It was 10:33 when we hit a road-sign that said we were three miles from Springville.
I pulled over on an innocuous dirt-track, reached into the back seat, and grabbed the small flashlight the rental company had thrown in along with the car – which I handed to Ellen – then the backpack I’d taken from the guys in LA. I opened the bag, pocketed one of the Walthers, then began to re-zip it.
‘What about me?’ hissed Ellen.
I turned to her.
‘You know your way around a handgun?’
She nodded. ‘I told you: my dad was a libertarian. He took me to the shooting range countless times. It’s been a while, and I only ever used a Glock, but I remember the basics.’
I grunted, and handed her the other Walther. It was unusual for a civilian living in a big city like LA to have experience with a handgun. But while she perhaps knew the basics, I wasn’t ready to put too much faith in her as a wingman quite yet: there’s a big difference between using a weapon at a range and in real life.
But still, some basic backup was better than a kick in the teeth.
‘The magazine’s got ten rounds – .22 bullets – and there’s a suppressor,’ I said. ‘If you’ve ever handled a suppressed Glock, this isn’t worlds away, though it’s actually silent.’
‘Okay,’ Ellen replied confidently.
Ellen pocketed it. Then I feathered the gas, and rejoined the road leading into Springville. A few minutes later, we hit the southernmost point of its main drag, signified by a closed Mexican eatery on our left-hand side, and I continued north at a steady clip of twenty-five mph. And though the streetlights were few and far between, and the shops had their lights off, my headlights illuminated the town’s geography: Springville Fishing Company; Springville Hardware Store; C.F. Smith Realty; The Cowpuncher’s Café.
But though the drag seemed devoid of people, I didn’t take anything for granted. I knew hostiles could conceivably be lurking anywhere.
After a short while, we passed Ward Avenue on our left, which I knew indicated we were only 200 yards from the gazebo, and so – after a further 100 yards – I slowed to a crawl. And as we continued at a pace that meant we were now very much a hittable target, I quickly took in the geography unfolding before me.
Coming up, on the right-hand side, was a two-story red and white building, with a sign out front reading Springville Inn, a kitsch old Wells Fargo wagon affixed to the roof, and eight windows on its front façade – four up, four down. And while I could see that all the windows on the bottom were shuttered,the ones on the top were not, though it was impossible to make out from my angle if there was anyone in the rooms beyond. Directly opposite this, on the left-hand side, was a small supermarket which, unlike the other shops in town, was still very much open: the lights beyond the big glass front window were on, and I could make out an old-timer at the till, reading a magazine.
Because the road-map said it was on the left-hand side, I reckoned the gazebo had to be just beyond the supermarket, and just far enough back from the road to avoid the reach of both my headlights and the nearest streetlamp. But since, if there was a sharpshooter, he’d almost certainly be stationed within the inn, I knew pulling up to the gazebo right away wasn’t an option: we’d be sitting-ducks. So first we needed to investigate the inn.
No sooner had I thought this than I noticed a right turning just before the inn that led to its parking lot at the back of the building. I took the turning, and started rolling along the side of the inn.
‘Right. I think the gazebo’s opposite this inn – meaning, unless we want a hole in the head, we have to make sure the inn’s clear before charging across. So here’s the plan. You’re gonna stay by the car, while I head inside, and check the rooms facing the road. Then we’ll head to the gazebo. Capeesh?’
Ellen nodded.
A few moments later, we were in the parking lot – which was no more than a glorified asphalt square, populated by two other innocuous cars – and I killed the engine. We got out, and both moved through the thick evening darkness to the nose of the car.
‘You got the flashlight and Walther?’ I whispered.
I made out a nod.
‘Keep your wits about you. I’ll be back soon.’
As I made for the building, where there was a small back entrance, I looked up at the back windows – I could see nothing untoward. Then I hit the building, touched my pocket to make sure the Walther was still there, and cracked the door open.
Beyond was an empty hallway. And though I could hear voices emanating from the front of the building, they were far away.
I wiped down the door-handle with my sleeve, and – with my heart going like a jackhammer – began moving quickly into the building: I needed to find the stairs. And after passing through a small arch, I got lucky, they appeared on my left-hand side, and I immediately started up them.
But then, halfway up, I suddenly heard a noise above – like somebody closing a bedroom door – followed by footsteps moving in my direction.
If it was someone hostile, I thought, I’d reach for my weapon. If a civilian, I’d improvise. Those were my options.
I continued moving, involuntarily holding my breath. The footsteps continued. Then a figure appeared at the top of the stairs…
It was a middle-aged woman in a pink blouse. And my gut instinct said: this was a guest. And sure enough, she smiled at me politely, and I responded in kind – and a moment later, we’d passed each other without a word.
But though I knew this was the best case scenario, that this was a damn sight better than if it’d been even a member of staff, I knew the pressure was still on. After all, there was a decent chance the guest would mention my presence to a member of staff, and then questions would be asked.
So I needed to act fast.
Next thing I knew, I was in the wide hallway at the top of the stairs, with two doors on my left, two on my right. And I knew it was the rooms on my left that I wanted – those were the ones that looked onto the gazebo. Both had their lights off.
I approached the first door on the left,and put my ear to it – could hear nothing. Then I checked the gap between the door and jamb: the door was unlocked.
Feeling confident it was an empty room – after all, folk routinely neglect to lock doors in small towns – I eased open the door, and flicked the light. Sure enough, the room – whose two windows gave a perfect view out onto the supermarket, and the expanse to its right where the gazebo resided – was empty, and in pristine condition.
I didn’t have time to ransack the place. But I felt pretty certain there was no threat; that if hostiles had used this room, they were no longer here.
I wiped the light-switch with my sleeve. I then retreated to the corridor, wiped the door handle, and bounded softly to the second door. Again, I could hear nothing beyond, and the door was unlocked – so I eased it open.
But this time, before I could flick the switch, I got a surprise. There was a boy in the bed who groaned – as though suddenly awoken – and said groggily: ‘Mom? Is that you?’
There was nothing suspicious here. Just a child sleeping.
‘Sorry,’ I said. Then I closed the door, wiped the handle, and promptly began pacing back towards the stairs.The need to move quickly was even greater now. Because though there didn’t appear to be any hostiles, the chances that questions would be raised about my presence had now gone from good to pretty damn certain. And I knew that such questions could even result in a call to the local Sheriff’s office.
I pounded down the stairs – which were, thankfully, empty – then back the way I came. In no time, I was back in the parking lot.
Ellen appeared from the shadows.
‘Well?’ she said.
‘The coast’s clear, though we need to move quickly, because I didn’t go completely unnoticed by civilians inside. Let’s get in the car, pull up by the gazebo, proceed on foot.’
We got in the car, I fired the engine, and hustled the Saab back down the side of the inn, then right onto the main drag. And hardly had I done so when I pulled over on the left-hand side of the road – just past the supermarket, and just beyond the reach of the nearest streetlight, so that nobody looking out would be able to see the Saab’s license plate.
I could see the outline of the gazebo in the light cast by the headlights – though the interior remained hidden.
I turned off the headlights, but kept the engine running.
‘Right, let’s go – you got the torch?’
‘Here, you take it.’ She held it out, and I was momentarily taken aback: given her my-way-or-the-highway attitude up to this point, I was surprised she didn’t want to take an active role. But at the same time, it made sense. There was a chance we were about to uncover something horrifying. And there was something unnerving about illuminating such a thing – as if, in doing so, you could somehow become implicated in having caused it.
I studied her stern, unreadable face, then took the torch, and exited the car. Five seconds later, Ellen was by my side. Without a word, we set off towards the gazebo. And suddenly I felt sick with the thought of what we might find. And yet, at the same time, oddly convinced we’d find nothing; that somehow we’d misconstrued the whole thing.
Abruptly, we reached the outline of the gazebo, and stopped in our tracks. Its interior was still shrouded in darkness.
‘Ready?’ I said.
‘Ready.’
I pointed the flashlight and flicked it on. Immediately, my heart sank.
Inside were two bodies, one slumped on the other, both tied up and gagged. Both with a neat bullet-hole in the forehead.
The one nearer us was a young East-Asian girl, barely sixteen years-old, whose arms and face were badly bruised. The second was an East-Asian man, mid-thirties, who looked uncannily similar to Ellen.
Instinctively, I put my arm round Ellen. She was shaking like a leaf.
‘Are we… are we safe standing here?’ she stuttered.
‘The killer’s long gone,’ I replied calmly. ‘The girl’s legs are stiff. Rigor mortis takes a couple of hours to set in.’
‘Oh my god,’ Ellen whispered. A heavy silence. ‘I’ve got to see him, got to see Lawrence, got to—’
Ellen took a step forward. I grabbed her.
‘Don’t get close,’ I hissed. ‘We can’t leave a shred of DNA.’
‘I’ve got to,’ she said, no longer whispering. ‘I’ve got to.’
All at once, she was struggling hard. Her elbows shot back and she scratched my arm.
‘Please, please, I’ve got to—’
‘Keep your voice down. We need to leave.’
Our voices were unexpectedly joined by a third.
‘Who’s there?’ It was coming from the direction of the supermarket. The old-timer. His words were thick with fear. ‘I got a call about folk trespassing over at the inn. You better go on home, so help me God. I called the police.’
‘We’ve got to leave, now,’ I hissed, and started dragging Ellen away. But though she moved her feet, she still wasn’t with it. And when we hit the Saab’s driver’s door, she didn’t head round the passenger’s side: she just stood there, looking at me dumbly.
‘Ellen, you’ve got to get in the car. The police.’
The word seemed to snap her out of it, because suddenly she was moving round the nose of the car, her hands touching the bonnet as she went, as if scared she’d fall. Then, as she fumbled into the car, and I got in too, a distant siren announced itself to the south. So I hit the gas, and barrel-assed north out of town.