I was so fucked.
I couldn’t avoid the hand-to-hand combat test. Even if I manufactured an excuse that got me out of tomorrow’s test, Stemp would just keep rescheduling it.
I didn’t have a hope in hell of passing. The only self-defence moves I knew were a wrist lock and an arm-bar hold, and those wouldn’t even slow Germain down.
But as soon as it became obvious that I didn’t know any martial arts at all, Stemp would start digging to find out who had really killed Arnie’s father.
Mouth dry, heart pounding, I trailed down the hallway toward my office.
Had they cremated Helmand’s body? Please, God, let it be gone. If it was only buried and they exhumed it for a forensic investigation, they might find carpet fibres from Arnie’s SUV…
I drifted to a halt in my office, staring sightlessly at my jacket slung over the back of the sofa.
I might still be valuable enough to the decryption program for Stemp to overlook my lie. But Arnie would go to jail for murder…
“Aydan…”
“Jesus!” My feet left the floor completely as I corkscrewed around to face Kane. He snapped into a defensive stance at the sight of my raised fists, and I hurriedly straightened from my crouch and unclenched my hands to clutch my chest instead. “Christ, John, don’t sneak up on me like that! You scared the shit out of me!”
“I’m sorry.” He relaxed his combat posture, frowning. “I thought you’d heard me. Since Stemp dismissed us for the day, Germain and I are going to grab lunch and a couple of beers at Blue Eddy’s. Do you want to join us?”
“Oh… sorry.” I drew a deep breath. “I was… thinking…” I pulled myself together. “Yeah, I was heading over to do Eddy’s books this afternoon anyway, so that sounds like a great idea. I could really use a beer.”
It wasn’t a great idea.
I tried to concentrate on my companions, but most of the conversation faded into static while I nodded and smiled mindlessly. Even my favourite blues music couldn’t penetrate my preoccupation.
I ate and drank without tasting the excellent food, and when I finally retreated to Eddy’s office the ill-advised beer conspired with my sleepless night to swaddle me in an exhausted stupor.
The columns of numbers swam in front of my eyes. God, if I could just lay my head down. Just for a minute…
“…Aydan…?”
I convulsed, my knee smashing into the desk. “Aagh! Snotlicking-shiteating-sonofa-”
As I doubled over to clutch my knee, a sheet of paper detached itself from my face and floated to the floor. Apparently I’d been drooling.
I managed to smother my high-pitched stream of obscenities and rocked back and forth instead, keening and cradling my knee.
“I’m sorry!” Eddy crouched beside me, his usually twinkling eyes wide and worried. “I didn’t want to wake you, but I know you usually go to your next client’s now and I didn’t want you to be late. I’m sorry…” He made a helpless gesture. “Do you want some ice?”
I pried my teeth apart and straightened, swiping at my cheek in case there was still drool on it. “It’s okay.” My voice came out strangled, and I cleared my throat and tried again. “Sorry for my language.”
“It’s okay.” A little of his twinkle returned. “I’ve been known to use some creative language myself every now and then.” Concern creased his face again as he eyed my white-knuckled grip on my knee. “Do you need to go to the hospital?”
I finally managed to ease my hand away, surreptitiously checking to make sure my kneecap hadn’t actually exploded. “No, it’s okay. It’s just that I fell a few days ago, so I had a bruise there already.”
I rose, biting back a groan when my knee straightened. “I’m sorry I fell asleep on the job.” I eased down to retrieve the paper from under the desk and sank back into the chair. “I’ll get back to work now. All my other clients are closed for the holidays this week, so I can make up my time this afternoon.”
“Don’t worry about it.” Eddy patted my shoulder. “If you’re that tired, you should go home and rest. There’s nothing here that won’t keep.”
“Thanks, Eddy, but I’d rather stay.” I gave him an embarrassed grimace and indicated the paper that had served as my pillow. “I’ve already had my nap for the day.”
“All right, if you’re sure…” He hesitated in the doorway. “Can I bring you anything? Ice for your knee? A drink to dull the pain?”
I laughed. “I think it was the drink that caused the problem. But thanks, I’m fine.”
He withdrew with a smile, and I immersed myself in the safe, predictable world of bookkeeping.
When I emerged from his office a couple of hours later, my pleasant communion with numbers had restored some of my equanimity. I waved at Eddy, receiving a cheery salute from behind the bar in return, and headed out the back door into the long shadows of late afternoon. I had barely gotten into my car when my cell phone vibrated. I sighed at the sight of the text message.
‘Call home’.
Shit, what now?
I extracted the second-last secured phone from my glove compartment, making a mental note to requisition some more, and pressed the speed dial.
As usual, Stemp picked up on the first ring. “Stemp.”
“It’s Aydan.”
“The surveillance analyst just called to report Hibbert left a box on your front porch, approximately the size of a shoe box. Are you expecting anything?”
I sighed. “No.”
“I’ll send the bomb squad as a precaution.”
I took my time driving home, but when I pulled into my driveway twenty minutes later the unmarked bomb disposal van was still there. I trudged forward to peek around its fender, and a young tech waved me over to where he stood beside a large square device on my sidewalk. Robotic arms protruded from its sides, and it hummed quietly on high-profile three-wheeled tracks. Track marks in the snow led up my sidewalk to the front steps.
“Just retrieved your package a few minutes ago,” the tech said. “I’ve got it in the containment unit and I’m running the analysis now…” An electronic beep interrupted him, and he eyed a readout on the screen of the tablet he cradled in the crook of one arm. “No explosive,” he informed me cheerfully. “No biohazard, either. It should be safe to open if you want.”
I cast a jaundiced glance at the containment unit. “I don’t want.”
“Oh…” He eyed me uncertainly. “Well… we have to open it anyway. Just so I can finish my report.”
“Knock yourself out. I’m just going to stand behind the truck while you do that.”
His brows drew together. “Okay… but there’s no trace of explosives or incendiaries. No wires or trigger devices showed up on the scan.”
“Maybe not, but with my luck it’ll be a big pile of fresh shit sitting on a fan that starts when the box opens.”
His face twitched as though he was trying not to laugh. “Does that, um… happen to you a lot?”
I sighed. “I’m just saying.”
A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. “Okay, we’ll open it with the remote arm inside the containment unit. Just in case the shit hits the fan.”
“Thanks.”
He punched a few keys on his control panel before manipulating its small joystick. “Okay, here we go… ready for the big reveal?”
He angled the screen toward me so we could both watch while the robotic arm flipped the lid off the box.
My stomach clenched, my lips peeling back involuntarily.
“Nice.” The word rasped from my constricted throat.
The Barbie doll’s broken arms and legs stuck out at grotesque angles, deep knife slashes crisscrossing its naked limbs and torso. The source of the slashes was immediately obvious. A jackknife had been driven between the doll’s legs with such force the plastic torso had split almost up to its torched and half-melted breasts. The doll’s remaining blue eye gazed up with macabre serenity from the scorched and slagged remains of its face
.
I swallowed rising bile. “Well, at least it’s not shit.” I stretched my stiff lips into a smile-like grimace.
The tech let out a puff of nervous laughter. “Yeah.” He hesitated. “You want to call the cops?”
Keep breathing. Use short words. “No need.”
“You okay?” he persisted.
I put every ounce of my acting ability into a smile. “Yeah. Thanks.” Another breath. “Can you take that with you?” I didn’t look at the screen again.
“Yeah.” He returned to his controls and the robot pivoted on its tracks and hummed over to crawl up the ramp into the back of the van. The tech tucked the control unit under his arm and scrutinized me. “You sure you’re okay?”
The tremors were starting. Twisting my guts, dislodging the underpinnings of my control.
I unclenched my teeth and forced another smile. “Yeah. Freezing my butt off, though. Th…” A shudder shook me, my voice quavering into silence for a moment. I jerked it back under control. “Thanks for coming. Sorry it was for nothing. Have a good evening.”
“Thanks, you, too,” he said automatically. He grimaced. “Um, I mean… You better get inside and get warmed up.”
I gave him a tight-jawed nod and hauled myself up the stairs to totter into the house, my muscles vibrating like overstressed cables.
I managed to get the door closed and locked behind me before the deluge of hideous memories crushed me to the floor.
The searing agony of blue flame and the smell of my own flesh burning. The bite of restraints on my wrists and ankles. The terror of utter helplessness and the sick certainty of prolonged rape and barbaric torture…
White-hot panic blotted out my world.
Chapter 15
I gradually regained awareness. Curled in a ball on my doormat, I was shaking so hard my teeth rattled together and knots of blazing pain scorched my neck and shoulders. My face was cold and wet, but I didn’t remember crying.
I was pretty sure I wasn’t crying…
Maybe I was.
I unlocked one arm, then the other from around my body, my muscles creaking their protest. After a moment, I uncurled enough to push myself semi-upright and slump against the door.
Knees clasped to my chest, I stared into the gathering darkness, shivering. Time passed while I huddled there, my mind carefully blank.
At last the nagging sensation at the edge of my consciousness became too irritating to ignore.
The floor was too damn hard. My ass hurt.
And it was freezing, pressed up against the drafty bottom of the door. I really should install some new weatherstripping.
I groaned and dragged myself to my feet.
When I flipped the light switch the sudden brilliance seared my eyes, making me flinch and swear. Blinking away afterimages, I shuffled over to fill the kettle before dropping into one of my kitchen chairs, still hugging my jacket around me.
When the kettle boiled I attended to my tea-making ritual with deliberate concentration.
Chamomile. Soothing.
My legs didn’t want to carry me into the living room so I sat at the kitchen table again, losing myself in the clear golden depths of the tea, absorbing its warm summery scent.
When nothing remained but a few flower-flecks clinging to the inside of the mug I stared at them for long minutes, marvelling at their delicate tenacity.
At last, cradling the cooling cup in my hand, I rose slowly.
Crossed to the sink.
And spun to hurl the mug at the wall with all my might.
It exploded into porcelain shrapnel, the sound of its destruction shattering the brittle shell that contained my rage.
“Fuck this!” I roared. “I am fucking DONE!”
I swept up Parr’s crystal vase. My aching muscles sang with fierce effort and sudden release.
The heavy crystal smashed with a thunderous report, punching a gaping wound in the drywall and spraying water and flowers in all directions. I stamped over its remains, my hiking boots fracturing the shards.
I was still screaming, the feral shriek of a cornered wildcat. “No fucking more! Finished! Done, done, done, fucking DONE!”
I crushed the listening device under my heel, stomping and grinding until the broken crystal gouged splinters from the hardwood floor.
At last my berserk strength faded and I hunched over, panting. The tiny gilt bug winked up at me from its sparkling bed of pulverized crystal.
Was it dead? Or was it still invading my house and my life?
I growled and plucked it from the floor, puncturing the tip of my finger on a shard. Cursing, I tossed the bug into a baking dish and rummaged for the small butane torch I used for crème brulée.
The click-hiss of its ignition made me flinch with the memory of the same flame burning my skin.
“No fucking more,” I grated, and shoved the memory back.
The tiny electronic device glinted mockingly in the ramekin and I snarled, pushing the flame so close it rebounded from the surface of the porcelain. The bug sizzled and bubbled.
A curl of acrid black smoke recalled the choking terror of the burning plane.
My lips peeled back in a hellish grin. “No. Fucking. More.”
As if in response, the bug emitted a tiny gout of flame and melted into a black puddle. Teeth bared, I held the torch on it until it stopped bubbling and grey wisps of ash dotted its surface.
At last, I snapped the torch off. The reek of burning electronics filled the kitchen. The smoke detector activated right on cue, its ear-splitting squeal lashing my nerves. I flung the window open and flapped a dishtowel, trying to hunch my shoulders up high enough to plug my ears.
A few minutes later it quit.
Blessed silence.
I stood in the middle of the kitchen, trembling with reaction while the wind moaned, wringing icy fingers over the destruction I had wrought.
After a long time, I drew a deep breath.
“Well then.” My voice sounded loud in the silence.
I blew out a sigh and crunched over the broken crystal to close the window. Turning back to the table, I bent to examine the remains of the bug, now permanently fused to what used to be a perfectly good baking dish.
“Shit,” I said mildly. I poked a cautious fingertip at the edge of the ramekin. Still hot, but not hot enough to burn me.
The dish shifted and I spotted the scorch mark on the table under it.
“Well, shit.”
I eyed it for a moment, then shrugged. Picking up the ramekin, I pegged it at the wall, too. I didn’t put much shoulder into the throw, and the dish split disappointingly into a few large pieces instead of smashing into oblivion.
I wandered over. Maybe I should stomp the remaining pieces, too. Do the job right.
The hole in the drywall caught my attention and I poked at it, idly pulling a few loose chunks off the edges.
“Ah, whatever.” I turned away and stretched my arms above my head, the freshly-used muscles lengthening pleasantly and emitting a few crackles. Then I rotated my neck, releasing another snap-crackle-pop.
Crunching across the mess again, I retrieved my phone. My hands were rock-steady when I dialled Parr’s number.
To my surprise, he actually answered. “Nick Parr.”
“It’s Arlene Widdenback.” My voice was flat. “You can take your ten grand and shove it up your ass. I’m done with you. And tell Hibbert if he shows up here again, I’ll kill him.”
“Wh…?” He recovered in an instant. “Would you care to explain what this is about?”
“I don’t work with assholes no matter how much they pay,” I snarled. “You can take Hibbert and his threats and go fuck yourselves.” I punched the End button.
A moment later, the phone vibrated in my hand. Private caller.
Gee, who could that be?
I laid the phone down gently and went to get the broom and dustpan.
Belting out ‘I Got Stoned And I Missed It’ along with my Dr.
Hook CD, I stroked my taping knife over the wet drywall compound, finishing the patch for the night. My hands were steady, my anger banked to a heartening glow in my belly.
I picked up my beer bottle from beside its two empty companions and took another healthy swig. Maybe I’d sleep tonight. That’d be a nice change.
Surveying the fresh patch, I tipped the last swallow of beer down my throat. Tomorrow morning I’d put on a final coat, then sand it when I got home from work; maybe sand some of those gouges out of the floor, too…
My phone vibrated again.
Probably Parr.
Fuck him.
I crossed to the sink and rinsed the last of the mud off the drywall knife before drying it on my comfortably baggy work jeans. Dr. Hook launched into ‘Get My Rocks Off’, and I growled happily along with the lead singer.
This was the life. Beer, tools, and raunchy music. If only Hellhound was here, I could top it off with some hot sex. The four basic pillars of happiness.
My growl smoothed to a purr at the thought of Hellhound’s fine upstanding pillar of happiness. Mmmm, wouldn’t that be nice right now? Too bad he was two hours away and I was in no shape to drive.
Maybe I’d plan a road trip to Calgary in the next day or two…
Grinning, I gathered up my tools. I was carrying them across the basement when the vibration of my phone transmitted itself through the floor above me.
Jesus, how long was Parr going to keep trying? Asshole.
I ignored the urge to run up and check the call display immediately, and finished stowing my tools instead. Climbing the stairs a few minutes later, I froze, listening.
What the hell?
Rhythmic tapping came from the vicinity of the front door.
I hurried up the last couple of stairs to listen again.
It wasn’t tapping on the door; it was something else. Dull reports like somebody chopping wood in my front yard.
…crack …crack.
Silence.
My brain automatically counted back. I’d heard about ten, but there might have been more. It could have been going on the whole time I was in the basement.
Ten made me uneasy. Same as the maximum number of rounds allowed in a handgun magazine…
Spy Now, Pay Later Page 12