Runaway Lies

by Shannon Curtis

  ‘What did that guy deliver?’

  Jim shrugged. ‘Something for Mr St James.’

  Alex pressed the button again, impatient for the lift. He tried to figure out what it was about the guy – apart from poor taste in football teams – that was bothering him. He hadn’t seen much of his face, had only briefly seen his eyes. Maybe he was being paranoid. Just a courier wearing a Manly Sea Eagles cap – not uniform issue, obviously.

  No ID.

  The courier hadn’t worn the customary ID tag over his chest pocket. No ID tag anywhere, come to think of it. That’s what was bothering him.

  He whipped his mobile phone out as the lift doors slid open. ‘Is Dominic St James back yet?’ he called out to Jim.

  The security guard shook his head, frowning. ‘No, sir, not yet.’

  ‘Call his office. Tell them not to open any mail or parcels.’ Alex stepped into the lift, pressing the button to close the doors as he dialled Dominic’s executive assistant, Judy.

  He swore in frustration. No mobile reception in the lifts. He kept trying anyway, just in case he got lucky. He shifted from foot to foot, anxious to reach the twenty-third floor.

  Don’t open the box. Don’t open the box. He hoped he was wrong. He hoped he was being paranoid, but his alarm bells were ringing. There was something off about the courier, and under the circumstances he didn’t care if he could be wrong, or if everyone thought he was overly cautious.

  The lift reached Dom’s floor, and Alex was out and running down the hall before the doors had fully opened. He burst into reception and the receptionist glanced up, startled, as she held the phone.

  ‘Alex!’

  ‘Where’s the box?’ He didn’t bother with preliminaries.

  ‘Judy’s picked it up. I’m just trying to get her on the phone.’

  Alex was already bolting down the hall to Dom’s executive suite. He could hear the phone ringing on the other side of the dark timber door. Pick up, Judy. The phone stopped ringing.

  He shoved the door open. Dom’s fifty-five-year-old assistant stood at her desk, the phone nestled between her ear and shoulder as she took a Stanley knife and slit the flap seam of the box.

  ‘Don’t open the box,’ Alex yelled, hand out to stop her.

  Her head whipped up, the phone clattering to the desk as she pulled the flaps open.

  There was a loud bang, a slight flash, and a light grey cloud billowed up from the box.

  Judy screamed, stumbling back and grabbing her chest, her face twisting in horror. She coughed, trying to gasp for air, as Alex raced over to her. He caught her as she fell back, and lifted her into his arms, carrying her out of the room. He placed her down on the carpeted floor as Siobhan ran towards him, holding her mobile phone.

  ‘Call an ambulance,’ he yelled. ‘And call the police – and the fire brigade.’

  Siobhan sank to her knees beside Judy.

  Judy’s face was pale, and she winced as she feebly clutched at her chest. Siobhan smoothed the grey hair away from the woman’s face as she quickly pressed triple 0 into the phone’s keypad.

  Alex darted back into the room, holding a handkerchief over his face. He didn’t know what the substance was, and didn’t want to take the risk of breathing it in. Some of the box had caught fire, little flames glowing in the grey cloud. Alex grabbed the vase of flowers on Judy’s desk and threw water over the flames, satisfied that the immediate threat of fire was extinguished.

  He backed out of the room, closing the door and essentially sealing the scene for the investigative unit. He pulled out his phone, and started making phone calls as he dropped to Judy’s side.

  ‘What do you think?’ Charles asked Fuller as they watched St James leave the station. The female uniforms clustered around the main reception desk on some pretence or other, and the front office was suddenly full of the sound of sliding drawers.

  ‘Did he kill his wife? Probably not,’ Fuller responded, shaking his head at the not-so-subtle staff.

  ‘Agree – but he’s hiding something about that divorce,’ Charles murmured.

  Fuller shrugged. ‘What man doesn’t? I know a guy who once spent fourteen thousand dollars on a bottle of scotch – had it imported especially from Scotland – all so the ex couldn’t get her hands on the funds. Then he toasted her when the papers were signed.’

  ‘Bet it was a good drop.’

  ‘It was.’

  ‘This stalker who is sending St James those letters – where are you guys on that?’

  Fuller grimaced. ‘Not very far. We think we’ve narrowed down the area where he lives, and we’re cross-referencing that against any past employees and competitors, but we haven’t turned up anything yet.’

  ‘Do you think it’s connected to the murder?’

  ‘I’d be surprised if it wasn’t. The tone of the letters is gradually getting stronger, the threats more dangerous. At one time the letters were laced with white powder that had everyone on alert until it was tested and found to be finely ground bleach, but his receptionist is now on stress leave as a result. It seems to be more of a psychological war against St James, and he obviously loves his family. Maybe the stalker decided that was the next weapon in the arsenal to use.’

  Charles shook his head. ‘See, money doesn’t buy happiness.’

  ‘No, but it bought a damn fine bottle of scotch. That’s as close to happiness as some of us are going to get.’

  Fuller watched as St James halted at the door of his town car to take a call as phones started to ring inside. The detective glanced around, frowning at the sudden activity. He looked out the door as St James pounded the top of the car with a fist, then braced himself against it, his head lowered. Some of the officers grabbed their hats, while more started to make phone calls. The station house was filled with the low hum of urgent conversation. Fuller halted one of the uniforms as she hurried past him.

  ‘What’s going on?’

  The young woman grimaced. ‘An explosive device has been detonated in the St James building. No further details at the moment.’ He watched her catch the car keys her partner tossed to her as they made their way to the door to the car park. Outside, Fuller heard the squeal of tyres, and he looked up in time to see St James’s car disappearing fast down the street.

  Fuller leaned over and grabbed his jacket. ‘Come on, we’re going to the scene.’

  Alannah smoothed the black dress over her hips. She nodded at her reflection in the mirror. She looked good. Hopefully good enough to get Steve thinking about something other than their practice’s budget. Their first outing had been a total bust, as far as dates went. He’d brought accounting reports to the table. Ugh. Well, she was bringing out the big guns tonight. She rearranged herself in her bra, making the most of whatever cleavage she could muster. She fluffed her hair. She was wearing it out tonight, the light golden curls softening her face. If he mentioned one thing about expenditure, she was going to lean over and kiss him.

  She hoped he mentioned one thing about expenditure.

  There was a knock on the door, and her eyes widened as she glanced at the clock on her bedside table. Steve was early.

  ‘Uh, just a minute,’ she called out. She grabbed her lipstick from the dressing table and hurriedly applied it. Steve was never early, it was a running joke that they scheduled his appointments fifteen minutes ahead of time, just to ensure he was there when the clients started to arrive.

  She sprayed a cloud of perfume and stepped through it hastily, trying not to cough on the fumes. She hopped from one foot to the other as she slid her shoes on. Stilettos, no less. Surely he’d get a clue with the red stilettos. One didn’t wear stilettos to a clinic budget meeting.

  She hurried down the hall to the front door, her heels clacking on the timber floorboards, and paused briefly to wink at herself in the small, oval mirror that hung on a hook in the hall. She adjusted her dress’s cross-over neckline to reveal more of her breasts enhanced by the push-up bra. Wow. It made such a differenc
e. Maybe she should wear one to the clinic. She grimaced as she thought of leaning over some of her older clients. Maybe not.

  She pinched her cheeks, smiled brightly and swung the door open wide. ‘You’re – not Steve.’

  She’d never seen the man standing on her front doorstep before.

  ‘Hello,’ Alannah said, frowning. ‘Can I help you?’

  He wore black shoes, blue jeans, a black shirt – and a coat. Who wore a coat in this heat? His gloved hands were clasped in front of him, and he stood with a relaxed, casual posture. His eyes were hidden behind a pair of reflective sunglasses, his brown hair cut to a short, military length.

  ‘Alannah Johnson?’ His voice was quiet, clipped.

  She glanced up and down the street. At six-thirty in the evening, it was still light outside, but the street was isolated. ‘Yes?’

  ‘May I come in, please?’

  Her frown deepened. This guy was creeping her out. ‘No. Who are you?’ She looked again down the street, hoping old Mr Klausen was out watering his garden. He was the self-appointed neighbourhood watchman.

  But for once Mr Klausen wasn’t out observing all the comings and goings of Marsh Street. She drew the door closer, and the man shifted.

  He pulled his jacket aside, and she gasped when she saw the butt of a pistol poking out of his pants, the blood draining from her face.

  ‘I think you’ll want to let me in.’ His voice was calm, polite.

  She tried to close the door, but he easily blocked it with his foot and shoulder, thrusting the door back onto her. It hit her in the face and she cried out as she stumbled back into the hall. Her hand went to her nose, and her eyes widened as she felt the warm fluid running out of it. Blood.

  The man stepped inside, quietly closing the front door behind him. He was inside her house. God help her – he was inside.

  She turned and started to run, crying out as he grabbed her hair, yanking her head back. She opened her mouth to scream, but froze when she felt the nozzle of the gun pressed to the underside of her chin as he pulled her against him.

  ‘Shh, relax. I’m only here for information, then I’ll be gone.’

  Tears, from the pulling of her hair and from the horror of the situation, rolled down her cheeks. ‘Please, please, just leave me,’ she begged.

  ‘I will,’ he told her, his voice soothing. ‘I will, just as soon as I get what I need.’

  Oh God, what did he need? Was he going to rape her? ‘Please don’t rape me,’ she sobbed.

  He started to frog-march her down the hall. ‘I don’t rape women,’ he told her brusquely. They entered her living room and he threw her onto the lounge. She rolled over so that she could face him, and moved the hair out of her face. She glanced at the clock. Steve was due shortly, which meant he’d be about ten minutes later than that. She prayed that for once Steve was on time. But then what would happen? Would Steve be in danger as well? She wanted him to help her, not put him in harm’s way.

  The man stood close, looking down at her, gun held casually in front of him, pointing at the floor. Such a violent weapon held so comfortably was the most frightening thing she’d ever seen. He hadn’t removed his sunglasses, and she could see her reflection, her blonde hair all mussed and tangled, blood dripping from her chin onto her new dress. She was a mess.

  ‘What do you want?’ Her voice came out in a rasp, and her gaze skirted away from the man, looking for a weapon, anything she could use against him.

  ‘Tell me the security code for the St James estate.’

  She blinked. Of all the things she’d thought he might want – money, jewellery, perhaps even her body – this was not what she’d expected.

  ‘I don’t know it,’ she lied automatically. This man was scary. He seemed so calm, so controlled – yet so violent. Whatever he wanted the code for, it wouldn’t be a happy ending. She’d signed a confidentiality agreement with Mr St James. She couldn’t disclose the code, or anything else that occurred at the estate during her visits.

  The man sighed, and despite the glasses that hid his eyes from her – which was possibly the most terrifying thing, not being able to see his eyes – she could clearly see the disappointment on his face.

  His hand whipped out, too fast for her to avoid, and the gun hit her across the cheek. She cried out as she fell across the sofa. Fire bloomed in her cheek, a dull, aching throb stretching up across her temple and down her neck. She raised her hand to her cheek, could feel the swelling almost immediately, and she started to cry, turning the uninjured side of her face into the cushions in a pathetic attempt to put distance between herself and this animal.

  ‘Don’t cry. You deserved that for lying to me.’ His hand was at the back of her head, pulling her up again by her hair, and she wailed, her hands going back to clutch his, to try to get him to let go, but all she could do was scrabble against his leather gloves.

  He leaned down close to her. ‘Now, I’m going to ask you again, Alannah. What is the security code to get into the St James estate?’

  She blinked against the pain. Her face was throbbing, her neck felt sticky with blood, and her head ached.

  ‘Please don’t hurt me,’ she gasped, blinded by her tears.

  The hand twisting her hair tightened, and she whimpered. ‘I won’t hurt you, Alannah, if you cooperate. What is the code?’ He shook her head, and she yelped at the pinpricks of pain in her scalp, the controlled violence in his gesture.

  The doorbell rang, and they both froze, her eyes widening. Steve!

  ‘STE—’ Her scream was cut short when he smashed the gun across her face again, and this time the pain blooming in her temple was too much, and darkness swamped her.

  CHAPTER

  21

  Tony ducked into the Greenwood Plaza entrance. His face was on fire, alarms were ringing, and he had to get off the street. He kept his head down as he entered the arcade, holding his chin. The weight of the prosthetics was pulling at his skin. He turned into the men’s room, startling the teenage schoolboys who were hanging out. One kid eyed him cautiously, then urged his friends to leave with him.

  Tony was just thankful he had the sink area to himself.

  He crossed over to the mirror and gaped at his reflection. He looked like a monster – no wonder the kids had hurried out. His face still bore the light streaks of foundation that hadn’t dripped away in his sweat. His chin and nose looked like ugly, grey growths of dead or diseased skin, and the flesh around the putty was red and irritated.

  Damn it. He had to get rid of his disguise. He grasped the fake nose and pulled gently, his eyes tearing up as what felt like shards of glass scraped along the sides of his nostrils. He stopped, sucking in a breath and waving his hand in front of his face to cool the ferocious heat blooming in the middle of his face. Christ, that friggin’ hurt.

  He tried his chin, and got the same reaction, the skin pulling sharply as he tried to remove the prosthetic. He whimpered and stalked in front of the sinks, fanning himself. He wanted these things off his face, now.

  He sucked in a breath, trying to calm his panic. Okay. The superglue was stronger than he’d thought. Pulling the putty off was going to hurt. He bent over one of the sinks and ran the tap, splashing water onto his face. Maybe a wash would loosen the glue. The drops on his face turned white from the foundation that remained. He tried again to pull the objects off his face, tears falling as the skin pulled. He gave up, shoulders sagging, and eyed his pathetic face in the mirror. He could see the faint tinge of blood mixing with the pasty white foundation smears to make sunset streaks of pink. He closed his eyes. Now what? How do you get superglue off your face?

  A toilet flushed, and his eyes sprang open. God, he couldn’t be seen, not like this, like some depressed, circus-clown, horror-movie reject. He darted into an empty stall, slamming the door as the person emerged out of the cubicle next to his. Tony sagged against the door and fished his iPhone out of his pants pocket. Using the web browser, he entered a search for removing s
uperglue, absently listening to the sound of the running tap, then the hand dryer as the person finally finished washing their hands and left.

  Acetone. He needed acetone. He scrolled through the search results. Where the hell was he going to find— Oh. Nail polish remover. He tilted his head back against the door, his nose and chin stinging as though a thousand bees were attacking his face. Okay, he’d passed a chemist on the way in, he remembered that.

  He cracked open the door and peeked out. The men’s room was quiet and vacant. He crossed quickly to the door, head down, shoulders hunched, and hurried out into the arcade.

  He found the chemist, not too far in from the entrance, and sidled into the shop. He kept his visor down low. Look normal, be casual. He sauntered in, swinging his arms and trying to whistle, but only managing some sort of rough exhalation. He lifted his gaze briefly to see what was on the shelves. Sunscreen, lice treatment – where the hell was the nail polish remover?

  ‘Hello, can I help you, sir?’ a pretty young attendant asked as she approached. He met her gaze briefly and her smile faltered as she backed up a step.

  He shook his head and moved in the opposite direction.

  ‘Okay, well, you just call out if you need anything,’ the woman said to him. He nodded. He wanted to ask her where the damn nail polish remover was, but didn’t want to bring more attention to himself.

  He finally found the hair accessories and nail files and – well, hello there, nail polish remover. He grabbed a bottle, and slipped it into his pant pocket, then scurried towards the door.

  ‘Uh, sir, can you please wait a moment?’ the assistant called out.

  He hurried faster.

  ‘Sir! Please, stop!’

  He started to run, skidding out into the arcade and then racing for the sunlight. He barrelled out onto the road, ignoring horns and screeching tyres as he ran across and into the darker entry of North Sydney train station. He tried to dart in behind an older woman, but didn’t make it through the turnstile before the red barriers dropped closed, and ran full tilt into the hard surface, his eyes crossing as pain flashed through his groin.