Dead Men's Harvest

Chapter 31

‘What do we do now?’

‘We get the hell outa here, or we go to prison. Which do you prefer, Harve?’

My ill-directed sarcasm demanded only one answer.

Harvey floored the pedal, aiming the rental at the police cruiser.

Seeing us barrelling towards him, the cop swung the heavier squad car across our path, trying to block us so that his colleagues could arrive and take us down. Harvey didn’t stop. There’s a knack to pushing your way through a roadblock. You drive at no more than fifteen miles per hour, aim for their front wheel hub with the near corner of your vehicle, and shunt the offending vehicle aside. Of course, what’s good in theory isn’t always so in reality. Harvey pushed our car just a little too fast and the fender struck nearer to the front passenger door. The result was that the cop car was pushed along with us, its tyres juddering and bouncing on the asphalt. The noise was horrendous; the whooping of the siren competed with the scream of metal on metal, the repeated bang as the cop car lifted and fell. Finally, Harvey pulled hard right, caught the front end of the cruiser and shoved it aside. We tore round it, taking off the back bumper of our car in the process.

‘There goes my deposit!’ Harvey said.

The exit ramp twisted to the left, following the line of the hotel wall down to street level. At the bottom another police vehicle screeched to a halt. This time Harvey hit it just right, spinning the back end of the cruiser out of our way. Momentum carried us across the highway and into the oncoming lanes. A large furniture removals van howled like a wild beast as the driver hit the brakes. The van skidded, turned sideways in the road, then flipped on to its side. Grit pounded our car as the van tore up the road surface. Harvey just hauled on the steering so we went up on the pavement at the far side, then around the bulky vehicle. As we passed I saw that the driver, his face an open shout of alarm, looked unharmed. Thank God for that.

‘What I said earlier,’ I said, ‘I didn’t mean at the expense of innocent lives.’

‘I’ll try not to do anything stupid,’ Harvey replied straight-faced.

He whipped the car off the kerb, through a gap between a tan Land Rover and a green Toyota. Back on the correct side of the road he hit the throttle and sped along the highway. Behind us, other cop cars took up the chase, sirens whooping.

‘If they get an eye in the sky on to us we’re fucked.’

‘Best we lose them before they can arrange one, then.’

Ahead of us a police cruiser shot from a side street. From the passenger seat a cop aimed a shotgun at us. Harvey bit down on his bottom lip, at the same time popping a handbrake skid, taking us into a ninety-degree turn. Side on we caromed into the cruiser, and the cop had to throw himself inside to avoid being crushed. Harvey pressed the throttle, hit another skid and punched our way around the obstacle. The pursuing cars braked to avoid hitting their colleagues, giving us a couple seconds’ respite. Harvey made the most of the time. He pushed the car up to around seventy miles an hour. It felt much faster when weaving between the slower-moving city traffic.

On our left was a strip mall, and behind it a huge Wal-Mart superstore. Harvey sped past the mall, swung a left and into the superstore parking lot. We streaked between rows of parked vehicles, customers leaping out of our way, abandoning their shopping carts. Our pursuers were too close for us to ditch this car and steal another, but that had never been Harvey’s intention. He went out the other side of the lot and on to a service road that connected to another store, this one an electrical giant. Harvey sent the rental over a grassy strip and we joined another highway, this one heading back towards Richmond.

We’d given the cops the slip, but that wouldn’t last long. Harvey floored the pedal, while I clung tight to the dashboard. There was a junction ahead. We could take the correct route around the sweeping ramp, or we could be more direct. Harvey chose the latter, pulled into oncoming traffic and across to the hard shoulder. Streaking past the horrified faces of commuters heading out of the city, we tore along the shoulder and on to Route 76. Here the two carriageways were separated by a median, but thankfully there was no crash barrier like on the motorways in the UK. Harvey sent the rental across the lanes, whipping between a Kenworth truck hauling cattle and a fuel tanker. I closed my eyes, expecting an impromptu beef barbecue, but there was no accident this time. When I opened my eyes again, we were on the median and spitting divots of grass and soil in the air.

Medians are designed to halt out-of-control vehicles, the soft earth catching and holding the tyres firm, but Harvey continued to hammer down on the throttle and the median finally gave up its hold and spat us on to the carriageway on the far side. Thankfully we were now heading in the same direction as the traffic flow. There was no sign of the cops: no way were they going to attempt the insane manoeuvres that Harvey had. They would be trying to catch us, but they were far enough behind for us to have won a minute or so of respite.

Then unfamiliarity with our terrain struck us a cruel blow.

‘Shit. We’re on a goddamn toll road.’

I looked ahead and saw that the traffic was slowing, moving into lanes to crawl through between the toll booths. Every lane had a red light flashing overhead: the cops had called ahead and had the road closed.

‘There,’ I said, pointing at a small housing estate on our right. There wasn’t a road into the residential area — possibly to foil any plans to avoid the toll charge — but all that separated us from escape was a chain link fence and a drainage gully. Harvey didn’t even slow, just aimed the car at the fence and blasted through. We ramped over the gully, then hit the ground hard. The car didn’t make it in one piece, the suspension was shot, but I was relieved to hear the engine continue unhindered. We swept between two rows of houses, trailing wire mesh behind us. At the end of the street, Harvey slowed, took a right and went at a moderate pace along another residential road. A left took us to another junction and across the way we saw another strip mall, this one catering to the discerning diner. There was an Italian restaurant, a Chinese restaurant, a rib shack and something called the Food Lion. Jammed between them was a chemist store: could have been where diners picked up a bottle of Pepto Bismol after their dinner.

We abandoned the rental in the mall parking lot, then jogged back to the intersection towards a petrol station on the far side. While we caught our breath, we watched until an old model station wagon pulled up at the fuel pumps. A skinny kid climbed out and headed for the store. Like many at service stations, he hadn’t bothered to lock his car or even remove the keys from the ignition. While he was inside, picking up a newspaper or bar of chocolate or whatever, Harvey and I were in his car and heading out of town.

The cops arrived, but they were looking for the bashed-up rental car, and we slipped by them, unnoticeable in our equally bashed-up but thoroughly anonymous station wagon. The kid would report his vehicle stolen, but by the time two and two were put together we would be well beyond the cordon.

A short time later we dumped the station wagon.

We caught a bus that took us back into town, where we hopped a cab and headed off to where Harvey’s Bell Jetranger waited for us at a small private heliport on the northern fringe of Richmond. The last place a police helicopter would be looking for us, we decided, was in the sky.

I didn’t know how I felt. The hit on Kurt Hendrickson hadn’t exactly gone as planned. That he was dead and gone was a bonus, but it hadn’t brought me any nearer to finding or stopping Tubal Cain. In fact, if anything, it had made matters worse. Not only was I now a hunted man, probably by every cop in the USA, but it was also likely that the police were being helped along their way by the very person who’d set me on this task.

Walter Hayes Conrad IV.

It couldn’t have been a coincidence that the cops just happened to turn up when they did, could it? No one knew where we were, or even who. The fact that I’d telephoned Walter, he’d played a stalling game and then a government car had turned up to scope us out hadn’t escaped me. But: why?

What purpose did it serve for Walter to betray me?

Was he disassociating himself, ensuring that his part in our scheme to finish Tubal Cain was never discovered? Or had his role already been revealed and forced him to hand me over?

I didn’t know; that was the truth of it. Thinking about the possible betrayal made my head hurt. More likely that was down to lack of sleep, and a dump of noradrenalin into my system after the sustained action of the last couple of hours. It was a good job that Harvey was at the controls of the chopper, because I was seeing double. I inhaled, shuddered out some of my tiredness. When I looked across at Harvey I could focus again. Harvey had his earphones and microphone in place. I pulled mine on.

‘That was some fancy-arsed driving you did back there.’

Harvey gave me a short, derisive laugh. ‘Fancy-assed? I was crapping my pants, man!’

‘Well, you did OK. Did you study defensive driving when you were with the Rangers?’

He shook his head. ‘I was just winging it. Sheer adrenalin got me through.’

His comments had shut down my line of conversation, and I sat there ruminating for a moment. It got me thinking on how earlier I’d have preferred if Rink had been the one covering my back, and now I felt a little ashamed of myself. ‘Harve.’

He glanced over at me, inclined his chin.

‘I’m sorry I got you into this.’

‘Anything for a friend.’

That made me feel worse. ‘You do realise that we’re probably going to go to prison for a long time.’

Harvey bit down on his bottom lip. ‘There’s always the possibility we’ll get away with it. I’ve taken precautions. The rifle can’t be traced to me. I had my gloves on when driving the car we dumped.’

These days the science of forensic investigation was more sophisticated than looking for fingerprints. And even if that’s all they went by, the police wouldn’t go with the obvious. Harvey hadn’t been wearing gloves when we were in the hotel room, so they could find plenty of evidence there. Identifying Harvey would be a piece of cake for any investigator. Christ, all they had to do was look at my known associates and the first black man to jump out at them would be Harvey. Not only that, but if Walter had been responsible for betraying us, the police had arrived at the scene with prior knowledge of who was assisting me. Of course, if I was to be captured, they wouldn’t get his name from me.

‘I think it’s time I finished this alone.’

Shaking his head adamantly, Harvey said, ‘I started this with you, I’m gonna finish it with you.’

‘Not a good idea, Harve.’

‘Has anything we’ve done been a good idea?’ He considered his words, then added, ‘With the exception of saving Rink and killing the bad guys, that is?’

‘There are still two bad guys out there. Baron I’m not worried about, but this won’t end until Tubal Cain’s finally in his grave. No, scratch that. A grave couldn’t hold him last time. This time I’m going to have to make sure there isn’t enough of him left to put in a coffin.’

‘That’s the big problem. How do we find him?’

‘We set a trap.’ I dropped the subject of going it alone. Jesus, if I suggested as much, Rink would likely hand me my arse on a platter. ‘That’s why I wanted to speak to John. To see if he was prepared to help us.’

‘You’d use your brother as bait?’

‘I’d have made sure that he was never in any physical danger. But that’s moot now. I don’t know how to contact him.’

‘I thought Walter was setting that up for you?’

I hadn’t yet shared my suspicions with Harvey, but it looked like it was time. ‘Who do you think sent the cops after us, Harve?’

‘I don’t know Walter the way you guys do, but I find it hard to believe that he’d turn you in.’

‘Walter plays a constant game; one where he’s only interested in being the winner.’

‘Could have been someone else,’ Harvey pointed out. ‘Baron escaped. Could have been him who directed the police to us.’

It was plausible, I supposed. When I thought about the slimy bastard, Baron had made his escape in a vehicle. It was possible that he’d followed us as we got away from Hendrickson’s estate, and had tried to have us captured by the police. I thought that Walter had been stalling in order to triangulate my mobile phone, and had then sent a car to keep an eye on us. But, the omnipotent eye of the CIA wasn’t as all-powerful as made out in movies: what were the chances that he could have located us and dispatched a car to our location in such a short time? Pretty slim.

I tried to picture the scene outside the Tudor hall. I have trained myself to take snapshot images that I compartmentalise for future use. But it’s one thing when consciously deciding to save an image for later, quite another when concentrating on something else. I couldn’t bring to mind the makes and models of the vehicles in the small fleet arranged on the gravel parking space. One of them could have been a dark sedan with tinted windows. Perhaps the blame had been wrongly targeted at my old friend. I felt a trickle of relief, but then it was pushed aside by a different concern. If Walter hadn’t set us up, then why had he stalled over John’s unavailability?

I used the satellite phone to call Walter.

‘Walt, it’s me, Joe.’

‘Hunter, I’m glad you called.’

‘Really?’

‘Yes, really. I told you to leave phoning me for a few hours. Big mistake! I’ve been frantic to get a hold of you since.’

‘You didn’t hear about Richmond yet?’

‘Richmond? No, I’ve been too busy dealing with what else has happened.’

‘What has happened? Is it John? Does Cain have him?’

‘It’s worse than that, son.’

‘What could be worse than Cain capturing my brother?’

When he told me, he was right. It was much worse.