Night Eyes (The Detective Temeke Crime Series Book 2)

by Claire Stibbe

He scrambled up the bank and veering towards his left, found a gap in the hedge and made a dash for the rutted farm track. All he knew was to get to Ramsey before the rangers did. Warn him so he could make a dash for it. He wouldn’t mind sleeping in the leaves with his pack as a pillow. He wouldn’t mind because Murphy was there.

  Murphy burst through a clump of grass, sneezing and wagging his tail. It was good to have a friend. But it was the name tag that chimed against the red collar that worried Adam, so he unclipped it and stuffed it in his coat pocket.

  They hurried along the track, keeping to the ditch beneath the trees. Murphy had mapped it all in his head, found another broken branch and held it in his mouth. He’d even found the hut, tried to nudge his way in with that stick, only he got wedged in the doorway.

  Adam expected to find a pile of stinking old rags. Instead, there was Ramsey propped up against the wall, feeding logs through the open door of the pot-belly stove. The gun was on the floor, toothbrush stained with the solvent he’d used. He’d decanted some of the water into two plastic bottles and there were crumbs from a protein bar in his beard. The tear in his jeans was gaping like an open mouth and the wound was soft and yellow and weeping.

  “I told you to bring meds not a dog!”

  It never occurred to Adam that he would have to tell Ramsey about the dog. “I found him on the road. So… you’re not dead then.”

  Ramsey gave a guttural laugh and shook his head. “It would take a lot to kill me. You should know that by now. And you? You came back. Could have run away. Could have called the cops. Aren’t you going to take your coat off?”

  Adam stood there breathing out a warm mist between his lips. “The rangers. They’re here.”

  THIRTY-FIVE

  Malin pulled into Puerta de Corrales where the boughs of a large cottonwood creaked in the wind. She parked in front of her apartment, a two story building with brown stucco walls and white frame windows, all floodlit by a single halogen lamp. It was the next block to Sergeant and Rae Moran, close enough for company, distant enough for solitude.

  Turning off the ignition, she noticed a brown sedan backed into a corner, license plate flush against a low brick wall. A domestic violence situation, she could sniff them out a mile away. If she ordered a registration check it would be in the name of Laura Glass, small, blond and well into her sixth boyfriend since Malin had moved in. The girl was nice enough, lived downstairs next to Old Man Topper, worked as a seamstress during the day and an exotic dancer at night.

  Malin gripped the handrail and took the stairs to the second floor, hand resting on the holster at her waist. She wasn’t jumpy, just a little wary that’s all. It was the wind whistling through the bannisters and playing a mournful strain and she walked to her front door, turning slightly to see if anyone had been following her.

  It always smelled of mold, even in the summer, and there was a hint of roast chicken that drifted up the stairwell and she could still smell it in the living room after closing the front door. The kettle was full and slipping a hand behind the lip of the countertop, she flipped the switch.

  Unzipping her jacket, she hooked it over a chair and switched on the TV. It was that anchor again, the man with the voice like a game show host.

  “ . . . Troop 173 has joined the search in the Bosque for Adam Oliver and another search is underway in Gila National Forest. The FBI have sent agents to the scene along with several Shadow Wolf officers from the Navajo nation. Although Mayor Oliver is still in critical condition, his wife and family hold out hope that Adam is still alive and due to regular scouting activities, able to withstand the punishing terrain. The police have not ruled out the possibility of a connection with the Ringmaster murders in 2001 but caution it is too early to draw any conclusions at this time. Anyone with any information can call the number at the bottom of the screen or go to NWAC dot com.”

  Malin muted the volume and kicked off her shoes, listening to the purr of the kettle. The last thing the family needed was any connection to the Ringmaster murders.

  She stared long and hard at that laptop, suddenly afraid of it, suddenly curious. Better get it over with, she told herself. When she signed in there were four emails, all junk except for one. WingMan had sent her an invitation to chat.

  She began typing a reply to his earlier message and then deleted it. It was hard to relax when you’re on a dating site and the man you’ve been talking to is not who you thought he was. She felt a nudge of dread, heard the click of the kettle and walked into the bathroom. He knew the case. That made him a cop.

  As she showered, she realized how much she hated this feeling, worrying about what to say. Sending an invitation the minute she signed into Heartfree was overkill. There was a dozen possibilities, of course. Fowler, Jarvis . . .

  She pulled the housecoat off the back of the bathroom door, cinched the belt tightly and walked into the kitchen. The tea was hot against her lips and she sat in front of that computer, staring at the message. It was longer than she expected.

  Where have you been, my little dove? Here I was thinking you were lost forever. It wasn’t the same without you yesterday. Nobody to talk to. This is our third date. Perhaps you don’t want them finding out such a respectable lady like you uses a chat site. Or that you used to be an escort. Do they even know, Malin? No, of course not. But I know everything. What I don’t know I find out. And what I find out I barter with.

  It was odd that this person, who knew so much about her, should be messaging her in the first place. And equally odd that she had no idea who he was. The feeling of fear was so overwhelming, she caught the taste of bile before that cup of tea almost came up. Her fingers hovered over the keyboard for a moment and then she typed: Who are you?

  You said you knew.

  She punched her thigh with a tight fist and berated herself for falling for it. Again.

  I’m a ghost in broad daylight. I don’t like spectators, you see. But you need a wingman, someone to watch your back.

  What do you want?

  You want to know who took Adam Oliver. I can help you with that. What would be a fitting price?

  Name it.

  Let’s get to know each other first. Feel comfortable. Talk. Go deeper. Then I’ll tell you what I want.

  His words echoed in her mind and, she suspected, would continue to do so until she was free of it. She wondered what he looked like, whether he pursed his lips, whether he smiled or even laughed at her. She wondered why she was allowing this conversation, this closeness, this stupidity. She wondered if she was safe. What are the consequences?

  Consequences always spoil everything, don’t they? Three strikes and you’re out. First, is anyone monitoring your computer?

  No.

  Why did I think you’d say that?

  I haven’t told anyone.

  And you won’t. Not if Adam’s life is at stake. I know you better than you think I do. Forgive me if I’m being unkind.

  With a strange sense of intuition, it occurred to her then that she didn’t know this man at all. His words came back to her with repetitive insistence. Forgive me if I’m being unkind. It wasn’t Fowler with his obvious charms, it wasn’t bumbling Jarvis playing jokes, couldn’t have been. This man was stealth reincarnate and he had an eidetic memory. She typed: You don’t know me.

  I know you prefer Jasmine tea rather than Chai. You don’t take sugar. Like everything black. You love Key Lime Pie. You eat at Corrales Café in the late afternoons not because it’s close to home, because it’s company. You sit on the patio where you can hear the wind in the cottonwoods, see the sunlight through the canvas shades. It makes you feel part of the action like you have a choice. And you always back your car in under that tree.

  You’re stalking me.

  Everyone stalks their favorite heroes and you’re mine.

  You’re a coward hiding behind a fake name and a silhouette. Anyone would think you’re afraid of me.

  Perhaps I am. It was so wonderful then, in the old day
s. I wish you could remember. They were the golden years of which every year since has been only the palest shadow and every year past is wasted. You’ll grow to love the silhouette because you can think of me in those precious moments and wonder who I really am. And when you know me better, you’ll dream of me.

  You’re so full of it.

  Now, let’s get back to business. How does an affair begin? With a glance, a thought. You gape at the sheer beauty and suddenly only that one person stands out to you. For some reason you worship them, as he did. Every day you’re standing in the presence of the greatest thing under the sun, catching every word, every nuance. For days, months, it is almost too much to bear and the distance becomes torture. Last night, I lay thinking about him trying to pinpoint exactly when she betrayed him. When he truly lost her. I tried to reconstruct the scene in my head, the last month together, mad with pain knowing it had to come to an end. Because she did betray him, Malin, when she took another. You have to understand he was obsessed and leaving was the only option. He wasn’t good enough for her. He wasn’t good enough for the perfect army. And so my question is this. When does a man fully surrender? When does he crash?

  Malin remembered something her mother once said, when she begged her to go to church. ‘He’ll break you, bring you to your knees. And when you’re at your lowest, when you can’t go any lower… that’s when you’ll find Him’.” When he is completely humbled.

  Excellent. I knew you’d understand. He thought he had her. He thought it was a home run. But he was wrong. Something snapped in him that day, brought him lower than he had ever been. A time to examine himself. A time to fight back. Years later, that’s why he took Adam. Pay back.

  She had a strange sense―the same one she used to have as a girl when she dared herself to open the cellar door, walk down a few steps only to turn around and run back up again. She had been followed by shadows then. Who? Do you know him?

  Tut, tut, Malin. That’s hardly detective work, is it? But here’s a little taste of what he is.

  The ship was cheered, the harbour cleared,

  Merrily did we drop

  Below the kirk, below the hill,

  Below the lighthouse top.

  A poem. What’s in a poem? She shook her head. The words weren’t familiar and what it had to do with this kidnapper she couldn’t imagine. The spelling was English and kirk was an ancient sounding word. She was about to type when he beat her to it.

  Btw, Temeke’s an excellent detective. He bypassed quite a few big names to get where he is. I have first-hand experience. But he has one flaw, one terrible weakness. Break him and I’ll make you the best detective the world has ever seen. That’s what I want.

  Temeke… he wanted to destroy Temeke. Her mind tried to unravel all the names she could possibly think of. Lawyers, judges, anyone who might have carried a grudge. There were a few.

  You want to know who I am. You want a face. But it’s so much better this way. And one day you’ll thank me. One day, you may even say those three words I’ve been longing to hear.

  Malin fully expected him to sign off. He’d dangled the first carrot, given her something to chew on. She could almost imagine the magnanimous tilt of his head, an offhand gesture, a sultry look. But the face was always blank. To her surprise he typed four more lines.

  The sun came up upon the left,

  Out of the sea came he!

  And he shone bright, and on the right

  Went down into the sea.

  THIRTY-SIX

  They scrambled on through the woods that night, Adam in the lead. He felt the weight of Ramsey’s hand on his shoulder and he could smell the sour smell of alcohol. The sound of chattering teeth in his left ear made him jumpy. Ramsey must have been sick if he was shivering and cowled in a blanket from his pack.

  “What can you see, Night Eyes?”

  “Just the path,” Adam murmured.

  “Look again. Keep looking. And don’t stop.”

  Adam let his eyes flick back and forth, sweeping over the terrain and the path ahead. Sporadic gusts of wind blasted through the trees, branches groaning with the strain.

  Ramsey kept muttering and asking Adam if he was sure he could see the path, kept stumbling with the pack on his back. It wasn’t like him to make a whole pile of noise and wake up an owl. It scared them both and made Murphy pull at his leash. He didn’t bark. Didn’t even growl.

  “Are you sure those rangers went south?” Ramsey whispered.

  “I’m sure.”

  “Hope they didn’t smell the wood smoke and start headed back. They could be anywhere. My gut tells me they’re here. Keep listening.”

  Adam knew at least four were too far away in the woods, hiking up the slopes and headed south. As for the fifth, he would likely trudge all day in silence, head down and eyes soaking up every footprint they left behind.

  “We have to keep moving,” Adam whispered, grabbing Ramsey by the arm.

  “I’m OK.”

  “You always say that.”

  Ramsey straightened then. Like he’d shaken himself out of a drunken blur and decided to wake up.

  It was hard going through the leaves and when it wasn’t leaves, it was pine needles ankle deep and nipping at your socks. Murphy was so quiet Adam almost forgot he was there, nose twitching and ears flapping in the wind.

  Adam didn’t know why he wanted to help Ramsey, didn’t know what to call him either. Gray Fox… Ramsey. The feeling in his chest was hard to put into words and he let his lips play with each sound in that cold silence. He decided to call him nothing. It was easier that way.

  Slabs of snow clung to the branches, some cupped in the leaves like a handful of pure cane sugar. It wasn’t as cold as the night before and the rain had washed away all the ice troughs in that narrow wooded path.

  Sometimes Ramsey stopped and looked about and sometimes he just stood, ear cocked to the ground. He’d already chewed two of the pills Trader had given him and sucked down the flask of hot buttered rum. Kept complaining about the dark, how he couldn’t see beyond the trees.

  Adam could see. He didn’t know if it was the way the moon fell on the ruts in the track and lit up the silver-gray puddles. He didn’t know if was the pale slatted light that God gave to his nighttime world.

  “It’s worse than snaps and movers,” Ramsey said. “Know what they are?”

  Adam shook his head, took a sip of water from his plastic bottle.

  “Targets that suddenly pop up. Anywhere. Anytime. Those are the snaps. Random targets that slide left and right. Those are the movers. They can be fast. Out here, it’s different. Those targets are men and you won’t know how far away they are. Got to know the wind. Got to keep track of time. Every second.”

  Snap! Snap, snap!

  Murphy snorted and lifted his head. Adam watched his line of focus, saw movement up ahead and he stopped too. Ramsey stooped, breath hot against Adam’s cheek, heartbeat thudding against his left shoulder. Time began to crawl over the shifting wind, even the leaves seemed to shudder and become still again.

  “What do you see?” Ramsey pushed Adam down to a crouch.

  “Something… in the shadows.” Adam couldn’t see exactly what, but he knew something was there, slender as a man standing against a tree.

  “How far?”

  Adam calculated about thirty yards. It was the halo round the moon that enabled him to see everything above the brush. “See that tree, the one with the white bark… to the right.”

  Ramsey whipped a look over his shoulder and listened. Then looked forward and listened again. The wind was playing hide and seek through the aspens, leaves chattering even louder now. “Chances are, he sees us.”

  To the right of them was the edge of the woodland with a large field beyond. It was too exposed to made a dash for it, every ridge and furrow lit by an eerie glow. They must have been silhouetted against the silvery sky and the ranger could likely see them from the darkness of his roost.

  The moon was b
right like a frying pan, glowing down on that wintry path. But it couldn’t shine behind bushes, nor could it tattle on their position. They were well hidden behind those tall grasses where random shafts of light filtered down between the trees. No one could have seen them.

  “What are we going to do?” Adam asked, knees wobbling beneath the weight of his pack.

  “We’re going to wait until he makes a move.”

  They didn’t have to wait long. The ranger also slipped to a crouch behind that tree, only he couldn’t see much more over the tops of the grasses than they could. He stayed that way for a time and then stood slowly and extended an arm.

  “He’s got a gun. Can’t see us.” Adam said.

  “How do you know?”

  “Pointed too far to the right.”

  Ramsey nodded and squeezed Adam’s shoulder. “Moving to the left might be an idea, but we’ll wait in case he changes his mind.”

  The ranger didn’t change his mind. He came on with his gun held out in front, moving slowly, eyes trained on a quaking piñon far out in the middle of the field beyond the wood.

  “Sure it’s not a trick?” Adam whispered.

  “Too far in the open for a trick. I could have shot him by now.”

  Ramsey indicated the need for silence, the ranger was getting too close and the dog was coughing up a growl or two. Adam held Murphy’s snout, pulled the dog in closer as they listened to stealthy footsteps crunching on dead pine needles, shoulder snapping off a few twigs.

  There was silence then, as if the man was cussing over his mistake and then he lumbered on, no longer listening or looking at the shadows the trees made over the snow. He just trudged towards the field, gun held downwards in both hands. He was all dressed in black, except for that round ashen face.