long.”
“He walked back to the house,” Payne said. Blackie nodded, and we all knew what he had witnessed. The last seconds of Stuart Neville’s life.
“Can you describe the other man, the one who cursed at you? His face, I mean,” Payne said.
“Close to your age, Inspector. Shorter, stooped over, like I said. Big cheeks, like he was well fed. Sort of like that gent,” Blackie said, pointing to the crowd streaming by the car.
“Which one, man?” Payne demanded.
“Cor, if it ain’t him! That one, with the pony! I’ll swear to it.” Blackie raised his hand, his coal smudged finger pointing straight at Ernest Bone.
CHAPTER THIRTY — THREE
Bone saw Blackie Crane pointing directly at him. His eyes widened for a fraction of a second, and then he bolted, but not before he slapped his pony hard on the rump and sent him trotting into the crowd, the cart barreling along behind him as people stumbled out of the way, shouting and cursing, creating exactly the kind of confusion Bone wanted. He had betrayed no surprise, no shock of wonderment or bemusement at being singled out. It was a rapid, calculated decision to run. He had the look of a practiced criminal who knew the jig was up. A murderer. Worse. I should have tumbled to it sooner. Seeing him with the girls had started the wheels turning, but not soon enough for a nice quiet arrest.
Payne and I were out of the car immediately, our cop’s sense sending us running before our brains caught up with what we’d seen. Kaz was behind us and for all I knew Blackie was still staring at his finger. The road was filled with people walking back to town. The pony cart had created enough chaos that the crowd was milling about, asking what had happened, what all the fuss was about, and why had Mr. Bone run away? Payne and I pushed people aside, trying to spot our quarry in the tumult.
I caught a glimpse of him, weaving through the throng, heads turning as he rushed past. His cloth cap blew off, his bald head with its low ring of dark hair now a clear marker. The noise of the crowd was pierced by a child’s shriek, and we pushed through to find Miss Ross on the ground, holding one of her students, luckily with no injuries other than badly skinned knees.
“He ran through the girls, knocked them over,” Laurianne shouted, pointing down the lane with one hand and cradling the head of a dazed girl with the other. We followed her lead, and I was glad to see the crowd had thinned out, only a few stragglers left watching the distant maneuvers. I looked up to where the road switched back on itself as it ascended, expecting to see Bone making for the fields and woods beyond. There was no sight of him.
“There!” Payne shouted, and I saw a constable sent sprawling as he tried to keep Bone from leaving the road and entering the offlimits area, still jam-packed with tracked and wheeled vehicles driving in seemingly random patterns.
“He’s heading for our jeep,” I hollered, vaulting a low stone wall that bordered the road. I came down on a loose rock and pitched forward, hitting the ground hard. I rolled and got up, pulling my revolver from my shoulder holster and wincing from the sharp pain in my right knee. The inspector kept going, his legs churning as Bone jumped into the jeep and pressed the starter. I heard Payne yell, probably something about the name of the King, and saw Bone turn in panic at how close he was. But the panic turned to quick calculation. Instead of driving away, he jammed the jeep’s clutch into reverse and stepped on the accelerator. In a second the vehicle collided with Payne, sending him flying backward, landing with a crack and a thud in a tangle of limbs.
I left the inspector behind. I knew there were plenty of constables about and probably a medic nearby. I also knew that Bone was determined to get away, and by the look on his face he’d spare no one who got in his way. All around me shouts and frantic commands rose up in a confused crescendo. A jeep raced after Bone as I ran as fast as I could, the pain in my knee stabbing me with each long pace. Binghamton’s armored car joined in, and I could see him standing in the turret, one hand holding a radio and the other gripping the.50 machine gun for support as the six-wheeled vehicle careened over the open ground at top speed. No one else was nearby. Not until I heard the Indian Scout behind me.
“Stop!” I shouted, holding up my hand. He skidded to a halt and without explanation-a privilege of rank-I strong-armed him off the bike and took off after Bone, spitting mud and fighting mad. I caught a glimpse of him as I rounded a stand of trees and navigated through an opening in another stone wall. His shiny bald head was a fine beacon, but he was making for the canal where smoke still wreathed the ground as Sherman tanks and other vehicles crossed his path. GIs from the opposing force milled around, not sure what to make of this headlong rush in their direction.
I lost sight of Bone as I downshifted to take a small rise. I went over the top and the bike came down on damp grass, the rear tire fishtailing crazily until I got it under control. I couldn’t spot Bone anywhere. The other jeep following him was dead ahead of me, kicking up dust and obscuring my vision. A Sherman tank burst out of the woods, flattening trees as it blindly crossed paths with the jeep. The jeep’s driver slammed on his brakes and skidded sideways, smashing into the side of the tank as it swept by. He was thrown clear, but the tank treads chewed up the jeep, leaving shreds of metal and rubber behind. I swerved around the wreckage and behind the tank, the exhaust blinding me. I blinked away the blurriness and had to swerve again as GIs rushed out of the woods to gawk at some actual destruction.
I saw Bone ahead of me. He was making for the path along the canal, a nice flat stretch of hard-packed ground where he could make time and disappear. Or so he hoped. The path would make it easy for me, too, and I hoped that by now the constables were working to seal off the area. But no, I realized. Other than the bicycles they came in on, they only had one vehicle-Payne’s car. Unless Binghamton was giving orders for his unit to block the roads, there was no one with the time, transportation, or sense to do it.
The Scout was giving me all it had, but Bone was flying along. On the hill above me, I spotted Binghamton in his armored car, the big wheels churning up ground as fast as I was. The M8 could make over fifty miles an hour, but not in this soft and undulating terrain. It could be tricky to handle cross-country, but Binghamton was going for the most direct route, a straight line to the open ground where Bone was heading. Once there, we had him pinned.
The armored car was speeding downhill at an angle, the slope of the land increasing as it approached a jumble of rocks. Binghamton had no choice but to go left and head straight down, losing his advantage and increasing the distance from Bone. Or so I thought.
I saw him slam his hand on the turret, shouting down to the driver, his words lost in the snarl of engines. The M8 picked up speed, its left wheels sinking into the soft ground, as it kept on course, narrowly avoiding the boulders, but tilting at a precarious angle, Binghamton hanging on, clutching the.50 caliber.
It looked like he’d make it. Even ground was about fifty yards away. But then gravity took over, and the tilt was too much for the eight tons of steel to sustain. I could tell the driver was trying to compensate, but it was too late. The M8 went over, sliding on its side as Binghamton ducked his head in, finally rolling over, once, twice, then plowing into the ground, coming to rest on the path we’d been making for.
I slowed, hesitant to give up the chase, hoping Binghamton and his crew weren’t badly injured. I hadn’t know him long, but he seemed like a decent guy, and a friend to Tree. I circled the vehicle as dust settled from the violent impact, gear and men rattling about inside. I slowed, rounding the car, one foot skittering along the ground. What I saw wasn’t good. I stopped.
Binghamton was half in, half out of the turret, his back bent sideways at an impossible angle. Crewmen bolted from the hatches as Binghamton flailed with his arms, trying to get his useless legs to work, to pull himself out of the vehicle. I jumped up onto the M8, screaming for someone to get a medic.
It was pointless. He must have been tossed partway out as the armored car turned over. His spine was snapped, and the internal injuries had to be terrible. He was choking on blood as he frantically tried to get his body to move, his eyes fixed on some distant spot, still chasing Bone, still leading his men, dreaming of glory as he died.
“Hold steady,” I said, trying to grip his arms. “You’re only making it worse.”
His eyes widened, and I thought he might actually see me. He struggled, still trying to move. He gagged on
