Deep Hurt - Eva Hudson Page 0,54

along the track a couple of minutes later. Ingrid lifted her head and shook dirt from her hair. Gurley adjusted his position so that he could prop the binoculars on the edge of the trench and train them toward the trailer.

“I guess all we can do now is wait.”

As the cold, silent minutes passed, Ingrid wondered if she should make the most of the forced intimacy and try to get Gurley to open up a little. There was something going on with him that she couldn’t put her finger on. But staring at his impassive, motionless back, she quickly decided she’d need a crowbar and a dose of sodium pentothal to make him tell her anything about himself. “Do you think Foster is hiding in an identical ditch on the opposite side of this field, watching the trailer just like us, making sure Sherwood wasn’t followed?”

“We can’t rule that out.”

“That’s got to be difficult, with an eight-year-old boy in tow.”

“You’re assuming Tommy’s still alive.”

“I’m certain he is.” Something about the way Rachelle Carver spoke about Foster had convinced Ingrid that the boy was safe with his dad. She hoped to God she wasn’t wrong.

“Must be nice to be so sure about things.” Gurley started to lift his head, then froze. “Did you see that?”

“How can you see anything in the dark?”

“Ten o’clock, movement in the bushes. There it is again.”

Ingrid saw it this time. A gray shape about a hundred yards away, making a beeline for the trailer. When the figure was just a few dozen feet from the door, Gurley lurched to his feet. He started to race across the field in the darkness, stumbling and tripping as he went, somehow managing to stay upright.

What the hell did he think he was doing? Why hadn’t he waited until Foster had disappeared into the trailer? His impatience had completely blown their cover.

Ingrid scrambled to her feet, but rather than follow behind Gurley, she ran in the opposite direction, aiming to approach the trailer from the other side. Hopefully she could stop Foster if he ran away across the field.

She ran as fast as she could without losing her balance. When she was just thirty or so yards from the trailer, Gurley started yelling.

“Stop right where you are, Foster. Put your hands above your head.”

From her position, the trailer was now obscuring Ingrid’s view. She accelerated forward, stumbling as she went. Just a few feet away she saw a figure come hurtling around the side of the trailer.

It wasn’t Gurley.

She picked up speed and hurled herself at the running man, grasping his legs and bringing him crashing to the ground in a classic quarterback tackle.

Gurley caught up with them a few seconds later. “Got you,” he yelled. “You sonofabitch!”

27

The man on the ground reared up against the pressure Ingrid was applying to his butt and lower back. Gurley stamped a boot between his shoulder blades.

“You stay just where you are.”

He moved his foot upwards and pressed on the man’s head, forcing it further into the ground.

“Who the hell are you?” the man managed to say before his voice was muffled by the dirt.

Gurley glanced at Ingrid. The man had spoken with an English accent.

Holy crap.

Ingrid scrambled to her feet. Gurley released the man’s head, grabbed his upper arms and hauled him upright as if he were as light as a child. Once he was vertical the man started to cough violently. Grabbing his knees he bent forward. He vomited onto the ground, retching for long moments. Finally he stopped, wiped a sleeve across his mouth and, gasping for breath, managed to stand up straight.

Ingrid grabbed her cell phone, found the flashlight app and shone it into the man’s face. He had dark hair and dark eyes, a two inch diagonal scar across his left cheek.

“What are you doing here?” Gurley yelled into his face.

“You’re American. Are you from the base?” He wriggled his shoulders. “I think you might have broken something, you know. I could sue.”

“We had reason to believe you were a known fugitive.” Gurley’s tone was unapologetic. “Tell us what you’re doing in the middle of a goddamn field in the middle of the night.”

“I live here.” He pointed toward the dilapidated trailer.

“You do?” Ingrid said.

“I just needed somewhere to put my head down for a couple of nights.” He turned more toward Gurley. “The missus chucked me out.”

“This is your trailer?”

He shook his head, cleared his throat and spat onto the ground. “I suppose it belongs to the