"Of course I will. I was already planning to. Have you set a day for his funeral?"
"No. We can't until they release his body."
"Let me know. I'll try to be there."
"Thank you, Trev. I should let you go. Betty sends her love."
"Tell her I love her—and you. I wish…"
"I know," Mr Pierce said with a catch in his voice. "We all do." Then he ended the call.
"Damn it! Damn whoever you are! So help me God, if I find you, you're dead. Whatever he did to you, John didn't deserve to die like that." He took a deep breath, trying to tamp down his anger, since it would just send him into another bout of fear and sorrow.
At that point, he realized it was well after noon and he hadn't eaten since breakfast at the hospital. Not that I'm hungry but I should at least make a sandwich, I guess.
Tucking the phone in the pocket of his sweatpants, he went into the kitchen. As he began making a cheese sandwich, he heard a loud crash. Instantly he grabbed the butcher knife from the block on the counter, ready to defend himself against all comers. It took him a minute to figure out the noise had come from outside the kitchen window. Taking a quick, cautious look, he saw a garbage truck setting one of the building's dumpsters back in place after emptying it.
Putting the knife away with a shaky laugh, he muttered, "Calm down. If I go on the defensive every time I hear a noise, I'm going to be a basket case before the day's over."
He finished making his lunch and sat down to eat at the kitchen table. He was almost finished when his cell vibrated. A glance at the ID showed a number he didn't recognize and no name. He answered anyway, figuring it was a telemarketer. With the mood he was in at the moment, he was ready to rip them a new asshole.
"If you say one word to the cops about this call, you're dead," a rough voice said. "Did they take his computer?"
"No," Trev whispered. The police hadn't because—as he'd told Quint—it was sitting in his room. He'd borrowed it the day before the murder to email his weekly letter to his family, since he didn't have his own laptop.
"Good. You're to get it, put it in your backpack and take it… Do you have a paper and pen?"
"Yes. Give me a second," Trev replied, getting up to tear a page off the pad on the fridge then get a pen from the junk drawer. "Okay." His hand shook as he wrote down the address the man gave him.
"You have an hour to get it there. Leave your backpack in the second stall from the wall in the men's room at the King Soopers. Remember, if we see any cops, you're dead. We know they're watching your building, so take a bus and"—the man chuckled—"use all the avoidance skills you've probably learned from those spy stories you read."
"Those were John's," Trev said—for a moment wondering how the man knew about them. Then he realized they must have seen them on the bookshelf.
"Well then, use your imagination. Just make sure the cops don't follow you. Now get moving. As I said, you have one hour. Do not call the police—or else."
"I heard you," Trev replied, only to realize the man had hung up. Two seconds later he was on the phone again, calling Detective Hawk, the rest of his lunch forgotten. He was in the bedroom—holding the phone to his ear with his right hand while he used his left one to get out of his sweatpants and wrestle on some jeans—when he was finally put through to Quint. Trev rattled off what had happened, including the man's death threat.
"I'm glad you had to presence of mind to ignore that and call me," Quint told him. Trev heard a tapping before Quint asked, "What type of laptop? The brand and the model?"
"Hang on." Trev got it and read off the information. "An HP Pavilion 15t-n200."
"Color?"
"Black."
"Got it. I need twenty minutes."
"I only have an hour to get there," Trev protested.
Again he heard the tapping. Then Quint said, "Put the laptop under your mattress. I'll send someone to get the manager's copy of your new key then pick it up. Take the number 10 bus. You can catch it two blocks from your building."
"I know. It's the one I take to work."
"Good. You'll be heading east. When you get to Havana, take the 105. Put something in your backpack that will make it look like you have the laptop. What are you wearing?"
"Jeans and a…I'll change into my blue KUVO hoodie."
"All right. When you get on the 10, go to the back and find a seat. If you can, use the backpack to keep anyone from sitting with you."
"At this hour, that should be easy enough."
"Good. Don't hang up." There was a long moment of silence. Trev took advantage it to change to the hoodie and shove the laptop under the mattress.
When Quint got back on the line, he said, "I'm sending you a picture of the man who'll meet you on the bus. When he gets on, he'll take the seat next to you, either immediately or as soon as the passenger beside you gets up to leave. Put your backpack on the floor, open. He'll put a laptop like Pierce's in it. Then you go on to your destination. You better get moving. Your bus gets to the stop in eight minutes."
"Damn." Trev closed his phone, stuck it in his pocket then grabbed the backpack. On his way through the living room, he stopped long enough to pick up a coffee table book on primitive art from the bookshelf, jamming it in the pack. Then he was out of the apartment, barely remembering to set the alarm. Seven minutes later and very winded, he arrived at the bus stop, praying he hadn't missed the 10. It pulled up a minute later. He got on then found a vacant seat at the back. Sitting on the aisle side, he set the pack down next to him, opening it to take out a paperback and leaving it open.
Fuck, they don't know the security code. He took out his phone and hit redial. After telling the dispatcher it was an emergency, she put him through to Quint immediately. "The security code," Trev said, as soon as the detective answered.
"Would be nice to know. My man is on his way up to your apartment now."
Trev gave it to him then Quint immediately cut the connection.
I hope he got it to him in time. Trev almost smiled when he imagined the cop opening the apartment door and all hell breaking loose.
Ten minutes later, Trev became aware of someone standing beside him. Looking up, he saw the man from the picture Quint had sent him and he moved over to let him sit, putting his backpack on the floor by his feet. The man nodded, putting a messenger bag down next to it, then leaned forward, one arm on the back of the seat in front of them. He rested his head on it as if he was tired, and with his other hand he traded the art book for a laptop. "Interesting choice of literature," the man said, sitting up and stretching.
"It was there. It was the right…"
"Got it," the man broke in. "Okay, here's my stop. Good luck."
The man was up and off the bus, his messenger bag slung over his shoulder, the second the bus's back door opened.
Trev got off a few stops later then paced impatiently, waiting for his next bus. It arrived after what to him seemed an interminable length of time—then seemed to halt at every stop along the way to pick up or drop people. Finally, he saw the shopping center and got off. To his right, with a parking lot between him and it, he saw the King Soopers. He also saw a large clock in a decorative arch half a block away. It told him he was already a few minutes late. He made a mad dash across the lot, ignoring the blossoming pain in his shoulder. The second he was inside the store, he corralled the nearest clerk, asking where the men's room was.
"Just my luck," he muttered, when she told him it was at the far back corner of the store. He made his way there, dodging customers pushing grocery carts. When he got into the washroom, he felt like screaming. Someone was in the stall he needed. Luckily, he supposed, the man vacated it almost immediately. Trev went in, put the backpack as far behind the toilet stool as he could manage, then left. Once he was in the short hallway, he debated waiting and watching for one of the killers to arrive, so that Quint's men could swoop in and arrest him. He knew that was a probability. He couldn't see Quint losing this opportunity to
catch at least one of them.
I can't stand here. He'd see me. But… The produce area was just across the aisle from the hallway. He tried to seem casual as he meandered over to check the apples. From where he stood, he could just see the entrance to the men's room. Several guys went in and out, then a boy who looked about ten pushed open the door and went inside. He returned shortly, wearing Trev's backpack. What the hell…
Trev started toward the kid, only to feel someone grip his arm and say, barely above a whisper, "Don't." He turned to look at her and she held out one barely open hand. He could see the glint of a badge and he nodded almost imperceptibly.
She walked away and he saw her turn down the aisle the boy had used. Who gets a kid to do their dirty work? He knew the answer. The same kind of people who were willing to break into the apartment to kill John and try to frame him for the murder.
With nothing left to do, Trev headed home.
*****
As soon as he was back at the apartment, closed securely inside, Trev got the pills he'd neglected to take earlier. The pain in his shoulder was beginning to make itself known to the point that moving his arm was not something he wanted to do. He popped two pills then went back to the living room. The fan was still running and seemed to have done what Trev had hoped. The carpet was dry to the touch and the bloodstains were visible only if he looked hard for them. After putting the fan away, he took off the hoodie and went to get a bottle of juice then sprawled on the sofa, found the remote and turned on the TV. Debating between Judge Judy and Family Feud, he settled on the latter because it was brainless entertainment. He could have watched the national news but figured that was the last thing he needed. "Doom and gloom," he grumbled, leaning his head on the arm of the sofa.
Other than the glow from the TV, the room was dark when his phone woke him. He pulled it from his pocket and answered, not even considering until after he'd said "Hello" that it could be one of the killers again.
"Hi, Trev. It's Zack."
"Thank God," Trev said.
"What's wrong? Are you in pain?"
"No. It's just been a hellish day."
"You're supposed to be resting, so you can finish healing."
Trev snorted. "Tell that to the bad guys."
"Fuck. What happened?"
Trev gave him the key points, leaving out his emotional responses to each segment of the day. He figured Zack probably didn't want to know those details. He was wrong.
When Trev finished, Zack said, "Now tell me again but with some feeling. You sounded like you were giving me a police report."
Trev sighed. "I'm trying to keep my emotions under control before I implode."
"That is not a good idea," Zack told him sternly.
"Works for me," Trev replied, ready to end the whole conversation. Zack was not helping him to deal with things—not in the least.
"Stay there. I'm coming over. And before you ask, I know your address from your admitting form." Without giving Trev a chance to reply, Zack ended the conversation by hanging up.
"Like hell I will," Trev said. Anger at being ordered around overriding his fear, he went into the bedroom to get a shirt then grabbed a lightweight jacket from the hall closet. Making sure he had his wallet and keys, he left the apartment, slamming the door behind him. Then with a sigh, he opened it again to rearm the security. He didn't know where he was going, just that he didn't want to face Zack and his questions. Or his concern—if that's what was motivating the man.
Stalking out the front door of the building, he paused, suddenly feeling very vulnerable. Screw it. They're not going to shoot me down in cold blood on a busy sidewalk. I hope. Of course, if they know the laptop was a dummy, they might just do that. Or break into the apartment to try to find the real one. "Lots of luck with that," he said under his breath, since the police had it now.
Trev marched down the sidewalk, heading toward Eighth. He figured if nothing else, he could go to the coffee shop a few blocks away and drown his fears in an iced Americano or an espresso.
"Hey," Georgie, the barista said with a smile when he walked up to the counter. "Where have you been? It seems like ages since I last saw you."
"It has been," Trev replied, matching her smile with a weaker one of his own.
"What's your pleasure tonight?"
"Surprise me."
"Oh boy. Let's see. A five shot venti caramel macchiato with whipped cream and chocolate sprinkles."
"Like I can afford that."
"If that's what he wants, make it for him."
Trev whirled around to see Zack standing there. "What the hell? How did you find me, and why are you here?"
"Saw you walk in. You were supposed to—" Zack stopped, apparently becoming aware the barista was listening. "Order what you want," he told Trev, before letting Georgie know he wanted a regular coffee. "Venti, with room."
"Iced Americano for me," Trev said sullenly. He knew he'd better order something. He had the feeling Zack would force the issue if he didn't.
While she made their drinks, Zack was checking out the case. Picking up two turkey pesto panini, he set them on the counter then handed her his credit card.
"I'm not hungry," Trev protested.
"You're eating. Doctor's orders," Zack replied. After stopping to put cream in his coffee and grab a handful of napkins, Zack took the sandwiches and his coffee to two armchairs in one corner of the shop. Very ungraciously, Trev followed. When they were seated, Zack handed Trev one of the panini. "When did you eat last? And what?"
"If it's any of your business I had a sandwich for lunch. Well, most of one," Trev admitted. "That bastard called before I could finish."
"Shook you up too much to eat the rest?" Zack asked, looking over the brim of his coffee cup.
"What the hell do you think?"
Resting one elbow on the arm of his chair so he was closer to Trev, Zack said quietly, "I think the call scared the hell out of you."
"No kidding."
Zack gave him a look of commiseration, pointing to Trev's panini. "Eat. Please. You need food in you. When did you take your pills?"
"Around…four thirty."
"Then you're due for more." Zack chuckled. "I bet they're sitting on…the counter in the kitchen?"
"Nope, my nightstand." Trev almost allowed himself to smile at one-upping Zack, but realized that's what the man was going for, so he didn't. Instead he took a bite of his sandwich, which he had to admit was pretty good for store-bought, good enough that he practically gobbled it down. He was aware, as he ate, that Zack was watching with approval.
"You're not eating," Trev said.
"I ate already," Zack replied, handing Trev the second panini. When Trev hesitated, Zack said, "Bet you can't eat the whole thing."
"Probably not." Trev took two bites then set it down on the low table in front of them.
"Feel like talking now?"
Trev debated telling Zack that he didn't, but it wasn't the truth. "I am afraid," he admitted. "Terrified actually. As soon as they find out the laptop I gave them wasn't John's, they're going to come after me again." He clenched his hands around his coffee, swearing when the top popped off of the paper cup and coffee splashed on his leg.
"Damn good thing that's cold," Zack said, handing Trev some napkins.
Embarrassed, Trev did his best to mop up the mess. Suddenly the inanity of what had just happened struck him and he began to laugh, saying, "If it had been hot I'd be at the hospital again and you'd be"— he giggled—"seeing a lot more of me than you have so far."
Zack arched his dark eyebrows in amusement. "What makes you think I haven't seen everything already? I am your doctor."
Trev felt his face heat up. "I suppose…"
Reaching over, Zack patted Trev's shoulder. "Don't worry. I haven't." He smiled, then said with concern, "If you're so afraid they'll come back, why are you staying at the apartment?"
"Because the rent's paid until the end of the month. That gives me just over a week
to find a cheap place to move to. Detective Hawk has the building under surveillance, at least for the next week, so I'm safe enough, I guess."
"Except you left and came out for coffee."
"Yeah. Well, that's your fault. You told me to stay there and wait for you—like you were my…my caretaker ordering me around."
"I'm sorry," Zack said. "I didn't mean to sound that way. I knew you needed to talk, and face-to-face is better than on the phone."
"I shouldn't have been so sensitive. I know that's why you said it. It just… It pissed me off."
"You're scared, Trev, and tense. 'Wound up tighter than a watch spring', as my stepdad calls it."
"It still doesn't excuse my being an ass with the only person I know who seems to give a damn."
Zack arched an eyebrow. "Surely you have friends."
Trev snorted softly. "There are people I work with, but that's all they are. I never really connected with any of them. When I'm not at the job, I'm usually at the studio I rent, working on my sculptures." Chewing his lip, he added, "The studio I won't be able to afford pretty soon."
"You could if you had an outlet for your work."
"There's a co-op gallery that's interested. I can put some of my work there if they choose me. I'm just one of several who've applied for free space there. But it would be on consignment. I'd get fifty percent of the sale price, but that could take time."
"Isn't fifty percent better than no percent? It would be a way for people to get to know your work. Right?"
Trev nodded. "It would be…if they accept me."
"How good are you?"
"I think I'm very good." Trev smiled wryly. "But doesn't every artist think they are? We wouldn't do what we do if we didn't believe in ourselves."
"Can I see some of your things?"
"I… Sure. Why not. Tomorrow?"
"Barring emergencies—and I mean the kind that end up in the ER and keep me at the hospital later than usual—I'll be off at seven."
"You work long hours, don't you?" Trev said, suddenly aware of the fine lines of fatigue around Zack's eyes.
It Takes An Artist Page 4
