Whispers of the Dead (Tom Gabriel #2) Page 21

  But what was he going back to? And why did he have to be there particularly tonight?

  ‘I don’t like flying,’ a wrinkled old woman said, sitting down next to him.

  ‘Well, don’t then.’

  ‘Either this or a fifteen hour drive, and my days of driving fifteen hours are long gone, I can tell you.’

  He didn’t really want to talk, so he didn’t. Instead, he stretched his legs out and closed his eyes.

  The old lady simply carried on if he was a willing participant in the conversation.

  ‘And my Archie went ten years ago. Of course, I expected to be following on directly, but as God is my witness I’m still here. We didn’t have any children, so I’m on my own, you know. Are you married? Well, no matter. I’m used to being on my own. No sisters or brothers. His parents are long gone, and mine weren’t far behind. What am I doing here you ask? Not visiting relatives that’s for sure. I’m ticking off the things on my bucket list. Did you see that film? Extraordinary. Got the idea from that handsome Morgan Freeman. I shouldn’t say this, but spending the night with him is at the top of my list – if you know what I mean? I guess that’ll never happen, but you can’t blame a girl for trying.’

  He thought she might take a breath, but he was sadly disappointed.

  ‘Got no one to leave my money to, so I thought – why not? Why not indeed? So, I’ve ticked off the American Museum of Natural History; Central Park; Ellis Island Immigration Museum; the Empire State Building; Grand Central Terminal; two art museums although I’m not much of an art lover if the truth be known; the Rockafella Centre; the Staten Island Ferry and, of course, the Statue of Liberty. The one thing I learned from all this was that you’re never too old to learn.’

  On, and on, and on . . .

  Boarding . . .

  ‘Thank you, Sir. Seat number 46.’ As the flight attendant tore off half of his boarding pass he noticed that the Newark Liberty airport code was EWR.

  ‘Thank you, Madam. Seat number 57.’

  ‘Oh dear. Is it possible I could move to seat number 45 or 47.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Madam. Seats are allocated by computer. If there’s an accident, and you’re in a different seat . . . Well, you can imagine the confusion in identifying your body.’

  ‘Very nice, I’m sure.’

  He sighed with relief.

  ‘It’s all right. I swapped with the man in seat number 45. I was so enjoying our little chat, and I could see you were also. I explained to him about my nervous disposition when I have to fly and he was very understanding. So, where were we . . . ?’

  He thought about ratting her out to the flight attendant, but decided against it. He could survive another two hours of incessant chatter. At least he didn’t have to respond. He could just lie back, close his eyes and drift off.

  John Doe’s stencil brush jumped into his mind as sleep tried to drag him down into oblivion. Why would a man carry a stencil brush in his suitcase? A stencil brush was used for stencilling letters, numbers and words onto crates in warehouses – especially a thick stencilling brush for large letters. Maybe large three-letter airport codes. Was that the connection? Had John Doe travelled from Staten Island to Porpoise Point? Were those dry-cleaning tags from one of Maurice Stern’s Alpine Dry Cleaning shops? Did John Doe know Joseph Fowler? Had they worked together? What was John Doe doing in St Augustine? Why had he been killed?

  ‘. . . Of course, I said to my friend Bella Herring that Archie was the man for me. My father thought he wasn’t good enough for me, but don’t all fathers think that about their daughters. It made no difference though because I was besotted by him . . .’

  He opened his eyes, sat up and took out his notebook and pencil. What he needed was a coffee, and he was willing to pay for it. He signalled the flight attendant.

  ‘Yes, Sir?’

  ‘A large strong black coffee, please.’

  ‘Certainly, Sir.’

  ‘Excuse me, young lady.’

  ‘Yes, Madam?’

  ‘Is it possible to get an orgasm?’

  ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘Just a minute.’ She rummaged in her handbag and pulled out a notebook, flicked through the pages and said, ‘Yes, here it is. An Orgasm. It’s a cocktail made with equal parts of Amaretto, Kahlúa and Bailey’s Irish Cream.’

  ‘I’ll see if we have those ingredients, Madam.’

  ‘You do that.’ She turned to Tom. ‘That’ll be another tick on my bucket list.’

  ‘How many things have you got on your list?’

  ‘One thousand three hundred and seven.’

  ‘And how many have you ticked?’

  ‘Thirty-nine.’

  ‘Long way to go.’

  ‘Well, as I said to my friend Pamela Elson – she’s in a home for the stupid now – I said to her, although she was never going to remember a word of it, I said: “Pamela, you only live once . . . Mind you, some people believe in reincarnation . . .’

  The flight attendant came back with his coffee and the old lady’s Orgasm.

  ‘We managed to find the ingredients, Madam.’

  ‘Excellent.’ She sucked up a mouthful through the green and yellow striped straw. ‘Drinking one of these is on my bucket list.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yes. Did you see that film?’

  The flight attendant’s eyes opened wide. ‘With Morgan Freeman?’

  ‘The very same.’

  ‘He’s a dream, isn’t he?’

  ‘He could certainly warm my pillow at night, if you know what I mean?’

  ‘I know exactly what you mean, Madam.’

  ‘Call me Harriet – Harriet Steel . . .’

  ‘Mind you, Jack Nicholson isn’t to be sniffed at, Harriet.’

  ‘A young Jack Nicholson maybe. I don’t think he’s aged as well as Morgan Freeman.’

  Stuck between them like a burger in a bun he slurped his coffee to re-activate his brain cells, and then began writing down names and clues; drawing lines to connect them; putting some things in boxes; creating heavy question marks against some of the items that he’d written down because he either didn’t know any further details, or he had no idea how they fitted into the overall scheme of things.

  When he’d exhausted his idea bank, he realised that there was a definite pattern forming, and Rosalind Winter appeared to be at the centre of it.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Tick, tick, tick.

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

  Tick, tick, tick.

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

  Tick, tick, tick.

  What time was it? Why was it still dark?

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

  Tick, tick, tick.

  Why can’t I see?

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

  She felt sick.

  Everything began spinning – round and round.

  Tick, tick, tick.

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

  ‘Hello?’

  But nobody came.

  ‘Is there anything to drink?’

  No one answered.

  Tick, tick, tick.

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

  Tick, tick, tick.

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

  Blackness.

  Nothing.

  Tick, tick, tick.

  ***

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  TOO LATE

  . . . appear in the condensation on the mirror.

  ‘Mabel, is that you?’

  As usual, there was no answer.

  Too late for what?

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

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

  ‘How are you, Manuel?’

  ‘Very good, Mister Tom.’

  ‘What’s the chef’s special tonight?’

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

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

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

  He left to notify the chef.

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

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

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

  ‘Have you got your gun?’

  ‘Yes, but why do I . . .’

  But she had already gone.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  Ronald Reagan fired his shotgun.

  Manuel’s face disintegrated.

  Blood spattered everywhere.

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

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

  The noise subsided.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  And she’d be within her rights.

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

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

  He took aim and fired.

  The bullet entered the mask through the ear.

  Bill collapsed in a heap on the floor.

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

  Women began screaming again.

  Ronald aimed his shotgun towards Tom and pulled the trigger.

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

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

  He stuck his head up.

  Took aim.


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

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

  Tom saw Allegre’s imperceptible nod.

  So he pulled the trigger.

  ***

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

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

  ‘I saw you nod.’

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

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

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

  He left her singing his praises.

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

  Where was she?

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

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