Homecoming, page 9
“We need to talk. Can we go inside?” she asked politely.
“Sure.” He shrugged, somewhat confused. This wasn't the way he saw cops arresting people on TV.
He led her over to the house, and it wasn’t until he walked through the front door that he remembered that Smith was in here somewhere.
He led the two officers to the large kitchen table, and while he and Tara sat down, Marko continued to stand behind them looking official.
“I... what's going on, Tara?” he finally asked, unable to stand the tension of not knowing why she hadn't arrested him. After all, surely that was why she'd come to the farm.
“To be honest, that’s kind of what we’d like to know,” she replied, watching him carefully.
“Excuse me?”
“Run me through what happened to O’Reilly again, Travis.”
“I told you yesterday. It was an accident. I... something was in the forest, and I got... well, spooked, I guess. Suddenly, someone lunges at me out of the trees, and I fall backwards and... and the rifle... it... just went off,” he choked.
Tara looked at him for a long time before she spoke again. He could feel her eyes boring into his as she studied his face and processed his words. He wasn't lying, but he wondered if the whole business with Smith was putting a large, flashing, guilty sign on his forehead, one that she was picking up on.
When she finally spoke, it was to tell him something unbelievable.
“He was already dead when you shot him.”
The words seemed to bounce off his head without going in, and he wondered if he'd just imagined them.
“What?” he finally asked in a hushed tone.
“Tommy O’Reilly was already dead when you shot him,” she explained.
“Wait... how exactly is that possible?”
“I was hoping that you could tell us,” she replied. “I mean, did he lunge out at you?”
“I... I thought so.”
“Maybe he was pushed?” Marko offered, speaking for the first time.
“Pushed?” Travis exclaimed.
“Yeah. Maybe someone – whoever killed him, that is – saw you coming and just heaved the kid out of the trees and onto you?”
“You asking me or telling me?”
“He’s doing neither,” Tara answered, withering her colleague with a stare that made him drop his gaze. “Something happened to O’Reilly, Travis. Someone killed him, and according to the autopsy and what you’re telling us, it doesn't make much in the way of sense.”
“I can see that,” he admitted.
Then she asked the one question that filled him with dread.
“Where’s Patrick Jennings? He’s the only other one here, right?”
“Yes, but I...,” he said, starting the sentence without knowing where it was going.
He faltered midway through when he suddenly spotted Smith lean out of the doorway across the room and into his line of vision. The man lifted his hand slightly to show Travis that he was holding a revolver.
“I haven't seen him this morning,” Travis said slowly, but when he spoke, he saw Smith start to move with his answer. “What I mean is that he's away at the moment… left three days ago, off to visit some sick relative, I think.”
“You think?” Tara asked quizzically.
“Jennings isn't exactly big on chit-chat.” He shrugged. “He asked for some time off and I said fine.”
“You got a phone number where I can reach him?”
“Landline? Like I said, I don’t even know for sure where he's gone. The man isn't big on sharing personal information.”
“He got a mobile?”
“Jennings with a smart phone?”
“Fair point,” she admitted, obviously thinking of the man. “But I need answers here, Travis. Someone killed O’Reilly on your land.”
“Well technically speaking, it was off my land, the forest beyond my lower field boundary to be exact.”
“Travis?”
“Yes?”
“What are you hiding?” she asked him, her gaze boring into his; he felt himself flinching under it.
The question was forceful and direct, and for a moment, he felt himself wanting to tell her. He wanted to confess everything and, more importantly, ask for her help. What stopped him was the thought of the very dangerous man standing mere feet away. If Smith heard him talking to the police, then he had a horrible suspicion that they would all be in trouble, himself included.
“Look, I don't know what else to tell you, Tara, other than the fact that I'm shit scared. Yesterday I thought I had killed a man… now you show up telling me that I didn’t.”
“Shouldn't that be cause for relief?” Marko asked.
“No,” Tara answered for him. “Because a man is dead, and if Travis here didn't kill him, then who the hell did?”
“Exactly,” he agreed.
Neither Tara nor Marko were armed, such was the way with UK cops, but the man standing just out of sight most definitely was, which put the three of them in the kitchen in mortal danger.
He supposed that the most obvious suspect was Smith. Maybe O’Reilly had stumbled across what the man was doing down there. It made perfect sense to suspect Smith, but if he'd killed O’Reilly, what good did trying to frame him achieve? That would have brought the very attention that the man wanted to avoid. Not to mention the fact that Smith had seemed as shocked at the sight of the barn as he had earlier. No, he couldn't fathom why Smith would want any of this. It wasn't to say that he wasn't capable of it. The man had cold, dead eyes, a killer’s eyes, but he didn't think that the man was the killer they were looking for.
“You’ll keep me informed?” he asked as he stood up to indicate that they were done. “I mean, I haven't committed any crime, have I?”
“No,” Marko agreed, too quickly for Tara’s liking and she flashed him a fierce look again that shut him down.
“Maybe I should take a look around while I'm here?” the constable pondered.
“Don't you need... some kind of a warrant or something for that?” he asked in reply, hoping that by saying it, he didn't make himself seem more suspicious. “I mean, I'm not being funny or anything, Tara, but O’Reilly wasn’t killed on my property or by me as you yourself have established. I’ve got to be honest, I’m really not sure that I like the idea of having my rights invaded here.”
He knew that there was no way of denying her without making himself seem at least a little guilty of something, but he hoped that his family’s legacy of eccentricity and antisocial behaviour might explain away his reluctance.
Tara studied him, seemingly deciding whether he was hiding anything or just being plain awkward; he hoped for the latter, but his only concern right now was to get them out of here in one piece before Smith decided to clean things up his way.
“All right.” She finally sighed.
Travis tried to keep the relief from beaming all over his face as he ushered them back out of the house and escorted them to the car.
Marko climbed in behind the wheel, but Tara paused for a moment before she got in.
“You know you can talk to me,” she said in a low voice. “If there’s a problem here, I can help you, Travis. I know my job mostly consists of breaking up drunken fist fights, rounding up lost cattle and helping out with the children’s winter festival, but I can do this, really, I can if you’ll let me.”
“You want to help me, then find out who killed O’Reilly, Constable. Just do your job and that’ll help me just fine.”
She baulked a little at his tone, but he just wanted her out of here as quickly as possible.
Marko started the car and drove away. After it was out of sight, Smith emerged from the house.
“By the way, since we’re going to be close friends, you can call me Vanek instead of Smith, in the name of a little honesty.”
“Your name’s not Smith?”
“Did you ever think it was?”
“No, I guess not.” Travis shrugged.
“You know something, kid?” Vanek pondered, with seemingly genuine interest. “I can't tell if you're smart, dumb or just plain lucky,” he said as he sidled up.
That makes two of us, Travis thought but didn’t say, but the fact that the man had just revealed his real name did not sit well with him at all; it seemed like the sort of thing a kidnapper would do right before he shot the hostage.
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CHAPTER 7
Behind Enemy Lines
Archie Kline hated every aspect of this journey, but then again, he hated ever having to set foot outside of his penthouse.
The weather seemed to be becoming more arctic the further north they travelled, and the snow was now starting to fall at such a rate that he was starting to worry that the truck he was riding in was going to end up stranded before they got there – or, worse still, on the return journey with a full load in the back.
It had been a very long time since he'd gotten his own hands dirty, and while one last ride along had seemed like a good idea last night, today it was one that he wished he'd never had.
The problem with his position and his business meant that you could never show weakness or even perceived weakness. The vultures were perpetually circling, and if they caught the slightest whiff of blood in the air, they'd attack, and he was too damn old to be fighting wars. He was also too old to be riding in a truck on a frozen road right into the middle of nowhere.
He was a city boy, born and raised, and the sight now of the seemingly never-ending forest was startling to him; he was also thinking about how the views would be perfect for the luxury apartments he could potentially build here.
Clay was driving beside him, and while the slab of muscle wasn't exactly the sharpest tool in the box, he knew enough to keep his mouth shut unless spoken to.
He had another three guys riding behind in an SUV. All of them were dependable, well trained and wouldn't hesitate to pull a trigger if he told them to. The mercenaries were all loyal to his wallet but only Clay had been with him long enough to believe in the pledges.
He had spent the past few hours trying to connect the pieces together in his mind and decide whether or not he'd made a mistake with Vanek.
Vanek had been selected by him personally, a handpicked, right-hand man who had proved himself dependable and reliable time and time again. But Kline ran his business with a strict ‘one strike and you're out’ policy, and Vanek had just had his one strike.
The idea of using setups like that shit-stain town hadn't sat easy with him, but Vanek had insisted, and maybe it was old age creeping in, but he'd agreed. Now he apparently had a murder scene developing right next door to his largest stash house. While Vanek had tried to assure him that the police presence was next to non-existent, even one flatfoot was one too many in Kline’s world.
So here he sat, freezing his greying nuts off in a truck heading north with enough snow to cover a Christmas winter wonderland snow globe when he should have been tucked up in his nice warm penthouse in front of a roaring fire.
He checked the heater in the truck, but the temperature was already on maximum and the cold was still seeping into his bones.
“You need anything, boss?” Clay asked without taking his eyes off the road.
“I need to be some place warm, Clay, not out on the road in the middle of goddamn nowhere freezing my bloody ass off.”
“If you don't mind me asking, why are you out here, boss? Me and the boys could have handled it.”
“Pride cometh...,” Kline answered morosely.
“Boss?”
“Never mind. How much longer?”
“Another hour or so, I figure. The GPS isn't playing ball out here. Seems like the further we go, the more off the map we fall. I’ve got the satellite phone though and Vanek’s number. Worst comes to the worst, I'm sure he can guide us in. Is he... is he in trouble, boss?”
“Just get us there, Clay, in one piece preferably,” Kline replied as the truck slid worryingly on the snow-covered road. “Let me worry about Vanek.”
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Belle couldn't shake the feeling that the break-in at the Institute on the night of the power cut, and what was apparently now the murder of a local farmhand, were connected in some way. When next to nothing happened in a small town like Wellspring, and then two violent acts reared up in quick succession, it was hard not to link them together.
She'd just got off the phone with Mason, and although the line was fading badly now as winter closed in around them, she'd gleaned enough to understand that Ms Pope had come through with the information about O’Reilly’s autopsy.
Wellspring’s telephone network would often shut down for long spells once the worst of the weather hit, and the locals would all switch to radios to communicate. They weren’t perfect, especially when the frequent storms hit, but they were enough to keep the town talking.
She had expected to be long gone from here by the time that the snow cut them off from the outside world, but she was finding herself already sinking deeper whether she liked it or not. She had been afraid to ever return home, and now she was starting to feel like she might not ever be able to leave.
She was heading out of town after first stopping by Tig’s Tyres to have snow chains put on her SUV. The odd thing was that here was yet another town business that had been around when she'd been growing up, and it was still standing, having now been taken over by a child she'd grown up with. It was like Wellspring had been renewed by replacing a parent with the fresh blood of their loins: Mary at the diner, Tig junior at the garage, and apparently Travis McNichol was now running his father’s farm. Not to mention the fact, of course, that somehow, in spite of her best intentions, she was now trying to save her father’s paper.
Driving out of town, she was finding that the pull of Wellspring and her attached childhood was too hard to resist. It seemed like every leaf and every snowflake was one that she'd seen before, as though her adult life had been a dream that she was now waking up from.
The Herald needed saving, of that there was no doubt. As much as she felt the need to piss on her father’s legacy from afar, now that she was actually here, the nuts-and-bolts reality of the people felt very different. Her anger was directed towards the man who'd abandoned his family. Neither Mason nor Ms Pope deserved her revenge, and she found it hard to separate them from what she’d wanted, from what she'd come here to do.
She changed clothes in the back seat of her car. She had showered at Nathan’s place, or rather Nathan and Tara’s place, but her bags were still in the car, and she had still yet to set foot in her father’s house, her childhood home.
Shaking those thoughts from her head, she got back on the clock as she reached the outer fencing of the Schaefer Institute.
From what she'd managed to learn from both the Herald’s files and her own calls earlier that morning, the Institute had been taken under the government’s wing after Nathan's father had died and Nathan himself had shown little interest in taking over the family business.
It was officially a military medical research centre although there was precious little information or detail about what exactly was being researched out here.
Looking now at the chosen location, it was easy to see why it had been picked. This far away from prying eyes and off the grid, there was little chance of them being observed, especially from the media who these days didn't play by the rules. Now, anyone with a smart phone could ruin a life with an amateur-shot two-minute video.
Driving all the way around the outskirts of the Institute, she got a full understanding of the size of the property. The place seemed to go on for miles and all of it was miles from anyone. The dense forest surrounded it on all sides and offered natural protection. Now, as she drove around towards the main entrance, she couldn't help but really wonder what they were really doing in there.
She pulled up at the gates. There was a strong-looking barrier stretched across the road and a guard booth to the right.
As she stopped, a burly square-jawed security guard suddenly appeared out of the booth as if by magic. He wore a dark blue uniform, but she'd been around enough soldiers to spot a jarhead when she saw one. It only further piqued her interest that the military were trying to hide their presence by dressing their men in private-looking security gear.
There were cameras all over the place covering the entrance and the road outside as well. The equipment seemed to be older in nature, but when she took a casual closer look, the casings looked a little off, like they didn't belong around the cameras, like the true standard was being obscured.
“Help you, ma’am?” the guard asked as he walked up to her driver’s window.
“I was hoping to speak to someone in charge?”
“Do you have an appointment?”
“Do I really need one?”
“Afraid so, ma’am. This facility is not open to the public.”
“I’m from... the Herald, in town,” she explained. “I'm the new owner,” she found herself saying, unable to believe that she'd said it.
“Still need an appointment.”
“With Dr...?”
He merely stared back at her coldly, unwilling to engage.
“Oh look, I just wanted to stop by, introduce myself, that's all. This is hardly an in-depth exposé.” She laughed. “We’re just a small local paper. Schaefer does a lot of good things in town; it's a relationship that I fully hope to maintain. I was just hoping to pop in and meet the boss,” she added, in her best, folksy tone.
A phone rang in the guard hut then, and the guard snapped to attention and hurried over to answer it, seemingly unable to cover his clear military bearing.
With the door open and his back to her, she could see over his shoulder. Inside the hut, the cameras looked the same as those outside with the bad fitting covers. There was a small desk and a few old TV screens, but there was a partially open door with a powerful glow emanating from it inside the room.
The guard spotted her looking and quickly closed the door, but the glow still came from underneath it. The real security hub? she wondered.
Yep, this whole place reeked of the military. She'd seen enough on her travels to know how they worked, the whole ‘hiding in plain sight’ thing; in her experience, they didn't exactly do subtle very well.
