Once, I was pursued through a rainstorm that did lit tle to dampen the fires raging through Grozny. Rebel Chechen soldiers were nipping at my heels. It was unfortunate; I wasn't their enemy. Trouble was that I was in the wrong place at the wrong time, on a mission to take out a rogue Russian Spetsnaz-special forces-soldier who was just a little too fond of prepubescent girls. To infiltrate his position, I'd gone disguised in Russian uniform, and now the Chechens were after my blood. Ironic, you might say. I was there to kill their worst kind of enemy, yet here I was being hunted like a rabid dog.
I had no intention of returning fire, so I chose to run. They were persistent. To elude my pursuers, I lay up beneath the corpse of a steer. The poor thing had avoided slaughter to feed the invading Russian troops by haphazardly wandering into a pasture sown with land mines. The steer's folly was my salvation. Even so, it was about the most miserable twenty-eight hours of my life. The stench was bad enough, but the crawling infestation of maggots made it almost unendurable. Believe me; I came close to surrender.
Yes, I've slept in some pretty grim places in my time. But even a steer's belly can be comfortable when compared to an office chair.
I slept?tfully, waking at dawn with a stiff neck and the feeling of an intense hangover.
Harvey had invited us back to his split-level ranch out beyond the suburbs, but we'd declined, wanting an early start and knowing that the tranquility of a remote farmhouse and a soft bed wasn't conducive to an early rise. Struggling out of the chair, I cracked my lower back and blinked around the small of?ce. Rink was gone. Probably a good thing. I wasn't a pretty sight. I rubbed my eyes with both hands and yawned.
I pushed into the washroom, yawning again. Rink was standing by one of the two small sinks, his upper torso bared. The tattoo on his left shoulder was stark even against his tawny?esh. I have an identical tattoo on my shoulder, a testament to our time in the joint Special Forces unit we'd both been part of for all those years. It was a tattoo sported by only a handful of living men, and not one we ever wore when we were active in the field.
Midstroke with his razor Rink paused, glancing at me in the mirror. "Boy, you look like shit this morning."
"Gee, thanks," I said. "I feel like shit, too, if it's any consolation."
"There's a spare razor if you want to use it."
I ambled over to the sink and picked up the disposable razor. "Courtesy of Harvey?"
"Yup," Rink said, taking another stroke at his chin. "Keeps a stock of them for shaving his head."
I grimaced at the blade, checking for short bristles caught between the twin blades. "He hasn't used it already?"
Rink laughed. Didn't answer. I shrugged, ran the blade under the tap. Rink tossed me a can of shaving foam. I nodded my thanks at him, then stopped.
"Problem?" Rink asked with a twinkle in his eye.
"You've shaved off your mustache?"
"Can't hide anything from you, can I?"
I grunted. "That's what makes me a damn good detective."
Rink slapped me on my shoulder as he brushed past, heading back to the office. I washed and shaved, dried off. When I returned to the of?ce, Rink was on the telephone to Harvey.
"Harvey's over at Louise Blake's place. He wants us over there," Rink said. "He just watched a couple of guys go inside. Didn't look like they were selling home insurance."
"How slick did they look?"
"Like eels in a bucket of sump oil."
25 john telfer sat on his hotel recliner and stared at a blank canvas no more than a couple of centimeters past the end of his nose. Light from the overhead bulb?ltered through the cloth, and if he stared closely enough he could make out the minute nuances of texture and pattern in the cotton weave. It was all he'd had to visually focus on for the best part of?ve hours. His other senses hadn't been given many stimuli, either, not since the man had forced the bag over his head and tied his hands behind his back with an electric cord torn from a desk lamp.
He sat mute, listening for any telltale sign that his time was up, that the maniac was approaching, knife or gun ready to take his life. But all he heard was the occasional shifting of body weight on the bed across from him. Not for the?rst time he wondered if his captor had fallen asleep.
He heard a soft grunt. Was it the sound a man makes as he slips into dreamland? Or more likely, the sound of one coming to a decision? Fearing he was about to?nd out, he straightened and craned his neck to try to shift the hood enough that he could see beneath it.
"Sit still," the man commanded from across the room.
"What are you doing?" Telfer asked. His own voice was strained and distant. "Thinking," answered the maniac. "Now please be quiet and allow me to do so."
Telfer nodded beneath the bag. Show that I'm not a threat, he thought. But he couldn't help asking, "What're you gonna do with me?"
The man snorted in derision. "What do you think?"
Telfer's shoulders slumped. He felt like asking, Why didn't he just get on with it then? But that would be suicidal. He didn't want to die, and every second of life he could hold on to, he'd do so with all his might. He kept quiet.
The minutes passed and Telfer went back to scrutinizing the inside of the cloth bag. He stared at the blurry cloth, lost in some still, Zenlike place. After a while, he began to rock back and forth.
"Will you please be quiet?"
"Unh?" Telfer asked.
"You're humming again," said the man. "That same godawful tune that has no melody." "I didn't realize," Telfer said. Beneath his hood, he blinked slowly. He had no comprehension of having been humming a tune. "It's getting right on my nerves. Maybe I should just cut out your voice box so you can't do it anymore?"
Telfer shook his head. "I won't do it anymore. I'm sorry."
"Good. Now if you'll just give me a little peace and quiet, I can come to some sort of decision." "Are you going to kill me?" "Probably. Only thing is, I haven't decided how yet." "Thanks for being so honest." He heard the man get up from the bed and walk over. Telfer's whole frame tightened in response. He made a short wailing sound, before something made him stop. He didn't want to die, but if he had to, he didn't intend shrieking like a lost soul. In de?ance, he lifted his chin, exposing his throat for a quick slash. Then he blinked at the sudden intrusion of light as the hood was snatched away. The man wasn't holding a knife, but Telfer's own gun was pointed at him.
"I've asked and asked for you to be quiet," said the man, "but you just can't seem to keep your mouth shut. So I've decided. What I want you to do is to keep right on talking. Okay?"
Telfer squinted up at him. "What do you want me to say?"
"I want you to tell me who you are and how you wound up here. And I want the truth. No lies. Believe me, if you lie to me, I will know. And I will hurt you. Understand?"
"Yeah, I understand."
"Good. Now go ahead. But don't go raising your voice. We don't want anyone eavesdropping on our conversation, do we?"
Telfer glanced at the wall behind him. Like most hotel walls, these were about as porous as a sponge. He couldn't be sure if anyone was in residence next door, and he couldn't take the chance that their conversation would be overheard. A bit of a strange notion, considering that a psycho was holding him at gunpoint. He looked back at the man and saw a faint smile playing about his lips. He seemed amused, as though he knew that Telfer could not shout for help.
"My name isn't Ambrose," he began.
"I know that. So what is it? Your real name?"
"John."
"Mmm."
"Honestly. My name's John Telfer."
The man nodded as though he was con?rming something he already knew.
"I'm from England."
"We've already established that." Again the nod of the head, the amused smile.
"I came here on a work permit," Telfer said.
"That has since run out?"
It was Telfer's turn to nod. "I haven't been able to get a full visa yet." The man nodded. "You and a couple million others." "So," Telfer said, "I've had to move on. If I stayed put, I'd have been deported back home."
The man watched him steadily for more than half a dozen heartbeats. Then he moved closer, pushing the gun down in the waistband of his trousers. He took out the curved knife and held it below Telfer's nose. Telfer edged back from it, the cords in his neck tightening.
"I told you not to lie." The man placed the blade so that it lay?at on Telfer's cheek, the point millimeters from his right eye. "That also includes half-truths. Now I don't doubt that you have no visa, but that's not the reason you're running. I want the full truth. Take this as your last warning." He turned the blade on its edge and sliced through the?esh. Not a deep cut, just enough to part the outer dermis. Still, blood?owed warm down Telfer's face to pool at the corner of his mouth.
"Jesus," Telfer hissed.
"Hurts like a bugger, doesn't it?" said the madman. "But you know that's just the start, Johnny boy. No more lies?" "No more lies," Telfer echoed. The man retreated a couple of steps, wiped the tip of the knife on
Telfer's knee. He placed the knife back in his trouser pocket. Then the gun was back in his hand and pointed at Telfer's face.
"I've done something wrong," Telfer began.
The man nodded, sitting on a corner of the coffee table.
"I'm on the run."
"Also already established. Get on with it."
Telfer twisted his mouth into a knot. He didn't want the knife coming out again. "I stole something." "Yes," said the man. "I'm not a thief," Telfer began.
"Oh? What about my car? My knife?"
Telfer shook his head. "Okay. But I'm not normally a thief."
"You're not? You do a good impression of one."
"Until four weeks ago, I never stole a thing in my life." Telfer stopped. He knew he was lying to himself. There was the small matter of the money his brother Joe had given him to clear off a debt. Money he'd immediately lost on another hopeless bet. In one sense that did make him a thief. Then there was the matter of Jennifer and the kids. He'd stolen their hearts. Broken them into little pieces and snatched a random handful that could never be returned.
"What are you crying for?"
"Uh?"
"You're crying," the man pointed out. "Was this theft so dreadful that it brings you to tears?"
Telfer sniffed. "No. Not the theft."
"Oh. I see. There's more to it than that? Go on. Tell me."
"I have a wife and kids."
The man nodded slowly. A shadow passed behind his features. "Haven't we all?"
"I wronged them," Telfer went on. "I wanted to make things right for them again."
"Which is why you stole this thing?" The man bent down and pulled Telfer's backpack from beneath the coffee table. Telfer jolted as if he'd sat on an exposed electrical wire. He watched, eyes intense, as the man?shed in his backpack and pulled out an oblong package wrapped in black tape. He placed it on the coffee table next to him, then he upended the bag and thick wads of cash thudded onto the carpet.
Telfer had no words. He simply sat looking at the taped package. The money was of no immediate interest, though there had to be upward of $600,000. Likewise, the man gave the money no attention. He nudged the package with the muzzle of the gun. He said, "I've got a feeling I know what this is."