The novel ‘Echoes from the past’ started out as a short story I wrote about 30 years ago, titled ‘The birthday’.
My idea was to take a normal person out of their comfort zone and led on a short but very frightening journey to a place where a surprise birthday party had been arranged.
Thus the very large man with a scar and a red tie was created.
So was the friend with the limousine who worked as a pilot.
So were the two women, Wendy and Angelina, who were Flight Attendants that the pilot friend asked to join the conspiracy.
I was going to rework the short story, then about ten pages long, into something a little more.
And like all re-writes, especially those I have anything to do with, it turned into a novel.
There was motivation. I had told some colleagues at the place where I worked at the time that I liked writing, and they wanted a sample. I was going to give them the re-worked short story. Instead, I gave them ‘Echoes from the past’
Originally it was not set anywhere in particular.
But when considering a location, I had, at the time, recently been to New York in December, and visited Brooklyn and Queens, as well as a lot of New York itself. We were there for New Years, and it was an experience I’ll never forget.
One evening we were out late, and finished up in Brooklyn Heights, near the waterfront, and there was rain and snow, it was cold and wet, and there were apartment buildings shimmering in the street light, and I thought, this is the place where my main character will live.
It had a very spooky atmosphere, the sort where ghosts would not be unexpected. I felt more than one shiver go up and down my spine in the few minutes I was there.
I had taken notes, as I always do, of everywhere we went so I had a ready supply of locations I could use, changing the names in some cases.
Fifth Avenue near the Rockefeller center is amazing at first light, and late at night with the Seasonal decorations and lights.
The original main character was a shy and man of few friends, hence not expecting the surprise party. I enhanced that shyness into purposely lonely because of an issue from his past that leaves him always looking over his shoulder and ready to move on at the slightest hint of trouble. No friends, no relationships, just a very low profile.
Then I thought, what if he breaks the cardinal rule, and begins a relationship?
But it is also as much an exploration of a damaged soul, as it is the search for a normal life, without having any idea what normal was, and how the understanding of one person can sometimes make all the difference in what we may think or feel.
I had damning evidence, and he would ponder why I didn’t play that card back when he was trying to stop the publication of that first story, which was essentially a parody of his discovery.
It was true that Antoine had been totally discredited, not in small part by Aristotle Jamieson himself, and when he had died in the so-called accident, any controversy that had been lingering died with him.
It was almost too convenient, and I didn’t want to think that my investigation of the Jamiesons had anything to do with his death, but I guess it had, and it wasn’t hard to guess who did it. Jamieson may not have personally killed him, but he was not above paying someone else to do it for him.
What had precipitated that critical interview was Antoine himself, having read an article I’d written about the Jamieson find, and thought I would be interested in what he had to say. I knew before that interview his reputation was tarnished, but to me, it seemed he would be exactly the sort of person Jamieson would go to if he wanted to fabricate artifacts.
What Antoine had to say and show me was a revelation. He was doing the interview because Jamieson had short-paid him quite a considerable sum of money, and it was the old story, thieves fall out. He said that he would have one more attempt at getting his money before giving me the OK to publish, and it was the last time I saw or heard from him.
It wasn’t a surprise to read about his death in the papers some days later. The fact it was believed to be an accident got my interest and set my investigative journalist persona into overdrive. I didn’t relax until I found the evidence it was not an accident, but convincing the police became an uphill battle because they were more interested in closing the case.
It would keep. One day, his death would be avenged. Just not today.
Elizabeth asked me why I’d been so long, and I think she may have suspected I’d gone to see Jamieson.
She didn’t press the matter as she was in a hurry to leave for her dig site and was ready to depart the moment I walked in the door. I was also ready. The quicker we got away from the hotel, the less chance of Jamieson, or his odious son, coming to see me.
I hadn’t taken the time to consider the consequences of confronting Jamieson and should have realised just how unpredictable they could be, particularly Jackson. He would be very annoyed that I had any sway over their activities. It made me wonder whether Aristotle had told his son exactly what was going on, and if he hadn’t, I could understand why.
I looked over at Elizabeth from time to time and could see the confrontation earlier had shaken her. I found it difficult to understand why the Jamiesons would be interested in a minor investigation like Elizabeth’s. Pirates were never high on the glamourous archelogy list.
Perhaps it held that certain amount of exotic appeal and that in moving from the Egyptian discovery, now losing its shine due to the way they were marketing it, it would be good to have something new to divert the archaeological world’s attention.
Then there was the revelation from Jamieson that she had let the permits for her dig expire. The Elizabeth I knew was a stickler for details and would never let it happen. Perhaps the loss of funding had something to do with it, but she had not said anything about it. Why?
This whole episode was beginning to take on elements that would, in other circumstances, become the makings of one of my novels. In fact, I found my mind starting to write the outline, starting with the mysterious appearance of a renowned archaeologist suddenly coming back to an old flame, looking to renew their relationship, with the plan to convince him to fund one of her projects, one that if it played out the way she hoped, it would be the next big archaeological event.
Step in the evil Dr Blob, a notorious villain who made a handsome living out of stealing sites and plundering their treasures for personal gain and glory. Who will win the battle?
Was it fiction or was it fact.
It seemed to me the catalyst for the real saga was the loss of funding from the university. Jamieson might have had some influence on the decision, after all, he provided a grant to the university archaeology department and enabled graduates to gain some practical experience at his dig site. That would enable him to swoop in.
It would not be the first time I’d based the evil archaeologist on him, and Jackson made a perfect belligerent henchman.
And what if they had, and expected the Dean to pass on the news in the hope it would drag her away long enough for them to step in and take over, perhaps hoping she might not return until after they had found what she had been looking for. After all, ad hoc funding for speculative projects like hers was not easy to arrange.
There were just too many questions that I should have asked before embarking on this odyssey, and perhaps I should not have allowed my feelings for her to get in the way of making the proper decision.
We’d been driving for nearly two hours when she suddenly said, “You went to see Jamieson, didn’t you?”
I glanced sideways at her, and I could see she had been thinking about it. It was a logical conclusion.
“What makes you think that?” I’d try to deflect it if possible. I was not quite sure how she would react, which was why I didn’t say anything.
“Your haste to leave. You’ve never been that enthusiastic about anything in your life.”
“I could see the distress this whole affair was causing you. You needed to see if he really has stepped in. Yes, I did drop in and we had words. I basically told him to leave your site alone.”
“And what did he say to that?”
“He would think about it. The problem was, he told me you had let the permits expire. Did you?”
Another glance told me it was true.
“I was going to renew them but the fact my funding had been cut made that a little difficult. I was hoping I could find replacement funds and sort that out. He renewed the permits, didn’t he?”
“You made it easy for him to swoop in.”
“How could he possibly know any of this?”
“Jackson. You know he was obsessed with you. He would have been watching your progress with a keen interest, especially if it meant he could use any trip on your part against you. And the fact your ex-assistant called him, or perhaps the other way around…”
I’d been looking for a way and forgot about Jackson. He was not the sort to forgive and forget. Especially when she preferred another struggling archaeologist instead of one who was rich and famous, well, handing onto the coattails of one who was rich and famous.
“Well, if nothing else, you’ve got the makings of a very good story here.”
“We have the makings of a very good story here. I’m not averse to collaborating with a real archaeologist.”
I reached out and gave her hand a squeeze. I could see a tear or two escape and felt the enormity of the loss. Seven years of hard work was about to disappear, and someone else would take the kudos. It wasn’t fair, but it wouldn’t be for the first time.
Ten miles out from our destination, according to the latitude and longitude coordinates she had given me, we passed a convoy of trucks going in the opposite direction. Earth moving equipment, generators, portable huts. It might have been from Jamieson’s dig, it might not. I wasn’t getting my hopes up.
She had noticed it but said nothing.
Then, we were upon the very edge of the area she had set as the exploration site. There was a portable wire fence set up with a gate, and in front a car with a man sitting in it.
“What do you think he’s waiting for?” she asked.
“Us. Wait here, and I’ll see what’s going on. This is part of the area you based your permit on isn’t it?”
“We’re on about the middle. It’s where I would set up camp. We had two years ago while we branched out in both directions. Our camp was about to be moved to the new site.”
“OK.”
I got out of the car and went over to the SUV. He watched me come over and when I got there, he would down the window.
“You Alan?”
“I am.”
“I was asked by Mr Jamieson to tell you the site is yours. For what it’s worth, we did an extensive radar search and found nothing. We covered the whole site. The pirate didn’t exist, and the treasure doesn’t exist. I’d leave while I had the chance.” He handed me an envelope. “The permits, his gift to you. He still expects you to keep your end of the arrangement.”
“I will. He has my word.”
“Good. My work is done. Good luck, you’re going to need it.”
With that, he wound the window back up and drove off.
It didn’t surprise me Jamieson would do a radar survey. If there was any treasure it would not be buried too deeply and would be found quite easily. Of course, radar searches were very expensive and would never get funding from the university, and Elizabeth could never afford it.
I watched the car until it disappeared, shrugged, and went back to my car.
“What was that about?”
“Jamieson has given you the dig site back.” I held up the envelope. “The permits, pain in full.”
“Ehat else did he say?”
“That Jamieson ordered a radar survey on the whole area, and they found nothing. They were here long enough to do that. They found nothing, which is why they have gone.”
“Or they did and have already taken it with them. Take me to the coordinates and we’ll soon see.”
Indeed, we would.
It was about a half mile, after turning off the main track to a lesser one defined by two distinct tracks where cars had been before. It was overgrown and the trees brushed the side of the car continuously.
At the end of the track, or what seemed to be the end, we stopped at a wall, just ragged enough to look like it was natural, but on closer inspection under the headlights of the car, showed it had been man-made.
I turned off the engine and we got out.
“This the site?”
“No. This way.” She had a flashlight and switched it on.
The beam was quite powerful and cut through the night like a beacon. In the distance I could hear the ocean, waves crashing on shore. Had the pirates tramped up here, set up camp, and buried their treasure?
With my own flashlight, I checked the ground. There had been a second set of tyre marks on the ground, and there were footsteps, recent, everywhere. They had definitely been here.
I followed her as she made her way along the wall, then down a track that looked hazardous. Luckily it was dark, or I might have suspected it was on the side of a cliff. There was nothing but inky darkness surrounding us.
All the time we were getting closer to the sound of the waves.
Then we stopped. It was a small clearing, and to one side the rocky outcrop of the cliff face behind one very dense underbrush, the other, a view of the ocean at night. It was not that far down, the beam of her light showing the water below.
“How did you find this place?”
“I actually got lost going around in circles. This is where I believe they made camp. Below the lagoon is reasonably deep and it’s where I think they repaired their ship after a battle with one of the King’s navy ships. I’ve found a variety of objects here.”
“But no treasure.”
“Not in the clearing, no. But here’s the surprise.” She went over to the underbrush and did a quick search until she found a spot where the undergrowth was not as thick, then beckoned me over.”
She held a branch back and shined her torch. Just discernible in the light was an opening, and not much further back from that, a doorway.”
The veritable entrance to Aladdin’s cave.
“How could they have missed it?”
“Easy. If you’re not looking for it. It wasn’t until I heard noises coming from within the trees. Imagine my surprise when I found it.”
“Have you investigated it yet?”
“No. For a long time sitting there, it’s still very strong. The hinges are rusted, but intact, and the door is made of oak, and not rotted as you would expect. It was another reason why I needed to go home. I needed more sophisticated tools. I was hoping no one would find it while I was gone, but this is a very remote part of the coastline. The cove has changed a lot in 400 years, and I doubt anyone could see it from the ocean now. Ideal to hide in. So, let’s set up camp, and tomorrow, see what we’ve got.”
It was a find in a million, I thought.
I also wondered if Jamieson would have given up so easily had he not done the radar survey. It was a moot point. He was gone, we were here, and time would tell.
She came over to me and took my hand in hers.
“Thank you for being my guardian angel. If it is what I think it is, then the find will be as much yours as it is mine.”
“My pleasure.”
With that, and for the first time in my life, I felt that thrill of being on a real dig, hoping that we would make a discovery. Even if we didn’t, nothing was going to take that feeling away, that sense that finally, all that study was going to pay off.”
The story fleshed out for the second section, discussed in Point of View
Annalisa looked at the two men facing her, a shopkeeper who, despite his protestations, was a dealer, and the other man, a customer scared shitless.
The poor bastard was not the only one scared.
It was meant to be simple, arrive at the shop just before closing, force the shopkeeper to hand over the shit, and leave.
What had happened?
The shopkeeper laughed at them and told them to get out. Simmo started ranting and waving the gun around, then all of a sudden collapsed.
There was a race for the gun which spilled out of Simmo’s hand, and she won. No more arguments, the shopkeeper was getting the stuff when the customer burst into the shop.
This was worse than any bad hair day, or getting out of the wrong side of bed day, this was, she was convinced, the last day of her life.
Her mother said she would never amount to anything, and here she was with a drug addict coming apart because she had been cut off from her money and could no longer pay for his supply, which had led them to this inevitable ending.
She heard a strange sound come from beside her and looked down. Simmo was getting worse, like he had a fever, and was moaning.
If Alphonse had thought his day was going to get any better after the delivery disaster earlier that day, he was wrong.
If he thought he could maintain his real business and his under the counter business with no one finding out, in that he was wrong too. He’s know, inevitably, some useless punk would come and do exactly what Simmo was doing.
It might have been salvageable before the customer came in the door, but now it was not. The customer had heard the words, and given him ‘the look’. A drug addict telling the cops he was a dealer, it was his word against an unreliable addict, but this local chap, he had that air of respectability the cops would listen too.
Damn.
But he had to try and salvage the situation, there was a lot of money involved, and other people depending on him. He looked at the boy, on the floor, then the girl.
“Listen to me, young lady, I have no idea what you are talking about. Please, put the gun down before someone gets hurt. Your friend needs medical help and I can call an ambulance.”
The girl switched her attention back to him. “Shut up, let me think. Shit.”
The storekeeper glanced over at the customer. He’s been in once or twice, probably lived in the neighborhood, but looked the sort who’d prefer to be anywhere but in his shop. More so now. If only he hadn’t burst in when he did. He would have the gun, called the police, and brazened his way out of trouble. Now, that remedy was off the table.
Now he had to deal with the fallout, especially if the girl started talking.
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…
“Turn around and head towards the trees, we’re not very far from you,” the voice in my head said.
I turned, saw the trees and moved towards them.
“Straight ahead.”
Then I could just see her, beside one of the tree trunks, under the cover of the canopy.
For the moment we would not be seen, but if someone was looking intently, we would be seen.
Jennifer was kneeling, her knees and weight keeping the assailant on the ground. She handed me the gun, a silenced Baretta, with the distinct aroma of a discharged bullet.
Jennifer had pulled off the balaclava. Jan.
Not working for Severin, but Dobbin. Or someone else?
“Who ordered the hit?”
“Go fuck yourself.”
Not entirely unexpected.
I pulled out my phone and dialled the number for the Detective Inspector that had been at Maury’s crime scene. I knew there was going to be a need to call her in the not-too-distant future. And Jan needed to be in a safe place where she couldn’t be got at.
“Who is this?”
My number would have come up as a ‘private number’.
“We met at the hotel where Maury died.”
“The spy?”
“Of sorts. I’m sorry to say that his companion, Severin, is also now very dead in the rotunda at the Italian Gardens at Hyde Park. I’d get someone down here before the body is removed or found by a member of the public.”
I heard a scream and deduced it came from the rotunda.
“Too late. Hurry before the crime scene is contaminated.”
“Where are you?”
“Nearby. And if you’re especially quick, we have a surprise for you.”
Two constables arrived in four minutes, most likely nearby for another reason. The Detective Inspector and her Sergeant arrived within 20 minutes, but by that time Jennifer and Jan had retreated to the car, parked away from the gardens.
Anyone seeing us heading away would have picked us for three drunken fools escorting a friend who had passed out. Jan had struggled to get free, and it had been necessary to subdue her.
I had wanted to ask further questions, but circumstances didn’t allow it. Not yet.
Leaving Jennifer with Jan, securely tied up, but looking like she was sleeping of a long drinking session, I went back to the crime scene just as the Detective Inspector was coming out of the rotunda.
She recognised me and called me over to the tape that separated the public from the scene. The forensic team had just arrived and was setting up. I doubted she would let me into the crime scene area, but I had seen enough when I’d been there with Severin.
“Why are you here, and give me a good reason not to take you into custody.”
“He called me earlier and wanted to talk. I think he found out Maury was dead, and he was next. I didn’t kill him, but I know who did, but I’m not sure we’re going to be able to prove it.”
“That weedy little man that saved your ass the last time?”
“Richards or Dobbin? Either or together or one of their henchmen. Not sure, to be honest. All I knop is it’s possible Maury was killed during an intense interrogation. I suspect Severin was killed to silence him.”
“Because of what?”
“I believe it is about the existence of a formula for a biological weapon.”
This book has finally reached the Final Editor’s draft, so this month it is going to get the last revision, and a reread for the beta readers.
…
Jack’s mother is missing, well, not technically missing, but dumping the package and disappearing seemed a very close equivalent.
Maryanne has finally dropped the pretence and told Jack the truth, she is working with the authorities (but will not tell him who exactly they are) and that she is only interested in the diary, which everyone now assumes was in the package.
Who does it belong to? That will be revealed soon.
Failing her mission, Maryanne tells Jack she’s been taken off the case, and when Jack tells her is going after Jacob, she decides to tag along, perhaps for his protection.
Looking like Jacob, and going to look for him has some irony attached to it, and it would not be unreasonable to assume Jack is about to find himself in some very hot water, from good people and bad alike.
Then, if that isn’t enough on his plate, McCallister, the reputed owner of the diary, and Jacob’s father, and probably likely his, calls. He wants the diary back, or Jack’s mother will be harmed.
The search is now not for Jacob, but for his mother.
This morning started with a visit to the car rental place in Vancouver. It reinforced the notion that you can be given the address and still not find the place. It happened in Washington where it was hiding in the back of the main railway station, and it happened again in Vancouver when it was hidden inside a hotel.
We simply walked straight past it. Pity there wasn’t a sign to let people know.
However…
We went in expecting a Grand Jeep Cherokee and walked out with a Ford Flex, suitable for three people and four large suitcases. It actually seats 7, but forget the baggage, you’d be lucky to get two large suitcases in that configuration.
It is more than adequate for our requirements.
Things to note, it was delivered with just over a quarter of a tank of gas, and it had only done about 11,000 km, so it’s relatively new. It’s reasonably spacious, and when the extra seats are folded down, there is plenty of baggage space.
So far, so good.
We finally leave the hotel about half-past ten, and it is raining. It is a simple task to get on Highway 1, the TransCanada Highway, initially, and then onto Highway 5, the Coquihalla highway for the trip to Kamloops.
It rains all the way to the top of the mountain, progress hampered from time to time by water sprays from both vehicles and trucks. The rain is relentless. At the top of the mountain, the rain turns into snow and the road surface to slush. It’s 0 degrees, but being the afternoon, I was not expecting it to turn to ice very quickly.
On the other side of the mountain, closer to Kamloops, there was sleet, then rain, then nothing, the last 100kms or so, in reasonably dry conditions.
Outside Kamloops, and in the town itself, there was evidence of snow recently cleared, and slushy roads. Cars in various places were covered in snow, indicating the most recent falls had been the night before.
We’re staying at the Park Hotel, a heritage building, apparently built in the later 1920s. In the style of the time, it is a little like a rabbit warren with passages turning off in a number of directions, and showing it is spread across a number of different buildings.
It has the original Otis elevator that can take a maximum of four passengers, and a sign on the wall that says “no horseplay inside the elevator” which is a rather interesting expression that only someone of my vintage would understand. And, for those without a sense of humor, you definitely couldn’t fit a horse in it to play with.
The thing is, how do you find a balance between keeping the old world charm with modern day expectations. You can’t. Some hotels try valiantly to get that balance. Here, it is simply old world charm, which I guess we should be grateful for because sooner rather than later it’s going to disappear forever.
In my writer’s mind, given the importance of the railways, this was probably a thriving place for travelers and once upon a time, there were a lot more hotels like this one.
It might well be the lament of the person who was the principal behind the operation. It was meant to take a few weeks, then leave as though nothing happened.
That might have happened if the building hadn’t been loaded up with CCTV coverage, most of which only a few knew about, and certainly not those who were in on the operation.
Yes, someone forgot the drug made it’s victim paranoid on top of everything else.
And, taking on someone like Agatha, who had learned from dealing with her father that she always had to be one step ahead of everyone else, was probably a sin in itself.
Never, never, underestimate your enemy.
And yet another slice of what could be called dumb luck, it was not anticipated that Agatha would fall down those stairs and end up in a coma. Not for long, but just long enough, before succumbing to her injury.
To say that was not supposed to happen was an understatement.
It brought in the police, a very, very close inspection of the people inside the operation, and word, it brought back her husband, Michael, and he was looking for vengeance.
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.”
Staying at Hampton Inn and Suites downtown, whatever that means because it looks like we are in the middle of nowhere.
But, judging by the crowd in the breakfast room, it’s a popular hotel. Of course, it is Sunday morning so this could be the weekend escape people.
Two things I remember about staying in a Hampton Inn are firstly the waffles and whipped butter. It’s been five years, but nothing has changed, they are as delicious as ever. The other is where I discovered vanilla-flavoured milk for coffee, and it, too, is addictive.
They also used to have flat burgers that were made out of delicious sausage meat, but on the first day, they were not on the menu.
Nevertheless, it was still a very delicious breakfast.
After some research into where we might find this Pixmi unicorn, it appears that it is available at a ‘Toys Are Us’ store in one of the suburbs of Vancouver. So, resuming the quest, we took a taxi to West Broadway, the street where the store is located.
A quick search of the store finds where the toys we’re looking for are, after asking one of the sales staff, and we find there are at least a dozen of them. Apparently, they are not as popular in Canada as they might be in America. Cheaper too, because the exchange rate for Canadian dollars is much better than for American dollars. Still, seventy dollars for a stuffed toy is a lot of money.
We also get some slime, stuff that our middle granddaughter seems to like playing with.
After shopping we set off down West Broadway, the way we had come, looking for a taxi to return us to the hotel. There’s no question of walking back to the hotel.
A few hours later we walked to the observation tower, which was not far from the hotel,
a place where we could get a 360-degree view of the city of Vancouver although it was very difficult to see any of the old buildings because they were hidden by the newer buildings, nor could we see the distant mountains because of the haze.
After leaving the tower we walked down Water Street to see the steam clock and the old-world charm of a cobbled street and old buildings
We stopped at the Spaghetti Factory Italian restaurant for dinner, which is so popular that we had to wait, 10 minutes to start with. It doesn’t take all that long to order and have the food delivered to the table. Inside the restaurant, there is an actual cable car, but we didn’t get to sit in it.
I have steak, rare, mushrooms, and spaghetti with marinara sauce. No, marinara doesn’t mean seafood sauce but a very tasty tomato-based sauce. The steak was absolutely delicious and extremely tender which made it more difficult to cut with a steak knife.
The write-up for the marinara sauce is, ‘It tastes so fresh because it is made directly from vine-ripened tomatoes, not from concentrate, packed within 6 hours of harvest. We combine them with fresh, high-quality ingredients such as caramelised onions, roasted garlic and extra virgin olive oil.’
Oh, and did I mention they have a streetcar right there in the middle of the restaurant
I’m going to try and make the sauce when we get home.
After dinner, we return to the observation tower, the ticket allowing us to go back more than once and see the sights at nighttime. I can’t say it was all that spectacular.
Another day has gone, and we are heading home tomorrow.
Thrills, Spills, and just a dash of Romance 