Sleight Malice (6 page)

Simple
really
, she thought as she descended from the porch
and trudged around to the side. A sloping steel ledge jutted out from the wall,
shielding the cottage’s two gas bottles from the worst of the elements. She
hesitated, her apprehension about what else might be protected by the mantle of
more immediate concern. Her aversion to anything with greater than four legs
was bad enough, but knowing she was about to put her hand into the sort of
haunt favored by the redback spider worried her more.

After a couple
of false starts, her fingertips felt the square edges of a tiny flat box. A
small tug dislodged it, the black magnetic key case dropping into her palm. She
slid the top back, not quite believing it was still there after all that time.
She had also escaped without a poisonous spider bite.

On her way
back, she noticed the blinds in the master bedroom were open, but even on her
tiptoes she had no hope of peering through the slats. Being short had its
setbacks. And the only window at her height, the large picture one at the rear
of the cottage, had its drapes closed. She fingered the key. Entering but not
breaking…

Back on the
threadbare coir doormat, she knocked again and then did something she hadn’t
thought to do before; she tried the door handle. Her heart lurched, a stifled
squeak of surprise escaping her throat as she felt, as well as heard, the
latching mechanism respond. What person in their right mind would go out and
leave the house unlocked? The sensible side of her told her that it was none of
her business, that the odds were against her finding Laura inside anyway, and
to leave before she could be charged with home invasion.

However, her
‘nothing ventured, nothing gained’ more dominant attitude spurred her on. Even
if her hunch was way off base, damned if she was going to leave until she’d
checked it out, proved to herself Laura wasn’t lying bound and gagged or
comatose or worse inside. With more bravado than she actually felt, she gave
the door a shove.

“Hello! Anyone
at home?” she called out, struggling to control the quaver in her voice.
Peering into the gloom, she could make out shapes but no detail. A slight
mustiness hung in the air. She stepped inside and closed the door behind her.
At least it was a few degrees warmer than outside.

Moving forward,
she almost tripped over a squat lamp table she didn’t recall being there
previously. She paused, giving her eyes more of a chance to become accustomed
to the lack of light. From what she could make out, little else had changed in
the room. The ugly but ultra-comfortable relic of a couch was still there. If
anything, the floor to ceiling bookshelves looked to be crammed with even more
books, but that was all.

She took a step
and stopped. Had she imagined it or was it simply creaking timbers? She heard
it again. She froze, her ears straining to pick up the slightest sound. Someone
was there. She was sure of it.

Adrenaline
coursing through her body, her eyes scanned the room for a weapon, anything she
could use to defend herself. On the hearth next to the wood-box, stood a
wrought-iron fire set. She sidled over, and without looking down, grabbed the
first tool that came to hand.

Armed with the
heavy poker, she crept toward the kitchen, certain it was the direction the
noise had come from. Her rubbery legs felt like they belonged to somebody else.
She pushed on, her breaths coming in short ragged gulps.

“In here!”

Fergus threw
the cottage door open, its handle banging against the inside wall. “Where?” he
shouted, charging through the darkened living room.

“The kitchen.
Quick!”

“Are you all
right, Desley?” he asked, dropping down on one knee opposite her and
automatically checking the pulse of the inert person on the floor between them.
Slow but steady. “What happened, do you know?” He continued examining the
woman, glancing up when Desley didn’t answer.

Her face
pinched and pale, she looked on the verge of tears. She shook her head.

The
semi-conscious woman gave a small moan, but made no attempt to move. Her skin
felt cold and clammy to his touch. Her breathing sounded shallow. He turned his
attention to tracing the source of the blood on the floor under her jaw. On the
right side of her head, under a matted section of hair, he found a
three-centimeter long gash. Blood had run down her scalp, pooling in her ear
canal before trickling onto the floor.

“Have you
called an ambulance yet?” He looked up, only to find he was talking to himself.
Desley had disappeared.

He heard
cupboard doors opening and closing. Moments later she returned with a bulky patterned
quilt clutched in her arms.

“I couldn’t
find the first-aid kit,” she said. “But I thought we could use this as a
makeshift stretcher.”

“I don’t think
we should move her.”

Her forehead
wrinkled. “What choice do we have, Fergus? In case you haven’t realized, not
only are we out of mobile phone range, but the cottage doesn’t have a
landline.” She dumped the quilt on the floor. “Someone down the road might have
a phone, but can we really risk wasting time checking each property. Even if
one of them has a phone, who’s to say they’re at home?”

“There’s
someone home at the red-brick house just up from where you parked.” Reaching
over the prostrate woman, he dragged the quilt across the floor and over her
torso and limbs. “I can’t be sure the guy has the phone connected,” he said to
Desley, “but I got the impression he lives there fulltime.”

He didn’t need
to tell her twice. She took off at a run, slamming the back door behind her.

The injured
woman's eyelids flickered. A small whimper escaped her slightly parted lips.

“You’re going
to be okay. Try not to move,” he murmured, using two fingers to brush aside the
long, black strands of hair from her eyes. “The ambulance is on its way.”

Who was she?
Although he couldn’t see her face or gauge her build properly, he didn’t think
the dark-haired woman sprawled on the floor was Desley’s friend. The photos
released by the police showed Laura Noble as a willowy blonde. Who had attacked
this woman? And why?

Fergus shifted
position, his gaze catching what looked to be some sort of black rod up against
a cupboard kickboard. Focusing on it, he realized it was an iron poker, one end
twisted to form a hanging loop. Was it the weapon used to strike down the
woman? What other reason could there be for it being on the kitchen floor?

He checked her
pulse again, panicking when he couldn’t locate it. “Hang in there, hang in
there, hang in there,” he chanted, repositioning his fingers. He breathed a
sigh of relief. Weak but at least it was there.

Desley had been
gone for twenty or so minutes. How long would it take an ambulance to get to
them? Looking at his watch every few seconds wasn’t helping.

He heard the
thudding of her footsteps on the back porch. She burst into the kitchen, her
face flushed.

“They’re…
sending…” she leaned forward, catching her breath, “…an air ambulance. How is
she?”

“Not good. The
sooner they get here the better.”

“Somebody has
to wait outside to direct them, so unless you need me in here, I’d better get
out there.” She took two steps and turned. “You don’t by any chance carry a
flare in your car?” she asked, walking backwards.

She didn’t give
him a chance to speak, his expression evidently answer enough.

“No, I didn’t
think so, but I had to ask…” She stood stock-still, her face angled toward the
ceiling.

Then he heard
the distinctive whump-whump-whump sound of an approaching helicopter. He
exhaled.
Thank Christ
, he thought.
And not a moment too soon
.

The aircraft
flew overhead, rattling the cottage windows, the deafening noise like song to
his ears. He leapt to his feet, looking out the kitchen’s small end window in
time to see Desley standing on the edge of the clearing, waving her arms in
some strange semaphore. The rotor-wash from the red-and-white striped air
ambulance knocked her off balance and she stumbled, one arm raised to shield
her face from the sandblast. She righted herself, sheltering behind the nearest
tree.

He shivered,
not realizing until then how cold it was inside the cottage. He knelt down
beside the woman again, tucking the quilt in where he could. The handover to
the paramedics couldn’t come soon enough. He had already stretched his rusty
first aid skills beyond their limits.

Hearing the
rally of footsteps on the wooden deck, he stood up and moved out of the way. A
paramedic brushed past him, setting his bulky medical case on the floor beside
the woman. He quickly checked her vital signs, his deadpan face no indication
to his findings. Using a neck brace, he immobilized her head and neck, and with
practiced ease rolled her over on her back onto the stretcher.

At the kitchen
bench, Desley scrawled something on the back of a business card. “Here,” she
said thrusting it at the pilot as he bent down to lift one end of the
stretcher. “Someone needs to contact her fiancé.”

He took it
without a word, shoving it in his top pocket. Seconds later the ambulance crew
whisked away their patient.

Outside on the
back porch, Fergus glanced at Desley as she sagged against the wall, watching
the helicopter lift-off and soar away. She looked like he felt. Drained.

The air
ambulance soon disappeared from sight, the thrum of the rotor blades trailing
in its wake. With a weary sigh, she pushed off from the wall and walked away
from him. He closed his eyes for a moment, opening them again in a flash when
he realized she had gone back into the cottage.

“Desley,” he
shouted, pulling back the flyscreen-door and kicking the ajar inner door open
further with his boot, “don’t touch anything. It’s a crime scene now.”

No response.

He reached the
kitchen just in time to see her bend down for the poker. “No, don’t!” He lunged
across the floor and grabbed her wrist. “You’ll contaminate the evidence.”

She wrenched
her arm from his grip, rubbing it as she glared at him. “Did you have to be so
heavy-handed about it?”

“Sorry, but the
last thing you need is for the cops to find your fingerprints all over the
weapon.”

“Too late. I
was the one who dropped…” Her eyes widened, the gravity of the situation
plainly sinking in. “Oh shit, you don’t think they’ll think I did it, do you?”

He hesitated a
moment too long.

“You don’t
seriously…” Her jaw dropped. “Thanks for nothing, Fergus.” She stormed off,
muttering something he couldn’t catch.

Christ
, he thought,
I’ll never understand women
. Nevertheless, he
had to admit he could have handled it better. She had read him right. Everyone
was a suspect until he or she could be ruled out. The local cops would be there
soon enough, asking questions and laying down the law. He didn’t want her
thinking he was ganging up on her as well. Blaming his police training, he went
to look for her.

He found her
pacing up and down the road, the set of her face as fixed as her crossed arms.
Falling into step beside her, he pleaded his case.

“I’m really
sorry, Desley, if you thought for one moment I was doubting you. It wasn’t my
intention.” He chuckled. “Once a cop, always a cop, eh?”

His pathetic
attempt at levity had the opposite effect. She scowled at him, her pale lips
tightly pursed.

“And do cops
always jump to conclusions?”

“Please hear me
out.”

She came to an
abrupt halt, turned and faced him. “Okay,” she said, dropping her hands to her
hips, “I’m listening.”

“Why don’t we
talk in my car where it’s warmer? Or your car, if you prefer,” he hastily
added. Besides having more legroom, his Ford Falcon had to be more comfortable
than her compact Peugeot hatchback, but he wanted the decision to be hers. He
needed the brownie points.

Sizing up the
cars, she walked over to the Falcon. He darted over to open the car door for
her, scoring a glimmer of what he hoped was a smile as she sunk into the velour
passenger seat. Who said chivalry was dead? He closed the door and hurried
around to the driver’s side.

Inside the
closed-up car, a faint hint of meat pie, a reminder of his unorthodox breakfast
grabbed on the go, overlaid the new car smell. He started the car, turning the
heater to high. In a few minutes, it would be like a furnace.

He stretched
out in his seat, skewing his body so he could see Desley’s face. She lay back,
her eyes closed, the Falcon’s seat swallowing her diminutive frame. Her dark
eyelashes accentuated her pallid and drawn complexion. He wondered about the
faint scar just below her right eyebrow. She looked fragile, but he suspected
she was anything but. She must have sensed him watching her.

“I’m not as clueless
as you think.” She opened her eyes, twisting her head to meet his gaze.