by Tim Tigner
Although her words carried weight and her posture remained aggressive, whatever spark she had shown the night clerk had extinguished. She looked to Troy like a half-drowned kitten. The sight punctured his resolve and he nodded. “Go ahead.”
She said “Thanks.”
Troy found himself looking into the mirror on the back of the bathroom door. His thirty-eight-year-old hair wasn’t sprinkled with grey yet, but crows had begun scratching around the corners of his eyes. The big change was on his forehead. Two v-shaped scars descended below the hairline over his right eye, one for a centimeter, the other for nearly two. Their color was still an angry red, meaning they weren’t more than a year old. He probed them with his fingers. A few months, he guessed. Half a year. They ran for another couple of inches under his hairline. “One more reason not to go bald,” he muttered. Since he did not know his parents, he didn’t know what hairline to expect as he aged, but so far, so good.
Turning from the mirror, Troy looked around their sparse room. It appeared darker without Emmy’s presence. There was no television to offer company or news. He put the heat on high and set the blower to full. Since he was too wound-up to begin recouping, he slipped behind the curtains for a little of that reconnoitering Emmy had vaunted. The window turned out to be a sliding glass door. It opened into the waist-high railing of a faux balcony.
The road they had trudged in on was to his left, and there was a Gas-N-Go to the right. He did not know what lay further down the dark street beyond, but he should. He needed a map—and he knew where to get one.
He said, “I’ll be right back,” to the bathroom door, getting only a relaxed “Mmmm,” in response. He found the lobby dim and quiet but for the night clerk’s snoring. He was halfway to the rack of advertising brochures when a kaleidoscope of red and white lights erupted on the wall before him.
The sight sent another traumatic jolt down his spine. He snapped reflexively into a defensive posture, but quickly recovered his poise. He crept forward and peeked out the lobby door just as two police cars slid to a stop on the motel’s gravel lot.
Troy reacted so quickly that he probably made it back to the room before the cops had set their parking brakes. He ran straight to the bathroom and threw open the door. Emmy was still in the tub, with only her face and knees above the water. Her eyes had been closed but now they were open wide. “The police are here! We have to go—right now!”
He grabbed her sopping clothes off the floor and bundled them up in a towel as he spoke. She was still lying wide-eyed in the sudsy water when he finished so he reached in, not knowing what part of her he would get. “We’ll jump out the sliding glass door. The main entrance is already covered. Get your shoes on—the rest can wait.”
She scuttled into her Reeboks as he pulled her toward the sliding door. They slipped behind the curtains and he carefully slid open the door. There were three police cars outside the lobby now, a mere fifty feet away. The few palms and bushes that haphazardly marred the parking lot between them promised pitifully little cover, but the Jeep parked below their window offered some hope. “I’ll lift you over the rail and lower you down,” he whispered.
Before he could act on his words, she jumped up and over the top rail, using her left arm as a fulcrum. She ran her right hand along a supporting rail to control her fall and then dropped seamlessly from the bottom rung. As she hit the ground, a bullet punctured the stucco where her head had just been.
Troy knew that the cops had not fired. After two tours in a combat theater he had a sixth sense about such things. He also knew better than to waste a single second searching for the sniper. He just dove.
Chapter 10
Opportunity
FARKAS PEELED BACK his eyelids to see stars. Real stars. As his vision adjusted and his mind sought solid ground, a dark face moved into his line of sight, replacing Orion’s belt with a knit cap and dreadlocks. “You okay, mon?”
The peculiar dialect snapped Farkas out of his daze. Where was he? The last thing he remembered was taking a shot at Emmy from atop a delivery truck. Had he been flashed? Had Luther finished with him and decided to cover his tracks? No, Farkas concluded. If that were the case, he would have no memory of Luther or mind-flashing or the woman. “What happened?” he asked.
“You passed out, mon.”
“That much I understand. What I want to know is why.”
“I dunno fa sure,” the Rastafarian replied, his tone more amused than concerned. “I was walkin’ along mindin’ my own business when I saw you lyin’ besides da truck. I didn’t see no bottle or smell no booze, so I went to check your pulse and saw da medical alert bracelet. I fightin’ da sweet-blood myself.” The Rastafarian held up a wrist to reveal his own red aluminum band. “So I guessed yous ran outta juice. It happens on da islands when people get to drinkin’. I gave you a dose from one of da needles in your pocket.”
“Which syringe did you use?” Farkas asked, his eyes flaring wide.
“Calm down, eh. I understand dese mattas. De vial in da silva pen had a Lilly label. De vial in da black one had no markins at all, just de unusual red color. Never seen dat before, and I seen a lot.”
“What did you—”
“I gave you da silva. Like I said, mon, no worries.” The Rastafarian handed him back his pouch. “Perhaps you’d like ta share da black?”
Farkas accepted the pouch. It was zipped up, but he could feel both injector pens through the leather. He had been a fool to let this happen. If “Rasta” had not wandered along and taken an interest, he might have slipped into a diabetic coma. It was an amateurish mistake, getting so caught up in the thrill of the chase that he forgot to take his meds. He looked up and met Rasta’s eye. “Thank you, friend. But believe me, you don’t want to be sharing the black.”
Rasta held up his hands. “No worries.”
Farkas got slowly to his feet, pretending to be short of balance so he could scan the area surreptitiously. First he checked to be sure that the two of them were alone, then he swept the ground for signs of his sniper rifle. That eighteen pounds of fine German craftsmanship was worth a cool twelve grand. And it was nowhere in sight. Either Rasta had stashed it, or it had slipped from his grasp before he toppled from the roof of the delivery truck.
He reached into his back pocket and withdrew his wallet. The fact that it was still thick more or less confirmed that his rifle had not been purloined. First things first, right? He pulled out five one-hundred dollar bills and handed them over to his new friend. “This has been embarrassing,” he said. “I’d like to forget the whole evening ever happened—especially if anyone should come around asking questions.”
Rasta enthusiastically nodded his complete agreement. “I hear ya, mon. Consider it forgotten.”
Farkas would, but not because he trusted in solidarity among society’s outer fringe. Rasta would undoubtedly spend the next twenty-four hours smoking, shooting, or snorting his new wealth. For short-term memory loss, that was just as effective as a NATO 7.62 mm round—or a shot of Luther’s 456.
Rasta left quickly once the money was in his hand, no doubt worried that Farkas might realize that the bills were hundreds instead of tens. Fifteen minutes later, Farkas, Heckler & Koch checked into the Starlight Motel as Mr. and Mrs. Smith.
The room’s phone caught his eye the moment he opened the door, and he felt a twinge in his stomach. He looked at his watch. Four AM. What the hell.
Farkas had never met Luther. He did not know what he looked like or where he lived. He assumed that Luther called the United States home since all of their business was there, but in the electronic age he could just as well live in Australia or Switzerland. In any case, Luther’s secrecy gave Farkas the luxury of ignoring time zones when he called.
Luther picked up on the second ring. “Tell me what I want to hear.”
“I can’t do that yet. I … had a problem.”
“Spare me your excuses and cut to the chase. Where are they now?”
“I d
on’t know.”
“You don’t know? Well, that’s just great. That sounds like the same kind of carelessness that cost you your medical license. No wonder your people always lived under the heel of someone else’s boot. Some folks just never learn.”
Luther liked to hurl emotional barbs. Farkas was immune to them. He had seen too many bones broken with sticks and stones. “Relax, Luther,” Farkas said, his voice as calm and icy as a frozen lake. “We have nothing to worry about. They have no resources, no clues, no idea what’s going on. The only thing they do know is that they have to avoid the police. They are either going to get caught, or they are going to disappear and then do everything in their power never to be heard from again. Either way their investigation is kaput.”
Luther chuffed. “Is that your stellar insight talking? The same prescient voice you’ve been listening to all night? Well, let me assure you that one can always find a third option if he gets creative enough. And since Troy and Emmy have shown themselves to be a cross between Sherlock Holmes and Leonardo DaVinci, here’s what you’re going to do. Are you listening?”
“I’m listening.”
“Good. For the next two days, you are to keep your eyes glued to the entrance to Solomon’s. The way I look at it, within forty-eight hours they’re either going to get caught or they’re going to flee Grand Cayman. There just aren’t enough places on that tiny island for them to hide with the police believing that they’ve killed a fellow cop. So, if they don’t show up at Solomon’s by close of business Friday, then we’ll assume they’ve fled. Until then, you’re on lookout. Got it?”
“Got it. What then?”
“Then you’re to get your ass on a plane to Las Vegas. Check into the Bellagio and wait for instructions.”
“You got a new case?”
“I’ve got reason to believe one is coming.”
“In Vegas?”
“In Vegas.”
Farkas smelled an opportunity and seized it. “All right. But as long as we’re painting by numbers now, why don’t you tell me exactly what you want me to do if Troy and Emmy make a miraculous appearance?”
“We’re done with half measures. You’re to make use of your new twelve-thousand-dollar toy.”
Bingo. “Fine. I’m willing to play it that way, if that’s what you want. But given the potential need for clean up that might involve, you’ll need to send me more 456.”
There was a long pause on the phone before Luther said, “I’ll send you the dose you’ll need for the job in Vegas. That will give you two in hand. If you end up using both on Grand Cayman, I’ll send another one to Vegas with the file.”
Farkas knew that Luther hated to part with 456. His boss feared that he would set up his own business on the side. He was right to be paranoid, but wrong in his assumption. Farkas had grander plans.
Oddly enough, it was not the threat of competition itself that worried Luther. The market could absorb a thousand times what he supplied. He was just paranoid that word of his secret memory-erasing concoction would leak.
Farkas decided to play one fear against another. “That’s not good enough, Luther. To guarantee that I can keep things totally quiet, I should have at least four doses at my disposal. Better six. We’ve never had to deal with a situation like this before. It’s unpredictable. Without 456 it could get messy. Raise uncomfortable questions.”
Luther forced another long pause. Farkas knew that he had him. “All right. I’ll overnight you three more doses. But I expect regular updates. Every six hours. Agreed?”
“Agreed.”
Chapter 11
Form
TROY AND EMMY did not speak during their desperate sprint from the Seagull’s Nest. All oxygen went to fueling their legs, and fear froze their tongues.
After ten breathless minutes of putting turns and obstacles between themselves and their hunters, they emerged from a tropical forest onto a crumbling old access road behind a small strip mall. Troy slowed to a walk and Emmy bent over to gulp air with her hands on her knees. He was glad to find that he had maintained a marathoner’s legs over the past seven years. Emmy, too, was in remarkable condition—not to mention spectacular form. “You’re in better shape than most of the soldiers I know,” he said. “I’m impressed. Really.”
She shifted her gaze up from the ground to meet his. Her emerald eyes were skeptical but they brightened when she saw the sincerity on his face.
He smiled, adding, “You’re much stronger than you look.” He extended the bundled towel holding her clothes. “Slip between those dumpsters and get dressed,” he said, gesturing. He pulled his olive safari shirt off over his head and held it out. “You can use this to wipe the muck off your legs.”
“That’s a nice gesture, Troy, but I can just use the towel.” She waggled the bundle of clothes.
“Oh, right … well … I’ll just climb up onto the mall roof then—make sure that they’re not tracking us.”
“Tell me one thing before you go,” Emmy said. “How did you handle it—waking up locked in a cold dark box full of blood with a corpse? I thought I was going to lose my mind and all I had was a gun and a bit of blood on my clothes.”
Troy cocked his head. “Tommy McGuffin locked me in the kitchen dumpster on the eve of my ninth birthday—the start of Labor Day weekend. I spent two dark days and three darker nights terrified that worms would wriggle into my ears or I would suffocate from the gas of rotting cabbages. Can’t say that I considered what Guffy did a favor at the time, but …” He shrugged. “Now clean yourself up. It may seem like we’ve been through a lot, but I suspect that our adventure has just begun.”
When he dropped back to the ground a few minutes later, Emmy was dressed. “Coast’s clear. We should get moving, but I’ll need your watch first.”
She handed her Tissot over with a query in her eyes.
“I assume we were simply followed to the motel by whoever actually killed Detective Sergeant Johnson, but we may have been tracked by electronic means.” He threw her watch into the woods, followed by his own. “I also need your shoes.”
Emmy’s look turned to one of horror. She was no doubt imagining what their mad dash would have been like barefoot. “Don’t worry,” he said. “I didn’t have the tools necessary to open the watches, but I can visually inspect the shoes. You’ll get them back.”
As he busied himself washing the muck off their shoes in a puddle, she said, “Who shot at us?”
“It wasn’t the police. They use pistols and shotguns. That was a silenced rifle shot.”
“You could tell?”
“I’ve been to war.”
“Don’t the police have snipers?”
“They do in big cities. I doubt they would have one here, not a pro anyway. Plus the cars I saw were obviously reacting to a tip. Whoever shot at us was already in position when they arrived—no doubt because he called them.”
“So our troubles have doubled—and just when I thought they couldn’t get any worse.”
“In the short term, perhaps,” Troy concurred. “But this is actually great news.”
She looked up at him with shock in her eyes. “By what convoluted reasoning is having a sniper after us good news?”
“I’ll tell you later,” he said, finishing with her shoes. “You can put these back on.”
“No concealed tracking systems, explosives or microphones?”
Sweet and saucy, Troy thought. “No, nothing but foam. We can keep moving. Now that we know they can’t locate us electronically, our best move is to put quick distance between ourselves and the Seagull’s Nest. We’re ahead of them for now, but that advantage will evaporate if they bring in dogs.” He looked up from tying his laces. “Island cops probably have helicopters at their disposal too—commandeered from all the sightseeing tours.”
“So where do we go? How do we hide from helicopters and fool dogs?”
“We double back in the direction we came from and steal some boardwalk bicycles from a beachfr
ont hotel. Then we cross to the other side of George Town and head for Seven Mile Beach while it’s still dark.”
“And then what?”
“Don’t worry. I have a plan.”
Chapter 12
The Postman Always Rings Twice
FARKAS STUDIED the whitewashed four-story residence with an assassin’s eye. Deep shadowed balconies with walled sides faced the wide avenue from every apartment, and the northern exposure meant the sun was always to its back. The building was perfect.
So were the people.
Unlike the guarded luxury high-rises that fought the hotels and restaurants for space along Seven Mile or West Bay, or the cheap-but-cheerful inland complexes rented by the poor-but-proud working class and secured by Smith & Wesson, number twelve Elisabeth Avenue housed the locals who had managed to climb to the middle rungs of island society. They were the shop owners, junior bankers, and real estate agents whose toil created the backbone of the Cayman economy. For the next two days, one of their quiet, undefended, unsuspecting homes would host his surveillance operation—and maybe more.
After a final glance at his watch, Farkas drained his espresso and stood. He had waited until nine-thirty to make his move so that most of the residents would be gone for the day. This left him only thirty minutes to get into position before Solomon’s opened, but he liked working under pressure.
He had narrowed the selection to three apartments on the second floor. Each boasted a balcony that suited his needs, offering both the concealment and the alternate egress without which he would not operate. The final choice would depend upon the occupants.
His earlobes and fingertips began to resonate with a familiar tingle as he crossed the palm-lined avenue. The moment had come to pick the winner.
