Raucous (30 page)

CHAPTER SEVENTY EIGHT

Raucous saw the shoe.  A soft leather loafer of the expensive Italian kind.  Raucous stopped and stared and saw the shoe slide behind the tree.  Raucous had wanted to run after Charlotte.  But she was able to look after herself.  Chamberlain had gone.  He needed Chamberlain caught.  It took sixty seconds to find him.  He didn’t need to be a trapper.  He half-expected the man to have his hands covering his face.  I can’t see you, so you can’t see me.  The logic of children and the scared.

“Come out, Chamberlain.  You can’t hide,” Raucous said.

There was no movement at first and Raucous knew Chamberlain was calculating badly.

“It’s impossible, Chamberlain,” Raucous said.  “I know you are behind the tree, and the police are coming.  You have no weapon.  Just step out.”

“So you can shoot me?”  Chamberlain said. 

“I’m not going to shoot you.  Where would be the revenge in that?”

“Turk was the man you needed to kill, not me.”

“Now that’s just plain dumb, Sir Alex.”

Sir Alex poked his head from around the tree.  Raucous made sure he saw him place the gun in the back of his trousers.  Raucous held up his hands to say, no violence.

Sir Alex edged clear.  His clothes were muddied.  He had fallen while escaping.  He only had one loafer, his other foot was covered in a sodden once-white cotton sock. 

“I can get you out of this,” Sir Alex said.  “We can get out untouched.”

Raucous smiled.

“Go on,” he said.

“I have contacts.  We can make it.  A closed eye, and we’re free.”

“And then what?  A life on the run?  Me and you together like Hope and Cosby?  I can’t see it working.”

“I can get you freedom.  A short sentence, anything.”

“Can you get me satisfaction?”

“What?  Anything.  Satisfaction?  How?”

Sir Alex was stammering.  His cool had gone.  He needed to be moving.  He thought movement would see him free through luck and belligerence.

“You’re lucky in a certain sense,” Raucous said.  “Till a few years ago, for everything you did, I’d have dropped you already.  Shot you in the leg maybe, a couple of smacks possible.  But I would have killed you.  Through the face more than likely.  But I changed.”

Raucous saw a little fear slide from Chamberlain’s face.

“A reformed man?” Chamberlain asked.

“Prison isn’t set up to reform and rehabilitate.  It’s punishment, pure and simple.  The shittier the crime, the shittier the people and the place you stay.  Unless of course you are genuinely insane, a psychopath or such.  Then you get the nice hospital number where they try and help you, even though you are a lost cause.  But once in there the chances of coming out are slim.  You ever read one flew over the cuckoo’s nest?”

“And you think I’m going to be there, with the insane?”  Chamberlain asked.

“No, you’ll be a special guest in a basic shithole prison.”

Chamberlain shook his head.  Smugness returned.  He knew something Raucous did not.

“I’ll be a special guest in a special prison for people with information.  I’m never going inside.”

“There is that,” Raucous said.  “You might get an open prison, with posh crooks, financial types and rich kids with a disregard for law but too much money to be too punished.  But even that for you, will be hard.”

“A few years and I’m gone.”

Raucous looked at the ground.  He knew the argument.  He knew the possibility was real.

“Yeah.  A few years,” he said.  “Sounds a short time, doesn’t it?  But there will be a public backlash.  We have people who will see to that.  Papers pushing for you to be a little more harshly treated, what with the manner of your crimes.  And sooner or later, they’ll get their wish.  And you will see some tougher times.  I’m sure of it.”

Chamberlain was confident now.  Raucous saw that.  He knew rightly that Raucous wouldn’t kill him.  They were debating a point.  And Chamberlain would win.

“I won’t see anything,” Chamberlain said.  “Easy time, easy life.  I’m too valuable.  I’m too much part of the circle.”

“You don’t think that maybe someone might want you dead?  Put you in a proper prison where men who dislike your type walk around looking to hurt?”

“I’m not going anywhere near there.  And you know it, Raucous.  I won’t be doing your type of time.  All those boys, all your friends, all the kids like you.  You think they’ll be avenged by my two years at most in an easy prison?  Do you think?”

Raucous wanted to reach for his gun, just to scare the arrogance out of him again.  The self-belief of the protected. 

“I don’t think killing you will either,” Raucous said.  “I’d say you have to live with it, but I think you have shown you can do that without the least problem.  You feel nothing for any of them?”

“Survival, isn’t it.  Some lives are like that, others aren’t.”

Raucous stared at Sir Alex, knew he hated, knew he would and should hurt this man.  He wanted an excuse, but he had promised others, as well as himself that the man needed to speak, needed to be in front of a judge, needed to be heard. 

He had found Chamberlain and would wait until he was met by police.  Escort him all the way.  Make sure no deals were done here, no escape available.

A gunshot rang out.  Raucous turned his head to the right.  The sound engulfed the area but he was sure the origin was to his right.  A few hundred meters away.  The sound was heavy, but it was alone.  No second shot.  Raucous looked to Chamberlain.

“You have to go.  Sounds like trouble,” Chamberlain said.  And he smiled as wide as only a politician can.  “What are you going to do?  Tie me to a tree to stop my escape?”

Raucous made an effort to look around for a rope.  He looked at the tree.  He looked at Chamberlain and the big fat grin he was sporting on his muddied chubby face.  Raucous liked the idea that popped into his mind.  Chamberlain sensed the change in mood.

Raucous pulled his gun from his waist-band.  Sir Alex scrabbled back, fell and tried to edge away on hands and feet.  Raucous took aim, fired, and was a little repulsed by how much of Chamberlain’s unshoed foot exploded. 

“You are going to want to shout for help,” Raucous said as Chamberlain stared at a bloody stub. 

CHAPTER SEVENTY NINE

Charlotte watched.  She didn’t know why.  Like a theatre play with method actors, she saw Rollin and Christian battle.

Rollin faced Christian, a heavy canvas bag slung over his shoulder, slowly lowered to the floor.  Christian raised his gun, pointing the barrel at Rollin’s face.  They were a metre apart, and there was no chance Christian would miss if he pulled the trigger.  Rollin grinned, he had made his decision, he knew, was convinced Christian would not fire.  Charlotte could see this.  He had made the assumption that had Christian wanted him dead, he would already be.   Christian’s hands were shaking, from adrenaline, exertion and fear.  The gun moved in circles, and side-to-side, but the range made an attempt at snatching difficult.

Rollin had patience, his eyes flicked occasionally away from the gun-barrel.  He couldn’t see 360 degrees, but he wanted to know who else was coming.  Charlotte was beyond his peripheral vision.  She watched, wanting Christian to shoot.

“Are you going to be long?”  Rollin asked.

Christian continued to stare and point his gun.  He clenched his teeth, and the knuckles on the hand that held the gun turned white from the tightness of his grip.

“I had nothing to do with your death,” Rollin said.  “That was all on Parker.  His plan.  The elimination of everyone.  I should have gone too.  I got out.  Used my head and cut my losses.  Just like I’m doing now.”

Christian stared and shook, loosened and tightened his grip.  Rollin let the strap on the canvas bag go and it slipped to the floor.  He held his palms up, facing skyward.

“Look at me, Christian,” he said.

Rollin was smart and playing.  A memory of a conversation they had once had.  Christian moved to the same reaction.  He looked away, down to the left, not wanting eye-contact with Rollin.  Rollin moved at the first flicker.  He threw his left hand up and out, smashing the gun from Christian’s grasp.  His momentum drove him forward, and he ducked his head, his chin pushed into his chest, he dipped at the knees and then pushed up.  His right shoulder caught Christian’s floating ribs; the force lifted Christian from the floor.  Christian smacked his hands down on Rollin’s shoulders as he fell backwards, hit the ground and had the full force of Rollin’s weight smash the air from his lungs.  They scrambled for position and grip.  Charlotte saw openings for both, but they had no training, no experience and let them pass.  They grabbed at arms and hands, when they should be twisting, trying to clamp legs around waists.  They needed to be on top.  They rolled, clasping each other in bear hugs.  Charlotte looked for the gun.  It was on the ground.  Two metres from the men.  They were rolling away from where it lay.  She moved in a crouch.

Rollin saw her first.  He knew what she was doing.  Christian grabbed Rollin by the shirt.  Rollin, a surge of strength taking him up, pushed Christian’s arm free.  Rollin drove down hard with his right elbow.  He scrambled, moving toward the gun.  Christian kicked out, catching Rollin’s ankles.  Rollin fell forward, his legs moving like he was riding an invisible bike.  He fell on his chest, his hands outstretched.  He grasped the gun.  He looked up and Charlotte froze.  Rollin stood quickly; he aimed at Charlotte’s chest.  She could see his eyes were glazed.  He could see nothing but the need to kill.  She saw his finger tighten on the trigger, she heard the bang, and saw the muzzle flash.  She saw Christian diving shoulder first into Rollin’s back, Rollin’s arm flying up, his aim gone.  The bang deafening and making her ears vibrate and hum.  She paused, waiting to feel pain, the shock of being hit by a high-velocity bullet.  But nothing came.  She watched Rollin fall forward, Christian on Rollin’s back, a rock held in his right palm.  Christian smashed it down, aiming for the base of Rollin’s scull.  Rollin was moving and the blow hit hard, but glanced off.  Rollin stumbled up, Christian off balance from throwing the blow, fell left.  Rollin, on instinct, in a haze, pushed his left forearm against Christian’s throat, pinning him down.  He grabbed the rock, lifted it up and swung it down with force.  Christian held up his hands, he took some power from the blow with his palms and fingers, but Rollin smashed on through and Christian's forehead broke open.  Blood flowed, and his head lolled.  Christian’s hands fell gently down.  Rollin lifted the rock again, he reached back, as far as a golfer looking to drive the green, he started his forward momentum, but dropped, his body without muscle as Charlotte pressed the gun to his head and pulled the trigger.  Rollin’s limp body fell to the ground.  Half of his face gone.  Charlotte crouched and pulled Christian free from Rollin’s dead weight.  She leaned his head against her lap.

“You got lucky there,” Raucous said.

Charlotte looked around as Raucous arrived.

Raucous took in the scene.

“Police and ambulances on the way,” he said.  “Is he breathing?”

Charlotte could feel the rise and fall of Christian’s chest.  She nodded to Raucous.

“He’ll make it,” he said.

Raucous moved to the bag Rollin had dropped.  He picked it up and slung it over his shoulder.  He looked at Charlotte and Christian.  He watched Charlotte for longer than she felt comfortable.

She wanted him to speak, to explain.  He smiled turned and walked away, heading across flat farmland in the dark, with his bag of gold.

Charlotte felt Christian move and heard him mumble.

“Christian?”  She asked.

He opened his eyes and asked, “What?”