in Georgia and Alabama who can’t afford health insurance.’ She smiled sadly. ‘Last summer we opened a new wing to provide free treatment for child cancer patients. They do such good work there that I really want to expand it. So for this year’s tournament I’ve organised a special sponsorship initiative that I’m hoping will raise a lot of dollars to allow us to help the needy.’
‘Sounds like wonderful work, Miss Vale,’ Ben said, not taking his eyes off Cleaver.
‘You must come along,’ she replied. ‘It’ll be a great day.’
Cleaver reddened and cleared his throat. ‘But, like I said, Augusta, maybe it’s not something Benedict would -’
‘I’d love to,’ Ben said.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
The good Reverend Cleaver’s place lay ten miles to the west of Savannah. As the morning wore on, away from the Georgia coast the atmosphere was even more humid and stifling. The land was flat and beautiful, with oak woodlands stretching off the highway as far as the eye could see in every direction.
The signs for the shooting tournament led Ben off the main road and two miles down a private track. Other cars were heading the same way, and as he rounded a bend he came into a large field filled with hundreds of vehicles. He found a parking space and climbed out into the baking sun, slinging his bag over his shoulder.
Miss Vale had gone off early that morning in her chauffeur-driven limo, positively sparkling with excitement to get started with the organising for her special charity event. She’d been so caught up with phone calls and last- minute details that Ben hadn’t had the chance to ask her more about the sponsorship initiative she’d mentioned. He looked around the parking field and spotted the stately white Lincoln Continental in the far corner.
Cleaver’s land must stretch for miles, he thought. This field alone was at least four acres. The crowds of spectators were wandering into an adjoining field several times larger, where scores of stalls and tents had been set up and at least a couple of thousand people were milling around, eating and drinking, talking and laughing in the sun. Clearly this was a fun family event, judging by the number of women and children present.
It was a big media event too, with TV trucks parked up near the entrance to the main field, cameras and journalists everywhere. The centre of the field was dominated by a large marquee that bore a sign for the Augusta Vale Trust. Nearby, hot food vendors were dishing out paper plates stacked with fried chicken, buttery corn on the cob, burgers and fries. At a National Rifle Association stall, people were handing out leaflets on gun safety. Others were selling guns, ammunition, books and magazines, ear defenders, hunting gear and a wider range of shooting accessories than Ben had ever seen in one place before.
He walked over to the fence and shielded his eyes as he scanned the shooting range itself. It was an impressive setup: a vast cleared space among the trees stretching far away into the distance with targets set up at marked ranges of 100, 500 and 1000 yards. In the distance, a massive ridge of earth had been bulldozed up to create a safe backstop, preventing stray shots from landing somewhere in the next state. A cordoned area had been set aside for spectators to watch the shooting, while the shooters’ firing point was well equipped with mats and rifle rests. Clustered around the main range, smaller events were going on. There was even a kids’ range, where NRA instructors were showing children the basics of shooting and safety with small-calibre junior weapons.
From the competition schedule nailed to a post near the adjudicator’s hut, Ben saw that the smallbore competitions had already been shot that morning. Names of the winners were posted up on a blackboard nearby. The main event of the day, though, and what most of the crowd had come to watch, was the open-class fullbore rifle shoot. Already, a lot of the big-bore rifle shooters were assembling on the firing point, opening up kit boxes, preparing their equipment.
But the shooting competition held no interest for Ben. He was here to catch hold of Clayton Cleaver, take him somewhere private and press some truth out of him.
He’d pretty much planned his strategy. He liked simple plans, and this one was very simple indeed. If Cleaver didn’t confess right away, he was going to beat it out of him about what had happened to Zoe and where she was. If she was dead or alive, either way, Cleaver’s fate was sealed. There was Charlie to pay for. Once he no longer needed him, he was going to take Cleaver to a quiet spot somewhere and blow his brains out. Leave him where he lay. Then home, and try to pick up where he’d left off.
He wondered where Cleaver was. He could see the house in the distance, a large colonial-style mansion with columns and porches, white and glimmering through the trees. His fists clenched with rage and for an instant he felt the urge to walk straight over there and find him.
Then he spotted him.
As he came closer, he saw Cleaver’s eyes shoot him a glance. Suddenly the Reverend seemed to have a pressing engagement elsewhere. He melted away into the crowd.
‘Catch you later,’ Ben muttered under his breath.
Miss Vale took his arm as he joined her. ‘Isn’t this just wonderful? Look at all the people.’ She beamed up at him. ‘There’s someone I want you to meet.’ She turned to two of her assistants nearby, a thickset woman with ginger hair standing talking to a petite and very attractive Japanese girl in her early twenties.
‘Harriet, where’s young Carl?’ Miss Vale asked anxiously. ‘It’s quarter to twelve. It starts in fifteen minutes.’
‘I think he just arrived,’ the ginger-haired woman said.
‘He’s cutting it a little fine. I shall have to scold him.’
The Japanese girl caught Ben’s eye and smiled at him.
‘Let’s go meet him,’ Miss Vale said.
They started walking towards the parking field. Harriet and the old lady were deep in conversation. Ben followed behind, and the Japanese girl walked with him.
‘I’m Maggie,’ she said. ‘Pleased to meet you.’
‘Ben,’ he said. ‘You work for the Vale Trust?’
She nodded. ‘Miss Vale has been telling us all about you,’ she said.
‘Really? So who’s this Carl we’re going to meet?’
‘One of Miss Vale’s proteges,’ Maggie replied. ‘The Trust puts a lot of young kids from underprivileged backgrounds through college. The aim is to support and empower them. Carl Rivers is only nineteen, but he’s already a champion rifle marksman. The Trust has been paying for his training, and we’re hoping that one day he’ll represent the USA in the Olympics.’
‘Impressive,’ Ben said.
‘Miss Vale has organised a special sponsorship event for this year’s match,’ Maggie said. ‘She’s put a hundred thousand dollars of her own money in the pot, and she’s persuaded a whole lot of wealthy folks to back him too. He’s up against pro shooters from five states, but we’re hopeful. If he wins the fullbore rifle class, we’ll have raised about half a million for the hospital. It’s really important.’
‘Miss Vale told me about the children’s wing,’ he said.
Maggie nodded sadly. ‘So sad.’
They reached the parking field. Away from the rest of the cars was a section cordoned off closer to the ranges, for competitors only.
‘That’s him over there,’ Maggie said, pointing.
Ben looked. A young black kid was standing next to a badly beaten-up old Pontiac. He had a friend with him, a gangly, gawky-looking white teenager with jeans ripped at the knees and thick glasses that magnified his eyes so
