The Blue Rose

Chapter Twenty-nine

Kate dug her fingernails into the floorboards and pulled. She couldn’t break his hold. She screamed, redoubling her effort, but it was no use. She had nothing to hold on to and simply hadn’t the strength to break free of his grip. She began to cry tears of pain and frustration. Trying to blink them away, her eyes came to rest on a broken posthole digger and a garden fork. They were among a jumble of old implements stacked against the wall. Close to her, less than an arm’s length away, was a shovel. The long wooden handle was weathered and grey. Despite age and rusting, it looked sturdy. She reached for it, fingertips barely touching.

Marcus jerked her backward. Turning her head, she could see that his upper body was now almost free of the bags. She could make out the tendons stretching in his neck. She looked at him with revulsion. His dark, ferret-like eyes bore into hers like black marbles, relentless and vengeful. She lunged forward, straining for the shovel. She barely managed to grasp the bottom of the handle before he jerked again. Kate turned, pulled herself up to a kneeling position, raised the shovel above her head, and swung it down with all the strength she could muster. She closed her eyes just before it crashed down on his head. A hard, metallic sound echoed around the barn. It made her stomach turn. She tensed, expecting him to scream. But no sound came, as he lay slumped, eyes closed, his cheek distorted grotesquely on one of the bags. She turned away from the sight.

Her leg now free, she scrambled to her feet and started to stagger towards the steps. As she did, her foot struck something small and metallic that slid along the wooden planks in front of her.

The gun.

My God! He’d dropped it!

She stooped and picked it up. Gripping it in her right hand, she turned and ran.

She could see a patch of daylight ahead: the entrance. What would confront her when she returned to the paddock, she wondered? She was fearful but determined to find out. She was almost out of the barn when she heard a strange noise. She stopped and looked to her left. Alongside a small tractor, Baldie – still strapped to the post – was furiously thumping the ground with his feet. He stopped when he saw he had her attention.

Kate put the gun in her pocket and ran over to him. Remembering Baldie’s knife, she reached in his pocket, unfolded it and cut through the duct tape. She let him pull the tape off his mouth.

Cursing profusely, he told her how Marcus had out-smarted him. His shotgun was nowhere to be seen – Marcus had undoubtedly taken it. In turn, she explained briefly everything that had happened to her, finally telling him that the police were on their way.

Together they headed toward the paddock.

The fog was thicker than ever, swirling in grey curtains, beading the grass with moisture and deadening sound. From behind the cover of the barn, Kate brushed the damp sheen off her eyebrows and lashes and stared into the paddock. Barely visible, though no more than thirty feet from her, the tall man in the windbreaker she’d seen earlier was pacing back and forth as if waiting for somebody or for something to happen. He was still holding the gun. Immediately behind him, looking out of place in the empty paddock, was a large shrub in a wooden container. Two men still stood by it. In her panic she must have missed it before. It took a few seconds to register on her. It was the blue rose.

A few paces off to the left of the rose, she could make out the blurry figures of Alex and Kingston sitting on the grass-tufted dirt.

All this time Baldie, standing behind her, hadn’t said a word.

‘They’re waiting for Marcus,’ Kate whispered over her shoulder.

‘Is that your husband over there?’

‘Yes. And our friend, Lawrence, with him. Look,’ she said, ‘I’ve got Marcus’s gun,’ and she took it out of her pocket.

‘It’s too risky, going out there,’ he said, shaking his head. ‘That bloke looks like a nasty piece of work.’

‘He is. He shot Lawrence.’

The faint sound of a siren interrupted them. As they listened, it came closer.

‘Thank God,’ said Kate.

Baldie gripped her arm. ‘Wait! Looks like he’s about to do a runner. Quick, gimme the gun.’ Without thinking Kate handed it to him. The minute she did so, she knew it was a mistake.

Baldie took careful aim at Wolff, but sufficiently over his head so as not to hit him, then fired. ‘Drop the gun and stay where you are,’ he shouted over the din.

Wolff, who had already started running, stumbled, then stopped, dropping into a crouch. With his gun raised straight-arm at eye level he panned it slowly from left to right, his eyes searching for signs of sound or movement. Kate froze, knowing that a mere flinch from her or Baldie could be catastrophic.

The sirens were loud now. Kate bit the inside of her cheek, determined to remain motionless, her eyes riveted on the gunman. It would only be moments before it would all be over, but in those few nail-biting seconds she knew anything could happen. What did happen was the last thing she expected.

Out of the grey drizzle a body hurtled horizontally through the air aimed directly at the gunman. It was Alex!

The man collapsed under the jarring impetus of Alex’s perfectly executed rugby tackle. Kate closed her eyes for an instant, opening them just in time to see the man’s body twist grotesquely and smash into the planter box.

It was as if she were watching a slow motion black-and-white movie. A sickening crack followed as the bone of his forearm snapped on the sharp edge of the planter box. His pistol went spinning through the air.

Unable to break his fall, the man had plunged face-sideways into the rose.

She gasped and looked away for a moment as his scream echoed around the paddock. Turning back, she saw the man writhing on the ground, one bloody hand splayed across his face. Alex had picked himself up and now stood over the injured man, panting heavily.

‘Alex! Alex!’ she shouted, running toward him through the mist.

Turning, he staggered a dozen steps, and wrapped his arms around her in a bear hug. Kate was shaking convulsively. ‘Oh, thank God, Alex. Thank God it’s over,’ she breathed in his ear.

Alex was kissing her, on her lips, her cheeks, her eyes, her hair. ‘You’re safe now, darling. Nothing else matters – nothing else.’

She was about say something when Alex put two fingers gently on her closed lips.

‘Shhh,’ he murmured over the wail of the sirens.

For a short time they stayed locked together listening to doors slamming and shouting from the parking area.

She jerked her head in the direction of the man on the ground, not wanting to look at the grisly sight again. ‘Who is he, Alex?’ she asked.

‘His name’s Wolff. Ira Wolff.’

‘His men kidnapped me.’

‘We know, Kate.’

‘Marcus, the one who chased me, is up in the barn. I think I might have killed him.’

‘If you did, he bloody well deserved it. Let the police worry about him.’

‘My God! What a nightmare.’

‘It’s ended, Kate. Finally.’

He held her away from him and leaned forward to kiss her forehead. ‘Wait here, Kate, while I get that gun.’ He let her go and walked over to where Wolff ’s gun lay on the dirt, and picked it up. Going back to Kate he passed close to Wolff, who was now half sitting, propped up on his good elbow. His face was a mask of dirt and blood oozing from a latticework of deep gashes. He held a blood-streaked hand splayed over his cheek and ear. The other hand dangled uselessly from his broken arm. He looked up at Alex through venomous, blood-caked eyes. His voice was laced with hate. ‘I’m not through with you yet,’ he growled. He coughed, wincing with pain. ‘You’ll be hearing from me, you bastard.’

Alex said nothing. He just stared down, slowly shaking his head. Finally, he turned away and said quietly, ‘I doubt it. I doubt it very much.’

He walked over to Kate and took her hand in his. She put her head on his shoulder. Her eyes were pooled with tears, making white lines in the grime on her cheeks. She realized she was still trembling. Neither spoke. Her head remained buried in Alex’s shoulder until the shaking stopped. Then they kissed.

‘Is Lawrence all right?’ she asked.

‘Yes, he’s fine. He was very lucky – it’s only a flesh wound.’

‘There were two other men here.’

Alex looked around the paddock. ‘I guess they took off when Kingston was shot. Can’t say as I blame them.’

‘Who were they?’

‘One was Charlie Compton. He owns this place. The other was our friend Tanaka, the one who wrote us the letter. I’ll explain it all later, Kate.’

They walked over to Kingston. All this time he had been anchored to the ground nursing his wound, helplessly watching the horrendous spectacle that had just taken place.

Kate knelt beside him. He was still grasping his thigh. The scarf Alex had used as a bandage and Kingston’s trouser leg were both dark with blood. His face was ashen. She looked into his eyes. Despite his discomfort, they still had sparkle in them.

‘Looks a lot worse than it probably is,’ he grunted. ‘Bloody painful, though.’ He managed a smile, nodding toward the barn. ‘What the hell happened in there?’

‘An awful lot, Lawrence. But we’ve got to get you to a hospital – I think there’s an ambulance here.’

‘What about Wolff?’

‘Not too good, I’m afraid. He’s a bloody mess – but I think he’ll survive, they’re only scratches.’

‘Somehow, I don’t think so,’ Kingston said, shaking his head from side to side. ‘Alex and I have an awful lot to tell you, Kate.’

Baldie, two policemen and two ambulance attendants carrying a stretcher were walking towards them. Then a third policeman, with a hammerlock on Marcus, came into view. Marcus’s head was bloodied and he appeared to have trouble walking properly.

Kate gently patted Kingston’s arm. ‘And I’ve got quite a story to tell the two of you – believe me.’