“Aye,” said Dylan. It was the first word he’d spoken since they entered the house. “We’ll find Maggie and get her someplace safe.”
“You’re a Scot.”
“And you’re Irish, if I’m not mistaken.”
“Right so. Born and raised in the West counties.” She shook her head forlornly. “But that was a long time ago.”
“Does Maggie have family in Ireland?” asked Dylan.
“Another long story, too long for today.”
“I think I know what Dylan’s getting at,” said Sylvia. “You said that you’d like us to take Maggie someplace safe. Well, if she has family there, Ireland might suit. I know it’s far away, but I have a close friend in Galway who would take excellent care of her until this man is apprehended.”
Mrs. Taylor shrugged wistfully. “Ireland.” She sipped her tea and stared dreamily at the teapot for a moment. “Do any of you believe in destiny?”
Dylan drifted to the window drawn by the muted clunk of car doors. “It’s the police.”
“Damn,” said Estrada. “Please Mrs. Taylor. Tell them about the priest. Maybe they can find out more about him. But, don’t mention us or the message. Give me a chance—”
“Ah Jesus. What if—”
“Please. They’ll want to interrogate us and it will waste valuable time. It’s just after ten now. Give me until midnight? Twelve hours. If we’ve made no progress by then, you can tell them everything.”
“Midnight it is, and Estrada, you better be as good as Maggie claims you are in her diary. I’m counting on you.”
≈
“Jesus, man. What happened to you?” Less than an hour later, Estrada stood in a hospital room, surveying the battered body of his best friend. He could literally feel his blood boil as it rushed to the surface, scorching his taut skin with swift pink streaks.
Michael was laid out in the bed. His right forearm was in a cast, his left hand bruised and swollen, but that was not the worst of it.
“Ambush,” he mumbled through a swollen lip. The universe was stacking up against Estrada and his plan to catch this psychopath. Though Michael never claimed to be innocent—and for the record, neither did he—his friend did not deserve this.
A diagonal welt stretched across his face from the top of his left temple to the right side of his chin—the obvious signature of a blunt weapon. It had nearly taken out his eye. One brutal swing had found its mark before he could throw up his arms and shield his face from the ensuing blows. Another huge bruise rose on his forehead—it looked like he’d been kicked. This was no random act of violence. Whoever inflicted this intended to disfigure him. Whether because of jealousy or revenge, such cold-hearted violence was never impersonal.
“Who? Who did this to you?”
“Cole,” he said.
“Cole? Clayton Cole? Jade’s ex?” Estrada reflected on the obvious cause of Cole’s anger. This assault could have been avoided had they connected with the man that day. It was a mistake on his part not to have tried again. Another mistake. “Did you see him, man?”
“If you want to know—” Clive, who’d been sitting quietly in the corner of the small room on a pale vinyl chair, spoke up suddenly, paused for a second to gauge Estrada’s reaction, and then continued. “Michael was beaten unconscious. He doesn’t remember what the man looked like. But just before it happened, a man called and said he had information regarding the woman’s murder.”
“A man?” Estrada’s gaze settled on the kid. A maze of thin narrow angles with an unusually long sharp beak, Clive reminded him of a sandpiper; a passably pretty shore bird that scavenged the beaches and tidal flats on long skinny legs. Daphne was always pointing them out when they hiked across the boardwalk at low tide. Deprived of his brother’s designer looks, the kid was a disparate replica. Where Michael had high cheekbones and finely sculpted shadows, Clive looked simply starved. There was something unsettling about him that Estrada loathed; something that Michael had apparently found a way around, as was the nature of family. But he could not.
“Yes, I took the call myself.”
“How convenient. What exactly did this man say?”
Clive shrugged off the snide. “Something like: tell the vampire, if he wants to meet Sarah Jamieson’s killer, he should step out back.”
“He called her Sarah Jamieson, not Jade?”
“He was her boyfriend.
“Did he say he was her boyfriend?” Clive glared at him. “So, no. Then what happened?”
“Michael went straight away. When he turned the corner into the alley, Cole was lying in wait with a crowbar.”
“You didn’t go with him?”
“He told me to stay in the club.”
“And that was enough to stop you? What, brothers don’t have each other’s backs in Britain?”
“We’re more inclined to respect each other’s wishes.”
Estrada ran his hand irritably through his hair and pulled at the tangles with his long fingers. “How do you know it was Cole? It could have been anyone.”
“You mean; did I lure my big brother into an ambush?” Estrada’s narrow-eyed stare spoke volumes. Clive shrugged. “Michael believes it was Cole. Ask him.” He sniffed belligerently. “And I’ll tell you this: I have no reason to hurt him.”
“You better not be lying, little brother.”
Estrada stared at Michael, who shrugged from his own personal hell. Lowering his voice, he pleaded with his friend. “Are you absolutely sure it was Cole? It was dark, you’d probably had several drinks, some tokes. You couldn’t have seen much before he smashed you in the face.” Michael squeezed his eyes shut. “You’re not sure, are you?”
“You sound like the ruddy coppers.”
Clive Stryker was an unnecessary obstacle in an already complex situation. He needed to disappear.
“When you accuse someone of assault and battery—which is clearly what this is—you better be fucking sure.” Things could come back on people in myriad ways. He knew that from experience. With a loud sigh, Estrada settled on the edge of Michael’s bed. “I suppose if the cops told Cole what happened to Jade…if she was my girlfriend—”
“He shinks itz me,” said Michael, through clenched teeth.
Estrada squeezed his shoulder. “I know you’d never hurt anyone; maybe he does too. Maybe he just needed somebody to vent on, you know? We all need that sometimes.”
One corner of his upper lip curled as he flashed a quick glance at Clive, and then focussing on Michael, he sighed again, and touched the one perfect cheekbone with his finger. “You are a good man and you have an exquisite face. Even now, amigo, you’re more beautiful than Dorian Gray ever was. And I promise you this: I will avenge you.”
Visibly relaxing under his friend’s touch, Michael’s eyes shone.
“We all know you didn’t kill Jade.” He thought a moment. “And neither did Clayton Cole.”
“Hmmm?” Despite the plethora of painkillers coursing through his bloodstream, Michael was trying to keep up.
“There’s this girl named Maggie Taylor. She came to our ceremony last night. Later, she was abducted by the same guy who grabbed Sensara and me. If Cole was outside Pegasus beating on you, he couldn’t have been kidnapping her at the same time.” Michael blinked his eyes. He was fading. “The problem is, I needed you, amigo. I needed you to help me rescue her and now there’s no way you can—”
“I can.” Across the room, Clive stood posing in a boxer’s stance. Estrada rolled his eyes in a look merging doubt and suspicion and then laughed out loud. “Look. I’m smart and I’m a doctor. If someone gets hurt? And, I can handle myself in a fight. What more do you need?”
It was true. Clive Stryker was a wiry little prick who could pack a punch, but—
“Someone I can trust.”
“Well, I will just have to do because Michael is clearly out of commission. I know you don’t like me, but I don’t like you either, so that makes us even. What’s critical is finding thi
s girl, yeah?”
“I can’t work with someone I don’t trust.” Estrada looked back to his friend for assurance, but he’d fallen asleep. Reaching over, he laid his palm lightly along Michael’s forehead. “You’re going to come out of here as clean as Keith Richards and twice as popular.”
“Listen Estrada. You trust Michael and Michael trusts me.”
“Your point?”
“If Michael trusts me, so can you.”
“It doesn’t work like that.” He turned to leave. Then he stopped and stared Clive down for almost a minute. Finally, satisfied that the kid could take it without flinching, he said, “I suppose I could use backup and I might need you to drive. You can drive a stick.”
“Of course.”
“And you realize that the steering wheel is on the left side of the car?” Clive held up his middle finger in response. “You can come under three conditions. One, you don’t ask questions. Two, you don’t get out of the car. And three, if you fuck with me, in any way, I’ll put you in the hospital.”
Clive rolled his eyes. “That’s not a condition.”
“The kind of condition you’ll be in when I finish with you, it won’t matter.”
≈
Cruising down the freeway in the red convertible with Estrada at the wheel, Clive felt almost as if he was Michael. It was something he’d wanted all his life. Michael, the infamous older brother, had been chosen by the magnanimous Nigel Stryker, and been handed everything he ever wanted including freedom; while he had been cloistered by the parsimonious bastard his mother died trying to escape. Life was not fair. But it was looking up.
Leaning back, he jacked his elbow up on the plush leather seat and grinned. His plan to take over that ridiculous brothel, they called a nightclub, was working. As much as he hated Nigel for spawning the father he despised, he’d almost convinced him that Michael was running a drug cartel out of the club. That he had no proof mattered very little. Clive knew that Nigel had spies working the club now and Michael was under close scrutiny.
This latest business—getting beaten in the back alley—just gave credence to his case. Michael, as caught up as he was in acting out his inane vampire fantasies, was playing right into his plan, and the magician’s involvement with a serial killer was a gift from the gods. Clive couldn’t wait to see how this next scenario would play out.
“Have you been in contact with the kidnapper?” he asked.
“No questions, remember?”
“I was just wondering how you know where to go. I assume the man designated a meeting place?”
“You’ll know when we get there.”
“What does he want anyway? Money?”
Estrada jammed on the brakes. The tires slid on the greasy pavement as the car shimmied from side to side. He swung it into the right lane, and then veered off onto the gravel shoulder.
Clive braced himself against the dashboard, exhaling in a frightful rush. “Are you trying to kill us?” he said, as the car finally stopped.
“You don’t have a very long memory for a doctor.” Estrada sat calmly with his hands on the wheel and stared out the front window as the windshield wipers jerked steadily back and forth. “Get out.”
Clive, his temper triggered by the memory of the last time this asshole had left him hell and gone from the city, reached into the pocket of his trench coat and pulled out a derringer.
“I am not getting out, and you are going to answer my questions.”
Estrada glanced at the tiny pistol and sniggered. “Like that’s real.”
“Oh it’s real,” said Clive, cocking the .38 special, “and loaded.” He pointed the short steel barrel at Estrada’s abdomen. “I won’t kill you, but at this range, a lead bullet in the gut hurts like hell, and I know exactly where to place it. Believe me. I’ve dug them out of young thugs in London.”
“What is it that you want little brother?”
“Stop patronizing me with that little brother shite for starters. I’ve had quite enough of your disrespect.”
“Is that it? You’re gonna shoot me for that?”
“If need be. Tell me what’s going on.”
“Put your gun away.”
“No. From now on I’m driving. Get out of the car. Now.”
He watched as Estrada opened the door and stepped out onto the gravel shoulder. Still holding the gun, but shading it with his left hand, Clive did likewise. Vehicles zoomed by on the freeway, oblivious to the armed carjacking that was taking place. The two men passed each other in front of the red car and climbed back in. Estrada clipped on his seatbelt and gazed straight ahead.
Feeling elated with his sudden power, Clive smirked at his new sidekick. “Right. Now. What’s our destination?
“I don’t see how it matters. You’re not even from around here.”
“That’s insignificant.”
“You little shit. You’re working with the cops, aren’t you? What are you going to do? Pull out a cell phone and call them while you hold me at gunpoint?”
“I told you. I just want to know what’s going on.”
“The man said no cops. If the cops show, you’ll get this girl killed.”
“I’m not working with the cops.”
Estrada slammed his fist against the dash. “I knew this was a mistake. Look, we’re running out of time. Can we just get back on the highway?”
Clive took his time ruminating on the question just to piss him off.
“I’m serious. It’s already two. By five, we’ll have lost the light and I might need to go into the woods to find him. Just drive…please.”
Clive sat and stared out the front window, as the magician had done moments before.
Estrada sighed. “Fine. You win. I don’t know who he is or even where he is. He sent a message telling me that I had forty-eight hours to find him, and I only have until midnight tonight before the police become involved. He doesn’t want money. I don’t know what he wants. I used a pendulum to scry his approximate location. It’s somewhere near the Old Alexandra Bridge just north of Yale. We just keep cruising up this highway until we get there. I’m going to negotiate with him and get Maggie back. Now you know everything.”
“Right,” said Clive. He turned the key in the ignition and the vehicle purred. He did not understand what scry meant, but at least he had the magician’s attention. “Right. Now we’re on even ground.” After putting the safety on the derringer, he slid it, barrel down, into the front of his belt.
“You better hope that safety works, little brother, or your wee weapon might leave you without one.”
10: Stones Have Been Known To Move
DRAWN TOWARD THE KILLER by some unfathomable force, Estrada took his first steps across the Old Alexandra Bridge with trepidation. He couldn’t help but look down through the open u-shaped steel decking that stretched like rusty metal waves beneath his boots. Resting a leather-gloved hand on the orange railing, he stared, mesmerized by the roiling green-brown river. Beneath him, the Fraser, rife with sediment and autumn rain, funnelled through a canyon of colossal grey rocks into spiralling white-capped eddies. It was deep, cold, and forbidding.
He closed his eyes against the unexpected vertigo and inhaled deeply. With the exhale came a knowing. Once, in a past life, he had been cast into water like this with his wrists and ankles bound by chains. His body grew numb even as his lungs burned. Then, surrender followed terror, as death ushered his weightless spirit from a watery darkness into light.
Fretfully, he opened his eyes. Three hundred feet distant a decorative circle was embedded in the cement arch high above his head. He made this his focus. There was no turning back. No room for uncertainty or fear. The pendulum had brought him here, and his gut told him that the man who held Maggie captive was somewhere on the other side of this gorge. It was his destiny to see this through.
Once across the bridge, he examined an old cement wall painted in graffiti. Was it too much to ask that he’d left a message among the jumble of words
and tags? Seeing nothing significant, he pulled the hood of his long black trench coat tighter against the rain and surveyed the area. A few men fished upstream. The killer would not venture near them. He lurked somewhere on the outskirts like a lone coyote.
Estrada was not, as the madman assumed, some sorcerer with omniscient power. He was simply a man besotted by magic, who performed illusions with the passion another man might play the cello or compete in triathlons or sail. He believed in the spirit’s power to inform the mind through dreams, intuition, and tools like the pendulum. He could spin spells and visualize energy, but he was no psychic like Sensara.
He squatted by an old hemlock tree and checked his cell phone. It was after three—less than two hours of daylight left. Closing his eyes, he asked for help. He knew he was too close to this, too involved to be objective. Still he had no choice. Around him were sounds: rushing water and the hum of transport trucks on the nearby highway. Acknowledging them and letting them pass, he focussed on his breath.
When it came, it was no searing vision; just an insistent voice that urged him to stand and walk. He chose a trail to the left that followed the river’s edge; it was likely where the old road ran years before. He raced down it, but not far along it ended abruptly, severed by a high waterfall. Damn. There was no time for error.
Retracing his steps, he noticed a break in the bush. A trail, littered with broken branches, rose straight up into the forested mountain. Something told him that this was the way.
Using both hands, he began to climb the steep hump. His long coat protected him from the rain, but tripped him up mercilessly. He slipped and grasped a tree root to right himself, then used the gnarly roots as leverage to hoist himself up. Skirting moss-strewn boulders and deadfalls of hemlock and Douglas fir, he climbed steadily upwards, ever mindful of the slick ground beneath his boots.
To Charm a Killer (Hollystone Mysteries Book 1) Page 15
