“The cops are going to show up here eventually,” she said. “And when they do, they are going to be asking lots of questions. My husband was a well-known man. There are going to be cops all over this island looking for evidence of what happened to us. They’re going to take you in for questioning.”
“I can handle cops.”
She looked at him. “Why do you stay here? What’s here, Rory?”
“Peace, quiet, birds. Lots of birds.”
“My dad likes birds too.”
“Shearwaters are my favorite. Burrows all over the southern dunes. They fly here from Alaska, if you can believe it.”
She smiled. “You’re not a murderer, Rory. You’re not like them. You’re not part of this yet. You’ve done nothing wrong. You’re police.”
“Maybe you’re right about all of that,” Rory said after a long pause. “Maybe I don’t want to kill you. But I don’t have to. I can shoot this thing at your legs. You’ll be singing a different tune when I blow your kneecaps off. Is that what you want? I’ll bloody do it. Now, sit back down again.”
She felt the sights settle on her lower body.
Shit, he was really going to do it.
His bluff had beaten her bluff.
She wasn’t good at this.
“I’m sitting down,” she said.
Rory rested the shotgun on his lap, picked up the walkie-talkie, and found the right channel. “Oi, Matt are you around?” Static. “Matt?”
“Yes, this is Matt. Who’s this?”
“Rory. You’ll never believe who just walked into my house.”
“Who?”
“The American.”
“You’re kidding! She with the kids?”
“Just her.”
“Are you pulling me leg?” Matt asked.
“Nope. I got her here.”
“Well done, mate! Hold the fort! Me and Kate will be right there. Over and out!”
Rory put down the walkie-talkie, picked up the gun, and grinned at Heather. “Out of my hands now, love. Out of my hands,” he said. “I’m done talking. If you make one more sound I’ll give you both barrels. Let’s just sit here in peace and wait for the others.”
23
Sweat under her ass. Shotgun pointing at her knees. Two 30-watt bulbs eking out a ration of rancid-butter-yellow light. Dust. Three moths. Four flies. Rory’s cracked lips and grim razor-blade smile.
Seconds counting down.
Five-minute drive from the farm to the prison.
Three hundred seconds.
As soon as Matt and Kate arrived, it was the end of days.
Owen would die in the wee hours.
The others wouldn’t last much longer.
Ticktock.
Ticktock.
Shotgun.
Iron sight.
Three moths.
Four flies.
Sweat.
Lunge at him. Just go for it. Jump.
No. He’ll shoot you.
He won’t; he was a policeman.
That was a lifetime ago.
Yellow light.
Moths.
Flies.
Sweat on Rory’s upper lip.
Ticktock.
Ticktock.
Was that a car engine?
It was.
Shit.
She was dead. Kids were dead. Go, Heather. Go. Now.
“I’m going to get up now. I’m going to get my bagful of water bottles and I’m going to walk out the front door and I’m going to go, OK?”
“Don’t you bloody move!”
Keeping her hands above her head, she slowly got to her feet. She swayed there for a moment.
“Don’t do it!”
She walked across the living room and picked up the bag of water bottles. She walked to the front door and fumbled with the lock.
“Don’t! I’ll shoot.”
She opened the door and pushed on the screen door.
“Come back here!”
The hairs were standing up on the back of her neck.
Her legs were rubber.
The screen door opened.
“This is your last warning!”
She stepped into the night. Onto the veranda.
Just a few…
Fire. Light. Noise.
Something struck her arm and shoulder.
Pain. Heat. A hot scarlet flame.
She fell to the ground, dropped the bag, got up, and ran as hard as she could into the darkness.
There was another shotgun blast, this one nowhere near her.
She ran and ran over the dry grass and red dirt.
At a hundred and fifty yards, she turned and looked back.
A Jeep arrived. Matt, Kate, Ivan, and Jacko got out.
Rory was reloading the shotgun, pointing into the darkness. Pointing in the wrong direction.
It was then she realized that he had deliberately missed.