CRUEL COMFORT
James Harper
PUBLISHED BY:
James Harper
Copyright © 2014
www.james-harper.net
All rights reserved.
No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
This is a work of fiction. All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
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CHAPTER 1
There was only so long that Evan could watch the guy's hairy butt pumping up and down. It was starting to make him feel dizzy. It was time to kick the door in.
He’d followed the woman who was currently squirming around under the guy like a speared fish to this fleatrap of a motel, and what a disgusting dump it was. When the town needed an enema, this was where they were going to put the tube, for sure. He'd got a number of shots of them in their separate cars and then going into the room together. Now he needed them naked in the room but also showing their faces. What he thought of as the money shot. He knew the phrase usually meant something very different, and he wasn't that good with a camera.
But Mr Pneumatic just kept on pumping away with the woman going oh, oh, oh under him, so, unless he wanted to wait around in the hope that they might turn and look directly at the window, he was going to have to take more positive action.
He hated this part. He hated it all, but he hated this bit the most. It brought home just how cheap and sleazy it all was; just how far into the stinking gutter of humanity he’d fallen. It made him feel like some kind of pervert and sometimes it hurt his foot too. It was confrontational and dangerous with all the testosterone and adrenalin and other bodily fluids flying around in the room.
He could look after himself but you never knew how they would react or what kind of drugs they might be on, so he'd reversed his car up as close as possible and left the door open with the motor running.
He stood in front of the door, took a deep breath and drove the heel of his boot into the cheap door just below the lock. The flimsy frame splintered with a sharp crack and the door flew open, revealing the cheating bitch and her lover in all their sweaty, naked glory.
Perfect.
He stepped quickly into the room and breathed in the warm, salty aroma; the dirty, musky smell of sin. He shook his head to clear it as the earthy odor rose up from the bed and flowed zephyr-like across the room to embrace him.
He got off half a dozen fast shots as they stared at him open-mouthed, too astonished to even cover up, then turned and dashed the few yards to his car. He jumped in and stomped on the gas, slamming the door and spinning his wheels as the tires bit and he took off. Start to finish, about twenty seconds. Not bad.
But the guy was fast, unbelievably fast. He'd either had a lot of practice doing this or he was just naturally fast at pulling on his pants. He pushed himself off the woman, squashing her tanned breasts and making her squeal like a stuck pig in his hurry, and pole vaulted off the bed. He was out of the room before Evan had even made it out of the parking lot, still pulling on his pants as he chased after the car and screamed blue murder at him.
And, despite his impressive bedroom exertions, he still had a ton of energy left. His adrenalin-fuelled legs pumped up and down like pistons and his bare feet pounded across the parking lot oblivious to the grit and gravel and the broken glass and all the other shit that littered the lot.
Evan pulled out of the lot and slowed down to a crawl. He looked in his mirror. The guy was almost touching the trunk, his mouth stretched into a rictus of fury, streaks of spittle spraying across his face. Evan had never seen such wild eyes. Certainly not on anything that walked on two legs. He stamped on the brake. The guy smashed into the trunk, bounced off again and landed hard on his ass.
Evan gave the horn a couple of toots and pulled away slowly. This bit was actually quite fun, provided you didn’t stall it. The guy scrambled up and started tearing after him again. Evan smiled to himself. It was working. He wanted the guy to think he had a chance of catching him and keep chasing after him. He needed to draw him as far away as possible before rational thinking overrode the testosterone and the guy turned around and went back for his car. The down side was that the guy was getting a good long look at his licence plate.
It took the guy about two blocks before he finally realized what was going on. Evan watched him in the rear view mirror as he stopped and bent forward, his hands resting on his knees, his chest heaving and his head hanging down as he stared at his bloodied feet. Evan decided against giving the horn another couple of toots. No need to antagonize him more than he’d done already.
The guy raised his head again and even at the distance away he was, Evan felt the burning hatred in his eyes. This one could be a problem. He shivered; he was glad he'd taken his usual precautions. He wouldn't have fancied his chances against the guy when he was fresh – he’d rather have taken on Captain America.
Luckily the slowing down trick had worked, but, even so, his heart was trying to kick its way out of his chest and he needed a drink to calm his nerves. He drove slowly back to his office; he knew the guy wouldn't follow him now. He was pretty sure he’d come after him another day, but not tonight.
CHAPTER 2
He parked in the shadows behind his office building and sat still for a moment, staring out into the darkness. The indefinable smell of fresh sex was still in his nostrils, taunting him. Then he picked up his camera and looked through the images he'd just taken.
Perfect.
Lots and lots of sticky genitals and sweaty private parts in high definition, plus two startled faces looking exactly like a pair of stupid goldfish with their mouths hanging open. In one shot it even looked like there was something gooey dribbling out the corner of hers and running down her chin. He’d probably keep that one back from the client.
He spent a moment admiring the woman’s obvious attractions, zoomed in a couple of times, and then turned his attention to the guy in the photographs. He’d always wondered if anyone clicked on the enlargement adverts he’d seen on the web; this must be the actual guy they used. He also spent all his time in the gym when he wasn't screwing somebody else's wife. Thank Christ he didn't get his hands on me, Evan thought again.
He dropped the camera back on the seat and rested his head on the wheel, a rising tide of self loathing and disgust overcoming him. What on earth had happened to him? This wasn't how it was meant to be. Not exactly Philip Marlowe chasing down long-lost heiresses for aged billionaires in sunny California. He didn’t collect many big fat bonuses from the grateful old fools at the end of it, either. And the worst was still to come.
He went up to his office and loaded the images onto his computer while he waited for his client to arrive. There was one image he would have liked to use as his desktop background. The client was already an hour late - nobody shows up early for an appointment with the man who’s about to bring their world crashing down around their ears.
Finally he heard the elevator ping and went to the door to greet his client. Stanton barely looked at him as he entered, but Evan was used
to that by now. It never got beyond an uncomfortable, stilted formality with any of his clients. He didn’t mind but sometimes a grunt would have been nice.
For his part, he liked to keep a certain professional detachment. It made things easier when it was time to dismantle their lives. As far as the clients were concerned, you don't rush to get on first name terms with the man who's just finished watching your wife being screwed by another man. And who's about to lay out the evidence in front of you on his grubby little desk. And who then expects you to pay him for humiliating you.
Kevin Stanton was an unremarkable man in his early forties. He was medium height and had on a blue suit and brown suede shoes. He wasn't fat, he wasn’t ugly, and his personal hygiene seemed adequate; he just didn't look like he was much fun to be with. He wore rimless eyeglasses that made him look like an accountant. Evan was reminded of the old joke that being married to an accountant doesn't make you live longer - it just feels that way. He could understand why his wife looked elsewhere for her kicks, and was attracted by the athletic superhero type at the motel. The man sitting in front of him was just plain dull. And now it was his job to bring even more pain into his sad life.
Stanton had come to him a week earlier and poured out his heart. He was sure his wife was having an affair. He had no idea who the man might be. Quite often Evan was the first person they had confided in, the first time they had voiced their concerns. And so it all came gushing out and then, once it was out, they felt embarrassed. Then they either clammed up entirely or started to resent Evan as if it was his fault or he was judging them.
'Did you find out if my wife is seeing someone else?' Stanton asked in a brittle voice. His cheeks were slightly flushed. He took off his glasses, inspected them and decided they were clean, and put them back on. He still couldn't look Evan in the eye. Evan had got quite used to talking to the top of people's heads. With a lot of people it was the best view.
'I'm afraid she is. I followed them to a motel earlier this evening.'
Stanton stifled a low moan. 'I suppose you've got proof? Photos?’
'Yes. I've already transferred them onto my computer,' Evan said, and adjusted the screen so that they could both see it. He was about to click on the file when Stanton put his hand on top of Evan's to stop him. His hand was sweaty and Evan could feel him shaking.
'Is there any chance it's a mistake? A misunderstanding?' He looked up into Evan's eyes for the first time, and Evan had to force himself to not look away from what he saw; the last vestige of hope. Hope that he was about to grind into the dirt.
He shook his head sadly. God, he hated this. 'I'm afraid not. I'm sorry.'
Stanton dropped his eyes again. 'I don't know if I can do this.'
'It's your decision; I'm not here to make you do anything you don't want to. But, in my experience, if you don't see it for yourself, you'll end up convincing yourself it's not true.'
Stanton swallowed hard and nodded and told him to just get it over with.
Evan opened the first image. It showed Stanton's wife and Mr Pneumatic climbing out of their cars in front of the motel room. Stanton shot his hand out and clamped it over Evan's, a look of horror spreading across his face. Evan was surprised by the strength in his grip.
'Stop! Can you zoom in on that?'
Evan twisted his hand and pulled it out from under Stanton's. He began to zoom in on his wife's face.
'Not her, you idiot. Him!' He prodded the screen so hard with his finger Evan thought he might have dislodged some of the pixels. He panned across onto the man's face, now clearly identifiable. Stanton slumped back into his chair, all the color gone from his face.
'You bastard,' he hissed at the screen, 'you cock-sucking bastard.'
Evan didn’t point out that he had that the wrong way round. He could see Stanton’s fingers digging into the leatherette arms of the visitor's chair, the tendons standing out on the backs of his hands. 'Do you recognize him?'
'Recognize him?' he almost screamed, slamming his fist down onto the table. 'You could say that. I look at his oh-so-pretty face seven hours a day, every day. That's my bastard of a business partner - Hugh McIntyre.'
Evan didn't say anything and waited for him to go on. Stanton was lost in his thoughts. 'It all makes sense now. I can't believe I didn't see it.’
Evan knew from bitter experience that he should stay silent and wait for Stanton. A badly chosen word, an inappropriate tone of voice or even the wrong emphasis could end up with the overwrought client turning on him. It was as bad as being married.
'I assume you've got lots more photos. Photos of that bastard and my wife. In graphic detail.'
Evan nodded and put his hand back on the mouse to move on.
'I don't want to see them,' Stanton said quickly, holding up his hand as if he could simply push it all away. 'I know what you said, but I've seen enough. I don't need any more proof. It all fits together now.'
'Okay, no problem. I've copied them onto a usb flash drive for you anyway. In case you need them as evidence.'
Evan pushed the usb stick across the desk. Stanton stared at it like he was being offered a radioactive dog turd. Evan couldn't stop the thought crossing his mind that he could have stopped after the first photo. No need to kick down the motel door. No need to get chased down the street by a guy who wanted to rip his head off. No need to give a guy who looked like an advert for steroids a reason to come looking for him with a baseball bat.
'What happened when you took the photos of them...' Stanton couldn't finish the sentence. He coughed and made some meaningless gesture with his hand. For a second Evan thought he was going to make a circle with his index finger and thumb and poke the other finger in and out.
'Why do you want to know?' Evan said. It wasn't a question he was expecting.
Stanton shrugged. 'I don't know. I thought I knew the bastard, but it seems I didn't. Just curious what he did.'
'He pulled on his pants and chased me down the street, screaming and threatening to kill me.'
Stanton cocked his head and frowned. ‘You were on foot?’
‘No, I was in my car.’
'So what happened?'
'I kept slowing down to make him think he was going to get me. At one point I stamped on the brakes and he crashed into the car and ended up on his ass. He ended up chasing the car for half a mile like a rabid dog until it finally clicked or he ran out of steam. I’m not sure which.'
Stanton's mouth started to curl into a smile as he listened, developed into a huge great grin and then he burst out laughing. Evan couldn't help himself and started to laugh with him. Pretty soon they were both uncontrollable.
Evan opened the bottom drawer of his desk. In true gumshoe style he got out a bottle of scotch and a couple of glasses. He poured them both a couple of fingers and pushed one across the table to Stanton, who viewed it a lot more favorably than the usb stick. He kept the whisky handy in case clients needed a bit of liquid support, but it had never happened like this before.
'I almost wish I'd been there,' Stanton said, knocking his drink back in one and pushing the glass back for a refill. 'I'd have reversed back over the bastard.'
Evan pictured himself reversing at the exhausted McIntyre as he panted for breath, the look on his face changing from fury to disbelief to panic. 'I wish I had now, because he got a good look at my licence plate.'
'Uh oh, rather you than me. He's got a very short fuse. I think he's some kind of martial arts nutter, as well.'
Stanton finished his second drink and appeared to be in no hurry to get going. Not that he had much left to go home to. What the hell, Evan thought, pouring a third drink, I haven't got anywhere to go either.
When Evan finally called him a taxi a couple of hours later, they’d moved on to Evan and Kevin and their respective problems didn't seem quite so bad. Even so, Evan made sure Kevin took the memory stick with him because he knew things might seem very different in the morning. Then he got out the sleeping bag he kept for emerg
encies and got as comfortable as he could on the floor.
CHAPTER 3
Evan was dragged from his fitful sleep by someone hammering on his office door. Inside his head some bastard with a jackhammer was bouncing off the sides of his skull and now somebody was doing their best to break his door down. His first reaction was that the guy from the motel - Hugh McIntyre - had found him already, but he knew that wasn't remotely possible.
He crawled out of his sleeping bag and slowly stood up. He put out a hand to steady himself. He felt like he was still drunk. Kicking the sleeping bag into the corner he crossed to the door.
'Who is it? What do you want?'
'Police. Open up.'
That wasn't the answer he was expecting. Perhaps the motel owner had reported the damage to his door and McIntyre had given them his licence number. He unlocked the door and looked out at the two men standing in the corridor.
There was a short, fat one in front and a taller one half hidden behind him. He saw the one in front look him up and down and felt acutely aware of his crumpled clothing and the stale smell of whisky and sweat that must be wafting out from the room. On cue, Fatso sniffed suspiciously at the air.
'Evan Buckley?' he asked
'Yes, that's me. What can I do for you?'
'You could invite us in to start with, unless you want everyone in the building to listen in.'
'Sorry. Of course. Come in.'
Evan stepped aside to let them squeeze pass. He saw the empty whisky bottle and two glasses still on the desk at about the same time they did. It wasn't a large office, so they couldn’t miss his sleeping bag lying in the corner either, looking like someone had just crawled out of it.
'Nice professional setup you've got here,' Butterball said and wrinkled his nose. 'Do you mind if I open the window; let in a bit of fresh air?' He didn't wait for an answer. 'Had a party in here last night did you? Been sleeping it off?'
Cruel Comfort (Evan Buckley Thrillers Book 1) Page 1