The Kiwi Target

it crashed onto his skull.
    Unconscious, he was pushed back into his own patrol unit. The door was slammed; then the two powerful men rocked it back and forth until, on the fourth swing, it gave way and fell onto its side. Constable Fisher was barely aware of the acrid smell of smoke as it began to fill the interior of his overturned vehicle.

    The constable driving the back-up unit was a husky young Maori. He had been on the force only a few months, but he was already well versed in good police habits. When he called Fisher twice on his radio and got no reply, he checked with Central. He was told that Fisher was unaccountably off the air. That was bad, because if he had left his vehicle to investigate on his own, he would have reported his intentions first.
    The Maori officer tried once more to raise Fisher. When he got no response, he increased his speed and began checking both sides of the road and every possible turn-off. When he cleared a bend and saw Fisher’s car lying on its side, he grabbed his microphone.
    “Central,” he reported in a quick, precise voice, “a mile south of the pub. A police car overturned.”
    That was enough—Central would dispatch help at once, with an ambulance that could be called back if it were not needed.
    The Maori officer pulled his unit up quickly and jumped out to see what he could do. The wrecked car had already been burned out, although some small flames were visible. He braced himself and then looked to see if his colleague had been trapped .inside. When he saw no evidence of a body, he began to sweep the immediate surrounding area with his flashlight. Some thirty feet from the still-burning car he found Fisher lying on his back, his arms and legs spread out helplessly, the sickening odor of burned flesh surrounding him.
    The Maori officer ran to his car and radioed in. “The police unit is burning. Fisher is lying near it, unconscious or dead.”
    “Help coming,” Central advised. “Ambulance and doctor on the way.”
    “Right,” the Maori acknowledged, and clipped his mike. He advanced carefully to where Fisher was lying, making a circular approach so as not to disturb any possible evidence. Dropping to one knee, he felt for a heartbeat. When he detected one, his spirits took a great leap upward; he had been almost sure that his colleague was dead.
    He ran back to his radio. “Will here,” he reported, discarding all formality. “Fisher is alive, but he’s badly burned and unconscious. Hurry that doctor as much as you can.”
    “The ambulance is copying you,” Central advised. “Any evidence as to cause?”
    “Yes—no accident.” Will’s heritage had helped him: his dark brown eyes had seen much that others might not have noted as quickly.
    “Fred’s car was pushed over by two very large men—at least, they’ve got big feet. The fire’s probably deliberate: there’s nothing in the position of the car to suggest that it self-ignited, and Fisher doesn’t smoke.”
    “Stand by,” Central instructed, almost sharply. Of all the crimes possible in New Zealand, an attack on a police officer always brought the fastest and most determined response.

    By a little after nine in the morning, Peter had brought his bags down to the lobby and checked out of the Mountaineer. He was in the restaurant, finishing off his second cup of coffee, when Louise McHugh came in and found him.
    “Sit down,” he invited, and motioned to the waitress to bring a menu
    “I’ve had breakfast,” Louise said. “The car’s ready when you are.” She was dressed in a pair of no-nonsense blue jeans and a plain white blouse, but even that garb could not camouflage the trim lines of her figure. He wondered how he had missed it before. Perhaps his appreciation of the finer things of life was being honed to a sharper edge now.
    He finished the rest of his coffee and got to his feet. “Then let’s go,” he said.
    The car was the same one that had brought him in from the airport. As he swung one of his bags into the trunk, Louise picked up the other and with an easy motion deposited it on top. “I can do that,” Peter said.
    Louise brushed her hair back with one hand. “I’m a station girl,” she retorted. “I’ve learned to do things for myself. You don’t have to hold doors open for me.”
    Taking her at her word, Peter got into the car on the left-hand side and settled himself down. Moments later, they were passing through Queenstown toward the end of the lake. The