by Vivien Sparx
“That was eighteen months ago,” Stone nodded. “I’m still looking.”
There was a long pause before Celia finally spoke again.
“So you came from Phoenix to find your sister, not mine.”
Stone shook his head. “No. I came from Phoenix to help you find Katrina and to save her from whatever she is involved in. I came here because of my sister. I know what you’re going through. I want to help you. I’m just saying that I’m no saint. I have my own reasons, Celia, and they’ve got nothing to do with being noble,” he said honestly. “They’re personal.”
They stared at each other in silence. Stone held her gaze. Didn’t blink. Celia’s eyelids fluttered like beating butterfly wings, and she looked away.
“Thank you,” she said. “For coming, and for being honest.”
Stone shrugged. “Tell me about Katrina.”
Celia opened her purse and pulled out two pictures. She handed them to Stone.
The first one was a family photo, maybe taken while on vacation somewhere. It showed a tall blonde girl, probably still a teenager, with her hair pulled back in a ponytail. She was wearing a white peasant’s blouse and a denim skirt, and she was leaning against some kind of a sign post and smiling.
The second image was a picture cut carefully from a glossy magazine. It showed the same person, older, wearing a blue bikini, standing with her legs wide apart and her arms folded across her chest to emphasize the deep cleft of her cleavage. The woman had long blonde hair, loose down over her shoulders, and a dazzling blue-eyed smile. She was wearing high heels. Her body was smooth and brown and flawless. Stone held the image up. Turned it to Celia.
“A modeling job?”
Celia nodded curtly. “Some men’s magazine, I think,” she said. “She sent me the photo about a year ago, when the work was still coming in for her.”
“Did she do other types of photographic modeling?”
The question hung in the air. Celia blinked, then shook her head. “You mean nude pornographic work?”
Stone said nothing.
Celia shook her head again. “I don’t know,” she said, then sprang from the chair suddenly, and wrapped her arms around herself, gripping her shoulders and pacing across the room in short impatient steps. Stone watched her but said nothing. She was biting her lip, her expression fraught and tense.
“Katrina is four years younger than me,” she started. “A beautiful young woman. Not just physically – but beautiful in every way.”
“And she moved to California to become a model?”
Celia nodded. “Ohio wasn’t big enough for Katrina,” Celia smiled, but it was a fleeting gesture that never reached her eyes. “She had stars in her eyes – and for the first few months everything seemed to be working out for her.”
Celia paused. Stopped pacing the floor. Turned and stared at Stone. “Then she seemed to get mixed up in a different crowd,” Celia said vaguely. “She started sounding sadder when we spoke, and began talking about submission and bondage,” Celia said. “It was like she was being brainwashed.”
“And she never gave you a name?”
“Not a person’s name, no,” Celia shook her head. “She only ever mentioned a club called The Cage.”
Stone moved until he was sitting on the edge of the bed. “Did she mention any friends, anyone she worked with?”
Celia tilted her head, like she was looking to the ceiling for the answer. She frowned. “Not in a long time,” Celia said. “She might have mentioned a friend when she first moved here, but I can’t recall any names. She was working as a barmaid between modeling jobs for the first few months though.”
“Where?” Stone asked.
Celia thought hard. “Floodtide…” she said vaguely. “No! Tidewater,” her eyes flashed. “It was a bar called Tidewater.”
Stone nodded. “Good. Then that’s where we’ll start,” he said. “Right after lunch.”
Celia scowled. “You’re hungry?”
“No. I’m tired. I need to sleep,” Stone said. “And the management or bar owner most probably won’t come in to work until this afternoon anyhow. He’d want to be on duty during the busy hours later tonight.”
Celia wanted to protest but she bit her lip and fought down the burning flush of frustration. “So I just sit around and wait for you?” she sounded incredulous.
“No. You find out where this bar is, and where The Cage is. And you report to the police,” Stone explained. “Let them know who you are and how to contact you. Let them know you won’t be going anywhere until you find your sister.”
Nine.
The Tidewater bar was on the ground floor of the waterfront complex Stone had seen as he had entered town. The bar was wedged between a glass-fronted shop for tourists and a Chinese restaurant that had tables out front.
Between the harbor and the building was a wide cobblestoned promenade that wound itself all the way around the southern shoreline. Families on holiday strolled along the foreshore and a young boy with a fishing rod came towards them. Stone took Celia’s elbow suddenly and guided her out of the way, and onto one of the timber jetties.
Fishing boats scraped and swayed against their mooring posts, and the afternoon sun that reflected off the water was warm on his back as he turned to her. Suddenly he stopped walking, forcing her to stop as well. There was a look of bewilderment and confusion in Celia’s eyes as she discovered that he was staring at her with a brooding intensity that she found unnerving.
“What’s your story, Celia?” he asked.
Celia shrugged. “What do you mean?”
“You know what I mean,” Stone said. “Tell me what you do. Who you are. You know about me because Peter Boltz told you. Now I want to know exactly who I am helping before we step into that bar and I start asking questions about Katrina.”
She stared up into Stone’s eyes, silent for a moment, like maybe she was trying to sort out what she should tell him.
“I’m a writer,” she said with a tentative deprecating smile.
“What kind of writer? A journalist?” Suddenly Stone was guarded.
“No. An author.”
Stone raised an eyebrow in surprise. “Fiction?”
She nodded.
“What kind of books do you write?” he asked. “Anything I might have read?”
Celia smiled wryly. “I doubt it,” she said. “I write romance books.”
Stone blinked. Took the news on board. He was looking at her differently now he knew she wasn’t a journalist. “I figured you for some kind of accountant or lawyer,” he said.
Celia laughed, but it was a hollow, empty kind of sound, like maybe there was a deeper meaning somewhere below the surface. “I’m a single, lonely woman in my early thirties, Jack. I live with a cat named Jupiter, and I write romance books because in reality my own life is boring.” She stared up at him. “Satisfied?”
Stone said nothing. He just nodded. He walked her back along the jetty until they were standing under an awning out front of the Tidewater.
The front window of the bar was filled with nautical odds and ends. There was a fishing net hung from hooks, and around it was an old ship’s steering wheel, a couple of brass lanterns and a faded orange life preserver beside a coil of white rope.
Next to the window was a wooden door with a round glass window cut into it that had been fashioned to look like a porthole. The door was closed.
Stone glanced in through the little window. He saw people inside, and he could hear the hum of jukebox music. He pushed the door wide open and Celia followed him inside.
The entire bar was decorated in a nautical theme. There were framed prints of old sailing ships on the dark timber walls, and above the long bar counter hung dusty timber plaques with fish displayed on them like hunting trophies. The room was gloomy, the lighting from red oyster-shaped fittings in the ceiling.
Clustered along one wall were nests of dark timber tables and chairs, and in front of the counter was a row of stools o
n steel posts, anchored into the carpet.
Stone glanced around quickly. There was about a dozen people in the room. They were all looking at him. Behind the bar was a big man, maybe in his forties. He had thin greying hair and a fleshy nose that made his eyes look dark and small. He was wearing a white singlet and jeans. He had a dishcloth slung over one shoulder. He was leaning against the back wall, with his hip against the cash register, big beefy arms folded across his chest, staring up at a baseball game that was showing on a flat-screen television mounted high up in one corner of the room. The sound was muted so music from the jukebox could be heard.
He glanced at Stone and Celia as they entered, then glanced away again.
Stone crossed to the bar. Leaned against the counter casually. Celia propped herself delicately up onto one of the stools and set her handbag at her feet.
Stone looked at the man behind the bar again. The guy ignored him. Stone waited for as long as it took him to count slowly to three, and then said, “Cokes.” He held up two fingers. “Thanks.”
The guy behind the bar glanced at him. Sighed, and then pulled two tall glasses down from a rack above his head and filled them. The room was quiet. Stone could feel people’s eyes on his back. The bartender set the drinks on the counter. Stone pulled his wallet from his pocket and laid two five dollar bills on the bar, and then added another fifty.
The bartender looked at him, then looked down at the cash, then back into Stone’s dark, steady gaze.
“We’re looking for someone,” Stone said.
The bartender said nothing.
“Someone who worked here,” Stone said.
The bartender said nothing.
“Her name is Katrina Walker,” Stone persisted. “She was a barmaid here. Remember her?” As he spoke, Stone dug back into his wallet and laid the magazine photo of Katrina carefully on the counter. “This is her sister,” Stone nodded to Celia.
The bartender glanced down at the photo, and his expression changed. For a moment he was frowning, and then suddenly he must have recognized the girl. His eyes grew wider and when he looked up at Stone again his expression was bitter and resentful.
“I remember her,” the bartender said. “She worked here for a couple of weeks last fall.”
“Just a couple of weeks?”
The bartender nodded. “I fired her. She was coming on to the customers – trying to find herself a rich guy,” he glanced at Stone meaningfully. “Trying to drum up a little extra business for herself on the side. Know what I mean?”
Stone shot a glance at Celia. Her face was pale, her eyes huge. She was biting her lip like she was nervous, or trying not to cry. He turned back to the bartender.
“She was turning tricks?”
The man shook his head. “Not here. But she was scouting for clients so I fired her ass.”
Behind his back, Stone could sense movement. He glanced casually over his shoulder. There were a few young couples sitting quietly at the tables along the far wall, and a couple of old sea-dog looking guys who were probably local fishermen. No one was looking back at him. Then he noticed a stocky muscle-bound guy who had appeared from out of a back room. He was carrying timber crates. He set them down on the floor and glared at Stone. Stone glared back.
The guy was wearing a black t-shirt that was too small for him. It was tight around his huge arms and across his chest. He had a shaved head, round and smooth as a cannon-ball, and there were tattoos on his forearms and behind his left ear.
Stone turned back to the bartender.
“I want an address,” Stone said.
The bartender raised his eyebrow in an arrogant gesture and folded his arms.
“Who are you? A cop?”
“No. I’m just a concerned friend helping this lady find her missing sister. That’s why I want to see your employment records, because I want her address.”
The bartender didn’t move. Stone saw him make eye contact with the gorilla in the black t-shirt behind his shoulder, and then turn back to Stone.
“I don’t give out that kind of information,” the bartender said. “Not unless you’re a cop.”
Stone sighed. “Are you the owner?”
The guy nodded.
“Do you want to stay in business?”
The bartender started to smile. “That sounds like a threat,” he said slowly.
Stone nodded. “It is,” he said. “Because I’m happy to pay for the information. But I want the information, and I’ll get it one way or the other. Now you can either take my money and give me an address, or I can take your bar apart and you’ll spend a shit-load of money on repairs – and medical bills while you’re recovering in hospital.”
The bartender scowled suddenly, like he was offended. “Boy, you’re messing with the wrong man, and a bar full of trouble,” he said. He narrowed his eyes and glanced over Stone’s shoulder again. Stone sensed the gorilla edge a little closer, so that he was just a few feet behind him.
Stone pushed himself away from the bar. Stood up straight. Ignored the guy behind him and planted his hands on the counter. Leaned forward until his face was just inches from the bartender.
“You don’t have a bar full of help,” Stone said. “You’ve got one guy, and that’s it, but that’s not enough. Not by a long way. And once I take him out, anyone else in this room thinking about getting involved in our discussion is going to reevaluate.”
The bartender looked smug. “Is that so?”
Stone nodded. “It’s a promise,” he said. “Now you can either give me an address, or you are going to spend the rest of your life trying to eat corn on the cob – with no teeth.”
The bartender didn’t move.
Stone turned to Celia. “Take your drink outside,” he said, his voice steady and conversational. “I’ll join you in a minute.”
Celia’s face was a mask of trembling uncertainty and dread. Her hands were shaking. She nodded mutely and slid off her stool. Carried her glass towards the door and then suddenly stopped defiantly and stood beside a table near the jukebox, like she had reconsidered. Stone shrugged and then turned back to the bartender.
“Katrina Walker,” he said again. He tapped the photo on the counter. “I just want an address. I’ve asked you politely. I’m prepared to pay. But I won’t ask you again.” He said it calmly, his voice quiet and matter-of-fact. The room seemed silent. There was just the distant subdued sound of the jukebox and the hum of air-conditioning.
The bartender didn’t move.
Stone did.
He pushed himself away from the counter, and used the momentum to make a half-turn, lifting his elbow up until it was parallel with his shoulder, and then driving the point into the face of the gorilla standing behind him. It was an explosive split-second of movement. A colossal release of energy into the man’s unprotected nose. All of Stone’s weight was on his right foot, planted solid, and he drove through the blow, felt the cartilage and bone spread then split as his head whip-lashed back on his neck and he began to fall.
Stone wheeled around. His expression hadn’t changed. He heard the gorilla thrashing and flopping around on the carpet like a landed fish but he ignored the commotion. Reached across the counter and fisted a handful of the bartender’s singlet.
The bartender reacted slowly. He threw an instinctive right – a roundhouse punch that had plenty of muscle behind it, but no real power. Stone dropped his chin onto his chest and the blow hissed into the empty air above his head.
The bartender’s eyes went wide as saucers.
Stone unleashed a right, snapping the punch upwards. It landed flush on the bartender’s jaw with enough force to slam his teeth together but not enough to knock him out. The man went suddenly woozy. Stone held him up and hit him again, crushing his fist into the man’s mouth and mashing teeth and lips and gums together in a gush of bright red blood.
Stone stepped over the gorilla who was laying prone and unmoving on the floor. The guy had his hands over his ruined face and
blood streaming through his fingers. Stone ignored him and walked calmly round the end of the bar. He heaved the bartender to his feet and pushed him towards an office door at the back of the room.
When he emerged a moment later he was holding a crumpled piece of blood-smeared paper. Celia hadn’t moved. She was standing frozen and aghast, with her hand over her mouth. Stone stuffed the paper into his pocket and guided her back out into the bright sunlight of the afternoon.
Ten.
Despite her petite, elegant appearance, Celia was stubborn, and it took Stone ten minutes of patient arguing before she finally agreed to let him follow up the address he had been given for Katrina on his own.
He found a local map on the counter of the seafood take-way shop and sat on a wooden park bench on the edge of the parking lot. A couple of the four-wheel-drives he had seen that morning were still parked up. Stone unfolded the map and scanned the list of street names.
It was a tourist map. All of the local attractions were labeled in bold red print, and dozens of small colorful advertisements formed a border around the page. Stone ran his finger quickly down the list then located Katrina’s street on the grid reference. It was one of the narrow alleys that ran in a messy tangle off the main road into town in a series of residential and holiday apartment blocks that gridded the hillside behind the shopping strip.
He started walking.
Ten minutes later Stone was standing in front of a drab four-story apartment block that had been built so long ago the brickwork had dulled and greyed. The building had the depressed and unloved air of approaching dereliction.
Stone checked the address. He frowned and looked around.
There was a narrow path leading from the sidewalk to a pair of wooden entrance doors. The path was concrete slab, cracked and crumbling with tufts of grass growing through the fractures. There was a low brick wall out front of the building with a dozen mailboxes built into its façade. Stone checked Katrina’s mailbox. It was stuffed with shopping flyers and a free local newspaper. The paper was dated from Tuesday.
