Mimoza heard the click of the magazine going into the gun. She knew what it meant. She sensed him moving, aware of him leaning over her, touching her.
‘Ah, little Mimoza. I’ve waited for this moment to set you free.’
‘Milot?’ she whispered, her voice a thin wheeze.
‘I wanted to bring him to join you, but fate intervened. Or should I say a cop called Lottie Parker. She is on my list once I finish here.’
The lady detective had not forgotten about her after all. Mimoza tried to smile. Her lips cracked and her throat seized up. Don’t let me die yet, she thought. Just let me see my little boy one last time. Was that his apple shampoo she could smell? The man was lying. He was certainly cruel enough. Milot was here.
‘Milot? Please,’ she begged.
‘Shut up. I’ve told you I haven’t got him.’
She had to do something. Milot needed her. She needed him. She willed strength into her body. The act of opening her eyes was torture. She had to, though. Had to force herself to act. Otherwise she was going to die.
Shifting her elbows underneath herself, she tried to sit up. ‘Please…’
‘Oh, will you shut up?’
She squinted through half-open eyes. He was right there. On one knee. Looking down at her. Gun in his hand. She’d seen plenty of guns in her short life. It didn’t frighten her. What did frighten her was the thought of never seeing her son again.
That thought infused a superhuman energy into her body. At last she was half sitting up, leaning on her elbows. He seemed to find it amusing and laughed. Why would he think that was funny? Because he’s mad, a voice in her head told her. Mad. And how do you fight madness? With madness, she thought.
‘I… I know you…’ she began.
‘Of course you do.’ He laughed again. A manic sound.
Good, she thought. Now I can act. For Milot. She took one last look at the stars in the sky. She saw only the smile on her son’s face and the light in his eyes as she brought her leg up and kicked out as hard as she could with the little energy she had left. And an image of her son smiling and giggling lit up in front of her like a miraculous icon.
‘Mama loves you, Milot.’
The sound of a gunshot split the silence of the night.
‘What the…’ Lottie ducked, automatically reaching for her gun.
The trees above her head shook with the flutter of birds taking flight. Boyd dragged her up.
‘Over there,’ he said. ‘On the island.’
She threw her arms up helplessly. ‘He’s there and we’re here. Blare the siren. Quickly. Up as loud as it can go. And where is our backup?’
She stared across the water as Boyd ran to the car and switched on the siren.
The fog returned as quickly as it had vanished, falling in a soft sheen around them. Only the light flashing on the car told her where it was. She strained her ears above the screeching noise. No further shots. Had they scared him off?
‘We need a boat,’ she shouted above the din.
‘What?’
‘A boat. Where can we get one? The shore. I’ll try along the shore.’
Without waiting for Boyd, she climbed over the rail tracks and down the other side. Slipping and sliding, she ended up on the rocky shore. In the dense fog, she couldn’t see further than her hand. She took out her phone to switch on its flashlight and realised Kirby was still on the line.
‘Kirby. We need a boat. Quick.’
* * *
They killed the motor and the boat glided to the island shore. It was half an hour since they’d heard the shot. A man living nearby had run out of his house to investigate the siren just as two squad cars pulled up. Lottie had told him what they needed and he’d returned immediately with an engine and quickly rigged it to one of the boats pulled up on the shore.
Now he jumped out and secured the boat. ‘It’s a hidden dock,’ he said. ‘Not many know about it. Best that way. Enough interfering bastards—’
‘Thanks,’ Lottie interrupted. ‘Wait here.’
Taking Boyd’s hand, she stepped on to dry land. With their weapons at the ready, they crouched under low-hanging branches and made their way along a grassy path.
‘This vest is fucking heavy.’ Lottie hated wearing the ballistic vest Boyd had taken from the trunk of the car, but she knew she was no use to anyone dead.
‘How did he find this place?’ Boyd said.
‘Shh. I’ve no idea.’
‘Why was there only one shot?’
‘Will you shush? Listen.’ She put out her hand and pulled him back towards her by the belt of his trousers. ‘Did you hear that?’
‘It’s only damn birds.’
‘No. Stop. It’s like someone crying. Dear God. Chloe?’
‘Wait,’ Boyd said.
But Lottie ran past him, falling through the undergrowth. ‘Chloe!’ she shouted, all her training vanishing with the night. ‘Chloe?’
Charging into a clearing, she stopped suddenly, sending Boyd crashing into her.
‘Jesus Christ,’ he said.
He switched on his flashlight, scanning it over the scene. The light bounced off the fog, but Lottie could see three prone bodies in front of her. Her hands and legs trembled uncontrollably. ‘Please God, no. No!’
She turned away. Couldn’t look.
‘Tell me, Boyd. Is it Chloe?’ She thought his pause went on forever.
Eventually he said, ‘It’s not Chloe. None of them are Chloe. But I know who they are.’
Blowing air through her nose, she tried to regain control. She moved towards him on her hands and knees.
‘Who are they? Are they alive? I heard someone crying.’ Pulling aside a ragged blanket, she stared into a young face. ‘Maeve Phillips. She’s alive, Boyd, but unconscious. We need help. He could be here.’
‘He is.’ Boyd pointed. ‘Bullet through the belly.’
Lottie cradled Maeve to her chest. ‘He’s dead? What about the other one?’
Boyd moved away from the man and edged to the other person. ‘Can’t see a bullet wound.’
Lottie laid Maeve down gently and looked at the naked body of the girl at Boyd’s feet. Clutched in her lifeless hand was a semi-automatic pistol.
‘It’s Mimoza,’ she whispered. She felt for a pulse. ‘Oh my God, Boyd, she’s dead. The brave girl killed him.’
A groan rose from the man lying on the ground. Boyd swung back towards him.
‘He’s still alive.’ He checked him again, then snapped on handcuffs. ‘You’re going nowhere, you bastard, except jail for the rest of your life.’
‘I recognise him,’ Lottie said.
‘You do? Who the fuck is he?’
‘George O’Hara, the tutor at the DPC.’
She turned her head away. Hauling off her heavy vest and Boyd’s fleece, she wrapped the warm clothing around Maeve and held her close.
‘You’re safe now,’ she soothed through her tears. ‘But where is my Chloe?’
Eighty-Two