part0032

GUILLORY TOUCHED HER EAR automatically. Like you would when somebody taps you on the shoulder, excuse me, is this your earring ? You can see it in their hand, maybe you’ve just watched them bend and pick it up off the floor. You know it’s yours. And yet you still touch the place where it ought to be.

Stupid. But that’s human nature.

She did it now, staring at the new text that had just arrived.

Of course she recognized it.

It was one of the earrings Evan had given her for her birthday. She hadn’t even noticed that she’d lost one of them. Then one of those totally inconsequential thoughts that pop into your mind at the most inappropriate times blindsided her. He was going to be so upset when she told him. She saw his face sag already, heard him ask where did you last have them ? Until this morning she couldn’t have told you where.

Now she knew exactly where and when she last wore them. The disastrous night she broke into Robert Garfield’s house. She’d been in such a state when she got back home, she didn’t even notice she’d only ripped one of them off before she dived headlong into the scalding water of the shower in a vain attempt to wash and scrub away the horror of that night.

Now somebody had found it.

Somebody who planned to use the knowledge of where they’d found it against her. To blackmail her. Or worse. She had a good idea of who that might be. Liverman. Who else? The pervert at the top of the pedophile gang. The man who gave the order for her to be taken out and disposed of like so much trash. Trying a different tack after that didn’t pan out the way they planned.

The text contained detailed instructions as well as the image and the mocking recognize it ? Details of where and when she was to meet with them. Some of it was good. Or not as bad as it might have been. She groaned when she saw the location. They’d specified a diner which was better than some dark alley. Trouble was, it was one she used regularly with her partner Ryder. At least it meant the first stage was to talk. Which was a relief. Unless all that was said was follow us . Then a hood over her head in the back of a car or van.

The other instructions were to be expected. Unarmed. Obviously. Come alone. She couldn’t contain the strangled shriek that burst from her throat as she read the words.

Who was she going to bring for Christ’s sake? Bring to a meeting where her crimes would be laid before them in all their shameful glory?

Her eyes were suddenly moist, her throat thick. She drew back her arm to hurl the spiteful little phone against the wall, threw it on the bed instead. With the knuckle of her thumb she wiped away the tears. Because she knew who she could ask to come with her. To hell and back if necessary. The person who would do it without question or concern for his own safety despite the hard time she gave him over Ana Maria Damn Your Eyes Cortez.

She couldn’t ask him. Couldn’t drag him into the mess she’d created for herself, the mess that had turned her into the nervous wreck she was now. The mess that was destroying their relationship as inexorably as day follows night.

Then something happened that made her want to drop to her knees and howl at the ceiling, tear her hair out by the roots and stuff it down her own throat until she choked and died.

She knew who it was before she looked at the display.

Because she’d been around the block a few times, knew how fate likes to pick its moments. She looked anyway, saw it confirmed. Evan. She let it go to voicemail. She knew that if she heard his voice, heard him come out with some ridiculous excuse about how he couldn’t avoid going for a drink with Cortez, how he’d hated every minute of it and the beer had tasted like piss, she’d end up laughing until she cried. Then, when the laughter subsided, the truth would come pouring out until there was nothing left of her but a hollow empty shell. Because he’d sense it, would tease it out of her like his friend Crow’s stupid bird pulling a fat worm from its hole.

She couldn’t do that to him. Not coming so soon after his long search for his wife had come to its sad ending. For a brief moment she was back there with him. Standing beside a lonely grave in the grounds of a state mental asylum, the wind in her face, her hair in her eyes. Finding his hand and holding it in hers like a small dead animal as a stony-faced man with a voice full of false sympathy talked of suicide and being at peace at last. She still had the man’s card. And if she ever got past the current mess, she’d be having a talk with him. Because something didn’t ring true.

But she wasn’t past the mess yet. So she replied to the mystery text, a terse okay . She wasn’t surprised when Evan’s text came in as she was typing. She didn’t read it. Nor did she look in the mirror in the hallway as she headed out to her clandestine assignation. How could she look herself in the eye knowing full well that on the other end of the unanswered line Evan was climbing the walls?

THANK GOD IT WASN’T the diner where she met Evan for their weekly catch-up. But the smells were the same. Of bacon frying and coffee, and the sounds too, the everyday bustle of people getting on with their lives. Eating and drinking and talking, some laughter and the wail of a spoiled child making disapproving heads turn. If they’d wanted to make a point, show her the stark contrast between her life now and how it would be going forward, they couldn’t have picked a better location.

She took a seat in the window as the text had specified. A shiver rippled across the back of her neck. Were they watching her from somewhere across the street? Framing her head in the crosshairs of a rifle’s sights? An easy shot in the big window. She glanced across the street at the buildings opposite, scanned the windows. Some of them were lit, some of them dark. One caught her eye. That’s the one I’d choose . The window was half open, the darkness of the room beyond it impenetrable.

She’d have sworn she saw the sunlight catch on metal as she stared at it. Just a quick flash, then it was gone. As if a man with a gun had adjusted his position, gotten himself more comfortable for a better shot. She looked away, wished she hadn’t looked at all. It didn’t stop her from pulling a small mirror from her bag, propping it on the table, adjusting it until she could see the window reflected in it with just a quick glance down.

She sipped her coffee, her appetite having deserted her. Tried to tell herself she was being paranoid. Glanced quickly at the mirror. Looked away again. From the exposed seat in the window she concentrated instead on studying the people on the sidewalk. The knot in her stomach grew tighter by the minute, her mind a place you didn’t want to go.

Because even though she’d never seen the faces of the men who had beaten her, had only the smell of them burned into her subconscious, she knew she would recognize them the minute they came into sight, wouldn’t need to wait for them to slip into the booth with her. She saw it in her mind as if it had already happened. One of them sitting next to her, boxing her in. Pushing up too close, the heat of his body against hers sickening her. His partner taking the seat opposite. Both of them with a filthy smile on their lips. Maybe a subconscious massaging of their knuckles, a sardonic greeting spat at her— you’re looking a lot better than the last time we saw you . Then the laughter. Making her wish she’d ignored the instruction to come unarmed and damn the consequences, pushing the barrel of her gun down their throats, make that two guns, pulling the triggers—

A sharp bang on the window made her jump. She gave a startled yelp, coffee slopping on the table as her whole body jerked. Her head snapped sideways, fully expecting to see the faces of the two men staring back at her. Then a finger beckoning— come with us . Instead it was a solitary man trying to get the attention of somebody behind her. She forced her shoulders to relax, her heart still racing. Then looked casually around the room to see if anybody had noticed her over-reaction. She met the eyes of a young woman sitting at a table on the far side, a smile on her lips. She’d been staring at her ever since she came in.

She felt like jumping up, striding across the room. Getting into her personal space, shouting into her face, what is your problem ? But that wouldn’t have helped anything. Instead she slid out of the booth, slid back in on the other side. The woman could look at the back of her head for a change. If she’d had her number, she’d have sent her a text, stare at that all you want, you stupid cow .

As it happened, she did have the woman’s number in her phone. She just didn’t know it yet.

Feeling a childish pleasure at stopping the woman’s intrusive and rude staring, she returned to her thoughts. They hadn’t improved any during the short interlude. Nobody on the street matched her expectations of the men she expected to see. She checked her watch. They were late. Was it a deliberate ploy to prolong and intensify her unease, increase the chances of her compliant cooperation? Or were they waiting for the perfect moment to take the shot from across the street? She glanced down at the mirror. It was angled the wrong way now that she’d moved seats. An irrational spike of fear went through her as if the mirror had somehow been protecting her. They wouldn’t shoot while she could see them. Now she was exposed. She grabbed it, twisted it. But she couldn’t get the angle right. Couldn’t find the dark, half-open window. The one that she knew a rifle barrel was now poking out of while she played with a stupid mirror. She slammed it into the table top, mirror side down.

She was panting now, her breathing fast and shallow. She was suddenly aware of a presence at her shoulder. She spun around, her heart lurching. It wasn’t a pair of large men looming over her, telling her to shift along.

It was the young woman from the other side of the room. She slid into the seat opposite, a cup of coffee in one hand, her bag in the other. As if she’d just spotted an old friend at a table on her own.

Guillory’s mind and mouth froze momentarily. That same phrase, what is your problem? did battle with the more direct, piss off! In the end she controlled her anger, forced out a strained polite response.

‘That seat is taken.’

The young woman took no notice, her hands clasping her bag beneath the table as she studied Guillory. Only then did the penny drop for Guillory.

‘You sent the text.’

The woman nodded slowly, enjoying the effect her entrance had produced. Guillory’s shoulders relaxed, her pulse subsiding. It had to be a good thing. They’d sent a woman and not a pair of thugs. It gave her a small feeling of confidence, enough for her to take the initiative.

‘I don’t know what you want. But before I talk to you, I want to know where you got that earring from.’

The woman considered the question for a short while, then confirmed Guillory’s suspicions.

‘Somebody gave it to me.’

A small smile crept onto her lips as she said the words. Guillory let her smile, let her think she was being so clever.

‘That doesn’t matter. What matters is that I’ve got it.’

‘Only if you know where they got it.’

‘I do. The pedophile’s house. The one who was killed. The one whose house you were in when you lost your earring. An earring that’s got dried stains on it. Bloodstains.’

It didn’t matter that the girl had jumped to the wrong conclusion. She was close enough. Close enough to take Guillory right back to Garfield’s house, to bring a cold sweat out on her neck. Suddenly she needed fresh air, water on her face, breathing space. She slid across the seat.

‘I have to go to the —’

‘Stay where you are.’

There was an edge to the girl’s voice that made her stop sliding across the seat. The girl’s hands were still hidden under the table. Their eyes locked. For the first time it struck her that the girl looked familiar, a vague feeling that she was missing something here. The girl dropped her voice to a low hiss.

‘Why do you think I told you to sit in the window?’

Without thinking Guillory started to twist to look out of the window. Then caught herself. It was enough. She didn’t need to look up at the buildings opposite for the girl to know that she understood. Now the girl brought her hands out from under the table, laid them flat on it. They were empty, obviously, in such a public place. She nodded to confirm the understanding in Guillory’s eyes. Then she tapped the face-down mirror with a short, chewed fingernail.

‘I was watching you. Which window do you think it is?’

Guillory ignored her, the pointless stupidity of trying to see which particular window a bullet might come from making her feel stupid, made worse knowing the girl opposite her had been watching her. Laughing at her.

‘Want me to tell you?’

‘You know what a Nemesis Vanquish is?’

‘No. But I can guess.’

The girl suddenly stifled a laugh. Not the sort of behavior you’d expect from somebody who’s just made you aware that you’re a sitting duck for a man with a sniper’s rifle. More the action of a person who’s left their meds at home.

‘Sorry. I know it’s cheesy, but if I scratch my nose, then you won’t have one any longer. Or a face for it to sit on.’ She wrinkled her nose a couple of times, stretched it as you would if you were trying to hold off a sneeze. ‘Better hope I don’t get an itchy nose, eh?’

‘You’ve made your point,’ Guillory said, glancing up into the corner of the room. ‘You know there’s CCTV? I don’t know what they’re paying you but it’s not worth spending the rest of your life in prison for.’

It was what the girl said next that stopped Guillory dead, not a bullet in the head. And the way she said it, a bare fact plainly stated.

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about. Nobody’s paying me. This is about my brother.’

Realization hit Guillory like a freight train blowing through a disused station, sent her spinning like a rusty old sign. The vague memory crystallized with the mention of a brother. She was the sister of Todd Strange. The man paid to kill her. The one Evan had warned her about and she’d ignored. She slumped back into her seat, let out a rush of air that could have blown the slim girl away.

‘You’re not working for pedophiles?’

From the look on the girl’s face it was as if she’d asked her how long she’d been one.

‘I feel like my nose is getting itchy just with you saying that.’

Guillory had the sense to swallow the words, your brother did . She held her hands up in apology. Asked something that had just crossed her mind now the relief was flooding through her in the knowledge that her life did not belong to the pedophile gang and Liverman who ran it after all.