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Mimic lowered his gun and turned from the window. Nobody would appear there for a good few seconds. He looked at the two officers’ bodies sprawled on the steps. No movement.
He knew the pain in his shoulder was biding its time, and kept his arm rigid at his side. The situation was escalating out of his control, and time was now much more of an issue. Mimic had as long as it took for the station to get suspicious about them not checking in. He strode to the dead officer at the bottom of the steps and unclipped the radio from his belt.
Mimic knew he now had to resort to the only other option open to him. They’d acquired a rifle, and trying to enter the room would be too risky. Even if they barely knew how to fire it, he didn’t want to be on the receiving end of any more stray bullets. It was time to implement the plan he’d suspected was inevitable the moment they’d locked themselves in the bedroom.
He made his way back down the side of the lodge, listening to dispatch. It was a woman’s sleepy, sexy voice, Carolina accent. She’d want a report soon, and then she’d wake up. Maybe he could be all finished up before it was needed. He turned the corner, walked down the back of the property and headed to the utility hut. Amongst the weed killer, detergent and barbecue tools, he found a black bottle of charcoal lighter fluid. He also found an oversize lighter with “License To Grill’ written on it. As he shook it, he noticed the tiny bloody slits in his freckled hand that Mrs O’Doole had inflicted with her nail scissors.
On his way through the kitchen, he resisted the temptation to eat any more of her pancakes and slipped back up the stairs. He still had to be quiet or they might take their chances through the window.
Mimic stopped four steps from the top. He could see along the landing floor, and the bedroom door was still sealed. He put the bottle on the stair, pushed down on and opened the childproof lid with his good hand, then picked it up and aimed it. There was a stand further down with a bowl of potpourri in it. He squeezed and arced the jet so it landed there and soaked it. He had to be careful not to use the last drops of fluid, because the bottle was going to squeak and give him away.
He stopped and shook it gently. Still a decent weight left. Mimic squirted it all over the runner rug and then at the wall, and doused it and the bullet holes there. The drywall would go up, no problem. The only thing he couldn’t be sure of was which exit they’d use.
Mimic guessed the adults would test the water either way and tell the kids to leave via the route that seemed safest. He needed to start the fire as soon as possible. Get them panicked while he took up position. Perhaps he should seat himself in the patrol car and wait for them there. Back down to the cellar first, though. He played the jet over the door and then across the gap at the bottom, watched the liquid trickling underneath it.
The bottle was nearly empty. He rolled it up the rug and it came to rest just outside the door. Mimic sparked the lighter and held it against the edge of the doused runner. A blue sheen rose from the fibres and travelled the length of it to the wooden stand. Damage limitation was the most he could achieve now. He had to secure one of the O’Doole boys to extract his password, burn the whole family in their lodge and remove Beth Jordan to dispose of elsewhere.
Mimic turned to walk back down the stairs and stopped. He reached up to the smoke detector attached to the angled ceiling above him and unscrewed it from its position.
*
Beth lay on her stomach, the breeze from the open window wafting in fresh pine air and birdsong. Was he still training his gun on the window? The four of them were motionless as they listened. Tyler was lying in the same position beside her, staring at the backs of his hands. Mrs O’Doole was still against the bed, cradling Kevin.
“Are they dead?” Mrs O’Doole mouthed.
Beth nodded and tried to halt the replay of the officers’ bodies exploding on the steps. “Do you think they left the keys in the car?” she said to Tyler, unsure of how the deaths of the men outside had affected him. He suddenly moved and grabbed the rifle.
Mrs O’Doole sat up and whispered. “Where is it?”
“Top of the steps.” Tyler loaded the rifle, his second spent shell rolling and pinging against the wall. “If we can’t find the keys, we can hotwire it.”
Mrs O’Doole blinked once but dismissed the temptation to quiz him further about this ability.
Beth sat up. “We could see if the officers have them on our way up the steps, but we might not have time.”
“The car will at least give us some cover.” Tyler moved on his buttocks back to the wall beside his mother.
Mrs O’Doole shook her head. “We shouldn’t even think about trying to reach the car while he’s still out there. Here we have a weapon and walls to protect us. This is the safest place.”
*
Mimic took his napkin out of his pocket and wiped at the edges of his mouth.
“Unit 22, where the hell are you?” It was the sleepy female voice on the police radio.
He placed his mouth against it so his response would be distorted. “Unit 22.”
“What is your position?”
He repeated the process. “We’re clear.”
“Say again?”
“We’re clear.” It wasn’t going to work.
“Unit 22, is that you?”
“Who else?”
No response.
He belched and tasted Mrs O’Doole’s pancakes. Time was running out. But the fire was about to precipitate their upstairs escape, and as soon as he heard movement, he would be ready to respond. He waited, listening for vibrations in the lodge.
