James Benn - A Blind Goddess

“There!” Payne shouted, and I saw a constable sent sprawling as he tried to keep Bone from leaving the road and entering the offlimits area, still jam-packed with tracked and wheeled vehicles driving in seemingly random patterns.

“He’s heading for our jeep,” I hollered, vaulting a low stone wall that bordered the road. I came down on a loose rock and pitched forward, hitting the ground hard. I rolled and got up, pulling my revolver from my shoulder holster and wincing from the sharp pain in my right knee. The inspector kept going, his legs churning as Bone jumped into the jeep and pressed the starter. I heard Payne yell, probably something about the name of the King, and saw Bone turn in panic at how close he was. But the panic turned to quick calculation. Instead of driving away, he jammed the jeep’s clutch into reverse and stepped on the accelerator. In a second the vehicle collided with Payne, sending him flying backward, landing with a crack and a thud in a tangle of limbs.

I left the inspector behind. I knew there were plenty of constables about and probably a medic nearby. I also knew that Bone was determined to get away, and by the look on his face he’d spare no one who got in his way. All around me shouts and frantic commands rose up in a confused crescendo. A jeep raced after Bone as I ran as fast as I could, the pain in my knee stabbing me with each long pace. Binghamton’s armored car joined in, and I could see him standing in the turret, one hand holding a radio and the other gripping the.50 machine gun for support as the six-wheeled vehicle careened over the open ground at top speed. No one else was nearby. Not until I heard the Indian Scout behind me.

“Stop!” I shouted, holding up my hand. He skidded to a halt and without explanation-a privilege of rank-I strong-armed him off the bike and took off after Bone, spitting mud and fighting mad. I caught a glimpse of him as I rounded a stand of trees and navigated through an opening in another stone wall. His shiny bald head was a fine beacon, but he was making for the canal where smoke still wreathed the ground as Sherman tanks and other vehicles crossed his path. GIs from the opposing force milled around, not sure what to make of this headlong rush in their direction.

I lost sight of Bone as I downshifted to take a small rise. I went over the top and the bike came down on damp grass, the rear tire fishtailing crazily until I got it under control. I couldn’t spot Bone anywhere. The other jeep following him was dead ahead of me, kicking up dust and obscuring my vision. A Sherman tank burst out of the woods, flattening trees as it blindly crossed paths with the jeep. The jeep’s driver slammed on his brakes and skidded sideways, smashing into the side of the tank as it swept by. He was thrown clear, but the tank treads chewed up the jeep, leaving shreds of metal and rubber behind. I swerved around the wreckage and behind the tank, the exhaust blinding me. I blinked away the blurriness and had to swerve again as GIs rushed out of the woods to gawk at some actual destruction.

I saw Bone ahead of me. He was making for the path along the canal, a nice flat stretch of hard-packed ground where he could make time and disappear. Or so he hoped. The path would make it easy for me, too, and I hoped that by now the constables were working to seal off the area. But no, I realized. Other than the bicycles they came in on, they only had one vehicle-Payne’s car. Unless Binghamton was giving orders for his unit to block the roads, there was no one with the time, transportation, or sense to do it.

The Scout was giving me all it had, but Bone was flying along. On the hill above me, I spotted Binghamton in his armored car, the big wheels churning up ground as fast as I was. The M8 could make over fifty miles an hour, but not in this soft and undulating terrain. It could be tricky to handle cross-country, but Binghamton was going for the most direct route, a straight line to the open ground where Bone was heading. Once there, we had him pinned.

The armored car was speeding downhill at an angle, the slope of the land increasing as it approached a jumble of rocks. Binghamton had no choice but to go left and head straight down, losing his advantage and increasing the distance from Bone. Or so I thought.

I saw him slam his hand on the turret, shouting down to the driver, his words lost in the snarl of engines. The M8 picked up speed, its left wheels sinking into the soft ground, as it kept on course, narrowly avoiding the boulders, but tilting at a precarious angle, Binghamton hanging on, clutching the.50 caliber.

It looked like he’d make it. Even ground was about fifty yards away. But then gravity took over, and the tilt was too much for the eight tons of steel to sustain. I could tell the driver was trying to compensate, but it was too late. The M8 went over, sliding on its side as Binghamton ducked his head in, finally rolling over, once, twice, then plowing into the ground, coming to rest on the path we’d been making for.

I slowed, hesitant to give up the chase, hoping Binghamton and his crew weren’t badly injured. I hadn’t know him long, but he seemed like a decent guy, and a friend to Tree. I circled the vehicle as dust settled from the violent impact, gear and men rattling about inside. I slowed, rounding the car, one foot skittering along the ground. What I saw wasn’t good. I stopped.

Binghamton was half in, half out of the turret, his back bent sideways at an impossible angle. Crewmen bolted from the hatches as Binghamton flailed with his arms, trying to get his useless legs to work, to pull himself out of the vehicle. I jumped up onto the M8, screaming for someone to get a medic.

It was pointless. He must have been tossed partway out as the armored car turned over. His spine was snapped, and the internal injuries had to be terrible. He was choking on blood as he frantically tried to get his body to move, his eyes fixed on some distant spot, still chasing Bone, still leading his men, dreaming of glory as he died.

“Hold steady,” I said, trying to grip his arms. “You’re only making it worse.”

His eyes widened, and I thought he might actually see me. He struggled, still trying to move. He gagged on blood and I raised his head, cradling it in my lap.

“Medics are on the way,” a GI said, and I heard the distant siren. Binghamton thrashed in my arms and I struggled to keep him immobile, even as I knew he was dying.

“Binghamton,” I whispered. “Quiet, quiet. Say a prayer with me.” I held his hand as I spoke into his ear, reciting that everyday prayer, the only thing that came to mind. “Our Father, who art in heaven.”

By the time I got to “deliver us from evil” he was gone, and not for the first time in this war I was glad a man was dead, if only to put a halt to his suffering.

Your will be done. But His will didn’t make much sense right now. Binghamton had missed his chance to lead his men and face the enemy, killed by a murdering child rapist.

Margaret Hibberd. She’d bicycled up to the Avington School but no one saw her leave. Because she took the path in the gardens around back. She’d been spooked by Miss Ross calling the police, and darted off, out of sight. Which put her on a course straight to Ernest Bone and his sweet shop. Mr. Bone and his charming pony. Perhaps he’d been out back with the pony, and young Margaret had stopped to chat. Or had she gone into the shop?

That part didn’t matter. Tears burned across my cheeks as the wind whipped my face. I drove along Hungerford Road, watching for the turnoff to High Street and Hedley’s Sweet Shop. I had to beat Bone there, although I doubted any sane man would return to his own house after Blackie Crane’s bony coal-black finger had pointed in his direction. Still, I swept the road with my eyes, looking for US Army green and a bald head. No sane man raped and killed young girls either.