“Who hired you, if I may ask?”
Back to business.
When I didn’t answer, he dug his fingers into my chin and wrenched, waiting patiently until I looked him in the eye. Still I said nothing. With breathtaking speed he moved to kneel between my legs, glaring like he might devour me. I sat up against the linen headboard, rubbing my jaw.
“Wouldn’t you like to know,” I said, a lame attempt at levity that came off as tense and nervous.
He spread his hands on my hips, the contrast of his darkness making graphic patterns against pale skin and white sheets. I held my breath and waited. Waited for him to press for information. Wondered how long I’d last should he decide to properly interrogate me.
Not long.
He yanked hard, dragging me flat to my back and knocking the air from my lungs.
“I am sure you will tell me when the time is right,” he said, voice nonchalant, belying the ever-present threat.
He dipped his head and lavished attention to my skin, growing more aggressive the lower he moved. I once again relinquished not only my body to him but my mind, my sense of logic—hell—my sense of survival. The thrill of danger more arousing than any touch. It wasn’t until much later as he lay still, hands clasped over his chest in a death repose, his breathing even, and I, in utter contrast, sprawled on my stomach beside him, panting, one arm dangling over the side of the bed, allowed the instinctive fear to return. My fingers crept into the tight space between mattress and box spring to touch cold metal, one of several compact knives stashed around the suite. I shimmied it closer.
“I’m not sure I’ll ever be able to walk again,” I said.
“You are most welcome.”
“You can be an arrogant prick at times.”
He chuckled and sat up swinging his legs over the side of the bed. “Clearly, you bring out the best in me.”
He bent over, reaching to the floor and I palmed the knife, its razor edge threatening to shred my skin. I rolled to face him tucking my hand and the knife under a pillow.
“I suppose I must check out of the hotel,” he said with a bored sigh.
“Will the bodyguard suspect you?” I asked.
“Possibly.”
“Will he come after you?”
He shrugged and slipped on his shorts. “Doubtful.”
“Was he on the boat last year when you questioned the Czech?”
“Yes.”
“Then he won’t,” I said with a finality acknowledging what I knew about the deep chasm of cruelty Dhar possessed. He snorted in response. Admittedly, it was a hell of a declaration coming from someone like me.
He stood and zipped his trousers. Shoved his fingers in the pockets, jingling loose change and whatever else might be concealed. I waited. His hands came out empty and he crouched, reaching to the floor. I tightened my grip on the knife and he straightened up holding his leather belt. It slid through his long fingers and his eyes narrowed. Before I could move, the belt rippled through the air and cracked over my bare skin. It stung like hell and I muffled a cry into the mattress. Seriously considered chucking the knife at his head. He crawled onto the bed over me, soothing what felt like a serious welt with his cool hand.
“Jerk.”
“I could not help myself. It was too tempting,” he said, running his palm back and forth across the mark. “You are too tempting.” He sighed again. “I must be going, though I should like to take this opportunity to thank you for the use of your body.”
I laughed. “My body? And here I thought you were attracted to my mind.”
“Your mind?” He wove his fingers through my hair. “Your mind is a twisted nightshade thing.”
“Nightshade?”
“Dark. Exquisite.” He rose. “Lethal.”
“Where will you go?” I asked.
“I have rented a home down the beach.”
“I see.”
“You will join me, of course?”
I blinked, the invitation wholly unexpected. As I considered it though, it made sense. More privacy. Easier to dispose of a body should he find the need. My body.
“You’d like me there?” I asked.
“I must insist.”
“Then I suppose I must accept.”
Like walking into a den of vipers, you idiot.
“Excellent. It’s settled.” He pulled the black T-shirt over his head. “And, Olivia...”
“Yes?”
“You may put away your little knives,” he said. “For now.”
At his suggestion, Dhar drove to the beach house, my luggage amongst his things. I walked the beach. Best if no hotel staff were to notice us together, he’d said.
Best for whom?
The hot wind whipped at my gauzy tunic. The wide brimmed sun hat and dark sunglasses hid my face. I took my time strolling the waterline.
Flocks of sandpipers scattered, giving me a wide berth and wary looks. Much braver than the sandpipers, a single snowy egret with bright yellow feet stood its ground as I passed.
I knew the house as soon as Dhar had described it, one of many ostentatious monstrosities littering the beach abandoned, waiting for their wealthy owners to visit. This particular Mediterranean-style home with its terracotta roof, pale stucco, arches and Juliet balconies towered over the fringe of palm trees separating it from the expansive white beach. As I drew closer, my breathing grew more rapid, the wildness within me, the mania, hauling on the reins I held tight.
Outside the house, a large crowd swarmed the shore, their excited voices, gasps and laughter fanning the flame of curiosity. I joined them. Something slick and grey torpedoed through the water inches from my feet and I hopped back, startled. The woman beside me giggled, touched a leathery hand to my pale arm and pointed.
“Dolphin,” she said. “He’s corralling fish.”
Close to shore, silver fish much too large for the shallow water flashed in the sunlight. The dolphin circled and with a burst of speed hydroplaned past to the delight of the crowd. I left the woman to her show, dangling at the far edge of the group, mesmerized as again and again the dolphin trapped and killed the frenzied fish.
A hand touched my lower back, knuckles grazing up and down. Dhar slipped in beside me.
“I wondered what had distracted you,” he said.
“A dolphin corralling fish.”
“Ahh. A beautiful hunter.” He leaned close, ducking under the brim of my hat, his mouth to my ear and whispered, “A beautiful hunter watching a beautiful hunter.” His knuckles skimmed my spine and I shivered. “Shall we go?” he asked.
I looked from the killing scene before me to the house in the dunes and Dhar studied me, an amused expression on his face like he could read my mind. I shoved my hands into the pockets of my white denim shorts to still them.
“Yes, I suppose we should,” I said, turning from the water to follow him.
There was no shortage of security cameras in and around the house. I couldn’t help but notice their tiny red lights were dark, the cameras dead. I suspected Dhar was the one responsible.
After the heat of the beach, the air conditioning waved a frigid hand even before I’d stepped through the door. I trailed behind Dhar, my flip flops slapping against the marble floors as I absorbed the grandness of the home. The ceilings soared, the cavernous space filled with ornate furniture, gilt mirrors, huge canvasses and tapestries, and plush antique rugs, all autumn ochres and reds and sage greens.
“How big is it?” I asked.
“Eight or nine thousand square feet, I believe.”
“Seems like overkill for one person.”
He shrugged. “I take pleasure in the view. And technically there are two of us.”
“For how long?” I asked and he stopped, turning to gape at me over his shoulder. I waited a beat then clarified: “For how long do you have the house?”
“A week.” He continued on, his footfalls silent. “You will join me in some wine with lunch?”
“Yes, thank
you.”
He led me into a huge, elaborate kitchen with marble countertops, professional appliances, embellished millwork and cabinetry the color of whipped butter. Crystal chandeliers dripped from the ceiling. Dhar selected a bottle from the well-stocked fridge and uncorked it.
“I have had lunch catered for us,” he said, nodding toward the mahogany table set with two china and crystal place settings.
He held out a chair for me and poured wine. We clinked glasses, the ting of crystal as long and clear as if it had originated from some fine musical instrument. We ate in silence.
When finished, I touched the linen napkin to my lips and said, “That was delicious. Thank you.”
He rested against the back of his chair, pushing it out from the table. “I feel the strange desire to spoil you.”
“Why?”
“Why not?”
“I ruined your job.”
Dhar made a dismissive gesture with his hand. “No one else knows what you have done. I will be paid the same as if I had carried out the contract myself.”
He didn’t know.
If I left now, I’d...what? Spend months running. If I could outrun him. Were I to tell him, would my admission buy me some mercy?
“Raj, I must―”
His phone rang. He looked at the screen and frowned. Shot me a look of such intensity I felt I might spontaneously implode.
“Excuse me,” he said, taking the call to another room.
Unable to sit still, I gathered the dishes and rinsed them in the sink, staring out the window to the garden beyond. I felt rather than heard him return. He leaned against the huge kitchen island and fiddled with his cell phone.
“It would appear Mr. Sadovsky is not dead,” he said after a time.
I exhaled a shaky breath. “No.”
He raised an eyebrow. I fought the command of his silent question for a full minute before caving. “He wasn’t my target. She was. Tatiana.”
He tossed his phone to the counter and crossed his arms. “Who is your client?”
“I’d rather not say.”
“Such honor.”
“I’m sorry, Raj. I thought you knew,” I said quietly. “When you came to my room, I thought you already knew.”
He shook his head. “Mr. Sadovsky is in police custody.”
I wiped my hands and folded the tea towel over a cabinet door. “I’m not surprised.”
“What did you do exactly?”
“Broke her neck. Sadovsky was nice enough to cover her in bruises the size and shape of his hands. I suspect he’s royally screwed.”
“Did your client request the setup?”
“No. Just covering my ass.”
Dhar rubbed his temples. “This will cause me some serious problems, Olivia.”
“I realize. I’m sorry.”
“How am I to gain access if he is in police custody?”
“He’ll make bail. We could track him down. Team up together.” I sounded desperate, bloody chum to a shark such as Dhar. “Like Long Beach.”
At a client’s insistence we had worked together once, a convention in Long Beach, California. The job had been an unmitigated success, clean, uneventful, plenty of time for recreational activities. Yet, despite our mutual respect and attraction, we could never quite get over our trust issues.
To him, the job was a game, entertainment. To me, it was nothing more than an extremely profitable outlet for my danger addiction. The same addiction that would most likely get me killed. The same addiction that drew me to Dhar.
“It would work,” I said.
“Perhaps.” He pushed off with his hip and stood beside me. “Do not worry,” he said, brushing a strand of hair from my face. “We will think of something.”
He snaked an arm around my waist and pulled me tight to his body. I choked back a whimper. His head fell to my collarbone and he scraped his teeth along my throat.
“My lovely nightshade flower,” he whispered, leaning back just far enough to look at my face, his attention flicking between my eyes and my mouth. And then he did something he’d never done before, something that terrified me to the core.
He kissed me on the mouth.
Tentative at first, like he’d surprised even himself, then deeper, exploring. I swallowed his moan. He tightened his grip on me and shifted slightly to the left.
I drove my knife under his ribcage. Angled it to reach his heart. Pivoted the blade. He staggered back clutching the gaping wound, face in shock. For the briefest of seconds before he crumbled, he smirked like I’d amused him one final time.
He opened his fist and his own knife clattered to the marble tile, as clean and unsoiled as mine was bloody.
Back to TOC
My Victim’s Killer
Al Abramson
I don’t have much time left. So I’m going to tell you right out that I killed the person who gave birth to me. My name is—
No—wait, you people are the jerks who like to figure out the “mystery” yourself, aren’t you? Suspects revealed, clues scattered around, a lot of whiny characters you’re hoping will be dead by the time the story ends...a damsel-in-distress and a thickly muscled hero—or vice versa, but not often.
You want to play that game? I’ll play it—there are six suspects—no identical cousins, no outsider tricks! The murder weapon was a poisoned pen, of course; in the library, also of course. It was right after the Opening Ceremonies at the Long Beach Bouchercon. All clear?
The victim was one of the Bouchercon Guests of Honor. And any of you who just said “it’s a start” should be ashamed of yourselves.
Here’s a clue: the killer is a character created by one of the Guests. So you can guess that each of the suspects had to have a motive, right?
THE CREATORS AND THEIR SUSPECTS
JEFFREY DEAVER
Let’s start with Mr. Jeffery Deaver. “Jeff” to his friends, so everybody calls him “Mr. Deaver.” His character suspect, from a rich store of possibilities, is Lincoln Rhyme. Why would this seventeen-year-old, rich with book and movie money, want to kill the person who created him?
Well, Justin Bieber gets to race cars and chase felony convictions wherever he wants, and he has the talent and depth of a—Justin Bieber. Lincoln Rhyme, who admittedly does have a better haircut, is no more mature, although he is a lot smarter and better educated. But he has to lie in a bed every day and worry about Angelina Jolie in a “Ruby, Don’t Take Your Love to Town” way every time she walks out the door.
But that’s not the real reason—did you know that Denzel wasn’t Mr. Deaver’s first choice for the movie role? He wanted Whoopi Goldberg, but she had a conflict filming a “Burglar” sequel. Then he wanted Tom Cruise, until the studio stepped in and said that Lincoln was over six feet and Cruise wasn’t tall enough for the role.
But the final straw was when Deaver wanted to play the role himself, right after Jolie was signed to play Amelia. At that point, Lincoln Rhyme knew that Jeffrey Deaver had to die...or did he?
J.A. JANCE
If you’ve met J.A. Jance, you might think nobody would want to kill her—unless you’ve sat next to Joanna Brady at a Boucheron event. There’s no expiration date on ruined dreams, and Joanna’s were the sourest milk.
“I was a young, naïve character in 1969—there was an open casting call for The Brady Bunch, and I knew I could get it—Florence Henderson was way too old, plus my blond hair didn’t come out of a perox—let’s just say they wouldn’t have had to put so much into the makeup budget. And Robert Reed—wrrrooowlll!
“But Jance had other plans for me, even if she didn’t know what they were then. She wouldn’t let me go to the audition, and kept me in the drawer for more than twenty years while she dallied with some Seattle detective! Does that sound fair to you? Even if I’ll be carded for an “R” movie long after Henderson has won the AARP “Woman of the Year Award” —my life was put on hold for twenty years; it’s fair if I take a few years off hers in exchange...”
&n
bsp; That’s what Brady might have said if she is the killer.
EDWARD MARSTON
Then there’s Edward Marston, or whatever name the witness protection program is using for him today—Keith Miles, Conrad Allen, Miley Cyrus—he has more pseudonyms than the widow of the Nigerian Oil Minister. And I suspect he also has seventy-four million dollars he would be interested in having you help him get out of the country; you may keep ten percent for your trouble. Just give him your account number and password.
Which of his many characters would hate him enough to kill him? You might be surprised to learn it’s Nicholas Bracewell. Not your career criminal—he’s a smart and resourceful stage manager in the late 1500s, and he usually leaves his ego off-stage while his actors hog the limelight. His one touch of vanity? He uses pancake makeup—in Elizabethan times this was actual pancake batter—to cover a curious lightning-bolt shaped scar on his forehead.
Only last week he learned that his “parents”—a Devon merchant and his wife—had actually adopted him, and that he had had an identical twin.
Worse, he learned that his parents had snatched him away from Jim and Lily Potter, who were also shopping at the orphanage; Lily especially was taken with Nicholas, but when Nicholas’ parents gave the orphanage manager a hefty bribe, the Potters were forced to settle for his identical twin, Harry.
While Nicholas had had no regrets about the course of his life, last year Harry grossed nearly forty billion dollars. That would buy a lot of pancakes, and it has to eat at his soul...
If Marston hadn’t allowed the Bracewells to bribe the orphanage, it would have been “Nicholas Potter and the...” on all those bookshelves. So when he came into the library and saw Marston standing there, would it be any wonder if Nicholas Bracewell had picked up that poisoned pen?
EOIN COLFER
Eoin Colfer’s characters could be forgiven for wanting to kill him just for being forced to figure out how to pronounce his name—Owen? Ian? Didn’t they have spell-check when his folks named him? At least he spelled Artemis correctly...
Murder at the Beach: Bouchercon 2014 Anthology Page 10