He watched something pass behind her eyes. He knew immediately what it was, relieved that for once he was the only one to suffer as a result of his words. He held up his hand as she started to speak.
‘I should’ve said, he knows his wife died five years ago. Hence the difference—’
She grabbed hold of him, held his face in her hands. She squeezed so tightly, he thought his head might pop.
‘Evan! Shut up!’
If her arms hadn’t been clamped solid, holding his head as if it was caught in a vise, he’d have leaned forward and kissed her then, full on the lips, lipstick or not.
The moment passed as quickly as it came. She dropped her hands, shook her head.
‘Jesus Christ.’
He couldn’t argue with her.
‘I think he made a good call,’ she said eventually. ‘Firing you, I mean.’
‘Told you.’
He smiled to himself and waited. He didn’t have to wait long. He knew her too well, she couldn’t help herself.
‘What I don’t understand . . .’
He stopped her by taking the photo of Levi’s wife and her friend out of his pocket. He put it on the bar next to an ugly cigarette burn from the good old days when you were allowed to smoke in bars.
‘He showed me that,’ he said as she picked it up and studied it. ‘I thought uh-oh, he wants me to follow his cheating wife. I’m about to show him the door and he says, she died five years ago.’
‘I can see how that’d make you stop and think.’
‘Exactly.’
‘So it’s an old photo.’
‘That’s what I told him. He doesn’t believe it.’
‘You’re right, you’re better off without him.’
She handed the photo back to him, nodded towards the pocket it came from.
‘What else have you got in there?’
He’d hoped she’d forgotten.
‘C’mon, Evan, dig it out. I saw a newspaper cutting.’
He got it out and unfolded it. He spread it out on the bar. She read the headline out loud:
‘Hero saves hotel guests from armed gang.’
She picked it up and turned it over, pretended to inspect it.
‘No picture of the hero, then?’
He gave her a tight little smile, took the cutting out of her hand.
‘If you don’t want to see it—’
She snatched it back again and studied the picture of Evan standing proudly outside the hotel, Gina at his side. Except as far as Guillory was concerned there was only one person in the picture.
‘So that’s Gina is it?’ she said. ‘Pretty young thing, isn’t she?’
He didn’t miss the emphasis on the word young.
‘I’ve got stuff in my fridge older than her,’ she carried on. ‘You can go to jail for that sort of thing, you know.’
He yawned loudly and stretched, nodded to the bartender when he looked across. She pretended she hadn’t heard.
‘You want to read it or just make catty comments?’
She sucked in air through her teeth, mumbled something under her breath about some people being too damn touchy for their own good. She read it anyway then put it back on the bar. She didn’t want him to see it, but he could tell she was impressed.
‘Here’s to the hero,’ she said, holding her beer bottle towards him.
He knew she was up to something by the small curl at the corner of her mouth. He couldn’t think what. They clinked bottles and drank, watching each other over the upturned bottles. Then she put the wet bottom of hers down on Gina’s face. The newspaper turned instantly soggy, Gina’s face merging with the text from the back side of the clipping. Guillory was having difficulty keeping her face under control. He saw her biting her tongue.
‘It’s okay,’ he said, ‘I’ve got another six copies.’
‘I bet. Under your pillow, I suppose.’
He nodded enthusiastically.
‘Some of them, yes.’
‘I won’t ask where the other copies are.’
‘Don’t.’
‘So, when’s she moving up here . . . Sorry, I forgot, she’s in high school, I mean college. When are you moving down there? I’ll miss you.’
‘Nobody’s moving anywhere.’
‘No? Why not? No wedding bells?’
He wanted to end this as soon as possible before it got any more ridiculous and out of hand. It was as bad as being ribbed by his sister Charlotte.
‘It, uh . . . didn’t end so well.’
Her mouth dropped open, her eyes wide in a parody of shock and horror.
‘What? Even after the hero kicked four bad guys’ asses?’
He nodded.
‘Even then.’
‘She’s a six-bad-guy sort of girl, is she? Four doesn’t cut the mustard, eh?’
She leaned forward, resting her elbows on the bar. She seemed genuinely a lot more interested in the conversation now, given the negative turn it had just taken.
‘Whadja do? You didn’t—’
He put his finger to her lips, took the risk of having the end of it bitten off.
‘Apparently, I talk in my sleep.’
She leaned back again, away from his finger.
‘I wouldn’t know.’
‘Yeah, well—’
‘I wonder if you talk any more sense than when you’re awake? Anyway, let me guess the word she didn’t like. Something beginning with S.’
He didn’t need to answer. They both knew she was right. It wasn’t exactly difficult to work out. She folded her arms across her chest and looked at him.
‘You won’t believe this after—’
‘The hard time you’ve been giving me?’
‘—but I feel sorry for you. You really can’t get away from it, can you? Not even when you’re asleep. Lucky you’ve got someone like me who understands you. What she doesn’t understand is you don’t even know if you want Sarah back. You just need to know what happened.’
She was right. It all came down to closure. If Sarah simply got sick of him and moved on, so be it. But if she was chained to a radiator in a filthy basement, used and abused by some freak with a video camera and a mailing list of perverts . . .
‘There was another reason,’ he said. ‘She didn’t like the tattoo.’
‘Tattoo?’
‘Yeah, you know. It’s like writing and pictures, only it’s on your skin. It doesn’t wash off.’
‘I know what a tattoo is, dummy.’ Her mouth turned down as she said it. ‘You couldn’t force me to have one.’
‘What? Not even if—’
‘If you disappeared from my life?’ She pretended to give it some thought. ‘No.’
They stared at each other, a stupid half-grin on their faces, until it got awkward. She broke it first.
‘C’mon then, let’s see it.’
‘You don’t even know where it is.’
‘So?’
‘We’re in a public place.’
‘I’m game if you are.’
Her eyes shone, full of mischief, as she ran the tip of her tongue along her top lip.
‘Don’t get too excited. It’s on my calf.’
He lifted his leg and rolled up his pants. Seemed he took too long about it. She grabbed his ankle and twisted his leg to get a better look, nearly tipping him off his stool. He slapped his hand on the bar to steady himself, getting the attention of a couple guys sitting further along. They stopped talking and watched. Evan felt the color rise up his cheeks.
‘Si jamais j’oublie,’ she read in a louder voice than was necessary, putting on an exaggerated French accent. Identical frowns creased the foreheads of the two guys.
‘You know what it means?’
She gave him a look like she was considering stabbing him in the meaty part of his calf with a cocktail stick.
‘I am not stupide,’ she said in the same ridiculous accent, her chin held high like an offended French diva. Then she traced the words with
the tip of her fingernail, sending a shiver up his leg, all the way up to where it met the other one. ‘If I ever forget. Aw.’
He yanked his leg away, shook his pants back down. He still felt the touch of her nail on his skin and what it had done to him. Along the bar, the two guys went back to their argument about which was better, Mack or Peterbilt, disappointed the show was over before it began.
‘Why’s it in French?’ she said, reverting back to plain old American. It was a pity, he’d liked the way she sounded and held up her chin, exposing her throat, when she was doing her Edith Piaf impersonation. It made him want to bite it.
‘Seemed like a good idea at the time. Sarah was half French.’
She raised her eyebrows at that.
‘Yeah? Which half?’
‘The front.’
It took a second before it sank in. When it did her eyes scanned the bar top to see if she could find any of those cocktail sticks after all.
‘Idiot. And was this an alcohol-induced good idea, by any chance?’
He rocked his hand back and forth.
‘Is there any other kind?’
She shook her head sadly.
‘Regret having it done?’
He shrugged.
‘It’s not normally a problem.’
‘Only when—’
For the second time that evening, he put a finger to her lips. It was the second time ever, actually.
‘You want to know why I asked her and not you?’ he said.
‘No.’
‘Because I’ve—’
‘What part of no don’t you understand, Evan?’
She looked at him a long moment. He held up his hands in surrender, uncomfortable under the intensity of her look.
‘Can we talk about something else now?’ she said.
‘That’s the best idea you’ve had all night. What do you want to talk about?’
She opened her mouth and then clamped it shut again. He didn’t like the look in her eyes. It told him she’d just realized she’d put her foot in it. It made a nice change from it being him.
‘Spit it out, Kate. It can’t be any worse than all the other shit we’ve talked about or tried not to talk about.’
She put her hand over his and smiled nervously.
‘It’s not. It’s exactly the same shit.’
He shook his head, no idea what she was talking about.
‘Adamson woke up.’
Chapter 6
LEVI HAD DRUNK FAR too much. After leaving Buckley in the diner, he’d put in a lackluster day at work before diving into the nearest bar as soon as five-thirty came around. He spent the evening drinking one beer after another, trying to work out what to do next. The booze had softened the edges of his anger and frustration but hadn’t done anything in the way of producing a way forward. At some point he realized he’d left one of the photographs with Buckley—the one showing Lauren’s face. All he was left with was a remembered image of a man he didn’t know with his arm around a woman who looked a lot like Lauren.
After the third or fourth beer, he was thinking maybe he’d made a mistake, maybe it wasn’t her after all. Or Buckley was right. It was an old photo. That was pretty much the state of his thinking when he finally pushed his way through the doors and out into the street.
He took a deep breath to clear his head, drawing the fresh air right down into his lungs, then got out his phone and checked the time. Was it too late to call Buckley? Perhaps apologize for being such a dick and walking out on him like some prissy prima donna on a first date. He decided it wasn’t, found Buckley’s number and hit the green button. He was lifting the phone to his ear when a white Chevy cargo van slewed across the road and bumped up the curb in front of him, blocking the sidewalk.
The side door slid open before the van even came to a halt. Tomás, the smaller of the two guys who’d assaulted him in his hallway, the one with something foul that lived behind his eyes, something that you didn’t want to look at, jumped out. Levi stood there dumbly with the phone ringing in his ear, too surprised to move, his reactions dulled by the alcohol. Tomás grabbed his collar with one hand, put his boot on his butt and pitched him through the door into the back of the van. Levi flew through the air and slammed head first into the side of the van, rocking it on its suspension. A bloody gash split his forehead, blood stinging his eyes. His knees skidded across the bare metal floor, the jagged, rusty edges of exposed rivets ripping through his pants, tearing his skin. His phone flew out of his hand as his head hit the side and clattered away, coming to rest somewhere in the darkness at the back of the van. Tomás jumped in after him, sliding the door shut behind him. By the time the door clanged shut the van was already back on the pavement, accelerating away fast.
Levi slumped against the side of the van and turned his head towards the front. Henry, the big guy who’d searched his house, was driving. From the back he looked like a Grizzly bear out for a joyride. But Levi knew there wouldn’t be anything joyful about what happened in this van. He looked around the back of it, all bare metal, no seats or furnishings. He saw hooks and rails positioned around the sides and on the roof—for securing cargo or anything else that needed securing.
But it was the smell that made his throat close up—the smell of human excrement and urine, of vomit and bile. It smelled of fear and death and he knew he wasn’t the first person to be taken for a ride in that van.
As his throat constricted and his chest tightened his eyes lit upon the only contents of the van. An old toolbox sat in the corner—which you’d expect in an old junker van—and something you definitely wouldn’t. Hanging from one of the roof rails, swaying gently back and forth with the van’s motion was a pair of handcuffs.
His attention was diverted briefly by a small tinny voice right down the back, bouncing off the metal surfaces of the interior.
Hello?
Levi didn’t recognize the voice but it was obvious who it was. Buckley. The call had connected despite the violent interruption. Tomás heard it too. He shuffled across towards the source of the voice, obscured in the darkness at the back.
Any second now Tomás would find the phone and cut the call. Levi’s mind went blank. He opened his mouth to call for help, no idea what to shout or scream beyond the pointless help! itself. He didn’t know where they were now or where they were going, had no way of identifying the van. It made no difference. Fear had stolen his voice. A strangled squeak was all that came out of his throat. Then Tomás found the phone and killed the connection, dropped the phone in his pocket.
‘Where is she?’ Henry called back over his shoulder from the driving seat.
Dazed, his mind still a blank, it took Levi a few beats to realize Henry was talking to him. Tomás prodded him in the ribs with the pointy toe of his boot to help him make the connection.
‘Who?’
He knew it was the wrong answer before it was out.
‘Tomás,’ Henry barked.
Tomás grabbed hold of the rail above his head, pulled himself up as if he was chinning the bar and locked his arms solid to anchor himself. Before Levi realized what he was doing, Tomás brought his leg around in a sweeping arc and caught him hard on the side of the head. Levi’s head snapped sideways, smashing into the rough edge of the metal reinforcing strut behind him. He lifted his arm to ward off a second kick, but Tomás launched himself across the van instead. He landed in a crouch in front of Levi, grinning like a malignant goblin and buried his fist in his gut. Levi jackknifed as his breath exploded out of him, a long, whistling oooph blowing past his teeth, loud in the confined space. He lay on his side, his face against the cold metal floor, fighting for breath. Tomás stepped away and sat down again as if all he’d done was spot a cockroach scuttling across the floor and got up to squash it.
‘Try again,’ Henry said, his voice raised over the sound of Levi’s wheezing breath.
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ Levi croaked.
He sat up groggily, pu
tting his hand on the side of the van to steady himself. His head was still spinning, his vision fading in and out of focus from the kick to the head. He pushed himself into the side of the van, shrinking away from Tomás with his pointy-toed boot and his iron fist.
‘Your wife! Who the fuck do you think I’m talking about?’
The words didn’t make any sense to Levi. Except they did if he really believed what he’d tried so desperately to convince Buckley. That Lauren was still alive.
But if she was, this wasn’t the way he wanted to find out, wasn’t how he pictured any kind of reunion taking place.
‘She’s dead,’ he screamed, the word bouncing around the sides of the van. ‘She’s in the cemetery. You want me to show you where?’
He cowered away from Tomás, expecting another barked command from the driver’s seat, another vicious kick or punch for his insolence. Instead, Henry relaxed, the tension in his shoulders subsiding.
‘You think that’s funny? Okay. Have it your way.’
The voice was calm now. Resigned. We’ve tried it the easy way, now we’ll do it the other way, the way he always knew they’d have to do it. In contrast, Tomás had become a lot more agitated, a palpable buzz of excitement radiating off him. His eyes flicked to the toolbox. Levi saw him look, saw the corners of his mouth curl, the tip of his tongue flicking across his lips. His dead eyes had a shine to them now, as the foul thing that lived inside him came awake.
Levi didn’t want to think about what was inside the toolbox. He definitely didn’t want to think what was inside Tomás’s stunted mind. He looked at Henry, caught his eyes in the rear-view mirror, saw the pitiless amusement in them.
‘Show him what’s in your toolbox, Tomás.’
Tomás grinned but didn’t make a move.
‘Don’t want to spoil the surprise.’
Unconsciously, Levi shifted his butt along the floor, away from the toolbox. His hand brushed something on the floor. It felt like a chip of wood or a small piece of plastic that had snapped off the van’s trim.
Without thinking he looked down. He wished he hadn’t.
Tomás saw him look and guessed what he’d found. His grin got wider, the shine in his dark eyes growing brighter.
Levi stared in horror at what he’d touched, feeling as if an ice-cold knife had been plunged into his gut.
Resurrection Blues Page 3