Shadow of a Killer

by David Anderson

  After what I’d just learned I expected the bar to look neglected. To my surprise, it was anything but run down. I remembered the new sign outside; Winged Moose Kitchen & Wet Bar. The cosy corner bar I remembered was now gone and in its place was a roomy restaurant with a brightly lit cocktail style bar at the far end. An attractive blonde in a white blouse and tight black skirt came up to me and led me towards the back. We turned a bend, I looked up from the blonde’s very long legs, and there was Joe sitting in a corner booth. As I approached, the man sitting next to him, obviously the chef by his long apron and tall white hat, got up and disappeared into the back.

  Joe looked momentarily flustered then noticed me. His frown turned into a grin. “Bring Cal over here, Diane,” he said, “And bring us both double scotches.”

  I slid into the booth, beside Joe. “Sorry to hear about Mary,” I said.

  His face screwed up with pain. “Thanks, Cal. I can’t really talk about it yet.”

  The conversation needed lightening up a bit. Maybe pull Joe’s leg. “This place has really changed, eh?” I opened, setting things up for a bit of banter.

  He nodded. “What do you think of it?”

  “Very impressive, but what’s with the ‘Kitchen and Wet Bar’ thing? I mean, you make grub, you got to have a kitchen, right?”

  Joe’s eyes narrowed to slits. I could tell he was trying to figure out whether I was serious or not. I decided to lay it on a bit thicker.

  “And a wet bar? As opposed to what, a dry one? If the counter’s wet, why not just dry it with a cloth?”

  By now Joe was looking at me as if I was from Mars. I’d achieved the desired effect.

  “Relax, Joe, I’m just yanking your chain. You’ve done a great job.” In reality, I liked the old bar better. This new version was too swanky for my taste. And it was nearly empty.

  He looked relieved. “I had it designed by a marketing firm. Cost a leg and an arm. Worth it though.”

  He sounded as if he was trying to convince himself. There was an awkward silence then he asked, “Wanna do some work for me?”

  “You get right to the point, don’t you?” I replied, giving him a wry look.

  “You know me, Cal. I don’t waste time.”

  “What kind of work?”

  “Fly one of the Beavers over to Victoria tomorrow.”

  “One of your pilots sick?”

  “Nah–” Joe began to explain then seemed to change his mind, “Yeah, something like that. What about it?”

  The blonde arrived with the drinks and I took a sip of the malt and thought for a few seconds. I needed the money, I wanted to get back flying a plane, and I’d done this run scores of times before.

  “Sure,” I said, “What time?”

  “Noon flight. Some execs with an afternoon meeting. You take them back at six.”

  I nodded. “Joe, I haven’t flown a Beaver in years. I should take one up today just to get my hand back in.” I neglected to tell him that I hadn’t flown any kind of plane for over a year.

  “Take one up after you’re done here. Rachel will help you.”

  “Okay, will do.”

  We finished our drinks and I ordered food. Prices were about twice what they had been six years ago.

  When the meal came, cod and fries on a fancy rectangular plate, Joe got up and excused himself. “Have to go hire some staff,” he explained. I didn’t enquire further.

  The fish and chips was nicely settling in my belly forty minutes later as my eyes roamed over the classic shape of a de Havilland Beaver. It was a classic not a posh, bang up-to-date plane. The businessmen I’d be taking tomorrow wouldn’t be Mark Zuckerberg or Jeff Bezos, which was fine with me.

  I sat in the pilot’s seat and listened to the chatter coming through the headset while my hands and eyes moved automatically. Release the primer knob . . . use the wobble pump . . . back to the primer knob, build up pressure, then push it back down and lock it . . . check that the oil cap is on and locked . . . flick the master switch on . . . push the mixture lever forward . . . five times up and down on the other lever . . . hit the start, let the engine revolve three or four turns, then turn on the mags . . . watch the oil pressure come up into the green sector . . . check that fuel tanks are full . . . reach forty degrees of oil temperature, a hundred degrees of cylinder head temperature . . . take the mixture level back about halfway, go to about five, six hundred rpms.

  I sat back and waited the few minutes it took before I could fly the plane. That’s when things began to go down the tubes. My hands started shaking and suddenly I was perspiring heavily. Something was wrong here. I wasn’t having any bad memories, just concentrating on what I was doing. So why was my heart thumping so hard it felt like my chest was about to burst? I needed to figure it out fast.

  Sweat rivulets trickled down my armpits and forehead. I took the headset and my sunglasses off and wiped my eyes. Now I was having trouble breathing and my mouth hung open, sucking air in noisily. My head jerked from side to side as I looked out both side windows as if there was danger coming from all around. What was I expecting to see? There was threat out there, that’s all I knew. I had to escape it. My breath came in rapid sharp gulps, faster and faster. I felt physically sick, ready to vomit, and leaned forward until my hot forehead touched the stick.

  Pain in my chest. Nausea. Tightness in my abdomen. Hot and cold at the same time.

  First aid training had covered this. I racked my memory for the details. Something about carbon dioxide. Make the passenger hold his hands over his face and count. I cupped both hands around my mouth and counted as I drew in a deep breath. A seven count in, eleven out; that was it. I reached seven, let the breath out and kept exhaling to a count of eleven. Repeated this over and over.

  It took several minutes until the dizziness went away and I felt normal again. I switched the engine off and exited the Beaver. I wouldn’t be flying today, or tomorrow.

  Perhaps never again.

  Chapter 18

  I told Joe I’d had a rethink and decided I needed complete rest for a few days. No piloting. He looked very disappointed. I was about to leave when he touched my arm and stopped me.

  “Hate to mention this Cal, you’re an old friend. Can you pay for your stay in the room?”

  “Sure, of course.” It was a perfectly fair request and I had no problem with it. I’d come here because I knew it would be cheap, not free. Still, Joe never used to mention things like that. You always had to volunteer, to insist, even with paying for a round of drinks. Changed times, I guessed.

  “Great. See Rachel about it.”

  “I will,” I promised him. I went straight in and talked to her and offered her my close-to-maxed Visa card.

  “I’ll put it through when you’re leaving,” she insisted, handing me the card right back, “Don’t worry, it’ll be YMCA rates.”

  “Always did like the Village People,” I grinned.

  When I’d worked here, there’s been a small room at the back of the building that Joe had turned into a tiny gym for staff and anyone else who wanted to use it. I walked down to the end of the corridor and checked if it was still there. It was, and it hadn’t changed much at all. Apart from three new framed sports prints on the wall and, bizarrely, a stone Buddha sitting in the window, there were the same few pieces of equipment slotted in side by side. Still, a treadmill, exercise bike, and some weights were better than nothing. I went upstairs, changed, and spent an hour in the gym getting nice and sweaty.

  After a long shower I went back to my room. The exercise had done me good, but I still felt restless and edgy about my stalker, and thoroughly depressed about my experience in the Beaver. Both those situations had to change. I walked up and down and looked out the window several times, then flopped down on the narrow bed. Desperate to distract my mind, I rummaged in my bag and took out my Kindle. I had the latest Jo Nesbø crime thriller on it, six hundred glorious pages of Nordic noir. To my surprise, I quickly became engrossed in it and rea
d about a hundred pages before switching off and dozing for a while. Later, I went down the creaky stairs for supper in the overpriced “kitchen and wet bar.”

  Around the corner, at the same table, Joe was busy on his cell phone. A man totally unable to hide his emotions, he had a wide grin on his face. I overheard a few of his words, something about “imports” and “cash payment,” and hoped that business was improving for him. Maybe he could do goods transport until the passenger trade picked up.

  Joe noticed my presence and, as soon as he saw me, his face fell, and his red cheeks seemed to blanch. The sides of his mouth drooped. Even for Joe, it was an extreme inverse reaction. It was so unexpected and bizarre, it stopped me dead in my tracks.

  He slid out of his seat and was gone before I could even mouth a silent comment to him. I watched him as he left the restaurant. Outside, he turned and stared right back at me, phone still glued to his ear, then hurried off.

  I took another table, one where I could stare out of the window at the water.

  “Come here often?”

  I looked around. Rachel Ryan smiled down at me, chestnut eyes glinting behind her black-framed glasses. Her long auburn hair framed her pale face nicely.

  “You’re working late,” I said.

  “I run the restaurant two evenings a week, to let the regular go home to his wife and four kids.”

  “That’s good of you.”

  “It helps Joe too. He wants me to do it full time.”

  “That and the bookings?”

  “Bookings are down a lot.”

  “I see. Busy here right now?”

  She took the hint. “Not until later. And I’m on my supper break anyway.”

  “Then join me.”

  “I will.” She sat opposite me. I was glad of the company and especially glad it was her.

  We both had the house special, an Asian-style sweet and sour chicken on a bed of rice and vegetables and drank a bottle of house white. I felt better with each mouthful. We talked easily and freely, as we always had, about personal stuff. For the first time ever, I told someone about my relationship with María, at least until we had taken off on that fateful flight. It felt cathartic afterwards.

  “You’re probably rolling your eyes,” I concluded, “We were only together a few days really.”

  “Not at all. Brief can still be deep. Too bad it became so public afterwards. That must have hurt you deeply. How are you coping now?”

  “Not too bad,” I said, “”Until this latest thing.”

  She knew exactly what I meant. “You think it was related?”

  “Maybe. But I have no proof. Anyway, it’s all over now,” I said, wishing it was true.

  She told me something about her own recent past and I gathered she’d been with a guy for two years before they broke up. “After the first punch, I packed my bags and left,” she said, and suddenly I was depressed again. Then she reached out her hand and put it on top of mine. I felt her soft warmth.

  “Don’t worry about it, Cal. I’m glad it didn’t last. Now I have to go work. See you later.”

  After she’d gone I stared out the window again for a long time, alone with my thoughts, then went up to the bar.

  “Got any Bushmills?” I asked the scrawny young guy behind the counter. He gave me a puzzled look.

  “Irish whiskey?” I elaborated.

  At last light dawned on his face. “We have Jamesons,” he said.

  “Good enough. Make it a double.”

  As I sipped the dense amber liquid I stared up at the ‘Winged Moose’ neon sign on the wall and wondered why Rachel and I had never become closer. I concluded it was because I’d never made the effort. It’d been the wrong time, wrong place. And, with what was now going on in my life, it was still the wrong time, wrong place. What I’d done tonight, the small talk and the banter and even the serious conversation, I’d done almost on autopilot. I wasn’t even remotely over María yet. Anyway, I daren’t involve Rachel in the mess I was in. Perhaps when all this was over, I’d rethink. Try again. Maybe.

  Outside the light was growing dim when I finally went up to my room. I opened the single, small window to let in some air to cool the place. After a minute of staring out the window at typical airport landscape flatness, I changed my mind and closed the blind, drawing the drapes tight to make the room nice and dark.

  So far, my hiding place seemed secure. I was actually beginning to relax. The Kindle was still lying on my pillow. I grabbed it, switched on a little table-light with an ancient bulb of about twenty watts power and got back to reading the addictive Jo Nesbø thriller.

  About forty pages later, a car pulled up outside. In a corner of my mind, something registered as strange. The car park for the restaurant was at the other side. This vehicle had pulled in and stopped at the edge of the road, just past the building. As if for a quick getaway. I reread the paragraph of my book and told the little corner of my brain not to be silly.

  Two voices. One was loud and unmistakable. Joe’s. The other was low and guttural. I heard the second voice say, “Be quiet!” and Joe lowered his volume. I could only make out the occasional word after that. What was going on? Probably absolutely nothing. Forget it. Nesbø’s series detective, Harry Hole, was about to crack the serial murder case. I vaguely pondered whether to get up and close the window above my head.

  Knox. I heard my own name. My imagination? No, I was sure of it. I switched the Kindle off and put it down quietly. Got up and, with infinite slowness and care, peeked out the side of the venetian blind. Directly below me, at the quietest corner of the building where only a security light bore witness, Joe and another man stood close together, almost face to face. Joe in his familiar baggy clothes, head bare.

  The other man, his outline indicating he was younger, fitter, stronger, wore something familiar too.

  A dark hoodie obscured his face.

  Chapter 19

  Hoodie walked a short way to a few scruffy trees, under which he’d parked his car. Even in the poor light it stood out and I recognised it as the top of the line two-door coupé Mercedes, the one with a cowling like a fighter jet. All white, powerful, and sleek. And costing a small fortune.

  He opened the trunk, removed something small from it which he stuffed inside his jacket, then took out a rectangular package. After locking the car again, he came back and gave the package to Joe, who opened the top and looked inside. The other man said something that sounded like a question or a demand. Joe nodded and turned, raised his arm and pointed.

  Straight at me.

  Instinctively I moved to the side, away from the window, and my heart stopped. I prayed that the light from the table lamp behind me hadn’t given me away. I reached back and switched it off. Very cautiously, I looked out again. Joe was fondling the package – that’s the only word for it really – and Hoodie was gone.

  It was a safe bet that he was coming for me.

  I had to get away from here. Fast. I stumbled across the room in the dark and out the door. Down the creaky stairs. At the bottom I went to the door that led into the foyer, put my hand on it, started to push it open. Glimpsed the hooded figure walking toward me, head down. Too late.

  Up the stairs again and back into my room. Switched on the light. Turned the key in the lock. Stared at the flimsy panels in the door. One good kick and he’ll be in.

  The door opened inward and I needed to barricade it somehow. There was a rubber wedge on the floor and I jammed it tight under the door. Ran to the closet in the corner, found a triangular-shaped dustpan and wedged it into the side of the door that opened. Went back to the closet and grabbed a floor brush. Thank God it was ancient too and made of wood. I jammed it under the door handle. Far too long. No time to think. I made a quick estimate, pushed the wooden handle under the foot of the bed and pulled upwards until the handle broke in two. This time the length was right. I jammed the sharp, broken end of the wooden pole deep into the carpet and the brush end tight under the door handle.


  Better, but still not good enough. Did I hear the creak of the stairs?

  I put the bed on its end and shoved it against the door then added a set of drawers and the nightstand. It would hold for a while, delay him a few minutes if I was lucky. And he wouldn’t want to make too much noise to alert the people down below in the restaurant that something was wrong.

  Now I just had to get out by another escape route. Which meant the window.

  I pulled back the drapes and hauled up the blind. Joe was gone. The single pane opened outwards and I pushed it back all the way to the wall. Outside, beneath the window, was open ground beside the road. A drainpipe would have been good. There’s always one in the movies but there was none here.

  Someone was pushing on the door, discovering it wouldn’t open. Putting his shoulder to it. I saw it open a crack, close again, then open a little wider . . .

  I went legs first out the window. Holding on to the bottom of the casing I dangled in the air, felt the full weight of my body pulling on my arms. Heard the door give a crack. I let go.

  My feet hit the dry, hard ground and my knees buckled. I fell to one side, rolled and lay on my back. No injuries. There were bushes right behind me. I crawled under them, feeling the pluck of sharp barbs on my back.

  My breathing returned to normal as I tried to figure out my next move. I was safe here; no one could possibly see me. Unsure what to do, I stayed exactly where I was.

  Minutes passed; ten, fifteen, then twenty. He had to pass me to go back to his car. I heard the big swing doors of the front entrance open and close, saw light from the foyer spread over the gravel path then fade away, listened to the sound of feet walking to the car park on the other side. Restaurant guests coming and going.

  Rachel’s having a good night. Me, not so good.

  My limbs had grown stiff and sore and my old injuries, as well as the latest one from the package bomb, were playing up. I had to get out from under here and stretch, move around. Millimetre by millimetre, I emerged, like the head of a tortoise from its shell.