They had visited Barnes’ widow as soon as his leg would bear his weight again. He could still remember her pale face, the wringing of her slender hands as they sat in the family room of the Kentucky farmhouse he’d heard so much about. They’d promised to keep in touch, but then life moved on. He sometimes wondered about her, if she’d found someone else to fill the emptiness. He hoped so. Life had to carry on; those who survived owed it to the dead to live for them. That’s what Barnes would have wanted. Handsome, happy-go-lucky Joseph Barnes. His friend. There one moment; gone the next.
Potzner fingered the window button and flicked out his stub. The smoke cleared and he sighed, a deep, soul-weary sigh. Death had always stalked him. It had been his closest companion in ‘nam, and an ever-present buddy since he had joined the company. Thing was, it was part of the job. That was fine. He could accept that. But it had no place coming home with him. It had no right to enter his front door. But, dear God, it had. He could feel its presence, hovering, waiting, biding its time. Abigail knew, of course. The doctor had been direct. They had held hands as the sentence had been pronounced. He was a young guy, the neurologist. Looked a bit like Woody Allen. They had laughed about that afterwards. Laughed. Anyway, Woody had a good manner, was sympathetic, pulled no punches. As a straight talker himself, Potzner appreciated that. Three, perhaps five years, at the most. Abigail’s hand had tightened on his as they left the hospital and walked out into the sunshine. Traffic crawled past; lunchtime shoppers hurried this way and that, glancing anxiously at their watches. How much time before they had to be back at the office? How much time?
From that point onwards, his and Abigail’s time had become dislocated from the rest of the world. The people striding along the sidewalks lived in some parallel universe, where normality smoothed the path ahead. What had they in common? They had sat in silence in the park for a long time, just looking, just being alive. She caught his eye and he remembered thinking, I have never seen her look so beautiful. I will always remember this moment. “I’ll retire early,” he told her. “We’ll travel, be with each other.” She shook her head. “No Jim, you must carry on. You love your job. I want everything to be normal, as it was before today.” She smiled, pressing her finger to his lips to seal the protest. “I need it to be that way.”
That was three years ago, and the clock was ticking. Should he phone her now? He knew she hated the fuss. Most days were all right. But the bad days… days in a darkened room where her helpless body would be fed with chemicals, nourished through sterilized tubing. Such days came twice, perhaps three times a week now. And he yearned for her, yet could not bear to be there to see her suffering. He would be with her now, had not hope arrived six months ago in a form more unexpected than anything he could have imagined.
Potzner caught a slight movement in the window of the house — semi-detached, the Brits called them — and snapped into alert mode. The girl, Sara Benham, drawing the curtain. Looked like the lovers were in for the night. He scanned the sidewalk, their side, then paid special attention to the hedgerow on his left that separated the road from the University grounds. He could just see the grey expanse of water beyond the hedge, the lake that sat between the halls of residence on this, the north side of the campus. He was parked in the driveway of the old gatehouse and had a clear view of the red-bricked houses slightly up the hill on the corner. Dusk was rapidly falling and Potzner’s sense of unease increased with the diminishing light. Surely soon? He knew they wouldn’t wait long after the bungled attempt at the diary. He patted his coat pocket reflexively, drawing comfort from the contours of the snub-nosed Sig Sauer P229. He was sure he’d need it before the night was out, and that it wouldn’t be the last time it would see action on this operation. If he could just wing one of them, just one… then he’d make them talk. Hell, he wouldn’t even need the diary then.
A few cars swished past the University perimeter, windshield wipers flicking in the worsening drizzle. Great. As if it wasn’t cold and miserable enough already. He glanced at his watch; 17:15. Check-in time. “Campus one?” His earpiece responded immediately: “In position.” Potzner grunted. “Okay, stand by. Two?” A brief pause, then: “Likewise.” Satisfied, he settled back and prepared for a long wait. No sweat, though. Waiting was his speciality.
Dracup faced the intruder, heart pounding in his chest. Then he realized he was still holding the struggling cat in his arms. He launched the animal, a black tangle of extended claws, directly at the figure in the balaclava, then ducked and propelled himself back through the kitchen door, colliding with Sara as she entered the kitchen carrying a tray of plates and glasses. One word came out: Run. He caught her arm and dragged her through to the lounge into the hallway.
“What….”
“Just run.”
Dracup had the front door open and they skidded down the short drive, turning towards the University campus.
“Simon!”
Dracup glanced back. “Save your breath — and don’t run straight.”
They crossed the road at speed. As they drew level with the gatehouse a parked car flicked on its headlights. Dracup weaved parallel to the vehicle and made for the path by the lake.
“Which way?”
“To the right.” Dracup felt the first reaction of his lungs to the unaccustomed strain. His heart thudded and a burning finger moved across his abdomen. The path clung to the lakeside and they pounded down its length, darkness closing around them as the canopy of trees thickened above.
Dracup fumbled for his mobile and punched in a number.
“What are you doing?” Sara gasped as they approached a narrow wooden bridge.
“University security. Come on — this way.” His legs were leaden and it was all he could do to spit out a request when the security desk finally picked up.
“There’s an armed intruder in the campus — approaching from the North East entrance — crossing the lake…”
“What? Who is this?”
“Dracup — Anthropology.”
“Professor Dracup?”
“Yes — get a move on, for heaven’s sake.”
“Are you sure—”
“Of course I’m — look, just get out here now, would you?”
“On our way, sir. I’ll call the police.”
“Good idea…”
Dracup pocketed the phone and concentrated on his breathing. He could see the homely lights of the University building ahead.
Sara, slightly ahead, stumbled over a shape on the path. And screamed.
Dracup looked down as he passed the spot. A man was lying across the path, his face illuminated by moonlight. A neat hole had been punched in his forehead and his eyes stared sightlessly up at the stars. The crew cut and suit connected him inevitably with Potzner. “Keep going. Across the grass and head left.” He calculated their position and risked a glance behind. A figure emerged from the shadow of the trees by the bridge, stopped momentarily then caught sight of them as they hurried across the open space. Then two others came into view, running towards the bridge. The figure hesitated. Dracup heard a shout. Thank God. Security had taken him seriously.
“Simon! Come on.” Sara waited, hands on hips several metres ahead.
He pointed to the buildings. “Go left.” If he remembered correctly the Plant Sciences lab lay ahead, close to the Pepper Lane entrance. What he needed was in there — if there was time. He heard more shouting from the direction of the bridge. They turned into the Plant Sciences car park and entered the building by the automatic swing doors. The reception desk was empty — good.