Stephen Leather - The birthday girl

He'd used up all the cocaine in the house, except for one line which he'd arranged into a neat row on the glass coffee table. He knelt down and put the glass of water to one side, careful not to disturb the line of white powder. He used a rolled-up dollar bill to sniff the cocaine, one nostril at a time. It felt good, but the kick was nowhere near as good as when he'd first started using the drug. Now it was a need, not a pleasure. He sat back on his heels and blinked as the drug crossed into his bloodstream.

His life was over, he knew that. He'd betrayed his wife, he'd betrayed his friend, he'd betrayed the company he worked for.

Everything he'd ever held dear was spoiled. Finished. Over. No matter what happened in Colorado, whether or not Katherine managed to save Tony and Mersiha, no matter what he said or did, his life was worthless. Less than worthless.

The glass of water would help. He wished he could remember where he'd read that. It was one of those stupid facts that lodged at the back of his mind. It was something to do with the way a bullet behaved in a liquid. He took a mouthful of the water and pursed his lips, then slipped the barrel of the gun in. It was his wife's gun. She had always been scared of being left in the house on her own and insisted on keeping it in her bedside cabinet, always loaded, always ready for the inner-city robber she was sure would one day drive out from Baltimore to steal everything she had. Everything he'd worked so hard to give her.

Without the water in his mouth, the bullet might pass through the back of his head, not killing him but leaving him a hopeless vegetable. With the water, his head would explode, with absolutely no chance of survival. At least he'd be able to do one thing right. He began to cry as he pulled the trigger.

'I see the road,' Freeman said. He pointed and Mersiha nodded.

In the distance a ribbon of asphalt ran through the woods, glistening wetly. They'd left the snowline behind and were now walking over gravelly soil carpeted with pine needles. The gun was pressing against the small of her back, but she didn't want to remove it, partly because she wasn't sure yet if they were safe from their pursuers, but also because she didn't want to remind her father of what had happened up on the snowfield.

They were both breathing heavily and the backs of Mersiha's legs were aching from the strain of walking downhill.

'Dad, what are we going to do?'

I 'We've got to go to the police, pumpkin. You know that.' m Mersiha slipped and almost lost her footing, but Freeman * grabbed her by the arm and steadied her. 'Careful,' he warned.

They started down the hill again, moving from tree to tree because the ground was getting progressively steeper as they 1 neared the road. 'Dad? Do we have to go to the police?'

I 'Those men killed the balloon crew. And if they'd caught us, j we'd be dead, too.' ‹J: 'But after what I did to Sabatino…' She left the sentence | unfinished.

Freeman said nothing for a while, and Mersiha turned to look at him. His face was in torment and she looked away quickly, r knowing exactly what he was thinking: she'd killed a man, she'd done it deliberately, and she'd done it with his gun. The deaths on the snowfield were clearly self-defence, but the police might look differently on what had happened in Sabatino's office. 'He tried to rape you, pumpkin.' Her father's voice sounded oddly flat. They went down the rest of the way in silence, concentrating

on keeping their footing on the treacherous hillside. They had to skirt the highway for a hundred yards before finding a place where they could drop safely down on to the asphalt. They were on a sharp bend, so they dashed across the road to a place where they'd be more visible. 'Which way's the town?' Mersiha asked.

Freeman frowned up at the sky, trying to get his bearings. The sun was almost directly overhead and didn't help much. Tm not sure, but it'll be too far to walk anyway.'

A truck sounded its horn angrily and they stepped back.

Freeman tried to flag it down but it sped by. Either the driver hadn't seen his frantic waving or he couldn't be bothered to pick up a couple of hitchhikers. They stood together, shivering.

Freeman hugged his daughter, trying to supply warmth and comfort. Mersiha felt suddenly small and defenceless in his arms, and she rested her head on his chest. She could hear his heart beating, strong and regular like a metronome. His arms began to slide down her back and she pulled away, fearful that he'd find the hidden gun. 'What's wrong?' Freeman asked.

'Nothing. I thought I heard a car coming.'

Freeman lifted his chin and listened. 'I can't hear anything.

But I'm sure there'll be something soon. Don't worry.'

'Should we start walking?' She was scared that he'd try to hug her again.

'Let's rest for a while. There's no point in walking if we don't know which way to go. If we start to get too cold, we'll walk. Okay?'

'Okay,' she agreed.

There was a large rock at the apex of the bend which had been painted with yellow-green warning stripes, and they sat on it. 'Are you feeling okay?' Freeman asked.

'I'm tired. And a bit wet.'

'I meant… you know.'

Mersiha knew exactly what he meant. She'd killed two men and he wanted to know how she felt about it. How she was dealing with it. But she also knew that he wouldn't want to hear the truth. He wanted her to say that she was shocked, distraught, remorseful, the way people normally felt when they'd taken someone's life. What he didn't want to hear was the truth that she felt absolutely nothing. They'd attacked her. She'd killed them. End of story. She wrapped her arms around her legs and put her chin on her knees as she explored her inner feelings, trying to see if she was missing something, but she knew she was wasting her time. There was nothing, just contempt and hatred for the men with the guns. She thought about the ground crew, riddled with bullets and dying in the snow, and she thought about Tim, dead but with his eyes wide open. She was sorry that they were dead, sort of, but it wasn't the sort of grief she'd felt when her parents had died. She looked at her father. He was waiting patiently for her to answer his question. She shrugged and saw the hurt in his eyes.

He was about to say something else when they both heard the growl of an engine. Mersiha jumped down off the rock and waved her arms in the air. She jumped up and down. 'It's a car!' she shouted as Freeman slid down.* In the distance they saw a red Jeep Wrangler, a blonde woman at the wheel.

Jenny Welch didn't believe in God – she'd seen enough men crying for salvation before she'd blown them away to know that there was no saviour – but she definitely believed in fate. And the fact that Freeman and the girl were standing by the side of the road waving their arms and shouting for her to stop didn't surprise her in the least. They were fated to die. And fate had decreed that it would be at her hand. She couldn't think how they'd managed to get away from Kiseleva and the snowmobiles, but maybe that was fate, too. She smiled and gently applied the brakes, coming to a stop on the bend. 'You guys want a lift?' she asked brightly, winding down the window. She knew that there was no possibility of them recognising her – she'd never got close to them on horseback and she'd had her hair tucked up inside her fur hat.

'Are you going into town?' Freeman asked.

Mersiha climbed into the back seat. There were red stains on the front of her jacket.

'What happened?' Jenny asked, pointing at the marks.

Mersiha looked guiltily at her father. 'Ketchup,' he said. 'We had breakfast at Burger King.'

'Yeah, I've done that before,' Jenny laughed. 'You take one bite and everything shoots out the other side.'

Freeman got into the front passenger seat and Jenny drove off.