by Vic Robbie
BEYOND the BLOOD MOON
Vic Robbie
Other books by Vic Robbie
The Ben Peters World War II thriller series
IN PURSUIT OF PLATINUM
PARADISE GOLD
THE GIRL with the SILVER STILETTO
Contents
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
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About the Author
Acknowledgments
Prologue
Everything led to this moment. He took a hand and coaxed her into the darkness of the doorway, mouth fastening on eager lips, hands running over her thighs.
She’d discovered his bio on a dating site, and he seemed perfect. After a week of flirty texts, she believed he was the one and although she’d never done this before she agreed to meet him. Friends warned her that often the image on the website didn’t match the reality. They would be older, not as good looking, not quite what she’d expect, and the confident go-getter more hesitant and introverted. The nervous meeting in a city bar went well. And after a couple of drinks and more flirting they moved on to a meal at an Italian restaurant off the beaten track.
He ordered his favourite saltimbocca, and she ate pasta, spaghetti carbonara, but they soon forgot the food. Two bottles of a full-blooded Barolo fuelled their initial attraction for each other and, as the night progressed, the distance between them shortened until they were touching, stealing kisses between sips of the red wine. And they saw only each other and were oblivious to the restaurant shutting around them. As diners vacated a table, the waiters wiped it down and placed its chairs on top. Some waiters hung about, cleaning their hands on white aprons and staring, willing their guests to leave. The proprietor glanced at his watch, calculating the right moment to inform them politely it was time to go.
Her intervention pleased him. As her partner poured the remains of the wine into her glass, she leant back and pushed the hair from her brow. ‘Oh!’ She was surprised. ‘The restaurant’s closing, we must let them go home.’
What might happen next, she could only guess, but she allowed him to lead as they stepped out of the restaurant into the dampness of a misty night. The cold made her shiver, and she gathered her jacket around her. He whispered in her ear, and she giggled and pulled him closer.
New to the area, she allowed him to usher her along a cobble-stoned lane and, as she stumbled on her high-heels, he gripped her tighter. And she suspected he knew where he wanted to go.
She welcomed the kiss. It’s what she’d been waiting for all night and responded with equal passion. The raucous laughter of two men strolling past, probably waiters on their way home, surprised her, and she pushed him away. ‘No, not here.’ Now she was doubtful. Her friends had told her to always inform them when she went on a date with a stranger, where she was meeting him and where they’d be. In her excitement, she’d forgotten.
The onslaught of cold air sobered her up, and uncertainty crept in. She was lost. The few street lamps barely lit the lane, and she’d known this man only a matter of hours. She was doing everything they’d warned her against.
Not wanting him to lead, she walked faster, unsure where she was headed. But she hoped they’d come to a busier, better-lit road although after midnight there might be no one around. They were moving away from the city, and the buildings became fewer, and only a couple showed lights. Here the once intermittent street lighting was nonexistent, and the thick low cloud made it almost impossible to see the way ahead. He was unperturbed, relating a story interspersed with deep throaty chuckles which she didn’t hear. She wanted to go home but worried that would end the rapport they’d built.
They moved alongside a waist-high, old stone wall, and behind it, she made out the faint outline of what appeared to be a substantial building. Reluctant to let her go, the man gripped her arm and nuzzled her ear, which she didn’t find unpleasant. ‘Let’s go in here,’ he said when they reached an ornate lychgate.
‘I don’t—’ But he smiled at her, the smile that melted any doubts when they first met, and she allowed him to manoeuvre her through the opening as the gate squealed on its rusty hinges.
Trees dripping with mist crowded in on either side as they meandered along a stone path and only then did she recognise the shapes standing like silent sentinels in the dark. ‘Oh, no, it’s a graveyard,’ she gasped and shrank back, removing his hand from her arm.
His voice was deep and reassuring, ‘I promised you an unforgettable experience.’ She just made out his smile, and she giggled, not wanting the moment to evaporate. ‘Come on, take my hand.’ And, heads together, they wandered on until the lane faded behind them.
Uncertain, she whispered, ‘It’s so dark.’
He held her closer. ‘I can use the torch on my phone if you like.’
‘No, please don’t do that.’
‘Don’t worry, they’re not watching.’
She slumped onto a stone slab, not wanting to give him what he wanted.
‘I’m freezing.’ Feeling the rough stone through the thin stuff of her dress, she shivered and wrapped her arms around her, growing afraid.
With a flourish, he took off his jacket and laid it on the slab and coaxed her down before kissing her hard on the mouth. She responded but felt it was wrong and turned her head away.
For a moment, she forgot where she was, and her loud gasp made him straighten up in alarm. Pulling herself up on her elbow, she focused hard. Someone else was lying on the slab, the face turned towards her; the eyes closed as if sleeping.
She pushed him away and scrambled off the stone. ‘It’s a little girl,’ she shrieked.
Stunned, he reached for the phone and switched on its torch, highlighting the girl’s naked and almost alabaster-white body.
The child looked so peaceful, but when she touched her cheek it was ice cold and she pulled back. ‘Oh, my God, I think she’s dead.’
The light from her partner’s phone ran over the body. In her left hand, the girl held a bouquet of red roses and above her head was a candle that had flickered briefly flanked by two burnt-out T-lights.
‘Why is she here?’ Her confused mind raced, running over the possibilities. ‘It looks as though she fell asleep only hours ago.’
With a trembling hand, he stretched past her and scraped lichen from the headstone and shook his head. ‘If it’s her grave, she died in 1898.’
Chapter One
Cherry red lips and eyes opaque
as the blackest night, the blonde was striking, but her smile was more Picasso than Botticelli.
Should have escaped while he had a choice. Made an excuse after the first drink and left without her suspecting he knew. The beer bottle hovered before he took another mouthful.
But for a twitch of contempt at the corners of her mouth, the face was expressionless as she watched him gag on the ice-cold liquid trickling down his throat. It tasted foreign, almost metallic. Now the room appeared to lurch and blinking hard didn’t clear his vision. It was too late; he’d left the bottle unattended.
She wants to kill me.
Barney’s Bar stands close to the water’s edge at Fisherman’s Quay. The wooden building is a throwback to other times, a hang-out for those who enjoy their drink oblivious to their surroundings. Barney ignored any suggestions to renovate to attract a more middle-class clientele. The regulars had seen presidents come and go, and wives and mistresses, too. And this is how it would be. Even if he wanted, he couldn’t ease out his regulars who clung to the bar like mussels to a rock and, if they lost their grip, would disappear on the tide. Years ago, Barney gave the bar a once-fashionable maritime facelift suitable for an establishment near the ocean. In one area a large fishing net drapes over the wreck of a galleon with a treasure chest spilling golden doubloons over a seabed of white pebbles. In the foreground, a mermaid sprawls with fair tresses protecting her decorum. Rippling blue and yellow lights suggest this work of art lies underwater, but it’s an optical illusion and as tired as Barney after a busy night. And he doesn’t have the will to remove its decaying charms.
Like most bars, it has its shifts of drinkers. The morning crew topping up their alcohol levels from the day before. Later, the lunchtime crowd drifting in from nearby businesses to pick at a snack washed down with a guilty drink or two. Then the afternoon drinkers killing time before going for a siesta. Afterwards, the evening diners before the hardened drinkers return and settle in for the nightly session.
He’d arrived when most of the diners were leaving, which was the best time, as the regulars were less likely to ask questions he didn’t want to answer.
With a conspiratorial smile, the doorman greeted him, ‘Evening, Headlock. You gotta thirst?’
The doorman enforced the house rules—no guns and no phones, both equally dangerous to humankind. He’d no need of either. One took your life, the other your brain.
‘Watch yourself,’ the doorman added with a sarcastic grin. ‘It’s dangerous in there tonight.’
Before he reached the bar, Barney had placed a cold beer on the counter, water running in rivulets down the frosted bottle. And, apart from an exchange of nods, nothing was said.
With a bronzed, bald head that appears hand-polished and a white moustache matched by bushy eyebrows, Barney stands well over six feet and is an imposing presence. Reputed to have been a useful boxer back in Australia, he never mentions it. No memorabilia line the walls as in similar establishments. Barney never spoke much about anything and watched him as he tasted the beer. A satisfied nod gave him the answer he wanted, and he moved away to serve a customer at the other end of the bar. Barney was never one to take sides or make rash judgements, especially when those that had demanded harsher punishments wished he’d been discarded like garbage.
Barney had taken on the role of voluntary spotter, to anticipate trouble and protect him, and he returned, looking serious. Head lowered, his eyes gestured towards the far corner of the room, suggesting something or someone needed checking out.
A slow turn, taking in the room, sparked memories of a life that once dominated his existence. Out there, amongst the banks of cigarette smoke, a baying crowd packed in tight. A wave of sound bouncing around the arena from wall to wall as if searching for an escape route. Isolated shouts of support or condemnation. The smell of tobacco, booze, fast food and sweat mixing with liniment and fear. Climbing up to a ring illuminated by floodlights and swinging through the ropes. Glancing at his opponent, muscles rippling under a sheen of oil.
As out of place as an olive in one of Barney’s drinks, she sat with her back to the wall, facing the room. Seldom did a lone woman slip into the bar this late, unless she was a professional looking to end a night’s work with someone who wouldn’t do too much damage. This one was different with short and curly blonde hair, reminiscent of a Marilyn Monroe movie, shining in the dim light. A face, perhaps too hard and red lips. Expensive clothes, not for effect but because it was what she expected. And she stared at him like a horse trader evaluating a stallion. Challenged, she glanced away with a haughty shake of her head, then she’d come back for a second appraisal.
It was time to change to a table far away from potential trouble. Strangers meant danger and should be kept at a distance. He lived longer that way, always moving, never staying in one place longer than necessary. No phones, no way for anyone to track him. No set patterns, although regular visits to Barney’s were a weakness, but it was his haven. Elsewhere a stranger might ask, ‘Why did you kill him?’ And some didn’t want to hear the answer, only seeking revenge.
Another glance confirmed she was still staring, her lips open.
He immersed himself in the menu, offering giant-size bites for shipmates and enough choices to satisfy an armada until he sensed a presence. His eyes ran up the length of her body to a questioning face, and she stood so close he smelled her scent. Her jewellery was minimal, and her clothes tight like a second skin. A woman who worked on her appearance although heavy make-up couldn’t disguise that she was older than he first thought.
He’d been through the courts, on the front pages of every scandal sheet, and headline news on all TV newscasts and people believed it gave them the right to own him. If he’d been making love, she’d still have come over and tapped him on the shoulder.
He braced for the usual line. ‘Hope you don’t mind but aren’t you…’
Instead, ‘How have you been?’ It was unexpected, suggesting an earlier meeting. A nervous tremor flickered around her eyes as though the line came unnaturally to her.
‘Good, I guess.’
Have we met?
Was she one of the eager women, the hangers-on who surrounded fighters, still high on adrenaline, and one thing led to another? But she didn’t look the type.
‘Been here before?’ he asked, wondering where he might have seen her.
‘I go nowhere twice.’
A waiter bustled past, and she grabbed his arm. ‘Two more of the same, bartender.’
Uninvited, she dropped into the seat opposite. How long had it taken to apply her make-up?
‘Hope you don’t mind.’ She exuded the nervousness of suppressed sexuality and looked at her lap. The fingers of her white lace gloves fidgeting as she prepared to ask something he might refuse.
‘Be my guest.’
Once it had been fans who wanted attention, now it was enemies with more dangerous intent. Which was she? His experience proved it better to let her get to it in her own time. Maybe she wasn’t a fan or an enemy but was simply attempting to pick him up although he was too sober for that.
She’d continued to stare but didn’t speak.
‘How have you been?’ he asked.
Still, she said nothing, just studied him.
‘Sorry, I’ve forgotten your name.’
She ignored that and glanced away as the bartender returned with drinks, but as he tried to remove the empty glass imprinted with her red lipstick, she snapped, ‘Leave it.’ And once he was out of sight, she opened a small purse and inserted the glass. ‘A souvenir of our meeting.’ The smile promised more.
He took a drink from the new bottle to prevent himself from saying something he’d regret.
‘Please excuse me for a moment.’ He rose suggesting he was heading for the restrooms at the other end of the bar but intended to keep going. Curiosity brought him back. She still sat at the table, her back rigid, as though she hadn’t moved in his absence.
‘You’ve returned?�
�� she said with the hint of a triumphant smile.
‘Didn’t you think I would?’
‘I thought you might leave, they often do.’ She leant forward with a gleam in her eyes. ‘Would you come with me?’
He swallowed a slug of beer before answering, ‘Why?’
‘I don’t like it here anymore.’
‘Where?’ He took another mouthful of beer.
‘Wherever you’d like to be.’ An ill-concealed glimmer of distaste flowed across her face, and a warning surged through him like adrenaline as it had done before every fight.
It’s a trap.
The drink tasted strange, and he was unsteady and seeing double. The bottle slipped from his fingers and beer, the colour of the gold of an incoming tide at sunset, bubbled across the table. He lurched to his feet, and the chair jarred on the wooden floor, halting conversations around them. Now as hard as granite, her features blurred into a mask, so it was impossible to tell whether she was gloating or concerned.
She’d spiked his drink, and he had to escape, go outside so the night air could clear his head and allow him time to think. He swung around and staggered towards the door and freedom. He hadn’t much time left.
She followed, exhorting, calling like a siren.
