Every time I close my eyes, I see something different.
I’d like to think the cinema of my dreams is playing a double feature but it’s a bit like a comedy cartoon night on Fox.
But these dreams are nothing to laugh about.
Once again there’s a new installment of an old feature, and we’re back on the treasure hunt.
…
Nadia dropped me off outside the office of the newspaper, without any firm plan for our next meeting. I had told her I had to spend some time with Boggs’s in the light of this new information, and after some research at the newspaper.
I was hoping there would be back copies of the paper going back a long, long time.
But, a few years back there had been a fire with extensively damaged almost half of the building, and I couldn’t remember if it included the paper archive. Lenny, the recently appointed editor after his father passed on, had often extolled his plans for the paper, including recording the papers on film to preserve what he called a rich history of the area.
I went in to find Lenny sitting behind the main desk, feet up and reading a book, what looked to be a text on handguns.
He looked up when the door closed with a sharp bang.
“Sam Johnson, as I live and breathe. Thought you had equally grandiose plans of leaving town?”
“My father died, and it seemed a bad idea to leave my mother, being the only kid and all. You know how it is?”
Lenny had just gotten over a recent bereavement and had to move his mother to an old folk’s home because of worsening health. I’d seen him around town from time to time, but time had taken its toll, and he was never the healthiest of kids.
He was never interested in school, perhaps knowing he was always going to end up a newspaperman.
“Indeed I do? Need a job? I need a good reporter, and if I remember correctly, you were a hell of a reporter at school. How many scandals did you uncover?”
“One, and it was by chance.”
“Seemed like more than that.” He shrugged. “I’m sure, like five thousand others, you’re looking for work?”
“Was. I’m working down at the warehouse.”
“Benderby’s. Thought you hated them.”
Everyone hated them, and most of the people I knew because we were always on the end of his cruelty. His father’s pre-eminence and his own football prowess ensured he would always be better off than any of us, and able to get away with his ‘boyish pranks’.
“I did, and I do, but you know how it is. Pride has to be swallowed in these economic times. But, if you need help, maybe I could write a few articles, but without credit.”
“When can you start?”
“After a little research. I’ve come to look at the papers going back to the beginning of time. Please tell me they weren’t burnt in the fire?”
“They were. Sadly. But with did get them filmed so instead of the archive taking up half the building, it now occupies one small room. What’s the subject?”
“The Ormiston’s.”
“Ah, the treasure hunt that Boggs says he’s not on, and you’re the secret partner in crime.”
“Hardly.”
“It doesn’t exist, you know. All those maps, the legends, the lies, and then there’s the Cossatino’s. It’s an invention of theirs to drum up money from unsuspecting fools. Always has been. Oh, and was that Nadia I saw drop you off out the front. There’s a dangerous piece of work.”
“Maybe she’s changed.”
“A leopard doesn’t change its spots, you know that. She’s just trying to find out what you know, and probably feeding you false information. The girl’s a snake, always was and always will be.”
And, if I was to admit the truth, that was probably the case, another of the Cossatino’s having fun at someone else’s expense. She seemed sincere, but then I knew very well the wiles of the woman, and the troubles she had caused many a boy, and, later, many a man.
“It’s a two-way street, Lenny. You know the saying, keep friends close, and enemies closer.” It was a lame retort, but it made me feel better.
“Just don’t get caught playing on both sides of the fence. The files are that-a-way.” He pointed in the direction of a door off to the side, then went back to the book.
David is a man troubled by a past he is trying to forget.
Susan is rebelling against a life of privilege and an exasperated mother who holds a secret that will determine her daughter’s destiny.
They are two people brought together by chance. Or was it?
When Susan discovers her mother’s secret, she goes in search of the truth that has been hidden from her since the day she was born.
When David realizes her absence is more than the usual cooling off after another heated argument, he finds himself being slowly drawn back into his former world of deceit and lies.
Then, back with his former employers, David quickly discovers nothing is what it seems as he embarks on a dangerous mission to find Susan before he loses her forever.
My brother always lamented that we did not deserve what happened to our family as a result of a bad decision our great, great grandfather made.
To me, it was just another example of one businessman being smarter than another. The fact he lost the family fortune was terrible, but he had no one else to blame but himself. That old saying you have to speculate to accumulate may well have worked, if he had speculated correctly. He didn’t.
I had no idea why so many of us failed to accept the reality with each new generation, carrying the loss like a badge of honour, and choosing to be bitter, especially towards the family of the so-called villain, Angus McTavish. From everything I’d read about him, he was ruthless, friendless, the sort of man who would swindle his own mother. Why would he draw the line at his business partner?
At any rate, it was one of the reasons why I left home and the country, to get away from all of it.
Five years of bliss passed, and it was only the death of my father that brought me back home. He had carried the grudge from his father, like his father before him, and it had passed to the son, my older brother Ken. I was sorry to see him go, but not surprised that bitterness had eaten away at his soul, killing him before his time.
It was going to do the same to Ken. It had destroyed his marriage to what I thought was the most patient woman in the world. It turned his children against him, tired of him going off looking for evidence of the swindle. Our father had never found any, there was no reason why he should.
And it was a surprise that he came to the airport to pick me up. I hadn’t sent a message, only that I was returning for the funeral, and after a 20-hour flight, Ken was the last person I wanted to see.
When I saw him in the area where relatives and others waited for the incoming passengers after going through immigration, I groaned. He saw me, waved and then waited until I reached the terminal proper.
“You didn’t tell me when you were arriving, which is disappointing. After five years, Ethan?”
“You know why. I hope you’ve finally got past it. With Dad gone, you no longer have to appease him anymore.”
“But that’s just it, he died before he got the good news. I’ve got the evidence.”
He was almost like a dog with a new toy, and it was disappointing. I should have realised he was never going to let it go. “What good is it after all these years? It isn’t going to get the money back. What he did was ruin both our families, Ken. They, at least, managed to get over it.”
“You’re wrong. They didn’t. He invested the wealth in bonds and locked them away in a secure location, and pretended he’s lost it all in the stock market crash. He was a wily, cunning bastard, and those McTavish’s know exactly where it is, and have been living off it for years.”
Last I’d heard, most of the family were all struggling to live, much the same as everyone in the post-pandemic world. In fact, I’d met up with Adrienne McTavish in Boston only a few weeks ago, quite by accident, and we had talked about the feud, the bitterness and hate on both sides and the utter waste of time and energy being expended.
She had also mentioned the rumour that Old Man McTavish had supposedly invested the funds in bonds, none of which had been found, and her investigation had shown, money came in, and money went out, and when traced to the bank, showed it had gone to an investment company, that subsequently filed bankruptcy soon after the wall street disaster. The money had simply disappeared. The idea it was bonds was someone’s fanciful extrapolation of the facts.
“Not the McTavish’s I know, Ken.”
“They’re cunning liars, Ethan. As I said, I have the evidence, and I’ll show you when we get home.”
I made a mental note to move up my return flight to the day after the funeral. If this was the state of affairs, I didn’t want to stay a minute longer than I had to.
I made a mistake in agreeing to stay with Ken. His apartment was a disaster area, much worse than it had been before.
A quick look on the kitchen bench showed every one of his bills was overdue, and he was close to eviction. The obsession had so overtaken him he had lost sight of reality.
“Sure you in financial trouble?”
He’d seen me looking at the unopened envelopes on the bench and was gathering them up.
“It’s temporary. The company closed down, and couldn’t recover after the pandemic. I’ve got an interview next week, but it might not come to that.”
I didn’t ask. He always spoke in riddles. “Do you need some money to ride you over?” He might be a pain, but he was family.
“Might not need it. I have a plan to make things right.”
He made coffee, I wandered down to the other room where the obsession had come to life. The wall of shame as he called it had got much bigger, and the files were stacked on the desk, rather neatly instead of the normal mess.
He came in as I was looking at the montage of documents and Post-it notes that covered almost the entire wall, all closing in on one spot in the middle where a piece of paper had
Meeting, Empire State Building, August 7th, 1929
“That meeting was where McTavish executed the con that swindled our great grandfather with promises of untold riches. It could have Bern true the way the stock market was at the time, but I suspect McTavish knew it couldn’t last, and had lined up a dozen prospective suckers. Ore great grandfather was the first, trying to see if it worked on him, then use it as bait for the others.”
“There’s more people involved?”
That was news to me. We had always thought McTavish had only taken advantage of his business partner.
“There’s depth to this man we haven’t even scratched the surface. Dad got the idea when another name popped up on the documents that were signed. Yes, we now have copies of the investment documents he signed, and several more people who were involved. It led to discovering another 22 families who had been destroyed. They like us thought it was just bad luck when the stock market crashed on the 28th of October 1929, but no. He swindled them too.”
“But that doesn’t mean he put all of the money into bonds, or that those bonds didn’t lose all of their value in the crash unless they’re government bonds.”
Ken rifled through the files and found the one he was looking for. It appeared empty but when he opened it there were two sheets of paper in it.
He handed them to me. US Treasury bonds, one dated 1929 and the other 1960. Neither had a name on them.
“What am I looking at other than a photocopy of two treasury bonds.”
“Proof McTavish invested all of the swindled money in bonds, then one of his relatives converted them into new bonds which means they all knew where the money went “
Two random copies of conveniently dated bonds were not proof in my mind’, nor a court of law either which would be the only place he could get any sort of redress. If the statute of limitations didn’t make it impossible anyway.
“Hardly what I would call proof. Where did they come from?”
“A spy in the McTavish’s camp.” He said like it was the answer to all the world’s problems. “That’s what I’ve been working on for years, and finally it’s paid off.”
“Who?”
“Need to know Ethan and you don’t. I can’t trust you.”
No surprises there. I could understand why he wouldn’t tell me, I’d never been sympathetic to the cause, but spies. How far was he willing to go?
“All you do need to know is that tomorrow it’s all going to be sorted.”
“How?”
“Again, need to know. You’ll just have to wait and see.”
To say that I was worried about his frame of mind was an understatement.
After being borderline manic depressive, this sudden onset of euphoria was concerning. I was hoping something hadn’t snapped.
At dinner with other members of the family, all equally invested on the search for retribution, the only subject up for discussion was my absence and everything that had happened while I was away.
Aside from people aging five years, life for them was the same.
Life for me was different, but no I had not found a wife, had children, had no one special, and had no ambitions other than to just live as comfortably as I could. I didn’t tell them I was now a journalist in a rural city, that was facing redundancy as the internet was more popular than print.
That was something I would have to face when I returned.
It was an interesting, if uneventful evening.
The next morning, I woke up early and went to look at the wall. I was looking for clues about what he was going to do today that was going to make a difference.
There was, on a side wall the McTavish family tree from the old man down, and I traced Adrienne’s lineage back.
I looked at the dates filled in from birth to death. The bloodline had been secured in 1928 when the last of his children were born, that being the direct descendent, her father.
Something I hadn’t realised was the date old man McTavish had died, and that was three days after the stock market crash, 31st October. I thought it had been years after that.
Beside the dates was a newspaper article, about the death and apparently, he had been hit by a car after stumbling on the sidewalk and killed instantly.
My mind then jumped to a conclusion, had he told anyone about reinvesting the swindled funds before he was accidentally killed. If he transferred the funds to bonds. And if he did, who would he have told, if anyone. In his place, given what had just happened at the time you’d be reluctant to tell anyone about what amounted to treasure.
No. Now I was getting wrapped up in Ken’s conspiracy. If there was a spy, perhaps they were simply feeding his fantasy.
Then my eye caught another item, tucked way down the bottom, at the end of a red piece of string coming from the meeting date of when Ken assumed the swindle took place.
A closer look at the card showed the words, “Do you wish you could go back and change the past?” That was all it said, with a phone number.
I could feel rather than hear Ken come into the room.
I turned. “This is some montage. How long has it taken?”
“It’s not all mine. Dad had most of this already, but he hadn’t connected all the dots.”
“And you have?”
“Enough to know precisely when the damage was done.”
I had only a few moments to decide whether to bring up what I’d read on the card. If I was not mistaken, it was suggesting time travel was possible, and if my brother thought it was, then I had a lot more to worry about.
“I followed the red line, Ken. That doesn’t mean what I think it does?”
“I don’t believe it either, Ethan, but a friend I’d mine said he tried it, and he was given the opportunity to change one mistake, and now his life is so much better.”
Of course, that could have happened for any number of reasons, most of all, the human mind can be tricked into believing something happened, even if it didn’t, or that it was simply the power of positive thought.
“Perhaps they simply suggested very powerfully that he change his ways.”
“Or something else. I’m going there at 10:00. I need a fellow sceptic, just so I know it’s not possible, because if it is …”
“You can change the course of history. You know that. If it was possible, which we both know it’s not, it’s possible you might erase us from existence. One innocuous and seemingly innocent interaction could have catastrophic unintended consequences.”
“Which is moot since it is impossible. Up for the challenge?”
If only to put the myth to bed and stop the people running this hoax from convincing him otherwise.
I nodded.
Ken had already made the call and had the address to go to. It was, when we arrived, a rather dilapidated warehouse on an industrial estate that was no longer in use.
At least that was my first impression. The building looked like it was about to fall down. Outside, a dozen cars were parked sporadically in an overgrown car park, giving an impression they had been dumped there.
It was a very elaborate illusion. When we got closer to the front entrance the doors looked rustic but solid and when we were close, slid silently open.
Stepping across the threshold was like stepping into another world. A woman in a white lab coat appeared from the side.
“Mr O’Reilly?”
We both were, but it was Ken she was referring to.
“Guilty.”
“Everything is ready. You have the documents we discussed to sign and then everything is ready to go.”
“You aren’t seriously suggesting that you can send people back in time,” I said.
“That’s precisely what we are doing. You are?”
“The sceptical brother.”
“Well, sceptical brother, let me assure you this has been tested and used successfully. However, we can only send one person back. You will be required to wait in the anteroom for the duration.”
OK, she certainly sounded serious, and as though she believed that time travel was possible, so I had to wonder just what happened. I had been hoping to see the process.
Perhaps I should just play along. “You are aware of the consequences of meddling in the past. One subtle change can have drastic consequences.”
“We are very careful in selecting candidates. And yes, we are very mindful of consequences which is why we can abort the process at any point. Now, if you don’t mind…”
Another woman in a lab coat came out to usher me to the anteroom room, much the same as a frequent flyer lounge with comfortable chairs, a buffet and both TV, playing Quantum Leap episodes, not without irony, and dated newspapers.
Ken was taken away and I only got a glimpse of the room he was taken, a curious deep blue light within.
“How long will this take,” I asked her.
“As long as it takes. Make yourself comfortable.”
When I woke, I was on unfamiliar surroundings, and only vaguely aware of what had happened.
It involved Ken, that much was clear, but not why, where or when.
I remembered being in a departure lounge.
A minute later I felt a hand on my shoulder gently shaking me.
“Wake up sleepy head. It’s time to go.”
It wasn’t Ken shaking me, but a woman. I blinked a few times trying to bring objects into focus and then recognised the face.
Adrienne McTavish.
“Adrienne. What are you doing here?”
She smiled. “You forgot, didn’t you?”
I had no idea if I had forgotten anything, except why I was here and why she was with me.
“I have a bad habit of doing that, don’t I?” It was one of my faults, absent-mindedness. I remembered that much.
“You do. We’re going to stay at your grandfather’s so you can convalesce. The boys have been looking forward to exploring the mausoleum as you call it. Come,” she held out her hand and I took it.
Standing nearby was a girl, almost as tall as her mother and the spitting image of her, just along from me with two boys, twins. On her finger was a wedding ring which I assumed was the one I gave her.
What the hell had Ken done?
“Oh, and happy anniversary Ethan. Thank you for this.” She must have noticed my puzzled expression. “Are you alright? The doctors did say they didn’t expect any further loss of memory or hallucinations, but the great news is they got all of the tumours. You’re going to be fine.”
To write a private detective serial has always been one of the items at the top of my to-do list, though trying to write novels and a serial, as well as a blog, and maintain a social media presence, well, you get the idea.
But I made it happen, from a bunch of episodes I wrote a long, long time ago, used these to start it, and then continue on, then as now, never having much of an idea where it was going to end up, or how long it would take to tell the story.
That, I think is the joy of ad hoc writing, even you, as the author, have as much idea of where it’s going as the reader does.
It’s basically been in the mill since 1990, and although I finished it last year, it looks like the beginning to end will have taken exactly 30 years. Had you asked me 30 years ago if I’d ever get it finished, the answer would be maybe?
My private detective, Harry Walthenson
I’d like to say he’s from that great literary mold of Sam Spade, or Mickey Spillane, or Phillip Marlow, but he’s not.
But, I’ve watched Humphrey Bogart play Sam Spade with much interest, and modelled Harry and his office on it. Similarly, I’ve watched Robert Micham play Phillip Marlow with great panache, if not detachment, and added a bit of him to the mix.
Other characters come into play, and all of them, no matter what period they’re from, always seem larger than life. I’m not above stealing a little of Mary Astor, Peter Lorre or Sidney Greenstreet, to breathe life into beguiling women and dangerous men alike.
Then there’s the title, like
The Case of the Unintentional Mummy – this has so many meanings in so many contexts, though I imagine that back in Hollywood in the ’30s and ’40s, this would be excellent fodder for Abbott and Costello
The Case of the Three-Legged Dog – Yes, I suspect there may be a few real-life dogs with three legs, but this plot would involve something more sinister. And if made out of plaster, yes, they’re always something else inside.
But for mine, to begin with, it was “The Case of the …”, because I had no idea what the case was going to be about, well, I did, but not specifically.
Then I liked the idea of calling it “The Case of the Brother’s Revenge” because I began to have a notion there was a brother no one knew about, but that’s stuff for other stories, not mine, so then went the way of the others.
Now it’s called ‘A Case of Working With the Jones Brothers’, finished the first three drafts, and at the editor for the last.
I have high hopes of publishing it in early 2021. It even has a cover.
This story is now on the list to be finished so over the new few weeks, expect a new episode every few days.
The reason why new episodes have been sporadic, there are also other stories to write, and I’m not very good at prioritizing.
But, here we are, a few minutes opened up and it didn’t take long to get back into the groove.
Things are about to get complicated…
With Jan safely in custody, probably for about 15 minutes when Dobbin discovered she was in police hands, Jennifer and I were free to chase up O’Connell and maybe we would also find Anna.
It was a long shot at best.
But we had to find out more about Anna Jacovich. For that, we would have to go back to the office and talk to Joanne. I told Jennifer what I intended to do and dropped her at the safe house for some much-needed rest before we went after O’Connell.
Then, back in the car, I called the number I had for Joanne.
“Sam.”
“Memorised my number?”
“I like to know who’s calling before I answer.”
“Then this isn’t a restricted line?”
“Restricted enough.”
“I found your little toy?”
Did I hear a sigh?
“You know the world we live in Sam, trust no one not even your mother. Hard for me to trust or not trust her, she passed away when I was seven. Monica said you were good. What can I do for you?”
“A full workup on Anna Jacovich. I’m coming into the office now, and will be there in about half an hour.”
“No pressure then?”
“Not at all.”
“Try not to irritate security this time.”
I’m sure I saw a grim expression on the face of the soldier that had been there the last time I tried to run the gauntlet, and then disappointment when my card worked. I signed in and put the name of the department I was visiting down as Research.
When he asked for a name, I gave him Joanne’s. No doubt he would call her long before I got to her.
She met me at the second level of defence and then took me to a room where two folders sat at opposite ends of a table, two desk lamps shining light down on them. The rest of the room was in darkness.
When she shut the door, I said, “Please tell me there in;t a firing squad in black camouflage just waiting to shoot me.”
She smiled. “If it was more sensitive information, I’d let you read it, then have you shot. Not today.
That was a relief. Oddly, I believed that she would if the circumstances warranted it. Joanne was scary, nor scary than Jan. It’s the quiet ones you had to worry about.”
We sat.
“Read. Then I’ll answer questions.”
For the ten minutes, it took me to discover that Anna was a biochemist herself, and had worked in a not-so-secret government laboratory that had been unmasked with disastrous results, adding another dimension to the problem. I was beginning to think she might be the one who created the monster and had set her husband up to take the blame.
If that was the case, she was never going to pass it on to O’Connell or sell it to him, other than to take the money and run. If that was the case, Severin knew it was her all along, and how dangerous she was.
But and there was a big but in all of this. She needed an accomplice to get to England, which was O’Connell. Now he was no longer needed…
Yes, she would also need both Severin and Maury off her tail, and that had been taken care of.
Jan? Unless I completely misread her, it was not possible she could be the accomplice; she was doing what Dobbin requested. Or had she? Dobbin did say she was able to make executive decisions on the fly.
“The threat isn’t O’Connell. He’s just a pawn.”
“Not just a pretty face then?”
“I never regard my face as pretty.”
She shook her head. “It’s Anna. She played Severin and Maury, she played Dobbin, and she played Dobbin’s little toy soldier, O’Connell. Or Quigley I believe his real name is. I hesitate to say O’Connell played you.”
“Call a dog a dog, Joanne. If I had more experience and more information I might have seen that. You can’t keep people in the dark, and then expect miracles.”
“I’m the messenger, Sam.”
“I’ve been known to shoot messengers, just because I can.”
“Save your bullets for the bad guys.”
“How do I know you and Monica are not the bad guys?”
Another shake of the head. “OK. You’ve passed the scepticism test, Sam. Now put it away. We have to work together on this. It’s a condition for continuing to work on the case.”
“And if I don’t?”
“I don’t need to answer that. But, I get it. You’re a self-starter and will keep at it, with or without us. I can see why people like you. To me, your just another dangerous amateur.”
There were words I could say, but judging by the reek of self-aggrandisement, it would not penetrate the thick hide.
I smiled. “Not noted for your charm then.”
“No. Where is Jan?”
“Who?”
“Don’t play games, Sam. They don’t become you. You went to see Severin, but he ended up dead, and she shot him. Why?”
“You read this file?” I picked it up and dropped it on the table.
She was the sort that read the first page, the preamble, and the last page, the result or desired result.
“I did.”
“Then you know why, as for Jan, if you know I was there when Severin was shot, you’d know where Jan is.”
“She disappeared into the trees. And no doubt in the wind. You should know she’s a trained MI5 assassin on loan to Dobbin.”
Who was now in jail somewhere pending the Detective Inspectors leisure, unless she filed a report. If she did, she would be out now, and looking for O’Connell and Anna.
“Then how should I know?”
She shrugged. “I thought I’d ask. I’m not sure I like having to peel away the layers of this story one by one.”
“Be more forthcoming.” I stood. I had what I needed. “If that’s all, I’ll go on with the job.”
“O’Connell?”
“He’s probably dead by now, but I have to find him, one way or another.”
It was in darkness. I was sure I had left several lights on, especially over the door so I could see to unlock it.
I looked up and saw the globe was broken.
Instant alert.
I went to the first hiding spot for the gun, and it wasn’t there. I went to the backup and it wasn’t there either. Someone had found my carefully hidden stash of weapons and removed them.
Who?
There were four hiding spots and all were empty. Someone had removed the weapons. That could only mean one possibility.
I had a visitor, not necessarily here for a social call.
But, of course, being the well-trained agent I’d once been and not one to be caught unawares, I crossed over to my neighbor and relieved him of a weapon that, if found, would require a lot of explaining.
Suitably armed, it was time to return the surprise.
There were three entrances to the villa, the front door, the back door, and a rather strange escape hatch. One of the more interesting attractions of the villa I’d rented was its heritage. It was built in the late 1700s, by a man who was, by all accounts, a thief. It had a hidden underground room which had been in the past a vault but was now a wine cellar, and it had an escape hatch by which the man could come and go undetected, particularly if there was a mob outside the door baying for his blood.
It now gave me the means to enter the villa without my visitors being alerted, unless, of course, they were near the vicinity of the doorway inside the villa, but that possibility was unlikely. It was not where anyone could anticipate or expect a doorway to be.
The secret entrance was at the rear of the villa behind a large copse, two camouflaged wooden doors built into the ground. I move aside some of the branches that covered them and lifted one side. After I’d discovered the doors and rusty hinges, I’d oiled and cleaned them, and cleared the passageway of cobwebs and fallen rocks. It had a mildew smell, but nothing would get rid of that. I’d left torches at either end so I could see.
I closed the door after me, and went quietly down the steps, enveloped in darkness till I switched on the torch. I traversed the short passage which turned ninety degrees about halfway to the door at the other end. I carried the key to this door on the keyring, found it and opened the door. It too had been oiled and swung open soundlessly.
I stepped in the darkness and closed the door.
I was on the lower level under the kitchen, now the wine cellar, the ‘door’ doubling as a set of shelves which had very little on them, less to fall and alert anyone in the villa.
Silence, an eerie silence.
I took the steps up to the kitchen, stopping when my head was level with the floor, checking to see if anyone was waiting. There wasn’t. It seemed to me to be an unlikely spot for an ambush.
I’d already considered the possibility of someone coming after me, especially because it had been Bespalov I’d killed, and I was sure he had friends, all equally as mad as he was. Equally, I’d also considered it nigh on impossible for anyone to find out it was me who killed him because the only people who knew that were Prendergast, Alisha, a few others in the Department, and Susan.
That raised the question of who told them where I was.
If I was the man I used to be, my first suspect would be Susan. The departure this morning, and now this was too coincidental. But I was not that man.
Or was I?
I reached the start of the passageway that led from the kitchen to the front door and peered into the semi-darkness. My eyes had got used to the dark, and it was no longer an inky void. Fragments of light leaked in around the door from outside and through the edge of the window curtains where they didn’t fit properly. A bone of contention upstairs in the morning, when first light shone and invariably woke me up hours before I wanted to.
Still nothing.
I took a moment to consider how I would approach the visitor’s job. I would get a plan of the villa in my head, all entrances, where a target could be led to or attacked where there would be no escape.
Coming in the front door. If I was not expecting anything, I’d just open the door and walk-in. One shot would be all that was required.
Contract complete.
I sidled quietly up the passage staying close to the wall, edging closer to the front door. There was an alcove where the shooter could be waiting. It was an ideal spot to wait.
Crunch.
I stepped on some nutshells.
Not my nutshells.
I felt it before I heard it. The bullet with my name on it.
And how the shooter missed, from point-blank range, and hit me in the arm, I had no idea. I fired off two shots before a second shot from the shooter went wide and hit the door with a loud thwack.
I saw a red dot wavering as it honed in on me and I fell to the floor, stretching out, looking up where the origin of the light was coming and pulled the trigger three times, evenly spaced, and a second later I heard the sound of a body falling down the stairs and stopping at the bottom, not very far from me.
Two assassins.
I’d not expected that.
The assassin by the door was dead, a lucky shot on my part. The second was still breathing.
I checked the body for any weapons and found a second gun and two knives. Armed to the teeth!
I pulled off the balaclava; a man, early thirties, definitely Italian. I was expecting a Russian.
I slapped his face, waking him up. Blood was leaking from several slashes on his face when his head had hit the stairs on the way down. The awkward angle of his arms and legs told me there were broken bones, probably a lot worse internally. He was not long for this earth.
“Who employed you?”
He looked at me with dead eyes, a pursed mouth, perhaps a smile. “Not today my friend. You have made a very bad enemy.” He coughed and blood poured out of his mouth. “There will be more …”
Friends of Bespalov, no doubt.
I would have to leave. Two unexplainable bodies, I’d have a hard time explaining my way out of this mess. I dragged the two bodies into the lounge, clearing the passageway just in case someone had heard anything.
Just in case anyone was outside at the time, I sat in the dark, at the foot of the stairs, and tried to breathe normally. I was trying not to connect dots that led back to Susan, but the coincidence was worrying me.
A half-hour passed and I hadn’t moved. Deep in thought, I’d forgotten about being shot, unaware that blood was running down my arm and dripping onto the floor.
Until I heard a knock on my front door.
Two thoughts, it was either the police, alerted by the neighbors, or it was the second wave, though why would they be knocking on the door?
I stood, and immediately felt a stabbing pain in my arm. I took out a handkerchief and turned it into a makeshift tourniquet, then wrapped a kitchen towel around the wound.
If it was the police, this was going to be a difficult situation. Holding the gun behind my back, I opened the door a fraction and looked out.
No police, just Maria. I hoped she was not part of the next ‘wave’.
“You left your phone behind on the table. I thought you might be looking for it.” She held it out in front of her.
When I didn’t open the door any further, she looked at me quizzically, and then asked, “Is anything wrong?”
I was going to thank her for returning the phone, but I heard her breathe in sharply, and add, breathlessly, “You’re bleeding.”
I looked at my arm and realized it was visible through the door, and not only that, the towel was soaked in blood.
“You need to go away now.”
Should I tell her the truth? It was probably too late, and if she was any sort of law-abiding citizen she would go straight to the police.
She showed no signs of leaving, just an unnerving curiosity. “What happened?”
I ran through several explanations, but none seemed plausible. I went with the truth. “My past caught up with me.”
“You need someone to fix that before you pass out from blood loss. It doesn’t look good.”
“I can fix it. You need to leave. It is not safe to be here with me.”
The pain in my arm was not getting any better, and the blood was starting to run down my arm again as the tourniquet loosened. She was right, I needed it fixed sooner rather than later.
I opened the door and let her in. It was a mistake, a huge mistake, and I would have to deal with the consequences. Once inside, she turned on the light and saw the pool of blood just inside the door and the trail leading to the lounge. She followed the trail and turned into the lounge, turned on the light, and no doubt saw the two dead men.
I expected her to scream. She didn’t.
She gave me a good hard look, perhaps trying to see if I was dangerous. Killing people wasn’t something you looked the other way about. She would have to go to the police.
“What happened here?”
“I came home from the cafe and two men were waiting for me. I used to work for the Government, but no longer. I suspect these men were here to repay a debt. I was lucky.”
“Not so much, looking at your arm.”
She came closer and inspected it.
“Sit down.”
She found another towel and wrapped it around the wound, retightening the tourniquet to stem the bleeding.
“Do you have medical supplies?”
I nodded. “Upstairs.” I had a medical kit, and on the road, I usually made my own running repairs. Another old habit I hadn’t quite shaken off yet.
She went upstairs, rummaged, and then came back. I wondered briefly what she would think of the unmade bed though I was not sure why it might interest her.
She helped me remove my shirt, and then cleaned the wound. Fortunately, she didn’t have to remove a bullet. It was a clean wound but it would require stitches.
When she’d finished she said, “Your friend said one day this might happen.”
No prizes for guessing who that friend was, and it didn’t please me that she had involved Maria.
“Alisha?”
“She didn’t tell me her name, but I think she cares a lot about you. She said trouble has a way of finding you, gave me a phone and said to call her if something like this happened.”
“That was wrong of her to do that.”
“Perhaps, perhaps not. Will you call her?”
“Yes. I can’t stay here now. You should go now. Hopefully, by the time I leave in the morning, no one will ever know what happened here, especially you.”
All of us writers know what this is, the sort of combination of words that all come together as a story. A tale about anything whether it is true or just plain fiction.
A story can be long, or it can be short. It could be a magazine or newspaper article, or it could be what a child tells his or her mother or father when they get into trouble.
Come to think of it, I think that’s where I got an interest in writing stories because as a child I was always in trouble.
Of course, if you are telling certain types of stories, then it’s bound to be a lie. And made even worse if it is gossip!
That story might even be my interpretation of events, and as it happens, it’s possible no two stories are the same, especially if I and others had witnessed the same event.
This is not to be confused with the other version, storey, which is a single level in a building, one that might have thirty or more stories.
And, just to add to the confusion, living in Brisbane in Australia we have the Storey Bridge.
How many of us have skeletons in the closet that we know nothing about? The skeletons we know about generally stay there, but those we do not, well, they have a habit of coming out of left field when we least expect it.
In this case, when you see your photo on a TV screen with the accompanying text that says you are wanted by every law enforcement agency in Europe, you’re in a state of shock, only to be compounded by those same police, armed and menacing, kicking the door down.
I’d been thinking about this premise for a while after I discovered my mother had a boyfriend before she married my father, a boyfriend who was, by all accounts, the man who was the love of her life.
Then, in terms of coming up with an idea for a story, what if she had a child by him that we didn’t know about, which might mean I had a half brother or sister I knew nothing about. It’s not an uncommon occurrence from what I’ve been researching.
There are many ways of putting a spin on this story.
Then, in the back of my mind, I remembered a story an acquaintance at work was once telling us over morning tea, that a friend of a friend had a mother who had a twin sister and that each of the sisters had a son by the same father, without each knowing of the father’s actions, both growing up without the other having any knowledge of their half brother, only to meet by accident on the other side of the world.
It was an encounter that in the scheme of things might never have happened, and each would have remained oblivious of the other.
For one sister, the relationship was over before she discovered she was pregnant, and therefore had not told the man he was a father. It was no surprise the relationship foundered when she discovered he was also having a relationship with her sister, a discovery that caused her to cut all ties with both of them and never speak to either from that day.
It’s a story with more twists and turns than a country lane!
And this was a situation that he hadn’t considered, that she would not be pleased to see him. And not only that, was trying her hardest to get rid of him.
They talk and Henry has to wheedle the truth out of her, that the time is not right for her to leave yet, and that he must go. Once again she had presented yet another different persona, and Henry is confused as to her motives and their relationship.
The phone ringing interrupts their moment, Radly advising that they were about to get company.
Just enough time for Henry to say goodbye before he comes face to face with the Turk, who arrives unexpectedly at her front door.
The master of the house arrives, Michelle changes instantly into someone else, and the Turk makes Henry a proposition. He can walk out in one piece but never come back or see her again.
After he leaves the Turk and his favourite girl talk. She doesn’t believe a single word of the Turks, but it does reveal how much he will tolerate her.
He on the other hand does not trust her at all, not now that she has transformed, and off the drugs he supplies to keep his girls compliant. She is different, he has to admit, but he has bigger plans for her now. And sadly that will break their agreement.
I asked myself that question when about 1000 odd words into a current short story, one that I continue to go back to, but found an initial reluctance to write, and now seems to be difficult to continue.
Is the reason because I don’t feel like writing, that I’ve written myself into a corner, the story isn’t flowing, or there’s something else I’d rather be doing…
Like, scouring the internet…
Working on writing some blog posts, like this one…
Checking my email…
Checking my other blogs to see how many people have viewed my recent posts,
Or just puddle with anything other than what I should be doing.
The thing is, I know where most of the stories are going, it’s just a matter of sitting down, picking up the threads, and writing. Certainly, I could be working on one or another right now.
But, something is nagging at me.
I thought it was that I wanted to write another Being Inspired piece, having the photo I wanted to use for inspiration in my head. I sat down this morning and started it, and got seven or eight paragraphs done, and then it was time to go down to breakfast.
Attention diverted.
I could have written more after breakfast, but that seemed to segue into a chat over coffee that ran into lunch. It’s odd how it seems there is so much to talk about.
Then it’s been one excuse after another that has kept me from picking up that story and running with it. I could do it now, but that reluctance remains.
Perhaps tomorrow.
For now, I’m going to work on some crosswords and see if that doesn’t inspire me, and if it doesn’t I could always have an early night.
It’s the same every time we go away, on the run all day doing touristy stuff, making notes for later on, on the run, and then getting back to the room exhausted. After all, there is so much to see and do.
Maybe I’ll just reflect on today and worry about it tomorrow, except…
We have an equally hectic day planned.
Maybe I’ll get that holiday from writing after all.
Thrills, Spills, and just a dash of Romance 