No Help For The Dying

Chapter 41

The sound of Palmer’s footsteps fading away down the stairs and leaving her alone in that bare, deathly room made Riley feel horribly vulnerable. She resisted the temptation to call after him, but knew she’d never forgive herself. Anyway, she doubted he would stop; Palmer didn’t do droopy females, and while he was always ready to step in when the occasion called, he would expect her to get on with things. She wondered where Meaker had got to and whether he was now stalking Palmer in turn. And what of de Haan? To hell with the fat boy, she thought. If he comes near me I’ll rip his throat out.

On the bed, Henry groaned and struggled to move. He was still alive! She gulped in a lungful of air. Come on, girl, she told herself. Time to get back in the game. Then she’d better start praying she could get help here in time before Henry weakened further — and before Palmer began killing people.

She stared at Henry, now on his back, eyes closed. He looked awful; thin as a reed and sallow in colour, his skin was damp with perspiration and almost translucent. She leaned close and could hear the faint hiss of breathing between his lips. With it came a sour, acidic smell, overlaid by the aroma of soiled bedclothes. Whatever else de Haan and his people had been doing with Henry for the past few days, caring for him as a former Church member hadn’t been top of their agenda.

She turned and scooped up the decanter from the floor. It still held a cupful of water, the majority having drained away through the cracks in the boards, and she sniffed it briefly before tipping her head back for a taste. In her eagerness a rush of tepid liquid surged around her mouth and nose, making her cough. Plain water. At least she wasn’t about to poison him on top of his other troubles.

She dribbled a few drops between his lips, which were chapped and flaking and rimmed with a white crust. His throat, covered in white stubble, began working instinctively, and his eyes fluttered weakly before he suddenly gagged and coughed, his head rising off the pillow. He was badly dehydrated. Maybe they’d kept him in a drug-induced stupor to keep him quiet, and he’d knocked over the decanter while reaching for a drink. Or trying to attract some attention.

She put the decanter down. He needed medical attention, and fast. She’d have to get an ambulance here. But what about the front gates? She cast around for her mobile. If she warned them, they’d bring bolt cutters. Must be plenty of times when they had to force their way into places to attend to emergencies.

Her mobile phone had split open on impact with the floor, revealing the circuitry board and the battery half out of its mounting. With trembling hands she held the back in place and tried to snap it back on. Damn, her brain was so scrambled she couldn’t remember if it slid or clicked. Too bad; she gripped it hard and heard a solid snick. Then she checked the small screen. It still worked!

She stabbed frantically and waited for what seemed like forever as the connection was made. Somewhere in the distance, she heard a loud crashing noise, then moments later the furious blast of an air-horn.

Palmer was nearing the bottom of the drive, running as hard as he could but knowing he could never catch up. He had burst out of the front door of the mansion in time to see the white van career out of a large garage on the edge of the car park and speed away down the drive. As it turned sideways on, he caught a glimpse of Quine and another man — Meaker or de Haan, he couldn’t be sure — in the front seats. He swore to himself. If only he’d thought to check the garage before entering the house. They must have deliberately locked the gates the way they had to suggest a deserted property and give themselves time to pack up and get clear. Right now it looked as if the strategy was going to work.

Suddenly there was an explosive bang and a tortured shriek of metal ahead of him through the trees. He didn’t need to see what had happened; Quine had hit the gates full-on. As if to add colour to the sense of impending disaster, the air of the drive was hung with the blue haze of exhaust smoke, and the gravelled drive showed deep ruts where Quine had driven the van at a furious pace towards the road, clipping the verge on the way.

Palmer rounded the final bend and saw what was left of the ornate iron gates. The chain and padlock had given way first, but both gates had been ripped apart, mangled and twisted beyond repair. One of the ancient pillars had given way under the impact, leaving slabs of crumpled stone spilled across the driveway. Among the debris was the crushed chrome grill from the van, a sprinkling of broken windscreen glass and a section of plastic bumper, cracked and torn like paper.

Then an engine screamed in protest, followed by the thud-thud-thud of a damaged wheel on tarmac, and Palmer realised the van hadn’t gone far. He skidded past the lodge, knowing he had Quine within his grasp.

Another sound intruded, this one the frantic blare of air-horns, closely followed by the hiss of air-brakes and a squeal of rubber. A huge shadow flashed past the open entrance, a charging hulk in dark green and yellow, dragging behind it a white-blue trail of smoke as the tyres strained to get a grip on the road surface. The horns blasted again, wailing across the surrounding greenery and battering the trees.

Palmer stopped running and watched as the truck, laden with hardcore, thundered down the road and began a steady slide sideways, the driver desperately trying to bring it to a halt. For a split second there was an awful silence; no birds, no engine noise, no squeal of brakes. It was as if all sound was suspended, although it could only have been his own sense of dread at what was about to unfold.

Ahead of it, the white van seemed to get going again just in time, spluttering forward as if it was going to pull clear of the charging monster in time. But it was too late. With what seemed like a last, frantic charge, the truck hit the van, scooping it up on its massive bumpers, carrying it forward with barely a sound before flicking it sideways off the road.

The truck took another two hundred yards to stop, grey smoke billowing from the wheels as the back slid round towards the verge. A scattering of hardcore sprayed off the top of the load and hit the surrounding vegetation like machine-gun fire, and the air-horn died away in a final wail. The van, meanwhile, under the massive impact of the loaded truck’s weight, tore into the trees, ripping through branches and foliage before culminating in another violent crash.

Then silence.