"Don't fuck with me. A man was seen coming in the hotel with a painting. Where is it?"
"Why don't you ask the man?" said Sabrina.
Tattoo-guy hesitated, and I knew immediately what had happened. They had one person covering us at a time. He had seen Russ come in, but couldn't do anything about it until his friend arrived, and he didn't arrive in time. He either didn't see Russ leave, or chose to stay on us rather than to follow him. He should have followed Russ.
"I'm asking you."
"Someone came with a painting and wanted to sell it to us, but we refused."
"What was his name?" Tattoo-guy kept glancing at the hallway. I could hear some activity. They didn't have much time.
"He didn't give us his name," I said. "He was trying to be mysterious. We told him to get lost."
The other guy quickly searched the room and announced, "No painting here."
"Shit," said tattoo-guy. Then he spied our cell phones on the table. He broke into a smile. "But I bet you took pictures. He snatched the phones from the table. He pointed his gun again. "Get out of bed and come with us."
"Yeah, right," I answered. I could hear a walkie-talkie in the hallway. Obviously an employee. And then I heard a siren. "I think you've got about three seconds to get out of here before the police come. No way we're going with you. Besides, I'm naked. No one wants to see that."
"I do," said Sabrina.
We were playing with them now. We knew we weren't in danger. They weren't masked, and there were too many potential witnesses. Besides, they didn't strike me as killers. Killing was above their pay grade. The guns were simply for intimidation.
They ran. As they reached the hallway, they tried to cover their faces with their arms, without much success. By this time, most of the guests on our floor were standing out there.
Sabrina reached for her pajamas next to the bed and put them on under the covers. Mine were across the room.
"Um," I said.
"I'll get them for you," she said, getting out of bed. A minute later we were standing in the middle of the room. Sabrina had added a robe to her outfit, and I had gone into the bathroom to put on my jeans. The hotel employee was in with us, asking if we were okay. Everyone else was crowded around the door. A dozen heads peeked around the door frame. Thank God there weren't any Sabrina Spencer fans out there.
When the police arrived and everyone else had been chased away, we recounted the incident and suggested they call the Fairfield police for more information about Mario Guidry. We were pretty certain he was behind this event too.
"Do you know Russ Simpson?" asked Sabrina.
A cop rolled his eyes. "We do." Ah, he was just as popular with them as he was with us.
"You might want to warn him," she said, letting them know that he had the painting the men were after.
Finally the police left, and the hotel staff moved us into a room that had a working door.
"Your photos are gone," I said. "We can take more photos, but now Guidry's men have them. That might give him the clue he needs."
"They don't have them," she said. "My phone is locked. There is no way they can access anything. And we don't have to see Russ again. All my pictures were uploaded to the cloud. As soon as I buy a new phone, I'll download them. This didn't set us back at all. The only thing it told us is that Guidry is still on our trail."
We were wide awake now, so I went online to see if I could find the tree in the picture. After two hours of searching with no success, weariness once again set in. Sabrina had collapsed an hour earlier. It was no good. We were going to have to find an expert. Then the thought popped in: what if the tree was just a figment of the artist's imagination? If so, we were definitely screwed.
*****
We were eating a late breakfast the next morning at The Cracker Barrel. Sabrina had been strangely silent.
I was trying to give her some space, but finally blurted out, "You okay?"
She focused in and smiled. "I am. I was just thinking that you're ahead of me in school."
"Huh?"
"You're learning how to fight faster than I'm learning how to trust. All those people in our room—all the hotel guests, the hotel staff, and the police—gave me the creeps. I wanted to go hide in the bathroom. I was actually more comfortable with the crooks. I guess I can relate to them better."
I gave her a look.
"No, seriously. They were crooks, but they were at least clear about their intentions. All the others … yeah, a few might have been genuinely concerned, but most were there for the thrill of it, or out of nosiness, or if there was anything worth putting on YouTube. In that case, who do you believe? Which one of them is being honest? And I'm supposed to trust people?"
She had a point.
"Sometimes you just have to assume they have the best intentions."
"Why? If I assume that and they don't? I just put myself in a bad situation."
"But most people do have good intentions."
"Do you really believe that?"
"I do."
"Then I have a long way to go with this trust thing."
I couldn't disagree with her.
"But what did you mean about me learning to fight. I didn't fight anyone."
"Sure you did. You were staring down the barrel of a gun—two guns—and you cracked a joke."
"It was either that or pee my pants."
"You weren't wearing pants."
"Pee the bed, then."
"But that's my point. That's the first rule of fighting, remaining calm."
"But I didn't feel calm."
"But you acted calm. A big part of the battle. You think I wasn't scared? I was naked under the covers with two men with guns standing over me. I had other fears besides getting killed. Who cares that you didn't actually fight them. They had guns. You would've lost. This way, you won the battle without having to physically fight them. Most battles are won without ever having to throw a punch. No, trust me, that was a major leap in your training."
It was my turn to be silent. I thought about all that had happened in the past week and suddenly felt ashamed that I had wasted ten years stuck in that meaningless job and doing nothing with my life.
"What next?" I asked, changing the subject.
"I think we've kind of reached the end out here," she replied. "What do you say we head back to Boston? You can pursue the tree angle, and we'll see if that leads anywhere. Meanwhile, I need a day or so to catch up with the publisher. That annoying publicist has left about a million messages for me. First though, we get new phones and I download the app that will let me erase my other phone."
By dinnertime, we were on a plane back to Boston.
Chapter 20
I was sitting with Mo in my living room the next afternoon, bringing her up to date on our trip to the Midwest. I told her everything, except Sabrina's secret past. Even though I knew I could trust Mo to keep it to herself, it would have been an invasion of Sabrina's privacy to tell anyone. I did tell her of our adventure in the alley with Guidry's men and how easily Sabrina had dispatched them. I think I sensed a little envy on Mo's part. There was probably nothing more she'd like to do than to take apart two low-life men piece by piece. Oddly, Mo didn't ask where Sabrina picked up the skills. A secret code amongst bad-ass women? Or maybe she sensed there was more to Sabrina than I was telling and knew it would do no good to ask.
When I finished my story, she said, "Well, it's about fucking time."
"For what?"
"To do something with your life. Look what happened the minute you quit that shit-show you called a job. Your life completely turned around. You found a woman—an incredibly hot woman, by the way—have embarked on a treasure hunt, fought off attackers, and got to spend time in Wahoo, Nebraska. Who else can claim that?"
I had no answer.
"So what's next?" she asked.
"I find a plant or tree expert who can tell me if the tree in the picture really exists, and if so, where?"
&nbs
p; "I know someone."
"Of course you do. What's her name?"
"Believe it or not, it's a guy. The husband of a co-worker. Met him at a staff Christmas party. He teaches botany at Boston College. I'll call up Marci and see if I can get you an appointment with him."
"Thanks, Mo."
"Just do me a favor and don't get yourself killed over this. It would be sad if you died just as you finally started living."
After Mo left, I called my mother and gave her a sanitized version of the story. She knew I was holding back some information, but knew better than to ask. She invited me over for dinner and asked if I wanted to bring Sabrina, but I took a rain check. I'd end up spilling the whole story, and I wasn't ready for that.
I didn't bother seeking out Seymour to bring him up to date. I wasn't in the mood for his grouchiness. Besides, I knew Mo would fill him in.
I met Sabrina for dinner and we spent the night together at her hotel. I think we were both feeling that this relationship was real, and not just a by-product of the adventure. In fact, other than a few moments of catch-up about the events and where we were going from there, our conversation was spent on the normal things that two new lovers talked about.
*****
The next day I found myself in the office of Richard Santos, in the botany department of Boston College. He was a throwback to the '60s and '70s, when college professors all tried to look like their students. The students he was trying to look like, though, were still from that era. He was in his mid-sixties, tall and lanky, with a gray ponytail halfway down his back. He was dressed in jeans, a t-shirt advertising some botanical conference, and Tevas. I had a feeling he desperately missed the hippie days.
He was looking at the picture of the painting Sabrina had emailed to me. He tried to increase the size on my phone, and finally had me email it to him so he could look at it on a normal-sized computer screen.
"The artwork sucks," he said.
"Yes, that's been established."
"I mean, really sucks."
"Got it. So can you tell me what the tree is?"
"It would help if I knew where the painting is set."
"That's the whole reason I'm here. We're hoping that by you telling us what the tree is, we'll be able to figure out where it is."
"Why's that important?"
I'm sure he was just making conversation and didn't mean anything by it, so I tried to be diplomatic.
"Kind of a long story." I left it hanging, and he picked up on it, quickly turning to the task at hand.
He peered closer, then shook his head. "Looks familiar. Painting sucks though," he repeated. He glanced at his watch. "Go get a coffee or something. Give me an hour. That's about as much time as I have. I can concentrate better without an audience, so get lost."
Subtle.
I got lost. I found a Dunkin Donuts a few blocks away and ordered an iced coffee and a bagel. Ten minutes later the bagel was gone and I was bored. I walked back to the campus and sat under a tree. It was sunny, but there was a nip in the air. A few minutes later I was cold. I looked at my watch. Forty-five minutes had elapsed. Close enough. I made my way back to his office.
He looked up from his desk when I walked in the door.
"That was a fast hour."
"Sorry. I'll stay out of your way and not say a word."
"No need. I know what it is. If it wasn't such a sucky painting, or if you could've given me a general location, I could have told you an hour ago. It's a Hevea brasiliensis."
Was there going to be more? He caught me staring uncomprehendingly at him.
"A rubber tree. More specifically, a Pará rubber tree. Found in the Amazon. Most likely in the Pará state of Brazil."
Brazil? The Amazon jungle? Well that certainly narrowed it down to a few million square miles.
"You were kind of lucky. The tree in the painting resembles a rubber tree, but as I said…"
"Yeah, I know. The painting sucks."
He ignored me. "What finally tipped me off was the white slash in the trunk. It hit me that someone had cut into the bark. The white is latex oozing out. That's what they make the rubber from. How important is the tree to the picture?"
I wasn't sure how far to go with an explanation. Luckily, he saved me the trouble.
"I'm not asking to pry. I just have a theory."
"It might be very important. I'm hoping it's a clue to a bigger mystery. I don't know yet."
"Well, if it is, I think the artist put the white slash there on purpose."
I gave him a questioning look.
"There is no real reason the tree should be sliced like that. There's no tap in it, or bucket at the end of the slice to collect the latex. If you've got latex flowing out, you're going to want to collect it. I think the artist knew he sucked and drew the latex into the picture to help identify the tree." He threw up his hands. "Just a thought."
Not a bad one.
"Your idea is something to keep in mind. So can you pinpoint it any closer than that?"
"The Amazon jungle in Brazil doesn't do it for you? You want latitude and longitude? Directions?"
He was starting to sound like Seymour. It was time to leave.
"No, the Amazon narrows it down nicely. I appreciate your help."
"Yeah," he said, looking at the clock. He gathered up his class notes and beat me out the door.
I called Sabrina as I walked to my car and gave her the news.
"Wow, the Amazon," she said. "So where does that leave us?"
"Not quite sure."
"No colorful relatives who lived there?"
"Not that I kn…" I stopped because Sabrina was interrupting me.
"Didn't you tell me you had a relative who got thrown out of South America?"
"Oh my God, yeah. And it was the same great-grandfather who started this whole thing. But it was never specified where."
"What do you want to bet?"
"I don't. I'm sure you're right, but it still doesn't get us any closer."
"Nowhere you can find out more information on his early life?"
"His early life? Look how long it has taken us to find what we have so far."
"Well, there's got to be something."
"Let me work on it." Well, it sounded good anyway.
"Okay, keep me apprised. I love you."
"I love you, too." How many years had I waited to be able to say that to someone?
Think. There had to be something. Was it Brazil he was thrown out of? If so, where? And was it related to the picture? It had to be. It was too coincidental otherwise.
I arrived at my apartment just as my cell phone went off. I looked at the caller's info before answering it. "Private number." Of course it was. Caller ID seemed to mean very little these days. I answered with a fake exasperated tone, figuring it was a telemarketer. It wasn't.
"Mr. Honeycutt, this is detective Sorenson of the Nebraska State Police."
I had a bad feeling.
"Uh, hi. How can I help you?"
"I was given your name by the Wahoo police. Can I ask where you were last night around eleven?"
A really bad feeling.
"I was with my girlfriend all night at her hotel in Boston. Why?"
"Can anyone else confirm this?
Why couldn't they ever come right out and say why they were calling?
"Probably a lot of people. She had calls from her agent and publicist while I was there, and I think she mentioned me to them. My downstairs neighbor saw me go out around seven. Need more?"
"No, that's fine." His voice took on a friendlier tone. "You are not a suspect. I just like to cover all of my bases. Do you know a Russ Simpson?"
"He tried to sell me an old painting that used to belong to my great-grandfather. So I only met him two days ago. Did something happen?"
"Yes, he's dead."
All the air was sucked out of my body.
"Dead?"
"Quite brutally. Simply stated, he was tortured."
&nbs
p; I had a feeling he said it for effect, to make it easier to extract information from me. It worked.
"Can you tell me about the painting?"
"Are you sure it had something to do with the painting?" I had no doubt it did, but I had to ask it anyway.
"He was still alive when we found him. He actually lasted six hours before dying. There was very little the doctors could do, and in fact, they were surprised he lasted that long. At one point he woke up and seemed almost lucid for about fifteen seconds. During that time he said 'Damned painting' twice before lapsing back into unconsciousness. The Wahoo police said you asked them to warn him about some men. Can you give me the story?"
I told him. The whole story this time, not the condensed version. This violence had reached a gruesome level, and Sabrina and I were right in the thick of it. So I told him everything I knew. Sadly, other than Mario Guidry, who was probably long gone, it didn't give him anything to go on. I told him I would email him the picture, but warned him that it wouldn't help any.
I think he sensed my sincerity (read: fear), and thanked me for the information, but not before warning me to be careful.
The morons who accosted us in the hotel didn't do that to Russ. No way. The big guns had been called in.
This was serious. I had given Sorenson everything I knew, but it wouldn't do any good. This wasn't a problem the police could solve. It all lacked context for them. Guidry now had the painting, but I knew he wouldn't stop there. He still needed more pieces to the puzzle, and that was us. No, the best we could do would be to stay one step ahead of him.
What had I gotten us into?
Chapter 21
I called Sabrina and told her we needed to meet. She could hear the fear in my voice and wisely didn't ask me to explain it over the phone. On my way out, I stopped at Seymour's apartment. He answered the door—without a scowl for a change. Maybe I hadn't woken him up this time? Or maybe Mo told him the story of my adventures and he had developed a new respect for me? Somehow I doubted that. In fact, though, he knew everything that had gone on. When did Mo ever find the time to tell him these things? It was a mystery, for sure.
I only had a moment to talk, which was just fine with Seymour.
All Lies Page 12
