surrounding wall in an area where the barbed wire had fallen, but it would be impossible to duplicate that athletic feat while carrying his father. Dawn couldn't be more than a couple of hours away and then they would be sitting ducks for the Devlin shooting party in the light. He blocked out the increasing agony in his right shoulder and the prickly pains that reverberated down to his fingertips and, after slightly adjusting Mark's position, he headed off in what he hoped was a direction that would offer escape.
The shouts of the hunters kept him apprised of the general movement of the pursuit and for several vital minutes it drifted towards the front of the grounds. Steve reached the wall and turned to parallel it, searching frantically for a weak area -- a convenient tree branch, a pile of bricks, anything that would allow him to clamber over with his precious burden, but the stark, shadowed bulk of stone mocked him with its inaccessibility. He ran a hand over the moist, rough surface, but it offered no purchase to climb. A running leap would allow his fingertips access to the top and he could haul himself over, but then he'd have no way to reach back to Mark.
Frustrated, he staggered on, his breath harsh in his throat. The shouting increased in volume, words of anger and strategic suggestions now clearly audible. Goaded into greater haste, Steve stumbled heavily over a tree root, effectively blind in the dark and rain, and fell heavily to his knees, unable to suppress a cry of pain as the impact cruelly jarred his shoulder.
"Over this way!" The sound seemed to have betrayed their location and the baying of the hunters swung round, driving him on as he tried to ignore the shaky weakness in his legs and the cramping protests of his shoulders and back. It was impossible to maintain or even reach the speed necessary for evasion and his mind sought frantically for an alternative plan.
He almost ran headlong into a bush and its possibilities only occurred to him belatedly as he staggered around it. With a gentleness that used more energy than he could afford, he lowered Mark to the ground, wrapping him more securely with the blanket then rolling him carefully under the concealing brush. It wasn't a hiding place that would hold up to rigorous scrutiny and every instinct revolted at leaving his father in that condition, but it was ultimately the only way to protect him.
"I'll be right back. Don't go anywhere." He gave Mark's shoulder a light squeeze then set off at a run, the odd lightness on his back counterbalanced by the heaviness in his heart. Once he judged himself sufficiently far away to bring the pursuers at an angle that would keep them away from his father, he drew his gun and aiming as carefully as circumstances allowed, squeezed off a bullet. The flurry of movement that greeted his shot might have been humorous if the situation wasn't as dire. Lights spun in crazy circles as their bearers frenziedly dove for cover and a barrage of return fire exploded in the still night air.
Although nothing came close, he let out a yell as if hit, allowing a methodically searching light to brush over him before clumsily ducking away for cover. With triumphant shouts, the chase resumed. Confident that his dark clothes against the shadowy background would present an almost impossible target, Steve concentrated on speed, ignoring the sporadic spray of bullets, jinking like a snipe only when the probing rays of the flashlight briefly illuminated him. His original plan, to make an obvious escape over the wall, causing the Devlins to abandon their pursuit so he could circle back to Mark, was proving more problematic that he'd thought. Negotiating the barbed wire-topped high wall would leave him framed and exposed for too lengthy a period so he stumbled onwards, the air thick as molasses, dragging at his limbs.
His adversaries were not only fresher, but also had a greater knowledge of the lay of the land and would soon be in a position to encircle him. He couldn't allow that. The bobbing flashlights in their hands marked their locations and with experienced judgment, he calculated his target, squeezing off two shots.
A scream verified his accuracy. "My leg. Jack, he shot me. The son of a bitch shot me."
Steve flung himself flat on the sodden ground to avoid the furious fusillade of retribution that ripped the air around him and listened intently to the oldest brother's barking of orders. "Bob, go help Jeff. Billy go to the house and get the shotgun. We'll perforate the bastard."
Steve was unsure whether they believed he was Mark or had forgotten about their former captive in the heat of fury, but he was eager to keep them too stirred up to think straight. With an effort he started moving again, grateful in his exhausted state that the pursuit was now more circumspect. He desperately wanted to circle back to Mark, but he had to lose them entirely before that became an option.
His lone hound dogged him silently, a constant if reduced threat, and Steve knew that this was the best time to appear to escape before his reserves were totally depleted. His shirt clung wetly to his back, sodden with sweat and precipitation, and he was limping as every step drove shards of jagged pain through the soles of his feet. His arms were bruised from fending off the branches that his eyes missed as the shifting shadows were overlaid with the crimson sparks pounding in the familiar rhythm of his racing heartbeat, touching his vision and disguising roots and undergrowth. It took several seconds to recognise the absence of the looming wall, the descent of a large tree crumbling a portion to the ground. It seemed like the ideal solution to his problem, and, mind benumbed by weariness, he ran into the gap, heedless of anything except the opportunity it presented.
His progress was almost immediately impeded by a slightly yielding resistance, but the restraint only added to the abundant adrenaline in his system and he instinctively and blindly fought against the ghostly fingers as they ripped and tore at this clothes and flesh, wrapping himself inexorably in a steely embrace. At first oblivious to the pain in the struggle, his movements became more feeble, and fear turned to a lead weight in his stomach as he became aware of the shredding agony of the hundreds of pieces of steel embedded in his skin.
A victorious shout cut across the darkness, "We've got him. He's in the wire!"