Chapter Seventeen

 

 

Tick, tick, tick.

Where was she? Was it morning? Why was it still dark? Why did her wrists and ankles hurt? Why was she so tired?

Tick, tick, tick.

Mmmm! She was thirsty, but she was simply too tired to get out of bed. Why did her breasts hurt?

Tick, tick, tick.

What time was it? Why was it still dark?

She pulled the sheet up to her neck – so tired.

Tick, tick, tick.

Why can’t I see?

She put her hand up to her face, but there was something covering her head. What was it? She tried to remove it, but she was just too weak. Who had covered her head? Why?

She felt sick.

Everything began spinning – round and round.

Tick, tick, tick.

Where was she? Why was it dark? Her breasts felt bruised. What had happened to her? She was so tired. Was there any water?

‘Hello?’

But nobody came.

‘Is there anything to drink?’

No one answered.

Tick, tick, tick.

Where was Tom? What time was it? Didn’t she have to write her serialisation? She needed to pee. Why was she still in bed? Why was she so tired?

Tick, tick, tick.

She pushed herself up to a sitting position, and tried to pull off whatever was covering her head, but it was too strong and it seemed to be tied around her neck. It felt and smelled like a sack – a sack that potatoes had been kept in. If she could only get to the kitchen. There were scissors in the kitchen. She could use the scissors to cut the sack off. She shuffled towards the edge of the bed and tried to stand up, but her legs collapsed under her like a newborn giraffe trying to walk for the first time. On her way down, she felt a sharp pain as her head struck something.

Blackness.

Nothing.

Tick, tick, tick.

 

 

***

 

 

He parked the Nitro, climbed out, grabbed his bag and made his way up to his suite of rooms at the Casablanca Inn. The first thing he planned to do was take a shower. He felt as though he’d been living on the streets for a month.

Harriet Steel – like a shadow – had stayed with him through disembarkation, baggage collection and security. With all his years of experience, he couldn’t seem to shake her.

‘Oh yes, my next little jaunt will be to Mexico to see Chichen Itza and Teotihuacan – I hope I’ve pronounced those correctly. After that . . . Well, we’ll see how the old body is holding up. I’m eighty-seven now, and my doctor says there’s no reason that I shouldn’t keep going for another hundred years. Can you imagine that? At the moment I feel as though . . .’

‘Well, it’s been great talking to you, Harriet,’ he interrupted her. ‘But this is where I get off.’

‘And we were having so much fun. Well, I suppose all good things must eventually dry up and wither away. Thank you for listening to me prattle on, Mr Gabriel.’

He eventually extricated himself from the clutches of her vocal chords, and went to reclaim his Nitro.

Now, in his bedroom, he didn’t care that Mabel was standing by the window looking out. He stripped his clothes off and went into the bathroom. The water was lukewarm, but still hot enough to steam up the mirror. As he towelled himself dry, he saw the words . . .

 

 

TOO LATE

 

 

. . . appear in the condensation on the mirror.

‘Mabel, is that you?’

As usual, there was no answer.

Too late for what?

He shaved, brushed his teeth and dressed in clean clothes. Then, he hurried downstairs to carry out a security check. Everything seemed quiet – nothing untoward. People smiled and nodded at him as if he’d never been away. He walked past Allegre’s rooms, but she wasn’t sitting outside, and Rattlesnake was nowhere to be seen.

The aroma wafting out of the restaurant lured him inside. He realised he was starving as he sat in his usual seat. Manuel appeared, took his coffee mug away and brought it back full of steaming Mountain Blue.

‘How are you, Manuel?’

‘Very good, Mister Tom.’

‘What’s the chef’s special tonight?’

‘Blue cheese burger with fries, Señor.’ He pressed his thumb and fingertips together, put them to his lips, kissed them and spread them like an exploding balloon.

‘You’ve made your first sale, Manuel. That’s exactly what I’ll have – with a side order of coleslaw.’

‘Is the right choice, Mister Tom. You not be disappointed.’

He left to notify the chef.

Tom glanced down the menu at the deserts and saw the Banana Split. He hadn’t had one of those since . . .

Appearing in the seat opposite him Cassie said, ‘Do you remember, Thomas?’

He smiled at the memory. ‘How could I forget?’

‘Have you got your gun?’

‘Yes, but why do I . . .’

But she had already gone.

Why did he need his gun to eat a banana split? Certainly, the last time he and Cassie had shared that particular desert there had been fireworks, but . . .

He pulled out his cell, and was about to call Rae when two masked men burst into the restaurant.

A couple of women began screaming and a baby started hollering as if the four horsemen of the apocalypse had arrived.

The taller of the two wore a Ronald Reagan mask and waved a sawn-off shotgun about, while the smaller one had a Bill Clinton mask on and carried a handgun.

A woman, sitting with her husband and baby at a table near the door to the kitchen, stood up and screamed like a victim out of a second-rate horror movie.

Bill Clinton aimed his gun at her and shouted, ‘Shut the fuck up, lady.’

Just then, Manuel burst through the kitchen door carrying a tray of food.

Ronald Reagan fired his shotgun.

Manuel’s face disintegrated.

Blood spattered everywhere.

The woman started screaming again. Not at Manuel’s demise, but her baby had been peppered with lead shot.

‘Everybody shut the fuck up,’ Ronald Reagan shouted above the noise. ‘Otherwise I’m going to start shooting people.’

The noise subsided.

‘That’s better. You . . .’ He pointed his shotgun at a fat bald-headed old man, and threw a large red plastic sack at him. ‘Start collecting up everybody’s wallets, purses, watches, rings . . . everything that’s worth anything – put it in the sack. Bill intends to shoot anybody who holds back.’

The bald-headed man went from table to table throwing the customers’ possessions into the red sack. Bill was close behind him making sure nobody was holding back.

Tom didn’t want to get anyone else killed. The robbers appeared nervous, and he guessed it wouldn’t take much for them to start firing indiscriminately around the restaurant. Ronald was stationed at the door. Between him and Tom were five tables seating about twenty people. A firefight across the restaurant wouldn’t benefit anyone. He stayed seated, but had his revolver in his hand under the table with the safety catch off.

He could let it play out and hope no one else got killed. Everybody would get robbed, but at least they’d stay alive – except Manuel, of course. He was lying in a coagulating pool of blood in front of the kitchen door. And the woman was trying to keep the baby quiet, but it must have been in a lot of pain.

Or, he could intervene. The problem, of course, was that there were two robbers. He could shoot one of them, but he’d be a sitting duck for the second, and getting himself killed was not part of his long-term plan.

There was also a second problem – Allegre Gabbamonde. He could just imagine what she’d say:

‘Call yourself on-site security? My Rattlesnake could do a better job than you did in my restaurant. You had your gun, you had surprise and you had a clear shot at those robbers. What did you do? You just sat there and let them rob my customers of all their possessions. If’n you ain’t keeping my hotel secure, then what you here for Mister-on-site-security-Gabriel? I guess I’d be better off with Mickey Mouse, or one of those other cartoon characters, because that’s what you are – a cartoon of an on-site security person. I think you should git your things and haul your ass out’ta here, Mister-cartoon-Mickey-Mouse-Gabriel.’

And she’d be within her rights.

The one time he was in the right place at the right time – he did nothing.

Bill Clinton was side on to him, and there was empty space between them.

He took aim and fired.

The bullet entered the mask through the ear.

Bill collapsed in a heap on the floor.

They’d had heated discussions at the station about shooting armed robbers. Some of the officers, like the loudmouthed bigot Danny Butler, had argued that an armed assailant should be disabled if possible. Tom didn’t get involved. As far as he was concerned, he had his own shoot-to-kill policy. What he didn’t want was someone he’d disabled getting up and shooting him or some innocent bystanders. If someone brought a weapon to the party, then they knew what to expect – kill, or be killed. There were no fuzzy areas between life and death.

Women began screaming again.

Ronald aimed his shotgun towards Tom and pulled the trigger.

Tom ducked. His favourite booth had been destroyed, and the large glass window behind it shattered into a million pieces.

As Ronald pumped another cartridge into the barrel, Tom knew he had the time it took to take a breath to get another shot off.

He stuck his head up.

Took aim.

But just at that moment Allegre came through the main door.

Ronald grabbed her and pulled her in front of him. ‘Drop the gun, asshole,’ he shouted at Tom. He had his left arm wrapped around Allegre’s neck and the barrel of the shotgun pointing at her face. ‘You don’t drop your gun, I’m gonna start killing people – starting with this bitch here.’

Tom saw Allegre’s imperceptible nod.

So he pulled the trigger.

 

 

***

 

 

Ambulances arrived. One took Manuel away in a body bag, another transported the wounded baby and its parents, and a third treated Allege from the open doors at the back because she refused to be taken to hospital.

‘You damned fool, Mister-Billy-the-Kid-Gabriel.’ Allegre said to him. ‘You were aiming for Allegre, but hit that robber by mistake, didn’t you?’

‘I saw you nod.’

‘That was a twinge from my rheumatiz, you damned fool. Now look what you done gone and done. I wouldn’t be surprised if I get gangrene and have to have my head chopped off.’

The bullet that had smashed through Ronald’s windpipe, cervical vertebrae and spinal cord, had first nicked Allegre’s neck. It was a minor cut that would heal with hardly a mark in a few days, but that didn’t stop her complaining about it.

‘I ought to throw you and all your baggage out in the street. I give you a home free of charge and this is how you thank me. I take pity on . . .’

He left her singing his praises.

The press, radio and television cameras descended on the hotel like locusts, but Rae wasn’t with them.

Where was she?

Previously, he had never talked to the media unless he needed their help with something. As far as he was concerned they were a horde of unethical hypocrites, but it crossed his mind that it would be good for business, and get his name out there again, so he relented and smiled into the light.

‘Can you tell us what happened, Sergeant Gabriel?’

‘First of all, you can stop calling me “Sergeant”. I haven’t been one of those for over five years now. If you want to talk to a police Sergeant you should find Detective Sergeant Mona Connelly – one of St Augustine’s finest. A more pleasant, attractive and able police officer I have yet to meet.’ He saw Mona and her new partner – Officer Mason Gubner – arrive out of the corner of his eye.

‘You were telling us what happened?’ someone behind the lights reminded him.

‘Not much to tell really. As well as running my own private investigation agency called – naturally – Tom Gabriel Investigations, I’m also on-site security here in the evenings, so I was just doing my job. The two masked men rushed in waving firearms. The one wearing the Ronald Reagan mask shot and killed my good friend Manuel Alvarez, and the baby was collateral damage. I knew then that I had to do something, but the two men had separated, and there was a lot of innocent people between me and them. Eventually, I was able to get a clear shot and killed the man in the Bill Clinton mask. Then, I was just about to shoot the other robber when the owner – the beautiful and generous Allegre Gabbamonde – came in through the door. Ronald Reagan grabbed her and hid behind her, and regardless of her own safety, Miss Gabbamonde indicated that I should shoot him.’

‘It’s a good job for her you’re a decent shot, Mr Gabriel.’

‘My police training came to the fore.’

He smiled for the cameras and posed for photographs. ‘If I were you, I’d speak to Allegre Gabbamonde – she was the real hero in all of this.’

Mona stepped in then. ‘All right, folks. Mr Celebrity needs to answer some questions.’ She took him by the elbow and led him back into the restaurant.

Inside, the on-call ME – Debbie Weaver – said, ‘When I knew I was coming here, and that you were involved, I knew I’d need more than one body bag.’

He gave her a warm smile. ‘Glad I could be of service, Debbie.’

Mona said, ‘I heard what you said to the press.’

‘What did you think?’

‘You should get a job fronting Beyond Belief. That Jonathan Frakes is getting past it now anyway.’

‘Very kind.’

‘It wasn’t meant as a compliment.’

‘I know.’

Gubner held an evidence bag open in front of him. ‘Gun?’

Tom pulled his gun out of its holster and dropped it in the bag.

‘So, is that the way it happened?’ Mona persisted.

‘You don’t think I’d lie to you, do you? I’m sure you’ll question everybody who was in the restaurant at the time. It happened just like I said. I have a room full of witnesses.’

‘Do you know either of the two men?’ Gubner asked.

He glanced at the faces of the two corpses. They were both Caucasian, in their late twenties with dark hair. ‘Never seen them before.’

‘I’ll need a statement from you,’ Mona said.

‘Of course. Tomorrow morning okay?’

Gubner was about to object, but Mona cut him off at the pass. ‘Fine.’ She looked around. ‘Where’s your new partner?’

He half-laughed. ‘Hardly a partner. More a friend I’ve been helping out.’

‘And?’

‘I have no idea. I expected to see her here, but she seems to be avoiding me.’ He retrieved his cell from the booth. ‘I was about to call her when those two started shooting at me.’

He found Rae’s number in his phonebook and dialled it.

‘A technological wizard with a cell,’ Mona said with a smile. ‘Who’d have thought it?’

‘Not me, that’s for sure. Against my better judgement, I’m being forced into a compromising position.’

He was diverted to voicemail – he didn’t leave a message. Where was she? In all the time he’d been calling her, he’d never been diverted to voicemail. Mabel’s message on the mirror flashed into his mind: TOO LATE. He hadn’t been too late for tonight’s events, but what if the message wasn’t about him at all. What if . . .

He glanced at Mona. ‘I have to go.’

‘Something wrong?’

‘I hope not.’

 

 

***

 

 

It took him twenty minutes to drive over to Rae’s apartment on Cordova Street, which overlooked the Maria Sanchez Lake.

The door creaked open when he knocked. He reached for his gun, but the holster was empty.

Crap! He’d have to get himself a back-up.

He edged inside.

The hallway was dark. He tried the lights, but nothing happened.

‘Rae?’

No answer.

He tried the kitchen first. It was dark inside. The blind was down. He flicked the light switch – nothing.

The living room was empty, but it was clear that someone had been looking for something. The furniture had been cut open and the stuffing ripped out, drawers had been tipped on the floor and books from the bookcase thrown everywhere. Pictures had been taken from the walls, the backs pulled off and discarded – the room was a disaster area.

The bedroom door was closed. He opened it a crack. ‘Rae?’

Still nothing.

He pushed the door fully open, and saw her lying on the floor. She was filthy and half-naked with a bloody sack on her head.

‘What the . . . ?’

Yanking and pulling the knotted cord around her neck he eventually managed to undo the knot. He pulled the sack off her head and turned her over. She had a two-inch gash on her forehead that had stopped bleeding some time ago, and she was unconscious. He checked her eyes and from the pinpoint pupils he knew she’d been drugged. Grabbing a sheet off the bed, he wrapped her up in it and put his arm under her shoulders.

‘Rae?’ he said, shaking her, but there was no response.

He used his cell to call for an ambulance, then sat on the floor holding Rae and waited for the paramedics to arrive.

What the hell had happened to her?

The bedroom was like the living room. What were they looking for? Did they find it?

Rae moaned.

Holding her tight he whispered, ‘It’s all right, Rae. I’m here now. The ambulance is on its way.’

He noticed the livid marks around her wrists and ankles. Had she been tortured? Why was she so dirty? He opened the sheet. There were dark bruises and thin cuts on her thighs and her breasts. What the hell had they done to her? Had she been raped?

‘Hello?’ a woman’s voice called.

‘Down here,’ he answered. Thank God it was a woman, he thought.

A short, fat woman with blonde hair and glasses came into the bedroom carrying a bag.

A younger black man followed her.

‘Tell me what happened,’ the woman said. The name on her badge was Joanne Seed and she wore a round blue patch with Paramedic: Florida sewn on it in yellow.

He told her what he knew and what he suspected.

‘Okay, Sir. If you could just move out of the way, we’ll assess her, make her comfortable and take her to the hospital.’

He stood up and hovered over the proceedings like an expectant father.

The paramedics inserted a plastic airway into Rae’s mouth and an intravenous cannula into the back of her hand.

‘What are these cuts and bruises about?’ the woman asked him.

He shrugged. ‘I have no idea.’

They wrapped Rae in a blanket, strapped her into an emergency stretcher and lifted her up.

‘Where are you taking her?’

‘Flagler Hospital. Are you coming with her?’

‘I’ll grab some toiletries and clothing for her, lock up the apartment and follow you there.’

She nodded and they left.

He looked around quickly, found her rucksack empty on the floor and stuffed some clothes into it. Next, he grabbed her toothbrush, toothpaste and a few other things that looked as though they might be useful in the hospital, and then returned to the bedroom.

Where was her phone and tablet? They were bionic extensions of her hands, and yet he couldn’t find them anywhere. He called her number, but it diverted to voicemail again. It must be switched off, he thought.

He found her keys on a hook behind the front door, and when he went to lock it he discovered the tell-tale signs on the locking mechanism of an illegal entry.

Someone had broken in, drugged her and then taken her somewhere. Why? To do what? They’d then rifled through her apartment to find what they were looking for. What? Had they taken her phone and tablet as well?

Was it connected to the John Doe story?

He locked her apartment door, hurried down to his SUV and followed the ambulance to the hospital.