and used his own body as a fulcrum to yank Mason off his feet and dump him hard on the floor.
Ben could have finished his disarming move with a stamp to the neck or an arm-breaking twist, or beaten the guy’s brains out with his own ASP expandable baton. Instead, not wanting to hurt him any more than was strictly necessary, he just reached down to where Mason lay half-stunned on the floor and snatched his badge wallet, then removed his duty belt and tossed it away across the room.
In retrospect, Ben could come to see that as his first mistake.
Relieved of Glock, cuffs, tear gas and baton, Mason wriggled away across the floor like a beaten dog. His uniform was all bloodied from the mess on the carpet, his face mottled with anger. Ben quickly examined the revolver, then shoved it into his own belt behind the right hip. Pointing at Lottie’s body he said to Mason, ‘That there is a murder victim. I’m a witness to said murder. You’re a cop. Remember how this goes? Are you going to behave now?’
‘You’re in deep shit, Hope,’ Mason rasped. ‘You just assaulted a police officer.’
Ben flipped open the badge wallet. It had the deputy’s six-pointed Clovis Parish gold star on one side and a police ID card on the other, giving his full name as Mason F. Redbone. Ben tossed the wallet away and shook his head.
‘Wrong, Deputy Redbone. You’re guilty of discharging a firearm without provocation at an innocent member of the public. All I did was protect myself in such a way that avoided using undue force. There isn’t a mark on you. Which any police misconduct investigation panel in the country would agree puts me right in the clear. They might have a few questions for you, though. Such as what you’re doing in possession of a non-issue weapon that’s had its serial number filed off. And why you attempted to kill me with it just now. I’d kind of like answers to all those questions myself, so you’d better start talking.’
Mason muttered something that Ben didn’t catch. He leaned closer. ‘Speak up, Mason. Thanks to you I’ve got ringing in my ears.’
Leaning closer was Ben’s second mistake.
Mason was lying on the bloodstained carpet, his head and shoulders propped against the skirting board, his feet drawn up under him, knees bent, his body quite still except for the deep rise and fall of his chest as he breathed. His eyes were full of fear and hatred. Then his right hand suddenly darted down the length of his right leg, whipped something hidden from inside his right boot and flashed towards Ben.
Ben twisted away to avoid the knife, but he’d been leaning too close and he reacted half a second too late. He felt the razor-sharp steel puncture his flesh, below the ribs on his right side. The pain shot through him.
Mason lunged up at Ben, to stab him again. Ben was ready for him this time. He palmed the incoming knife aside and rammed a savage upward blow with the heel of his hand into Mason’s philtrum.
The space between the nose and upper lip is one of the most vital points of the human body. Done hard enough, the strike would drive a man’s nose bone backwards into his brain and kill him instantly. Ben knew that, because he’d inflicted the same technique on plenty of enemies, with lethal results. He didn’t want Mason dead. Just totally incapacitated.
Mason dropped without a sound, unconscious before he hit the floor. He lay on his back side by side with Lottie, arms and legs splayed out like a starfish.
Ben reeled backwards a couple of steps. He pressed both hands to his belly and saw the blood leaking out between his fingers.
And that was when two more police cruisers screeched up outside and a bunch more cops came running into the guesthouse.
There were four of them, clad in blue uniforms with gold piping and dimpled campaign hats with gold badges and silver cords and acorns. The insignia on their arms said LOUISIANA STATE POLICE. A sergeant and three troopers, two with pump shotguns and two with Glocks. The sight that greeted them as they swarmed inside the hallway was what they took to be a dead fellow officer lying prone beside the body of a female murder victim, along with one man still on his feet who had a gun in his belt, blood all over his clothes, and could more or less be assumed to be the perpetrator of both assaults.
If Ben had been inclined to think about it, he couldn’t have blamed them for jumping to conclusions. They had much better reason than Mason had for supposing that he was the threat here.
The hallway filled with the sound of hoarse urgent yelling as the troopers fixed him in their sights and all began screaming and bellowing at him at once. DROP THE WEAPON DROP THE WEAPON DROP THE WEAPON!
As he stood there reeling from the stab wound his options flew through his mind at lightning speed. If he didn’t respond one way or another in the next two seconds, the chances were they would all open fire at once and take him down. He could try to calmly explain the situation to them, which he wasn’t too sure he could do with blood pouring out of him. Or he could whip the revolver from his belt and start shooting before they did. Five rounds, four targets. Maybe just shoot them in the legs, to avoid causing unnecessary harm.
Alternatively, he could throw down his gun and surrender. But he didn’t fancy his chances of receiving fair treatment. Not after he’d already taken down one of their own. By the time the ambulance arrived the five state troopers would have beaten Ben to a pulp.
So Ben took the only realistic option open to him. He ran. Ignoring the agony in his belly and the tremors of shock jangling every nerve in his body.
Shots rang out and bullets cracked into the wall and splintered the banister rail as he charged up the stairs three at a time. He made it halfway up the staircase to the switchback, then flew up the second half heading towards the first floor landing. Three troopers thundered after him while the fourth stayed below, yelling into a radio that they had an officer down and needed assistance.
Ben raced past the open door of Lottie’s bedroom and reached the drop-down staircase just as the police sergeant appeared on the landing behind him. The sergeant racked his shotgun and repeated his command to stop and throw down the weapon.
Ben pounded up the drop-down staircase, up through the hatch to the attic floor, turned and crouched at the edge of the hatch and grabbed the rope loop that worked the pulley mechanism and tugged it hard. The staircase folded in half, and the whole assembly slid upwards on smooth runners to retract through the hatch. Ben hauled up the length of rope that dangled down to enable it to be opened from below, then closed off the hatch with the stair panel that acted like a trapdoor. Definitely a fine piece of carpentry, and just the job when you were being pursued through the house by multiple armed opponents.
He’d bought himself a little time, but it wouldn’t be long before they figured out a way to reach him. Nor would it be long before the whole street and surrounding area was swarming with every state trooper they could muster, along with SWAT teams and K9 units. He could hear the sound of frantic voices and crackling radios from beneath his feet as he ran into his bedroom. His legs were feeling like jelly. He had to grit his teeth and close his mind resolutely to the knowledge that he was badly hurt. He had to keep going.
He snatched up his bag from where it lay at the foot of the bed, crammed in the few items that he’d unpacked earlier, then pulled on his leather jacket and looped the bag over his shoulder. He went over to the dormer window and yanked it open. With an effort that felt like a halberd tearing out his guts he gripped the window frame and hauled himself up and through, scrambling out onto the slope of the roof.
The night sky was ink-black and starry. The air was warm, but felt like ice on his skin as the sweat poured from his brow. He felt woozy for an instant and almost lost his footing and went tumbling into space, then managed to regain his balance.
Got to keep going.
Careful not to slip and fall, he made his way over the sloping tiles. He peered over the gable end of the guesthouse