Tonight I Said Goodbye (St. Martin's Minotaur Mystery)

by Michael Koryta

  Three cars were parked in the visitor spaces in the front circle; I didn't remember if they'd been there before. I pushed through the heavy glass doors and started for the elevator. Halfway there I stopped short.

  The reception desk was empty. Rebecca was nowhere to be seen. How long had we been gone? Ten minutes, tops. She could have gone to the bathroom, or maybe out to smoke a cigarette. My gut told me she hadn't, though. I walked behind the desk.

  She was lying on the floor, a bloody bruise swelling over the right side of her face. I dropped to my knees beside her and reached out to turn her over. When I touched her, her eyes opened and she jerked away from me as if I were the physical form of whatever evil had been dancing through her unconscious mind.

  "It's okay," I said. Her eyes were foggy. They reminded me of the eyes of addicts and winos I'd seen in my days on the force, eyes that saw a world separate from reality. She started to drop her head back to the ground, but I caught it and forced her to look at me. "Where are they?"

  She blinked hard, trying to come back to full consciousness. Blood was dripping from the cut on her cheekbone to my hand. I looked at it, felt its warmth on my skin, and was stirred by a seething, burning anger. She had nothing to do with this, but they'd hurt her anyhow. I removed my gun and slipped the safety off. Julie had asked if I could kill to protect her daughter. The Russians damn well better believe I could.

  "Where are they?" I asked again, stroking Rebecca's cheek with my thumb, trying to keep her conscious.

  "Sent 'em . . . your room," she stuttered, her eyes fluttering and rolling like pinballs. She was about to pass out again. I gave her a gentle shake, and her eyes rolled back into focus momentarily. "I sent them to your room. They took my master keycard." Each word was an effort. "I wasn't going to give it to them, but . . . they hit me," she said, and her tone changed, as if she wasn't telling this to me but was telling it to herself and was surprised by the news. They hit me. A group of strangers walked into this hotel and hit me.

  I eased her back to the ground and looked around. She needed medical attention, but I needed that tape. The Russians were on the second floor now, though, and when they realized it was empty they'd be coming back down with more questions. And they'd be angry. I couldn't leave Rebecca here.

  I set the gun aside and lifted her, holding her easily in both arms, and walked into the manager's office behind the reception desk. There was little more than a desk and two file cabinets inside. The door would lock, though. I set her on the ground, picked up the phone on the desk, and dialed 911. I dropped the receiver back to the desk, knowing they'd have to send an officer out to check on the call if no one spoke. I didn't have time to give them a rundown, either. I pushed the lock button on the inside of the door and pulled it shut behind me, then tried the knob. It was locked. The door wouldn't hold if the Russians tried to force it, but at least she was out of sight and help would be on the way. I ignored the elevator and went for the stairs.

  I ran up the stairs with the type of desperate panic that would carry people down them if a fire broke out in the building. By the time I reached the seventh floor, my heart was pounding and my pores had opened up, releasing a fresh, cold sweat. I pushed the door open and pivoted into the hall, gun drawn. I was staring at a group of four middle-aged women. They saw the gun and started to scream hysterically. I froze for a moment, then ignored them and ran for Julie's room, fumbling in my pocket for the keycard. The women kept screaming as I opened the door and slammed it behind me.

  The room was empty. I left the light off and crossed to the couch, then dropped to my knees and felt under the couch with my hands. Nothing was there. I slid my hand farther under the couch and drew it slowly from one end to the other. Nothing. My throat tightened. Where the hell could it be? I dropped the gun to the floor and hooked my fingers under the edge of the couch, dragged it away from the wall, then lifted it and tipped it over on its side. There was the tape, pushed to the far corner beyond my reach. I picked it up and slipped it under my shirt and into the waistband of my jeans.

  Outside, the screaming reached a higher pitch. I turned to the door and switched the gun to my right hand, dropping into a crouch. The red light of the electronic lock glowed back at me, telling me the door was still locked.

  When Randy Hartwick died in front of me, I'd watched a red dot appear and disappear on his chest. Now, as I watched this one, it disappeared as well, then turned green. Someone had slipped a keycard into the lock.

  I went down on one knee and sighted the gun on the door as it swung open. The first thing I saw was not a person but the barrel of another gun, and then the room erupted into a clatter of automatic gunfire. I squeezed off two return shots, then threw myself on the floor, rolling behind the upturned couch as bullets splattered into the walls around me, showers of glass raining down when the balcony door shattered.

  I slid my head past the edge of the couch and looked at the door, surprised to find it was closed again. The shots were being fired from the hallway, through the door and the walls. Maybe one of my bullets had found its mark on the man who'd pushed the door open. I put two more rounds through the door, and then the shots from the hall ceased.

  I fired four more shots, taking my time with these, and then got to my feet and stepped through the hole of jagged glass where the balcony door had been. The men in the hallway were regrouping, but they would undoubtedly open fire again soon. There was no time to hesitate; it was get out now or die later. I pushed the gun back into my waistband, next to the videotape, and put both hands on the railing. It was only seven stories up, but seven stories looks like a lot when you're about to swing your body over the edge of a railing. If I had any doubts, though, they ended when gunfire opened up again, punching into the walls behind me. I swung over the edge.

  I slid my hands down the rails until I was hanging by the bottom bar. My body was suspended seven stories above the concrete surrounding the pool. Shots were being fired into the room again, and a few of the bullets banged off the railing above me, dangerously close. I kicked my feet backward, pulling my body away from the balcony, and then swung my body in an arc, releasing my hold on the rail as the momentum brought me back toward the building. I made it just over the railing of the balcony below me, landing awkwardly, my feet tangled with one of the plastic chairs.

  In my landing the videotape had fallen free, but it was within reach, and thankfully the gun hadn't discharged into my ass. I gathered the tape up and looked inside the hotel room. It was dark. The glass door to this balcony was open, but the screen was closed. No one was home, but they'd still wanted the fresh air circulating while they were out. I appreciated the choice. I put my foot through the screen and then used my hand to tear it loose. Above me, I heard a door slam against the wall, then more shots. They'd entered the room. That meant in a few short seconds they would know I'd jumped off the balcony. When they didn't see my corpse on the pavement, it wouldn't be hard to guess what I'd done. I pulled the room door open and ran into the hallway.

  I considered the stairs, but the elevator was right in front of me with the doors standing open, so I jumped inside. If they had men in the lobby, they'd be waiting for me whether I took the stairs or the elevator. I stood to the side of the elevator car, in a shooter's stance, and waited while the doors opened slowly. The lobby was empty. Behind the desk, the door to the manager's office was still closed. Rebecca was safe for now. I ran out of the building. As I went through the front doors, I heard another door bang open as someone stepped out of the stairwell. They would expect me to run toward the street. I ducked to the right and ran around the side of the building, toward the beach and away from the street. And right into two armed men.

  One was Rakic, and the other was a fat, pasty-skinned blond man I'd never seen before. They had their backs to me, and they were looking intently at the balconies. When I came sprinting up, they heard me and turned.

  Rakic shouted something unintelligible, and the pale fat man spun toward me,
lifting a sawed-off shotgun. I shot him twice in the face, and he fell hard. A red mist sprayed onto Rakic. He dropped his own gun and fell to his knees, screaming and lifting his hands to his face, apparently convinced I'd shot him because of all the blood. I turned and ran back toward the street as someone fired at me from the balcony, the bullets kicking up bits of grass and dirt behind my feet.

  I sprinted down the sidewalk, running faster than I'd moved since high school track, well aware there were three men still in pursuit and that I had only one round left in my gun.

  I ran out into the street, and several cars honked at me and swerved to avoid a collision. I found the parking lot where I'd left Julie and Betsy. I'd told her to leave after ten minutes. How long had it been? They'd better still be there.

  They were. I glanced over my shoulder and saw nothing but an empty sidewalk. I tucked the gun back under my shirt and wiped the sweat from my face, then knocked on the driver's door. Julie leaned over and unlocked it, and I slid behind the wheel.

  "What happened?" she asked. I was covered in sweat and gasping for breath, and a few drops of the fat man's blood dotted my T-shirt. Betsy was sitting up in the backseat now, staring at me with eyes like dinner plates.

  "Nothing happened," I said. "But we're leaving now. Betsy, honey, would you do me a huge favor and lie down in the backseat? We're going to be driving for a while, and I want you to take a nap. I'll get you an extra ice cream tomorrow if you lie down."

  She went down obediently, but her eyes remained open, and she clutched the stuffed cat to her chest a little tighter. Scared. She was a little girl, not an idiot, and she knew something was wrong.

  The parking lot had exits onto Business 17 and Ocean Avenue. I turned onto 17 and drove south, watching my rearview mirror carefully. A squad car passed us, lights flashing and siren wailing, and hung a left, heading toward the Golden Breakers. They'd be looking for me soon enough. Rebecca would tell them my name, and they'd put out an all-points bulletin. They would even have the license plate number on the rental car, since I'd been required to put it on the hotel registration form. I didn't fear the police at all compared to the Russians, but I also didn't want to be stopped. I wanted to get back to Cleveland, and Joe. Together, we'd work this out. Or die trying.

  CHAPTER 20

  I DROVE south for an hour, even though it was the opposite direction from where I wanted to be heading. The less reasonable the route, the harder it would be to follow, I figured. I probably had an hour or so before the APB on my license plate went out, and then every state trooper in South Carolina would be looking for me. And for good reason--I'd just killed a man. I thought about it in a detached way now, as if I hadn't actually pulled the trigger but watched someone else do it.

  I'd pulled my gun several times in my police days, but I'd never fired to kill. I imagined tonight's incident would have more impact when the adrenaline died down, and I wasn't looking forward to that. It had been the definition of a self-defense killing, but it had been a killing nonetheless, and I'd never wanted to experience that, regardless of the circumstances or the victim. Julie had asked me if I could kill for her daughter, and I'd told her yes. I'd believed it when I said it, and she'd seemed to believe it, but I hadn't expected the statement to be put to the test.

  I drove to Charleston and took the interstate north out of the city. Cleveland was probably a fourteen-hour drive from Charleston, which meant I had a long night--and morning--ahead of me. It was slightly after eleven when we left Charleston, but I couldn't even imagine sleeping. The adrenaline coursing through my veins was more intense than anything I'd felt before, and I thought I could probably abandon the car and run to Cleveland with Betsy on my back if necessary.

  Julie and I did not speak. Betsy stayed awake until we hit Charleston. There the fatigue caught up with her and overpowered the fear, allowing her to sleep. Twenty minutes out of Charleston, Julie turned around and stroked her daughter's arm, making sure she was sound asleep. Satisfied, she pulled back into her seat and looked at me.

  "Will you tell me what happened now?"

  I kept my eyes on the highway. "I got the tape. The Russians were at the hotel, though. Your hotel room turned into the O.K. Corral for a few minutes, and I jumped off the balcony onto the one below it, then ran out of the hotel and right into two of them. One of the guys swung a shotgun at me, and I killed him." My voice was the same odd monotone it had been during my conversation with Joe. Detached. No emotion. Just routine talk from a cold, calculating, reflex killer.

  Seven minutes passed before she spoke again. I watched the dashboard clock.

  "I'm sorry" was what she said when she did break the silence.

  "Why are you sorry? It's not your fault."

  "Yes, it is. They weren't there for you. They were there for me."

  "I might have led them to you, though. I used a credit card to pay for my flight and my hotel room. I assume they have someone who is capable of tracing that. I should have considered it to begin with, but I didn't. So it's just as much my fault as yours." I wasn't sure how the Russians had become aware of me in the first place, or concerned enough to try to trace me, but I figured that was how it had happened.

  "No," she said, shaking her head in the darkness. "It's not your fault or my fault. We didn't do anything wrong, we're just paying the consequences. It's my husband's fault--his and Jeremiah Hubbard's." She said it sadly but firmly.

  We drove on in silence.

  "Are you going to drive all the way to Ohio?" she asked several minutes later.

  "I'm going to try."

  "That's not safe. You'll be exhausted."

  "Julie, it would take a dozen tranquilizers to slow me down right now."

  "Okay."

  "Besides, the farther we get, the better. The police will be looking for the car."

  "Is that a problem?"

  I shrugged. "We agreed that we didn't want to deal with the local authorities, but I'm not too worried about it. If they pull me over, I'll go to jail and you can ask for the FBI. These hick cops will be happy to do it, because they won't have a clue what to do with you." Cody was with the FBI, but I didn't see how he could possibly have enough power to get to Julie and Betsy once they were under the control of authorities in a different state. Yet I continued to keep them out of police hands. A fool for a keeper, that's what they had.

  "Why would you go to jail?" Julie asked.

  "I killed a man, Julie. It was a justifiable homicide, but I'm going to have to prove that in court. All the cops know is that I shot up a hotel and killed a man. They aren't going to let me go home right away."

  She reached out and gripped my arm. "I need you with us. If they arrest you, they'll separate us."

  "I know. That's why I'm not going directly to the cops. But if they stop us, that's what's going to happen. We'll deal with that when we come to it."

  Julie turned her head and stared out of the window. "I know it seems unimportant now, but we need to talk about what happened in the whirlpool tonight. I need to apologize for that."

  "It's fine, Julie."

  She shook her head. "No, it's not. I can't believe I did that. My husband has been dead for ten days, Lincoln. Ten days. And I'm jumping on you in a hotel hot tub. Classy." She looked up at me and pushed her hair away from her face. "It was an emotional response to a lot of fear and confusion," she said. "That's all it was."

  "Of course. I didn't think you might have actually found me attractive." It was a juvenile response, and I regretted it as soon as it left my mouth.

  "That's not what I meant," she said.

  "I know. I'm sorry."

  She gave a short laugh and then sighed. "That was the problem, Lincoln--I do find you attractive. In so many ways. In every way. I've known you for one day, and yet I'm incredibly drawn to you. And I feel that's wrong. It is wrong, considering the circumstances. But I can't help it. You came to me when I needed someone, and you have all the qualities I'd always . . . I'd always thought my husband ha
d," she finished softly.

  We sat in an awkward silence after that. After a few minutes I realized she was crying. I didn't move toward her this time, though. I'd learned my lesson. Eventually, she reached out and took my hand in hers, brought it away from the steering wheel and to her face. She kissed my fingertips softly, her lips so warm they seemed to sear my flesh. A few of her tears fell to my skin as well. It was an appropriate mix. She placed my hand back on the steering wheel, took a deep breath, leaned back in the seat, and closed her eyes.

  Then it was just me and the road. The traffic was sparse, and I stayed in the left lane with the cruise control set on seventy-five. Fast enough to make good time, but not fast enough on the interstate to attract attention from police. I watched carefully for them, and once I saw a state police car headed in the opposite direction, but it did not slow.

  The dashboard clock rolled over to midnight, and a song lyric popped into my head: lonely midnight drivers, drifting out to sea. Who did the song? What was the song? I couldn't remember either answer, but there that line was, trapped in my mind. Funny.

  We crossed over the state line early in the morning and then spent two hours driving through North Carolina before entering Virginia. The entire eastern seaboard in an exciting midnight tour. Police drove past and didn't slow. Julie and Betsy slept soundly. I stopped once to fill the car with gas, and I called Joe. He answered immediately, and I realized guiltily that he probably hadn't slept at all, waiting for my call. I told him what had happened, and I told him I hoped to be in Cleveland later that morning. We wished each other well, and then I drove on, a lonely midnight driver drifting out to . . . to what? A quick, simple solution, I thought optimistically. I didn't believe it, though. Not even for a second.