Part 40 (1/2)

But she couldn't flag down a lift. Look who the last lift turned out to be.

The thoughts rushed through her mind much faster than it would take to say them. Even as they did, she was seeing what she saw: over there, in the trees, a shadow, moving. Not in time with the other moving shadows. A shape, then, rather than a shadow: the shape of a man.

She shut the front door of the car. Moved round to the back.

It was a man; it was the man from the island. Like everybody else these days, he carried a gun.

Back on automatic it was important to do these things on automatic she turned as if she hadn't seen him, and opened the car boot. It'll be locked, she thought but it wasn't locked. It'll be gone, she thought, raising the lid but it wasn't gone. I won't be able to use it, she thought but picked it up anyway.

Sarah turned smoothly, and pointed the shotgun at Howard.

He stopped, and pursed his lips . . . a pretty minor reaction, on the whole.

Behind her, Sarah heard a soft thump from the car. Dinah, falling off the seat, maybe . . . and knew, as surely as she'd ever known anything, that whatever was going to happen next, it couldn't happen anywhere near Dinah. Better the child was left in the car on her own than be near what happened next.

So she turned and ran into the trees.

Follow follow follow . . . She didn't know what she'd do if he didn't follow. She didn't know what she was going to do if he did. But that was what happened: he did. Waited the beat of her heart in the clearing, then took off after her into the trees.

He was still carrying a gun, she knew, but he wasn't firing it: that was good. And she was still holding the shotgun, though knew she wouldn't be able to use it herself. She remembered those other woods, that little copse, where Michael had made her point it and shoot, and she'd blasted a hole through leaf and branch, none of it offering any more resistance than the human body would . . . No, she wasn't about to shoot anyone.

But if he killed her, what was to stop him killing Dinah, too?

The thought made her faster. She jumped a fallen log. The denim jacket she wore Michael's snagged a branch, but she tugged it free. Behind her, she heard him fall, maybe on that same log, and for a moment his English swearing filled the Scottish air . . . She half stumbled, and nearly dropped the gun. This wouldn't do. Wouldn't work. Any moment now she'd fall, and blow her own brains out . . .

And burst out of the trees with that thought in her head, into a clearing of stubby gra.s.s, and rabbit s.h.i.+t, and picnic litter. With the shotgun in her hand, and Michael's jacket, and maybe a minute to spare . . .

A minute was all it took. Then Howard was in the clearing with her.

'Always leave the chamber empty?' said Amos Crane. Slowly, he drew his hands from his pockets.

'Don't even think about it.'

'Would that mean what I think it means?'

'Don't even think about it.'

'Shoot him,' said Michael.

'Shut up.'

Amos Crane smiled. It was amazing where you found the edge. Here in a disused chapel miles from anywhere, with the man he'd come to kill and a woman he'd dreamed about. And women always hesitate; leave that whisker of a chance.

'Are you comfortable with that?' he asked.

Zoe tried not to answer . . .

'. . . Comfortable with what?'

'A head shot,' said Crane. Without pointing, with just a nod of his head, he indicated the direction of the gun barrel: levelled straight between his eyes, in hands steady as most rocks. 'Don't get me wrong. Head shot's what I'd go with.'

'. . . So?'

'Just shoot him for Christ's sake!'

'So most people aren't as fast as me. You hit me, I'm dead, no question. But it's kind of a small target, don't you see? And if you miss, well . . .'

Zoe didn't twitch a muscle.

'. . . Well, if you miss, you're dead. You and him both.'

'Kill the f.u.c.ker!'

'On the other hand,' blithely as if Michael had not spoken, 'you go for the chest, say, and it might not kill me straight off. Oh sure, shot to the heart, pouf! I'm dead. But otherwise, well, there's lots of complicated body parts in there, as I'm sure we both know, and you'd do me so much damage I'd probably die whatever. But maybe not immediately, you know what I'm getting at? And then we're back to plan B. You're dead. You and him both.'

'Look, you dumb b.i.t.c.h '

'Shut up,' Zoe said evenly.

The silver gun just lay there in the dust by Amos Crane's feet. She had no idea on earth how long it would take to reach his hands.

'Gut shot, well, same again. I've seen people live for hours with a bullet in the belly. Well, I'll rephrase that. I've watched people die for hours with a bullet in the belly. That's a.s.suming lack of medical intervention, of course. But that won't bother you one way or the other, will it? Because you'll be dead. You and him both.'

'Be my guest.'

'And, well, anywhere else . . . You're not planning on shooting to wound, are you?'

She shook her head.

'Fine. If you were, I hardly need tell you . . .'

'I'd be dead,' said Zoe flatly.

'Uh-huh.'

'Me and him both.'

'Uh-huh.'

'Do you want to take those two steps back now? Because I'm not asking again.'

Amos Crane took half a step back, and half a step forward again. 'You don't remember me, do you?'

'Shoot him!'

'I know you don't, or you'd never have got in the car.'

'Shoot him!'

'I was on the train. I watched you walk past. You were carrying,' he said dreamily, 'a cup of coffee and two packets of sandwiches.'