The Price of Time

by Tim Tigner

  We followed the flagstone path around the side of the house, through the manicured garden, and toward the pool where the drone had shown people lounging.

  “What exactly should we say?” Skylar asked.

  “We can start with ‘Sorry to disturb you. We just need to pick up our drone.’ Then we’ll try to charm them into talking.”

  “How should I act?”

  The burbling swish of cascading water grew louder as we closed in on the pool. It camouflaged our conversation, but I kept my voice quiet anyway. “Act like a pampered society girl with good genes. Compliment the house and garden. Ask about activities in this area. The best places for snorkeling. Restaurants on nearby islands. Stuff like that. Luxurious as it is, living here has to be lonely. If we come across as friendly members of the club, it shouldn’t be hard to get them talking.”

  “What do we want them talking about?”

  “In a word—Aria. The goal is to get her measure and take the lay of the land in preparation for a future confrontation.”

  We rounded the side of the house and came face-to-face with Tory, who was walking in our direction. He held an aluminum briefcase in each hand and had a big black duffel slung over one shoulder. The Finn looked just as surprised as I was when our eyes met. But his reaction was quicker.

  Before I knew it, one of the briefcases was spinning toward my head. I ducked as Tory lunged.

  Skylar was not so lucky.

  As I dodged left, my ears were struck by the sound of a projectile smacking bone. I stole a sideward glance and saw my partner drop like a ripe coconut. She was undoubtedly unconscious, but whether stunned or dead, I couldn’t tell. Nor could I check. Not at that moment. Not if we were to survive the assassin’s wrath.

  Tory didn’t immediately continue his attack. In fact, he backed off.

  For a second, we sized each other up like gladiators waiting for the king to commence our battle. Then Tory grinned and reached around to the small of his back.

  He came out with nothing but a puzzled expression. Clearly he’d gone for a gun that was missing.

  I am not a boxer or a wrestler or a martial artist. I rowed crew in college. But standing two steps from Skylar’s limp body while staring at our would-be killer, I found myself feeling entirely different than I had the last time Tory and I had grappled. This time I was fueled by all the world’s anger—and half an idea.

  Tory had a weakness. A sore spot. A chink in his armor. His left eye was painfully swollen and probably sightless. Surely I could capitalize on that.

  But how?

  I circled right, moving into the blind spot and forcing him to adapt. Tory was new to the whole blind-in-one-eye thing, especially when it came to combat. That had to be disconcerting, although I wouldn’t put it past the fitness freak to have honed some eyes-closed fighting technique back when he learned to ignore pain.

  Whatever the reason, Tory soon tired of toying around and attacked. He leapt forward, launching into a torrential punching combination that led with his left and followed with his right. Had I not been prepared, I would have gone down—probably never to rise.

  I dodged back and launched a punch packed with fury and powered by rage. Everything I had. All the frustrations, all the anger, all the pain and sorrow and suffering. I put every ounce of unspent emotion into that swing. Thanks to the blessed combination of my superior reach with his inferior sight, my right-armed roundhouse skirted his defenses and collided with his jaw. The connection was solid and square, creating a supremely satisfying crunch that sucked the strength from his killer combination.

  But it didn’t put him down.

  Without missing a beat, Tory redirected his momentum into a leg sweep that would have landed me on my backside had it been adequately aimed. But it wasn’t. “Perkele!” he swore, cursing the devil that had him fighting half-blind.

  I didn’t let up.

  I didn’t pause.

  I didn’t hesitate.

  I spun around as he stood from his sweep and brought the back of my left hand through like a slung stone. It smashed against the same spot that my fist had just visited. There was another crunch, but this one included bones from both bodies.

  I bit back my yelp.

  Tory dropped, but he didn’t collapse.

  I pressed on.

  So did he. He pulled some kind of a rolling backflip that landed him on his feet and poised to pounce—and pounce he did. Before my mind processed the feat, he was at my throat squeezing, pressing, and clawing like a rabid dog on fresh red meat.

  I scrunched my shoulders and flexed my neck, but he was simply too strong. I tried putting my own arms into play, but he was too damn close. I didn’t have the angle. I didn’t have the leverage.

  He added to the onslaught with a roar so savage I knew he was releasing all the pain, sorrow, and suffering he’d bottled up under interrogation. I felt like a lone tree in the path of a nuclear blast. The heat and energy were overwhelming.

  My consciousness began to flicker, like pulses of black light cascading through my brain. I was seconds from asphyxiation and would soon be powerless to resist.

  This was it. The end. The last gasp. The final fade to black.

  Desperate times call for desperate measures, and I had one left. I unleashed my inner animal. The big black beast men keep caged for fear of what they’ll become after it’s freed.

  Reversing course, I rushed into the storm. Rather than attempt to extricate myself, I used my final act to embrace the berserk assassin—and bit his nose. I clamped down with everything I had left. Incisors, canines, premolars, and molars. I put them all into play, crimping and grinding and gnashing with the full force of my jaw and the dynamic desperation of one who knows it’s now do or die.

  The animalistic assault was too much for even his superhuman self-control to bear. He immediately abandoned his attack and pulled back into a concealing posture.

  That was when I went for his eye. I whipped around with all the speed I could summon from my back, shoulders, arms, and legs. I put everything into play and planted my elbow deep into that swollen socket.

  Tory’s mouth flew open, expelling vomit as he dropped to the ground. He convulsed a few times before lying still as a stone. Unconscious at a minimum. Possibly dead.

  Possibly was not good enough.

  Nor would incapacitation suffice.

  This battle wouldn’t end until one of us drew his last breath.

  Panting like a derby horse, I wiped my face first with one arm and then with the other. Next I turned my attention to the briefcase that had struck Skylar’s head. I unlatched it with my functional hand, hoping to find the equivalent of a matador’s sword. A .22, a .38, a .45, a 9mm. It didn’t matter to me. It wouldn’t matter to Tory.

  But the case didn’t contain the gun that Tory had failed to find tucked into his belt. It held no knife or bludgeon or papers either. Instead, it was jammed full of jewelry.

  The necklaces, bracelets, and rings weren’t packed in the padded envelopes a wealthy woman would use while traveling. Instead, the precious ornaments had been hastily piled inside, as if snatched during a robbery. Snatched during a robbery, I repeated to myself as a theory formed. If correct, the justice I’d just served had been poetic indeed. Tory had been killed by greed.

  I was about to move on in search of a suitable rock or stick when a letter opener came into view. The long curved instrument was crafted from platinum and capped with a sapphire the size of a quarter.

  Still stoked by adrenaline and fired by rage, I plucked it from the case, pivoted toward my opponent and plunged it through the bloody pulp until it struck the back of his skull.

  75

  Good Prediction

  NOW THAT I KNEW WE WERE SAFE, that the monster would not rise from his grave, I ran to Skylar’s side. She was sprawled out flat on her back, still positioned exactly as she’d dropped. I put my ear to her chest while my fingers fumbled for her carotid pulse.

  Her heart was str
ong and her lungs were working. “Oh, thank goodness.”

  “Skylar. Skylar, can you hear me?” I hesitated to speak too loudly, lest I be overheard by the occupants of the pool. Although, come to think of it, there’d been no reaction to Tory’s primal roar…

  She didn’t stir.

  I probed her temples with a tender touch. It wasn’t obvious where the briefcase had hit her and I hadn’t seen it happen, but her nose wasn’t busted so I assumed it had struck the side of her head. That fit with her condition. Knockout blows were caused by the brain bouncing off the side of the skull in a way that throws the central nervous system into shutdown mode, like a fuse tripping for the brain’s protection.

  Beyond the immediate loss of consciousness, the primary threat from such a blow was a subdural hematoma. Bleeding inside the skull. I couldn’t look for that, but I knew how to test for brain function.

  I pinched her earlobe.

  She flinched. A good sign.

  I pinched again.

  She made a faint swatting gesture, as if battling bugs in a dream. A great sign.

  I pulled back her eyelids.

  Both pupils contracted. Her brain was two for two on the key indicators. I’d have to monitor for changes going forward, but she didn’t appear to be in immediate danger.

  So what now?

  I decided to go with the original plan, only instead of asking for assistance with a drone, I’d beg for help with my wife.

  But first, I would arm myself.

  And hide the signs of treachery. Hard to charm your way into someone’s confidence if midway through the discussion you stumble upon a fresh corpse doing a Polyphemus imitation.

  I hated to leave Skylar, even for the sixty seconds it would take me to run to and from the boat—but I did it anyway.

  With the Sig P320 secreted in the small of my back, I used my good hand to grab Tory by a heel and haul him beneath a cluster of ferns. Then I dragged the duffel under another clump. The bag was heavy enough to contain a body. Unable to resist, I pulled the zipper back and peered inside. It was stuffed with cash. Stacks of brand-new banded hundred-dollar bills. Judging by the size of the bag and some quick math, I placed the sum in the neighborhood of three million dollars.

  I picked up the second briefcase and found it to be as heavy as any barbell I’d ever lifted. Probably sixty pounds. Between it and the hefty duffel, I understood why Tory had been less than completely attentive while walking to his boat.

  Once I maneuvered the briefcase beneath the bush, I flipped the latches and lifted the lid. It was packed with gold. Coins and bars. Had to be a million dollars’ worth.

  I slid it beneath the black duffel, end to end with the other briefcase.

  Returning to Skylar, I used my right hand to tent her knees so that I could slip my left arm under her without further injuring my hand. Then I lifted her up and carried her around back.

  The two men we’d seen on the drone screen were still lounging in the pool. I could tell it was them by their bathing suits. Both appeared to be sleeping. The woman had gone. “Hello,” I called over the waterfall.

  Neither of them moved.

  “I need your help,” I said even louder.

  Again, nothing.

  Were they snoozing, or dead? Had Tory turned on his masters? Had he killed them in prelude to robbery? I could see no outward signs of violence. No bullet wounds or bludgeon marks, and the water wasn’t bloody.

  I’d worry about them later.

  Skylar was my primary concern.

  I carried her into the house in search of a couch. After spotting a chaise longue, I was startled by a set of double doors that opened automatically as I drew near.

  When nobody walked through, I pushed a paperback off the plush upholstery and set Skylar down. As the novel fell to the floor, I noted with some surprise that it was the same one I’d been reading at Berret’s. Apparently, Aria and I had the same taste. I wasn’t sure what to make of that.

  Skylar’s eyes opened as the double doors slid closed.

  “Hey there. Can you hear me? How are you feeling?”

  She blinked a few times, then spoke. “My head hurts. What happened?” Her voice was soft, but steady.

  “We ran into Tory. He threw a briefcase at me. I ducked and it hit your head.”

  “I don’t remember.”

  “Just as well. Can you sit up?”

  “Your face is a mess.”

  “It’s nothing. Just a bit of blood and vomit.”

  “Is that all?” she said with a smile.

  It was a proper response to my whimsical tone. She was going to be all right.

  “Where am I?”

  “I just brought you into Aria’s house.”

  “Where’s Tory?”

  “He’s dead. It appears he’d just looted the island when we bumped into him. He was hauling a five million-dollar stash.”

  “You’re not hurt?”

  “I think I fractured a bone or two in my left hand. Nothing serious.”

  Skylar took my hand and began to study it. “What about Aria?”

  “I’m not sure yet. I haven’t had the opportunity to look for her. The other two we saw are still in the pool, either drugged or dead.” I studied Skylar’s eyes while we spoke.

  She suddenly sat fully upright. Rubbing her temples, she asked, “Did you say you found five million dollars?”

  “I did.”

  “Presumably taken from the people who tried to burn me alive?”

  “Almost certainly.”

  “And you killed Tory?” The tone of her questions was more excited than inquisitive.

  “I did that, too.”

  “So why aren’t we back on our boat at this very minute, speeding someplace far from here? Like to one of those Bahamian banks that doesn’t ask questions?” She gripped my hands hard enough that I had to wince. “Sorry. But surely you don’t have a problem skipping the lawsuit and going straight to assessing damages for our pain and suffering?”

  No brain damage there. She was firing on all cylinders. “Your health was my primary concern.”

  Her expression broke. She leaned forward and kissed me quickly on the lips before rising to her feet. “I think I’m fine. Let’s go.”

  Apparently waving five million dollars under someone’s nose worked better than an ammonia ampule.

  I gave Skylar my arm and guided her outside, but instead of turning toward the yacht, I stopped at the pool. “Let’s just check.”

  She rolled her eyes in response. Yet one more sign of healthy brain function.

  While she sat on the edge of a chair, I crouched and leaned to grab the toe of Lars’s lookalike. I tugged the doppelgänger to the water’s edge, then checked his pulse. “He’s dead.”

  Skylar grimaced but didn’t gasp. “Where’s Aria? Do you think she did this in cahoots with Tory?”

  “I think Tory works alone. But I can guess where Aria might be.” As we rose, I again linked her arm. “Come with me.”

  Skylar resisted as I turned toward the house. “Let’s just leave. Someone has to be coming back, right? That go-fast wasn’t Aria’s. It’s clear now that it was Tory’s. That means her staff took her yacht out. Probably shopping. They’re not going to leave her stranded for long. They’ll likely be back any minute, so we should already be gone.”

  I favored another hypothesis but decided to keep it to myself for now. “This won’t take long. And I think the risk will be worth our while.”

  “I agree that closure is worth a lot, Chase. I’m just not sure I’d risk five million dollars for it.”

  “Give me five minutes.”

  Skylar relented.

  I wasn’t familiar with the layout of Aria’s house, but I knew where to find her bedroom. I led Skylar back into the grand room and then through the automatic double doors I’d activated when carrying her inside.

  “Wow!” Skylar said. “Talk about a fairy tale gone awry.”

  The master suite of Aria’s
estate was something the designers at Disney would draw, complete with canopy bed and breathtaking view. But at the moment, it looked like a beast had just visited the beauty. Every painting had been pulled from the walls and all the furniture stood askew.

  I took that as a good sign.

  Noting that nothing had been revealed by the rearrangement, I walked toward the closet doors. They were also automatic. They too slid silently aside as they’d undoubtedly done a thousand times before. As if everything was normal. But it wasn’t.

  Aria’s bikini-clad body lay sprawled face down on the floor. Dead. That much was immediately apparent. The rest of the scene took a second to process.

  The walk-in closet was enormous. Bigger than most bedrooms. Clothes had been scattered and shoes tossed aside. One section of the back wall had been hinged inward, revealing a vault. Its thick steel door had also been opened. Aria lay in that doorway.

  “You think Tory forced her to open the vault, then hit her on the back of the head?” Skylar asked.

  I felt the back of Aria’s head before answering. It wasn’t warm or damaged. Pointing to the glass rectangle embedded in the exposed wall, I said, “I think she died beside the others in the pool. Some kind of drug overdose.

  “I think Tory made the mess searching for the safe he knew had to be hidden somewhere. Once he found it, and the palm reader, he hauled her up here.”

  “And used her dead hand to unlock it,” Skylar said with a shudder.

  We walked around the heiress’s body and stepped inside the stainless steel room. The first thing to catch my eye was a Glock sitting atop a pedestal. Tory’s gun. This confirmed my theory. He had set it aside while packing his bags and forgotten it amidst the excitement. Or figured he’d grab it on the last run. Either way, that single, simple lapse of professionalism had saved our lives and cost him his own. I’d be pondering that blessed piece of luck for years to come.

  “Look at all this! The five million you saw was just the beginning.” Skylar turned to face me, her eyes wide with excitement and understanding. “This was what you meant when you predicted that the risk would be worth our while.”