Gold of Kings

by Davis Bunn

  STORM FELT LIKE SHE WAS stuck in the business equivalent of an AA meeting. Richard’s class was filled with human refuse ground down by the corporate garbage disposal. She glanced around the room and wondered how many of those gathered were hooked on failure like her father, open to any excuse that let them float on a tide of prescription drugs. Storm’s childhood home in the West Palm Beach artists’ colony had been a haven for cynics and druggies who’d sought out every possible reason to waste a life. Storm made no attempt to pay attention as Richard wrote a passage from Galatians on the board: “Bear ye one another’s burdens.” The day had left her stuffed in a cocoon fashioned from the mover’s padding. Richard had tried to speak with her before class, but she had brushed him off. Enduring his concerned sympathy risked crushing her resolve.

  Emma glanced over, but did not speak. Storm sighed and sank lower in her chair. She definitely should not have come.

  HARRY WORKED HIS WAY DOWN the hall. The classroom doors had windows inset at face level. He studied each room in turn—a choir, bell ringers, people sorting donated clothing, a library, a trio of colorful classrooms with child minders. He was about ready to decide that he was the victim of a hyperactive imagination when he turned the corner and saw the woman.

  Harry’s first thought was, Streetwalker. Somebody whose survival had once depended on judging the safety of whoever sat behind the wheel of the car she approached. She was attractive in a brutal sort of way, with the flattened features of a South American Indian. The woman was plastered against the wall. She stared down an empty corridor and clawed the whitewashed concrete blocks.

  Harry whispered, “Where is he?”

  She used her chin to point. A single classroom door stood between them and the side exit. Taped to the wall beside the class was a handwritten sign, Fresh Start.

  Now that someone else had sensed the same thing, Harry’s heart surged to redline. He scouted through the glass, then opened the door.

  “Welcome, friend. There are some seats up front.”

  Harry waved at the grey-haired man by the lectern and scouted the room. He let his glance sweep over where Storm and the cop were seated by the far wall. The little tan man was nowhere to be found.

  Harry leaned against the rear wall, near where Storm sat in the next-to-last row with her pal. The pastor talked about letting the past go and making room for life’s next stage. Probably something Harry could have used. But not just then. His brain was too busy playing tricks. He wondered whether he was chasing down one of those shape-shifters the Barbadians loved to talk about after lights-out. Harry had always put it down to the locals playing with the poor white man’s mind. Until now.

  The class broke up. As the two ladies departed, the cop gave him a hard stare. Just his luck, to meet a cop so good at her job she recalled him from a three-second glance. Harry ducked his head and played with his button, like he was still pondering whatever it was he hadn’t heard. The pastor, penned up near the blackboard by a trio of parishioners, frowned as Storm walked out the door.

  Harry followed the two ladies into the corridor and hung back. Whenever someone glanced his way, Harry did the prison deal of inspecting the ground at his feet. Some of the hard timers, they’d do you for looking at them straight in the eye. Harry did his best to disappear in plain sight.

  The hallway was packed. The hooker was nowhere to be seen.

  Outlaw rush. Harry almost said the words aloud. He’d heard the term a hundred thousand times. Barbadians hunkered on the floor after lights-out, dark features lit by the glow of ganja smuggled in by the guards. Laughing in that slow, deep way that was almost music, almost a dirge. Talking with the smoke about how they’d gotten caught, why they’d done what they did. Outlaw rush, mon.

  Which was exactly what Harry felt the instant he spotted the tan man.

  The little man was leaning against the railing at the bottom of the exit stairs. Just some loser watching the bats chasing bugs in the parking-lot lights. Maybe searching for solace in the twilight. Face almost hidden by the railing shadows. Harry’s entire system was full-on screaming menace as he pushed his way through the crowd by the exit doors. The people were still in church mode, too polite to do more than glare in his direction.

  Ahead of him, Storm followed the lady cop through the glass doors and started down the stairs.

  Harry shoved harder.

  Somebody huffed, “Watch it there!”

  The man waiting at the bottom of the outside stairs was in his early to midforties. Slender, almost frail looking. His dark brown hair was so thin Harry could see the skull glinting in the streetlights. His skin was sallow, almost yellow. He wore shapeless beige clothes, everything chosen to go unnoticed.

  The guy reached into his pocket.

  Harry’s brain shouted, Knife!

  He vaulted through the doors and used the shoulder of a hefty guy to launch himself over the railing.

  The little man was totally focused on moving toward Storm. His hand emerged from the pocket holding a glass vial with his finger hooked over a top like a perfume sprayer. Harry slapped the man’s arm, not even trying for a grip. Harry landed and rolled and came up facing a different guy entirely.

  The little man reached into his pocket again, and this time it was a knife. He snarled something Harry didn’t need to understand, and pounced.

  The guy could not possibly have jumped as high as he did. He bared his teeth and swept the blade in a hissing arc down on Harry.

  Harry ducked and rolled a second time. Only he didn’t finish his roll. He stayed on the ground, taking all his weight on his shoulders, and kicked. Hard.

  The knife went spinning.

  The man roared in a voice ten times the size of his body. He stomped on where Harry should have been.

  But Harry was already on his feet and charging. There was only one way to handle a guy like this. Fast and hard. Get him before he brought the next thing out of his pocket.

  Only the little man was faster.

  Harry felt the punch before he actually saw the guy move. The man’s hands were just two blurs. One to the solar plexus, and the other should have been to his neck, a killing strike to the jugular. But Harry got his chin down in time to take the blow on the top of his head.

  Harry saw stars.

  Poleaxed by a waif of a man using his open hand.

  Only then did Harry realize that he couldn’t breathe. And that he was on the ground again. On all fours.

  The church grounds were in total bedlam. The last thing Harry heard clearly was a woman’s voice shouting, “Federal agent! You’re under arrest!”

  Not exactly what Harry would have classed as a welcome bedtime melody.

  Until now.

  EIGHT

  THE LOCAL POLICE INTERVIEWED HARRY in the outpatient wing of Good Samaritan, the mainland hospital just off the northern Palm Beach causeway. By that time Harry had learned that the woman with Storm was named Emma Webb. Emma hung back while Palm Beach’s finest did their business. If she flashed them a badge, Harry didn’t see it. But Harry remained fuzzy about a lot of things between the tan man’s second punch and the hospital.

  Because of the police, the hospital had put him in a room with a real door. Harry lay on a paper sheet on a narrow examination bed. Storm stood between the wall and his bed, from where she shot Emma Webb looks of tight suspicion.

  Emma Webb shut the door behind the departing cops, leaned against it, and said to Harry, “I have the distinct impression you held something back from the police.”

  Storm said, “Oh, please.”

  Emma asked, “What didn’t you want to tell the officers, Mr. Bennett?”

  Storm said, “You’re saying he’s not being completely honest?”

  “I did what I was ordered to.” Emma kept her gaze on Harry. “I’ve put in a call to my superiors. Soon as I report in, I’ll be able to talk. I hope.”

  Storm crossed her arms. “Whatever.”

  Storm was standing beside the bed.
Whenever she shifted in anger or impatience she brushed Harry’s shoulder. Harry liked the feel of her being that close. Not from any possible his-and-her thing. His brains hadn’t been rattled that bad.

  Storm said, “I’m still trying to get this straight. You’ve been operating under false pretenses ever since you walked into my shop?”

  “Everything I told you was the truth.”

  “Oh. Right.” She switched her aim to Harry. “And just exactly how long have you been on my case?”

  “All day.”

  “All day. When were you planning on introducing yourself?”

  He stuck out his hand. “Harry Bennett.”

  Storm kept her arms linked across her middle. “Very funny.”

  Harry dropped his hand and said to Emma, “What you said about holding back. You were right. I’ve seen that guy before.”

  “Who, the assailant? You’re sure?”

  Harry nodded. “Twice.”

  The doctor came in as Harry was finishing his tale about the London researcher. The doctor repeated his inspection of Harry’s reflexes, and pronounced him bruised but intact, nothing broken, possibly a light concussion, see his doctor if his vision went blurry. When the doctor left, Harry swung his feet to the floor and sat up, then had to wait for the world to stop spinning. Storm placed a steadying hand on his shoulder. Harry liked that too.

  Emma pressed, “You saw the attacker earlier today?”

  Harry shut his eyes against the world’s slight tilt and regretted his refusal of pain pills. “Just after you spotted me on the bench. You went in, he went out.”

  Storm said, “Can we get out of here?”

  “In a minute,” Emma said. “I made you, but not him.”

  “I was in plain view,” Harry said. “This guy wasn’t.”

  “I have trouble accepting that he and I were in the courtyard together and I didn’t make him.”

  “You were five feet from him on the church stairs. Did you notice him before he attacked?”

  Emma inspected the linoleum at her feet.

  “This guy isn’t just fast. He’s pretty much invisible.”

  “A pro,” Emma said.

  “You find whatever it was he dropped?”

  “I’m on it. Can you tell me why Sean Syrrell contacted you?”

  “Sean and I go way back.”

  “So he just called and said, ‘Go see this researcher, then watch after Storm, and—’” She was halted by the chirping of her phone. She pulled it from her pocket, checked the readout, opened it, and said, “Webb.”

  Whatever she heard tightened her features even further. She slipped from the room and shut the door.

  Storm gave it a minute, then walked over and checked the hall. “She’s gone.”

  “Maybe we should leave too.”

  “I can’t believe she lied to me like that.”

  Harry shrugged. Cops.

  Storm asked him, “Do you have a place to stay?”

  “Tell the truth, I haven’t looked that far ahead.”

  “Well, I’ve got a floor until Sunday.”

  “Works for me.”

  She hesitated, then asked, “Do I have to worry about you, Harry Bennett?”

  He took his time replying. “Hearing your grandfather was gone dimmed the sun. He asked me to help you out. That’s the only reason I’m here.”

  She liked that enough to say, “Let’s go home.”

  THEY DID NOT SEE EMMA WEBB as they left the hospital, which was fine by Harry. Storm did not say a word during the taxi ride. Harry figured the lady had as many reasons as she needed for staying silent. Harry just plain didn’t feel like talking. He had refused the doctor’s pain pills because he wanted to stay alert. The attacker was still on the loose. But his head throbbed, his gut ached, and Harry wondered if maybe a lower rib might have a hairline fracture. As the taxi pulled up on Worth Avenue, Harry recalled the little man’s speed and became slightly nauseous.

  He emerged from the taxi in careful stages. “Wait here a second.”

  “You’re not looking so good, Harry.”

  “I’m okay. Just hang tight there in the car.” The way he felt, he wouldn’t slow a pro one millisecond. Even so, Harry shuffled down the passage, scanned the empty courtyard, then returned to say, “All clear.”

  Harry took the wrought-iron stairs in measured doses and leaned heavily on the balustrade. He kept scouting, but the courtyard radiated a cozy feel. A night wind brushed the sky free of clouds, and the central fountain played a tropical melody. As Storm unlocked the apartment door, he said, “This place always struck me as special.”

  Storm reached inside and turned on the light, revealing a hollow home and a face to match. “Sean thought so.”

  “That’s what you called him?”

  “It was his name.” She led him inside, locked the door, and pointed to a lonely sofa that was clearly too battered to take away. “Will that do?”

  “Sure. Do you have any Advil?”

  “I’ll check.” She came back with a glass of water and two tablets. She watched him swallow the pills and asked, “It’s true, what you told Emma?”

  “Always best to tell the cops the truth. They catch you lying on the small stuff, they assume you’ve got something bigger to hide.”

  She watched him intently with Sean’s dark gaze. “So Sean asked you to come protect me.”

  Harry stumped over to the sofa. His footsteps echoed in the empty room. The sofa and two bar stools by the counter were all the remaining furniture. “More or less.”

  “Protect me from what?”

  “He didn’t say.”

  “And you didn’t think it was a question worth asking?”

  “I didn’t have the chance.” Harry eased himself onto the sofa. “One of Sean’s buddies contacted me three days after he died. This lawyer did me a favor. A big one.”

  “For Sean.”

  “No other reason, since I’d never laid eyes on him before.” Harry knew she wanted to ask what the favor was. And she deserved to know. But not now. He stretched out, adjusted the pillow, said, “You need to call your aunt, tell her what’s gone down.”

  “You know Claudia?”

  “Like I know you, through Sean. Listen to what I’m saying. If they got Sean and tried for you, it’s only natural…” Harry stopped talking because Storm was no longer there.

  NINE

  STORM WOKE HIM WITH A mug of coffee and “The bathroom is through the bedroom. We need to hurry.”

  In the middle of the night, Harry had awakened to find a blanket on top of him and a sofa spring digging into his hip. He had stretched the blanket on the floor, rolled himself up, and slept well. Harry was still dressed in the shorts he had purchased from the hotel boutique. He raised himself onto the sofa, sipped from the mug, and took stock. His body was sore, but nothing hurt too much. Harry drained the mug, set it aside, and pushed himself upright. When Storm reached over to help, Harry said, “I’m okay.”

  “Your shirt was a goner. Stained and torn and ugly to start.” She handed him an oversized Gators T-shirt. “This should fit. Our first stop will be for some new clothes.”

  He showered and inspected his bruises and decided he would live to fight another day. He slipped the T-shirt over his head and was enveloped by a distinctly feminine fragrance, one pleasant enough to stifle the groan from raising his arms. When he came out, Storm met him with a recharged mug and a breakfast of toast and fruit. Harry downed another two Advil, sat at the counter, then ate in silence. He liked the lady’s calm intensity, the way she was comfortable both with silence and his presence, giving him space, treating him like a friend.

  Finally he set down his mug and said, “I was in jail.”

  She gave that a slow nod. “When?”

  “Until four days ago. Seventeen months. Barbados. Sentenced to four years for stealing treasure out of Barbadian waters. Which I didn’t do. But that’s for another time.”

  “Sean got you out?”


  “His pal did. Don’t ask me how.” Harry spun his mug and debated whether he should give her the other barrel, describe what Pinter had discovered.

  She answered that one for him with, “Do you mind if we hold the rest of this talk for later? I’ve got…things.”

  Harry slipped from the stool. “What can I do to help?”

  “I don’t know. I mean, I don’t even know…”

  “Storm, I’ll only say this once.” Harry took a big breath. “I’ve given this a lot of thought. Sean didn’t bust me out of prison because then I’d owe him one. He did it because he trusted me. He can’t be here to help you. I can.”

  Storm just stood and stared at him with that darkly fractured gaze. “Was he murdered?”

  “You want my take on it, I’d say, absolutely.”

  She tied her fingers in a knot, a strong and lovely woman trying hard to hold on. “I don’t understand any of this.”

  “That’s why I’m here. To help find out what we need to know.”

  STORM WROTE OUT THE ADDRESS where he was to meet her, and sent him off with instructions precise as military orders. Harry’s first stop was the fanciest barbershop he had ever visited. The old guy was seriously displeased with Harry’s state. Harry used the time to give himself a long inspection. He found a few deeper lines and some he hadn’t seen before. The biggest difference was his eyes, which had gone prison flat. Something a fancy haircut couldn’t disguise.

  He returned to Worth Avenue and entered Saks. He bought gabardine slacks and knit shirts to match, a couple of cotton sweaters, belt, shoes, and a midnight blue Armani suit. Harry had not worn a suit since his last court appearance and could not remember the last tie he’d owned. Not to mention a dress shirt with studs and a bow tie, which Storm had insisted on. He managed the entire process without once looking at the prices. Harry waited while they hemmed his pants, then dressed in slacks and a sports shirt. The woman rang him up on Storm’s credit card.

  He used Storm’s key to let himself into the upstairs apartment and dropped off the purchases he wasn’t wearing. Harry took a long moment to study the empty chamber. Sean’s absence compressed the air. Harry said to no one in particular, “I won’t let you down.”