Paul tried to swallow, but found that he couldn’t. His throat had closed, and a flood of sweat hit his back.
‘I’m afraid there is a problem, sir. I must call the account manager. He will come and see you,’ she said, picking up the phone.
Thirty seconds went by without Paul realizing his foot had been tapping out a beat on the floor the whole time. He couldn’t force down the nerves any longer, they were making him crazy.
He knew he had to be calm. That was the only way this would work.
A bank manager came through an oak door behind the reception and approached the desk.
‘Sir, there is a little problem,’ said the account manager. He introduced himself as Mr. Alleyne. ‘I’m afraid we received an injunction, mandating the freezing of this account. We can sometimes be flexible in these situations, but not this time. There is nothing I can do to help,’ he said.
‘Oh, but there is,’ said Paul.
Inside he was screaming, on the outside he looked little more than mildly amused as he turned and beckoned to Daryl for help.
The eyes of the security guards were melting into his skin like hot lasers.
He remembered that when he was very young, things seemed to take forever. An escalator took two years to get to the next floor, when he lay in bed and couldn’t sleep he counted the seconds to an hour but when he checked the clock only ten minutes had passed, and the time spent doing homework seemed to take all night instead of half an hour.
But nothing, absolutely nothing, took longer than it took Daryl to walk twenty feet from the couch to the reception desk.
And Paul’s life lay in the hands of the man he hated most in the world.
CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN
‘That was kind of a bust,’ said Bloch as she flipped on the siren and flashers in the patrol car. They were on their way to Bay City.
It was the first thing she’d said for an hour.
And Sheriff Dole knew it didn’t need to be said at all.
They’d torn the house to shreds. Apart from the books – they got zip. Nothing. Not a single trace of evidence, or even a lead that could connect Oakes to either Paul or Maria Cooper. The books were interesting, and Dole could tell that Bloch was still churning them over in her mind. She’d taken half a dozen in evidence bags, but of course, on their own, they were not evidence of anything other than perhaps poor taste or an unhealthy obsession. If they got something solid, a decent prosecutor could put a spin on those books for a jury.
‘Maybe there’s something on Maria’s phone,’ said Dole.
He was reaching, and he knew it. Dole put a hand on the dash as Bloch hit the brakes. Stop light. She slowed, then rolled through the traffic on Johnstone Avenue amidst the blare of car horns.
The hospital loomed in front of them. Dole didn’t know if Maria was medically fit to be interviewed.
Not that this mattered to Dole. The doc couldn’t stop him speaking to Maria. There were advantages to being a sheriff, one of which was professional courtesy from his Bay City counterparts, and there was no way they would bar him from the hospital.
Dole didn’t want to push Maria. He knew she would be fragile. Maybe even delirious. The memory of the attack might never return to her and Dole had accepted this fact. He’d heard of it before. Some things are just too painful for the human mind to hold onto. They have to be expelled or their poison will spread, destroying the host. Human memory was designed to remember and to forget. A fact that was never lost on Sheriff Dole. He could no longer remember Eden’s face before the sickness took her. Yet he remembered the pattern of tile on the hospital floor, the smell of the chemicals that they’d pumped into her, the sallow pitted cheeks that would draw her lips into a smile when she noticed him by her bedside. He could not forget Linzi’s bone-white bloated body floating in the water, and the nights he’d spent searching for her. Memory could be a curse.
They pulled up in the lot opposite the hospital. It was too damned busy to try and get a space any closer. And if by chance they did find parking in the multilevel lot, they could get stuck in there if they tried to leave at shift change. Safer to stay across the street and walk over, which is what they did.
There was a crowd of people waiting outside the bank of elevators on the ground floor of the hospital, but despite his eagerness to speak to Maria, Dole decided to wait for the elevator. Eight floors of stairs would put his knee on ice for week. He needed to be mobile. At least for a while longer.
By the time they got to the right floor, visitors had begun to arrive on the ward. Bloch spoke to the nurse who’d been so friendly to her the other day, and she showed them both to Maria’s private room. They let the nurse go in first. Bloch approached the glass, peered inside. Dole did the same. It was important they didn’t scare her. Taking things softly and slowly with trauma victims came as second nature to good cops. Bloch and Dole both.
The ceiling lights in the room had been turned off. The only light came from an extendable lamp attached to the wall above the bed, pointed toward the corner so it didn’t shine directly into Maria’s eyes. Other than the muted lamp, the machines surrounding Maria gave off a faint glow. There was enough light from the corridor to reach her face, but again it was shaded through the tinted glass window.
Maria sat up in bed. A vast bandage around the top of her skull. She was talking to the nurse, and the nurse in turn was caressing the back of her hand, calming her. With Maria’s other hand, she shaded her eyes from the lamp.
The nurse reached up and moved the lamp out from the wall by two or three feet. This increased the light in the room, and Maria tightened the fingers over her eyes. Dole could see Maria’s teeth clench against the intrusion, her jaw muscles bunching, a faint hiss as she took in a sharp breath. This must’ve been because of the coma, or the head injury, Dole wasn’t sure which. Light sources were a problem for Maria in her current, weakened state, and Dole knew he would just have to deal with it as best he could.
The nurse left the room, said, ‘You can go in, but please don’t upset her.’
Dole nodded, asked if she’d been told what happened to her.
‘No, not yet. She’s been told she had a traumatic brain injury, and that’s all. Go easy.’
Dole held open the door for Bloch. She went in first, just a few feet, allowing Dole to come inside and close the door. They left distance between themselves and Maria’s bed. Maria watched them come in, but said nothing. It was hard to read the expression on her face. At first it appeared blank, but as Dole’s eyes became accustomed to the gloom he saw wrinkles in her forehead, creases in the center of her brow. Her pupils were still unbalanced. One fat black pupil in her right eye, the other pupil a small dot in a paddling pool of electric blue.
‘Maria, it’s Sheriff Abraham Dole. This is Deputy Bloch. How are you feeling?’
‘The pain isn’t so bad. They gave me drugs,’ she said, softly, and as if to explain she held up her right hand, showing them the butterfly line into her vein, and a tube leading from her hand off the bed and ascending into clear bags of liquid hung above her.
‘May we talk with you?’ said Dole.
She didn’t nod, she closed and opened her eyes with a fleeting half-smile that disappeared as quickly as it had arrived.
Dole took this to be a yes.
They approached the bed, reverently, and both sat in the low vinyl chairs that had been set out on the left side of the room.
‘If at any point you want us to stop, just say so. We can come back another time. Okay?’ said Dole.
‘It’s fine.’
Dole and Bloch exchanged glances, unsure. Dole didn’t want to get his hopes up.
Licking his lips, Dole thought about a question. Something to get her talking. Something wide open. He didn’t want to jump straight in.
‘What do you remember?’ he said.
Maria closed and opened her eyes, turned to Dole and spoke carefully and confidently, her voice a dry branch cracking in a forest.
Dole nodded, but didn’t say anything more. He wanted Maria to open up. The silent prompt worked.
‘I found something out about my husband,’ she said.
‘What did you find out?’ said Dole.
‘It’s hazy. He has money. I remember that.’
Bloch brought out her cell phone. She cycled through her email, recovered the picture of the bank statement she’d saved. Showed it to Maria.
‘J. T. LeBeau. He’s an author,’ said Bloch. ‘We think your husband might be the man who wrote those books. It would seem to explain the money.’
‘Yes. Yes, he lied to me. We argued. I remember that.’
‘You argued about him lying to you?’ asked Dole.
Her eyes began to sightlessly search for an answer.
‘It must have been that. I remember I was in the kitchen. I was thinking about him. I thought about how much I loved him. Then he must’ve hurt me.’
Dole took a breath, waited, then asked, ‘Do you think that you confronted your husband? Is that what happened?’
‘He hit me. From behind,’ said Maria. ‘It must’ve been him. It could only have been him. I was in the kitchen. Waiting for him. I didn’t see who it was. I felt something hit the back of my head. He must’ve snuck in through the front door.’
Dole didn’t know if she was voicing memory, or convincing herself about what happened.
She paused, then stared at Dole and said with absolute conviction, ‘My husband hit me on the head. He tried to kill me.’
CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT
Twenty sweat-soaked minutes.
That’s all it took.
Daryl spoke to Mr. Alleyne for three minutes. Showed him ID. Paul showed Mr. Alleyne ID as well. Mr. Alleyne smiled. Then he told them to wait.
Seventeen minutes later two large leather satchels appeared on the heavy shoulders of two big security guards.
Nineteen point three million dollars. There were some local taxes and bank fees to be paid, which totaled six hundred and ninety-eight thousand dollars. The two grand was a service charge for secure transport. Paul signed a chit allowing the seven hundred thousand dollar deduction. The guards came with the cash to a town car parked outside, put the cash in the trunk and ushered Daryl and Paul into the back. The car was fully loaded with champagne, still water, whiskey and gin. Paul didn’t dare touch any of it, no matter how many times the guard up front told them to pour a drink and relax. The bank’s security team drove them to the marina, loaded up the boat with the satchels. Daryl tipped the harbormaster ten grand to make sure there was no record made of his short docking.
Paul felt like he hadn’t drawn breath since he’d walked into the bank. Soon as Daryl fired up the engine and took them out of the dock, Paul knelt over and gasped for air, felt his heart quickening and his eyeballs bulging out of his head.
They had done it. Daryl’s crazy-ass scheme had worked. He’d anticipated the bank freezing the account, and he’d dealt with it smoothly. Paul sat behind Daryl and laughed.
Daryl, at the helm, started laughing too. He took off his jacket, rolled up his shirt sleeves and gunned the engine.
The euphoria lasted until they broke into open water, leaving the island in the distance. Daryl eased back on the thrust, placed his hand on his bag of clothes, which he’d put on the floor beside him. Neither of them spoke, the giddiness simply passed without comment. The fat leather satchels lay below. Safe. Secure. The relief swept over Paul like soft, cool ocean spray.
But it didn’t last long. This was the moment. No going back. Paul let the anger build. He felt it in his closed fists, his tense shoulders and the tightness at the base of his neck. For some time, he didn’t know how long, he saw Linzi’s face very clearly. The picture dissolved into Maria – lying in the hospital, her head almost caved in. He saw the flames licking around the trunk of a car, and he could smell something or someone cooking. He didn’t know if the noise came from the fire eating the car, or if it was the scream and banging of the fire eating the man in the trunk. These images and sounds flew away as quickly as they had come, revealing the man with his back to Paul. The man who was about to pay for all the hurt he had caused. As Daryl looked out at the horizon, behind him, Paul slipped the knife from his jacket. The dock was still visible, but barely. They were headed out into deep water. As soon as the Caymans were distant, and they were alone, Daryl would make his move. Paul could wait no longer. The time was now.
At first he was unsure how he should hold the knife. It felt small and flimsy in one hand. He stood, quietly, got the feeling of the boat under his legs. He moved forward slowly, and holding the blade like a dagger, he told himself he could do this.
It was a beautiful day. Virtually no wind. The sea a magnificent blue. No clouds above them.
Paul moved forward. This man had ruined his life. Paul was going to rid himself of LeBeau forever.
Outside the cabin, a frigatebird rode alongside the boat, catching a thermal, with two white-tailed tropicbirds dancing below it in interconnecting spirals.
Another step. Quiet. Slow. He opened the cabin door, moved inside with Daryl still focused on the course ahead.
The boat passed a flock of gulls resting on the surface of the water.
Paul raised the knife above his head. Arched his back.
A brilliant sun cast silver pearls of light on the tips of the rippling current.
The only sound came from the engine, and the somnambulant beat of the sea against the hull.
His back stretched, his teeth clenched, eyes wide and focused on the back of Daryl’s neck.
A seagull cried out.
Paul whipped his arms and torso forward as fast and hard as he could, plunging the knife into Daryl’s back like a piledriver.
He’d been aiming for the back of Daryl’s neck. In between his shoulder blades. Using his core, his back muscles and his shoulders to give additional force to the blow, he’d hoped to put the knife through Daryl’s cervical spine, severing the central nervous system and dropping Daryl like a puppet who’d had its strings cut.
The speed and force deployed shook his aim. Half an inch to the right of the spine, the knife plunged into Daryl’s flesh. Such was the force of the downward momentum of the blow, that the knife entered the skin and slid into the muscle up to the hilt then carried on, cutting down through the muscle and opening a three-inch gash in Daryl’s back.
Letting go of the steering, Daryl’s arms flailed out, his back curved inward and his legs gave way.
He fell to his knees.
He didn’t cry out.
Paul pulled the knife from the wound and as he raised it over his head for a second strike, he felt a fine, warm spray of blood on his neck and chin. He leaned back, winding up for the blow and this time as the knife came down he aimed for the top of Daryl’s head. An involuntary, high-pitched roar escaped from Paul, gaining in volume as he sprung forward and pulled the knife down toward Daryl.
He missed.
Daryl’s arms shot up, and he lurched to his left. It was enough to deflect the blow and the knife clattered against the back of the seat, Paul’s wrists hitting the headrest.
Paul couldn’t breathe. The knife felt slippery in his hands. Daryl had almost knocked it from his grasp. He knew he had to make the next move and it would need to be decisive. He was not a fighter.
He stood back, grabbed Daryl’s left ankle in one hand and began to drag him away from the seats and the console, into an open space, so he could jump on top of him and hold him down with his knees and then put the knife through Daryl’s eye.
At first, Daryl resisted, holding onto the seat as Paul tried to drag him.
‘Let go,’ said Paul, slashing at Daryl’s ankle with the knife.
Daryl let go. Paul leaned back and moved his feet, dragging Daryl, leaving a bloody trail in his wake.
Paul let go of Daryl’s ankle and lunged forward, leading with the knife, re
ady to knock the wind from his victim and finish the job.
He didn’t see the heel of Daryl’s boot coming. He simply felt it crack against his jaw and then his body hit the deck. He got up, scrambling, his feet slipping on the floor. He’d lost the knife. He looked around, couldn’t see it. It must’ve skidded away, under a seat. He dropped to all fours, looked left and right.
It was gone.
He raised his head and saw Daryl standing back at the helm, opening his bag. He came up with a gun in his hand. Paul got to his feet and stood facing the barrel.
Click.
Daryl’s expression changed. From a pained yet impassive look his face collapsed into confusion. Paul had a decision to make. Take the chance and charge at Daryl, get his hands around his throat and squeeze. Or back off. Fight or flight.
Paul always wondered what it would be like to have that primal surge of adrenaline soaking through his bloodstream. Would he charge forward, or run? In everything he’d read about it, he’d come to the conclusion that it was not a choice, exactly. Your body almost took over, in a certain respect – it decided to fight or flee, and conscious decision-making didn’t factor into it at all.
Except this was not what happened to Paul. His body was trembling, and he felt that flood of adrenaline, but instead of it spurring him into action it rooted him to the spot. Like his body was an over-tuned Camaro and some whack job was standing on the gas pedal, sending the wheels spinning but far too fast and with too much torque to be able to put the power down.
Daryl pulled open the breech, checked the magazine.
Empty.
Paul stood there – his tires squealing and shredding themselves on the asphalt.
Daryl bent low to the bag again, came up with a knife in his hand. Paul had lost his chance. Fear and indecision had chosen his path for him. There was no way he could take on an armed man. Even a wounded one. And this was no ordinary man. He was a killer.
He had but one choice in the moment of clarity that mercifully came back to him. He turned and ran for the cabin door, lifting both satchels as he went. He swapped both bags into one hand so he could open the door, but the weight was too much.
Twisted Page 23
