Michael Prescott: Deadly Pursuit

The door wouldn’t yield. Jack had secured it somehow, though there was no lock.

The only other exit was the window, boarded up. She had no tools with which to work the nails free.

Trapped, then. She was trapped.

Her brief burst of energy was over. Her thoughts swam giddily; she could make sense of nothing. The police were here, but how? She hadn’t reached Islamorada, hadn’t even found the boat…

It didn’t matter. Nothing mattered. Despair and fatigue overwhelmed her.

She slumped against the door. The only desire left to her was a feeble, plaintive wish to see the sunrise.

Almost certainly the last sunrise of her life.

Jack had a plan, of course. He always had a plan.

The copter was well to the north now, hovering over the lagoon. An observer on board was unlikely to see him from that distance; but to further reduce the risk of being spotted, he kept off the road, jogging through the woods, as he headed south to the plantation house.

Almost two days ago he had escaped from the strip mall in North Hollywood while another helicopter buzzed overhead, quartering the area like a hungry hawk. Now after crossing three thousand miles, here he was again, hiding from his enemies, a field mouse scrambling for cover in the brush.

But still free. Still capable of action. As long as he could move and think, he had a chance.

Kirstie was one card he held. If necessary, he could use her as a hostage to buy himself time, convert a siege into a standoff. A desperate option, which he would exercise only as a last resort.

Better by far to get away. There was a chance of that, too. He saw a possibility of performing another magic trick, a second vanishing act. To slip free of his pursuers’ talons for a second time-sweet, if he could manage it. Very sweet.

And if all his hopes failed, if he faced capture and the unendurable prospect of life imprisonment… well, the Beretta tucked inside the waistband of his pants still held three rounds, by his count. Enough to finish Kirstie-and himself.

He found the garden and skirted the wall till he reached the western side of the house. Twin diesel generators rumbled there, in a shed outside the radio room. Ten-gallon drums of fuel were stacked in a corner.

Lugging one heavy drum by the handle, Jack climbed through the window Kirstie had smashed. Flies swarmed over the floor near Anastasia’s spread-eagled body, drawn by a pool of congealing blood.

He uncapped the drum. Fuel gurgled out, leaving a wet trail behind him as he made his way through the kitchen and dining room. The can was nearly empty when he reached the living room, awash in virgin daylight slanting through the big arched windows. He kicked scraps of kindling out of the fireplace and baptized them in the last drops of fuel.

Near the fireplace was a bundle of long matches used for lighting tinder. He retreated to the patio, struck a match, and tossed it inside.

The bright wisp of flame descended in a slow-motion loop, graceful as a dying firefly, and dropped into a puddle of fuel at the foot of the mahogany table.

Whoosh.

The eruption of yellow-orange flame was a second sunrise. Jack stumbled backward, overcome by a rush of intense heat.

Instantly the table was crawling with angry snakes of flame. The paper shades of the chandelier caught fire. The ceiling smoked.

From the center of the garden Jack watched, briefly mesmerized, as the fire spread. Through the living room windows, the sofa and leather armchairs were visible, spitting flame like dragons. Pots burst, flowers crackled. The globe tipped over, a planet ablaze. The miniature schooner on the mantel died in a fury of flame-lashed rigging.

Distant percussive noises like the pops of a cap pistol signaled the explosion of the kitchen’s bottle-glass windows. The floral-print curtains over the French doors flashed out of existence in sheets of whirling sparks. Webworks of filigreed iron decorating the doors and windows began to melt and bend, twisting the artists’ designs into grotesque Rorschach blots.

Jack went on watching, fascinated by the brisk, energetic destruction rampant before him, the triumph of chaos over order, entropy’s last word. It pleased him to have been the agent and midwife of the fire. He liked its mindless hunger, its gleeful rapacity; and he relished, as always, the violent death of beauty.

Turning away at last, he hurried out the garden gate. He pounded down the trail, then veered into the woods when he heard the helicopter’s approach.

Behind him, the Larson house threw off a black column of smoke, spiraling slowly, a tornado garlanded in embers.

The copter was closer now, drawn to the flames like some giant moth. Jack huddled by a royal poinciana, concealed beneath an umbrella of feathery leaves and scarlet blossoms, while overhead the rotor blades whacked the air like giant paddles and the Huey’s turboshaft engine screamed. Wind from the blades gusted through the forest, shaking thickets of shell ginger and kicking up lazy streamers of dust.

Then the chopper passed on, and Jack started moving again.

The row houses were less than a hundred feet away. He dared a breathless sprint under the open sky, gambling that the copter crew would have their attention focused on the blaze.

The door to the shack was still secured. Before leaving, he had removed his belt, looped it around the knob, and nailed it to the door frame with his pocketknife.

He wrenched the blade loose, kicked open the door, and found Kirstie slumped on the floor.

“Get up,” he snapped. “Move.”

She groaned.

“Dammit, move!”

He yanked her to her feet and brandished the knife in her face.

“Do what I say, or I’ll cut you. Understand?”

The threat had no effect. She seemed to be beyond fear.

“Give it up,” she whispered. “It’s over.”

“Uh-uh, sweetheart. I’ve only just begun.” He slipped the knife into the vest pocket of his shirt and hustled her out the door. “Now let’s get going.”

They stumbled away from the shacks. Looking south, Jack saw the chopper descending, its gleaming fuselage gradually eclipsed by smoke and flame.

The cops were landing to explore the house, save anyone inside. Perfect.

He guided Kirstie into a tangle of scrub on the verge of the beach. Together they staggered through the prickly brush, scaring birds and butterflies out of their path. The orange sun, fiercely bright, stabbed at their eyes through breaks in the foliage.

“Where…” A gasp stole her question. “Where are we going?”

“My runabout. Then the open water. By the time anyone figures out we’re gone, I’ll be cruising down Highway One in another stolen car.”

Kirstie didn’t ask where she would be. Jack imagined she already knew.

Lovejoy squinted at the red radiance of the sun, furnace-hot on the horizon. Pelican Key was concealed somewhere in the sheet of glare.

“Smoke.” Pice stabbed a finger at the spray-flecked venturi windshield.

A dark plume bisected the spread of crimson light.

Lovejoy thumbed the transmit button on his walkie-talkie and asked the team leader to report.

“House on the south end of the key just went up like a Roman candle. Pilot already radioed for fireboats. We’re setting down to perform a search-and-rescue.”

“Maintain your alertness. You could be walking into a trap.”

“How bad is this s.o.b., anyway?”

“He’s the devil. And it appears he’s not through raising hell.”

A stiff wind beat at the water. The Black Caesar panted on the swells. Curtains of spray burst over the port bow, soaking the foredeck; water gurgled in the scuppers.

Pelican Key materialized slowly out of the sun’s candescence. On a level stretch of ground between the dock and the house’s flagstone court, amid beds of flowers, the Huey crouched on its skid, rotor blades still spinning. A line of tiny figures in dark blue jackets, hunched low, sprinted up the path toward the gate with revolvers drawn.