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“Head back,” said a man with a lyrical voice. “Let’s keep your airway open.” He tilted her crown, and she sensed the long shin bones of crossed legs beneath her spine and neck.
Lexi moaned again and flapped a hand towards her midsection. Air whistled from between her teeth, the physiological result of a cruel foot to the ribs and a garrote. Her garbled sounds made no sense.
“Keep still now,” the male voice soothed. “The paramedics are on their way.”
Lexi sensed her consciousness wink out as her survival instincts took over. Her body couldn’t process the pain in her throat and ribs while she wasted valuable energy on fretting. The darkness enfolded her in its blessed relief, and she sank into the same place as moments before.
Grunwald rubbed warmth into Lexi’s numb arms. She woke to find him using a folded handkerchief to dab the blood from her stained fingers. His gentle hands pushed her fringe away from her face. As her vision returned, she stared at his upside-down features, registering the fear and concern in his eyes. Her mind cleared, ushering in twin waves of agony in paralysing contractions. The pain blinded her, and she could think of nothing else. But terror still filtered through the urgency to remind her that wherever Grunwald went, Rojas followed. She released a sob which bubbled from her lips. A metallic taste filled her mouth as it had in the dark alley when a rogue cop beat her to a bloody pulp.
Lexi flapped her left hand to send her saviour away. Despite his kindness, she couldn’t risk him bringing the wrath of Rojas down on her addled head. But Grunwald clasped her fingers in his and squeezed them. “He’s not coming,” he promised. “I’ll keep him away from you.” He sat on the warm paving slabs as the sun beat down on them and held her, leaning over her to shield her from the glare. “The ambulance is coming,” he promised, his tone growing ragged when no sirens proved him right.
Lexi turned her head to the side, squinting at the potted rose in her eyeline. It sagged from the heat, its bowed petals begging for water. Her cheek brushed against the soft hairs on Grunwald’s forearm. While she slept, he’d placed the cruel wire into an evidence bag. Number Eight wire. The New Zealand farmer’s friend and almost the end of her. It appeared different to how she’d imagined while she struggled beneath its constriction. Not a chance weapon, but one designed to kill. Sam had bent the ends into spoon-like heads, which enabled him to make the first twists using his fingers. No doubt about his intention. Lexi stared at the condensation separating the speckled blood from clear wound drainage against the plastic encasing it. The sun’s rays superheated the bag and turned the wire a dull grey. A second bag contained a metal object which resembled pliers.
Beyond it, Sam Barnard laid with his face pressed into the concrete. His legs and torso covered three of the largest paving slabs before his feet met the lawn. Blood seeped from an open wound at the temple and a dirty sock revealed a lost slipper. Lexi tensed at the sight of him. She drew up her knees and used her heels to gain some traction against the hard surface. Grunwald shushed her and urged her to remain still, but she couldn’t, not with a serial killer resting a few metres away.
At her thrashing and protest, Grunwald heaved himself upright and helped Lexi to rise. She bent at the waist like a snapped tree, unable to draw in a decent breath. Just the effort of standing used her remnants of energy and she swayed against Grunwald without control. She clutched her left arm to her side and panted, drawing oxygen from the shallow breaths. It helped clear her mind, but didn’t soothe the terror of Sam’s nearness. Lexi lifted a shaking right hand and pointed at his prone body. “What?” she managed, desperate for clarity.
Grunwald cleared his throat. He helped her to the steps leading to the kitchen and supported her while she lowered herself down. A groan of pain burst from her lips as her ribs contracted. “I’m not sure.” His voice sounded tremulous and uncertain. He sat beside her on the step and left a decent distance between them. Lexi’s bared teeth and sweating brow became interspersed with moans of agony with every twitch of an errant muscle. “An anonymous call from a private number to my cell phone. A male voice. He named you and gave me this address. Said someone attacked you and left you unconscious. I climbed the perimeter fence and discovered you and the man injured.” He tutted. “Nothing I can do for him. Someone put you in the recovery position and removed the garrote.” He heaved out a doom laden breath. “What happened Miss Allen? Who did this to you both?”
Lexi released a sob of misery. Attempting speech caused her Adam’s apple to bob, which chafed against the weeping throat wound. But she needed to make Grunwald understand. Somehow. She raised a trembling finger and pointed at Sam Barnard. “He killed Father Donald,” she whispered in hoarse strains. “And Liza Barnard in 1995, and two other women in the late 1980s. Get a warrant to seize Darlene Barrymore’s phone. She told him about a call between the priest and Trent Barnard. It revealed that Father Donald never believed Trent killed his sister and met with him in prison regularly. But Trent’s brother had visited him in jail for the first time in years. And so Trent sent the priest to see Keith. After that, Father Donald knew everything. His first instinct was to run, but then he thought about it. He realised he could finish what he’d started and definitively prove Trent’s innocence. Sam Barnard killed all three women and buried them in the dense bush above the Christian camp at Rangiriri. I think Keith always knew that. He kept his father on a short leash and chased away anyone in danger from friendship with him. Including a woman named Doreen Clancy, who tried to warn me.” Lexi groaned and bent double. “That’s what Keith Barnard told Father Donald. That’s what put him in danger and led to his murder. Because he knew too much and had worked it out. He didn’t die because of something he forgave in the confessional, but because of what he heard during a harmless trip to fetch a book for a friend.” She balanced her elbows on her knees and supported her forehead. In the distance, sirens split the airwaves with their rallying cry. “I missed it,” she hissed. “The biggest clue of all. Trent asked Father Donald to fetch a book for him from Keith’s house. My Father is a Serial Killer. Not a book, but a warning.”
