David Morrell - Double Image

No! Coltrane’s mind wailed. Stumbling farther back, he turned his singed face from the fire, desperate for the rain to cool his skin. The flames turned dusk into day. The fire exposed him. He had to race for cover, to reach the protection of the gully. Scrambling into it, almost sliding into the raging stream, he pressed his stomach against the mud and peered over the gully’s rim.

From somewhere beyond the fire and the curtain of rain, Ilkovic’s laughter rumbled toward him. “Photographer, did you honestly think I’d let you get away with something so obvious? Do you think I’m that stupid?”

Where is he? Coltrane thought desperately.

The car’s metal hissed as rain poured through the flames.

“Did you think this would end so easily?” Ilkovic shouted. “You have no idea how many ways I can prolong this! By the time I’m finished, you’re going to beg me to kill you!”

Coltrane concentrated to hear where the shouts were coming from. Ilkovic seemed to be moving from the area behind the burning car to somewhere on the right.

The car’s metal hissed more loudly, the rain subduing the flames.

“I tried to reach you on your walkie-talkie! Have you switched it off?”

Coltrane felt it pressing against his stomach.

“Turn it back on, photographer! So we don’t have to shout at each other!”

But I’m not the one who’s shouting, Coltrane thought. What’s he up to? Is he trying to distract me?

Except for the impact of the rain, the rush of the stream behind him, and the diminishing hiss of the car as the flames lessened, Coltrane heard nothing. Ilkovic’s last shout had come from the right. Is he trying to trick me into thinking he’s headed in that direction? Now that he quit shouting, is he going to reverse direction and come at me from the left?

The flames were completely out. Smoke from the gutted car contributed to the deepening dusk. The stench of gasoline, melted plastic, and scorched metal flared Coltrane’s nostrils.

Which direction will he use ? Coltrane repeated to himself. Right or left ? Fear made him feel so helpless that he could understand why an animal, caught in the glare of swiftly approaching headlights, didn’t flee from the tire that crushed it.

Which way ? he demanded. He aimed quickly to the left and then the right. I can’t just wait here until he makes his move!

Choosing what he hoped was the least likely direction in which Ilkovic would expect him to go, Coltrane squirmed from the gully and headed straight ahead toward the cover of the burned-out car. Toward the camouflage of its smoke. The closer he got, the more he felt the lingering heat from the extinguished fire. The smoke had been dispersed somewhat by the rain, but not enough to stop irritating his nostrils. As he entered it, he tried to keep his face down and breathe shallowly.

Throughout, the walkie-talkie continued to gouge at his stomach. Stopping near the gutted car, he unbuttoned his shirt, pulled out the walkie-talkie, and switched it on. A faint crackle told him that the battering it had received hadn’t damaged it. He pressed the transmit button. “Ilkovic, let’s end this face-to-face. Let’s do it now!”

He released the transmit button, set the walkie-talkie near the gutted car, and backed away.

“Photographer.” Ilkovic’s guttural voice crackled from the walkie-talkie. “You keep forgetting to say ‘Over.’”

Coltrane continued to crawl away.

“You want me to break your body with my fists? Is that the punishment you think you deserve? Your lack of imagination disappoints me. I have so many more inventive methods in mind.”

Coltrane was far enough that he could no longer see the walkie-talkie. In the gathering gloom, the static-ridden voice was almost ghostly.

At once, it fell silent.

Coltrane slithered into a depression filled with water. The ground had been so seared by the brush fire that it had formed a nonabsorbent shell. The rain was filling it. Immersing himself in the greasy pool, he allowed only his arms and head to be exposed. Resting the shotgun on a rock, he aimed toward where he had left the walkie-talkie.

Static crackled.

Ilkovic can use that sound to figure out where I’m hiding. That’s why he wanted me to keep the walkie-talkie on.

Coltrane eased his right index finger into the shotgun’s trigger guard.

Static crackled.

He must be pressing the transmit button on and off, creating noise without giving his own position away by speaking.

Coltrane braced his finger against the shotgun’s trigger. From the force of the rain, the smoke had now completely dispersed. But the burned-out car remained obscured, the storm darkening, the wind intensifying. As the pool in which Coltrane lay deepened, he ignored the pressure of the rising water and focused his attention on where he had set the walkie-talkie near the gutted car. Every murky detail appeared magnified. Soon Ilkovic’s shadowy figure would creep into view and -

Static crackled.

That’s it, Ilkovic. Keep listening for that sound. Get closer. Surprise me where you think I’m hiding next to the car.

The shock of surprise was total. From behind, powerful hands grabbed him, yanking him from the pool. Coltrane was so overwhelmed that his finger jerked on the shotgun’s trigger, discharging the weapon, spewing a blast of buckshot harmlessly into the storm. The hands, which had grabbed his shoulders, released him for the fraction of an instant Ilkovic needed to reach under Coltrane’s armpits and across his chest, the hands grasping each other, muscular arms squeezing against Coltrane’s rib cage.

Coltrane’s feet were off the ground. He struggled to breathe. The fierce noise of the shot had battered his eardrums. A terrible ringing in them added to his confusion, but he was still able to hear Ilkovic’s labored grunting as he squeezed harder against Coltrane’s chest.

“Is that what you had in mind, photographer?” Ilkovic murmured against Coltrane’s right ear, his breath so close that Coltrane felt it on his skin.

Coltrane fought for air. His vision became gray, spots of red dancing.

“This is only the start,” Ilkovic murmured intimately against Coltrane’s neck. “I’ll take you close to death a hundred times before you finally bore me.”

Grunting harder, he increased the pressure against Coltrane’s ribs.

I’m going to pass out, Coltrane thought in dismay. He had kept his grip on the shotgun, but the weapon was useless unless he worked the pump to eject the used shell and chamber a fresh one. He tried. He didn’t have the leverage. His arms no longer had the strength. Even if he did manage to pump a fresh shell into the firing chamber, he wouldn’t be able to aim at Ilkovic behind him.

Dropping the shotgun, Coltrane gripped his hands over Ilkovic’s and strained to pry them free, but Ilkovic’s thick fingers were like steel bands welded together. Coltrane couldn’t budge them. More red dots swirled in his vision as Ilkovic’s relentless arms tightened.

No! Coltrane jerked his head back as hard as he could, hoping that the rear of his skull would strike Ilkovic’s face with enough force to stun him and make him loosen his grip. But Coltrane was the one who was stunned. Instead of striking flesh and bone, his skull hit something metallic that had two round surfaces, its sharp edges gouging his scalp. He moaned in pain. A mask? His panicked thoughts weren’t able to identify the object. As his strength drained, he kicked his heels behind him toward Ilkovic’s legs, but they hit a slippery rubber rain slicker that Ilkovic was wearing, the impact absorbed.

McCoy’s revolver. Frenzied, Coltrane drew it from beneath his belt. Feeling the mud that covered it, hoping that it wouldn’t be jammed, that it wouldn’t backfire, he raised it, aimed it over his left shoulder, and felt it fly from his awkward grasp as Ilkovic released his left hand and yanked the weapon away, throwing it into the mud. Throughout, Ilkovic’s right arm was so powerful that he continued to maintain his suffocating grip on Coltrane’s chest.