seen and the hose she had been using to water the tomatoes lay abandoned, the nozzle twisting gently due to the pressure of its undirected spray.
‘What’s happening, Jack?’
‘I dunno. But whatever it is, I don’t like it.’ Jack reached for the telephone on the wall beside an interior door. ‘I’m calling Blair.’
The local police officer was bound to be at the Hog at this time of day, having a quiet beer and keeping his finger on the pulse of his district. Luckily, he lived in Morriston and not one of the other scattered villages that he shared with Fliss as part of his responsibility. But Jack put the receiver down a moment later and shook his head.
‘Line’s busy.’
‘Call the emergency services,’ Fliss instructed. ‘We need help.’ She swallowed hard. ‘Someone needs to rescue that man in the river. He’s going to need treatment fast.’
‘I reckon it’s too late for that,’ Jack said heavily. Neither of them wanted to look towards the river mouth and see if the body was still floating. Neither of them could help themselves. Jack made a sound of frustration but then shook his head. ‘Nobody’s going to be crazy enough to wade out there while someone’s taking potshots at people.’
‘But who would be doing something like that? Why?’
Jack shrugged. ‘I’ve heard rumours about the Barrett boys. I suspect they grow more than veggies up there in the bush.’
‘People don’t get shot because they grow a bit of cannabis on the side.’
‘Don’t be too sure. It’s big business in these parts and the police chopper operations don’t find all the plantations by any means.’
‘You think this is deliberate, then? Some kind of patch warfare?’
‘Let’s hope so.’
Fliss said nothing. Jack was right. The alternative was too horrible to contemplate. Far better that Jack was guessing correctly and there was a specific target that would only endanger innocent people if they got in the way.
Jack had entered the three-digit emergency number into his phone.
‘Police,’ Fliss heard him request brusquely. Then he said ‘Morriston’ in response to what had to be a query regarding location.
Then he was silent for what seemed an inordinately long time. Finally he nodded.
‘Right you are.’ The call was disconnected.
‘You didn’t tell them anything,’ Fliss protested.
‘They already know. There’s an armed offender operation already under way. They got the first call about fifteen minutes ago.’
‘But that was before we even heard the first shot.’
‘Maybe someone saw something. Or maybe someone was making threats.’ He gave Fliss a curious glance. ‘You knew, didn’t you? That something wasn’t right?’
‘I wouldn’t have called the police on the strength of a premonition,’ Fliss said wryly. ‘But at least we know help’s on the way.’
‘They said to stay put. Not to go outside under any circumstances. They said to lock our doors and windows, keep the lights off and stay hidden. They’ll let us know when it’s safe to come out.’
‘What?’ Fliss was horrified. ‘I’ve got patients waiting at the surgery. What if someone’s been shot and needs urgent treatment? I can’t stay hidden!’
‘Yes, you can, lass,’ Jack said firmly. ‘It’s getting dark out there. We have no idea what’s going on or where the idiot with the gun is. What use would you be to anyone if you go out there and get shot yourself?’
There were no streetlights in Morriston. When it got dark, it got absolutely dark. It might only be a few hundred metres to the surgery but it would be a long way to travel with the knowledge that any movement could attract the attention of someone with little regard for the law or the sanctity of human life. Even absolute darkness was probably not enough cover for someone with bright blonde hair like Fliss’s—especially when she was wearing a white shirt over her jeans.
‘I’ve got a cellar,’ Jack told her. ‘Damp little hole carved into the hill that’s been no use for storage so it’s empty. Won’t be that comfortable but it’ll be safe enough. You can come out and do your bit to help when the police arrive and you’ve got some protection.’
The notion of hiding was undeniably attractive. Fliss was good at hiding. It was why she had come to Morriston in the first place, wasn’t it? To hide from the painful reminders of what could have been if only things had been different.
Fliss had achieved the isolation she’d sought but how ironic was it that she was now in a situation in which she needed Angus more than she had ever needed anyone?
Or that the reason she needed him so badly was the very reason that had forced her to end the relationship? Angus knew what it was like to face danger like this. He had the training and skills to deal with it. To protect himself and others.
But he was hundreds of miles away in Christchurch. Would SERT—the specialist emergency response team—be activated in response to an armed offender callout in Morriston?
Probably. They got sent to any kind of hotspot that needed police and paramedic personnel.
Would Angus be on duty?
Fliss didn’t know. She had worked hard to try and stop thinking about him all the time. To stop imagining what he might be doing on a particular day or at a particular time of day or night. To stop wondering whether he had got over being furious to find he missed her as much as she missed him.
Success in her endeavours had been patchy. Fliss still thought about Angus far too often for her peace of mind, but she had forgotten his roster.
If he came, dressed in operational gear like his armed police team members, the sanctuary Fliss had found would be gone. Morriston, as much as Christchurch, would remind her of Angus. Of the direction his career as a paramedic had taken him. Of its call to put him in dangerous places and situations that had the potential to claim his life. A potential that had spelt the end of a future together as far as Fliss had been concerned.
But the safety of Morriston was already violated, wasn’t it? Fliss had never been this afraid in her life. It wouldn’t matter if Angus was still furious with her for the way she had ended things. It wouldn’t matter if she only saw him for a moment or two in the distance. Just knowing he was nearby would give her the strength to do what she knew she had to do.
Something that could in no way include the safety of Jack’s underground cellar.
The Iroquois helicopter ferrying the personnel equipped to contain and deal with whatever the situation evolving in Morriston could produce was being buffeted by strong wind gusts as it crossed the island’s spine of the Southern Alps near the Lewis Pass.
The majority of people on board were part of the special operations squad—an elite division of the police force. Only two of the men were specially trained paramedics whose training crossed the boundaries between police
