Десмонд Бэгли - Landslide

I knelt down next to Jimmy. He was as dead as I’ve seen any man — and I’ve seen a few. Howard’s shotgun must have been loaded with those damned rifled slugs and Jimmy had caught one dead centre in the navel. It had gone clean through and blown the spine out of his back and there was a mess of guts spilled out on the ground.

I rose unsteadily to my feet, walked two paces and vomited. All the good meat I had eaten came up and spilled on the ground just like Jimmy Waystrand’s guts. I shivered and shook for five minutes like a man with fever and then got myself under control. I took the shotgun and carefully reloaded with rifled slug shells because Howard deserved only the best. Then I went after him.

It was no trick to follow him. A brief on-and-off glimpse of the flashlamp showed me muddied footprints and broken grasses, but that set me thinking. He still had his gun and had presumably reloaded with another five shells. If the only way I could follow him was with a flashlamp I was about to get my head blown off. It didn’t matter how much better I was in the woods on a night as dark as this. If I used a light all he had to do was to hole up, keep quiet and then let go as I conveniently illuminated his target for him. That was sure death.

I stopped short and started thinking again. I hadn’t done any real thinking since Howard had pumped four shots into that log — everything had happened so fast. I cranked my brain into low gear and started it working again. There couldn’t be anyone else other than Howard or I’d have been nailed back at the camp while I was puking and twitching over the body of Jimmy Waystrand. The two must have come from that helicopter which must be within reasonable walking distance.

I had heard the sound of the helicopter die away to the north quite suddenly and that must have been where it had come to earth. There was a place not far to the north where the soil was thin, a mere skin on the bedrock. No trees grew there and there was ample space to land that whirlybird. Howard had plunged away to the west and I reckoned he wasn’t much good in the woods anyway, so there was a chance I could get to the helicopter first.

I abandoned his trail and moved fast unhampered by the pack. I had humped that pack continuously over miles of ground for nearly two weeks and its absence gave me an airy sense of freedom and lightness. By leaving the pack I was taking a chance because if I lost it I was done for — I couldn’t hope to survive in the woods without the gear I had. But I had the reckless feeling that this was the make or break time: I would either come out on top this night or be defeated by Howard — and defeat meant a slug in the guts like Jimmy Waystrand because that was the only way he could stop me.

I moved fast and quietly, halting every now and then to listen. I didn’t hear Howard but pretty soon I heard the swish of air driven by rotors and knew that not only was the helicopter where I thought it was but the pilot was nervous and ready for a quick take-off. I reckon he’d started his engine when he heard the shots back at my camp.

Acting on sound principles, I circled round to come on the helicopter from the opposite direction before coming out on to the open ground, and when I did come out of cover it was at the crouch. The noise was enough to make my approach silent and I came up behind the pilot who was standing and looking south, waiting for something to happen.

Something did happen. I pushed the muzzle of the shotgun in his ribs and he jumped a foot. ‘Calm down,’ I said. ‘This is Boyd. You know who I am?’

‘Yeah,’ he said nervously.

‘That’s right,’ I said. ‘We’ve met before — nearly two years ago. You took me from the Kinoxi back to Fort Farrell on the last trip. Well, you’re going to do it again.’ I bored the gun into his ribs with a stronger pressure. ‘Now, take six steps forward and don’t turn round until I tell you. I think you know better than to try any tricks.’

I watched him walk away and then come to a halt. He could have easily got away from me then because he was just a darker shadow in the darkness of that moonless cloudy night, but he must have been too scared. I think my reputation had spread around. I climbed up into the passenger seat and then said, ‘Okay, climb up here.’

He clambered up and sat in the pilot’s seat rigidly. I said conversationally, ‘Now, I can’t fly this contraption but you can. You’re going to fly it back to Fort Farrell and you’re going to do it nice and easy with no tricks.’ I pulled out my hunting knife and held it out so the blade glinted in the dim light of the instrument panel. ‘You’ll have this in your ribs all the way, so if you have any idea of crash-landing this thing just remember that you’ll be just as dead as me. You can also take into account that I don’t particularly care whether I live or die right now — but you might have different ideas about that. Got it?’

He nodded. ‘Yeah, I’ve got it. I won’t play tricks, Boyd.’

Maliciously I said, ‘Mr Boyd to you. Now, get into the air — and make sure you head in the right direction.’

He pulled levers and flicked switches and the engine note deepened and the rotors moved faster. There was a flash from the edge of the clearing and a Perspex panel in the canopy disintegrated. I yelled, ‘You’d better make it damned quick before Howard Matterson blows your head off.’

That helicopter suddenly took off like a frightened grasshopper. Howard took another shot and there was a thunk from somewhere back of me. The ‘copter jinked around in the air and then we were away with the dark tide of firs streaming just below. I felt the pilot take a deep breath and relax in his seat. I felt a bit more relaxed myself as we gained more height and bored steadily south.

Air travel is wonderful. I had walked and run from Fort Farrell and been chased around the Kinoxi Valley for nearly two weeks, and in that wonderful machine we headed straight down the valley and were over the dam in just fifteen minutes with another forty miles — say, half an hour — to go to Fort Farrell. I felt the tension drain out of me but then deliberately tightened up again in case the frightened man next to me should get up his nerve enough to pull a fast one.

Pretty soon I saw the lights of Fort Farrell ahead. I said, ‘Bull Matterson should have a landing-strip at the house — does he?’

‘Yeah; just next the house.’

‘You land there,’ I said.

We flew over Fort Farrell and the upper-crust community of Lakeside and suddenly we were over the dark bulk of Matterson’s fantastic château and coming down next to it. The helicopter settled and I said, ‘Switch off.’

The silence was remarkable when the rotors flopped to a stop. I said, ‘Does anyone usually come out to meet you?’

‘Not at night.’

That suited me. I said, ‘Now, you stay here. If you’re not here when I come back then I’ll be looking for you one day — and you’ll know why, won’t you?’

There was a tremble in the pilot’s voice. ‘I’ll stay here, Mr Boyd.’ He wasn’t much of a man.

I dropped to the ground, put away the knife and hefted the shotgun, then set off towards the house which loomed against the sky. There were a few lights showing, but not many and I reckoned most of the people would be asleep. I didn’t know how many servants were needed to keep the place tidy but I thought there wouldn’t be many around that time of night.

I intended to go in by the front door since it was the only way I knew and was coming to it when it opened and a light spilled on to the ground in front of the house. I ducked back into what proved to be the house garage, and listened intently to what was going on.

A man said, ‘Remember, he must be kept quiet.’