Out of Reach Page 17

“How did you…” Schaefer began, but Lomas cut him off.

  “You know how, Mr Schaefer,” Lomas said. “We must leave.”

  Schaefer didn’t want to believe Lomas. He wanted this to be the end of it. He wanted Lomas to admit he’d overseen Amber’s abduction, but it was clear that Lomas was telling the truth, and that Schaefer had been manipulated. He released the old man.

  “Follow me,” Lomas said. He led Schaefer and Mary into a study that was overflowing with books and papers. He moved the battered old captain’s chair that languished behind his messy desk, and lifted a metal hoop in the floor. A trap door opened, revealing a simple wooden staircase below. As they went down, they heard the heavy footsteps of the two men clambering up the exterior staircase. Lomas hurried down the stairs, and went straight to the small vessel that bobbed in berth that occupied most of the boathouse. Mary and Schaefer followed him onto the motorboat as he got the engine started. The noise drowned out the sound of the heavy footsteps above them, and Schaefer lost all sense of their pursuers’ positions. The boat roared out into grey light, and Lomas steered a course for the other side of the river.

  “Mary!” Lomas called, signalling the wheel. “I must talk to him.”

  Mary glared at Schaefer as she took the wheel. Lomas joined Schaefer, who sat on one of the low bench seats near the stern.

  “We don’t have much time, Mr Schaefer,” Lomas began. “You must listen carefully. The man who gave you my name is evil. The word is used so frequently that it has lost its meaning. I use it in the precise sense.”

  “Why did he use me?” Schaefer asked with the growing realisation that he’d made a terrible mistake.

  “Mary has the gift,” Lomas replied. “If they had sent an assassin, she would have seen murder in his heart. They used you because they know the power of the loss that drives you. You would do anything for your daughter. They knew you would find me. They used you to lead them to me. I posed a threat to them. I can see the truth. The dark alliance of the Collective is responsible for so much suffering.”

  Schaefer looked back at the boathouse; no sign of the men. The boat was far enough away to be safe. He looked back at Lomas, who had taken on a dreamy, faraway look.

  “You are trapped, Mr Schaefer,” Lomas said. “I know you find it hard, but you must let go.”

  “What are…” Schaefer began.

  “We don’t have time!” Lomas started suddenly, grabbing Schaefer by the arms. “You must listen to me. There is one who can guide you to the light.”

  Schaefer stared at Lomas’ eyes, which were almost aglow with the intense fervour of conviction.

  “You must listen. The messenger will tell you the truth.”

  Lomas released his hold and put his hands in his lap. His face took on its dreamy countenance and he turned his head slightly, as though straining to hear a distant voice.

  “I wonder, will it hurt?” Lomas asked softly.

  Schaefer heard the whistle of something speeding through air, and watched in disbelief as a high-velocity round struck Lomas’ skull. The bullet pierced through skin, bone and brain, leaving a bloody mess of devastation in its wake. Mary started screaming, as Lomas fell to the deck, his eyes glassy and lifeless. A second bullet ripped into Mary’s torso, piercing her heart. She looked at Schaefer with growing horror, as blood spread over her white blouse. She clawed at her breast, as though trying to remove the deadly object, but her efforts were futile. Mary fell face forwards and died in a pool of her uncle’s blood. Schaefer ducked, expecting the assault to continue. But when he looked over the side of the boat, he saw the two suited men packing up. Smoker was opening a gun case, while Scarface dismantled a tripod and a silenced, high-powered rifle. The men had no interest in killing Schaefer, which gave him a tiny advantage. He took control of the wheel, and turned the boat back the way they’d come. He glanced down at Lomas, whose eyes were now cold and empty. Schaefer recognised the image from his visions; the face, grey with death, staring up at him, the left side of Lomas’ skull broken and his hair matted with blood. Schaefer felt an unfamiliar pang of guilt at his fatal mistake. His loss had been used against him and because of his blindness two innocents lay dead at his feet. Schaefer realised that he wasn’t going to make it back in time. Scarface and Smoker had packed the gun away. Smoker carried the case as they headed back to their car, a blue Vectra. Schaefer memorised the number plate, but as they pulled away, realised he might not need it. Instead of heading out of the valley, Scarface, who was driving, steered the car up the little lane.

  Schaefer turned the boat around and pushed the throttle as far as it would go. The engine kicked in with a satisfying jolt. About a mile away, the road came to a dead end and cars were forced to dogleg right across a narrow humpback bridge. Schaefer looked at the bridge and registered a tractor parked in a lay-by beside it. This was going to be tight, but he had the advantage. The river curved south, giving Schaefer a shorter distance to travel. He watched the Vectra wend its way towards the bridge. Smoke and Scarface didn’t see Schaefer as enough of a threat to kill, so they weren’t in any particular hurry to get away from him. Schaefer moved to the bow of the boat, and jumped as it hit the bank. He rolled to his feet and raced towards the tractor, a bright yellow JCB. Schaefer grabbed a large stone and used it to smash the locked cab. He forced open the door and smashed open the dash panel to reveal the electrical wiring. He’d hotwired a number of cars, but never a tractor. The principle was the same, and once he found the ignition wiring system, he got to work. Smoker and Scarface were almost at the bridge. As they reached it, Schaefer got the first turn of the engine. When they crested the humpback, the tractor roared into life, and as they came down the other side of the bridge, Schaefer slipped the heavy machine into gear and turned it onto the road. He drove the tractor directly at the oncoming car. Scarface tried to swerve but there wasn’t the time or space. The tractor smashed into the Vectra and sent the car crashing against the bridge wall. The tractor barely registered the collision, but the Vectra was an airbag-filled mangled wreck. Schaefer was out of the cab before the vehicles had stopped moving. Smoker was unconscious, but Scarface, who was badly injured and bleeding from a head wound, watched Schaefer as he clambered across the Vectra’s buckled bonnet and approached the driver’s door. As Schaefer reached out and grabbed Scarface, the bloodied man produced a Heckler & Koch P30 and held it against Schaefer’s chin. The two men stared at each other, knowing they’d reached the end of the road.

  “You’ll never know,” Scarface said with a wicked smile.

  Schaefer expected death, but instead Scarface turned and shot Smoker in the head. As the dead man’s body spasmed next to him, Scarface put the barrel in his mouth and pulled the trigger. Schaefer stepped back as the bullet ripped through the back of the man’s skull.

  Schaefer checked the road; nothing in either direction. What had started as a plan to find the man holding his daughter had ended with the deaths of four people, two innocents and two evil men who were killed before they could give up their secrets. Schaefer only had one hope of recovering anything from the situation. He took out his Leatherman, selected the sharp knife and moved towards the wrecked car.

  TWENTY THREE

  Until he knew how they had tracked him, Schaefer couldn’t trust anyone or anything. He returned to Lomas’ boathouse hideout and collected Baker’s car. He drove the BMW into Ross-On-Wye and parked it on a side road that ran off the high street. Schaefer went into the local branch of Scott’s and selected an entire new wardrobe; black jeans, dark blue shirt, and a black leather jacket. New boots, new socks, new underwear and a new wallet, which he picked up at the checkout. He left his old wallet and clothes in the shop’s changing room and stepped onto the High Street a new man. What might have seemed like paranoia to others was simple good practice to Schaefer. He tried to keep up with the latest surveillance techniques and knew that the security services made use of tracking devices that were so small they were virtually undetectable. He had a lon
gstanding policy of not having credit cards because he knew that with the right equipment a card’s location could be pinpointed through its chip. The only other potential weak spots were his new phone and his tainted Leatherman. If Baker had given them his new telephone number … Schaefer took out the SIM card and tossed the phone in the nearest bin. He ground the SIM against the pavement with the heel of his new boots.

  Schaefer returned to the quiet side road, but instead of going back to the BMW, he selected a Ford Focus. Using a wire hanger he’d coiled and concealed in the clothes shop, he broke into the car and circumvented the alarm in moments. He had the engine running in under a minute, but before he drove away, Schaefer slipped out of the car and dropped his now tainted Leatherman through the grimy slats of a nearby drain. Other than himself, Schaefer’s only physical link to the past was the contents of the crumpled carrier bag in his pocket, and there was no danger that they contained a tracking device. Schaefer returned to the car, and drove out of Ross-on-Wye considering his next move.

  Baker. Schaefer weighed the possibility that the fat man had betrayed him. Baker didn’t know who had given Schaefer Lomas’ name. Even Schaefer didn’t have Shark Eyes’ real name. Even someone with Baker’s skills wouldn’t have been able to make the connection without more information. Unless Baker was somehow linked to MI5, in which case a connection became very feasible. Baker did have an uncanny ability to locate people, and a level of skill that went beyond any other private investigator Schaefer had ever encountered. Schaefer could not rule out the possibility that Baker had betrayed him. He would have to test the fat man’s loyalty. Baker had said he would wait at the service station just outside town for three hours in case Schaefer needed anything else. When Schaefer got there, two hours after they had parted, Baker was gone. Not a good sign of the man’s loyalty. Perhaps he knew Schaefer wouldn’t be needing anything else.

  Schaefer chewed up the motorway between the West Country and London, his cold fury with Baker growing with each devoured mile. By the time he reached Marble Arch, and dumped the stolen Ford Focus in Seymour Street, Schaefer was convinced of Baker’s betrayal. Schaefer was certain enough of his own skills to be sure that he would have noticed any surveillance. Whoever these people were, Security Service, Collective, they wouldn’t have relied on electronic tracking alone. They would have found a human element to compromise, and that element had to be Baker, or his brother. Schaefer took the tube from Marble Arch and forty minutes later was crossing Whitechapel Road towards Baker’s office. The lights were on, and, through the slatted blinds, Schaefer could see Baker’s familiar shadow cast against the discoloured wall. Schaefer pressed the buzzer and looked directly into the video camera beside the door. He was alert for any sign of surprise or inconsistency with normal behaviour. But there was none; after a short pause, the door buzzed open and Schaefer was allowed inside.

  As he climbed the stairs, Schaefer could hear Baker joking with his younger brother.

  “So he’s sitting there in this tiny plane, on this chemical toilet, with a curtain held up to his neck, apologising to all the other passengers, and shits out the most disgusting sounds and smells ever,” Baker said, laughing loudly.

  Billy chuckled with the politeness of someone who’s heard a joke before.

  “And this happened to a mate of yours?” he asked.

  “Yeah, Pike-O, from down the way,” Baker replied confidently.

  “Only it sounds a lot like a story I read on the Internet a couple of years back,” Billy countered.

  Baker was saved from further humiliation by Schaefer’s entrance. He pushed the door open and stood in the doorway studying the two men. Billy, with his dark, greasy hair, sallow skin and acne-ridden complexion, leant against the desk, while Baker kicked back in his old chair. Schaefer watched for the slightest hint of betrayal. The two brothers looked at Schaefer for a moment, before Baker finally broke the silence.

  “So?”

  Schaefer didn’t answer immediately. His eyes scoured the men for signs of anything other than the mild discomfort they were starting to show as a result of the scrutiny.

  “Schaefer?” Baker asked. “Are you okay?”

  “How long have you been working with the Collective?” Schaefer asked.

  “What?” Baker countered. “What the fuck?”

  Baker and Billy exchanged a look that might have been complicity, or might have been bewilderment at the accusation. Schaefer couldn’t be certain. He couldn’t afford to give them the benefit of the doubt.

  “How long have you been working with the Collective?” Schaefer yelled.

  Billy tried to step away from the desk, but Schaefer stepped forward and pushed him back.

  “Stay where you are,” Schaefer commanded. “You both know how this works. Guilty until proven innocent.”

  “Fuck, Schaefer,” Baker said nervously, “I have no idea what you’re talking about. I told you everything I know about the Collective. What happened out there?”

  Baker’s reaction seemed genuine, but Schaefer knew the kind of training MI5 gave their people. Throw in the prospect that Baker was involved in a cult, and the truth would be very hard to get to. Hard, but not impossible.

  “How long have you been working with the Collective?” Schaefer punctuated the question with a fierce punch to Billy’s left ribs. Schaefer felt the familiar crack of bone, and Baker’s little brother doubled over, wheezing in pain.

  When Schaefer turned to look at Baker, the fat man had produced a pistol from one of his desk drawers.

  “What are you doing?” Schaefer asked calmly. “You’re only going to make it worse for yourselves.”

  “I’ve had enough of your shit, Schaefer! Get out!” Baker exclaimed. “I’ve put up with this for years because I felt sorry for you. You and your fucking hard luck story. But you’re just another nutter. So. Get. The. Fuck. Out!”

  Baker had miscalculated. He was no expert with firearms, and had overplayed his hand against someone who was. Flashy gangsters and the calibre illiterate didn’t realise that the shiny stainless steel favoured by so many gun fetishists made it very easy to see the black plastic safety lever above the hand grip. The manual safety on the Walther PPK/S had to be horizontal in order for the gun to fire. Baker’s was still down.

  Schaefer leaped across the desk and grabbed the gun before Baker had the chance to realise his error. He pushed the fat man to the floor, and smacked him with the heavy pistol. Billy, who had recovered, tried to come to his brother’s aid, but Schaefer wheeled round and cold-clocked him with the butt of the gun. Billy fell hard, and cracked his head against the desk as he went down. Running on automatic, but totally senseless, Billy tried to get up, but oblivion caught up with him and he passed out against the dusty carpet. Baker recovered his senses and saw his unconscious brother, a trickle of blood running from his nose.

  “What the fuck have you done?” Baker exclaimed, his voice cracking with emotion. “We helped you.”

  Schaefer looked down at Baker, who was bleeding from a deep cut on his cheek. This man was one of the few people who had shown him kindness in recent years. But they would use human emotion against him. Trust. Love. Faith. Loyalty. These priceless human connections had been subverted by cults countless times. How could he not proceed? How could he fail to test Baker’s honesty? With his recent experiences, Schaefer had even begun to doubt himself. Why should he treat Baker better than he treated himself? In a sudden lucid moment, Schaefer wondered whether he should doubt his reactions in this moment. Were they rational? Would they help him get to Amber? Or were they the product of whatever delusional part of his mind brought on visions, voices and other imaginings? Schaefer leant against the desk, and found tears running down his face. Why was he crying? Because you’re losing your mind, came a voice from within. Look at what you’ve done. Baker’s fear was writ large. The fat man was more disturbed by Schaefer’s tears than he was by the violence. An unhinged man, holding a gun. Baker’s eyes darted nervously tow
ards the pistol, and Schaefer could see him considering whether to make a lunge. Let it go.

  Schaefer wasn’t sure whether he could trust the voice in his head, but it seemed his only way out of the situation without torturing Billy and Baker. He dropped the gun, and Baker immediately rushed to check on his brother, who started to stir at his touch. Baker wheeled round at Schaefer.

  “What the fuck has happened to you, Schaefer?” he demanded to know.

  Schaefer fought to suppress the lump in his throat, and wiped his eyes. Now was not the time for weakness. He was close to whoever had taken Amber, and he could not let her down.

  “Two men followed me,” Schaefer said calmly, as though the preceding few minutes had never happened. “They ambushed us at Lomas’ house.”

  “And you think I had something to do with that?” Baker countered, as he helped a groggy Billy into his chair. “You okay, Bill?”

  Baker clicked his fingers in front of his brother’s eyes, and Billy focused.

  “Follow my finger,” Baker said as he moved it laterally in front of Billy’s face. His younger brother’s eyes tracked the moving digit. “Well, at least you’ve not got any brain damage.”

  “Not any more than usual,” Billy countered, as he looked up and caught sight of Schaefer. “What the fuck is he doing here?”

  Billy tried to stand, but Baker restrained him.

  “You’d better go,” Baker told Schaefer.

  “I—” Schaefer started, looking at the two brothers, who stared at him with venom in their eyes. Schaefer wasn’t sure how to go on.

  “Get the fuck out!” Billy exclaimed.

  “They killed Lomas and his niece,” Schaefer said. There was a hint of desperation in his voice, which concerned him. He had to be strong. The desperate were never strong. “Two of the MI5 agents. They shot them with a sniper’s rifle. But they let me live.”

  “Just get the fuck out!” Baker rounded on Schaefer. “Psychics! Cults! MI5! You sound like a fucking conspiracy nut! Get out!”