Run For Their Lives

Run For Their Lives - Chapter 6 cont

Monday January 6th 2003.
Los Angeles.

Sally and David ate in silence as had become the norm, the dining table an island between them. In fact, it was virtually a continent; so total was their lack of communication. Sally pushed her food around her plate and sighed, while David ate automatically, his attention focused yet again on the pile of computer printouts next to his plate, rather than the food upon it. His wife looked disapprovingly at his elbow propped on the table, disdainful of his shabby T-shirt and faded jeans. She herself was dressed up to the nines ? classic black off the shoulder velvet dress, hugging her curvaceous figure in a way he never did anymore; brilliant white diamonds dripping from her ears and throat in stark contrast to the ebony. She may be a Beckett by marriage, but by God she was a Reynolds by birth and by breeding, and the Reynolds always dressed for dinner. For the hundred and thirty-seventh time, she wondered what she had ever seen in him.
Finally, out of sheer loneliness, Sally reached over for the remote control and flicked on the TV. For sure, it would be better company than her husband. David looked up momentarily, annoyed at the distraction, then mentally switched it off and returned to his studies.
His wife looked hopeful when she registered his movement, but it was an ignis fatuus.
She toyed with the idea of picking up her plate and hurling it at him, but decided the effort would be wasted. Why give herself more clearing up?
Nothing short of another earthquake was going to shake him out of it this side of the early hours.
She was wrong.
A few moments later, both of them were riveted to the set, as the scheduled program was interrupted to bring a newsflash about a jailbreak.
Three prisoners had broken out of a high security wing, killing two guards.
David had been disinterested until mug shots of the escapees had been flashed up and his wife screamed a name. A name that was all too horribly familiar.
?David, that?s Ruggiero!? she pointed wildly at the screen. That face. That name. Memories and emotions stirred and surfaced in an uprush that robbed them of their breath.
This was the man responsible for their dramatic meeting. Mingled with the terror this man monster inspired, Sally felt a tingle of excitement as she recalled the heady thrill of that time, when she had become an overnight celebrity. A heroine. Well, all right, heroine by proxy if you wanted to be strictly accurate.
If it hadn?t been for Lucky?
Poor Lucky. Best darned dog she?d ever had. Sally still missed her dreadfully, even though it had been over a year since old age had overtaken her. Despite the fear Ruggiero?s escape struck in her heart, Sally couldn?t resist using the situation to score points off her husband.
?Maybe I?ll have to save your life again. Perhaps then you?ll notice me. Only this time round, I might just decide you?re not worth the effort!? she had risen to her feet and stood over him, hands on hips.
David stared vacantly at the screen, a different sort of panic welling inside. He knew he should be afraid of this man. He?d been told time and time again that he was lucky to have survived the attempts made on his life by Ruggiero and his twin brother. That he was responsible for putting Guido behind bars. That the Italian had vowed revenge for his own incarceration and the demise of his sibling, Marco, for which he blamed David.
Yet the real panic came not so much from any cowardice or dread of a confrontation with the huge convict, as from the old sense of bewilderment and loss of sanity which thoughts of that period of his life gave rise to. The whole incident, spanning several weeks, was nothing but a blur to him, as if it had been a bad dream, or a movie he?d watched without paying attention to the plot. Afterwards, he thought he remembered odd moments, but he couldn?t be sure if that was just because he?d been told so many times what had happened that he began to imagine that he actually remembered it. Then there were the other memories ? of being somewhere else entirely, with people whose faces and names hovered illusively just out of reach of his recall. Events he thought had been real, but so vague and intangible and unlikely that he could prove none of it. His (expensive) therapist had said it was his brain?s defense mechanism. That the shock of what he had endured only really came out when it was all over, and this ?other place? was his way of blotting out the horror, by pretending it had happened to someone else.
It made a certain sort of sense, he supposed. It sounded very logical, very Freudian or whatever. Only this nagging little voice inside kept insisting that there was more to it. Now a nagging great voice outside demanded to be heeded, and David turned to his wife, the exasperation surfacing once more.
?How many times are you gonna throw all that back in my face, Sal? Must I spend my every waking moment expressing eternal gratitude for something I can?t even remember? Besides, even if you did save my life, that doesn?t mean you have a right to tell me how to live it. You don?t own me, body and soul.?
?Gripping the table with both hands, he scraped back his chair and stalked across the room. Not for the first time, David wondered how he had ended up married to this woman. They were world?s apart ? he the unsophisticated loner, she the glamorous boss?s daughter. That, he supposed, was the crux of it. She was the boss?s daughter. Not only had she supposedly effected his rescue from an untimely end, and ensured his recovery by paying some very hefty medical bills, but then it seemed she had secured him a lucrative position in one of her father?s companies. Him and a dozen or more other workers made jobless by circumstances he was alleged to have set in motion.
No wonder he had been in awe of her, and felt beholden to her. Then he had been flattered by her attention. Most of all, he supposed, he had clung to her as a link to the chunk of his life that was missing. She knew what had happened where he did not, and the ignorance frightened him. He had been confused and vulnerable. With hindsight, he would have done better to draw a line and move on, to let sleeping dogs lie. But at the time he had been desperate for answers, and she had fuelled his desperation.
He had the newspaper clippings to prove that he owed her his life; he had just mistaken gratitude and need for love.
So when his good friends the Donahues (friends he couldn?t exactly remember having made) told him she was a good catch, he let himself be reeled in.
Not that he had really had much of an option. Sally Reynolds had set her sights on him, and she was a woman accustomed to getting what she wanted. What he?d admired then as strength of character and determination, he now saw as the stubbornness of a rich-@#%$ spoilt-brat daddy?s girl.
?Body and soul? Body and soul?? Sally retorted, her voice rising in pitch to a near shriek. ?I don?t even have your mind. You act like I don?t exist. You spend more time with that damned computer of yours than you ever do with me. And if it?s not that then it?s your precious car. I?m lucky if I come in a poor third. Then if you do deign to talk to me it?s more work, work, work. You never take me out cos you?re too busy inventing.? she spat the word with venomous contempt, finally pausing for breath.
?That?s not fair. You?ve always known how seriously I take my work, Sal. That?s the way I am. That?s one of the reasons your father hired me. The trouble with you is that Daddy has always bought you everything you?ve ever wanted. You never learnt that you can?t buy people?s affections and have them altered to fit like a tailored dress. You can?t expect me to change just to suit you.? David?s voice was calm ? he remained placid. He hated these confrontations and weathered them as best he could, but it was wearing.
Sally turned to look at him, an infinite sadness in her eyes. ?Oh, no, but that?s where you?re wrong. You have changed, David. You?ve changed a whole helluva lot. You?re not the man I fell in love with at all.?
She regarded him for one moment longer, her expression emphasizing the fact that he appeared as a stranger to her. Then she turned on her heel and ran crying from the room, leaving David staring after her with the bemused look of a puppy who?d been scolded without knowing the nature of his indiscretion.

~~~***~~~​
 
Run For Their Lives - Chapter 6 cont

Back at Quantum Leap Headquarters, Admiral Calavicci also watched the newsflash, at Ziggy?s behest, and shuddered at the sight of the enormous escapee. Unlike Beeks, he did consult Ziggy as to the ramifications of this unwelcome turn of events. Only he wished to God he hadn?t. The computer?s prediction (based on existing information, since they were dealing with their own present time) that a vengeful Ruggiero would most likely murder David Beckett was totally unacceptable, but he was darned if he knew what the hell he could do about it.
And their non-resident Boy Scout was off earning merit badges elsewhere. Nevertheless, they were unequivocally culpable when it came to this current predicament, and therefore had a responsibility to protect David from his probable fate.
Al raked his hair back with both hands and scratched at the back of his head.
Then he barked at the air.
?Think of something, dammit Ziggy. Think of something.?
Never in a million leap years could either of them have foreseen the solution that eventually presented itself.
 
Run For Their Lives - Chapter 7

Chapter Seven

Thursday 1st December 1988​

Sam spent the best part of the day ? or perhaps it was the worst part of the day ? in frustrated inactivity. Too keyed up and anxious to rest abed as instructed, yet too dizzy and disoriented to achieve anything worthwhile. He sat down several times to study the maps he had procured, but each session soon ended abruptly with roads blurring into a tangle of colored knitting yarns before his weary eyes. After more than an hour, all he had managed to ascertain was that Brogborough was in the county of Bedfordshire and was situated some 50 miles or so north of London.
He could neither watch the television nor play the piano, for the noise made his head throb abominably. He was too unsteady to pace the floor, yet too restless to sit still. He ordered a midday meal, but had no appetite to consume more than a few morsels.
At least once every ten minutes thereafter, he went to the door to look for signs of the money being delivered. Part of him was fearful of undertaking such a long drive in his present condition, but the greater part was anxious to be getting on with it. Each second the children remained in the clutches of those ruffians was a moment?s danger too long.
Shutting the door for the hundredth time on a stubbornly empty corridor, Sam leant against the wall and sighed a deep sigh borne of impatience mingled with exhaustion. Closing his eyes to give them a brief respite from the strain of focusing, he lost himself for a while, drifting away from his problems and letting his mind wander to more pleasant pastures.
It did not work for long.
Sharp images of the girls ? bloodied and lifeless ? invaded his reverie, causing him to gasp. With a jerk of his head, his eyes snapped open and he wiped down his face with the flat of his hand, as if trying to erase the after-image from his retinas. A series of staccato breaths carried him to the Queen Anne chair into which he all but fell ? legs and arms trembling. Looking down, he clasped his hands together, each one trying to still the quivering of the other.
A multitude of startled Lepidoptera took frantic flight in his thoracic cavity.
?Pull yourself together,? he admonished himself aloud, ?Oi bet de real Mary wouldn?t be falling apart at the seams like dis, cowering in a corner feeling sorry for herself.?
?Hey, cut yourself some slack, buddy.? Al appeared just in time to hear Sam?s private pep talk. After a restless night worrying about the mess they had gotten David Beckett into, Al had risen early Tuesday morning and dressed in his Navy Whites. He?d been places and seen people trying to call in favors and/or pull rank in an attempt to afford the young man some protection, but so far he was less than satisfied with the results. He would have to resume his rounds later, for now ? Ziggy informed him ? the delivery of the ransom money was imminent and Sam may well be in need of Al?s own unique brand of back up during the exchange.
Sam was visibly startled by the intrusion and turned abruptly to face the new arrival, wincing at the incautious movement.
?How m any times do Oi have t? tell ya?? he began.
??don?t do that!? Al finished with him. ?I know, sorry pal. I thought you?d be in bed.? The tone was unmistakable in its condemnation of Sam?s disobedience. Not that he would gloat, or say ?told you so?. He took absolutely no delight in his friend?s plight.
?Would you believe ?Oi just got up??? queried Sam, knowing he was fooling no one.
?Sure, whatever you say.? Al closed the subject with a dismissive wave of his hand, and the punch-line ?But then, I?d believe it if you told me that Melinda Messenger was a man!?
?Yeah, right. So are ya trying to work up a double act, or is there a reason fer this visit??
 
Run For Their Lives - Chapter 7 cont

?It?s time, Sam.? Al informed him, just as the knock finally sounded on the door. Sam curbed his instinct to pounce on the door, and rose sedately to his feet, admitting Otis, carrying a huge attach? case. There was no sign of Lyle Strickland.
?Is it all in there?? Sam asked the courier, waving his hand in the direction of the bag.
?Every last red cent, Mary,? replied Otis; looking somewhat awed at the thought of having carried that much cash from the bank without getting mugged on the way.
Al was button bashing, calling up a resume on the new arrival.
?This is Otis Johnson, Sam. 27 years old. Company Secretary and Strickland?s Personal Assistant for the past three years. Seems like a regular guy.?
?Oi tort so.? Sam confirmed, letting Al know he was telling him nothing new. Although a second name was useful for his mental archive, it seemed that first name terms applied.
Otis favored him with a sidelong glance, wondering at the odd comment. Then he shrugged it off as one of Mary?s little idiosyncrasies or a side effect of her recent injury. She certainly looked pretty awful. It didn?t help that she wasn?t wearing any make-up. In all the time he?d known her, Mary had always taken the trouble to apply make-up. Understated, admittedly, subtle and unobtrusive, but enough to give her complexion a healthy glow and her lips a little color. Today, she was au naturelle and it didn?t suit her at all. She looked ten years older and haggard and grey.
One thing was for sure; Mary wasn?t herself at the moment.
Otis placed the bag carefully on the table and snapped open the catches, lifting the lid to reveal row upon row of neatly stacked, paper wrapped crisp bundles of ?50 notes, sterling. Al, looking over the young man?s shoulder, emitted a long slow whistle at the sight of so much money.
?That?d pay my alimony bills for a while!? he commented with a grin.
Sam glared at him, then without a word he began to transfer the cash into Mary?s carpetbag, which he had already fetched during his long wait. Ever attentive, Otis assisted him and though it had appeared a bottomless pit, it was nonetheless almost brimful by the time they had finished.
Sam closed the zipper firmly, tucked the maps in an outer pocket and lifted the bag down. As the force of gravity took over from the support of the table, the bulging sack plummeted floorward, jerking Sam?s arm sharply and almost tipping him completely off balance. Otis put out a steadying hand and with the other helped him to take the weight and lower it to the ground.
?Are youse okay?? he asked, seeing the woman?s face blanche, the eyes momentarily unfocused.
?Sure. ?Tis just a wee bit heavier than me smalls is all.? Sam laughed feebly. Al wasn?t convinced and shook his head, conferring upon Sam a full 43-muscle frown. Otis wasn?t convinced either.
?It ain?t too late, Mary. If youse don?t feel up for it, I can make de run instead. I?ll square it with da boss.? He picked up the car keys for emphasis.
?T?anks, Otis,? replied Sam, tempted for a split second to take him up on his offer, ?but who?d square it wit da kidnappers? No, Oi?ll be fine.? Sam held his hand out with some slight reluctance for the key ring with its white swan motif, which had hitherto proclaimed to him the presence of a self-drive hire car.
Otis knew better than to contradict Mary, but that didn?t negate his concern.
?Youse knows best, Mary. But youse gotta at least let me walk ya to da car.? He sniggered self-consciously, as if he expected his gallantry to be misinterpreted. ?I ain?t never gonna get my hands on this much mazuma again. Let me savor the moment a while longer, huh?? he gave Sam the sort of look a kid gives his parents when seeking permission to stay up late ?Just this once? because there is something special on TV.
A look that reminded him of the girls.
?Be my guest.? Sam made a sweeping gesture toward the swag bag. Thelma Beckett didn?t raise no fools. Having Otis guide him to the right vehicle could well save him much valuable time and frustration. And the bag was heavy. Sam needed to conserve what little strength he had for whatever lay ahead.
Sam put on Mary?s thick velour three-quarter length camel colored coat, dropping the keys to the suite into the left-hand patch pocket. He glanced at his watch.
3:12pm.&nbsp &nbsp &nbsp &nbsp
The countdown had begun.
 
Run For Their Lives - Chapter 7 cont

Tuesday 7th January 2003
QLHQ
9:18pm​

Verbena Beeks was agitated and it showed.
?Come on over here and sit yourself down.? Mary patted the bed beside her to underline the invitation. The doctor smiled and obeyed. Right now she needed to talk with the levelheaded Mrs. McGillicuddy, who had sensed her unspoken cry for help and readily reversed their roles.
Beeks had kept her promises and spoken to both Gushie and Rusty. Spoken to being the operative word, as neither man had been in communicative mood. Other than confirming their girlfriend?s observations, she had achieved nothing. Feeling frustrated the good doctor had made a point of speaking to as many Project personnel as she could during the day. She had been looking to establish how far the malaise had spread and in which directions, trying to find a pattern. However, to her surprise and relief, aside from the Admiral displaying a degree of irascibility even greater than the norm, so far the rest of the team seemed unaffected. Though this was small comfort when weighed against her lack of progress in determining both a cause for the aberrant behavior and a means of restoring the status quo. The only common experience the two had shared was the bomb incident. For a while Verbena considered Post Traumatic Stress, but the symptoms were not exactly typical and she relegated it to the bottom of her list of likely causes. Once again, had she consulted Ziggy, she might have discovered that she had hit upon the right point of origin, even though she had reached the wrong conclusion from it.
The fact that the problem had reached the attention of even the most isolated person on site ? namely Mary ? bode ill. The only ray of light this tunnel offered was that it allowed Beeks to feel justified in debating the matter with her.
It had happened shortly before Bena arrived at the Waiting Room that evening. Al had called in on Mary prior to re-joining Sam, and ? she told Beeks ? had been as charming as ever, though somewhat preoccupied. This much was nothing new. It was when he left that the balloon went up.
Project policy was to have long shifts among the guards on duty outside the Waiting Room, for two main reasons. Firstly: the fewer faces seen by their guests, the smaller the risk to security (they never knew when one of the personnel?s antecedents might turn up - among other considerations). Secondly, Dr. Beeks felt it would be more reassuring for the residents if they could recognize ?a friendly face?, rather than have a never-ending series of strangers in the jailer?s role.
Thus it was that when Al emerged, Corporal Kincaid had just reported back on duty. That in itself was cause for criticism, as Corporal Matt Langley ? whom he was relieving ? had been due off duty half an hour earlier. Al had remarked the fact as he entered, but Langley had covered for his colleague with a plausible excuse for the unofficial change of schedule. Although when Rusty finally arrived, he was less than grateful, nor was he apologetic for the trouble he?d caused. On the contrary, he had practically snapped the poor man?s head off for daring to comment. Now it was Rusty?s turn to be chewed out, as Al stopped in his tracks in the doorway, allowing Mary to witness their exchange. Luckily, she was not the type to use it to her advantage as a chance to bolt for freedom.
This time, Rusty was not merely slow in saluting; he omitted the gesture completely. The Admiral took one look at him and barked:
?What do you call this, Corporal? A uniform? You?re a disgrace!?
In complete and total contrast to his normal ?by the book?, ?fine example of a military man? smart appearance, today Kincaid was unshaven and his uniform creased, the tie knotted loosely and hanging low and awry. The shoes were unpolished. His whole demeanor was languid. Far from being contrite, the Corporal shrugged off the rebuke as if it were beneath his dignity to respond. Which of course enraged the senior officer still further.
?Stand to attention when I?m talking to you, soldier!? he snapped, unaccustomed to such a blatant lack of respect. Kincaid merely mouthed the words back at him mockingly, bobbing his head from side to side, an insolent schoolboy unafraid of the Principal?s wrath.
Mary had noticed the tension in Al?s stance. She saw the fists clench, and wondered for a moment if her ?little leprechaun? was going to deck the young man.
?Oi t?ink Oi must have gasped,? she told Bena, ?cos he half turned back to look at me.?
The distraction evidently diffused the situation somewhat, and caused Al to reassess his priorities. He glanced at his watch.
?Consider this your lucky day, mister,? he told Rusty. ?I?m turning a blind eye to this uh, episode, but only because of your outstanding performance the other day. Get yourself smartened up before I lay eyes on you again, and buck up your ideas, or I?ll have you on report so fast your feet won?t touch the ground!?
Without waiting for Rusty?s acquiescence, which in any case was conspicuous by its absence, the Admiral strode off to the Imaging Chamber, leaving Mary to glimpse the young man?s expression, which was a curious mixture of loathing and apathy.
?He?s awa? wit? the faeries, that one.? She observed to Verbena, who conceded that this was one diagnosis she had not considered.
?Oi take it he?s not normally loike dis?? Mary asked.
?Not at all,? confirmed the psychiatrist, ?Far from it. Rusty is one of the finest. Wicked sense of humor; but solid as a rock. His girlfriend thought he?d become schizoid, but he doesn?t really fit the profile, despite the personality change. I?ve ruled out tumors on the frontal lobe and hypothalamus too, both of which can be characterized by similar behavioral manifestations. Frankly, I?m fresh out of ideas. I can?t even be sure if the cause is physical or purely psychological. I?m primarily a psychiatrist rather than a neurologist.? She paused to look at Mary, stranded in Dr. Beckett?s aura. ?Sam would be much better clued up. I bet he could work out what was wrong in no time.? She said wistfully.
?You miss him a lot, don?t you?? Mary was nothing if not perceptive. She patted Verbena?s arm.
?We all do, Mary. We all do.?
 
Run For Their Lives - Chapter 7 cont

Los Angeles
Tuesday 7th Jan​

David rose from his work to answer the door, having realized at last that his wife was not at home, since the bell had rung incessantly for several minutes and Sally could never have ignored it. It wasn?t in her nature.
Standing outside was a woman in her late thirties, wearing a crisp linen suit and carrying a briefcase. In her other hand she held a wad of papers.
?Good evening. Mr. Beckett?? she enquired.
?Yes, that?s me.? Confirmed David, puzzled.
?I am sorry to call at such an unfortunate time.? The woman cleared her throat, embarrassed. Her line of work was seldom pleasant, and normally she was hardened to it. Yet this seemed like kicking a man when he was down. ?My name is Joanne Balfour. I?m a Processor. I?m afraid I am the bearer of more bad news for you.? She held out the papers towards him and he took them without taking his eyes from the woman?s face. ?I am here to serve these divorce papers on you.?
She didn?t normally work this late, and the papers were hot off the press, prepared with remarkable haste by one of the city?s top lawyers. But then money such as the Reynolds family commanded could buy almost anything.
David was stunned, bewilderment written all over his face. He looked from the woman to the documents in his hand and back again. Unable to take in the reason for her presence, he latched on to the rest of her statement.
?More bad news?? He queried.
By way of reply, she inclined her head in the direction of the open door. David turned to follow her gaze and drew in a sharp breath.
Pinned firmly to the wood paneling was a large wreath across which stretched a broad black ribbon boldly bearing the letters R.I.P. in white silk.
Clearly Ruggiero was letting David know that he knew where his intended victim lived and could get at him any time he wanted.
David thanked Ms Balfour for her condolences, looking at her without actually seeing her. Wishing him happier times ahead, she departed. He closed the door and walked like a zombie back into his eerily silent home.
Some hours later he came to himself, finding that he was sitting in his bedroom in the dark with the papers as yet unopened in his hand. He put the light on and read them, comprehension slowly dawning. Then he stood up and opened the door to Sally?s walk-in wardrobe. He was not really surprised to find it stripped bare, and only wondered when she had emptied it, and whether or not he should have had time to notice.
 
Run For Their Lives - Chapter 8

Chapter Eight

London
Thursday 3.27pm​

Down in the basement car park, Otis led Mary confidently through the rows of cars to their allotted chariot. He stopped by a beautiful dolphin grey BMW (7 series). A sleek, shiny 4 eyed monster of a car with grey leather upholstery and walnut paneling. And the steering wheel on the right!
?Oh boy, oh boy.? Breathed Sam, taking the bag from Otis and putting it in the well on the passenger side to cover his confusion, before moving round to the driver?s seat.
?I guess youse on yer way, den.? Otis closed the door behind him, bending down to window level to add, ?Take care, Mary. Dem guy?s?d moida youse soon as look at yer. Good luck.?
?T?anks,? acknowledged Sam, ?Oi?m goin? t?be needing it, t?be sure.?
As Otis stepped back, Sam settled into his seat and studied the cockpit controls. Fortunately, they were well set out and much easier to recognize than some of the cockpits he?d found himself in, yet in some ways it was almost as alien. Taking a deep breath, Sam turned the key in the ignition and felt the first gentle stirrings of life in the powerful engine. A brief wave of farewell and he nudged the car into reverse, edging it carefully out of its parking bay.
With his unseen partner riding shotgun beside him, he was on his way.

Thursday 3:27pm
Somewhere in Bedfordshire​

Shelley sniffed, trying not to cry.
They didn?t like it when she cried.
The man shouted at her. That made her feel like crying more, but she was afraid.
The sisters had both woken from the effects of the strange-smelling stuff with a taste of blood in their mouths. She and Tori had both begun crying to find themselves in such a strange and horrid place, and the man had slapped her leg. Hard. It had hurt. It had stung for a long time. Daddy had never hit her. Nanny had never hit her. But this man had hit her. He hit her really hard. And he kept telling her that if she didn?t shut up and stop snivelling, he?d hit her even harder. He?d ?slap her silly face into the middle of next week.? Whatever that meant. Sometimes she felt as if it were already the middle of next week. She had lost all track of time, and it felt like they?d been there forever. They were blindfolded constantly, so that they had no idea if it was day or night. They were tied together, back to back, still in their nightclothes. Wherever they were, it was cold and damp and quiet and spooky. For much of the time they seemed to be left alone, and at first they had struggled against their bonds, trying to escape, but it only made the ropes tighter, so they?d given that up long ago.
They had been spoon-fed some mushy breakfast cereal which tasted like soggy cardboard and a short time ago they had been fed small squares of cheese sandwich. Shelley hated cheese, but had dared not complain. It seemed a very long time between meals, and she had the feeling that if they refused anything, they would get nothing. Tori had already whispered to her more than once that she was hungry, and Shelley could hear her own stomach growling in the quiet darkness.
So far, Tori was being very brave, which was just as well. Shelley was so scared herself, that she could offer scant comfort to her younger sibling. If anything, it had been Tori who had done most of the reassuring after the initial show Shelley had managed for the tape. She had wanted to tell her Daddy what the nasty people had done to them, the hitting, and the?she probed at her sore mouth with her tongue? but the man said if they told, they would be punished. He scared her witless with what he threatened to do to them. So she?d lied and said they hadn?t been hurt.
Nanny would be proud of how well Tori was coping with the nightmare. She wouldn?t be so proud of Shelley, who frequently found herself trembling, her lips quivering; her eyes stinging with unshed tears. She was cold. She was tired. She was hungry. She was terrified. And with each passing minute she was more and more certain that they would never, ever see Daddy or Nanny again.
They were going to die.
Shelley sniffed again, trying not to cry.
They didn?t like it when she cried.
 
Run For Their Lives - Chapter 8 cont

Stallion?s Gate, New Mexico
Wednesday 3.27am​

In room 66, single person?s quarters (male) someone tosses and turns, unable to sleep. For the third successive night he counts off the passing of protracted hours on his bedside clock and feels that morning is a lifetime away.
In the Project cafeteria, a lone figure sits at a table sipping cold coffee and scribbling calculations on the back of an old grocery list. A frown; annoyed, he crosses something out. He chews the end of his pencil in contemplation for several minutes.
Eureka!
More frantic scribbling - and a smug expression. Things were beginning to come together.
This could be it.
It may just work.
Finally the solution was within his grasp. He could smell it.
Behind him the cafeteria door opens noisily and he tucks his notes into his pocket surreptitiously. The new arrival greets him warmly but he merely nods in acknowledgement and gets up, making his excuses and scurrying out like a startled rabbit.
The rest of the complex sighs to the rhythm of countless sleeping bodies, while Ziggy keeps eternal vigil, aided only by a skeleton crew of essential personnel and security officers who patrol the graveyard shift with somnambulant monotony.

London​

Another car pulled out of the subterranean car park of an opulent hotel and made its way across the teeming metropolis towards the motorway. This vehicle moved more confidently - sure of its route, having traveled it regularly for some time. Honor Brookes knew that she could afford the head start she had given the old girl. She had it all worked out to the last detail and timed to the minute.
Of course, it had been timed with the father in mind. That was just tough luck on the substitute.
If she couldn?t keep up ? she?d fail. It was as simple as that.
Honor could pick up the pieces ? and the cash ? at any stage and achieve her objective. She had made contingencies. But her timetable was carved in tablets of stone. No quarter would be given. Mercy and compassion were not in her vocabulary.

Bedfordshire​

Henry checked on his hostages and on his watch. He was in a state of nervous agitation, palms sweating, fingers twitching.
What had he got himself mixed up in?
What if they got caught?
Why had he let her talk him into this crazy scheme? She?d made it sound so easy: A great adventure - a lark. A foolproof chance to get rich quick. Piece of cake, she?d said, and he?d believed her. He always believed every word she said. But it had been a long day. A whole day without her around to remind him how simple it was. How safe. A day full of doubts and uncertainties and scared crying brats.
They did his head in.
So much so that he?d left them alone as much as he dared. He?d taken a sickie from work. She?d said nobody would suspect if he took a day off, not like her ?at the scene of the crime?. And by the time they realised he wasn?t ever going to show up for work again, they would be sunning themselves on some exotic beach.
She wouldn?t tell him where. It was her surprise, she said, in that seductive way that drove him wild with desire. Her plans held the promise of nights of passion and happy ever after and everything he?d ever wanted. No wonder he?d been sold.
She hadn?t mentioned the down side. Hadn?t told him what it would be like to be cooped up with two snivelling little @#%$, having to spoon-feed them. He?d felt like choking them there and then, but he knew Honor would?ve had him for breakfast.
He wasn?t any good with kids. Which was why he?d been even more attracted to Honor when she?d said she never wanted ?em. That was so rare for a woman. Being brought up as one of five children had given her enough of dirty nappies and sibling squabbles and the rest to last a lifetime, she?d said. She had no wish to go through it all again with her own. Not to mention the ravages that pregnancy would wreak on her body. No thank you. It was amazing how many things they agreed on. How much they had in common. Who?d have thought it?
Henry allowed himself a lecherous snigger.
He?d really got himself a prize, and he?d do whatever it took to keep her. Cos he knew he?d never get another like her.
Not in this lifetime.
So whenever the girls got on his nerves too much, he took off for a walk to clear his head.
They were trussed up tight.
They couldn?t get free.
?Course not.
And if they did, they wouldn?t get far. He?d catch them before they could raise the alarm.
He was so pleased with himself for picking this spot.
For getting something right.
For not screwing up as usual.
 
Run For Their Lives - Chapter 8 cont

Honor?s face had been his reward when he?d showed it to her. She went wild with excitement. Even hugged him and planted a kiss on his cheek, shrieking like a teenager who?d just met her pop idol. She was not normally so demonstrative with her affections. And he was rarely so deserving of them. He?d kept his eyes open and come up with exactly the place she?d been looking for: isolated, empty, not likely to be sold quickly.
She?d put her plan straight into action, heading for the Estate agent?s office in her black wig, her alias well worked out. He wished he could have seen her performance. He?d watched her rehearsing it often enough.
She was a brilliant actress: very convincing. Some of the details of her story went over his head, but the agent obviously swallowed it hook, line and sinker. She said she was representing clients moving to the area from somewhere abroad.
?They? were looking for a small-holding ? nothing fancy, just a modest family business in a nice quiet place in the country.
?What a coincidence? the agent told her. They had just that week signed a place on their books. The owner died without heirs and the few workers he had to help him had been unable to buy the property out. They had moved on to find work on other farms in the area.
The livestock had been sold to pay for the funeral expenses and so the farm was going at a bargain price.
Vacant possession.
Actually, ?Ms Brocklehurst? reckoned the price was rather steep. The farm was not exactly a gold mine, though it was viable, if that?s what you wanted. She didn?t. However, the price suited her admirably if it kept genuine buyers away. She?d asked to view the property and within a few days she had it all arranged so that Henry was sent out to alter the Sale board to SOLD: SUBJECT TO CONTRACT.
That ensured there wouldn?t be anyone else nosing around the place. Then she?d found some pretext to need additional viewings ? Henry couldn?t remember what, it was all too complicated for him ? so that after a time the agent lent her the keys rather than accompanying her.
Just as she?d planned.
Naturally, she?d had two spare sets cut before returning them. Then another ?official? visit to allay suspicions before setting the place up to receive its visitors. She had no intention of buying the dump for real of course. Her clients would develop some last minute hitch preventing immigration or some such, but by then the place would have served its purpose, and no one would be any the wiser.
Perfect.
Henry was constantly amazed and impressed by the way she had thought of absolutely everything. And the way she could get people to do exactly what she wanted. She was an incredible woman: brainy and beautiful and everything. She could have her pick of any man. Henry marvelled once more that she had chosen the likes of him. Such fabulous luck had to be earned, he guessed. So he?d have to ride it out. Grin and bear it. Make the best of it.
It should soon be over now.
Checking his watch again, he satisfied himself that his hostages were secure and would remain so during his absence. Then he took his van and Honor?s carefully prepared instructions and headed for Brogborough. He had to stay on time. Keep well ahead of the old girl, but not too early in case the notes were found by someone else. The less time for that the better.
 
Run For Their Lives - Chapter 8 cont

On the road
4.20pm​

Driving in Central London made Sam feel like a lab-rat trying to negotiate a maze. He?d been traveling for almost an hour, and had still not reached the motorway, though at last there were signposts to tell him he was getting close.
More than once, he?d had to detour from the route Al suggested because a one-way system not marked on the map confounded him with a NO ENTRY sign. Dusk was rapidly turning into night, made darker by the renewed rain, which beat rhythmically on the roof of the car, conducted by the wiper blades swaying hypnotically to and fro across the windshield.
Driving conditions were far from ideal, and with the approach of the ?rush hour? they were likely to deteriorate - in direct proportion to the far from ideal condition of the driver. Sam?s head still hurt like Hell and driving an unfamiliar car on the unfamiliar side of unfamiliar roads did nothing to soothe his troubled brow.
He was concentrating hard; his conversation with Al restricted to that necessary in order to attain their destination within the allotted time. Al was starting to feel that he was little more than a speaking clock as the greatest part of his contribution was to answer Sam?s incessant enquiries of ?What time is it now?? or ?How long have we got left??
Al?s attempts to calm and reassure his colleague were meeting with only very limited success. He could tell Sam was conducting an internal battle, torn between a desire to charge to the rescue at full gallop and the need to ensure that his impaired reactions did not cause an accident that may delay or even prevent his arrival altogether.
So far Sam was erring on the side of caution, but it was clearly becoming increasingly frustrating to him. A lesser man would have been swearing and pounding the horn. Sam settled for drumming his fingers on the wheel and glowering, his foot twitching on the gas pedal. Every once in a while he muttered an impatient ?Come on? under his breath to all the tourists who had all day and were taking it.
Al wished that he could tell Sam the odds of getting the girls back alive were way up in the realms of extreme probability, but they remained stubbornly in the neutral zone, so he avoided the subject. All attempts to lift the mood with light-hearted banter were curtailed by stony glares, so in the long silences Al fell to pondering new ways to bail his other Beckett friend out of trouble.
With equal lack of success.
Finally, they?d reached the elusive motorway and began the long haul North; Sam counting off the junctions as they passed by.
Somewhere just beyond Junction 4, the monotony became soporific and Sam?s concentration started to lapse. Al had to yell at him to stop Sam drifting into the fast lane in the path of a juggernaut. Sam rubbed his eyes and took the rebuke in silence, still brooding, still disinclined to conversation. Instead, he turned up the air-conditioning on his side of the car and switched on the radio, using the automatic re-tuner to select a local station as the London service faded out.
Being December and the run up to Christmas, all the stations had started reviewing the closing year by playing the Number Ones and near misses from the previous eleven month?s charts, and predicting what would be occupying the top slot in a little over three week?s time. The track being introduced as the tuner locked on to a new channel ? which had topped the British charts in October ? drew a splutter of laughter from Al.
?Is he talking to you?? asked the hologram as it began, waving his cigar in the direction of the radio, and then at Sam, who frowned at his friend, looking daggers for several seconds before conceding a smile.
?You saying Oi needs t? lighten up?? he queried.
?Me and him both!? replied Al, as the voice on the radio once more exhorted through his chorus:
Don?t Worry, Be Happy!?
 
Run For Their Lives - Chapter 8 cont

?Oi guess dere?s a song for every situation!? mused Sam, who in spite of himself had started tapping the wheel in time to the music.
?Mm-hmm,? asserted his companion, thinking of the wife Sam didn?t remember he had, sitting alone night after night singing along to the CD that had become ?her? song:
?(If it takes forever) I will wait for you.?
?Bet the writer never had their situation in mind when he penned those oh so apt lyrics? thought Al.
Whether by chance or design, the next title to air declared to Sam that:
The only way is Up!?
His smile broadened and he cocked an eyebrow.
?More messages through the ether??
?He moves in mysterious ways,? quoth Al, ?As we know better than most.?
The miles began to pass less tediously, and although not every song was laden with hidden meanings, by the time they reached Junction 11, they had found a good number that could be made to fit their circumstances, either general or specific. It became almost a game between them, to attach some personal significance to the tunes.
Thus when Tiffany observed ?I think we?re alone now?, Sam said he could adopt it as a catch-phrase given the number of times they had sought solitude (usually in a Men?s Room) so that he could converse with his partner without appearing to be crazy.
And when Danny Wilson sang:
?Suddenly the rain came down?I made such a big mistake, when I was Mary?s prayer.?
They simply looked at each other and burst into simultaneous laughter.
Al wasn?t sure he believed the selection on the radio was really being made deliberately by some celestial DJ, but all the same he offered a silent prayer of thanks that his friend?s spirits had been lifted, and with them his own. As they passed Junction 12, anyone who could have heard them (though few were eligible, and those who may have been tended not to venture out on nights like these) would have been serenaded by them both singing along to Wet Wet Wet?s version of ?With a little help from my friends?. Then came Whitney Houston?s Olympic One Moment in Time?, closely followed by Aswad and Give a little love?:
?troubles on our shoulders? sometimes seems too much... Only we can make it better, only if we try? Make this world a little better? Let?s do what we can together??
?That just about sums up Leaping, wouldn?t you say?? asked Al when it finished.
?Could be,? asserted Sam, ?but then, it could be referring t? all sorts o? t?ings: conservation, tolerance, you name it. ?Tis a good philosophy for life though, don?t you t?ink??
Being a devout conservationist and a closet humanitarian, Admiral Calavicci couldn?t agree more.
Approaching Junction 13, Sam was reminded to turn his attention to the matter in hand when Climie Fisher told him to ?Rise to the Occasion?. His demeanor resumed a suitable seriousness.
?Time to scout ahead, Al,? he instructed, ?see if?n you can find dat note.?
?On my way, but it ain?t gonna be no picnic,? quipped Al as he vanished.
 
Run For Their Lives - Chapter 9

Chapter Nine

QLHQ
5.18am​

Gushie shuffled into the Control Room looking disheveled.
?You?re early,? commented Sammy-Jo without looking up from her study of the readings, which thankfully told her that the Admiral and the Leaper had both partially relaxed ? their vital signs no longer registering extreme anxiety.
?Couldn?t you sleep?? she continued conversationally.
?I-indeed not. In fact I haven?t slept more than a couple of hours a night since the weekend.? Replied Gushie earnestly. He hadn?t felt right since that business with the bomb, and whilst he?d put it down to shock at first he now believed some more insidious force to be at work. Even he had been at a loss to explain his irrational behavior; turning down a date with Tina; unable to sleep; uninterested in food; forgetful; short tempered and nervous. His muscles had been twitching too, so that his writing was shaky. And just when he felt he was making significant progress with his latest retrieval program calculations he had been finding it impossible to concentrate. Most of the symptoms were at last beginning to dissipate, but the insomnia persisted and it was leaving him feeling sluggish.
?If you?re not well I can hold the fort here a while longer. You go back to bed and I?ll have Ziggy round up someone else to relieve me in a couple of hours.? Sammy-Jo offered with genuine concern. Gushie looked embarrassed, even blushing slightly. He firmly and somewhat less than politely declined her considerate offer.
?Fine, whatever.? Sammy-Jo shrugged and left.
Gushie immediately felt guilty and almost called her back to apologize, but the words stuck in his throat. Instead he busied himself with Ziggy?s controls, bringing himself up to spec on the Leap situation. Then he monitored them sporadically whilst returning to his calculations. He?d spent most of his spare time over the past four years trying to establish why they had been unable to bring Dr. Beckett home, and to rectify that unfortunate state of affairs. Never in all that time had he felt so optimistic of his chances of success. One of their recent ?guests? had, through a string of unforeseen events, learnt quite a bit about the way the Project worked. He had discussed the problem with Gushie, and given it a new perspective. His suggestions had brought Gushie closer than ever before to the possibility of a solution. As he scribbled now, he grew more and more excited.
 
Run For Their Lives - Chapter 9 cont

Bedfordshire
5.18pm​

Sam left the motorway and took the turning on the right for Brogborough. He drove east for a mile and a half, up an incline, and then branched left off the main road, following the sign for the Picnic Area. After a short distance the blacktop gave way to gravel and the track wound back and forth up the hill to the summit. Turning the car?s headlights to main beam to guide him part way, Sam jumped out of the vehicle and ran through a narrow passageway, flanked by pillars and foliage, to the picnic site itself.
The ground was uneven, and the persistent rain made it stodgy underfoot.
Sam had to slow to a snail?s pace to keep from turning his ankles in the ruts. Right about then he?d have traded his Nobel Prize for a flashlight. Instead, he had to make do with a faint beam of light being projected from Al?s hand-link coupled with the glow of his doorway to the Imaging Chamber, which the Observer had thoughtfully opened for that very purpose. Silhouetted in its frame, Al now gestured frantically to his friend from the bench furthest away from Sam, on his left.
?Over here, Sam. It?s under this one. Watch your step; we?re still ahead of time.?
Sam turned towards him, moving as fast as he dared, despite Al?s assurances. He was only vaguely aware of the vast panorama spread out before him in the valley below, seen now as nothing but distant lights in the darkness. By day, the view was quite impressive, with Lidlington Lake glinting in the sun and the towering chimneys of Stewartby brick works standing to attention like soldiers pointing heavenward. But the rain blurred what the night hadn?t shrouded, so that the vista vanished like a chalk pavement painting under the street sweeper?s hose.
Not that Sam was in the mood for sight seeing. He only had eyes for the table his friend was indicating and the missive it was guarding. By the time he reached it, his breathing was labored and the heavy coat was twice as heavy from absorbed moisture. His hair clung to his forehead and his feet were soaked. Aside from that and the interminable ache in his head, he felt on top of the world!
He leant on the table for a few moments while he got his breath back, and then bent down to rip the note from its moorings. It had been folded small and sealed in a transparent plastic sandwich bag with yards of sticky tape.
Grasping it firmly in his hand, Sam squelched his way back across the quagmire to the shelter of the BMW.
Once inside, he divested himself of the sodden coat, tossing it onto the back seat. Then he ripped open the bag and studied the contents. As before it had been constructed from newsprint. This time it instructed Sam to get back on the A421 heading for Bedford and to follow it until it passed under a railway bridge, where he would find further instructions taped to one of the arches. No distance was given, only the time limit ? fifteen minutes.
Firmly attached to the note were a handful of hair and a bloodstained tooth from each of the girls.
Sam almost choked as he saw them, appalled at the brutality ? the sheer barbarism of the kidnappers.
Throwing the note onto the passenger seat, heedless of Al?s legs as he resumed his imaginary seat, Sam got the car rolling again. There being no road leading out ahead, Sam reversed his way along the track and thence back onto the main road, joining the stream of commuters heading homeward.
The road ahead was unlit, the street-lamps having petered out shortly after he left the off-ramp from the motorway, but at least it had striping and cat?s eyes to keep him on track.
Other than that he had only the headlights of the other vehicles and, as he crested the hill, the glimmer of far away civilization, to show him the way.
Descending the hill, the road curved round to the left and Sam kept his speed low accordingly, although the BMW gripped the blacktop smoothly despite the rain. The huge lake was indiscernible on his right, but to his left he could just make out a blue flame atop a tall pipe, looking for all the world like a giant Bunsen burner.
White lettering on a green sign informed them that they were passing Brogborough Landfill site and the flame was burning off methane from the waste.
?Yuk! Gross-a-runi,? commented Al, popping back into his seat having slipped out for a closer look. ?The sooner these methods become obsolete the better. That dump is a real eyesore. Probably a health hazard too. I sure wouldn?t want to live round here, even if it is handy for the water sports.?
 
Run For Their Lives - Chapter 9 cont

Sam just smiled indulgently. He not only sympathized with Al?s concerns for the planet, he shared them wholeheartedly. But right now he had more immediate problems on his mind. Besides, it didn?t appear to be a densely populated area.
The houses were few and far between, interspersed with fields hidden behind rows of tall thin trees and short stubby bushes.
Occasionally, a turning to the right or left led off to a village, but Sam barely registered their names. The radio still played, for the most part unheeded.
After a few minutes the road passed beneath an asymmetric bridge and then approached a roundabout. As expected, the designated route took him straight over ? second exit. To his left a brightly-lit building proclaimed itself to be a Little Chef beyond which a second edifice was being constructed, whose signpost announced it would become a Travel Lodge. At the sight of the cement mixer on the building site, Sam shuddered. Al nodded sympathetically as his friend referred to a recent Leap not yet erased from his memory:
?If?n Oi never see another one of dose t?ings again, it?ll be too soon fer me.?
They found themselves driving on a dual carriageway, which even boasted streetlamps for a short distance beyond the roundabout. Sam dared to put his foot down a little. He was beginning to feel more comfortable with the unfamiliar vehicle and he was still painfully aware of the ticking of the clock.
Now the lights came and went, illuminating further side turns to Shelton and Marston Moretayne and indicating the end of the double lanes, the resumption of the winding two-way stretch. Sam may have overlooked the turnings at both ends of Stewartby had it not been for another quirk of fate, which led the DJ to pick just that moment to play ?Doctorin? the Tardis? by the Timelords.
The time traveler almost did a double take. He could barely make out the chimneys of the brickworks much less the gravel pits that dominated the area, but he knew exactly what they looked like all the same.
Al gave him a questioning look. ?What is it buddy??
?Wha..? Oh, nothing. Just that this is where they filmed the Dr Who movies when Peter Cushing battled the Daleks. Some coincidence, huh??
Al merely nodded.
The road signs now indicated that the destination was Kempston, but it was still the A421 so Sam followed it diligently, ignoring exits to Wootton and Kempston Hardwick, and keeping the same bearing until he reached another roundabout. This time the direct route was the A5134 for Kempston, and he had to hang a right, taking the third exit to keep on the 421, heading for Bedford and Elstow.
?Bunyan country? observed the scholar, who was adept at English Lit even if it was his least favorite subject.
Here there was another gentle incline, taking them over the railway and down the other side, passing a tall radio mast on their left ? the proximity of which had radically affected the reception of the car radio. At the foot of the hill was a third roundabout and this time Sam saw the 421 was the first exit, making a long dog-leg with the original road. Having turned left, Sam soon saw the railway arches he sought just ahead of him. It had taken them exactly fourteen and a half minutes from the picnic site. He looked towards his companion.
?I?m already gone.?
And true to his word, Al winked out.
 
Run For Their Lives - Chapter 9 cont

QLHQ
6.00am​

Still unable to sleep, Rusty had spent the last hour or so pacing his room like a caged lion, his ?trophy? clutched to his chest as if it were a shield to protect him from all harm. And he needed protection: protection from all those around him who were out to get him.
Patti, the woman scorned.
Beeks, the interfering shrink.
The Admiral, who would probably have him Court Marshaled despite the fact he could remember doing nothing wrong.
Everybody.
And especially that damned superior know-it-all computer who?d denied him his moment of glory, and spoilt everything.
Not to mention the daemons that invaded his room at night. Not in his dreams ? you had to sleep to dream. No ? these were real. Hideous creatures that flew round the ceiling and swooped down at him and wouldn?t let him sleep.
Well, he?d had enough of cowering. He was going to get rid of them once and for all.
With grim determination he left the room, pursued by his daemons, and fled down the corridor ?til he found what he was looking for.
There was a sound of breaking glass.
Then he turned to face his tormentors with a fire axe in his hand.

Bedford
On the edge of town​

Honor drove her car into the lay-by, grabbed her purse and walked casually across to the public phone box. She had seen the old girl pull off the road at the railway arches and go in search of the note Henry had better have placed there. For a moment she had been tempted to follow. The archway was dark and no one was paying any attention. She could stab the old trout, grab the loot, about turn to Luton airport and be on her way to Paradise, leaving them all dangling.
But then, where would be the fun in that? She wouldn?t have the pleasure of running the old girl ragged. Not to mention leaving too many loose ends.
The kidnapper checked her watch. Give her another eight minutes to get into the car park and worry for a bit, then the race would be on.
Honor laughed to herself. This was gonna be the best bit. She was really looking forward to this. She?d chosen the spot well. Close enough to the town centre to rush in if contact was lost, not too far from the holding site that she couldn?t be back and finished long before the gullible old fool realized the girls wouldn?t ever be coming back. It was also a little used call box, and she was unlikely to need to shoo away a queue. Of course, she couldn?t actually keep an eye on the woman?s progress from here, but then ?Nanny? wasn?t to know that, now was she? This may not be San Francisco, the scale was much smaller, but it was Honor Brookes? home turf and she was in control.
That was what it was all about.
Control.
Power.
Just like her idol Scorpio from the ?Dirty Harry? film. Honor was gonna give the bagman ? or in this case the bag lady ? the run around. It was the culmination of a long-held fantasy, to recreate that scene. It was Honor?s favorite film, and she knew every word by heart.
She really admired Scorpio, not least for his single-minded determination, even having himself beaten up quite brutally to get revenge on Callahan. She aspired to be like him and shared his pleasure in killing ? from her baby brother?s pet gerbil (nasty smelly thing) to that cow in the sixth form who?d stolen her date and met with such an unfortunate ?accident? after the leaver?s disco.
She had even considered signing the ransom notes ?Aquarius? in tribute, but it didn?t have the same air of mystery and menace as Scorpio somehow. And there was one very big difference between her and Scorpio, gender notwithstanding. She was much, much smarter than he was.
She was not going to get caught.
Looking at her watch again, Honor opened her purse and took out the small change she had ?borrowed? from the hotel cash register, along with a list of telephone numbers carefully garnered during her reconnaissance mission in town. She piled the coins up neatly on the top of the coin box and prepared to go into action.
?Show Time!? she whispered, with a sadistic smile.

~~~***~~~​
 
Run For Their Lives - Chapter 9 cont

Once again, Sam chose the shelter of the car to study his instructions. The rain was still teeming down and the archway was dark, gloomy and oppressive. While he was prizing the note from its moorings a train thundered overhead, it?s deafening roar echoing through the tunnel like a wild beast in the throes of a violent death. It was not a place conducive to loitering, even if he were allowed the time, which he suspected he wouldn?t be.
This time the note was slightly different. He was given specific directions to a car park near the river, but not told the location of a third note. Instead, he was told to leave the car but take the money and go sit on a low wall at the entrance to the car park where he should wait to be contacted. What form the contact would take was not specified.
Without waiting to be asked, Al went on ahead to get the lay of the land, but he had re-materialized by the time Sam had hung a left past the hospital. The car park, situated on the site of a twice-weekly market, Al reported to be well over two thirds full, being free from the normal charge during the evenings for the month of December to encourage late-night Christmas shoppers. As yet, Al informed his pal, there was no sign of anything or anyone suspicious. They drove over a bridge, and Sam wished Ziggy hadn?t chosen to point out that the river below was the Great Ouse.
?Don?t remind me.? Sam muttered. He swallowed hard; fighting to banish the images that haunted him, as the radio again added its voice with the top of the charts from the previous Christmas ? the Pet Shop Boys? rendition of ?Always on My Mind?. Sam stared at it with incredulity. They were waiting for a pedestrian traffic control to turn in his favor so that he could make yet another left turn. Al declined to comment. After all, weirdness was the norm when it came to Leaping.
They found the car park almost at capacity when they arrived, but Sam managed to commandeer a space timely vacated by a local shopper on the far side of the expanse, while Al made a second reconnoiter of the area.
?Sorry, pal.? He said on his return. ?No sign of anyone but happy shoppers. Guess they have a vantage point or something and are waiting to see Mary. You?re just gonna have to get wet.?
With a resigned shrug, Sam hefted on the coat, grabbed the bag, locked up the car and made his way to the wall, lugging the cumbersome weight with difficulty.
He had been sitting there, head bowed down against the downpour, for a couple of minutes, which felt more like a couple of hours, wondering if he had somehow got the wrong place, when a young woman came up to him, walking with a slight limp. She was in her late teens, with long brown hair right down past her waist, and a round, smiling elfin face.
?This could be it, Sam. Play it cool.?
?As ever,? answered Sam, out of the corner of his mouth.
The girl leant forward to speak.
?Are you alright, luv? You look ever so pale. Have you had a turn? Let?s get you into the shops out of the rain. Littlewood?s caf??s open, a nice warm cuppa?ll do you the world of good.? She was genuine in her concern, and held her hand out to help him up.
Sam put up a restraining hand, and gave her a reassuring smile.
?Oi?m fine, m?dear. Oi?m just waiting fer somebody. But God bless you for troublin? yerself t?ask.? It was not the way he would normally phrase things, but it truly did his heart good to meet another caring soul.
?Well, if you?re sure?? the young woman seemed unconvinced. Still, she bade Sam a Merry Christmas and turned away, muttering to herself that it was criminal of anybody to leave a poor old thing like that sitting out on a frightful night such as this.
?So much for British reserve,? observed Al.
?Don?t knock it.? Sam replied. ?That was real kind an? thoughtful o? her.? He took a half breath and looked up at Al, frowning, ?Do Oi look that bad??
?Worse,? admitted his friend candidly, though he tried to sound as if he were teasing.
?T?anks, Al,? murmured Sam sarcastically, ?Like, I really needed to hear that.?
 
Run For Their Lives - Chapter 9 cont

The ringing of a telephone interrupted further conversation. They both looked across to the nearby booth. So did the shoppers passing by, but they all just shrugged and carried on. Sam?s hand went to his aching head.
?Why doesn?t somebody answer dat?? No sooner were the words past his lips than he exchanged a look of revelation with his partner. Al gestured toward the phone.
?I guess it?s for you, Sam. Hang loose, play it by ear.?
?Very. Funny.? Through clenched teeth, glowering at the hologram.
Sam rose shakily and carted the bag over to the call box. He snatched up the receiver and listened.
?You got a carpet bag?? a woman?s voice, which he instantly recognized as that of the kidnapper. She was making sure the right person had answered the phone.
?In me hand? stated Sam.
?What?s your name, Irish??
?Mary.?
?Are you by your own??
Sam glanced sidelong at Al, ?T?be sure, you?ll not be seeing anyone else wit? me.?
?You better not be wired.? The threat was implicit in the voice.
? ?Pon my soul, Oi swear we?ve not told the po-leece.?
There was a long pause, as if the woman was trying to decide whether or not to accept Mary?s assurance.
?Are you still there?? Sam was silently trying to ascertain if Ziggy was able to trace the call.
?Still working on it, Sam.? Al was punching buttons and slapping the hand link, as was his wont. Sam glared. The look said ?Work faster.?
?All right, Mary,? the way she said the name made it sound like a term of denigration, ?this is how we play. I bounce you all over town to make sure you?re alone. If I even think you?re being followed, the girls die. If you talk to anyone ? I don?t care if it?s a Pekinese pissing against a lamppost, the girls die.
Sam shuddered. ?Are the girls okay?? he wanted to know.
For some reason the woman laughed then and Sam caught her whisper to herself
?Perfect. She?s following the script.? He looked questioningly at Al, at a loss to know what she could mean. Al tilted his head thoughtfully, as if trying to remember something. ?Pekinese, hmmm Pekinese,? he repeated under his breath. ?Why does that line ring a bell??
The woman neglected to answer Sam?s question. She composed herself and then snapped:
?Just shut up and listen. No car: too many one-way streets in Bedford. I give you a certain amount of time to go from phone box to phone box. It?ll ring four times. You don?t answer by the 4th ring, I hang up and that?s the end of the game. The girls die. What time you got??
Sam looked at Mary?s watch, ?6:09. Why??
?Just listen. I?m watching you. Not all the time, but you?ll never know when or where. Now, get to the next call box as fast you can, understand? Take the turning over the road to your left, River Street. Past the Beehive, go straight past the traffic lights; turn right at the bus station into Thurlow Street. Don?t even think of going on to the police station. I hope you?re not stupid. You?ll see four phone boxes. One will be ringing. Better get going, Grandma.?
 
Run For Their Lives - Chapter 9 cont

Sam hung up the phone, grabbed the bag and headed off, his faithful companion by his side. He had to pick his way through crowds of excited shoppers, and the bag weighed him down, pulling and straining his arms and shoulders as he shifted it periodically from one side to the other. His progress felt painfully slow, but he finally spotted the booths ahead of him. One was occupied, and for one gut wrenching moment he feared that someone had inadvertently interrupted communications. Then, as Sam sprinted forward, another phone began to ring. Al was already there.
?It?s this one, Sam.? He pointed to the booth diagonally opposite the occupied one. Sam scuttled round, putting out his free hand to grab the booth and help him apply the brakes so he didn?t overshoot. He snatched the phone from its cradle.
?Mary here,? he panted. No preamble:
?Continue past Greyfriars Pub to the square. Cross it and go down West Arcade, then turn left. Cross the road to the call box on the corner of St Loyes and Harpur Street. You?ve got three minutes. Hurry up, or you?ll blow it.?
Honor laughed and hung up.
This time, Sam didn?t even stop to replace the receiver. He dropped it and dashed off. The heavy bag bumped against his calf as he ran and threatened to topple him over. One or two shoppers looked his way, surprised by the sight of a ?mature? woman sprinting along in such a hurry, and with such a load, but most were too engrossed in their own affairs, laughing and joking and singing along to the carols and Christmas songs being played in all the shops. In the square, the decorations were still being put on a huge Christmas tree, watched by mothers with young children, wide eyed with the wonder of it. As he passed with barely a glance, Sam thought ironically of the lines from the poem:
?What is life if, full of care, we have no time to stand and stare.?
He didn?t slacken his pace.
Consequently, he was panting hard when he reached the third phone. It wasn?t ringing. Sam looked at Al in alarm, too breathless to talk.
?Chill out Sam.? His friend reassured him. ?Get your breath back. It hasn?t rung yet.?
Sam dropped the bag and leant against the saffron yellow framework, which virtually glowed like a beacon through the pouring rain. Al informed him that they were still unable to lock on to the kidnapper?s phone, or the location of the children, but Ziggy had established that they were not currently in the same place.
?We?re narrowing it down, kid. The girls are somewhere within ten miles of here, but we can?t say more precisely than that yet. It looks as though they could be alone though, which?ll make things easier if we can get you to them before those slime-balls get back.?
?That?s a very big ?if?, Al,? replied Sam accusingly, his breathing almost back to normal. He stared at the phone, wondering why it hadn?t rung yet when the woman had told him he only had three minutes. He lifted it up to listen for a dial tone, making sure it was not out of order, then replaced it hurriedly in case it was about to ring. It was. He answered it after the first ring.
?Mary.?
?Yeah.? A soft giggle. ?You sound like you had a good rest. You?ll need it. I?m gonna give you a nice little run this time and you?d better make it, cos if you don?t ? dead girls. Yeah. Now all you gotta do is head straight down Lime Street ahead of you. You?ll see the phone. It?s a short hop, so I?ll start dialing in 50 seconds.? Again a laugh - but this time loud and cruel, almost maniacal, then: ?Hubba, hubba, hubba Irish b**ch.? And silence.
 
Run For Their Lives - Chapter 9 cont

Sam?s legs were running even as his hand closed over the handles of the bag. In truth the street was not a long one, but to a tired time traveler with a heavy load both in his hand and in his heart it seemed interminable. He felt every inch the old woman he appeared to be. All too soon the trill of the phone began and Sam had to run yet faster.
Chest-heaving, heart-pounding, lungs-gasping, head-spinning, feet-throbbing, sweat-pouring, adrenalin-pumping, silently-praying: ?Not much further, let me make it, Dear God let me make it?, til he had the receiver in his hand, four rings down.
He was too shattered to announce his identity, and merely gasped into the mouthpiece.
?Who answered the phone?? snapped the woman, and before Sam could struggle to reply, she hung up. Sam sank almost to the floor, overcome by exhaustion and panic. Incomprehensibly, Al looked smug.
?It?s okay, buddy. It?s gonna be okay.?
?You, you?ve f-found th-them?? stammered Sam, drawing himself up again with an effort.
??Fraid not. Not yet. But the phone will ring again any second.? Al gestured toward it as if he were a magician commanding it to levitate. Sam was still finding it a strain to breathe, but the look he gave his friend was as plain as words:
?How the hell can you be so sure??
?I?ve just remembered why that line about the Peke sounded familiar. Dirty Harry?
?Wh-who??
?You know, Sam, the film. Clint Eastwood. He did the same sort of run. This dame?s recreating it, ?cept the locale is different. Feeding you near enough the same lines. That?s how come the teeth, too. Oh, Sam!? Al?s expression was one of horror and pity.
?The villain in the movie took out the girl?s tooth with a pair of pliers. If they?? He couldn?t say it. ?Poor kids.?
Sam closed his eyes against the picture Al was conjuring up, and prayed to God that he could reach them in time to prevent them suffering further.
By way of confirmation of Al?s theory, the phone rang. Sam looked at his companion admiringly as he answered it.
?Yeah ?tis me, Mary.? He spoke haltingly, still fighting for breath, and also for control of his anger. Silence - as if she was reconsidering whether to allow the second chance.
?H-hello? Hello?? called Sam anxiously, on the verge of hyperventilating.
Again the wild laugh, then:
?Keep going to the end of the road, cross at the crossing, and then turn left down the High Street, right at the traffic lights into St Peters. Past the cinema ? I wanna know one of the films that?s playing, so pay attention. Then cross the road to the call box. Make it snappy. You got three and a half minutes. Pick those feet up, grandma.?
More laughter, but Sam didn?t stop to listen, nor to get his second wind. He legged it.
At the traffic lights, Al waved him over the road. ?It?s easier to cross here, Sam. I?ve looked at the cinema. Impressive place: one of the largest screens in the country. Pity it?ll be pulled down in a couple of years. They?re showing something called ?Married to the Mob?. Last chance to see - program changes tomorrow.?
Sam?s answer was to change direction, sparing barely a glance for the statue of John Bunyan as he strained to re-oxygenate his bronchioles.
?Watch out for muggers.? Al advised a bemused runner.
He arrived safely at the fourth box by the second ring.
?M-Mary.? He gasped. His heart hammered against his ribcage ? a prisoner who, wrongfully incarcerated, vociferously demanded release from his cell.
?Still with it, Irish? I?m impressed.? Laughed Honor, trying to think what Scorpio would have said. There were only four phone boxes in the film, but Honor enjoyed the idea so much she couldn?t help but expand upon it. She had even considered replaying the cross in the park scene ? Catherine of Aragon?s cross in Ampthill would have been an ideal stand-in. She could have beaten the Dad up (or as it happened the Nanny) under the imposing edifice, (she would have done it too!) but the Flitwick safe house had been sold for real from under her, so she changed her plans. She could still enjoy herself this way. Maybe she?d even give Henry the beating before she killed him. Yeah, that idea appealed. Make up for all the times she?d had to bite her tongue and come on sweet to him. She could picture it now, just like in the movie, and Henry?s face, bewildered and betrayed as she made him realize how he?d been used. Yeah, she was really getting off on that idea. She laughed out loud again.
 
Run For Their Lives - Chapter 9 cont

Sam neither knew nor cared what she found so amusing. He was just grateful for the precious seconds of respite it afforded him. He told her the film title when she questioned him, then all too soon it was time to go again. Following her directions he went back the way he?d come to the Bunyan statue, then instead of heading back down the High Street he went straight over the lights into Dame Alice Street, past a terraced row of tiny, depressing houses and a couple of dingy shops. Across the road opposite the prison (?where you belong? thought Sam) and back to a different corner of the Christmas tree square. Sam was wondering how much longer she was going to keep this up; how much longer he could keep this up. He was soaked through ? inside and out ? from the torrential rain and the sweat of exertion. He might have started this Leap fitter than Mary but even so, he was feeling the strain of this relentless pace. Hobbling along on blistered feet, his stamina and his self-confidence were waning in equal measure.
He made it in time, but barely, stumbling blindly into the booth, wiping rain from eyes that frequently failed to focus fully.
?What?s the matter, @#%$? Getting tired? You cut it a bit fine that time, Irish. Now, pick those feet up. Leave the square down James Street; at the end cross the road. Next box?ll be right in front of you. Are you running? Cos I?m dialing??
Sam was running.
Thankfully, he had his own pet navigator to establish for him which one was James Street, so he didn?t waste time searching. Sam traversed the quadrangle, picking his way through the crowds, and made his way to the road.
The heart of the town was largely pedestrianized, but buses were allowed here, and Sam had to wait for two to pass before he could cross. He fidgeted anxiously, moving round behind the second as it slowed to pick up passengers, his arm sweeping impatiently as if it sought to push the offending object out of his way.
Once more, he only just managed to pick up after the fourth ring.
Honor laughed again.
She was reveling in the power she asserted over this woman. She could hear how out of breath and exhausted the old girl was and took perverse pleasure in her suffering. What was that passage from ?Pilgrim?s Progress? she?d been made to memorize at school?
?Thou are like to meet with in the way which thou goest, wearisomeness, painfulness, hunger, perils, nakedness, sword, lions, dragons, darkness, and in a word, death, and what not??
She may not be able to arrange the dragons or lions, but as for the rest, she?d subject her victims to as many as she possibly could. If it proved all too much for her, and the old trout dropped dead of a heart attack, then so be it. Fine. As long as Honor could get to the money before it was hauled off with the body ? and she was sure that could be arranged ? then it?d just be an added bonus.
She licked her lips in anticipation of the possibility. An image of the old girl clutching her chest and collapsing in agony formed itself in her mind and brought a broad smile to her cruel mouth.
Life and Death: that was the Ultimate Power.
The Ultimate Thrill - every time.
 
Run For Their Lives - Chapter 9 cont

She shook her head ? back to business. It wouldn?t do to let the expectation get in the way of the execution. Mustn?t allow the stupid Irish @#%$ to rest too long. The fun lay in keeping up the pressure. So, she directed her prey down Silver Street to the circle of call boxes, instructing her to be sure and find the plaque in the pavement and read it carefully ?Cos I?ll be asking questions?.?
She didn?t know another pair of eyes could gather the next clue in this treasure hunt, or she?d have allowed less time. If not called the whole thing off. Fortunately, she did not, nor could she ever know that Someone had changed the players in her little game.

Al located the plaque on the corner outside the menswear store. It read:

ON THIS SITE STOOD
THE
BEDFORD COUNTY GAOL
WHERE
JOHN BUNYAN
WAS IMPRISONED FOR
TWELVE YEARS
1660-1672​

Al repeated it verbatim as the runner approached his next stop. One phone was labeled ?Out of Order?; another had been vandalized, its receiver hanging precariously from a twisted coin box. But a third was ringing, ?til Sam prized it from its cradle.
The kidnapper?s voice could not disguise her disappointment that another target had been successfully attained. She had underestimated the woman?s stamina and determination. No matter, it just meant she got to play her game a while longer. It was satisfying to have found a worthy opponent at last. And even if ?Nanny dearest? made the distance and handed over the money to Henry, she was no threat to Honor?s plans. So she grudgingly praised ?Mary?s? efforts.
?You?re not a bad runner for a wrinkly. Are you having fun??
Sam didn?t waste his breath explaining that he could think of about a million activities that would be more fun than his current pursuit.
?Well, enjoy this. Ahead of you is the High Street. Go right down it ?til you reach the River Bridge. Read the plaque on the corner, and then cross back to the phones. No cheating now, you?re on Candid Camera.?
Sam had no way of knowing she was bluffing. He felt as if he?d been running forever and his whole body screamed at him to rest, but he trudged on regardless. Whenever he felt like flagging, he pictured the faces of the two innocents whose lives he sought so desperately to save, and the image spurred him on. He was running on pure adrenaline.
He made it, though he wasn?t sure how, to the designated landmark, which announced in an old style font that:

On the shallow East of the 3rd Pier
Of the bridge
Stood the ?Stone-House?
Wherein BUNYAN imprisoned
1675-1676
wrote the first part of the
Pilgrims Progress
?As I slept I dreamed a dream?​

Sam recognized that this was the same bridge he had crossed by car on the way into town. He had come almost full circle. The traffic both into and out of town was fairly heavy, and when the phone started ringing, Sam doubted if he would get over the road in time, even allowing for a nearby pedestrian controlled crossing. This saw him partway across, but the final leg was a carefully timed sprint between two vehicles.
?Good thing Jaywalking isn?t a crime over here, Sam.? Al commented, when he?d re-swallowed his heart.
 
Run For Their Lives - Chapter 9 cont

It transpired that this was to be the last telephone. Sam?s relief was virtually tangible. Sam was told to re-cross the road and then traverse the bridge, noting the details of yet another historical plaque as he passed. He was to continue to a bus stop by a church, memorizing also a blue plate on the side of an adjacent building.
He needed to hurry, in order to catch the 106 or 107 to the end of the line at Harrowden Road. From there he should go into the Turnpike Pub, where someone would make contact. Then:
?Better get going, Irish. The bus is almost due.?
Getting back across the road was even trickier than the first attempt and swallowed up precious seconds. Once over, he dashed up to the crest of the bridge where Al was studying the notice, and paused to take a look himself while he tried to ease the savage stitch in his sides and the searing pain in his lungs.
For a change, the event commemorated had nothing to do with Bedford?s most famous son. Instead it informed:

THIS BRIDGE WAS OPENED TO THE PUBLIC
FREE OF TOLL, ON THE FIRST DAY OF JULY 1835
IN THE MAYORALTY OF
GEORGE WITT ESQR M.D.F.R.S.
AND IN THE SIXTH YEAR OF THE REIGN OF
KING WILLIAM THE FOURTH​

Al entered the details into the hand-link for reference.
Sam plodded on, feeling as if he were an automaton, obeying orders with no free will of his own. Certainly, if he?d had any choice in the matter he?d have been inclined to be kinder to his poor aching head and exhausted body. As it was, he pushed himself to the limits of endurance and way beyond, ignoring his pain to focus on each new goal ahead as it was revealed to him.
Al centered himself on the next sign to discover that:

IN THIS HOUSE
JOHN BUNYAN
SOUGHT
SPIRITUAL HELP
FROM
JOHN GIFFORD
IN THE 1650?S​

Consequently, he didn?t immediately notice that when Sam ran beneath the large road sign, the carpet-bag ? which by now felt as if it contained gold bullion rather than paper money ? caught on one of the thick metal upright poles and so finally carried out its threat to trip him up, sending the Leaper sprawling across the pavement and knocking the last vestiges of wind out of him. This far from the town centre, there were no crowds of shoppers to help him back to his feet. Nor to flag down the rapidly approaching bus, whose driver was concentrating on the traffic ahead, and whose passengers were too wrapped up in the examination of their purchases and plans for the holidays to be aware of a lost pilgrim who?d fallen by the wayside.
Sam struggled to his feet just in time to see the bus disappear around the roundabout. Whereupon he virtually collapsed to the ground again and all but crawled, dragging his burden the last few futile feet to the bus stop as if his mere presence there could recall the vanished vehicle. Once there, he leant, or rather sagged against the friendly lamppost that bore the stop sign. He hugged his sides close; as if afraid they might split asunder. He was wheezing asthmatically, yet his sobs were not solely an attempt to regain control of his respiration. Raindrops mingled with and camouflaged his tears of self-reproach. He looked forlornly at Al, trapped and drowning in his own miry Slough of Despond where ?ariseth in his soul many fears and doubts and discouraging apprehensions?.
Waiting to be told he?d just consigned Tori and Shelley Anne to a vicious, bloody death, he wept.
 
Run For Their Lives - Chapter 10

Chapter ten

Los Angeles
Wednesday 6th January 2003
Police Headquarters​

Captain Maxwell rose from his chair and came out from behind his desk, his arm extended and a broad smile on his scarred face.
?Mr. Beckett! Good to see you again. The years have been kinder to you I think.? He broke off a warm and enthusiastic handshake to indicate his own ravaged torso. His left leg was perpetually stiff, the corresponding hand missing two fingers. His face was twisted and pinched and drawn up by a series of scars which ran from jaw to receding hairline, bisecting the left socket, which held a glass eye. Yet he bore his disabilities well. Plastic surgery may have failed to mask the bone-deep gashes totally, but it had prevented the effect from being too grotesque. And Maxwell remained surprisingly sprightly. He also retained a cheerful disposition, despite having good cause to be embittered.
David Beckett?s reaction was a mixture of horror, pity and confusion ? not necessarily in that order.
?I- I?m sorry,? he began, apologizing on two levels, ?do I know you??
?Have I changed that much?? a self-deprecating snigger as he waved his guest to a seat and re-took his own.
?I was only a lowly Sergeant then, of course,? thought Maxwell aloud. ?I took your statement in the hospital, remember??
David squirmed and wrung his hands. ?No. Not really, I?m afraid. I?ve uh, had a few problems with my memory since, uh, since?? he trailed off.
Now it was Maxwell?s turn to apologize.
?Pardon me, didn?t mean to stir up a lot of bad stuff. You took quite a hammering. I?m not surprised you?re still having problems. I still get a few myself.?
David wasn?t sure if he was expected to ask the policeman his story, but he was spared the decision when Maxwell volunteered an explanation.
?I was working homicide at the time. Tried to arrest some lowlife punk holed-up in an old abandoned factory. He decided I should leave by a third storey plate glass window, and he wasn?t waiting around for someone to open it. The rest, as they say, is history. What the hell. Got me promoted all the way up here, didn?t it??
He leant back in his chair and gestured expansively ? master of all he surveyed. His laugh was genuine; David?s was embarrassed.
?But enough of my ramblings.? Thomas Maxwell could see the other man?s discomfort. He saw it daily. It seemed that most people he encountered had trouble coming to terms with what he himself had accepted without rancor.
?What brings you to my neck of the woods today, anyway??
David picked up the large brown paper parcel he?d leant against the desk. Placing it carefully on top, he opened it solemnly to reveal its ominous contents.
?This!? he replied, ?this was hung on my door last night.?
Captain Maxwell examined the wreath, puzzled. Off his uncomprehending expression, David enquired:
?You did know Ruggiero broke out of jail??
?I should have known.? Maxwell was annoyed that no one had seen fit to inform him. ?You think he sent you this??
?Who else?? countered David, ?and before you ask, no I have not suffered a bereavement recently.? As an afterthought, he muttered almost to himself, ?Unless you count the death of my marriage.?
?What was that? I didn?t quite catch??
?Nothing. Just that my wife left me last night. Long story. Never mind.?
David was absent-mindedly toying with the edge of the ribbon. Maxwell pulled it gently from him.
?We?ll have to keep this as evidence.?
?Of course.?
?To be blunt, I?m afraid it?s unlikely to help much. A dozen or more florists could?ve put it together, and even if we do trace it, chances are it was ordered by phone using a stolen credit card. I doubt very much we could pin it on Ruggiero, even if we catch up with him. Not that sending flowers constitutes a criminal offence in any case. Unfortunately, at this stage there?s uh, there?s not a lot we can do.? He spoke with genuine regret.
?At this stage? At this stage!? David?s voice rose in pitch, his gut knotted with fear. ?In other words you?re telling me your hands are tied. You are powerless to do anything until he actually kills me. Then you may just get lucky some time years down the road and get to lock him up for it. That?s a great comfort, let me tell you.? His tone was dripping with undisguised sarcasm. Yet his hostility was not meant personally, nor was it taken as such. It was just the outpouring of a man scared for his life. Maxwell tried to calm him.
?Short of round the clock protection, which the budget wouldn?t sanction, there ain?t much on the cards, agreed. But aren?t you over-reacting? You?ve crossed swords, so to speak, with this SOB twice before and bested him. You struck me as being such a take-charge sort of guy, ready to take on the world. Okay, so you may be older, but then so is he. So, well, to be frank, I?m a bit surprised to see you in such a panic.?
David slumped in his chair, his head bowed and shaking slowly from side to side. A hundred thoughts ran through his head: All the hazy crazy memories and the far greater lack of memories concerning that chapter of his life. How could he make this man understand? He didn?t understand himself. In the end he simply said:
?I really wasn?t myself back then. I know I couldn?t handle it this time. I?m a dead man.?
?I sincerely hope not, you?ll spoil my falling crime statistics.? Maxwell forced a laugh. ?Seriously, I?ll find out who?s following up on the escape. Bring ?em up to speed. Let ?em know Ruggiero may be in the area. I?ll get the patrol cars to try and keep an eye on your place as much as possible. Leave your number and I?ll let you know if we come up with anything. Anything at all. And if he leaves you any more uh calling cards, get in touch. I?ll help in any way I can.? He extended his hand again, and David shook it, though he felt he was getting the brush off. He left, thinking that there wasn?t a soul on Earth who gave a damn about him.
He was wrong.
 
Run For Their Lives - Chapter 10 cont

Bedford​

Sam was desolate, his expression one of pure and utter wretchedness. If his eyes were indeed the proverbial windows to the soul, the view therein revealed that part of him to be lost in a wilderness of guilt and despair.
So near and yet so terribly far.
One careless moment had meant failure.
Failure meant he probably wouldn?t Leap, but that was the last thing on his mind. He didn?t give a damn about Leaping, he only cared that the girls were going to die, and it was his fault. He?d killed them just as surely as if he?d slit their throats himself. He felt like a murderer and it was not a role that sat comfortably with him. He kicked the carpetbag in frustration and anger and sheer helpless grief. He wanted to scream out at the top of his lungs:
?Noooooooooo!?
To deny it before God and Man.
But the scream raged inside him unreleased. He was too choked with emotion to utter a sound. Too miserable to think beyond the moment and his all-consuming guilt - he would gladly have lain down and died on the spot. Of all the highs and lows of Leaping, this must surely be the nadir.
Right then, Sam agreed wholeheartedly with Lyle Strickland?s assessment of Britain as a ?Godforsaken country?. How could he have overcome so many obstacles, endured so much, come so close, for it to end like this? It made no sense. It defied belief. It was so unfair.
How could God abandon ? not him, he cared nothing for himself, his self-loathing knew no bounds ? but how could God abandon those two sweet innocent young girls, when He?d sent Sam to save them? They were meant to live. It mustn?t happen. It couldn?t happen. Yet, because of his ineptitude, it was probably happening at that very moment. His tormented soul reached out to Al, awaiting the final damning confirmation of his sin.
Al had turned aside, unable to bear the total anguish in every line of his friend?s weary face. At first he hesitated to punch the buttons and have their worst fears confirmed, clutching like Sam at the notion that if it wasn?t said aloud, maybe it wasn?t true. Then, just as Sam?s denial had turned to gut-wrenching acceptance, so Al resigned himself to face the inevitable. Reluctantly, he programmed the query into the hand-link and waited to hear the death sentence that would break Sam?s heart.
And Mary?s.
He swallowed, dreading the moment he would have to face her and break the news, for he was under no illusions that the unenviable task would fall to him. Nor would he duck it, though he?d take Verbena in for back up. His maudlin thoughts were distracted by the squeal of the link. With grim determination he looked at the reply.
Then looked again.
He hit the contraption with the flat of his hand.
He shook it.
He hit it again.
He looked perplexed, swore under his breath, and then shook the hand-link once more.
At first Sam was too absorbed in his misery to notice what was happening. Then he watched with mounting panic ? what was it that could be worse than what they already knew?
Rape?
Surely not so young?
But there were people, sick twisted people who violated children.
He forced the thought away. It was too hideous to contemplate.
What then?
 
Run For Their Lives - Chapter 10 cont

An eternity passed between one heartbeat and the next, until his friend turned to face him with a sparkle in his eyes. Yet still Al paused and looked again. Then:
?Are you absolutely sure about this??
?About what?? screamed Sam silently.
?Gushie, is Ziggy??? Al listened as Gushie evidently reassured him that Ziggy wasn?t malfunctioning. Sam stared at him in desperation, his eyes pleading to be put out of his misery, whatever the news.
?Ziggy can?t explain it,? offered Al, ?and neither can I, but? he paused again, as if unable to voice something so incredible. Only when he thought that an instant further delay would result in apoplexy did he finally declare:
?The odds of you getting the girls back alive have just risen by 11.7%!?
Whereupon Sam all but collapsed yet again. This time overwhelmed by the sheer magnitude of his relief.

QLHQ​

Corporal Kincaid?s progress through the maze of corridors in the underground complex was marked in blood. In his wake three colleagues lay bleeding to death, unable to raise the alarm and unsure what had hit them. Ziggy was sure, and without consulting anyone else dispatched a pair of security guards to apprehend the rampaging Rusty, whilst Paramedics were sent to aid the wounded.
Security intercepted Ralph on level seven, but were unprepared for what met them. Rusty was storming along, the axe raised before him, shield at his side, glancing frequently behind as if keeping track of a pursuer. He was wild-eyed, his mouth twisted into a maniacal leer, and his face held such menace that his would-be captors were stopped in their tracks, mesmerized.
His pale blue pajamas, which he?d donned out of habit in the vain hope of snatching a few Z?s, were streaked and smeared with red, as were his face hands and hair. Bright red prints of bare feet glistened behind him.
So much blood - none of it his.
Both guards had handled high risk opponents before, dangerous criminals intent of breaking through restricted areas, but all their foes had hitherto been rational human beings. Rusty no longer appeared so. He was the Grim Reaper with his scythe, and they were enthralled; transfixed; spellbound; rooted to the spot.

Three daemons lay vanquished ? two more blocked his progress. He was still terrified, yet somehow he was also euphoric. These devils were not all-powerful - they could be destroyed. And he was the one to do it. They were motionless; waiting, trying to ensnare him, lull him into a false sense of security. He wasn?t going to be fooled. He could take them, both of them. He paused himself, so they couldn?t predict which way he?d go. Then, with a blood-curdling ululation, he sprinted forward, swinging the axe wildly before him.
Belatedly, the monsters raised their arms, and the stun-beams shot out aimlessly from their fingertips. Rusty dodged them easily and in a flash he was upon them, hacking them down, heedless to their pitiful cries of surprise and horror and pain.
?I denounce your power, daemon creatures!? proclaimed Rusty. ?You shall not take me! Not even here in your own lair.?
The thought triggered some awareness deep within ? that he knew his way around this lair, and knew too how the daemons were tracking him. Now he really could beat them. He?d cut off their eyes and ears, and then he?d strike at the very heart. He?d destroy the supreme daemon that controlled them all. The one called Ziggy. Sprinting off, he soon found what he needed to short out the security cameras throughout the Project.
 
Run For Their Lives - Chapter 10 cont

Bedford

Sam stood at the bus stop, dazed and confused, and waited for the miracle the odds had promised. He was rewarded almost instantaneously when a dark green Ford Escort pulled up level with him.
?Need a Jekyll, luv?? enquired the driver, leaning over and opening the passenger door to underline the invitation. She was a short woman in her late fifties or early sixties, with tightly permed salt-and-pepper hair. She wore a moss green herringbone tweed skirt, topped by a leaf green trevira short sleeved jumper and matching cardigan, all of which could have come straight from Mary?s own wardrobe, as could the ?sensible? shoes.
Seeing Sam?s bemused expression, she expanded:
?Jekyll an? Hyde, ducks ? ride.?
?Of course Sam; rhyming slang. Go ahead.?
?T?ank yer kindly, m?dear,? acknowledged Sam, grabbing the bag and climbing in beside his savior. ?Oi missed the bus, so Oi did.? He explained as he fastened his seat belt and settled his booty on his lap. Al took up position ?in? the back.
?I noticed, luv. You came a right cropper back there. I woz stuck at the crossing lights. I flashed me lights at the bus for yer, but ?e didn?t notice.?
?T?anks anyway. You?re a life-saver.? Breathed Sam, adding ?literally? to himself.
?Yer looks like you went through a car wash on a push bike!? observed his chauffeuse.
?Dat?s about how Oi feel, so it is.? Sam agreed, as he steamed in the warmth of the car.
Assuming her passenger would want to follow the bus route, the driver approached the roundabout in the middle lane, and then asked:
?Where to, ducks? Connie?s cab is at your disposal.?
?Oi?ve t?meet somebody at the uh, the Turnpike pub. Do you know it?? asked Sam hopefully.
?Know it? It?s only an ?oot ?n? a holler from me dorter?s ?ouse. I knows a short cut. You could even beat the bus.? Connie grinned and completed her introduction.
?Name?s Constance Blackman, but everyone calls me Connie.?
?Mary McGillicuddy,? countered Sam, ?Pleased to meet you, Connie.?
Though pleased was an understatement.
?Wiv a moniker like that, you?d be Irish, am I right??
?Is the Pope Catholic?? put in Al with a snigger.
?That Oi am.? Confessed ?Mary? and Al could ?see? the snarl Sam was conferring upon him, just from the back of his head. ?And you sound, uh Cockney, is it??
?As they come, ducks. Gen-u-ine, original, born wivin the sahnd o? Bow Bells an? proud on it.?
Her accent was so thick, so archetypically cockney, that Sam would not have been surprised had she been wearing the full Pearly Queen regalia, feather in the cap and all.
?Looks like we?s bofe a long ways from our roots, and aht on a night wot aint fit fer man nor beast. We must be orf our trolleys!?
Sam merely smiled. Who was he to argue?
They reached the traffic lights and as promised Connie did not turn right as the bus had done, but continued straight down London Road. Sam sighed, immensely grateful to be doing nothing for a while. It was only now that he?d stopped that he realized just how thoroughly exhausting the chase had been.
His head was not so much swimming as drowning, or at best barely treading water. Suddenly, he was just so desperately tired. Fear had a way of doing that.
?D?yer want me to put that orf, luv?? asked Connie, thinking her passenger may be objecting to the tape she was playing.
?Not at all,? replied Sam, who hadn?t really taken much notice of it. Now he did, he smiled broadly, for yet again the accompaniment fitted the situation, more appropriately than Connie could possibly have imagined. ?Oi?ve always liked show-tunes,? he told her.
?Me an? all, ducks, Better than this modern rubbish where yer can?t make out the words or nuffink.? Connie started singing along to the soundtrack of ?Oliver? :
?As long as he needs me??
In other circumstances, Sam might have joined in too. When he didn?t, the driver stole a glance at her companion.
?You still looks a bit shaky, Mary. Did you ?urt yerself when yer fell??
 
Run For Their Lives - Chapter 10 cont

Sam realized he was trembling. A reaction to muscles pushed too far and suddenly relaxed perhaps, or to extremes of emotion experienced so fast upon each other. He?d been too wrapped up in how dismally he?d failed the girls to notice if he?d sustained any new physical injuries. He conducted a mental self-examination. The coat had padded him from the worst of it. It seemed he?d escaped with nothing worse than grubby, grazed palms and bruised knees.
While he was working out how to respond, his aide-de-camp gave him new orders from General Ziggy.
?Confide in her, Sam. She knows the territory. Ziggy says she?s one of the good guys.?
?Like Oi hadn?t noticed,? Sam responded out of the corner of his mouth. He held out his hands, ?Looks like Oi got off lightly.?
?There?s some wet wipes in the glove box, ?elp yerself. They?re antiseptic. I keeps ?em fer when me gran? children are in the car. Y?know, dirty nappies an? the like.? Connie grinned. ?Robert?s two, and Becky?s only 3 months.?
?Lovely, T?anks again.? Sam said as he cleaned himself up. His hands stung when he applied the astringent cloth, but the wounds were superficial, with no sign of infection. ?Oi t?ink Oi?ll live.? He pronounced.
??Ave you got grankids, ducks?? Connie asked conversationally, giving Sam the perfect opening.
?Not exactly, though they do call me Nanny. Oi look after two darlin? wee girls. Shelley-Anne she?s nine, and Tori?s seven. Only Oi didn?t do a very good job of it, which is why Oi?m here. Dey got kidnapped and Oi?m on me way to pay de ransom.? He tapped the bag on his lap and sighed anew; sick at heart and consumed with guilt at the appalling situation he?d allowed the girls to get into.
?Dat?s why Oi was in such a hurry.?
?Oh my gawd, you?re joshing aint ya?? she paused for a mere beat, ?Nah, course not. Wot am I finkin?? Yer wouldn?t kid about a fing like that. You poor dearie. No wonder yer shakin?. But don?t go blamin yerself ducks. I s?pect yer did all yer could. I?m sure t?weren?t your fault.?
Sam rubbed his neck, all too aware of the swelling at the back of his head. He had fought for the girls, but not hard enough. Nowhere near hard enough.
He should have been better prepared. They should never have been taken. His conscience was not so easily assuaged.
?You?re very kind, but Oi am responsible and Oi?m goin? t? get dem back. By all dat?s Holy, Oi swear Oi?m goin? ta get dem back.?
His new friend caught the look of grim determination on his face, and nodded slowly in agreement. ?I believe you will, ducks. I believe you will. An? if there?s anyfink I can do to ?elp, you just let me know. Anyfink at all, y?hear? I reckon as ?ow ?Im upstairs musta put me on that road t?nite fer a purpose.?
?She could be right, Sam.? Cut in Al, to the accompaniment of squeals from the hand-link. ?Odds of finding the girls just shot up again. We?re almost on even money now.?
Sam allowed himself a flicker of hope, but still did not relax.
?May He be praised for it,? Sam answered them both, ?And yerself too, Constance Blackman.? His response could not have been more sincere.
Connie merely grinned, and then laughed heartily, bursting into song once more with the tape, which to both Sam and Al?s utter amazement once more continued the evening?s habit of providing just the right song for the moment. This time, needless to say, the soundtrack had reached ?I?d do Anything?.
?Unbelieveable!? muttered Sam, and a smile forced its way to the corners of his mouth.
A short time later, however, he became earnest once more, as his chauffeuse announced: ?This is it, dearie. We?ve arrived, an? t? prove it ? we?re ?ere!?
 
Run For Their Lives - Chapter 11

Chapter Eleven

Bedford​

Honor Brookes hung up the phone, but did not leave the call box. She cast around in all directions to be sure she wasn?t being observed, ready to lift the receiver again if challenged. Not a soul in sight ? perfect.
Well, almost.
She had hoped to have the thrill of a dash into town to collect the bag and gloat over the prostrate figure of a dying Nanny. To hide the cash, and then tell Henry the stupid bastards hadn?t paid; that they?d been betrayed. Persuade him they?d been left no choice but to kill the girls. Watch him squirm while she slit the little sluts? throats. Then, whether he?d gone along with her or not (and he probably would have done, in the end. Even if he hadn?t the stomach to do the deed himself, he wouldn?t stop her. She was so persuasive, and he was such a gullible little puppy dog.) She?d have had the pleasure of pointing out how she had used him, and never cared a jot about him, and how she really despised him, and then watched his pathetic hurt expression as she rejected him. Maybe she?d let him beg and plead a bit, denying the inevitable, before finishing him off too.
The more she thought about it, the more she thrilled to the idea of giving him the beating she had spared the Nanny. Yeah, she?d make him suffer even more than Scorpio had made Callahan suffer, and Henry wouldn?t lift a finger to stop her. Oh no, dear devoted Henry wouldn?t hit his beloved Honor, his ?honey?. Yuck, how she hated the epithet. She?d make him suffer for each and every time he?d called her that, and she could recall every last one. They?d be marked out in kicks to his groin, and his sides, and his chest, and his face. She?d notch them up in broken ribs and count them off in crushed fingers.
By the time she?d finished he?d be begging her to kill him. She?d enjoy that. Not that she?d make it easy. Oh no. There?d be no quick release even then.
Honor had noticed a two-pronged pitchfork in the barn. Two lovely long sharp prongs. That would do nicely. He?d be rolling on the ground in agony from her beating and she?d force him on his back, hold him down with her foot, and then skewer him in the gut with the tines. She?d heard, or read, or seen somewhere that stomach wounds were the most painful and slowest cause of death. She had long wanted to test the assertion. Henry would be her guinea pig. She?d drive it in, twist it, draw it slowly out and then sit and watch his life?s blood seep out in the hay. Standing in the phone box picturing; anticipating every deliciously tortuous moment of it made her flush with a pleasure that reached from her face right through to the depths of her womanhood. She licked slowly and seductively at her lips.
It took a measure of self-control on which she prided herself not to give in to the moment and to hell with anyone who came along and saw. Give ?em a cheap thrill. But no, there would time enough for self-gratification later. On a bed strewn with bank notes.
For the moment, checking her watch, she turned her attention to the other side of the street and the bus stop almost opposite her vantage point. No one was waiting and few ever alighted here, so she had to stay alert. She would only have moments to scan the occupants as the bus passed by.
There it was now, just pulling round the corner, on time for once. She craned her neck to study the faces. Not too many of them thank the gods. An old woman sitting alone ? that was her!
No, wait ? it wasn?t - just some senile old cow out Christmas shopping.
Damn her.
The Nanny wasn?t on board.
 
Run For Their Lives - Chapter 11 cont

So, it had been too much for her after all. Honor hastily gathered her things together, irritated despite getting what she?d been wanting all along.
This was the worst possible spot.
Too near South Wing A & E.
If the old trout had collapsed near the bus stop, she could be whisked off before Honor could retrieve the cash. Not that she was unprepared for the scenario. Honor had thought of everything.
That was why she would succeed where others before her had been caught.
As soon as she?d learned that the Nanny would be making the run, she began working on contingencies; and practicing her Irish accent. So that she could play the grief stricken daughter who?d been separated from Mum while out shopping and blamed herself for the heart attack ? ?if only Oi?d been with her.? By the time she got to the hospital, the tears would be flowing and she?d be oh so convincing. Then, if ?mum? were somehow still alive, she finish her off subtly during visiting hours and then claim the deceased woman?s possessions, especially her carpetbag. She?d even typed herself out a couple of letters from ?friends? in the name of Bridget McGillicuddy, and a very realistic looking library card. ?Oi?m so sorry, Oi don?t have my driving license or anyt?ing like dat wit? me - only a credit card wit? me signature, here. (That one was easy; she?d been forging credit cards since she was sixteen.) Oi didn?t know Oi?d be needing t? prove me identity. Mum will tell you who Oi am.? Except of course she?d make sure the daft old bat couldn?t be asked. And bluff about Mum going do-lally if she tried to denounce her. Old people forgot loved ones all the time. She could brazen it out no matter what. She was so good at selling lies; she should have been an Oscar winning actress. It was an inconvenience to have to do things this way, but nothing more. And if by any chance the stupid @#%$ had just missed the bus and was still waiting at the stop for the next one, why then she?d simply give her a lift.
Yeah, she?d give her a lift all right. A lift to a nice deserted spot she knew where she could do the old girl in and dispose of the body in peace. Yes, she was prepared for any eventuality. No matter what, she?d be ready for it. As she drove into the outskirts of town, she was supremely confident. The one part of the equation she hadn?t included, couldn?t possibly have accounted for, was the presence of one Dr. Samuel John Beckett.

Dr. Samuel John Beckett got out of the green Escort, thanking Connie profusely for her timely assistance and turning to enter the pub, his ?shadow? by his side.
??Ang on a tick, ducks.? The cheery Cockney called him back. ?Where yer goin? from ?ere??
Sam hadn?t thought that far ahead. He considered for a moment before replying.
?Oi suppose dat depends on what happens inside. Oi?ll keep following orders til Oi get de girls back, den Oi?ll take dem home to their Da.?
?An ?ow d?yer reckon on doin? that, duckie? Click yer ?eels free times an? fink of ?ome? I ain?t abaht t?see yers walk it. ?Ows about if?n I just wait ?ere, eh? Meter ain?t even tickin? or nuffink. Wot d?yer say??
Sam hesitated, on the one hand grateful for the offer and eager to accept any help that increased his odds of success, yet at the same time fearful of exposing another innocent to danger.
?You?re very kind, but Oi couldn?t??
She forestalled his objection. ?I ain?t got nuffink better t?do. An? tell yer the troof I ain?t gonna get a wink a shuteye less I finds aht yer got ?em back safe ?n? sound. So you ain?t gonna send me away, now is yer??
?Now if?n? you put it loike dat, how can Oi object?? laughed Sam. This woman was good for his spirits. She waved him inside; showing him fingers crossed followed closely by a ?thumbs up?.
 
Run For Their Lives - Chapter 11 cont

The pub was set back from the road at an angle, with a forecourt of tarmac dotted with wooden benches. The impression was that in the summer it would have taken tables with enormous parasols, where patrons could enjoy a pint and a ploughman?s lunch in the open air.
The Inn sign ? depicting a couple of yokels in a dog cart being greeted by a jovial landlord, all in 18th Century dress ? swayed back and forth in the wind and the rain, creaking slightly in its wrought iron frame.
Sam hurried over to the building, a quaint stone clad and timber paneled affair of varying heights, with large wooden framed windows, which glowed with a welcoming orange light ? an echo of the red and yellow Christmas lights that highlighted the lines of the various rooftops on the staggered lines of the building.
Once through the main door, he found himself in a large hallway; the door to the main bar ahead of him, while off to the right the clank of cue balls sinking pots and the thud of darts embedding into corkboards announced the presence of a games room.
It was warm and dry inside and the atmosphere was friendly, in stark contrast to the sinister purpose that had drawn him here. Since the game Sam was engaged in had far more serious stakes than those of a convivial round of dominoes, he drew a deep breath and opened the inner door to enter the bar area.
In many ways the d?cor echoed the grand hotel he?d left in London, though obviously on a more modest scale. The thick pile carpet was a dark swirl of navy blues and maroons. A dado rail at waist level separated the walls into mahogany paneling below; regency striped wallpaper in maroon and cream with gilt detail above. The L shaped bar nestled in one corner beneath a low ceiling, edged in wood, complementing oval wooden panels in the cream textured wallpaper of the higher main ceiling. Above the window seats ? wooden benches with padded insets patterned with deep red roses and peonies ? a huge old-fashioned ceiling fan with wide gold blades suggested the splendor of a bygone age. Elsewhere, dotted across the floor, were dark wood tables surrounded by wheel-back chairs with the padded seats that were also present in the half-dozen stools by the bar. A huge bay window at the end was partitioned off by a small wood and glazed division, which would originally have been the fireplace before the single storey extension was added.
There were perhaps a dozen people partaking of the local brew, sitting in groups of three or four. All were men in their fifties or sixties, salt-of-the-earth types, with rugged features and ready smiles. One or two even rose to their feet as ?Mary? entered; others nodded politely in her direction. Several were puffing cigarettes, mostly the roll-your-own variety, and the air was thick with their smoke.
Sitting at the bar, flicking coasters into a huge deep ashtray with a nervous twitch that did nothing for his aim was a man who was failing miserably in his attempt to blend in. Even in this subdued lighting, Sam saw the straggly black hair and beard, the swollen cheekbone, the orange-peel complexion, and recognized the ?waiter? who had attacked him the night before.
Sam walked over to the bar and sat down casually on the next-but-one stool, putting the bag down between the stool and the bar with deliberate slowness. A barmaid in a slinky black skirt and crisp white open-neck blouse bustled over to serve him.
?What?ll it be, dear? Something to warm you up on this miserable night? A nice glass of stout perhaps??
Resisting the temptation of a warming shot of brandy, Sam ordered a tomato juice and reached into his pocket for Mary?s purse. The ?stranger? put out his hand:
?This one?s on me, an? I?ll have another beer.? He tossed a handful of coins on the counter.
?T?ank you, sir.? Acknowledged Sam politely, though he felt that ?cur? would be a more apt description. He gave no clue that he had recognized his erstwhile assailant.