Painted Skins

by Matt Hilton

  Tess’s attention was on him a split-second too long, and by the time she brought the revolver round, Hopewell was already sprinting out of sight behind her building.

  ‘Who the hell was that?’ Po demanded as he skidded up to her. His concerned gaze swept her, in an instant taking in her flushed cheeks, her dishevelled state, the gun in her hand, and making up his mind. Before Tess could confirm it was the man who’d been following them, Po was off in pursuit.

  There was only one option left to Tess: she followed.

  TWENTY

  Po’s shoulders were rounded, his arms hanging loose by his sides but his fingers curling into fists so tightly that Tess was positive she could hear the creaking of his ligaments. He turned and looked at her, and his sparkling eyes had taken on a deeper hue, the blue of an ocean at midnight. His face, normally lined, was creased deeply, and his mouth held rictus-tight. Tess had never seen him so angry.

  Partly she was glad that Cal Hopewell had given them the slip, because she wasn’t positive she could have stopped Po from killing him.

  He muttered something foul under his breath, but then his gaze held on her, and she watched as the lines smoothed out of his features, replaced by a frown of concern.

  ‘Did he hurt you?’ he asked gently.

  ‘Going to have a stiff neck in the morning, but, no, I’m OK.’ Tess realized she was still wielding her revolver, and quickly checked for observers before slipping it in her coat pocket. They were a distance from her home on Forest Avenue, near Deering Oaks Park, where the trees swayed wildly in the breeze. After he’d fled, Tess had barely gotten a look at Cal Hopewell, and had concentrated instead on keeping Po’s lanky frame in sight. The chase had taken them across lawns, over fences and down service alleys, before they’d spilled out on to Park Avenue, and Po had paused to survey the terrain like a stalking panther. Tess had almost caught up then, wheezing with effort, before Po had strode to the intersection with Forest Avenue, where he’d again scanned for movement, without luck.

  His chest rose and fell. His hair was plastered to his forehead, and rain had soaked his shirt and jeans. Tess was equally drenched, and probably looked in a worse state than she felt, except she wasn’t exaggerating when she mentioned expecting a stiff neck, she felt as if Hopewell had used her skull as a bowling ball.

  ‘The son of a bitch! What did he want?’

  Tess fed an arm through his elbow, and they hugged briefly, neither of them caring less that they were soaked through. ‘He didn’t say, but I can guess.’

  ‘Did he …?’ His words faltered.

  ‘Touch me?’ Tess squeezed him tighter, and felt his hands cup her hair. His touch was gentle but still uncomfortable. ‘He tried,’ she said, ‘but I didn’t let him.’

  Po swore savagely, and she could feel the heat flaring in him.

  ‘Where were you?’ she whispered.

  ‘As soon as I saw your text I headed back as quickly as possible.’

  ‘I know. I’m not criticizing. I was worried.’

  ‘You needn’t worry about me,’ he reassured her. ‘It isn’t anything to do with the Chatards.’

  ‘I know. I found out who that guy is.’

  Po extricated himself from their hug, but only so he could peer down at her. He placed his hands protectively on her shoulders.

  ‘I’ve been busy while you were off gallivanting,’ she told him, but added a meek smile to show she was only teasing. She briefly explained what she’d discovered about Jasmine’s attacker being the disgraced marine Calvin Hopewell. ‘I think he was there watching when I went to Margaret’s, and he followed me home again. He knew I was alone, and made up his mind to try to break in. With this storm, there was little chance of any witnesses. It was lucky I spotted him before he made it inside.’

  Po swore again. Ordinarily he watched his language around women and children, but he could be forgiven: it was his only way to express his enraged passion. ‘And I wasn’t there to help in time,’ he growled. ‘I’m so sorry, Tess.’

  ‘I’m not blaming you: I’m certainly not disappointed with you. I’m only glad you’re back.’

  Po rolled his shoulders. His pride was stung, she could tell, but he nodded in acceptance.

  ‘I’m still sorry I didn’t catch up with that son of a bitch.’

  ‘He’s gone now,’ Tess said. ‘There’s nothing we can do about it. But we now know who he is: Alex was coming over too, I’ll tell him about Hopewell and the police can have him.’

  ‘Come on, then,’ he said. ‘Let’s get back. We’re only getting wet out here.’

  ‘Could we get any wetter than this?’ Tess said, feeling exactly like the proverbial drowned rat. Her feet squished inside her sneakers.

  ‘It was this darned storm that held me up,’ Po explained as they began retracing their route. ‘I’ve been stuck out at Portland International waiting to pick up your surprise. Flights were all running late due to the high winds.’

  Tess glimpsed up at him. ‘My surprise, eh? I got a brief look at the truck you arrived in.’ She grinned. ‘Thought it was odd that you’d chosen to bring over the pickup, but, come to think of it, not when I realize who that could be in the passenger seat.’

  ‘My Mustang ain’t built for carrying someone as humongous as Pinky Leclerc,’ he joked.

  ‘Pinky’s here?’ All residual emotion after fighting off her attacker was instantly dispelled by joy. Pinky Leclerc had that effect on her. ‘Wow, I can’t wait to see him!’

  ‘He’s looking forward to seeing his “Pretty Tess” too. If I didn’t know otherwise, I’d swear he’s got a crush on you.’

  ‘No, it isn’t like that. Anyway, we both know who he’s really got a crush on.’

  ‘You’ve gotta love the big lug,’ Po smiled.

  ‘Funnily enough, that’s what he says about you.’ Tess bumped hips with him as they walked, and Po laughed, his rage thankfully dispersed – for now.

  Flashing lights filled the rain-washed scene. Out of the downpour a Portland PD cruiser materialized, and moments later pulled over the road to draw up alongside them. Alex Grey’s face was bleached white with concern, and Tess saw the relief in his eyes as he powered down the window and checked her over.

  ‘Am I pleased to see you,’ he announced.

  ‘Must say I’m happy to see you too,’ Tess replied. ‘Have you got room for two in the back? We’re getting soaked out here.’

  ‘Sure, jump in,’ said Alex, and hit the lock releases.

  Po frowned, not pleased at the mode of transport, but he wasn’t a fool. He followed Tess on to the rear bench seat, while Alex turned round to view them through the wire security screen. Tess slicked the water from her face, then was momentarily unsure where to place her wet hands. She surreptitiously wiped them on her damp thighs.

  Alex wanted to know exactly what had gone on, and Tess told him in as few concise words as possible as he drove them back towards her house.

  ‘And you guys chased Hopewell out there to near Deering Oaks Park?’ Alex asked.

  ‘Unfortunate that he got away,’ Po drawled, and caught a squint from Alex in the rear-view mirror. ‘Maybe fortunate, then,’ Po concurred.

  Alex relayed Hopewell’s details and a description gleaned from Tess to colleagues already engaged in an area search. Once he released the mike, he said, ‘So who the hell’s the behemoth I found sitting on your drive?’

  ‘You didn’t treat him as a suspect, I hope?’ Po growled. ‘He’s a friend.’

  ‘Soon as I arrived, he assumed the position. Took me a minute or two to get any sense out of him, and he explained how he was with you, Nicolas Villere, but you’d abandoned him to chase a better-looking fella. I left him with a colleague, can’t say what has happened since then.’

  Where Pinky came from, he was possibly used to being treated as an immediate suspect by any cop who didn’t know him. From what Po recalled of law enforcement in Louisiana they weren’t as tolerant of minority races and ethnic diversity as
they were up here in the north; but his direct experience of dealing with southern cops was decades out of date, so things could have changed.

  ‘His real name is Pinky?’ Alex wanted to know.

  ‘His real name is Jerome, but he wouldn’t thank you for it,’ Po replied. ‘Anyway, Officer Grey, what’s wrong with being called Pinky?’

  ‘Nothing, I suppose,’ Alex shrugged as he glimpsed in the mirror. ‘But is he …’

  ‘Gay?’ Po asked, and lifted an eyebrow of reproof.

  ‘I was going to say “for real”,’ said Alex, and caught a grunt of mirth from Tess.

  ‘He’s unique,’ she said, and Po nodded his approval.

  ‘You might say that,’ Alex agreed. ‘Now I think of it, he’s the guy helped you out down in Baton Rouge, right?’

  ‘One and the same,’ Tess said. ‘Pinky’s great. You’ll love him.’

  Alex didn’t reply. He ruminated; probably understanding that the assistance Pinky gave to Tess and Po had also placed him in Pinky’s debt.

  Pinky was waiting by kerbside when Alex pulled up outside the antiques shop. He was dressed in an enormous parka coat with a fur-lined hood thrown back. His small head sported a woollen bobble hat, which made it appear pointed, and added to the strange appearance of his silhouette. He suffered from a medical condition that had bloated his body from mid-chest down, forming his legs into thick tubes while his arms were oddly skinny by comparison. He made jazz hands when he spotted Tess grinning up at him from the confines of the cruiser. She slipped out and was engulfed in his warmth as he lifted her skyward in a hug.

  ‘Oh, pretty Tess,’ Pinky announced, as he set her on her feet again and held her at arm’s length so he could study her, ‘such a sight for sore eyes, you!’

  ‘I’m a mess,’ Tess replied, because she knew she was. ‘And what on earth are you doing standing out in the storm like this? You’ll catch your death of cold.’

  ‘Ha! You call this a storm? Do you forget where I come from, me? This is a sun shower by comparison!’

  Po clapped Pinky on the back. ‘Let’s get inside, old pal. Tess for one needs to get out of this damned rain.’

  A second police cruiser was parked at the rear of the autoshop truck. Alex conversed briefly with its driver, and then waved him off, the cop going to join the search for Hopewell. Alex followed them up the stairs to Tess’s house. Her door was still open, as she’d left it, and her phone was sitting on the hall table. Tess carried it with her while she peeled off her coat and went in search of towels. Although it wasn’t his place, Po played host, offering seats and hot drinks.

  Alex was keen to go hunting for the man who’d assaulted his sister, but somebody had to take an initial report from her and he’d volunteered. He shook hands with Pinky, and made an apology for his earlier brusqueness.

  ‘Not to worry, I enjoy being roughed up by a handsome hunk in uniform, me,’ said Pinky, to a startled look from Alex. Po grinned unashamedly, happy not to be the object of Pinky’s affection this time.

  Tess was absent for a few minutes, drying off and changing her clothes, and only when she joined them in her living room did she understand why the three guys were all blinking at each other in semi-darkness: the power was still off.

  ‘Nobody thought to check the breaker box?’ she asked, and gave Po then Alex a disapproving look. ‘If you want something done …’

  ‘I’ll check,’ said Po. ‘You tell Alex what went on here.’

  Alex stalled him. ‘You’re going to have to call the power company,’ he said. ‘My colleague checked around, and found the supply wires to the building were chopped through. Going to have somebody from CSI over to dust for prints.’

  ‘We know who’s responsible,’ said Po.

  But Tess shook her head. ‘We still have to gather the evidence.’

  ‘Got candles?’ Alex asked.

  ‘I’ve got storm lamps,’ said Tess, and raised her eyebrows at Po. ‘They’re through in my junk closet.’

  ‘So I’ll fetch them instead,’ he griped, and sloped off towards her kitchen.

  Pinky clapped his hands excitedly. ‘It’ll be as if we’re camping out in the great outdoors!’

  Alex seemed about to say something, but Tess beat him to the punch. She thumped him on the shoulder, and his mouth snapped shut.

  ‘Can I point something out?’ asked Pinky, with a grandiose wink at Tess. ‘I once said for such a woman as you, pretty Tess, that I’d be prepared to change my ways. Well, I needn’t now, not when presented by this handsome hunk here.’

  ‘Uh, I’m spoken for,’ said Alex a tad too quickly.

  ‘Fear not, I was only pointing out your apparent likeness, me. You are siblings, yes?’ He waved a finger between them. ‘But who is the elder?’

  ‘Him,’ said Tess, ‘though you wouldn’t think it.’

  ‘Oh! I was fooled by his youthful good looks,’ Pinky leered.

  ‘I meant judging by his immature behaviour,’ Tess explained and Alex grumbled in good nature.

  Po came back lugging some battery-powered lamps, and set one down on Tess’s work-station desk. Another he set atop the mantelpiece – an original feature for a now defunct fireplace.

  Alex fished out his notebook, and a pen, and looked expectantly at his sister.

  Tess held up a finger. Pulled out her cellphone that was ringing.

  She didn’t recognize the number on the display, but saw it had a Portland area code.

  ‘Hello?’ she asked warily.

  ‘Is that Tess Grey? We spoke yesterday,’ whispered an urgent voice. ‘It’s Chris Mitchell, the bartender from Bar-Lesque. Max Carter’s club?’

  ‘Chris? Yes, hi! This is Tess.’ She looked quizzically at her friends, who were all eyeing her expectantly: over the phone she could hear the rasp of breath. ‘Chris … is there something wrong?’

  ‘There’s somebody here asking Max about Jazz again,’ whispered Chris. ‘I thought I should let you know …’

  ‘John Trojak?’ Tess asked.

  ‘No, somebody else. Uh! Things are getting kinda heated over here … Oh!’

  Behind Chris’s other voices were raised, and there was a sudden racket of chairs and tables scraping across the floor, something heavy crashing down.

  ‘Oh my God!’ Chris screeched into the phone. ‘He’s stabbed him. Oh god oh god oh god! Help, Tess, help! Oh dear god, there’s blood everywhere!’

  TWENTY-ONE

  The whispering devil returned after two days.

  In her fanciful manner, Elsa Jayne Moore had imagined a number of reasons for his nonappearance, none of them good for her sick-minded abductor. She hoped that the police had captured him, or that he’d been killed in some random but blessedly appropriate accident, or that he was ill, and lying in some sick-bed thrashing and moaning in agony, bathed in sweat and the heat of a raging infection. She dreamed the bastard was incapacitated or dead, and it would be just punishment for his wickedness. But also she’d grown fearful. If he were imprisoned, dead, ill, or incapacitated in some other fashion, then what would become of her and the other girls he’d secured in their cells? Would anyone find them before they perished from thirst or starvation?

  Before he left, he’d double-checked the chain shackling her to the rusty engine block. Double-checked the lock on her door, even thrown over an extra layer of security in some kind of lever she heard bolted and then secured with a padlock. She was certain that similar precautions had been made with the other captives. His final warning came at a rasp through the tiny slot in the metal door through which he checked on his prisoners, ensuring they were effectively restrained before entering their cells. ‘Silence,’ was all he said, and the promise of retribution that one word held was enough to command obedience.

  He’d left water, and a meagre supply of food, but crackers and cookies didn’t last long: Elsa had consumed the biscuits in the first few hours he’d been gone, and half the water. Only when she didn’t hear his shuffling progress through th
e labyrinth that first night did she think to conserve her water supply. But now that had gone. She hadn’t felt a need to move her bowels, but she’d urinated, and her pee she guessed must be dark and cloudy through dehydration. It probably stank, but she’d grown nose blind, accustomed to the stench by now. When she heard the unlocking of a distant door, and the steady crunch of boots along the corridor that followed, the relief that flashed through her was surprising. She desperately needed to drink. It was a horrible notion, but she understood that her survival was reliant on her abductor when it came to the most basic of necessities.

  Strange that she could juxtapose the notion of saviour over the deranged beast responsible for her torment. She wondered if the other girls were as relieved to hear his progress through the labyrinth. She stirred, coming from her crouch, with her chain clutched between her fingers, ensuring it didn’t clink or rasp together. In the dimness she couldn’t tell if there were any signs that she’d attempted to scrape a weak spot in her shackle. If he noted her attempt at escape, her punishment would be brutal and immediate. She didn’t think she need fear too much: the floor was hard-packed dirt, and apart from a few small pebbles she’d found nothing to rub the link against, and had quickly given up. Nevertheless she cupped as much of the chain to her abdomen as she could.

  He didn’t come directly to her cell. Why would he when she wasn’t his favourite? As mad as it sounded, she should be relieved that he found one of the other girls more deserving of his time, but in an absurd way she was also pinched by envy. The uncoupling of the other girl’s cell door was noisy, heavy clanks and the screech of rusty iron. His commands were too low to be heard from her cell, but she imagined what he wanted. When he entered, his slaves must turn away and face the back wall. She pictured the girl doing so now, but with no idea of what she looked like it was her own figure she watched assume the position.

  Who had he gone to first?

  Was it to the girl whose name she’d learned? The one who’d been brave enough to speak with her?