As if that wasn’t enough, his throat was dry and he could barely speak. As soon as he’d woken up the nurse had brought him some water and strong painkillers, and while they had just about taken the edge off, every jostle sent ripples of pain through his neck. Slowly, the thought began to occur to him that someone had laid a trap for him, and he’d walked right into it. It was all a set-up, he thought to himself.
He decided this was not for him anymore; after such a lucky escape, this time he’d had enough. He knew Pedro would be looking for him by now as he would want his parcel, but his first concern was to get out of hospital. The doctor had told him there was a police officer coming to interview him, and he couldn’t afford to be around when that happened.
He sat up too quickly and immediately regretted it – his neck screamed with pain. Trying to ignore it, he lunged to his feet and staggered across the floor, looking around him wildly. Where were his shoes? After a few more moments of panic he found them in the side locker. He then quickly got dressed, put his shoes on, and walked towards the door. Peeping out of the door first to make sure no one was there, he then crossed the hall and opened the fire escape door. After he’d walked down two flights of stairs and across another hall, he was out of the hospital.
Once outside, he came upon two employees who were smoking by the back door, and ignoring them, he pushed past and turned left, into the bright afternoon sunlight. He was glad for the fresh air, but he was still in a lot of pain – his neck had been stitched, his finger had had to be reconstructed, and generally, he felt like shit.
Seeing a cab up ahead, John hailed it and waited for it to pull over. When it did, he jumped in and told the driver he didn’t have much money, and could he just drive him to a cheap, nearby hotel. After a few minutes, they arrived outside a shabby-looking motel and John tried to get out. The cab door, however, had a lock on it and would not open until he had paid the $5 fee. He stayed quiet for a while, thinking, and eventually, he nervously wiped a hand over his mouth and sat up straighter. He thought to himself that the cab driver might recognize him if later questioned, and that it probably wouldn’t make sense to actually check in to this motel. He didn’t need his whereabouts getting out.
John paid the $5 and waited until the cab had disappeared before deciding to walk to another hotel. He stumbled along the sidewalk, with no idea where he was, and as he continued onwards and saw each new unfamiliar street, a sense of terror grew inside him. Just when he was feeling what could potentially be the start of a panic attack, he saw a doorway with a sign above it saying ‘Hotel’. He breathed a sigh of relief.
Slowly finding his bearings, John remembered there was a shop there that sold wines and spirits and, on the other side of the doorway, there was a Vietnamese restaurant. Well, it was more of a takeaway really, with some bench stools at the bar. Looking around him and seeing no one he recognized, he walked into the hotel and checked in for two nights. His heart was pounding as he did it, but the man at the reception desk didn’t seem too fussy; he just asked him to fill in the register, which he did by giving a false name.
He had to pay for one day, there and then, and pay the balance of $18 when he checked out. John was happy to do that, as he knew he needed at least two days before he would be well enough to get around.
Once he’d got the key, he traipsed to his room and let himself in. It was dark in there and he could smell the damp everywhere. All the wood was rotting. The toilet was covered with shit. It was an awful place, but John didn’t exactly have any choice – he had to hide somewhere.
Within minutes John was sitting on the edge of the bed, transfixed by the TV. The murder was the hot topic on the local channel, and even Fox News had picked up the story. This was big. He resisted the urge to call Drinda – though he wanted to, he was still trying to figure out if he could trust her or not. On the face of it, John thought he could, but the reality of their curious profession was that he didn't really know, and his instincts told him she was a professional liar. John didn’t want to believe that she had betrayed him, but it was a possibility he had to face. In the end, he knew he'd been played. He felt incredibly stupid.
Sighing, he popped some painkillers he had left over from the hospital, and turning to one side, he craned his stiff neck as far as he could, catching the reflection of the back of his neck in the mirror. He could see a mass of purple and black bruising, but the stitches were still intact. He supposed he should see that as one tiny silver lining in this whole big mess. Dragging himself off the bed and over to the foul-smelling bathroom, he took a shower before cleaning and dressing his wound with some cotton wool he found in the cabinet.
With the pain temporarily numbed, he drew the curtains and climbed under the covers. The discomfort was making sleep almost impossible, but after about thirty minutes, the drugs kicked in. He just lay there, staring up at the ceiling, until eventually he fell into a restless sleep.
He slept fitfully, his head full of nightmares of hospitals and blood. When he finally woke up his mind was still wrestling with all the implications of the recent events, and he sat up and swung his feet onto the floor in one swift motion, a motion which sent bolts of pain shooting up his neck. After gritting his teeth for several seconds, he glanced at the bandage on his hand and was pleased to see no sign of blood.
He sat there for a few minutes, analyzing the various paths he could take. Disappearing was still an option. Whether he had the skills to pull it off was another matter, but would they bother to look for him? The way the press were reporting the incident suggested they seemed to think John had killed the man.
Slowly, he realized there was only one option open to him – get the hell out of the country, fast.
Chapter 13
A crime scene had been set up and the police had cordoned off the entire block. Officers stood to one side, ready to start processing the site once it had been thoroughly photographed. Forensic techs were everywhere. Curious neighbors and reporters pressed against the barricades. The bottom of the street was closed.
A sound of sirens approaching caused confusion and fear – suddenly, the crowd started talking all at once, asking questions and yelling at the officers. Trying to get control of the situation before it got out of hand, a young uniformed cop told everyone to stand back, and despite his obvious youth and lack of experience, the people – on the whole – obeyed.
Pedro entered the scene and looked down at the body while behind him, Detective Mann called, “Sir, this is a crime scene!” A man was on all fours near the window, squirrelling along the floor, searching. A tense female police officer stood next to him, her lips wet with gloss. She stared at him, not cottoning on in the least that he wasn't interested.
"Who found the body?" he asked.
Detective Mann was short, with a swarthy complexion, a fleshy nose, and a neat little soul patch that actually looked good on him. He grunted as if he had something stuck in his throat. "The guy has been stabbed."
"Detective Davies is a friend of mine," Pedro said. “Can you give him my card in case I can be of assistance?”
For now, Pedro had work to do, and the first thing he did was glance around the scene and documented what he could see. He looked up at the surrounding buildings, taking careful account of the potential witnesses. He saw that four buildings had views of the alley. He took another look at the body and shook his head – it was the same futile gesture he'd seen every cop make when they saw something so revolting. Pedro gave a quick nod to the detective and left.
Detective Davies was the officer in charge of the crime scene. He wore a fine-looking suit and seemed a little out of place in this scene of death and destruction. He frowned at what he'd been hearing, and as he approached, the officers moved aside, letting the body came into view. "Keep 'em back," Davies commanded as he moved through the crowd. It was a large crowd, but it was nothing in comparison to the numbers that would show up when the story really got out.
Even after twenty years on the force
– and after many crime scene investigations, due to his meticulous nature and sharp eye making him an asset – Davies had not once spoken to the press. Years ago, he thought that eventually they would realize he would never comment, but they still sidled up to him, throwing questions.
Ignoring them, he looked up and started directing his men. "Has the evidence been touched?"
Detective Mann mentioned that a man had checked out the crime scene. He pulled Pedro's business card from his pocket. Davies stared at the card, frowning.
The next day, Davies contacted Pedro, asking him to come down to the station, and Pedro had agreed.
An hour later, Pedro jerked the wheel of his car into the parking lot, located an empty spot, and parked. After shutting off the engine, he stared grimly at the building, determined to wait another minute before confronting Detective Davies. He looked into the mirror and wiped the perspiration off his forehead with his sleeve. Then, tightening the knot in his tie, he took a deep breath, opened the car door, and walked off towards a pair of uniforms who had just arrived.
He asked to talk to Detective Davies, and both men met at the bottom of the stairs. The two greeted each other with solid handshakes and warm smiles. Well, they were warm on the surface, anyway.
"Come this way," said Davies, in an authoritative voice.
Davies punched a code into a cipher lock and they entered the main precinct. He greeted a man behind the desk but didn't bother with introductions. They continued down a long hall with ugly cream walls and linoleum floors; unlike the rest of the station, this area had missed out on what looked like recent remodeling. Davies opened the door and motioned for Pedro to sit down on the corner chair. Pedro did so, before lighting a cigarette.
"Can I get you a coffee?” Davies offered politely, still smiling at his guest. Then, not even waiting for Pedro’s answer, he poured two cups of thick, overcooked coffee, and brought them to the table. He sat down opposite Pedro and pushed one of the cups over to him.
"Hope you don’t mind," the detective said, getting right down to business, "but I need to ask you some questions." Davies brushed a wisp of thin brown hair from his forehead, opened the file on his lap, and extracted a few sheets of paper. He paused for a moment as he glanced through the first sheet, then he looked up. "Why was it that you happened to be at the scene of the crime last night?"
"I don’t mind telling you that," replied Pedro. "I was working close to the scene. In fact, I may have even witnessed the crime."
"So tell me," said Detective Davies, leaning forwards.
"Well, I was investigating a fraud when I noticed movement outside."
"Movement? That could mean anything," suggested the detective.
Pedro studied Davies for a few seconds, sensing something he didn't like: Davies was fishing. Pedro cleared his throat and then added, "Yes, I notice details, it’s my job." Then, after a brief pause, "I could see a person, a young male, turning right into one of the passages that linked the buildings."
"So, did you see the murder?"
Pedro shook his head, drumming his fingers on the table for a moment. "But I would know the person if I saw him again." He flicked his ash onto the floor, smirking to himself. Pedro knew he was by far the smartest man in the room.
Just then, Detective Davies got a call on his radio, and when he’d finished speaking to the caller, he turned back to Pedro. "We had confirmation from a paramedic that a young British man came into the hospital two days ago with a knife injury. When we went to interview him this morning, he’d left the hospital."
Detective Davies wondered to himself why a man would do such a thing. There were only two possible reasons. Either he'd done something seriously wrong, or he'd almost been killed for what he'd seen. Davies took a moment to measure what he had just learnt before asking the most obvious question. "Was it just a robbery gone wrong?"
Pedro shrugged. "Probably."
Davies paused for a second and then shook his head. "Probably is the best we can do at the moment." He pulled a card out of his wallet and passed it over. "If you think of anything or hear anything that you think might help, call me. Thanks again for taking the time to meet with me."
Pedro nodded, recovering his smoldering cigarette from an otherwise empty ashtray. He couldn’t help the look of relief on his face when the interview ended, and he took the card with a smile. He had played out every conceivable development in his mind, the key being to keep the police confused, and only telling them what he wanted them to know. He found them incredibly easy to manipulate.
As he stood up and shook hands with the detective, a broad grin spread across his leathery face. He was sure that he'd covered all his tracks. This was a delicate business, where patience was every bit the virtue. There was no way anyone would know the whole thing was a set-up. No one was meant to die, it just happened that way. All Pedro had to do now was wait.
Chapter 14
The knock on the door pulled John from his thoughts of retribution, and he froze, staring blankly ahead of him for a few seconds. Then, pushing himself up against the headboard, he flipped on the light. Finally, he pulled himself up and stepped softly to the door, leaning against it and peering through the peephole. It was a woman. John watched her purse her lips, and then she reached out to knock again.
"Hello, it’s the maid..." she said, before going on to ask if she could empty the rubbish.
Without hesitation, he called out to her, "No!"
The maid frowned and walked away. John breathed a sigh of relief.
He had slept for nearly twelve hours, and that was after napping for six hours the previous afternoon. He remembered waking once during the night to use the bathroom, when he took another handful of painkillers, but apart from that, he was out like a light.
Making sure the maid was gone, John opened his door and stepped out into the hotel corridor. Two doors down from his room stood a girl in her mid-twenties. Her hair was a bright artificial blonde, and she was wearing a short red skirt, a black sleeveless T-shirt and a pair of sequined flip flops. Her legs were long, bare and ivory white. A cigarette hung between the fingers of her left hand.
John had started talking to her the previous evening. He couldn’t remember her name, but it could have been Cindy. Something like that. It didn't matter to him, as he was feeling a bit down and didn’t care who she was. He just needed some help.
Walking over to her, John said hi, then told her that he didn’t want to leave the hotel before asking whether she could fetch him some things.
"Rather not," she said shortly, before heading back into her room.
Frustrated, but knowing he had to go, John wandered downstairs to the shop. He felt very nervous, but he needed to buy antiseptics for his wound.
"Where's your first aid stuff?” he asked the shopkeeper once he was inside. “Do you have any creams and plasters?"
"Band aids?" the shopkeeper mumbled. "Yeah, over there."
"What's the sticker price?" John asked.
"Like, three-twenty," the shopkeeper replied.
John rummaged in the pockets of his pants and came up with just three and a cent. That wouldn’t even get the plasters let alone any antiseptics. "I'm a little short of cash right now. I guess I'll have to borrow some money from you," he said jokingly.
The shopkeeper’s mouth hung open in disbelief, but then his face took on a cynical smirk. "This is some kind of joke, right?" he said as he took the money from John.
Ignoring the question, John said thank you and went back into the hotel, walking quickly up to his room before anyone could spot him. Once inside, he rolled up his sleeves to wash his hands; his fingers were still covered in dried blood. He’d brought some ibuprofen with him from the hospital, so they would have to do. Should help with the swelling, he thought, as he filled a glass with water and dropped the pills into his hand, hoping they would kick in fast.
He spent the day watching bad TV, and before he knew it, evening had come around again. In the middle
of the night, he occasionally heard the odd gunfire, a screech of tires, the banging of car doors. He could even just about make out someone saying, “Hands up!”
He thought of the woman he thought was called Cindy. She was from the south, but he wasn’t sure where exactly. There’d been no sounds out in the hall, so it seemed that she wasn’t that worried by the gunfire.
Intrigued, John climbed out of bed and walked over to the window, gently pulling back the tattered curtain and looking down at the street. At first he could see nothing outside, but he definitely heard some yelling and the sounds of someone running.
Just then, there was a knocking on his door, and he opened it to find Cindy there, staring in at him, her eyes wide. Perhaps she was worried about the gunfire. She walked into the room without a word and sat down on the bed.
The girl had that vacuous look of a drug addict, with empty eyes and a mouth that had no joy in it. Her face was filthy and bruised, her lips unevenly swollen from a slapping.
"Who did that to you?" he asked.
She jerked her hand in the air as if to say it didn’t matter. She wore no make-up and her hair looked as if it were purposely messed up.
Not knowing what else to do, John turned the TV on, and while he was watching it, the young girl suddenly started to shake. He watched as she pulled out a needle and a spoon and started to melt down what he presumed was heroin. She started to look for a vein, but was unable to find one. The poor girl had so many holes in her body, how she ever found what she needed was beyond him.
He watched in morbid fascination, only vaguely aware that he was starting to feel sick. He should have seen the signs: even though he’d only met her a couple of times, whenever he asked her questions, she wouldn’t answer. It had made him think that something was wrong. She was probably a runaway.
Suddenly, she stuck the needle into a vein in her neck, then promptly passed out.
The Assassin's Keeper Page 13