Thus, DeMarco’s test. On his first day at the hotel, he had noticed a couple of minidome cameras in the hallway outside his room. The first to snag his careful eye was mounted flush with the ceiling near the elevator bank and might easily have been taken for one of the domed light fixtures with which it was aligned in a long row. The second minidome was more visibly mounted about two feet to the right of his door—and four or five feet above his head—in a corner formed by the juncture of the wall and ceiling. Neither bothered him by its presence. Quite the opposite, in fact. The Rio was a five-star hotel catering to upper-echelon international travelers. And any decent lodging nowadays was obliged to provide security for its guests. At its most basic, this would consist of an in-house security staff and twenty-four-hours-a-day, seven-days-a-week video monitoring of common areas.
DeMarco’s idea was to give the camera near his door a covert pass with his detector simply to find out whether it would buzz and flash its little indicator light as touted. If the gadget worked, he would accept the good things he’d heard about it. Make it his steady, so to speak. If it didn’t, he would have to reevaluate their relationship and likewise warn his men against putting too much faith in it.
As the Dylan song went, just like a woman.
Now DeMarco turned down the hall toward his room, the locator nestled in his right palm. At the door he took his swipe-card key from his shirt pocket with his free hand and inserted it into the reader, simultaneously thumbing on the locator to pass it under the camera, keeping it turned away from the bug-eyed enclosure . . . just a weary guest about to give himself a little neck rub after a long morning of hustle and bustle.
The gadget began to vibrate in mid-pass.
Good, he thought.
DeMarco brought it down between his shoulder blades with a smooth movement, raised it, slid his eyes onto the LED. It was blinking rapidly. He made an adequate show of massaging himself through his shirt, then lowered his right hand to his side, away from the overhead camera, and took another peak at the red light. The blinking slowed, stopped.
Even better.
Satisfied he’d gained a trustworthy companion, DeMarco pushed open his door and stepped into the room. He headed straight over to his dresser and tossed the card key on top of it, already unbuttoning his shirt below its open collar, eager to get under the refreshing shower spray and rinse the sweat and airport dust off his body. Although it was still well before noon, the outside temperature had to be somewhere in the upper eighties, and the soupy humidity made it feel even hotter.
As he went to put his camera locator down beside the card, his finger on the power button to click it to the OFF setting, DeMarco felt a sudden vibrational shiver from it, and realized the LED was blinking through his fingers again.
Rapidly.
Very rapidly.
His brows arched. Red light flickering between his knuckles, he continued to feel the silent pulsations of the locator’s alert signal. Then he thumbed it off, his eyes cutting left and right, taking in the room—its walls, ceiling, furnishings, picture frames, mirrors, central air-conditioning unit. Everything.
DeMarco swore inwardly. Not moving his lips. Betraying no hint of surprise through a muttered word or gesture.
After a moment he finished undressing, went into the shower, and turned on the tap, feeling tense and exposed, trying his best to act as if nothing were amiss.
His equipment tryout had proven to be more informative than he’d bargained for. A lot more.
He would have to talk to Pete Nimec right away.
After a night of bad dreams, Julia Gordian had hoped to shake off her mild funk at work Sunday, but the chill, gray weather was doing nothing to give her a lift.
The shelter had been quiet since she’d arrived, Rob off to do his double-duty accounting out at the San Gregario Beach resort, Cynthia dealing with a colicky infant in their house down the lane, leaving Julia to mind things alone. She was okay with that part, but would have been happier if it weren’t such a slow day for adoption prospects. There were no appointments scheduled for that morning, and only two penciled in for the afternoon. Quiet, and the low mist pressing against the shop window added to her downbeat mood.
Julia knelt over a bulk order of dog kibble delivered the day before, slid a box opener between the carton’s taped flaps, spread them open, and did a quick count of the three-pound bags inside against the total listed on the packing slip. Behind the counter with her, Vivian loafed on her cushion, raising her head off her crossed paws to nuzzle the carton with mild interest.
“Thanks for the hardy assist, Viv. But everything’s here,” Julia said, scratching the grey behind her ears, which were folded like a bow on a bonnet—the left ear flipped limply to the right, the right flopped to the left, the two overlapping over the fine, tawny fur betwixt. “No shortages to report.”
Viv produced a kind of whistling yawn, stretched, and rolled onto her back. Since being rebuffed by the Wurmans she had become Julia’s honorary sidekick, winning the position through charm and sympathy.
Julia smiled at her with affection.
“The tummy rub has to wait, kid,” she said. “I’ve got to earn my nonsalary.”
Julia reached into the carton. And while she unpacked and filled the shelves, found herself thinking about the dreams.
They had plagued her every so often since her divorce from Craig. Less often recently, but it seemed their run had not quite concluded and would recur for disturbing encore presentations anywhere between once and twice a month. Julia never knew what events would stir up the pockets of unconscious turbulence or why she’d go plunging into them on any given night. And she was stumped by their power to throw her out of whack almost two years after she’d last had any direct contact with her former husband. They were, like most dreams, insipid. Formulaic variations on a stock theme; confused, weak, even silly recalled in the light of day. But the sleeping mind was both captive audience and uncritical judge of its own regurgitated material, and they had once again kept her tossing and turning in bed.
Leading off last night’s bill had been the creepshow she thought of as Julia Can’t Find Her Home. The title said it all. She’d been driving home from somewhere—home being the residence Julia had shared with Craig for their entire six-year marriage—then swung off the usual highway exit and suddenly found herself in the wrong neighborhood. Or, to be more accurate, in a weirdly transformed version of what she somehow knew to be the right neighborhood. The street layout was vaguely familiar. There were landmarks that seemed to belong where she saw them, houses she seemed to recognize, but they had been altered in some uncertain way, and shuffled around like pieces on a Monopoly board. As Julia turned corner after corner, her initial bafflement escalated to panic. There was no sign of her driveway, her front yard. She was lost. The house wasn’t anywhere. She wasn’t anywhere. She couldn’t even retrace her route to the highway. She was without any sense of direction, her bearings gone, driving up and down increasingly alien and unknown streets, circling them in a futile, endless search for a home that had vanished.
That realization had awakened her with a scream, prompting a trip into the kitchen for a glass of cold water. It hadn’t ended the nightmares, though.
Julia in a House Full of Strangers . . . Almost! had followed shortly after she’d fallen back asleep. In this dream, the beleaguered heroine arrived at her residence without any trouble, but opened the front door to find it filled with complete strangers. As she rushed through its interior she saw people everywhere. Cozying up on the sofa, at the refrigerator, seated in the dining room, chatting and laughing in the halls. None of them knew her. None was interested in knowing her. In fact they didn’t seem to notice her at all, just went about their affairs as if she were invisible. She’d wandered the house like a ghost, found herself outside her bedroom. The door was wide open. Inside a couple was vigorously making love, tangled naked in the sheets. The lights were on. They ignored her when she appeared in the doorway. Jul
ia could see the woman’s back, see a man underneath her, his face blocked by her riding body, his ecstatic groans muffled against her breasts. It had sounded like Craig. It had sounded exactly like Craig. And that had brought Julia back to reality with a start, left her crying into the pillow of her own darkened bedroom for perhaps half an hour.
At least she had been spared a reprisal of Nobody Knows Julia, a subtler but equally disturbing script in which she would come home to find her former in-laws watching television in the living room. In these dreams, they would acknowledge her presence with cool detachment and instruct her to leave at once. Their devoted son and his wife were returning any minute and would not appreciate uninvited visitors, particularly a strange woman drifting in off the sidewalk to cause trouble for them. When Julia insisted she was his wife they would quietly repeat that she had better vacate the premises for her own good and then would turn their attention back to the tube. Again, as if she were no longer there. The volume on the set was turned up loud. And whatever they were watching had a laugh track.
Julia sighed. Her urge that dreary morning had been to pull her blankets over her head and stay put. It had been a powerful temptation she’d felt many times before. But she had resisted it today, as she’d always done, except for a couple of instances in the weeks immediately after she learned of Craig’s affair. Dreary or not, it was a new morning, and she had her responsibilities. Her work at the shelter was for a good cause, one very personal to her. It was also insurance against the deadly appeal of her drawn window shades, blanket, and pillow.
Finished replenishing the shelves with dog food now, Julia sidled around the counter, inspected its adjoining showcase, decided it looked sort of bare, and went into the little side stockroom for some dental and nail trimming kits to fill it out. Despite the store’s limited front space, Rob was nitpicky about keeping at least one piece of every item he carried on display, but worrying about two jobs and a baby seemed to have spun his attention kind of thin. Yesterday he had driven out thirty miles along his way to the Fairwinds before realizing he’d forgotten an important ledger. He’d needed to return home for it and arrived at the motel over an hour late, aggravated and embarrassed.
Julia was reentering the storefront with a handful of supplies when she heard the sound of an approaching vehicle. Don’t tell me Rob’s come back ledgerless again, she thought . . . and then told herself she didn’t want to jinx him by even half seriously considering it. No sirree, not this morning. What more fitting, lousy capper could there be to it than the poor, overworked guy having to double back after another bout of absentmindedness?
She glanced out the window and was pleased to see it wasn’t his Montero, but one of those Subaru 4×4 utility wagons . . . an Outback. It had pulled up to Rob’s house, a thirtyish clean-shaven man in a tan leather car coat and jeans stepping out to ring the door bell. After a moment Cynthia appeared on the front porch, babe in arms, and pointed him toward the shelter.
Back in his wagon, the driver rolled into the parking area near the shop, then got out again and came hustling over through the fog, which was now starting to turn into a fine drizzle.
He pulled open the door and leaned inside. Cut in short, purposely mussed snippets, his hair was already sprinkled with droplets of moisture.
“Hi,” he said, and glanced at his wristwatch. “I didn’t know your Sunday hours, but figured it was after eleven, and took a chance. The woman in that house told me you’re open.”
Julia waved him in out of the wetness.
“Sure, come on in,” she said. “We’re just slow this morning.”
He entered, paused, quietly looking around the shop. Julia set her stockroom merchandise onto the counter, stood with her back to it. “If there’s anything special I can help you find, let me know,” she said.
He gave her a smile, gesturing with his chin.
“Actually,” he said. “I’m interested in somebody like your friend over there.”
Julia looked around, momentarily puzzled. Then she laughed. Vivian had gotten off her cushion and stuck her head out from behind the counter.
“Oh, sorry, I didn’t realize . . .”
“Pooch is a little shy, huh?”
“Don’t let Viv fool you, she knows how to get her way.”
Now the guy chuckled, too. “Especially with you, I’ll bet.”
“I guess.”
He put out his hand.
“Barry Hughes,” he said.
“Julia Gordian,” she said.
They shook.
“So,” he said. “Tell me what I need to do to rescue a greyhound today?”
Julia hesitated, did a quick memory check, and glanced down at the open schedule book beside the cash register. As she had thought, there were only the couple of afternoon appointments, and neither of them was for anybody named Hughes.
“Sorry,” she said. “I don’t see you listed . . .”
“Oh,” Hughes said. “Do I need to be?”
“I’m afraid so,” Julia said. “Other than for buying supplies or gifts, that is.” She paused, her brow creasing. “You mean you didn’t know?”
Hughes shook his head.
“I’m always noticing the sign for your shelter on the road,” he said. “Figured I’d drop by whenever I could.”
Julia produced a sigh. “I really am sorry,” she said. “We have a lot of dogs that need placement, but there’s a telephone screening process. It’s given to every candidate owner before they come look at the greys.”
Hughes shrugged.
“I’d be glad to answer any questions right here. If you’d like to ask them, that is—”
“I’d like nothing more,” Julia said. “It isn’t my choice, though. You’d need to speak with Rob Howell. He’s the shelter’s organizer and conducts all the phone interviews himself.”
“Oh,” Hughes said again. “Mr. Howell available, by any chance?”
Julia shook her head. “Best thing would be to give him a ring. Monday through Friday.”
“That’s kind of difficult for me . . . I’m a power company technician, always climbing utility poles, crawling around people’s basements, running everywhere on emergency calls,” Hughes said, and frowned. “You sure you can’t grab hold of him for a few minutes?”
“I would if the timing weren’t so bad,” Julia said. “Unfortunately he’ll be out the next two weekends.”
Hughes made eye contact with her.
“And I couldn’t ask for an exception—”
“As I said, there’s nothing I’d prefer. But I’m new at the job. And rules are rules.”
A pause.
“Well,” Hughes said, and expelled a long breath. “I guess I’ll try back another time.”
Julia pulled a business card from the holder by the register.
“In any event, why don’t you take this,” she said, handing it to him. “It’s got our regular business hours. Phone and fax numbers, too, of course.”
Hughes reached for his billfold and slipped in the card.
“Thanks.” He motioned toward the counter again. “Maybe I’ll get lucky, and nobody else will take your adorable friend before I have my chance at her.”
Julia glanced over at Vivian and was mildly surprised to see she hadn’t come out from behind the counter, but was poking her head out around its side, sniffing away, her ears flat back against her head, the bonnet bow undone. Viv didn’t often lay on the bashful routine that thick.
“Maybe,” she said, feeling an odd twinge that she immediately chalked up to her own growing attachment to the dog—another violation of Rob’s thou-shalt-nots. The two of them really had become chums, but she had to recognize somebody would take her one of these days. And that it would be very much for the best. “Anyway, I hope you give us a call. Our rescues desperately need good homes.”
Hughes nodded, gave her another smile, and left.
A moment later Julia turned from the door and got back to work.
In the
Outback, the man who’d introduced himself as Barry Hughes passed the Howell residence, reached the bottom of the lane, turned left, and then drove west over the blacktop toward the coast.
His own particular morning’s work was over, and it could not have gone any better.
“So what do you think?” DeMarco said.
“From what you tell me,” Nimec said, swatting away a mosquito, “we’ve got some worries.”
“Yeah.”
“Serious worries.”
“Yeah.”
“Which you obviously know, or we wouldn’t be here,” Nimec said.
DeMarco nodded but said nothing.
They were standing together on an aged steel foot-bridge over a drainage channel in the city’s Romb’Intchozo precinct, their elbows propped on its pedestrian guard rail. In the rainy season, the channel would be gurgling with overflow from the flooded Ogooué River delta. But this was a different season, and the water below them was low and still and muddy. Insects swarmed around thick clottings of food wrappers and other paper litter that floated on or just below the surface.
Nimec wished he hadn’t worn short sleeves. Or that he’d splashed on some pest repellent.
“Hell of it is, I can’t think of anything but the obvious,” he said after a long silence. “We need to find out who’s put a watch on us. How wide it is. And we need to find out the reasons why. What they’d have to gain.”
Cutting Edge (2002) Page 19
