by Jonas Saul
For his life, he ran. It was that, or stay and eventually be killed.
She needed him to play along because he owned half the shares of the company. Without him, a large portion of her finances were paralyzed.
But Oliver had different goals. He wanted to retire, relax and play golf. They already had millions, with a residual millions more still coming in. A passive income. And he’d just had a mild heart attack. Even his doctors had agreed with him.
But to go against Violeta meant death. She had made that clear. The accident and the beating had been a warning. In the privacy of their own home, she told him in a hushed voice that he would do what she wanted or end up on the other side of the grass.
The sweet, kind woman he’d married had been replaced with a cruel dictator, governed by money and the sin of greed.
He shook off the last vestiges of the dream and rolled out of bed, placed his feet in his slippers and headed for the small kitchen in the tiny rented villa.
It was going to be another scorcher. The seething heat of southern Greece on the Aegean Sea came across as an angry, sweltering cape, something you wore outside and could only shed once you were under artificially cooled air. He made a point to set the air conditioner on high before he went out today.
He flicked the kettle on and headed for a shower. Another day in paradise, without anyone screaming at him. That part of his life was truly over. His wife was now his ex-wife and she had no idea where in the world he was.
As the months had passed, there had been no contact from her. He needed time alone to heal the emotional scars. Her manipulation knew no bounds and when she drank, it was worse. The alcohol loosened her tongue, added an element of extremist to her already austere and rigid ways. He was belittled, ridiculed, and asked about his affairs, even though he had never cheated on her.
Before leaving her mad world, a world of irrelevance, he had planned his exit for months, the entire time his stomach a bag of knots. But he had done it. There was enough money in his secret American bank account to live like a king for a very long time while Greece was mired in its current economic crisis. If Greece went bankrupt and reverted back to the drachma, he would become richer as prices would drop everywhere.
After his shower, he grabbed his coffee and stepped outside to sit under the grape vines suspended along the pergola above. The air was crisp and clean, the sun already beating at over eighty degrees Fahrenheit. The pool to his left invited him, but it would have to wait until the afternoon. It was barely past eight in the morning. He reveled in his luck to be in this Greek paradise and away from Violeta’s prison. Every day he thanked God for his freedom from her madness.
They had built a retail empire together in Northern California. At first it was one store, then another, until they had five. Keeping stock in their basement for the five stores made sense as they could buy in bulk and drive down supplier’s prices.
By the time they hit their tenth store, they rented a warehouse and began wholesaling to their own stores. Because of their buying power, they could sell off stock to other stores, competitors in their industry, cheaper than those stores could buy it on their own. It was simple mathematics and applied capitalism. It didn’t take more than fifteen years before Oliver and Violeta were worth millions.
But he was happy to let that all go. Everything became all about the money for Violeta, but for Oliver, there was no meaning in that.
And Violeta wanted more. She always wanted more. And she drove him to his first heart attack. He pleaded with her that their goal of one day reaching the hundred million dollar mark in investment portfolio was over. The few million they had, and their existing income on a monthly basis, was enough for him to retire, heal his body, and enjoy life before it was time to go to the prize in the sky.
Violeta flew off the handle. She would have none of it. Now more than ever was the time to expand, she had screamed. Slow down in their sixties, she had said, not their fifties.
But now he was living the slower life and she was still in California wondering what the hell happened to him. He had five million in a bank account she was unaware of. She had twenty million and the entire business just as she wanted it. He could live with that. He only hoped she could as well.
He couldn’t live with not seeing his daughter. Not being able to protect her from an abusive mother bothered him to the core of his soul. But to get out from under Violeta’s sick umbrella, he had to run. He had to hide. Maybe in a year he would contact his daughter. Maybe then he would be safe from retribution of any kind. She would be eighteen in a year. Time for her to move out of her mother’s hell.
Violeta would rather see him dead than allow him to divorce her, and Oliver knew that.
“Crazy bitch,” he said out loud.
He brought the coffee cup to his lips and smiled.
Free from her. Free from the rat race. Free from her demands. Free from her affairs. Her spending junkets in New York. Trips to Europe. Free from all of it. Just free.
That’s all he needed and he got it in Greece.
After his coffee, he cleaned his cup, put the kitchen back in order and turned the air conditioner on. The walk into town was more than an hour. He would walk in before it got too hot. After his massage and shopping at the Wednesday Farmer’s Market, he would take a taxi back to the villa for an afternoon rest.
“What a life,” he muttered to himself as he picked up his backpack and slipped a water bottle in the side pocket.
The villa was eight hundred a month, cash. No questions, no receipts, and no one knowing who he was or his location. He didn’t know any Greek except for the common greetings, so he didn’t have to talk to the locals who hardly spoke any English.
The little village he lived in, Agios Adrianos, was four kilometers from Nafplio, the capital city of Greece before Athens took the title. In the small village, he had no phone, and the only Internet connection was in the name of the British couple who owned the rental property. His name was only on his passport, hidden in the nightstand by his bed.
It had become the perfect scenario for peace and calm.
After exiting the small villa, he walked to the gated driveway, unlocked the chain, and started down the longer driveway that led to the center of the village.
He moved slowly, watching the fenced areas of the other homes, the passing vehicles, keeping a vigilant eye on who might be watching him.
Last week one man had appeared to be watching him. An American tourist with a toothpick in his mouth and a camera had taken his photo. Oliver was sure of it. But this man was good. He turned and snapped a few more shots of the Greek Orthodox church and was met by a lovely woman who could have been his daughter. If Oliver didn’t know any better, the woman was paid to appear as arm candy for the day.
But that was once and it was a week ago. Nothing had happened since and he hadn’t seen the man with the toothpick again.
There was being paranoid and then there was being safe. It would be years before Oliver would let his guard down. If he felt for a second that he was in trouble here, he would leave and head to Istanbul, or maybe Egypt. Anywhere to disappear and stay hidden to protect his new peace and calm existence.
At the center of the village, the sun already beating him red, he nodded at the small convenience store owner, turned left toward Nafplio, and continued walking, watching his back.
A small Greek police car’s engine turned on beside him, the driver watching as he walked by the car. It idled for a moment, then revved. Oliver wanted to turn around, look at what the driver was doing, but he refused to draw attention to himself.
More than a minute later, the police car cruised by slowly, got to the corner ahead, and turned right, toward Nafplio.
It was either an omen of bad things to come or his nerves were making him crazy about every little detail around him.
Any other police car passing anyone else would mean nothing to them.
It had to mean nothing. It was just his nerves.
Sarah braked and turned her bike into the ruined warehouse’s parking lot off Keele Street, north of the 401 in Toronto. Demo crews had been at work since she was here last. The parking area was cleaned and swept, and the front of the building, where most of the bomb’s damage struck, was half gone, cleared away so the rebuilding could begin.
She marveled at how she made it out alive that night. The Leap Year Killer had a gun on her. The bomb detonated outside and the building fell down around them. All this happened while the leader of one of the toughest street gangs in Toronto was on the premises, looking for her. It was a crazy night. The same night her cousin died saving her on the roof of a hotel downtown.
These were some of the reasons that convinced her to quit. They came to her in flashbacks, images of carnage and death. All the people she had killed in the name of right and wrong. All the innocent people who had died because they were simply involved with Sarah.
Continuing down the violent path she lived would eventually get Aaron killed. Of course he was a confident black belt and owned a dojo. He could defend himself quite well, but that didn’t stop a bullet. And it only took one of those to put you down.
She maneuvered the bike to the side of the parking lot, nearest the road, and cut the engine. The helmet came off easily. After setting it on the seat of the bike, she straightened her hair.
The last time she saw Parkman was in Italy months ago. It would be good to see him again, but she worried slightly that he would be disappointed when she told him her decision.
What could he possibly have to say to her? If it was a minor task, would she still do it?
He had done so much for her over the years, rescuing her in Hungary, coming for her in Toronto and showing up in Italy when she needed him. And now she stood in the parking lot of the ruined warehouse where she almost died so many months ago, trying to figure out how to say no to him.
Her watch said it was one minute past midnight.
Maybe there was a credible threat. Maybe he wouldn’t just drive up, park, and get out of his car.
Could he already be here?
She moved back toward her bike without a sound. Then around the bike to put it between her and the building.
At this hour, only emergency lighting and night lights were on at the building across the street. The only sound came from a random car on Keele Street.
“Sarah?” a man’s voice called.
She turned toward the voice, icy fingers crawling along her forearms. The silhouette of a man stood in the parking lot of the building directly across the street from her. She had been out of action for over two months and beginning to enjoy the calm, the peace. Coming here in the dark, having her name called like that brought the life back in a palpable swoosh she could almost hear as much as feel.
Anger brewed on the inside. Feistiness.
“Who wants to know?”
“It’s me, Parkman.”
His voice seemed strained, like he was trying to whisper, but speak loud enough for her to hear.
“You said to meet here,” she called, matching his strained whisper. “Why are you over there?”
He gestured with his arm for her to join him, then turned and slipped behind a bush.
Something was wrong.
Parkman never acted this way. He wasn’t one to be afraid, hiding in bushes and acting so covert. Why not meet somewhere even more discreet then? Unless something was wrong with Parkman, it had to mean there was a credible threat to him. If that were the case, she needed to hear what he had to say.
No noises came from the building behind her. No one was visible on the street. As far as she could tell, they were completely alone in this industrial area at this late hour.
She started toward him, crossed the street while checking her back a couple of times, and then stopped about ten feet from the bush Parkman huddled behind.
“You coming out to talk?” she asked.
In that moment, she wished she had listened to Aaron and brought a weapon.
The bushes moved and Parkman stepped out, a long silenced weapon in his hand.
“What’s that for?” Sarah asked. Everything in her body ordered her legs to step back, but she fought the urge. It was Parkman in front of her.
“We’re in danger,” Parkman said. He rotated the toothpick in his mouth to the other side. “Grave danger.”
“Oh really,” Sarah said as she raised her hands and looked around the empty parking lot. “Cause it looks to me like we’re alone out here. If anyone’s in danger, that would be me as you’re the one with the gun.”
“No, no, not like that. It about the client I took on last month.”
“Tell me more.”
She kept her eyes alert, watching Parkman’s gun, while making sure nothing moved behind him or in her peripheral vision.
Parkman spit his toothpick out, licked his lips and looked down at his gun. “This crazy woman, Violeta, hired me to locate her missing husband.”
“Are you saying you didn’t find him and now she’s pissed?”
“No, I found him.” He met her gaze.
“Then what’s the trouble? Isn’t that what private investigators do? Locate missing people?”
Parkman nodded vigorously and moved a few more steps away from the bush. He angled his head around Sarah, looking at something on the road.
“What? See something?” Sarah asked and looked over her shoulder.
He shook his head when she turned back around. “This woman asked me to hurt her husband.”
“Some people deserve it. What’s his sin?”
“Too many details to get into right now. But from what I can gather, this is just a case of Violeta not allowing anyone to leave her employ.”
“Her husband worked for her?”
“You could say that. They ran the business together, but she always saw him as an employee, doing what she needed. Now with him gone, she’s paralyzed. His signature is needed for a multi-million dollar deal. Alive, he won’t sign. Dead, the business is all hers.”
“Are you saying you found the missing husband and when she wanted more from you, you terminated your services and walked away?”
“That’s exactly what I’m saying.”
“Oh, Parkman, haven’t you learned anything?” She smiled at him. “I’ve missed you, but this isn’t like you. You’re never one to cower in the dark from a woman, hiding in bushes.”
“She has terrorized me ever since.”
“What?” Sarah’s tone belied her seriousness. No one gets to hurt her friends. Especially not Parkman.
“It was either a turkey or a chicken that was sacrificed in my apartment.”
“How could you not tell what kind of bird it was?”
“The animal was torn to bits and pieces and the blood smeared everywhere.”
“Why is it that we haven’t seen each other in months and I haven’t gotten a hug yet? Look around, Parkman, no one’s here to get us.”
Parkman unscrewed the sound suppressor on his weapon and slipped the pieces in opposite pockets on his jacket. Then he cautiously moved forward, his eyes aimed over her shoulders.
Sarah hugged him hard, feeling his nerves as he shook.
She pushed him back and stared up into his face, concern on hers.
“Wow, what has gotten into you?”
His eyes watered. “Whoever Violeta hired is maniacal. They have been in my apartment, my office, and my car several times. They won’t let up.”
“Have you contacted the police?”
“There’s nothing they can do. Nothing conclusive is ever left at the scene. I made a list of people who hate me, starting with the most recent names, and the police visited Violeta, but she was the crying woman who only hired me to find her missing husband. The police bought it.”
“Why tell me? Is there something you want me to do?”
“After I returned from Greece, this letter was written.”
As he pulled a pi
ece of paper out of his pocket, Sarah asked, “Did you enjoy Greece?”
He nodded and offered a half smile. “I found her husband in a city called Nafplio.”
“I know the name,” Sarah said. “Aaron was there before I met him. You remember that story? Aaron was shot by the man who killed his sister.”
Parkman stepped back, still holding the paper in his hands. “Man, the people we know, eh? So much violence, so much death. Sometimes I wonder …”
“Me too, Parkman.” She stepped closer, closing the distance between them. “Whatever you have on that paper of yours, I have something I want to tell you first.”