The Ice House (29 page)

He got the binoculars up again. The guy had his head down, and he was still speaking to someone, on a mobile, Carl thought. It was a risk to ignore him. But if Liz did what he had asked her to do then the guy wouldn’t see her. He was pretty sure she wouldn’t be pacing around in the woods exposing herself to unwanted attention. She was more frightened than he was. And he was frightened. He could feel his heart, the sweat across his forehead. This wasn’t something he was good at. It involved getting in close. He liked to keep away from danger, use a long range sight. That was what he was trained to do, not sneaking around on his belly with a gun that he probably wouldn’t even be able to shoot straight.

He checked the time on the mobile again. He would take the risk. He stood and started to hurry towards the frozen stream bed.

53

Julia waited fifteen minutes in the car, then had to get out. The anxiety was like a worm in her brain, screaming at her, telling her she had to get to Rebecca. She got out the phone many times. She needed to make the call to Viktor – she had told him she would call when they were near – but there was no signal in the car. She had told Rebecca she would be five hours but it had been a lot longer than that. She needed Rebecca to know she was here, that she was coming. It was absurd that she had arrived, that her daughter was only a few hundred metres away from her, yet she could do nothing but sit here fretting. If she called Viktor then he would bring Rebecca to the phone. She needed to hear her voice, to know for certain that she was still unharmed.

But what if Rebecca had done what she said, what if she had actually managed to get away from him? She cursed the advice she had given. It was reckless, ill thought out. Or not thought out at all. Where could Rebecca possibly hide? If she got out of the building then there was nothing but forest and sub-zero temperatures. If she tried to hide inside the place they would find her, do something to her. The advice had been insane.

But what else could she say? She had no idea if Viktor intended to wait until she arrived. Maybe he had planned to kill Rebecca once he knew she was coming, in which case it was essential that Rebecca not just sit around waiting for her, waiting for Viktor to end her life.

She started crying again, gagging in her throat, but nothing came out of her eyes. They were red and swollen and sore. She had cried so much there were no tears left. She felt utterly ­stupid and helpless. The despair was like a massive weight inside her, pulling her into the ground.

So she got out and walked towards the house, following the road, phone in her hand, watching for a signal. Alex had left the shotgun on the passenger seat, beside her, loaded and ready, ‘safety off’, as he said. He had even showed her what to do with it – point it and pull the triggers, one at a time. There were two triggers – that was the only complication. But she had barely listened, and she was cautiously approaching the bend in the road – the point where it crested the slight ridge and started downhill – before she realised she had left the gun on the seat.

Like Alex had done, she cut away from the road, into the forest, then crouched and crept closer to the edge. She needed to see what was going on. If something went wrong and she could see things happening, then maybe she could react, do something about it. She couldn’t just keep out of it, sit there blind and helpless.

It was only when the house came into view again that she got a signal on the phone. The house was the same as it had been twenty minutes ago, still and silent. She couldn’t see Alex anywhere. She rolled sideways, onto her back, and put in the number Viktor had texted her. She pressed to call and held it to her ear, held her breath. She was already shivering violently.

‘Liz,’ he said. ‘Are you here?’ The same calm voice. She bit down on her knuckles to stop herself from sobbing aloud. ‘Can you hear me, Liz?’ he asked.

‘I can hear you,’ she said.

‘Where are you?’

‘I’m near. I need to speak to Rebecca.’

‘Are you on the road? How did you get here?’

‘Let me speak to her. Please. Let me speak to her.’ She had to stop herself screaming it.

‘I’ll get her. She’s sleeping.’ There was a pause, then he said, ‘I’ll call you back.’ The line went dead. Had there been a different tone in his voice?

She waited, then turned onto her stomach again and stared at the building. He was in there, moving from one room to another, going for her daughter. But she could see nothing.

Suddenly, she heard something from below her, from down near the old stable block, a crackle and a voice, high-pitched, mechanical, like over a radio set. It came to her very clearly through the still air. She could hear words being spoken, but in Russian, or some other language she didn’t understand. She twisted in the snow and looked off to the left, then froze. There was a man standing there, not fifty metres from her. He had a long gun in one hand, a handheld radio in the other, pressed against his mouth. He started to speak into it as she was looking. She squirmed back a little, pressed herself flat. The crackle came again across the snow, then the same voice over the radio, very loud. Was it Viktor? She felt the breath catch in her throat. The man said something curt, then lowered the radio into his pocket. He seemed to be looking straight at her. She kept still, paralysed with indecision. Wait, or get up and run? He had a gun, but as soon as she moved away from the edge she would be out of sight, unless he ran up and over it, after her. Then it would be a race to the car. There were many trees to cover her.

She let a breath out, pressed herself even lower. Maybe he would walk away. At that moment the phone in her hand began to ring.

Rebecca was facing backwards, hanging onto the inside edge of the window sill, one knee still inside the frame, the other leg outside and feeling against the wall with her toes, trying to find the ledge. She got her foot against it and brought the other leg down, still hanging on. She stood as best she could on the ledge, straightened her arms, without looking down, and looked past the open window pane to where the ledge led along to the flat roof. It was about three metres away. But to get there she would have to get past the open window pane. She could take one hand off the sill, she thought, get it around the central window strut, then shuffle nearer to the pane, lean out and close the window so she could get past it. But would she then be able to reach to the next window ledge?

She didn’t think so. She started trembling, her knees shaking so much she could feel her feet starting to slip. She bit her lip and a little squeaky noise of fright came out of her throat. There was no way she could move along the ledge without hanging onto something, and past her own window there was a two-metre gap before she could get her hand on the next window. So she couldn’t do it. She looked down and gripped the sill even tighter, forcing her knees against the stonework. From her feet to the ground was further than she had thought, but still less than a three-metre drop. She could do it. But she didn’t know how deep the snow was, or what was beneath it.

She started to change position, moving her left hand to get a better grip so she could lean out and lower her right leg a little more. Then she heard a noise from within the room, an unmistakable noise – someone turning a key in a lock. She moved her weight quickly back towards the wall, thinking she would try to hide there, on the outside of the window, keeping her head down until they left, but her training shoe slipped and her left leg dropped into mid-air. There was a moment where she thought she could recover the position, get the leg back up. But her balance changed as the leg swung out and she twisted sharply, one hand automatically coming off the sill. She tried to get her fingers into the window hinge to stop her body moving further round, at the same time lifting the left leg to try again with the toe, but before she even properly knew what was happening her other leg had slid off the edge and she was falling.

There was no time to do anything like think about how to land. Her hands were off and the next moment she was striking the ground. She felt the impact, then was rolling in snow. She didn’t even have time to shout.

She was breathing fast. Above her she could see the open window. She was on her back, half-buried in a snow drift, her bum smarting a little, her head spinning, but unhurt. She rolled onto her side and got to her knees. She stood carefully, ­bracing herself against the house wall, just in case something was injured. There was a scraping noise above her and she turned her head up to see the window pane moving, a hand pulling at it. She flattened herself against the house wall as a head looked out – Viktor, she thought, though from the angle it was hard to tell. He shouted something very loud. There was a pause and she thought he would pull his head back, disappear, but instead he looked straight down, straight at her.

He yelled at her immediately, his face red with anger. She pushed off the wall and tripped in the snow, fell face first into the drift. He was shouting her name as she got herself up again, swearing at her in English. She didn’t look up but half stepped, half ran towards the part of the building with the flat roof. If she got round it she would be out of his sight. Her head was very clear now. She sucked the icy air into her lungs. She could see the line of trees, the darkness beneath them. She gritted her teeth, put her head down and ran.

A trap, a fucking trap. Viktor had hung up and rung back to give her position away. As Julia scrambled backwards, the phone stopped suddenly. She glanced back, saw the man bringing the gun up, then twisted and dived headfirst down the slope. As she staggered to her knees the phone came out of her hand and spun off, causing her to hesitate just long enough to hear the crack of a gunshot close behind. She heard a splintering noise in the branches above her, ducked her head and yelled out, forgot about the phone. She started running for the car, one hand fumbling in her pocket for the key card.

She was quickly over the ridge and out of sight, weaving through the mass of tree trunks, panting, trying to look behind without crashing into anything. She was almost at the car before he came into view. She tumbled out of the forest onto the road and tried to sprint the last few metres, but her feet slipped treacherously on the compacted, icy surface. She heard him yell something, then a terrifying bang as he fired again. She thought she saw a spray of snow kicked up from near the driver’s door. She got to it, skidding, falling, dragging herself up, wrenched the door open and looked back. He was running full out for her, the gun at his side.

She got in and banged the door shut, pressed the ignition and got her feet onto the pedals. It was an automatic, a diesel. It seemed to splutter to life in agonising slow motion. She saw herself engaging the gear stick into drive, yelling incoherently, heard the wheels spinning, then catching on the chains. With a lurch she was moving.

She spun the wheel to keep to the road, flattened the accelerator and felt the whole car slip and skid. It came out of it and started picking up speed. She saw him stop, off to the left, still deep in the trees. There was a flash and the next second the windscreen erupted into a rain of shattered glass. The screen collapsed and the frozen air rushed in at her. Automatically, she floored the brake, twisting the car to a halt, then screamed with frustration. She had stalled it.

She tried desperately to start it again, her fingers fumbling with fright. She was still below the bend in the road, stopped at right angles, across the road. She could see him moving in front of her, no more than ten metres away, moving towards her through the trees. Everything was clear because there was only a broken rim of glass where the windscreen should be. With horror, she saw him pause a second time, raise the gun to his shoulder and fire. She yelled and ducked low, moving sideways across the passenger seat, so that her right arm was pressing on the stock of the shotgun. For the first time since she had seen him she remembered it was there.

She brought it up with two hands and pushed it through the hole where the glass had been, her finger pressed against the first trigger, ready. But now he had vanished. She dropped her left hand off the gun, leaving it lying across the dashboard, resting against the broken glass, pointed straight out, her finger still on the trigger, then found the starter button and pressed it.

The engine came to life just as he jumped into view. He had come from the left, from behind a screen of bushes. He came onto the road right in front of her, not two metres away from the bonnet, the gun held at his shoulder, pointed directly at her. She pulled the trigger.

There was an ear-splitting bang. The shotgun leaped up and struck the top of the windscreen frame, twisting her hand. Behind it she saw him picked from his feet and thrown back. She pressed the accelerator. The car turned sideways and started grinding up the hill, the tyres spinning. She ignored the pain in her wrist and hauled at the wheel. The car righted itself slowly, but she had control. She pressed the accelerator more cautiously, felt the chains get traction, ducked her head low and prayed that he wasn’t capable of getting up.

54

Rebecca was running for all she was worth. She heard the shots but they sounded distant, off to the left and behind her, two sharp cracks that echoed multiple times off the slopes in front of her. Ahead, from deep within the tree line, a large flock of big dark birds took off in alarm, squawking loudly. She stopped running and looked frantically behind her, back to the main building.

The front of the house had pillars and arches framing the windows, the back was a messy jumble of smaller buildings and more modern extensions. She could see almost to the front now, but no one was coming from there. She was clear of the flat garden area and almost at the edge of the woods. The distance had been further than she thought. Still, another dash and she would be in the shadows, she could drop down and hide, rest her lungs and legs.

She tried to pick out the window she had jumped from, but the house was maybe a hundred metres back, and there were so many windows. She couldn’t see Viktor anywhere. She sucked big breaths of air, felt her face burning. Running was hard because she was sinking knee-deep in snow with each step. She had been giving it all she could but it wasn’t the same as running on a race track.

Another shot split the brittle air. She flinched automatically, started off again, then caught movement at the edge of her view, coming from the other direction, from around the back of the house. She hadn’t looked there. But when she tried now the sun was full in her eyes, blinding her. She brought her hand up and felt a sudden kick of fright. Someone was very close, running at her, throwing up great flurries of snow as he came – a man in heavy coats, holding something. She heard him shout, was sure it was one of the guys who had been in the car with Viktor. He was going very fast.

She had to try to out-run him. She started to sprint, putting everything into it. In front of her the land rose sharply up a three-metre bank where the forest began. If she got that far maybe she could lose him in the trees. There was a tangle of undergrowth and young trees. If she could get into it and hide, get down low, keep still.

She was thinking she could do it – he was fast, an adult, but she was trained for this – but then suddenly the snow got deeper and she started to stumble. She was determined to get over the top and down into the shadows beyond. He was still shouting as she heaved her knees up the gradient, pulling with her gloved hands at the saplings poking through the snow. She glanced back as she was past the first tree, took a breath, saw him still coming at her.

Carl was near the edge of the woods, about thirty metres to the side of her, when she came over the top, running, stumbling, falling through the thin cover of bare saplings and broken branches. Her eyes were wide with fear, the breath puffing out in front of her.

He had been crouched, past the frozen stream, scanning what he could see of the main building over the top of the little fold of land that ran like a wall along the edges of what would have been the garden. Seconds before there had been three shots from the direction of the hill where he had left Liz. That had panicked him so much he had changed plan immediately, decided to get back up there, but before he could start ­moving the shouting had started from somewhere near the rear of the house. He thought the voice might be Viktor’s. So he had hesitated. Within seconds she was there. Rebecca.

Between them there was an actual wall, or the knee-high remains of one – the old boundary wall – broken stones tumbled in the snow. She was dashing towards it, cutting across to the left of him. She hadn’t seen him. He stood to shout to her as another man came over the slope behind her, running very fast, a long rifle in one hand. In seconds they were past his position, into the woods, the man gaining rapidly, chasing her.

There was no shot he could risk. The separation between them was less than ten metres and he had no idea how the MP5 would fire, except that it would definitely be more like a spray than an accurate, tight pattern. He straightened and started to run for them instead, coming from the side and a little behind the man, trying to pick a course through the light undergrowth that would cut him off, but without getting into his field of vision.

The man was focused on Rebecca, shouting at her, head down, concentrating on leaping through the litter of obstacles. She was going very fast, considering the snow, but he was bigger, with a longer stride. He would get to her before Carl could stop him.

Carl kept his eyes on them. He was still fifteen metres away when the man reached her, stretching out and catching her hair, dragging her back with a scream. She twisted round and fell, then rolled towards him and started kicking at his legs while he was still recovering his balance. At that moment, Carl was less than ten metres from them, closing fast, weaving through the branches, the MP5 held to the side of him. He was making so much noise he was sure the guy would turn, but he was too busy yelling at Rebecca, trying to control her hysterical struggles. She was shrieking and shouting, kicking with all her might at his shins. As Carl got to within five metres, the man raised the rifle to bring it down into her face, and at that moment he saw Carl hurtling towards him. His eyes widened with surprise, his arm froze.

Carl leaped with the MP5 swinging towards the guy’s face. The man had just enough space to duck, let go of Rebecca and step sideways. He was trying to get two hands onto the rifle, but Carl was coming too fast, with too much weight. His left shoulder smashed into the guy before he could get a good grip on the gun, knocking him flying. They both crashed into the snow, Carl on top.

As they recovered, the man dropped the rifle and started lashing out, with feet and hands. Two blows connected before Carl could get back onto one knee, then he brought the MP5 above the man’s arms, just out of reach, intending to jab it down into his face, or club him with it. But he was clumsy with the thick, padded clothing, everything too slow. Before he could strike him the guy got his legs behind and they both went down again, Carl to the side of him, the gun knocked from his hand. He tried to get a hand round the guy’s neck as he fell, but the ­clothing was too thick.

They rolled, locked against each other, snow and sticks in Carl’s face. He started to thump at the man, putting all his strength into it, hitting anywhere he could reach. The guy was grunting and swearing at him, still on his back, but pushing himself away, stronger than Carl, determined to open some space between them. He got far enough off to kick straight through Carl’s arms, hitting his forehead with a heavy, booted foot. Carl dropped to the snow, the world swimming in front of him. As he pushed himself up, he glimpsed Rebecca off to the left, up on her feet and fleeing.

He got onto his knees then stood, his head clearing rapidly.

The man was five metres away, scrambling on all fours, pulling at his clothing as if trying to loosen his coat. Carl’s eyes found the MP5, someway between them. He lurched towards it, stooped, straightened up with his finger over the trigger. The guy was turning towards him, pulling a pistol from beneath the coat. Carl had the MP5 pointed right at him, an easy shot, but behind the guy Rebecca was still in a direct line, running for all she was worth. She was twenty metres off, but it wasn’t enough. Anything going past or through the guy would hit her.

Carl knew at once what was going to happen. He changed his plan and tried to dash forwards, to kick the pistol out of the guy’s hands before he could fire it, or at least spoil his aim. He screamed as he ran, waved his arms, but it was all useless. The guy fired before he could get even half the distance.

A little gun, he thought, as he heard the bang, saw the flash, felt the whack into his chest. Not powerful enough to pick him off his feet, but it stopped him.

He had never been shot before. He straightened up with difficulty, saw Rebecca still sprinting behind the man, nearly thirty metres away. ‘Run, Rebecca!’ he yelled. ‘Run!’ Then felt it, the snapping compression in his chest. Like a heart attack.

Time seemed to unravel and slow. He was still standing. He got both hands onto the MP5 again, braced his legs, waited for the next shot. But the guy was distracted, doing something with the pistol. It was either jammed or empty. Carl saw him throw it aside and bend down to retrieve the big hunting rifle.

His balance was going, he needed to sink down, drop the gun. But he had to stay standing long enough to get a shot in. Even if the guy fired again he couldn’t go down, couldn’t give in. He saw Rebecca start to turn, curving away from the man, opening up the angle. In a couple of seconds she would be clear enough for him to shoot.

He was surprised by how quick it was – the effect of the bullet. A tiny .22 calibre, he guessed. He was astonished by how lucidly he could think about it all. He had felt nothing in his back, no tearing of flesh and bone as it exited. So maybe it was still in there, not even enough energy to get right through him, from point-blank range. But it had fucked him. He was done. He was bleeding all down the front of his clothing, bleeding inside. Any moment now he was going to black out and collapse. He kept his eyes on Rebecca, the gun up. His vision started to blur.

He sank into a kneeling position as the guy worked the bolt on the rifle. He could hear himself coughing and gasping, taste the blood welling into his mouth. Rebecca seemed way off now, very distant, the angle safe. The guy was bringing the rifle up to finish him. He summoned all the strength he could muster and pulled the trigger. The gun shook crazily, making a small crackling sound. Almost instantaneously, the burst was over, the magazine empty.

Now he couldn’t see the man, couldn’t see Rebecca. His eyes were fixed on a small patch of snow-covered ground thirty centi­metres in front of his face. His hands wouldn’t move. He tried to breathe without choking but it was like he was drowning. He knew there was blood running out of his mouth. He moved his eyes with immense difficulty, trying to lengthen the focus. Where the man had been there was a heap of darkness against the white. He fell forwards, flat onto his face, the gun beneath him.

This was what it was like, then, he thought, to die of a gunshot wound. He had considered what it might feel like so many times. There was no pain, no sensation at all from his body, except a kind of detached awareness of the choking. He had imagined he wouldn’t care when this happened. But he did care. He didn’t want it, not now. A wave of dizziness washed through him.

He wanted to see his daughter. He wanted to hold her, hug her, say sorry, tell her he had tried his best. She was running, getting away. There was nothing more he could do. It was down to Liz now. He was going to go in seconds, pass out. And that would be it. He was certain of it. He couldn’t get enough air. The blackness was already rising through him like a tide.