Alex Barclay - Blood Runs Cold

‘I … I didn’t do anything …’ said Malcolm, answering the pathetic question. He turned to Ren. ‘Is he right? Is it my fault he did these things?’

‘I don’t know where to start,’ said Ren. ‘But it won’t be here.’

Fear could come with hope. Fear could be resigned. And fear could be dead if there was no worse consequence to face. Pull back from the screen where all the action is held and it is surrounded by black. Jason Wardwell had reached the edge of the game. Nowhere to go. His eyes were bright with a hopeless fear — a glassy shine that said anything could happen.

Jason Wardwell wiped his hand across his brow. He blew sweat from his top lip. Ren’s face was burning, her eyes dry. She could hear Malcolm Wardwell struggle for breath.

‘At least turn off the stove,’ said Ren. ‘Please.’

Jason glanced over at it. He looked at his father. ‘Go ahead,’ said Malcolm.

Jason walked over to the stove, his eyes on Ren. As soon as he turned his body away from her a fraction, she dropped down and pulled the Glock 27 from her ankle holster and aimed it at Jason.

‘Drop your weapon,’ said Ren.

She watched his gaze flick back toward his father.

‘Put your fucking gun down,’ she said.

His eyes flicked again to his father, but he put his gun down.

‘Kick it over to me,’ said Ren.

He did. She bent down and took it. When she stood up, Malcolm Wardwell stood to her left with a gun pointed at her.

‘That is my gun,’ said Ren. ‘And I’m afraid I wasn’t kind enough to load it for you before I got here.’

Malcolm pulled the trigger anyway.

‘Clllllick,’ said Ren. She jerked her head at Jason. ‘Get over there with your father.’

Jason did as she said. ‘You’re not going to kill both of us,’ he said.

‘Probably not,’ said Ren. ‘But I could get you both in the balls.’

Malcolm Wardwell stood, defeated; tired and old and mistaken. He had spent his life covering for a son who he didn’t even realize had been showing up at parks and playgrounds and swimming pools, driving around to scout for girls to make his fantasies real.

Malcolm Wardwell had stood, confronted, on Quandary Peak — Jean Transom telling him the last thing he wanted to hear — that his devotion to his son had not mattered. That he had released a disturbed and violent child abuser into society, that from the age of seventeen, Jason Wardwell had been acting out what he had previously only ever seen in magazines and on video.

‘You hated that Jean Transom had been so damaged by your son,’ said Ren. ‘But you hated her more for thinking that it was you. And you hated Jason for putting you in that position. And where was he that night? Where was the one person who could have bailed you out when you needed him?’

Malcolm muttered something.

‘What?’ said Ren.

‘He was there,’ said Malcolm. ‘Behind her. He just stood there, without saying a word. And she wouldn’t believe me. She wouldn’t believe it wasn’t me. He said nothing. He didn’t back me up.’

‘And there it was,’ said Ren. ‘You couldn’t take one more second of blame. You had lived to protect Jason. And he was happy to let you die to protect him. And it was just too much.’

‘It was,’ said Malcolm, his voice exhausted from years of lies. ‘It was. She wouldn’t listen when I told her. I was so terribly confused. On the darkest, coldest night of winter, when I had only gone up to help people: she was there. And I just wanted her to go away.’

The door to the cabin crashed open, shattering the timber frame. Paul Louderback had his gun drawn and moved in quickly opposite Ren. They formed a triangle with Jason Wardwell — both their guns trained on him.

‘Malcolm Wardwell killed Jean Transom,’ said Ren. ‘But it was Jason Wardwell who abducted the girls.’

Paul took two silent steps closer to Jason Wardwell, his face grim resolve.

Something is not right with Paul Louderback .

‘So this man in front of me is the man who abducted and raped two eleven-year-old girls,’ said Paul.

‘One,’ said Jason.

‘Two,’ said Ren. ‘Are you out of your mind? Jennifer Mayer and Ruth Sleight. Two.’

‘I only wanted the little blonde,’ said Jason, as if he was talking about a trip to a nightclub. ‘I didn’t lay a finger on the other girl, the Ruth girl. I locked her in the fitting room. The only reason she was there was that I saw her with the blonde too late. So I had to take her too. She was an ugly, scrawny thing, covered in freckles, ready for braces — not my type.’

The room was in total silence at the casual defense in his delivery. Paul Louderback lunged for him. He slammed his fist into Jason’s face before he had even knocked him to the floor. He gripped him by his neck and used his free hand to quickly impact Jason’s eye socket, break his jaw, his nose, loosen his teeth, tear one of his earlobes free.

What the fuck are you doing, Paul?

‘You motherfucker,’ shouted Paul. He was repeating it over and over, lost in something more than Ren could understand as she watched this handsome man in his fine suit in a shitty cabin, releasing a rage she didn’t know he was capable of.

Ren watched, stunned, as Paul Louderback put into practice everything he had taught her she would never need to do. He had been wrong before. And he was wrong now.

Paul fell on to his back, his breath heaving, his body drenched in sweat. He dragged himself on to his knees, pushing the muzzle of his gun up against Jason Wardwell’s temple. Ren knew Paul enough to feel his sense of failure and exposure. He couldn’t meet her eyes.

‘Nobody move,’ said Ren. ‘Nobody.’ She looked at Paul. ‘Give me your gun. Give it to me now.’

Paul reached for the cloth that hung from the back of a chair, wiped his face and threw it on top of Jason Wardwell, who lay curled on the floor, bleeding and moaning.

Ren lowered her voice. ‘Paul.’

He handed her the gun.

‘But I let them go,’ said Jason. ‘Those girls were free.’

Paul went rigid. He turned and jumped on Jason again, punching him until Jason blacked out, pounding him until Ren dragged him away.

Malcolm Wardwell stepped forward. ‘She told me that night … she gave birth to the child. She told me she had a child.’

‘She was lying,’ said Ren.

Bob Gage, Mike Delaney and a team of detectives from the Sheriff’s Office were waiting at the trailhead to take the Wardwells into custody.

Ren Bryce and Paul Louderback stood by their Jeeps in the deserted parking lot of the Brockton Filly. There were no lights on in the building.

‘See how I parked beside yours?’ said Paul.

They both tried to smile.

He unlocked his Jeep. ‘Come on,’ he said.

‘Yes,’ she said. ‘There is a chill in the air.’

They got in. Ren studied Paul’s face as he opened the glove box. He had private-school bone structure. He was a refined kind of handsome. He turned to talk to her and smiled when he saw she was already looking at him. She smiled back.

‘In another lifetime …’ he said.

‘Oh, I don’t know,’ said Ren. ‘We were in the situation enough times that we could have done something about it, and we didn’t. Like now, for example.’

Paul nodded. ‘Maybe you’re right.’

‘Maybe I am.’

‘But you know I care about you so much.’

‘Me too.’

‘I should have met you when I was in my twenties.’

‘Think about that for a second,’ said Ren.

‘Oh. Yes. OK — we should have met while I was in my thirties and you were in your twenties. You would have loosened me up, we could have done loads of crazy things, we would have had some great photos I could still sneak a look at …’