Inspector Green Mysteries 9-Book Bundle (162 page)

We figure the villagers are hiding in the mountains, not
ready to trust the
UN
because we just sat on the tarmac
yesterday waiting politely for the go-ahead while the Croatians
wiped out their homes. So tomorrow we’ll extend the search
further up the mountains.

According to Theriault’s map, the trailer park was just a string of six trailers plunked along an unused stretch of riverbank. The trailers sat empty most of the year, propped on cinder blocks about thirty feet apart along the water’s edge. Weiss’s trailer was third from the end, a one-room box measuring about eight feet by ten with a window on each side and a door at the rear. As far as Theriault could remember, Weiss kept his locked but hid the key under the back step.

Theriault had originally cleared the shoreline of the thick cedar swamp that hemmed it in, and had provided access roads in and out, but over the years a tangle of weeds, raspberry canes and sumac had grown up in the clearing, making access more difficult. Theriault apologized for the state of repair.

“I’m alone now, and at my age...” he said, gesturing to the cane clutched in his gnarled hand.

“Pas de problème,”
Green reassured him. “The brush will provide some cover for our approach.”

Considering the state of Theriault’s main road, Green suspected the lane down to the trailer park would be little more than a cow path. It started in the back pasture, dipped down the hill to the river, then looped through the row of trailers before climbing back up the hill at the other end. Theriault said the track was fairly level until the last hundred yards or so, when it dropped steeply down to the river, but even the
SUV
s might find it hard to get back up the hill. The last thing Green wanted was a couple of
SQ
vehicles spinning their wheels in the muck in the middle of a crime scene.

With the camp hemmed in by river on one side and cedar bush on the other, there were only three avenues of approach—both ends of the access route, and the river. Green looked at Theriault and tried his French again.

“Have you got a boat?”

“Ah, ben ouais!”
The man broke into a broad grin and mimicked rowing. The others laughed, but Green announced that a sneak approach would be perfect. With Fortin officially in command, they created three teams of two, and coordinated their watches and plans of approach. Fortin and one of his men went off with Theriault to get his boat, which was pulled up on the shore below the farmhouse. Green paired Sullivan with the SQ constable who spoke English and dispatched them in one of the
SUV
s to find the far access route to the camp. He chose the closer route for himself, wanting to get there ahead of the others so that he could size up the situation and adjust their final plan of attack. He took along the almost unilingual officer who made up for his lack of English by smiling a lot and adding an enthusiastic “okay!” after every comment.

They drove across the back pasture as far as they dared, jolting over rocks and potholes until the
SUV
was splattered with mud and scraping its undercarriage ominously. The
SQ
officer, who introduced himself as Jacques Langlois, finally stopped the car and studied the foggy terrain ahead, shaking his head dubiously. Nearby, a couple of cows stared at them with disinterest.

“We walk, okay?” Langlois announced, opening his door. Green eyed the muddy manure that surrounded them and was grateful at least for his vinyl Payless shoes. $49.99 on special. Langlois, he noted, sported spit-polished, black leather boots. His brown uniform blended perfectly with the mud and scrub of their surroundings, whereas Green’s shiny grey polyester was like a beacon. Terrific, Green thought, if there’s anyone down there lying in wait, I’m the one who’s going to get shot.

Seemingly oblivious, Langlois slung his rifle over his shoulder and strode off at a rapid pace that left Green scrambling to catch up. They slipped and slithered along the track as fast as they could, dodging the worst of the potholes and manure. As they reached the top of the hill, Green signalled Langlois into the trees at the edge of the track and crouched down to search the area ahead through the binoculars. The air was cold and dank with the smell of cedar loam. Fog still lay thick in the river valley and clung in patches to the hillside, but on the higher ground the sun was making some headway. Above him, crows flapped in the treetops and the chirps of early songbirds filled the air. In the distance Green could hear the sibilant rush of what he assumed was the river.

Apart from the sounds of wakening nature, the woods were still. He motioned Langlois to move forward, and together they crept down the hill under cover of the thick brush, all the time scanning ahead for signs of movement. Despite their best efforts at stealth, twigs snapped underfoot, and spiky branches tore at their clothes, so that by the time the first trailer materialized through the fog, Green feared that anyone hiding in the trailer park would be on full alert and waiting for them.

He stopped at the edge of the clearing to train the binoculars on the scene again. Still nothing. They ducked into the clearing and ran along the side of the first trailer. Green thought he heard a distant rattle, but when he strained his ears to listen, the rush of the river drowned out all other sound. They passed the second trailer and came upon a mudsplattered white pick-up truck tucked in between the second and third trailers, almost as if trying to hide from view. Green glanced at the license plate. Weiss’s truck.

He crept up to it, peering first into the cab, which was empty, and then into the back. His heart leaped into his throat, and for a second he couldn’t breathe. Bunched in the corner was a tattered garbage bag with its familiar contents spilling out. Twiggy’s bag.

So the bastard had her after all.

Anger settled in his gut. He unsnapped the holster of his Glock and crouched in the tall dry brush to survey the surroundings. Langlois followed suit. Together, pressed against the side of the truck, they listened. Heard a thump, so muted it could have been his over-active imagination. Or the beating of his own heart. His blood pounded in his ears. The next trailer was Weiss’s, and the moment they moved to the other side of the truck, they would be visible to him, and to anyone else who was lurking around.

From up ahead came a sharp snap followed by a hiss that sounded like a gasp. Now there was no mistaking it. Someone was sneaking around. Who? And where were they? Green hugged the side panel of the pick-up and slowly edged forward until Weiss’s trailer came into full view. It was faded to a blotchy silver colour and surrounded by dessicated raspberry canes that looked as if they’d been trampled numerous times. The windows and doors looked shut, and no lights shone in the window. If Weiss and Twiggy were inside, they were in the dark.

Somewhere in the fog ahead came a louder thump and a metallic squeak that sounded like a door opening. Yet the door to Weiss’s trailer, which was directly ahead, remained firmly shut. Something was wrong. Had Theriault been wrong about which trailer belonged to Weiss?

Green had only a split second to make a decision. He had no idea what was happening, but someone was prowling around, attempting to move soundlessly as he or she searched the area. Too soon to be Sullivan. It had to be the killer. Green knew he had mere seconds before the killer found what he was looking for. No time to wait for back-up or plan a coordinated attack. Jesus!

He took out his Glock and signalled to Langlois to stay put. “I’m going to Weiss’s trailer. Cover me.”

Langlois looked surprised and bewildered, but fortunately had been trained not to question a superior’s folly. Obediently, he crouched behind cover of the truck and took out his revolver.

Green scurried through the ten feet of scrub that separated the truck from Weiss’s trailer and pressed himself against the back wall of the trailer, trying to stifle his panting. His heart pounded and sweat slicked the gun in his hand. What the fuck am I doing, he thought in a brief moment of clarity. Who am I, Rambo? I’ve never done anything like this in my life. Twenty years on the police force, and I’ve never pulled the trigger on this thing outside the qualifying range. Here I am in my polyester grey suit and Payless shoes, ass deep in fog and mud, without a plan or even a clue who the bad guy is.

But then from somewhere up ahead came a soft thud, and a duck burst from cover with a flurry of wings and squawks. Through his own panic, Green heard again the soft hiss over the rush of the river. This time it sounded like a curse. Green pressed his ear against the wall of the trailer but could hear nothing from within. He was about to reach under the step for the door key when he noticed that the padlock on the door hung open. The door was unlocked.

Cautiously, he reached up and pushed it open an inch. Nothing. Another few inches. It rattled. He froze. Waited a few seconds, expecting a volley of gunfire through the gap. When nothing happened, he readied his gun and peered around the edge of the door. The interior was dark and musty, but a faint odour of cooking oil hung in the air. A quick glance into the Spartan interior was enough to tell him it was empty.

Too much time, he berated himself as he ducked back outside. People would be dead by the time he found this guy!

Beckoning to Langlois to follow him, he raced along the side of Weiss’s trailer and looked around the far end. Nothing but more raspberry canes. Further away, light footsteps swished through the dry grass. Jesus! He needed another pair of eyes! Where the hell was Sullivan?

He and Langlois dashed through the raspberry bushes to the back of the fourth trailer. It was a much larger one and its door gaped open. Inside, Green could make out at least two rooms. He hesitated. He thought he heard stifled breathing. Was someone hiding in there? On the other hand, the prowler might be outside, and if he and Langlois went inside, they would both be trapped. Sitting ducks. Nowhere was safe, but on balance they had more escape routes outside.

He gestured to Langlois to check one side of the fourth trailer while he inched over to peer around the other. He nearly gasped aloud, for barely fifteen feet in front of him, huddled against the side of the trailer, were Weiss and Twiggy. Their backs were to him, and their attention was riveted on the fifth trailer, which loomed fuzzily in the fog ahead. Weiss held his Glock in one hand and to Green’s surprise, Twiggy’s hand in the other. They were tiptoeing backwards towards Green as slowly and silently as they could.

Suddenly the door to the fifth trailer slammed open and a figure stepped out, dressed from head to toe in black from his cap to his steel-toed boots. He held a massive semi-automatic pistol in his hand and he stood on the top step, his feet apart, unafraid.

“Well, well, the birdies are flushed,” he said and raised his pistol to sight along the barrel.

Jesus H. Christ! Green thought with no time to react. I’m dead, Twiggy’s dead, we’re all dead in seconds with that weapon. He thrust himself into the open with his own gun outstretched, screaming a distraction.

“Police! Freeze!”

Weiss whirled around, but the gunman didn’t flinch. Green saw his finger squeeze on the trigger, and barely registered Twiggy’s move as gunshots exploded the silence. One, two, three. Then from behind Green a different sound. Five shots in rapid, disciplined succession. Green hit the ground, Weiss screamed. The gunman on the porch hurtled back against the trailer door and toppled sideways off the steps to fall face down in the tall grass.

Green scrambled to his feet and spun around to see the
SQ
constable still in a shooting stance with both hands on his gun and shock on his face. Weiss uttered a guttural wail and when Green turned back to check the damage, he saw Twiggy sprawled on the ground, blood pumping from a wound at her neck. Weiss flung himself at her side and pressed his bare hands over the wound in a futile attempt to stem the flow.

Green raced to the killer’s side, snatched his gun from the grass where it had fallen and pulled out the clip. Weak, choking sounds caught in the man’s throat. Green was about to check his pulse when Langlois laid a restraining hand on his shoulder. The young
SQ
officer swayed on his feet, his eyes huge and his face grey with shock, but he nodded towards Twiggy bravely.

“You take care of the woman. I’ll deal with him, okay?”

Green’s French deserted him. “Thank you. And thank you for...” he nodded to the downed gunman.

“Is okay,” replied Langlois in fractured English, pointing to his
SQ
badge. “Better I do.”

Green peeled off his suit jacket and hurried over to Twiggy. Weiss was still bent over her, cursing.

“She took the bullet for me,” he said over and over. “She said she was slowing me down.” He struggled to hold her together but Green saw at one glance that it was futile. The bullets had blown off half her neck and chest. Blood from her carotid artery shot high into the air, drenching the trailer wall.

“Twiggy,” he murmured, pressing his jacket over the spray. “What the hell? Why the hell?”

In the distance, he heard running footsteps and Sullivan’s frantic call, but his throat constricted and he couldn’t answer. He looked down at Twiggy and saw the light fading from her eyes. Between tremors, she managed a final quirky smile.

“Debt repaid, Mr. G.”

September 19, 1993. Medak, Sector South, Croatia.

I have become them. Not an animal, because an animal
doesn’t kill for revenge. A savage.

I could blame the Croats. Three days of guts and maggots
and bodies so burned they fall apart when you try to get them
in body bags, but not a single villager to save. They are gone.Hundreds. Where? Buried in mass graves? Carted away to hidethe evidence of their slaughter?

Yesterday all day long Reggie and I bagged bodies andlugged them down the mountain to
HQ
for autopsy. Thismorning at parade the captain told us we aren’t going homefor another month because our replacement unit—calledOperation Harmony, for fuck’s sake—isn’t ready yet. Fourmore weeks of hard rations, maggots and mud. I’ll never getthe stink of bodies out of my combats. The captain can seewe’re down, so he gives us a pep talk. He says even if therearen’t any villagers to rescue, we’re going to find all the bodiesand make sure we document every single crime the Croatscommitted. Let’s make sure the bastards pay, he says.