Hurrying back to the bathroom, she thrust Kit’s feet into socks and trainers. Then she pulled him upright from his slumped position. “Come on, Kit. I need you conscious, my darling, I need you able to function.”
The warmth had begun to do its work. With a shivering tremor, Kit’s eyes opened properly. He looked at her with puzzlement. “Fiona,” he croaked.
“Yes, it’s me, you’re not hallucinating. I found you, sweetheart. Now, I need you to drink this.” She held the can of Coke to his lips and forced herself to be patient while he sipped it through dry and cracked lips. “We’re going to get you out of here, I promise,” she said.
“Where’s Blake?” he said, his voice cracked and strange, his consonants slurred.
“Blake?” Fiona asked, wondering from what delirious corner of his mind he’d dredged that name.
“Francis Blake,” he insisted. “He brought me here. He did this to me.”
It shouldn’t have made sense, but suddenly, it did. The man she’d passed on the way to the bothy. Memory jolted into place. She’d never met Blake, but she’d heard his voice on TV. The aural recollection triggered a visual image. She hadn’t seen much of the stranger’s face, but now she had a template to set it against, she knew it was him. Francis Blake was the man with the axe. But even as her mind accepted the identification, her intelligence balked at it. Why on earth would Francis Blake have kidnapped Kit? How could he be this particular serial killer? It was meaningless, absurd.
It was also something she couldn’t afford the time to consider now. “He’s gone,” she said with a confidence she didn’t feel. But where was Blake, and what was he doing? Judging by the axe, he’d gone for firewood. Either that or it was simply an elaborate way to disguise the shotgun, constructing a hide of sticks around it. Obviously, he must have been heading back to the bothy, having hidden his vehicle somewhere else. But he’d heard her approach. Even if he didn’t know who she was, he knew she was heading for the only habitation on that particular track and so he must have turned round, to make it look as if he was walking away.
A simple enough ruse, but it had worked. She hadn’t felt a moment’s suspicion. And now he knew she was there. He couldn’t just let them go, could he? It was inconceivable.
Fiona shook her head in an attempt to clear her thoughts. “I’m going to get the Land Rover,” she said, keeping her voice brisk in an attempt to hide the fear twisting her guts. “I want you to stay here. If you can drink the rest of the Coke, that would be good. But don’t worry if your fingers don’t work yet. The circulation will take a while to come back. Do you know how much blood you’ve lost?”
“More than a pint,” he sighed, his voice still sounding like a drunk. “I passed out then. I suppose he must have stopped.” He blinked and focused properly on his surroundings for the first time, shuddering at the bloodwork on the walls. “Fuck,” he said with a laugh that turned into a cough. “He’s a fucking terrible painter.”
Fiona stood up and hugged his head to her chest. “I’ll be as quick as I can.” She let him go, and took the craft knife out of the bag, sliding the blade out an inch then putting it carefully in her jacket pocket. Leaving him behind was the hardest thing she had ever done, but the only way out for them was in the Land Rover. She couldn’t afford to wait for Caroline to summon the cavalry, not now she knew Blake had a gun.
She crossed to the front door and inched it open. She stared across the clearing down the track through the trees. Nothing stirred. Her flesh prickled with apprehension. He could be anywhere in those trees, sighting her down the barrel of a gun. He could be lurking behind the Land Rover, axe ready to swing down on her head. The prospect made her stomach cramp. Cautiously, she opened the door further, her free hand slipping into her pocket and gripping the knife handle. Still nothing stirred. If he was watching her with the gun at his shoulder, she’d be a harder target moving than standing still dithering, she told herself firmly. Now or never.
From a standing start, she sprinted across the clearing and down the track. She reached the Land Rover with a rapidity that surprised her, having forgotten how much more direct this route was than the initial approach she’d taken to the bothy. She yanked the door open and jumped inside, then leaned her head on the steering wheel for a moment, a sob of relief escaping from her gasping mouth. Get a grip, she chastised herself, straightening up.
Thrusting the keys into the ignition, she had a moment’s panic. What if Blake had disabled the engine? Quickly, she turned the keys and almost wept with relief when the starter motor turned over and caught first time. She slammed it into gear and roared up the remainder of the track, hauling on the heavy steering as she entered the clearing to swing the vehicle round in a circle so the tailgate faced the cottage door.
Leaving the engine running, she opened the rear door of the Land Rover, then hurried back inside. Kit was more upright now, leaning back against the toilet cistern. He was still deathly pale, but his eyes were open and he seemed more alert. Fiona scrabbled around in the bedroom, unearthing a couple of blankets and a pillow. She grabbed the rest of Kit’s shirts and took her bundle out to the Land Rover, adding the sleeping bag on a second trip. She made a sort of bed on the floor, then returned for Kit.
“I’m going to need some help from you,” she said. “I can’t carry you.”
Kit nodded. “I think I can just about stand up now. There’s a walking stick in the living room. That might help.” His voice was cracked and barely audible.
Fiona found it propped up in a corner. It was a modern aluminium stick, spring-loaded to absorb impact, and telescopic. She extended it slightly, so that Kit could use it as a shepherd would a crook.
Back in the bathroom, she pushed Kit’s hand through the fabric loop and helped him clasp the handgrip. “Pins and needles,” he muttered.
“Trust me, that’s a good sign,” Fiona said. She slipped under his other arm and between them, they got him to his feet.
“Christ, I’ve got cramp,” he moaned, his right leg buckling as it took his weight.
It felt like an eternity before he was able to put one foot in front of the other. Fiona could feel the sweat of fear pooling in the small of her back. Slowly, they stumbled the few yards to the front door. Then they were at the Land Rover. Fiona manoeuvred him so that he was sitting on the tailgate. Then she swung his legs on board and settled him as comfortably as possible. “Are you OK?” she asked.
He managed a wan smile. “Compared to what? My head’s splitting, everything’s spinning, and I feel sick as a dog.”
“It’s only dehydration and low blood pressure. Trust me, Kit.”
A tremendous wave of euphoria flooded Fiona as she finally closed the door and put the Land Rover in gear. She’d made it. Against all the odds, she’d found him in time. They were going to make it! She moved off, almost feeling like singing. Into the woods, then out into the open. She could see the belt of conifers ahead that hid the final approach to the bridge.
As they drew nearer to the trees, Kit’s voice came faintly from the back. “He’s not going to let us go this easy, Fiona,” he said weakly. “Pull up.”
Much as it ran against her instincts to get out as fast as possible — she did as he asked. She squirmed round in her seat to face him. “What’s wrong, Kit?”
“If the bridge is down, we’re stuck,” he said. “In the glove box — binoculars. Go and have a look up ahead. Please.”
“He’s got your gun. Kit. He could be watching us right now.”
“He’d have shot us already. Please?”