‘Hey, not so sad, Kate. At least it’s not dinner.’
She didn’t even try to smack his head. Things were serious.
‘I know exactly where it leaves you now.’
The way her eyes narrowed made him think he’d be getting the beers after all, fee or no fee. She knew him too well.
‘Time on your hands, nothing to do—you’ll be back out at Hendricks’ place first thing tomorrow morning.’
He had more sense than to try to deny it.
Chapter 37
KATE GUILLORY WAS WRONG. They both were.
First thing the next morning Evan got a knock on the door from Mrs Kitson. The name was vaguely familiar although he’d never seen her before. In her early fifties she looked like she’d had a hard life.
‘I was Mr Hanna’s housekeeper.’
The woman who found him dead at the foot of the stairs, who told Guillory the house had been searched. He took her through into the kitchen and made them both some coffee. She dug in her bag and pulled out an envelope about the size of a legal pad. A sticker marked Fragile was stuck to the front of it. It didn’t look as if she’d taken much notice of it, just stuffed it in the bottom of her bag. He hoped it wasn’t important.
‘Mr Hanna asked me to give you this.’
She leaned in closer. Evan leaned in too, tempted to look around to see who else had come into his kitchen necessitating the secrecy, the dropped voice.
‘He told me not to tell anyone.’
She handed him the envelope. For a second it was as if it was wired into the wall socket. An electric thrill went through him.
The game was back on.
He knew it even before he opened the package. It felt like a document with a raised bump in the middle.
‘He asked you to give this to me in the event of his death?’
She shook her head vehemently.
‘Nothing so melodramatic. Just to make sure you got it as soon as possible.’ She produced a kleenex from her sleeve and dabbed at her eyes. ‘I’d have brought it sooner ...’
He put a hand on her arm.
‘I know. It must have been terrible for you.’
She started to tell him just how terrible it had been, after working for poor Mr Hanna—he thought the choice of word particularly inappropriate—for all these years. He nodded sympathetically. Maybe she didn’t have anybody else to pour out her heart to. He felt the envelope as he listened to some of the housekeeping highlights of the past thirty years, intrigued by the bump in the middle. It was as if he was six years old again, surreptitiously fingering all the parcels under the tree on Christmas eve—he knew what he wanted it to be.
She’d finished her coffee. Talking was thirsty work. He got the feeling she lived alone and probably hadn’t gotten a phone call in a long time. He poured her some more coffee, took advantage of the disruption to open the envelope. He went to tip the contents out.
‘Be careful. Don’t drop them’
He stopped and put his hand in the envelope instead, came out with two clear glass tubes. There was a swab in each of them, the sort of thing used to collect saliva samples.
Hanna’s DNA.
‘When were these swabs taken?’
It wasn’t that he was concerned the DNA was degraded, it would be good for years. He wanted to know when, in order to identify at what stage Hanna decided things had moved onto a new level. And why.
She thought about it for a moment.
‘The day before yesterday. It was just before I went home. About seven o’clock.’
Frank Hanna had taken a swab of his own DNA shortly after talking with Evan on the phone—shortly before he was killed that same day. What Evan told him about McIntyre bugging his phone prompted him. It couldn’t be anything else.
He put his hand back in the envelope and brought out a hand-written note.
Evan,
The things you told me today disturbed me greatly. And disappointed me. To learn of my daughter’s complicity is a bitter pill to swallow. It is not the sort of thing you want to hear as you prepare for the end of your life. But it has had one positive effect—it has strengthened my resolve. Whatever happens now, I want you to continue with your search. I wish now I had asked you for details. It is clear to me that you have made good progress and I hope something positive comes of your meeting with Narvaez. The faith Kate Guillory puts in you is not displaced. Call it the deranged thoughts of an old man if you will, but I feel in my bones that you will succeed in finding a valid heir—hence the enclosed DNA samples. If you do, there is a chance to put right the wrongs I did, make good ‘The Sins of the Father’. I feel the weight of them on my soul.
Be safe but do not give up. You will find your own reward.
Frank Hanna
Evan read it through a second time, aware of Mrs Kitson’s eyes on him, aware of a faint pricking at the back of his own. There were so many thoughts crashing through his mind, he couldn’t think straight. What the hell was that about you will find your own reward? He knew for sure now what he would find in the envelope.
He cleared his throat and pulled the second document out. This one was typed. At the top it read:
The Last Will and Testament of Frank Hanna.
It was dated two days ago. Hanna had a busy afternoon the day he died.
Evan read through it. Reading between the archaic legalese three things stood out. His surprise increased as he came to each one. The first thing didn’t surprise him at all—Hanna revoked all previous wills and left all of his business interests, listed in meticulous detail, to a valid legal heir, should Evan find one. It was the whole point of the investigation after all.
The second point came as a mild surprise—Hanna specified Evan as the Executor to his will. It wouldn’t be too much of a stretch to say the old man had been paranoid. He didn’t even trust his own lawyers, well qualified and expensive as Evan was sure they were.
But it was the third thing that caused the document to slip from Evan’s fingers and drop to the floor. Where it was joined shortly afterwards by his chin. Mrs Kitson picked the will up since Evan’s limbs were refusing to respond for the moment.
She put it on the kitchen counter, a knowing smile on her face. She knew what caused such a profound effect in Evan—it was her signature witnessing the document after all.
At least he hadn’t had long to wait before he found out what you will find your own reward meant. He picked the will up again and stared at the eye-watering amount Hanna specified he would receive as a bonus should he successfully locate an heir. Locate and ensure they inherited, okay, a little more complicated. It was still more zeros at the end of a number than Evan had ever seen next to his name.
Mrs Kitson was still smiling at him.
‘Aren’t you going to say something?’
Evan tried a few words. They didn’t come out so well.
‘Mr Hanna was a very generous man,’ she said.
Evan nodded.
‘Yes. He’s left you very well provided for as well.’
They stared at each other like two people who’ve just won the lottery. It was if it wasn’t real. They’d wake up soon. But one thing was very real for Evan. The pressure to find an heir had just increased exponentially—from a professional and a personal point of view.
He had to get the will and DNA samples somewhere safe—fast.
***
‘HOW MUCH?’ KATE GUILLORY said, her mouth slack.
Evan told her again, looked away through the car window so she didn’t see him grinning stupidly. She put her hand on his knee and squeezed.
‘I am so glad I let you apologize the other day.’
‘Come on, let’s get going.’
He wouldn’t be able to relax until they got to the bank, stashed the will and DNA samples in his safe-deposit box.
‘And don’t get too excited. I’ve got to find an heir first.’
‘Thank God you stole McIntyre’s phone,’ she said. He let the stole slide. �
��Just think if he’d called Hanna’s phone just as he was saying to his housekeeper, sign the new will right here, Mrs Kitson. Now take it with the DNA to Mr Buckley. I wouldn’t fancy either of your chances.’
Evan looked out the window again, scanned the street.
‘I’m not so happy about them as it is.’
‘Don’t worry. Nobody knows about it.’
It didn’t make him feel any easier.
‘They don’t know, but they suspect. It’s what McIntyre was looking for.’
She shrugged and pulled out into the traffic.
‘It’s okay for you,’ he said.
‘You know I can’t babysit you the whole time?’
He knew she’d never let him live it down the moment he called her, told her he’d feel happier with a bit of backup. Just until everything was safely locked away.
‘You didn’t—’
‘Tell Ryder?’
She smiled to herself, didn’t say anything more. He repeated the number in the will, the one with all the zeros next to his name.
‘Of course I didn’t.’
That was more like it.
He was looking forward to seeing how much mileage he’d be able to get out of it.
‘Don’t think you’re going to dangle that in front of me every time you want me to run your errands.’
‘We’ll see.’
‘At least it stops you running out to Hendricks’ place.’
She was right about that. It was exactly what he’d been planning on doing. With all the excitement of the progress he was making on Hanna’s case—not to mention excitement of a different sort with McIntyre and Vasiliev—he’d almost forgotten about Floyd Gray and Hendricks. Things had gone quiet on that front for a few days. It wasn’t because they’d given up, that was for damn sure.
No, something big was coming. Something that took more time to put in place than a few mysterious emails and texts. He needed to give Charlotte a call, make sure everything was okay there, nothing suspicious going on.
He ought to call her now. He’d do it as soon as he’d been to see Leighton Yates. He smiled to himself. The first step down that road was going to be easy.
‘There is one thing you can do for me, Kate.’
‘One thing?’
‘To begin with. Besides, I thought you were pissed because I wasn’t keeping you in the loop. I can’t win.’
There was a resigned sigh from the driver’s side.
‘That makes two of us. Give me the name.’
Five minutes later she pulled up outside the bank. He unclipped his seatbelt, noticed she didn’t touch hers. She noticed he’d noticed.
‘For Christ’s sake, Evan, you can make it across the sidewalk on your own, can’t you?’
‘That’s not what I was thinking.’
‘Of course you weren’t. Besides, I’ve got work to do. Leighton Yates, remember?’
He got out and did his best to not run. Behind him he heard the car window go down. He tried to close his ears.
‘Quick Evan, there’s a bad guy coming.’
He pretended he hadn’t heard, went inside. It didn’t take long. He was back outside in under five minutes. He couldn’t deny he felt better now he wasn’t carrying a document that determined the future destination of hundreds of millions of dollars around in his pocket—despite how paranoid Guillory thought he was being.
‘Anything?’ he said as he got back in the car.
‘As far as I can find out, she still lives at home with her parents.’
‘At fifty?’
‘Maybe she never married. It’s not easy meeting someone when you’ve got baggage like that. Her parents are rich—why put yourself through all that extra hard work trying to bring the kid up on your own?’
He nodded. It made sense.
‘There is another possibility, of course—’
‘Don’t even think it.’
Chapter 38
AT THE END OF the second day, with only fifteen minutes to go before dark, Floyd’s patience was rewarded. He’d set up a stand in a small Red Maple and had been waiting for the last four or five hours. He was cold and stiff. He’d never admit it, but he wasn’t as young as he once was. Just as he was about to give up and head back for something to eat, a small Whitetail doe walked out of the trees and stopped twenty-five yards away. She was perfect, about sixty pounds in weight.
It wasn’t an easy shot.
Making a clean kill with a recurve bow took a lot of skill and practice. Shooting a recurve, you have to come to the same draw length every time or you’ll end up changing the trajectory of the arrow. And when you’re nervous—like you always are when your prey finally comes into range after hours of inactivity—it’s too easy to draw the bow just an inch farther back. A rush of adrenaline will do that to you. And that inch makes all the difference. The shot will go high and you’ll have been sitting cold and uncomfortable for hours for sweet FA.
It wasn’t a problem for Floyd. He was skilled and he’d had a lot of practice—on all kinds of game.
He turned the bow horizontal, his heart pumping harder, placed an arrow on the rest, nocked it on the string. It was second nature, he could do it in the dark. Sometimes it had been necessary. He brought the bow back to vertical and drew the string, feeling the familiar pull in the muscles of his back. Try pulling a sixty-pound draw weight with your bicep and see how long you last, pumped up from the gym or not. With the index finger of his pulling hand under his chin, the string kissing his nose and lips, he aimed low. His breathing was steady, his mantra wu wei—try not to try—relaxing him. He opened his fingers, his draw hand still moving backwards to his ear as the arrow flew.
How long was the arrow in the air? Less than a second? It always felt like forever, his heart in his mouth, a prayer on his lips.
Thwack.
A perfect shot.
The arrow went straight through the deer. With a sixty-pound draw weight, it’d go straight through a Grizzly and a tree behind it. The deer jumped three feet straight up in the air, ran raggedly for eighty yards and dropped stone dead to the ground. As clean a kill as you could wish for. Floyd climbed down from the stand and whistled for Marlene. She came bounding towards him from her position fifty yards downwind and together they trotted across to the dead deer.
Normally Floyd would field-dress the animal—remove its internal organs to preserve the meat, stop it going off—but not this time. He lifted the deer onto his shoulder, feeling its warmth against his ear, and set off across the fields to Hendricks’ farm. The deer twitched on his shoulder, an involuntary muscle spasm, not a last-ditch bid for freedom. It was a shame he’d never get to eat this one. By the time everything had played out the meat would be ruined.
Back in Hendrick’s kitchen he laid the deer on the table and put Marlene outside. She was well-trained, but he’d been keeping her hungry these past days. He took off his camo jacket and sponged the blood off the shoulder under the faucet, hung the jacket over the back of a chair to dry.
Damn.
The newspaper clipping was in the breast pocket. He pulled it out, limp and soggy and carefully unfolded it, laid it flat on the counter to dry. He should’ve put it in his wallet with the photo of Donna.
He got the wallet out now, took out the photo, swallowed back an uncharacteristic lump in his throat.
That’s all it ever took to take him back to that night.
It was late, he’d just climbed into bed. Then Carl had hammered on the door to his room like he was trying to break it down.
He got out of bed, opened the door. Carl pushed past him, his eyes wild.
‘The bastard raped her,’ he screamed, flecks of spittle flying everywhere.
‘Slow down. Who raped who?’
Carl looked at him like he was a retard. Carl was the one looked like the retard with his mouth hanging open, drool on his lips.
‘That prick Burke raped Donna.’
The words didn’t register. He grabbed Carl
by the shoulders, shook him hard.
‘Calm down. Tell me what happened.’
Carl wouldn’t meet his eyes, his head moving side to side like he was looking for something. He saw the half-empty pint of scotch on the table and snatched it up, took a long swallow. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, looked a lot better for it.
‘Donna let that bastard Burke take her to dinner—’
‘You two have another fight?’
Carl looked at his shoes. Seems they told him to take another long pull on the bottle. There wasn’t much left when he put it down. Told him not to answer the question either.
‘She can’t resist it when one of those stuck-up bastards—’
Floyd was getting a bad feeling in his gut. He’d never seen Carl like this before.
‘Where is she now?’
‘In my room.’
Floyd pulled on his clothes and they went out into the corridor. Jack Adamson was standing there, wanting to know what the hell all the shouting was about. Carl started ranting again, getting more worked up than before.
Floyd pushed past them, no time for this, ran down the corridor towards Carl’s room. He’d always been the same. A slow burn. It took a long time to get him going, even longer to stop him again.
He burst into Carl’s room, saw Donna lying on the bed, her head in her arms, knees tucked up under her. She lifted her head, looked up at him.
That’s all it took.
He ran from the room, raced down the corridor, Carl and Adamson trying to keep up. Across the quadrangle, into the officers’ quarters. He slowed, dropped to a fast walk as he read the name on each door, looking for the one he wanted.
Captain Oliver Burke.
He paused in front of the door, Donna’s face in his mind, her eyes red, mascara streaked from crying. Except crying doesn’t give you a fat lip.
He kicked the door in, almost taking it off its hinges. Burke was sitting in an easy chair, a drink in his hand, a smug smile on his lips, like he’d been expecting him.
‘Ha! Big brother’s come to avenge the little tramp’s honor, ey? I’d be very careful what you do, Private.’
The Evan Buckley Thrillers: Books 1 - 4 (Evan Buckley Thrillers Boxsets) Page 78