Her room was dated but spotlessly clean. The air con sounded as if it had emphysema. She scraped the mushroom curtains along the rail and looked down at the inflatables in the pool. A few potted orange trees surrounded it, and their small dark leaves covered the surface.
After a shower and a change, she left the hotel and used her iPhone to navigate her way to the pier. Beth made her way downtown via Colorado Avenue, looking for a cab or bus, but decided to walk all the way. The day was heating up, but there was still a pleasant breeze along the sidewalk. She had on a mauve sweatshirt, cut-off jeans and a pair of purple All Stars, and felt completely conspicuous. The air smelt like marijuana as she walked past a row of homeless people sharing cold pizza from a box.
Nobody in the street paid her any heed, but she had the sensation of being exactly where she shouldn’t. She jaywalked, crossing between the traffic and anticipating the sound of a police siren. She felt suddenly exhausted but told herself she wouldn’t stop until she found the Oyster Shack. Exhaustion could play catch up later.
She turned left into Ocean Avenue and then cut down Seaside Terrace and found herself in the International Chess Park. The sand area with the wooden benches of fixed, green-chequered boards was quiet, with only a handful of children playing amongst them. From there she walked to the beach.
Even though it looked inviting, she didn’t want to explore it. This wasn’t a pleasure trip, and to Beth even stepping onto it seemed wrong.
The sun was breaking through the clouds, and she put her hand above her eyes to observe the tiny people moving along the pier towards the big wheel with the twinkling blue ocean beyond it. She wasn’t a million miles away from where the BriskyPix image had been taken.
She inhaled the salty, sunblock-scented air, and the wind blasted at her eardrums, muffling the sounds of the people on the sand. Frisbees were being tossed, dogs were being walked and everything seemed slightly staged.
Beth consulted her iPhone again, crossed the oceanfront walk and found Appian Way. She could see the red, switched-off neon half-shell logo of the restaurant jutting out on the right-hand side and suddenly stopped in her tracks.
She looked back the way she’d come, expecting to see someone following at a discreet distance. It was ridiculous. Nobody knew she was here yet. But if they did have access to her phone or computer, they would certainly know she’d booked the tickets and had checked in online.
Lynyrd Skynyrd’s “That Smell” eventually disentangled itself from the bass thud pouring out of the open door. She stood outside, the aroma of broiling shellfish and butter in her nostrils. A sign outside proclaimed:
Beware! Shuck Attack! Oysters $20/dozen Mon-Thurs!!
Looked like the lunch shift was just finishing; only a few tables were occupied by diners within the dingy interior. Three waitresses stood against the back counter with stoical expressions that said they were waiting for them to leave so they could close up. Beth took a step inside and three hostile sets of eyes regarded her.
Smiles simultaneously appeared and one of them, Chinese and looking barely sixteen, stepped forward to intercept. “Sorry, ma’am. We’re closed until this evening.”
Beth quickly absorbed her surroundings. Louisiana theme. Lots of framed retro ads for shrimp, clams and gumbo. The family nearest to her were finishing ice creams in enormous glasses. “No problem. What time do you open then?”
The girl’s features softened with relief. “Five o’clock for happy hour.”
“Thanks.” She turned, grabbed a card from the stand at the waitress station and left. She was parched but decided to find a coffee bar in a different street, somewhere she could think about what to do next. She looked up and down Appian Way before making her way back to the beach.
She walked onto the pier and paced out past the big wheel and towards the ocean. It felt like only a minute later that she had gone as far as she could. The wind was keen and goose-pimpled her exposed head. She could feel the sun’s heat starting to burn her scalp. Being exposed like this was foolish. She had to get into the shade.
But Beth remained where she was, leaning on the warm wooden balustrade and looking out into the blue void.
Chapter 39
After stopping off for a chilled coffee, Beth walked back to the Francisquito and was sticky with perspiration by the time she got there. She showered again, slipped on the scratchy white hotel robe that had seen one wash too many, set her iPhone to wake her in two hours and slept fitfully.
When she woke, it felt like the gravity in the room had changed. She rose heavily, took some deep breaths to bring herself around and couldn’t think of a reason to delay any longer. She seated herself cross-legged on the bed and used the iPhone to post “Good luck with Beethoven 5” on Eileen Froley’s Facebook wall. She waited. Less than a minute later, a message appeared in the dialogue box.
Feeling hungry?
Am nearby. How soon can you be?
She expected her reply to momentarily startle them, but theirs was instantaneous: 10:30 reservation already made for tonight.
She was fully awake now. They already knew she was here. Had they watched her checking out the Oyster Shack? Had they followed her back to the hotel? She glanced over to the door and then quickly typed: How did you know?
When she’d waited for two minutes and there was no response, she climbed off the bed and quickly locked the door. Beth thought about the receptionist downstairs and how the lobby had zero security but her. Anybody could walk in. She listened at the panel. Somebody padded past, footsteps muffled by the thick carpet. They carried on along the corridor, and she heard them descend in the elevator.
Beth picked up her shoulder bag from the back of the chair and took out the card for the Oyster Shack. It was gone five, and when the phone was picked up, a mature female drawl shouted the name of the restaurant over the commotion of happy hour.
“Hi. I’m just calling to enquire about a booking made for tonight.”
“A reservation?”
“Yes, do you have a table for 10.30?”
“Just a sec, honey.”
Beth heard the phone drop onto the bar and fingers rattling a keyboard.
“We have six reservations for 10.30. Do you want to add some people to your party? What’s the name?”
“That’s my problem. Someone I don’t know made the reservation. Can you tell me which names you have?”
“OK – I’ve got a party of six for Palmer...’
“No.”
“Then we have a party of two for Jordan.”
Beth felt like an insect had scuttled across her shoulders. “OK. Do you know when that reservation was made?”
“Sorry, couldn’t tell you. I’ve only just come on my shift. Do you want a bigger table?”
“No, thanks. I just needed to contact the person who made the booking. I don’t suppose you have their number.”
“We don’t take bookings without a number.”
“Can you tell me what it is?”
“Sorry. I can’t give out those details.”
“I do really need to get in touch with them.” She improvised. “I really don’t want to leave him sitting there on his own.”
“I see.” The waitress obviously thought she did. “Letting him down gently and you don’t know his surname. I shouldn’t really, but as it’s your table, I guess it can’t hurt.” The waitress read the number out. “Are you still there?”
Beth realised she hadn’t responded. It was her mobile number.
“Shall I cancel this table now?”
“No. That’s OK.”
“Good luck then. You’re not going to stand him up now, are you?”
*
Ramiro’s cell wasn’t loud, but strident enough to drag him back to the land of the living. He usually turned the ringer down before he slept, but after a long shift at the hospital, he’d just slipped into bed and unconsciousness. He tried to keep his eyes shut and stay half asleep but scrabbled for the phone on the nightst
and.
“Hello?” He anticipated a familiar voice from the ward pleading for him to return earlier.
No response.
“Hello?” If this was his phone company trying to sell him a more expensive package... There was still no reply, but he was relieved not to hear the bustle of the ward. He could discern breathing, though. Then they hung up.
Ramiro switched on the lamp and tried to squint at the number. It had been withheld. He dumped the phone down on the duvet, sat up and rubbed his face. 5.33 in the afternoon. He’d only been asleep for five hours. But now he was wide awake. Once he opened his eyes, his brain immediately switched on. No gradual re-engagement, just the immediate spectre of all the study he still had to do. He might as well just catch the bus back to the hospital and go to one of the quiet recovery rooms to use the time constructively.
He spent most of his waking hours there. Ramiro only had three months left at Spring Valley and couldn’t wait to finish his radiology training and settle somewhere more permanent. He’d been careful with the money he’d expended on his temporary apartment and hoped to have saved for somewhere decent by fall. Unfortunately, that meant his current accommodation wasn’t in any way conducive to study or sleep.
His ears had already homed in on the kitchen fan of the Lebanese diner opposite and the daytime traffic on the freeway. And very soon the young couple upstairs would begin their physical assault of each other, whether it was fighting or another screw-a-thon.
Ramiro considered logging in and spending an hour chatting with one of his online girlfriends. One of the five would surely be available. Things were getting pretty intense with his thirty-something girl from Thailand. She was becoming a fatal distraction. Plus, he hadn’t been to confession for over three weeks and he’d lied to his mother about it. He would go the following weekend for absolution.
He trudged into the bathroom and looked at his pasty complexion and his normally dark, spiky hair plastered to one side of his head. Ramiro thought of what he’d do if he ever met the person who had crank-called him. It wasn’t very often that aggressive thoughts came into his head, but back-to-back shifts and sleep deprivation left him in short supply of his usual good humour. If he could just have a couple of minutes with them...
He trickled some water over his fingers and scrubbed his face, not realising that very shortly he would get his wish.
Chapter 40
Why was the table booked so late? Perhaps whoever it was had to travel some distance to make the rendezvous. But any fears Beth had about the time being arranged to ensure the restaurant had emptied out for their meeting were allayed as soon as she arrived. The place was packed and the air heavy with aroma of hot seashells and garlic. Waitresses weaved between the raucous tables with trays of drinks, and a band was just finishing setting up in the corner to the right of the bar.
“I hope you have a reservation,” the waitress with grey pinned up hair said over Steve Miller singing “Going To The Country”.
Beth immediately recognised her voice from her earlier phone call. “Yes – table for two – Jordan.”
The waitress gave her a reassuring smile. “I’m Lauren, your waitress for the evening. This way, hon.”
Beth followed her weaving path through the diners and was shown to a small table only a few feet from the band. She hung her suede jacket and shoulder bag on the back of her chair.
“What can I get you to drink?”
“Just a soda water and lime, thanks.”
“All righty, I’ll be right back with that and some menus. Hope he’s worth it.”
The waitress shimmied past and Beth looked around. She hadn’t expected to find anyone waiting for her. Was the person she was meeting hidden in the drinkers seated at the bar or maybe watching her from a corner of the restaurant?
As she scanned the room, she anticipated a pair of eyes locking with hers. Rae Salomon’s? But big parties filled the rest of the tables, and they were too engrossed in their seafood, precipitous stacks of onion rings and conversations to notice her.
Her drink arrived with some menus, so Beth pretended to be engrossed in the entrees. The lights dimmed so it was impossible to discern anyone’s face amongst the cheering and whooping diners behind her. The band introduced themselves as Gatorbait and launched into a non-stop barrage of zydeco. A drunken couple got up and started dancing, and Beth had to lean away to avoid being whipped by the black leather tassels of the girl’s jacket.
After twenty minutes had elapsed, she knew nobody was going to show. But she remained where she was until the band’s first break another twenty minutes later. The lights went up and she looked at her watch for the hundredth time. Just gone twenty past eleven. She waited until half past and left just before the band kicked off again.
“Son of a bitch.” The waitress said as she handed the menus back to her at the station.
“Can I just settle up for the drink?”
“On the house, hon. If he calls, give him hell from me.”
She smiled, thanked Lauren and walked out of the Oyster Shack into the cool night air. The door closed behind her and, as Beth passed the dimly lit alleyway beside the restaurant, somebody ran at her out of the darkness.
Chapter 41
An orange streetlight glow was cast over the panicked features of the diminutive but paunchy man as he emerged. Beth estimated him to be in his fifties. He was wearing a blue shirt rolled to the elbows and a toupee.
“Do you have a cell phone I can borrow?” American accent. He extended his shaky hand and gestured with his fingers.
Beth took a step back, her grip tightening on her shoulder bag.
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you, but there’s two women back there who’ve been attacked. Do you know CPR?”
Beth did but, like a lot of people, everything learnt evaporated in the face of a situation that demanded it. She pulled her phone out of her bag and handed it to the man, still wary of his motives.
He put it to his face and began walking away. Beth wondered whether she’d been the victim of a devious mugging, but he turned back to her as he was connected.
“Ambulance and police, there’s two women here losing a lot of blood. They’ve been attacked. Crescent Bay Oyster Shack, Appian and Arcadia. Yeah. I’ll stay with them.” He rang off and handed the phone back to Beth. “Thank you.” He turned and was swallowed by shadows as he trotted back into the alleyway. She could hear a woman’s low moan and then panting.
“Try not to move. Ambulance is on its way,” he soothed.
Beth entered the alleyway and the darkness smelt of rotting food and disinfectant. As her eyes adjusted, she discerned the man stooping over a homeless woman. She was lying on her back in a pool of black blood that reflected the blue neon sign above the restaurant’s side entrance. The sound of the band filtered through the closed door, but over it was the woman’s hisses of breath as the man gripped her hands at her chest.
“Breathe slow, now. Won’t be long.” There was a slight southern twang there.
The woman, who was somewhere in her seventies, coughed up a dark bubble that burst over her chin. Momentarily, Beth was at the roadside again, looking at Luc bleeding and whispering to her. Syrupy blood soaked through the newspapers that were wrapped around the old woman’s legs. She searched the alleyway for sign of the second victim.
The man stood and turned. “Can you stay with her while I see to the other lady?”
She nodded and knelt beside the old woman, whose eyes were bulging from her skull. Beth recoiled as she saw a deep laceration at her throat. Then she realised the hands that the man had been holding were bound together at the wrists with black plastic cable ties
“She wouldn’t let me alone when I was waiting on you.”
Momentarily, she didn’t register what the man had said, and the delay meant Beth barely turned her head before his hand clasped her chin. She arched away from him, her body skewing sideways as his fingers lost their grip. She was on her back, her p
alms in front of her face to repel an attack. Briefly, she thought he’d already injured her because of the dark splashes over the backs of her hands, but Beth realised she was lying in the old woman’s blood.
The man didn’t seem to be in a rush with the hunting blade that he held in his hand. “Do me one small favour?” he asked politely, as if whatever it was would be trivial.
Beth used her elbows to crawl backwards through the cold blood, but her head struck the bottom of a dumpster.
“You’re going to die now. Don’t make it any more traumatic than it has to be.” He nodded reassuringly at the woman beside her. “She embraced it. Barely struggled. I suggest you do the same.”
“Don’t fucking touch me!”
He took a pace forward and displayed the blade sideways, not menacingly, but as if he were offering its size for approval. “Now, Beth...” He shut his eyes, a barrier against any more noisy objections. “Just take a couple of breaths. Compose yourself. Mh?”
Chapter 42
Her name on the lips of the stranger only momentarily paralysed her. “Help!”
A dog barked a response over Gatorbait and their appreciative audience. She felt her scream vibrate through her temples.
“Nobody’s going to venture down here.” His body tautened in readiness for his lunge forward.
“Help!”
But the music from the Oyster Shack seemed to get louder, as if it were in league with him.
“I could reassure you this isn’t some random act of senseless violence. And I wouldn’t be lying,” he soothed. “But in the short time we have together, there’s something more important to tell you. Not a second-hand message; this comes straight from the horse’s mouth.”
“Who is Allegro?”
He gritted his capped teeth at her in the blue neon as if he were in pain and shook his head like it was the wrong question. White spittle glowed at the corners of his mouth. Then the fire exit door swung hard into his spine and he stumbled forward, before turning to confront the person who had opened it.
Stalk Me Page 15
