He saw me looking and smiled. “You like art?”
Of course, I like art, this art anyway. Who wouldn’t?
“You must have good security,” I said, letting him know I was aware that these paintings were worth millions.
He gave me his man-of-the-world, knowing smirk. “Top class alarm system, of course,” he replied, “And if that fails, there’s always this.”
He opened an unlocked bottom drawer, took something out and pointed it at me. A pistol. I nearly jumped out of my chair.
“Relax,” he said, “It’s not loaded.” He aimed it at the ceiling and pulled the trigger to prove his point. There was a loud click, but no shot fired.
“I keep a few clips of bullets in here as well,” he said, “My lawyer doesn’t like it but to hell with him. I’ll use it if I ever have to.”
I swallowed hard. If he’d meant to impress me with his ruthlessness, he’d succeeded.
“This latest incident has set you back,” he said, getting to the point, “You were just about to get back on the saddle, weren’t you?” It was a statement of disappointment rather than a question.
“A bit. The arm will heal pretty quick. I get the stitches out in a week.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
I knew exactly what he meant. “Shock? I suppose so. Hard to tell.” I gave him a weak smile. “We’ll find out if I start screaming in the middle of the night.” It was a feeble attempt to lighten the mood and ward off more questions.
He brushed it aside like a feather. “What do the police say?” He’d probably have button-holed them on their way out of my hospital room and asked them already. Or even called their boss. Eric had friends in high places.
“They think it might be some crackpot who’s seen me in the news. Seeing as I’ve been plastered all over the TV, internet and newspapers. If not that, then it’s some personal thing. They even asked if I’m dating anyone in case there’s a jealous ex around.”
“And what do you think?”
“I’m hoping they’re wrong. It only went off because the deliverer tried to force it through the mail slot. It could have been addressed to anybody. There’s a guy two doors down who works as a bailiff, and one across the street who’s a divorce lawyer. I’ve got wrong mail before.”
He studied his whiskey. “Hmmm . . . they don’t usually make mistakes though. Sure, it doesn’t have anything to do with the crash?”
I loved his oblique way of putting it. The crash. “I can’t see it.”
“So, what next?”
“I go home tomorrow, ignore any press hovering around my door, and carry on. It’ll be a two-day wonder.”
“Hopefully.” He looked unconvinced. “How are you fixed for money? Taking care of the medical bills?”
I shook my head. “You’ve been very generous already. My health insurance covered most of it and, after all the publicity, the government took care of the rest.” Namely, the medical care, PTSD evaluation, psychiatric counselling and the eye treatment for snow blindness. “I’m looking forward to getting back to work soon. None of this is your fault, Eric.”
His eyes met mine and he slowly nodded. “I know. But you’re a valued employee and I sent you down there. You were working for me when it happened. I can’t forget that.”
Truth was, Eric had sent me down there because I’d been around him for long enough that he was sure I’d keep my trap shut, not only about any dodgy business dealings but also about his personal life. In reality I was nothing more to him than a glorified chauffeur, paid well and therefore as loyal as a dog in exchange. But Eric was smart, cunning, and knew that loyalty had to be a top priority for someone in his position. That’s what he couldn’t and wouldn’t forget.
I thought of the things I couldn’t forget, of the little horror videos that kept replaying in my head, all because I’d needed some quick money and had taken Eric’s pointless job. How easy he had it really, both in his head and outside it. All at once a great weariness came over me.
“The last couple of day’s are catching up with me,” I said, “I need an early night.” I put the cut glass tumbler down as if it weighed a ton and stood up, taking the initiative with him for once. He wouldn’t be happy with that but for once I didn’t care. I made a point of walking stiffly across the room knowing that Eric wouldn’t miss such obvious signalling and turned at the door.
“Gravity seems to have increased,” I said, forcing a grin.
“You’ll feel better tomorrow,” Eric replied, “Sleep well.”
When I got to the bedroom I pulled off my clothes and barely had strength to hang them over a chair. I put the little round container of pills next the bed and slumped in under the cool sheets, feeling like a man of ninety. Delayed shock, I told myself. I switched off the bedside lamp and was asleep in about five minutes.
Chapter 6
That night the dream comes again.
I’m free of my body but this is a much worse kind of pain. A reel of film unfolds, as it always does, familiar, so familiar. An actor imprisoned in my role, I end up falling, falling . . .
Into a deep, dark pit. I want to be buried under boulders here, but I don’t control the story and it refuses to happen. Instead, I discover I’m not alone. She is there, my sins reflected in the pallor of her face. I turn and run away but an ugly shadow follows in my tracks, getting closer, ever closer.
It’s the Hunger and it won’t be denied. Closer . . .
I wake up and fling the bed sheets down to my feet. The pillow under my neck is soaking wet. I roll over and there is another pool of sweat under my back.
Early morning light seeps around the window blind. I glance at the clock. Four a.m. knows all my secrets.
In the bathroom I splash my face with water, stare into the mirror. Sunken eyes stare back. I feel my soul drip, drip, drip to the floor like a bleeding sore.
Near Mendoza city, Argentina, a year earlier.
Chapter 7
“Jennifer Larsen?” I shouted.
The figure ahead straightened up and looked in my direction. I gave a little wave and immediately felt stupid. All I could see was a wide brimmed hat with long netting draped all around the edge, hanging down over what looked like a very dirty space suit. Bees orbited all around, flitting to and fro from the tall mounds of wooden boxes behind the static figure.
Finally, it moved and walked towards me, shedding clouds of bees in its wake, until it stood within touching distance. I almost felt like stepping back. Gloved hands wrenched off the netted hat, revealing a slim-faced girl. She shook her blonde ponytail free.
“What can I do for you?” she said, not exactly friendly.
I decided on the direct approach. “My name’s Calvin Knox. Your father sent me.”
Instantly a deep frown lined her forehead. “Then I’m sorry you’ve come so far. We’ve nothing to discuss.”
Eric had warned me to expect this. “Can’t I just deliver his message and leave? I can see you’re busy. It won’t take long.”
She eyed me up and down, looked at her watch, then shrugged. “Okay. It’s lunchtime and I’m due a break anyway. But you shouldn’t have come.” She led me through a field, my feet stumbling in the hard furrows between some low-growing crops I couldn’t identify. We ducked under a netted area and came out the other side to a small building that looked only partly completed. It appeared to be constructed largely from old tyres and empty wine bottles held together by adobe.
Inside she stripped off the bee suit, revealing shorts and slim, lightly tanned legs. In the corner sat a surprisingly new looking red cooler bag which she unzipped.
“All I have is iced mate,” she said and handed me a pleasantly cold bottle of light brown liquid. I unscrewed the top and sipped. It wasn’t bad at all so I happily glugged away. We sat on the bare ground and looked at each other.
“What’s the message?” she said. “Let me guess. He wants me to come home?”
Got it in one. I took another swig fr
om the bottle to give me time to think. “He said to tell you that he needs you.”
She burst out laughing, tilted her head back, enjoying it.
“He needs me like a pain in the ass,” she said.
“You’re his only child. He’s worried about you.”
She shook her head. “Mr. Knox, you’ve come a very long way for nothing. Dad is worried about his business empire. I’m his only child and he wants to groom me into wheeling and dealing so that I take over after he’s gone. That ain’t gonna happen. Instead of destroying the environment like he does I’m much happier here, helping to save a precious little piece of it.”
I didn’t want to get into all that, and I suspected I’d be on her side anyway. “He told me to say that he’ll cut off funds if you don’t come home.”
Her eyes flared. “Let him. I don’t need much to get by on here. This community needs me more than he does. He can hire managers.”
I tried a different tack. “What about your mother?”
“Stepmother.”
This wasn’t going well. I told myself it wasn’t any of my business; I’d done what I’d been told to do, fulfilled my remit. “OK. Anything else you want me to say to him?”
“Tell him to . . . ,” she seemed to bite her tongue and reconsider. “Tell him I appreciate his concern but there’s nothing to worry about. I’m having a great time here and he’ll see me when he sees me.” She stood up. “Now, if you don’t mind, I have some cleaning to finish.”
I nodded. We walked to where I’d parked, and she turned away without a word. I got into my rental car, a new model Volkswagen and inserted the key.
Nothing. Tried again, and again. Dead engine. I wound the window down.
“Wait! I have a problem.”
She turned at my shout and came back.
I explained my predicament. “I have a flight to catch tomorrow morning.”
She smiled. “I’ll get Thiago to look at your car later. In the meantime, you can take mine. As long as you get it back to me within a day or two.”
I assured her I would – all expenses were going on her father’s bill anyway – and she led me over to a hideous lime green Toyota pick-up that probably dated back to the Eighties.
The engine started first time. At the farm ‘gates’, which consisted of two weather-beaten wooden posts sticking up at odd angles, I took the dirt trail south-west that would eventually get me back to Mendoza.
The wheels bobbed in and out of bone-dry ruts, the vehicle’s ancient suspension protested, and my head nearly hit the roof. I reached for the air conditioning but of course there wasn’t any.
It had taken me two hours to get here. It was going to be a long drive back.
Chapter 8
I got back to Mendoza around suppertime and explained my situation to the car rental. They charged me for two extra days plus a hefty pick-up fee for sending out two of their staff to the farm. When the manager presented me with a handwritten invoice I noticed that a “garage fee” and “delivery fee” for the rust bucket Toyota had been added as well. I didn’t even blink; it all went on the travel account that Eric had given me.
Back at the hotel I crashed out on the bed for an hour and woke up hungry but didn’t fancy any of the hotel food. I showered, went down to the foyer and got the concierge to call me a taxi. A black vehicle with a yellow top pulled up at the door and I got in the back.
“Where’s a good place to eat?” I asked the moustached driver.
“You want restaurant, club, bar?”
I thought about it. Definitely not clubbing. I had one night here and wanted to get a sense of the place. A fancy restaurant wouldn’t do that.
“Bar,” I replied, “Some place with atmosphere, character, you understand?”
He nodded. “I take you to Bar Histórico. You like it there.”
We drove along main streets then turned off into an older part of the city. He pulled up at a cobbled street corner and pointed across the road. I paid him and got out.
Inside the door, I took my time and peered around. The place had the look of bars the world over. . . black-spotted mirrors on wood-paneled walls, lamps with metal shades hanging from the ceiling, curvy-backed chairs and small, dark tables pitted with deep, varnished-over scratches. A ‘Chat Noir’ advertisement that looked original hung in an alcove and a chalked blackboard sign proudly declared, ‘Histórico, Bar Restaurante, Desde 1893’. I walked up to the bar and sat on a stool between a big guy with rolls of fat hanging over his pants and a woman wearing a red dress cut low at the back.
An ancient ceiling fan whirred quietly high above my head as the bartender approached. He looked about sixty but had dark hair tied in a short ponytail at the back, wore round wire-rimmed glasses and had a white moustache. Obviously, someone who cared how he looked.
My Spanish being minimal, I tried full frontal English. “Beer, yes? Lager? And something to eat. What do you have to eat?”
He looked at me uncomprehendingly.
I tried again. “Beer?” and pointed at the pumps. “And some food,” motioning a spooning-into-mouth action.
All I got in return was a shake of his head. I cursed myself for not having foreseen this. In desperation I turned to the fat guy. “You have English?” I said.
He looked at me vacuously then went back to staring into space.
“Excuse me, I can help.” The voice was warm, low, feminine. I turned and looked at the woman on my right. Black hair shining in the low light, big brown eyes heavily made-up, strong nose and chin, wide sensuous mouth. Probably about twenty-eight if I had to make a guess. The dress was just as low at the front as at the back. Her chest was full and shapely. Definitely a looker but with intelligence showing on her face too. She extended a long, slim arm to me.
“I’m María,” she said, “María Suárez. I can order for you if you like.”
I took her hand, almost felt like kissing it but lightly shook it instead. It felt soft, smooth and warm. I was reluctant to let it go.
“Cal Knox,” I replied, “I was beginning to get a bit desperate.”
“I can see that. Let’s go sit at a table. A waiter will come over and take our order. That’s how it works here.”
She led me over to a quiet corner. I felt like holding her chair for her and had to stop myself. She sat down, smiled and her face lit up. We talked for several minutes about trivial things and she tried to teach me some Spanish phrases.
“Me pica el bagre,” she said, “It means, ‘I’m hungry’. Go on, say it.”
I mumbled the words and she laughed loudly. I watched her mouth, couldn’t take my eyes away. She repeated the phrase slowly and made me say it over and over again till I had it perfect.
At last she sat back satisfied and put a hand under her chin. “So, what would you like?” she said.
I must have looked a bit blank. “To eat,” she added.
I gathered my thoughts and considered I’d performed enough pidgin Spanish for one night. “Why don’t you order for me?” I said.
She signalled to a waiter and they talked briefly in Spanish. A minute later he returned and set drinks in front of us, a beer called Bodega Cervecera for me and a glass of white wine for her.
“This is called Crios,” she explained and took a sip, “The wine variety is Torrontés and it’s very popular here in Mendoza.”
“And what am I eating?”
“I ordered you Locro stew. Corn, beans, potato, cucurbita, it’s very filling.”
“Sounds good,” I replied and just then the waiter brought a steaming bowl. I tried a mouthful and found it delicious.
We talked as I ate. I explained my reason for being here. Told her about Jennifer Larsen, how it had gone at the farm and that I was leaving in the morning.
“And you?” I said, anxious to know more about her.
She said she’d studied pharmacy at the University of Buenos Aires, then returned to Mendoza where she worked at the Hospital Central. Her mother died seve
ral years ago, and her father had remarried to a Chilean woman and they lived near Santiago. She had a brother, Bautista, four years older than her. She grimaced when she mentioned him but didn’t explain why.
“So, you’re all alone then?” I asked, fishing for information about a boyfriend if there was one. I was already hoping there wasn’t.
“You could say that,” she replied, “Sometimes I feel that way. I have no-one special in my life.”
I finished up the stew and the last of the beer, glanced at my watch. The evening was still young, but I wanted to see how far I could take this.
“I should get back to my hotel,” I said.
“And I must stay here to meet a friend,” she replied.
My heart sank. Oh well, I shouldn’t have counted my chickens . . . Of course, this beautiful, classy woman wasn’t going to go with a total stranger to his hotel room. I thanked her for her help and stood up.
“Got to get up early tomorrow,” I explained. “Early flight.”
“This Eric will be glad to have you back,” she said, “He obviously trusts you with important things.”
“Not so sure about that,” I said, “Normally I’m only his sky driver.”
She frowned, puzzled. “Sky driver? What does that mean?”
I grinned. “I work as a small plane pilot,” I explained, “I fly my boss all over the place.”
“Ah, I see.” She was thoughtful for a moment then her brown eyes met mine and she stood up too. “Well, it looks like my friend isn’t coming,” she said with a sigh, “But it’s a shame to waste the evening. So, Cal, why don’t we walk together, you and me?”
Chapter 9
She linked her arm in mine and we strolled around the streets for a while, past parched lawns of brown grass lit by stylish blue-painted lampposts straight out of Narnia. María seemed interested in Canada and wanted to know what the west coast was like. I told her about Vancouver and Victoria, the Sunshine Coast, the Cascades and the Rockies, gave her the tourist brochure stuff. We came to an intersection where there was another bar; this one called ‘El Banderín’ and she stopped us there.
Shadow of a Killer Page 2
