No Safe Place (Joe Hunter Thrillers Book 11) (11 page)

Tommy Benson wasn’t home when I arrived at his small, dilapidated house a couple blocks west of Nebraska Avenue
. But I wasn’t at a loss, because I chanced upon him as he drove his Toyota off the short strip of pavement that served as his parking spot. He was fiddling with his CD player, thumbing up the volume on some country rock track, so didn’t meet my gaze as he drove by. I watched my mirrors and saw him head towards Waters Avenue. As soon as he’d made a right, I pulled my Ford into a quick Y-turn and went after him. He was gloriously unaware of a tail as I followed him under the I-275 towards a small commercial strip adjacent to the Hillsborough River. He’d the choice of various stores including a Kmart, an outlet store selling last season’s men’s wear, and a dollar store among others. He pulled his Toyota into a parking space outside a laundromat. He was still unaware of me as he got out the car and lugged a bag of laundry to the shop. He was wearing a red T-shirt, jeans and high-top sneakers, and had a baseball cap pulled low, his hair jutting out from under it. I drove past his car, and got a good look this time at the bumper stickers. Now I could read it clearly, I committed the licence number to memory, though doing so was academic now.

Should I need to leave in a hurry, I reversed my car into a space outside a nearby Chinese restaurant, from where I had a view of his car and the laundromat. The windows of the shop reflected the late afternoon glare, so I’d no view of the interior, but I guessed Benson was currently stuffing his dirty laundry in one of the machines. For a brief moment I considered going inside and stopping him, in case he was washing clothing that might hold some trace evidence from when he was at Clayton’s house. Why bother? All he was guilty of was planting a sucker punch on Clayton’s chin, and nothing else that I knew of. Barring a couple of aches and pains, Clayton was unharmed, and he had given the impression he wasn’t interested in pressing charges against his attacker. I decided to wait instead, but didn’t know how long I was committing to: how long were the wash and dry cycles in a laundromat?

As it happened I didn’t have to sit for more than a few minutes before Tommy Benson pushed out the front door. His hands were empty of laundry, but he soon filled them with a pack of cigarettes and a Zippo-style lighter. He sparked up and took a grateful pull on his cigarette. As he stood filling his nicotine quota, I got my first sharp look at him. Even without the evidence presented by his car I would have recognised him as the man who’d struck Clayton, knocking him on his arse during the thunderstorm. And, now that I had a good look at him, I was sure he was the also same man I’d startled from the copse of trees the night before the storm, the same one who’d dropped the glove during his escape. Recalling the glove, and the hair found inside it, it made me reconsider Benson’s involvement in everything, including Ella’s murder. The guy was tangled deeper in everything than I’d first thought, though I couldn’t yet imagine how. So that left me single recourse. I got out my car, and walked towards him, my footsteps hushed by the traffic whistling by on the nearby elevated interstate. He was blissfully unaware of my approach, busy squinting up at the early evening sky as he smoked, and possibly plotting a return trip to the Clayton house as soon as it turned dark.

Less than ten feet separated us when he heard my footfalls and glanced my way. He was unconcerned by my presence, and turned away again. But a sudden tenseness went through him and he rounded on me, staring directly in my face. Had he too recognised me from our two brief interactions? I’d no real plan of approach, because I’d no idea of his level of involvement, but that was good because he’d have blown it. He acted exactly as a guilty person might in such circumstances: he let out a croak of alarm and began backpedalling away, his head snapping this way and that as he sought an escape route.

‘Hey! Just hold it, Benson,’ I said, lifting an empty palm towards him. ‘I only want to speak to you.’

‘Fuck that, man!’ he replied.

I should have foreseen his next move, but I was preparing for a run. As he’d exhibited at Clayton’s he was prone to violence, and apparently Benson’s favourite method was delivering it without warning. He suddenly skipped towards me, and jabbed a kick at my balls.

As Rink mentioned earlier: nobody is infallible. His words almost rang true in my case; I came so near to having my testicles driven up inside me. But at the last instant I sucked in my gut, jerked back my pelvis and Benson’s foot barely scuffed the front of my jeans. I thrust my palm into his chest, but it wasn’t enough to halt his forward momentum, and he swung a couple of wild punches at my head before I’d had enough. I nutted him, catching him with the top of my forehead on his left cheek bone. I’d delivered the headbutt to stun, not to drop him cold, and almost succeeded. He let out a shout of pain, but then grabbed at me, and I returned the favour. However he wasn’t up for a full on tussle and only used his grip on my clothing to pull around me, and get a clear run at the parking lot. I grasped at him but he yanked loose, ducked past me, and was running like a lunatic for his car before I could spin in pursuit.

We’d attracted the attention of an older couple returning from the pharmacy to their car: they made exclamations of dismay and backed away. Further along near the Kmart a trio of boys riding bicycles whooped and hollered as I gave chase. They began pedalling furiously, keen to follow the action. The last I needed was an audience, but first and foremost in my mind was catching Benson. He charged for his car, but he watched me over one shoulder, and figured that he couldn’t make it inside the relative safety of the Toyota before I caught up. He forwent the car, rushing instead for the low wall that surrounded this part of the lot. He hurdled it, skipped across the sidewalk and onto the asphalt road. He swerved around a slow moving van. I pelted after him.

‘Just bloody stop!’ I yelled at his back, but he had no intention of obeying.

He lunged over the opposite sidewalk, and on to an adjacent strip of spongy grass. A low fence separated the verge from an expanse of green through which wended a cinder path, possibly a route for dog walkers or joggers. On the far side of the recreation field was a small neighbourhood, and I thought that was where Benson was heading, maybe seeking the bolthole of a friend’s house. If he made it inside I’d have to call Bryony, but really I wanted to speak to Benson before the cops got to him. I put my head down and pushed harder after him.

He jerked to the right, and I turned with him, but then he went left again but he’d failed to wrong foot me. I was still on his heels, but he maintained a lead I was finding it difficult to shorten. I shouted again, but my words sounded more like a clipped curse. He paid no attention and kept running.

I could hear the kids on the bikes attempting to keep pace with us, but they’d taken the route on to the field via a gate, and were pedalling like crazy down the cinder path. I threw a warning gesture and a shout in their direction, trying to chase them off but they disobeyed me with as much willfulness as Benson. I ignored them after that, concentrating on the chase. My feet slapped through the grass, kicking up clouds of insects. Benson was proving fleet-footed. But then, so was I, and finally gaining step by step.

Benson must have sensed how close I was. He again tried a zigzag manoeuvre, but it helped him none, and only allowed me to close the gap by another few feet. He knew he wasn’t going to make it all the way across the field before I had him, and had two options. Turn and fight or try something new. He preferred a surprise attack, and that wasn’t available to him now, so he took option two. He went sharply to the left, just as the kids streaked down the path between us. As the first kid coasted by, Benson slapped an arm across the kid’s chest and took him out of his saddle. For the tiniest moment I thought he was going to try to highjack the pedal cycle and make off on it. But no. As the kid clattered to the floor with a cry of dismay, the other kids swerved wildly to avoid hitting him and one of them streaked towards me. I’d to slam on the brakes to avoid colliding with him. The kid wobbled as he also tried to avoid a collision, braked too hard and went headlong over the handlebars. He rolled across the grass, arms and legs akimbo, before coming to rest in the dirt. Thankfully he looked unhurt, but I was filled with ignominy at Benson’s actions. It made me switch up a gear, and I no longer simply wanted to talk. If ever I was tempted to shoot it was now, though I’d only have to wing the punk if I did.

Benson didn’t give a shit for the kids’ welfare. While I made a brief check on the two spilled boys, he went for the third. This kid jumped off his bike and ran back a few feet from Benson. Ignoring the boy’s four-letter exclamation, Benson grabbed his bicycle, lifted it in the air and slung it at me. I dodged, but the back wheel clipped my left thigh, and dull pain went through the muscle that left it leaden. I tripped over the frame before regaining my balance.

Benson was off again.

I checked all the kids were unharmed, hissing warnings at them to stay back. This time they’d learned their lesson, and I took off at a limp after Benson who now headed directly for a narrow strip of undergrowth that separated the field from an embankment up to the highway. As I ran the deadening pain in my thigh was replaced by a tingling itch, but that was good: it meant the effects of the charley horse were wearing off.

Benson’s hat had fallen off. I stamped on it as I ran. Not deliberately, but I didn’t make much effort to miss it either. He forced through the tangle of undergrowth with all the grace of a charging warthog, then scurried up the embankment on all fours. I kicked through the tangles of creepers and long grass and almost got a grip round one of his ankles. He kicked loose, clawed his way upward and I was forced to scramble in pursuit again.

‘Just stop, for fuck’s sake!’ I snarled. My tone didn’t promise good things if he obeyed. Unsurprisingly he kept going. I made it on to the verge as Benson fled alongside the highway. Cars and trucks zipped past, heading the same direction. As I pursued, I could feel tiny bits of grit striking my flesh, kicked up from the road by the speeding vehicles.

Benson glanced frantically over his shoulder. I was thirty feet back, but again closing on him as his wind began to leave him. Each step he took was growing more ungainly as if he was rapidly approaching fatigue, while each of mine grew a little longer and steadier. He wasn’t only checking how close I was though. He glanced, glanced again and then swerved left. He was through a gap between the hurtling traffic in about three bounds. He stood there on the narrow median. Fuck that, I decided, and was about to give up the chase. While I had him in my sights I’d have been happy to continue the chase, but not when things had grown so desperate. I’d need only go back and fetch my car and I’d catch him when he inevitably returned home. I began to slow.

Benson saw I’d lost any enthusiasm for the hunt, and took a gloating grin across the lanes at me. He raised his right fist, and slowly extended his middle finger, even as he stepped back. “Fuck you,” he mouthed in victory.

Jesus! Even I didn’t see the camper van’s approach, so Benson had no hope. He reversed directly in front of it, and the impact was so sudden I’d no idea where Benson was for a few seconds. Partly it was because I’d scrunched tight my eyes at the sickening impact, and partly because the VW ploughed him up and over its windshield, flinging him skyward. By the time I opened my eyes, letting out a groan of regret, the van was already a hundred yards further down the highway, swerving wildly as the driver fought to control his own shock. Benson had landed on the median once more. From the way his body was contorted I didn’t give him much odds at life. ‘Holy shit,’ I wheezed. On both sides of the highway cars and trucks were coming to a halt. Further back, those who hadn’t witnessed the accident had no clue why the traffic had ground to a halt, and I heard the angry blaring of horns. I also caught the soft crunch of a rear-end collision.

I checked that I wasn’t going to be similarly mown down before jogging across the road between stalled vehicles. As I made it to the median, I’d a short run to where Benson lay. I could hear him moaning, and the sound was so full of torment that it pained my ears. Steam rose from him, and it wasn’t through overheating through exertion. It wasn’t a good sign.

I’d witnessed many horrendous sights in my lifetime. I’d seen people shot, burned, decapitated, blown apart by explosives, but they had been under warfare conditions, or during life and death moments of shocking violence, and I’d been able to compartmentalise the horror so it didn’t affect me. There’s always something you don’t grow inured to. One of them is when the horrendous injuries come so suddenly in a mundane situation as they had now, and in a totally avoidable manner. Less than five minutes ago Benson had been laundering his clothes. Now he looked like a bundle of filthy rags. Benson’s body had practically burst…

I almost lost my lunch on the grass alongside him. But I pushed aside any revulsion, and dropped to my knees, ignoring the gore that immediately seeped through my jeans. Moments ago I’d considered shooting Benson for his ill treatment of the kids, but now my emphasis was on trying to save his life. I knew it was a futile attempt, but still had to do something. Hell, if I stood and watched him perish, I would never feel human again. There was nothing I could do for his traumatic injuries, no way of halting the blood pulsing from his torn and exposed arteries, and I could do nothing about rearranging his spilled intestines. But maybe I could offer some comfort in his last few seconds on earth, and – guiltily – coax an answer to a question or two. I held his right hand as I looked down at him. Miraculously his eyes were still open, but he was staring at a point a thousand miles beyond my face. ‘Why did you have to run like that?’ I asked him. ‘I only wanted to speak to you.’