by Davis Bunn
The shooter had studied both lair and prey. He knew Taylor had just one way to return to land. One escape route from the bone-crushing inside break. The shooter’s position gave him a complete sweep of the rock-strewn beach.
But the shooter had made one grave miscalculation. The inside wash was a constant tumult. The waves rocked and pummeled and pushed. The ocean was covered with a thick layer of froth. Beneath that, the sea was a murky translucence from the silt and seaweed. Which was the only reason Taylor was still alive.
The next wave was far larger. Taylor was sent to the bottom yet again. A rock appeared out of nowhere and gave his head a glancing blow. This time Taylor almost welcomed the release.
Taylor came to as a hand slapped his face. Kenny leaned over him and shouted, “Get it together, mate. I can’t do this alone!”
He managed to draw his feet under him and push through the wash as Kenny carried him up to dry land. As soon as they were clear of the sea, Kenny dropped him like a sack. Which did his chest and his head no good whatsoever. But Kenny was already racing for the cliff path.
Taylor’s brain managed one final thought: At least somebody still wanted him alive.
TAYLOR AWOKE FROM A DREAM ABOUT THE IONIAN monastery. He had been seated in the old chapel. The flagstone floors were bowed and worn by eleven centuries of sandals and bare feet. Brother Jonah had been repeating the same words Taylor had carried with him since leaving the holy isle. He opened his eyes to the sound of Jonah talking about eternal choices. And took the dream as a sign of just how close he had come to that final door.
The setting sun painted his room in burnished gold and overlong shadows. The hospital room smelled vaguely of chemicals and the fecal odor of long-ago illnesses. His bed was too firm and too well starched. Sounds slipped under his closed door and rebounded in a room of hard surfaces.
A nurse was noting something into his records. She gave him a professional smile and spoke in French. Taylor smiled back, glad to be hearing something that confirmed he was still firmly bound to the here and now.
She left and came back with a doctor, who gave Taylor a cursory inspection, spending most of his time around Taylor’s bandaged head.
Everything ached. Taylor’s lungs felt scraped raw from salt water. The holddowns came back to him in vivid flashes: the sunlight streaming through the breaking surf, the silt rushing back and forth beneath the incoming wave, the bullets plunging through the surface. He felt the rough intimacy of hugging that underwater rock as his lungs shrieked for air. He saw the shooter’s rifle aimed straight for his head and felt the cold black wind suck at his life’s breath once more.
The doctor pointed to the white bandage around Taylor’s chest and spoke words in French. Taylor did as the doctor ordered and breathed more deeply than was comfortable. The pain was strong but not stabbing. The rib appeared bruised but not cracked through. The doctor observed his face closely, probed several times, and nodded his satisfaction.
The doctor left. The nurse walked to the doorway and said something in French. Two policemen entered the room. They saluted the bed, which Taylor found mildly amusing. The nurse hurried over, tilted up his bed, then filled a plastic cup with water. She spoke with musical sharpness to the policeman while tapping her watch, then departed.
The senior policeman took the room’s one chair while Taylor drained the cup and poured himself another. The junior cop remained by the door. “I am Lieutenant Armand. This is Corporal Saliere. You are American, yes?”
“That’s right. Where am I?”
“The Biarritz hospital. Your name?”
“Taylor Knox.”
“Spell this, please.”
Taylor did so. “Did you catch the shooter?”
“The shooter. Yes. Interesting that someone would try to assassinate a surfer. This is not usual on the Basque coast. Do you know this man?”
“I couldn’t see his face. But I don’t think so.”
“It is normal that you have people shooting rifles at you while you surf?”
“First time ever.”
“But you do not seem surprised.”
“I was shocked at the time. Now I’m just glad to be alive.”
“Alive. Yes. Another surfer saved your life, according to the witnesses on the cliff. You know this man?”
“Kenny Dean.” Taylor spelled this as well. “Is he okay?”
“We would like to ask him the same question. Unfortunately Monsieur Dean ran from the scene.”
“What?”
“We will come back to that in a moment. You left your belongings with this man? Money, perhaps? Or other valuables?”
“No, I left everything at our hotel.”
“You traveled alone with this Monsieur Dean?”
“There was one other surfer with us, Red Harris.”
“They are both American?”
“Kenny is British. Red is from California.”
“You have known them long?”
“We met surfing in Scotland a few days ago. I hitched a ride south with them.”
“You were shot at surfing in Scotland also?”
“No. I told you. This was the first time.”
“You must excuse me, Mr. Knox. Do I say that correctly? Knox. Yes. Your reaction surprises me. You were shot at by a man armed with what seems to be an assassin’s rifle. You were saved by a man you have known only a few days. He risked his own life chasing a shooter, while he was himself unarmed. You are sure you can offer no explanations?”
“I’m sorry. No.”
The lieutenant spent a long moment studying Taylor. “I suggest you try and remember more than you are offering us, Monsieur. The waves were good that day, yes?”
“The best I’ve ever seen.”
“Our foreign surfing guests are most welcome here. But there are rules they must follow on land, just as in the sea. These rules are for their safety, and for the safety of our own people. I fear you have broken these rules. It would help if you cooperated.”
“I’m telling you all I know.”
“That is still to be determined.” The questions followed a calm and persistent course. Did he know of anyone who might want to see him dead? Where had he traveled before Scotland? How did he arrive here? Describe the journey, please. Confirm places you stayed along the way. Give us a contact name at your company in America.
Taylor’s entire body pulsed with growing pain by the time the policeman stopped his questioning. He wanted the men to leave, but he needed to know, “Did you speak with my friends?”
“Friends, yes. An interesting word.” The senior policeman seemed to have been waiting for that question. “Interesting that one friend would pull you from the surf and race up to attack a man armed with a rifle. Interesting also that when the shooter fled, so did both your friends.”
“Have you found them?”
“No, Monsieur Knox, we have found no one and nothing. Not the shooter, not your friends, not a reason for why you are here in a French hospital and lucky to be alive. Monsieur Dean was observed driving away in a Ford Econoline van with British plates. He and another man.” The lieutenant had hard dark eyes that noticed everything. “You are surprised by this?”
“The clothes I was wearing before the surf were in that van.” But little else. Taylor had left most of his things at the small hotel. But that was not something he particularly wanted to discuss with the cop. Especially not the money.
“We believe Mr. Dean and his associate drove across the Spanish border. We have made a request to our Spanish colleagues for assistance. Are you sure you cannot help us find answers to these very important questions?”
“I’ve told you everything I know.”
“That I doubt very much, Monsieur. You will please give me your passport.”
“Sorry, all my things are still at the hotel.”
“On the contrary.” The detective leaned back far enough to open the corner closet, revealing Taylor’s canvas grip. The bag should have still
been back at the pension where he and the others had spent the previous night.
Taylor forced himself upright and eased his legs over the side of the bed. He stifled a groan as he pushed himself to his feet and tottered over. He gave the bag a frantic search and came up with his money belt. Which was very strange, since he had left it in the little hotel’s front safe. “How did this get here?”
“There, you see? Many questions without answers, just as I said. Your two friends, they race into the hotel; they grab their belongings; they flee. No word to anyone. The hotel manager enters the room; he finds your bag still there. You do not return. He contacts us. We check the safe.” He showed Taylor open palms. “So now we are giving you the information you request, Monsieur Knox. All we ask is the same in return.”
Taylor handed over his passport. “I don’t know anything.”
The policeman tut-tutted in the manner of an overly precise schoolteacher. “This is not Gunsmoke country. We do not appreciate people who pretend they are in cowboy land.”
“I just came here to surf.”
The cop had a heavily seamed face and dark eyes that revealed nothing. “You will forgive me for not believing you, Monsieur. But I have never met a surfer before who carries so much money in cash and traveler’s checks.”
Taylor eased himself back onto the bed, testing each joint in turn. “It’s a long story.”
“Perhaps you came to France after drugs?”
“What? No!”
“Or perhaps you have already sold your drugs, then stopped for a surf before departing. Did you upset your clients, Monsieur Knox?”
“This is crazy.”
“I agree. Most absurd. You will not mind if we take your fingerprints and pass them through Interpol?”
“Do I have any choice?”
“Yes, of course. But I assure you, this hospital is far more comfortable than the back rooms of our police station.”
“Take my prints, then. I don’t have anything to hide.”
“We will see.” He motioned his partner forward. Taylor permitted each finger to be inked and rolled across the form. The policeman slipped a small digital camera from his pocket and took several pictures. Taylor started to object, then decided it was far better to comply. The detective scrutinized him with an intensity that suggested he would have liked to peel back Taylor’s skull and peer inside.
The detective did not speak again until he was standing by the door. He slipped on his stiff cap and touched two fingers to the rim. “Adieu, Monsieur Knox. We will talk again.”
chapter 14
OVER DINNER, TAYLOR PONDERED WHAT THE POLICE had said. His entire body ached, yet he could sense a gradual improvement just since waking that afternoon. He donned his bathrobe and walked back and forth in the hallway. The hospital staff offered professional smiles and the watchful gazes of those who knew the police were interested in him.
He returned to his room and bed. The small television attached to the wall offered nothing save French channels which he could not understand. He shut it off, turned over, and closed his eyes.
There was no telling how long he slept before the dream arrived. Taylor awoke and rose from the bed in one continuous motion, from sleep to his feet in a heartbeat or less. He stood in the darkened room and searched the night, wondering if somehow the dream had followed him into wakefulness. But the room was empty of all except shadows.
When he returned from the bathroom, Taylor was tempted to ring for the nurse. But he did not want another pill. He merely sought something to help push away the night. His last dream still whispered to him, turning his heart to the same bruised pulp as his body.
He had dreamed he was back with Kirra. Or rather, that he had never left her side. That none of the bad things had ever happened. He had slept, and found himself so deep in an alternative reality he had awakened and then thought he was dreaming.
He and Kirra had been shopping. She had held his arm and chatted gaily. Taylor had no idea what she had been talking about. But the image of her face was a vivid blade that stabbed repeatedly at his heart. They were married; he knew that. They were married and together and just another couple in love. Living the normal life, doing daily things.
Taylor sat on the edge of his bed and punched his fists into the sheets. Why was this happening to him? It wasn’t enough that he had almost died? That his entire body felt pulverized? That the police were ready to arrest him as a criminal? That he was trying his best to do the right thing? Why should he be tortured now? Now, when he was stumbling through prayers and trying to remember the words of Brother Jonah and keep the flickering flame alive?
The thought was so compelling he almost heard the words spoken aloud. Turn away. Why not? What had all this religious nonsense brought him, except naked exposure to the pains he had spent two years keeping at bay?
He struggled back to his feet and tottered over to the window. Outside was nothing save an empty street and shuttered windows and the silent strangeness of another land. He stared at a yellow streetlight and wished for answers.
If only the dawn would come.
IT WAS THE SLEEPLESSNESS THAT SAVED HIS LIFE.
He stood by the window long enough for time to lose all meaning. The hospital grew increasingly quiet until the only sound came from a neighboring room, the steady peeps of some electronic monitor. Taylor remained lost in yearning and remorse.
Then he heard a quiet click.
He turned to see the door crack open. He readied a soft word, in case the night nurse spoke English and wished to scold him for being up. But the door remained only slightly ajar.
Taylor’s gaze shifted to the bed. In the darkness, the rumpled coverlets suggested the shadowy outline of a man sleeping on his side. His legs began to tremble, but he could not say precisely why.
The door opened slightly further. A narrow shadow extended into the room. Even before the image reached the level of his thinking brain, Taylor was already moving. He shoved himself off the back wall and accelerated across the room.
He struck the door with his shoulder. The door slammed upon the gloved hand. Outside his room a man yelled. Something clattered upon the floor. Taylor looked down. Just inside the wedged door lay a pistol with an elongated barrel. It was the first time he had seen a silencer up close.
A violent shove from the door’s other side propelled him back. He tottered off balance and almost went down. The door flew open and struck him in the forehead. He bounced off the wall, which was not altogether a bad thing, because it gave him enough purchase to ram himself off the concrete surface and push back.
The only reason the attacker was not able to withstand Taylor’s feeble efforts was because Taylor’s assault caught him as he was reaching for the gun. The closing door pinned his chest to the doorjamb. There was a grunt and a whuffing breath. But the hand kept scrabbling across the floor.
“Police!” Taylor rammed the door one more time, then did the only thing he could think of, which was to fall bodily over the gun. “Help! Emergency!”
The attacker fell on top of Taylor. He powered a series of quick jabs into Taylor’s kidneys and ribs with one hand, while the other shoved hard under their bodies, going for the pistol.
“Somebody help!”
A very feminine shriek cut him off. From the hallway came a cry in French. The attacker punched Taylor one more time, then leaped to his feet. Taylor gripped the pistol with both hands and rolled away from the boots that were aiming for his head.
The attacker was roaring now, louder than the screams in the hallway. He tried twice to nail Taylor’s head with his heel. Taylor scrambled partially under the bed and managed to fit his finger through the trigger guard and one fist about the grip.
He fired without taking aim.
There was a quiet whfft of sound. The bullet whanged off one metal leg of the bed and ricocheted across the room.
The attacker leaped through the doorway. He slammed into the nurse and sent her crashing to the flo
or. The nurse continued to shriek as the attacker’s footsteps thundered down the hall.
Taylor slithered out from beneath the bed. The room smelled of cordite and rage. He limped into the hallway. The nurse was still seated on the floor with her legs splayed and her hair in disarray. He leaned against the hall station and offered her his hand. The nurse looked at him, clearly not recognizing this man in a T-shirt and underwear that stood over her. Then she saw his other hand, and the screams grew louder still.
Only then did Taylor realize he was still holding the gun.
“No! It’s not mine!” He dropped the pistol onto the nurse’s station, stepped away, and pointed down the hall. “It was his! That man’s!”
The nurse was shrieking her invectives at him now. He caught only one word.
“Yes, go call the police!” He waved at the door in the opposite direction from which the attacker fled. “Hurry! Tell them it’s an emergency!”
Several other doors up and down the hallway were open now. Fearful faces peered out at him. An old man’s shaky voice called something. This sound steadied the nurse. She swept the hair from her face and said something back. Another voice queried her. She responded more forcefully, then slithered away from Taylor’s outstretched hand and pushed herself to her feet. She pointed at Taylor’s doorway and ordered him sternly.
“Bed. Absolutely. I’m on my way.” He made for his room, hands up and open to show he had left the gun where it was. The nurse waited until he was well through the doorway before she wrapped the pistol in a gray hospital towel and clenched it to her side. Now that she was the one armed and he was defenseless, she felt able to shout more loudly.
Taylor moved to the bed and made as if to lay back down. “Right. Straight back to bed. You go call the police!”
He waited until her footsteps tapped down the hall and the door sighed shut behind her.
Then he was up and moving. He jammed his legs into his trousers, slipped on his shoes, then bundled the rest of his clothes and jammed them into his bag. The hospital hallway was full of chatter, but there was nothing he could do about that. He raced out of the room and down the hallway as fast as his battered frame would go.