BACKWOODS RIPPER: a gripping action suspense thriller (19 page)

“Soona,” Paige said as gently as she could manage. “I want you to close your eyes. Can you do that?”

Soona’s breathing, loud and frightened, levelled off. “Eyes. Eyes.”

“That’s right, sweetheart. Close your eyes and don’t open them until I tell you to.”

As she spoke, she kept her gaze trained on Lizzy – now less than five metres in front of the car. Within seconds, the woman would close the gap and be upon them. Paige felt another wave of dizziness threatening to sweep her away.

If she let Lizzy get to the car, it would be over. Paige didn’t have the strength left to fight her. She clenched her teeth and jerked the gearstick into reverse. As her foot found the accelerator, she felt wetness, warm and sticky spreading against her thighs.

“Hang on, please,” Paige whispered, and the car rolled back.

Lizzy’s progress faltered, but didn’t stop. Through the windscreen, Paige could see the woman’s eyes fixed on her. Huge glassy eyes. There was no pain in those eyes, just fury.

“Keep your eyes closed, sweetheart. It’s nearly over.”

Lizzy closed the gap fast, her arm still reaching for the car. Paige stomped the accelerator and the Ford’s wheels spun. For one terrible second, it seemed the vehicle refused to move. Then, as if some invisible cord had been cut, the car shot forward.

Lizzy’s face seemed to grow and expand until it filled Paige’s vision. The woman’s mouth continued to open and close as if she were oblivious to the four-wheel-drive bearing down on her. The image of Hal’s leg washed beyond white under the water flashed in Paige’s mind. At the last moment, Lizzy threw herself forward.

Gravel and sticks pelted the sides of the car. At the moment of impact, a dull thud followed by a slapping sound shook the vehicle. Lizzy’s body jack-knifed forward and her legs seemed to bend up behind her as if she were executing an elaborate summersault. Her face neared the windscreen for no longer than a fraction of a second. Long enough for Paige to see the confusion and terror in her eyes. An image that Paige knew she’d take with her and see again and again in her nightmares.

Lizzy’s body looked like it was being swallowed by the car. She slid backwards, mouth open like a black cave. One arm slapped the bonnet then her salt and pepper hair vanished over the front end of the car. The right side of the Ford lifted and then snapped back to the road with a cracking sound.

The crunching and slapping continued for less than two seconds and then the night returned to its former song. Paige blinked, her eyes felt dry and pasted open.
What’ve I done?
Her mind screamed.
What you should have done three days ago
, the dark voice answered.
No
, Paige thought.
That’s not right. That’s not me. I’m not a killer … Am I?
This time she didn’t give the dark voice time to answer her.

“Open your eyes, Soona. Everything’s alright now.” She looked over her shoulder to where Soona sat with one large hand cupping Hal’s head and the other over her eyes like a child playing hide-and-seek.

“It’s okay, you can look now.”

Soona slid the hand away from her face and her gaze rolled from Paige to the window. It might have been a trick of the light, but she thought she saw tears on the woman’s cheeks.
I just killed her mother.
No, she corrected herself.
I just saved my family.

Up ahead the road T-junctioned. Slumped to the right, using the door to keep herself propped up, Paige turned left and drove in what she prayed was the direction of the roadhouse.

Chapter Twenty-six

Norrison Littleman woke with a gasp, the bedsheet clenched in a grey bunch between his hands. Next to him his wife, Tilda, snored softly. The dream, so vivid only seconds ago, slipped out of his grasp. One thing remained, the gunshot. He’d been sitting in a swing; that he was sure of. Flying back and forth. He frowned in the dark. He tried to recall the details of his trip through the air, but all he could clearly recall was a crack. Distant, but clearly a gunshot.

He sat up wincing and slid his legs over the side of the bed, careful not to wake his slumbering lady. Yesterday had been delivery day and that meant lifting and carrying crates until his back howled like a banshee with its tail on fire. Tilda, a small delicate creature, fell into bed exhausted at nine o’clock.

“Keep your hands to yourself tonight, Norrie. After the lifting and carrying I’ve done today, I’d turn down Clint Eastwood even if he were holding a beer in one hand and a slab of chocolate in the other.” With that, Tilda rolled onto her side and within minutes her breathing evened out into soft snores.

Norrie didn’t say it, but he had no intention of starting anything that his aching back wouldn’t let him finish. Besides, at sixty-three he wasn’t the stud he used to be. A small truth that Tilda didn’t need to know. He was more than happy for her to fall asleep thinking her stallion of a husband was going without for her benefit.

He exited the bedroom and closed the door with a soft click and padded past the kitchen. When he reached the back door, he flicked on the outside lights. The door, a faded wooden frame with a sagging screen was unlocked. He grabbed his smokes off the window sill, fleetingly wondering if they were the reason his libido was hitting the bricks, and pushed the door open.

The back of the Million Miles roadhouse consisted of a scrubby patch of weeds and dry grass with a three-metre-wide stretch of paving abutting the exit. Norrie lit a smoke and plopped down into the white plastic chair that made up one fourth of the mismatched setting decorating the spot Tilda liked to call – with no hint of humour – their alfresco area.

With the dream that woke him still skirting the edges of his mind, Norrie puffed his smoke and listened to the crickets sing.
A swing of all things
, he thought with a small chuckle.
There’s barely a red hair left on my head and I’m dreaming about riding on a swing.
He decided to tell Tilda about the dream in the morning, she’d get a real kick out of it.

He finished his smoke and considered going back to bed, then dismissed the idea in favour of a cup of hot chocolate. Sleep was harder to come by in his old age.
Something chocolatey and warm might just be the ticket,
he thought and headed back inside.

Ten minutes later, Norrie sat back enjoying the comfort of the alfresco area. He sniffed the steaming chocolate and blew absently into the cup. With the night air pleasantly fresh, almost chilly, the hot cup felt comforting in his hands. His mind kept returning to the dream. The swinging was one thing; funny, yet understandable. But the gunshot bugged him. Maybe he was turning into an old fuss-pot, but he couldn’t get it out of his mind. The sound, like a whip crack in a tunnel had been so real.
Maybe I’m having a series of minor strokes,
he thought and shuddered at the idea.

Without thinking, he put the cup on the pavers next to his chair and fumbled another smoke out of his packet. Before he had time to flick on the lighter, the unmistakable crunch of tyres on the forecourt stilled his hand.

Norrie cocked his head to the left and waited for the thud of car doors. He hadn’t bothered to check the time on the kitchen clock, but felt sure it was late; after midnight. Whoever owned the vehicle sitting in front of the roadhouse was either lost or looking for trouble. When no sound came but the faint hum of an engine, he stood and glanced towards the back door. His heart kicked up a notch.

He kept a cricket bat under the counter in the shop. A stained Gray-Nicolls Strokemaster with red and black tape around the grip. He thought of going inside and retrieving it. He’d run the Million Miles for fifteen years, him and Tilda; he wouldn’t need lights to find his way through the kitchen and into the shop. He raked his hand over his sparsely covered pate and liked his lips.
I’ll ring the cops while I’m at it
, he thought and nodded his head.

The roadhouse was isolated. The nearest neighbour twenty minutes away, the loopy old Sheila at Mable house.
Not that the Hatcher woman could be described as neighbourly.
But that was fine with him,
isolated meant peaceful. But in the dark of night, it could mean vulnerable. The last thing Norrie wanted was a punch-up with a gang of yobbos hyped up on meth or whatever kids these days liked shoving up their noses.
Or down their lungs
, he thought with disgust.

He put his hand on the screen door and wasn’t surprised to see his fingers trembling.
If there’s assholes trying to rob us, this is going to get ugly
, he thought with more than a little trepidation. He pulled the door open slowly to silence the squeal of the hinges.
I’ve gotta get some WD40 on those
, he thought, grimacing at how loud the door sounded when everything else was still. He’d just put one bare foot in the house when a car horn, as load as a scream, filled the night.

His already jangled nerves got the better of him. The door slipped out of his hand and snapped shut with a thump. He stepped back and hit the chair he’d been sitting in, knocking it and the cup of hot chocolate over.

“Shit,” he yelped as hot liquid splashed his ankle.

The horn continued to blast, desperate and urgent. All thoughts of robbery left his mind and for the first time since he heard the car, Norrie wondered if someone might be in trouble. He jogged around the back of the building ignoring the prickles and stones under his bare feet. When he reached the forecourt he stopped, out of breath from the short dash.

An orange four-wheel-drive sat to the left of the roadhouse, horn howling and bathed in moonlight. Still breathing hard, Norrie took a tentative step towards the vehicle. The windows were tinted, but he thought he saw movement in the back seat.

“What’s going on?” Tilda’s voice at his shoulder made him jump.

“Jesus, Til. You nearly stopped my heart.” Norrie looked back at the four-wheel-drive. The front grille looked dented and there were brownish looking smears across the bonnet. “I think someone’s hurt. You go back inside and call the cops. I’m going to take a closer look.”

Tilda grabbed his shoulder, her small fingers dug into the skin above his collar bone. “I don’t like this. I think we should wait inside and let the police sort it out.”

Norrie disengaged his wife’s grip and took a step forward. “I don’t like it any more than you, but if someone’s hurt, I’m not sitting inside with my thumb up my ass until the cops get here. Now go inside.”

Normally, giving Tilda an order would incur not only a tongue lashing but possibly a few days’ silent treatment. Instead of arguing, she pressed the handle of the cricket bat into Norrie’s hand.

“Take this with you. I’ll wait until I know you’re safe, then I’ll go inside.”

Norrie swallowed and nodded. Tilda looked like a tiny frightened bird draped in a long blue nightdress. He had the urge to wrap his arms around her and kiss the top of her head.
I’m too old to be playing the hero
, he thought, and walked towards the car. He noticed the right headlight had a jagged crack running through it.

When he reached the driver’s door, he made out a shape hunched against the wheel.
If it’s a drunk, I’ll brain him
. Norrie reached for the handle. He pulled the door open with his right hand and raised the bat with his left. When the interior light came on, he let out a gasp and the bat slid out of his sweaty hand.

“Holy God!”

“What is it? Is someone hurt?” Tilda’s voice came almost as a scream over the blare of the horn.

“Call an ambulance!” Norrie looked back at his wife. “Now!”

Chapter Twenty-seven

Something damp touched the side of Paige’s face. She flinched and raised her hand to ward off the attack.

“It’s alright, love. You’re safe.” A woman’s voice.

Paige blinked. Her eyes moved slowly, as if weighed down with mud. She tried moving her head, but a whooshing sound filled her ears and a razor wire of pain pierced her groin.

“Don’t try to move. Just keep still and the ambulance will be here soon.” The woman’s voice had a gentle comforting quality.

Paige managed to open her eyes. The light, soft and yellow, brought details into focus. The car door, a woman’s face – small and dominated by watery blue eyes.

“Amb … Ambulance?” Her tongue stuck to the roof of her mouth.

“Yes.” The woman lifted a white cloth and dabbed Paige’s forehead. “You’re at the Million Miles Roadhouse. The air ambulance is on its way. But you mustn’t move.”

The roadhouse, Wade was right
, Paige thought.
It wasn’t far
. The panic stabbed at her. “Hal? Where’s Hal? He needs …”

“It’s okay. He’s still in the back of the car. They’ll look after him too. I promise.”

Paige let out a shuddering breath. She’d made it. They were safe.

“What’s your name, love?” The question pulled Paige back to the present.

She focused her eyes on the face that hovered next to her. She blinked and the face changed. The watery blue eyes were replaced by bulging grey shark eyes. Paige shrieked and tried to pull away.

“It’s alright. No one’s going to hurt you.” The woman’s voice broke through Paige’s panic and once more the kindly blue eyes looked at her.

“I’m … I’m Paige.” Her name came out in a sigh of air.

“Okay, Paige. I’m Tilda and that Yobbo behind me is Norrie.” Tilda gestured over her shoulder.

For the first time since opening her eyes, Paige noticed the bald man standing behind the woman. He nodded to her, but didn’t speak. Tilda raised her hand to dab at Paige’s forehead. With strength she didn’t know she had, Paige grabbed the woman’s hand. Tilda let out a gasp of surprise but didn’t pull away.

“Is my baby okay?” Paige squeezed Tilda’s wrist. “It’s not too late is it? They’ll save the baby, won’t they?” The words came out around sobs and her eyes blurred with tears. Her rational mind told her the kindly woman next to her couldn’t answer those questions, but she wanted, no,
needed
Tilda to tell her the baby was okay.

Tilda patted Paige’s hand, the one wrapped around the woman’s small wrist. “I promise they’ll do everything they can to save your baby. But you have to help by staying calm and keeping still. Okay?”

Paige worked her mouth trying to answer but a deafening roar pierced the night and blocked out her thoughts. From the back of the car came a now familiar chant. “Don’t touch. Don’t touch.”

“It’s okay, sweetheart,” Paige whispered. Don’t be afraid. It’s the ambulance.” Paige squeezed her eyes shut and let darkness swallow her.

* * *

She became aware of movement. Her body seemed to be vibrating. Paige opened her eyes and took in her surroundings. Not all at once but in snatches of images. Grey metal above her head. A man leaning over her. Hal lying on a stretcher, his eyes closed, straps encircling his body.

“Hal?” Her voice sounded weak, swamped by the noise overhead.

“He’s hanging in there.” The man above her looked young. A teenager.
No
, Paige told herself he’s not a teenager, he’s a medic.

“Paige,” he spoke again. “I’m Brandon. I’m a medic. Can you tell me how many weeks you are?”

“Its … I’m…almost thirty weeks.”

He nodded. “Okay. Good. Have you had any contractions?”

Paige nodded. “Is my baby okay?”

Brandon’s face flushed with colour. “We’re going to do everything we can. We’re taking you to Bunbury hospital where you’ll most likely be taken down to theatre.” He paused and she felt him touch her shoulder. “Just hang on, Paige. We’ll do everything we can.

Yes, Tilda promised
. Brandon’s voice drifted over her. He was asking her something, but his words made no sense. She looked over at Hal and then let her eyes close, grateful for the darkness.