The Kiwi Target

much pain right now,” the doctor said as he continued his work.
    The customer who had phoned in had no more than a few skin abrasions. She was an out-of-doors type of woman, and a simple thing like being knocked down was not about to daunt her.
    She declined medical help and then, at the inspector’s urgent request, gave a concise and accurate account of what had happened. In the inspector’s eyes she was a pearl of great price—a witness who kept possession of herself, who knew what she had seen, and who was articulate in describing it. He had a firm feeling that when the bandit was captured, she would give evidence in court that would be of great help to the prosecution.
    The inspector went out to his car and returned with a large brown envelope imprinted OHMS. He opened it and removed some pictures. He began to lay them out in a row on the counter, but as soon as he put the second one down, his witness stopped him. “That’s him!” she declared. “No doubt about it.”
    The inspector was about to ask her if she was sure, but the question had already been answered. He finished laying out six pictures, mixed them about a bit, and asked Mrs. Wilks to be kind enough to look at them. The slight, elderly woman shut her eyes tightly, trying by that tactic to remove herself from the scene. It was not effective; when she opened them again, nothing had changed and she still had that incriminating packet of soup mix in her purse. She tried to protect herself by simply shaking her head. Then, perhaps, they would let her get away from there.
    The reliable witness spoke once more. “Inspector, I’m a teacher, and I’m quite good about people. That is positively the man who was here tonight, though how you got a picture of him so fast I can’t even guess.”
    The inspector believed her because it all fitted. “Would you be willing to come down to the station and give us a formal statement?” he asked.
    “Of course, but I’d like to call my husband first. I told him I’d only be a few minutes.”
    The inspector turned toward his other witness. “We’ll need your name and address,” he began, then changed his mind. She was not in condition to help at the moment, but away from the scene she might come out of her shell and be more useful. “Take her down to Central,” he said. “Have a WPC * look after her a bit. Then she may be able to tell us something more.”
    He had intended that more or less as a kindness, but when he finished speaking, a constable had to reach out quickly to keep Mrs. Wilks from sinking onto the floor. As he assisted her to her feet, she grabbed tight hold of his lapels. “I’ll confess!” she almost shrieked. “Here, I’ve got it in my purse.” Her hands shook violently as she unfastened the clasp.
    The inspector was not watching. He was outside making use of his official radio. “A good witness has made a positive identification of the villain. Number two of the photo set I had with me-”
    That was understood immediately—Edward Riley had surfaced in Christchurch. Where he might be by that time, however, was anyone’s guess.

CHAPTER 15

    After one of the most intense days of his life, Peter went to bed early, hoping that comforting waves of sleep would wash away some of the stresses that still plagued his mind. He rested better than he had expected with the sensation of floating somewhere out in space, separated from all worldly cares and concerns.
    When he awoke, bright sunlight patterned the floor of his bedroom. He swung out of bed and stood at the window for a moment, realizing that both figuratively and literally a new day had come for him. In that mood he washed and dressed, then went downstairs, where Edmund met him. “Morning, Peter,” he welcomed. “Breakfast is ready and waiting.”
    Peter followed his host into a bright and cheerful room, where Martha greeted him with an affectionate hug.
    “Now,” Edmund said, “after we eat, how would you like to go and see your station?”
    Peter hesitated. “You told me it was up Lake Wakatipu; isn’t that quite a way from here?”
    “Not in a straight line. I called Alpine Helicopters; they had a machine available, and I booked it. So eat up, and we’ll be on our way.”
    As Peter disposed of his food and two quick cups of coffee, he remembered the townhouse he had once bought. It had stood on someone else’s property. Now he was about to see some land that might truly be his own, and the thought itself was