___________________________
He waited in the shadows, watching his prey.
The man with the comb-over had no idea he was being followed, or who was doing the following.
Comb-over had gone about his business all day, oblivious.
A gazelle chewing grass while the cheetah slinked.
Christmas Day had been mostly quiet for the comb-over, but busy. He’d run an errand for his miserable old mom, then called round at a friend’s house for a glass of Christmas cheer. The errand had reminded him that being an only child with aging parents sucked, while the visit had reminded him how lonely he’d be without kids of his own once age sucked the life out of him.
Later, he’d spent some time indoors, at his parents’ place, watching TV with his feet up, while his decrepit dad grouched about ungrateful kids and reruns.
A picture of Christmas bliss, copied across America.
Now he was picking up a few last-minute items from a convenience store. Looked like a carton of milk and a pack of beer. The milk helped sate his dad’s ulcer while the beer helped sedate his mom.
From the shadows he watched the comb-over cough up a twenty dollar bill and tell the owner to keep the change. Then he sauntered across the empty lot to his dad’s Chrysler.
No idea that this would be his last day on earth.
He watched him get in, place his purchases in the passenger foot space, mouth a silent prayer.
No idea anyone was sitting in the shadowy backseat.
___________________________
Whichever way you looked at it, it was a mess.
Rae got on her phone again and broke the news to our counterparts at the Anchorage field office. There was a very slim chance Cornsilk was still in Alaska. They’d send field agents to the airport and notify the port authorities to be on the lookout for our fugitive. The same went for the border agents operating the crossings leading into Yukon and British Columbia. I wasn’t hopeful. Cornsilk had at least a six hour head start. The likelihood of him still being within reach was remote. More likely he’d hitched a ride on a vehicle heading south and already crossed the border into Canada. If so, he was as good as gone.
Snakeskin was in the wind.
And it was an ill one, for us.
___________________________
“I’ll get them onto refueling the Gulfstream,” Rae said as we marched through the airbridge tunnel. “We need to go back to Alaska, right now.”
I put the brakes on. “Rae, not yet. There’s something I need to take care of here, first.”
She looked puzzled. “What’s more important than going after Cornsilk?”
“Nothing. Trust me, catching up with Cornsilk is my number one priority. He killed my son. Believe me, I’m focused. I know you’re pissed he gave us the slip and so am I, but we need to go about this the right way.”
“And if we stop now his trail will go cold overnight.” She was uncomfortable with the thought of losing momentum and it came through in her tone.
I let out a ragged breath. “You’re right. And that’s why we’ve scrambled every available field agent and border control officer in Alaska – for all the good it will do.”
Her eyes narrowed. “You think it’s already too late, don’t you?”
I nodded. “If I were him I’d be as far away from Alaska as humanly possible. He’s had a good head start. He’ll be long gone by now. I don’t want to waste our time rushing back there if we need to be concentrating our efforts elsewhere. Look at us both, Rae: we’re running on fumes. It’s late. We haven’t slept since I don’t know when. Let’s get some sleep, recharge, then catch up again first thing in the morning. In the meantime, I’ll speak with Locklear, see if he’s found anything at Engel’s place. Anchorage has our numbers; they’ll call if they get anything on Cornsilk.”
“Stop being so damn level-headed.”
“Rae . . .”
“No, Gabe, you’re behaving like you don’t give a crap. I understand you’re on a mission to avenge George. I get it. I really do. But pushing me away and bottling it all up will only end badly.” She reached out and slid her hand in mine. “I’m worried about you.”
“I haven’t asked that of you, Rae.”
“That’s because it’s automatic, Gabe. Don’t you get it? I don’t have a choice in the matter. That’s what happens when you have feelings for someone. You worry over their wellbeing. Right now you’re acting all macho and robotic, while all the hurt and anger builds up the pressure inside. Sooner or later you’re going to blow. And I’m worried you’ll do something crazy.”
“Crazy is what I do, remember?”
She squeezed my hand. “All the more reason why you shouldn’t be alone right now. Come home with me.”
I was tempted – sorely – by the offer. Being with Rae –
being physically intimate with Rae
– not only took me to a better place, it also felt right. And nothing had felt right in a very long time. I was in no doubt Rae Burnett was good for my soul. Truth was, I wasn’t sure if it worked both ways.
___________________________
It was after midnight.
No stars visible through the murky yellow overcast of reflected city lights.
I was in a taxi, heading northwest on Lincoln Boulevard, away from LAX. The driver had the windows down. Warmish air blowing in. But the clement Californian climate was unable to chase away my chill. It seemed the freezing Alaskan temperature had embedded itself in my skin –
under my skin
– leaving me with the shakes. Cold thoughts snowballing in my head.
Rae had called me a
selfish sumbitch
as we’d gone our separate ways. No argument from me. This wasn’t her show.
I paid the fare and got out on the roadside along Admiralty Way. The smell of salt was heavy in the air. I could hear distant music thumping from a big yacht down in the marina: rich kids snorting coke and comparing Hollywood smiles. I crossed empty lanes toward the hotel situated directly on the Marina Del Rey harbor front. It was an upmarket property, supplying lavish accommodations to people visiting the seaside community. Not the kind of place my own travel expenditure had ever stretched to.
The hotel lobby was quiet. Most guests either in bed or watching on-demand movies. I passed beneath a big chandelier and over thick carpeting. I could see a wafer-thin male receptionist with short blonde hair, busy ogling a computer screen in the back office. I pushed through the door leading to the stairwell and made my way to the eleventh floor. The elevators were keycard-operated. A security setup designed to stop non-paying guests from accessing the upper floors. Possibly for Health and Safety reasons, the stairs hadn’t been factored into the equation.
My destination resided halfway along a hallway dotted with maritime prints. I came to the door, hesitated, then rapped knuckles against the wood. I was acting on an assumption. The last time I’d been here I’d made a grave error. Not this time. I heard movement coming from within. I stared at the spyhole, knowing that there was an eye checking me out on the other side.
The door opened to reveal the spitting image of Sean Bean, the movie actor, dressed in a Pink Floyd tour tee and stripy lounge pants. But this wasn’t Sean Bean. He wasn’t even a movie actor. His name was Mason Stone: a Brit with dual-nationality – formerly a top inspector with the London Met, now working for the US federal government out of Pennsylvania Avenue. But he could have passed as Sean Bean in any light. He had the same gray-grizzled chin. The same soulful stare through baggy eyes.
“Bloody hell, Quinn. You never fail to amaze. If you’re here delivering Christmas presents, you’re late. Haven’t you seen what time it is?”
I didn’t answer.
There was a snarl scraping away at the back of my teeth.
I’d anticipated this moment since discovering the photograph in Westbrook’s lockbox.
Some of the snarl leaked out as I propelled myself at Mason Stone, hands outstretched.
___________________________
It was the last thing he expected.
I grabbed him by the neck of his souvenir T-shirt and used the momentum to force him backward and off-balance. Caught off-guard, Stone backpedaled, eyes widening. I had the advantage, the element of surprise. It should have been a breeze knocking him off his bare feet. It wasn’t. Stone’s loose muscles were a camouflage for his core strength. He didn’t crash to the plush carpeting as expected, with me on top, probably about to throttle him. Instead, he rotated at the waist as we toppled into his suite. Threw both arms upward and under my own, effectively breaking my grip, then used my momentum against me, spinning me aside. The power balance shifted. Suddenly I didn’t have my footing or any kind of advantage. I landed heavily on the carpet, face first. Ribs popping. Stone stepped out of reach and looked down at me with thick ridges furrowing his brow.
“For God’s sake, Quinn. Remind me to get you fixed up with judo lessons. That was amateurish beyond embarrassment.”
I kicked him on the back of his knee. His leg buckled. His shoulder dipped. I rolled to my feet and rushed him, head down for the tackle. Wrapped arms around his waist, buried my shoulder in his stomach and pushed him back against an ornate side table. Wood grated against plaster. Stone’s shoulders slammed into a painting, knocking it askew. A vase of fake flowers toppled to the carpet.
“Watch the bloody furniture, Quinn.”
I punched him in the side. Not hard enough to do any real damage – just enough to knock the wind out of him. He responded by sliding a python-like arm around my neck and squeezing, hard. In the same heartbeat, he spun round on the spot – so that we were now facing the same way, but with me stooped in his stranglehold – and proceeded to apply the pressure. Stone was going for a blood choke. I went to elbow him in the groin, but suddenly my vision was spotting, the world spinning, ears ringing, and then . . . blackness.
___________________________
That night – spent fidgeting and worrying as George had undergone scans – had been the scariest of my life to that point. Chasing down bad guys through shadowy alleyways hadn’t come close.
Nothing compares to a parent’s fear when their child’s life hangs in the balance.
The scan results had taken a lifetime coming through.
Hope had sat stewing, slightly tearful, while I’d paced the hospital corridor, quietly raging at myself for letting it happen. Hope hadn’t verbally condemned me for leaving George on the carousel. She hadn’t needed to. The terror in her eyes had been enough to slip the hangman’s noose around my neck.
And the torturous wait had pulled it tight.
Parenting is just about the most rewarding job in the world, and just about the hardest.
But when it goes wrong the blame rests solely on our shoulders.
George had cracked his skull on his fall from the carousel. He’d remained unconscious the whole ride in the EMS vehicle, and even during his tests in the hospital.
“Following this kind of trauma, it’s not uncommon for the brain to shut itself down,” a young doctor, seemingly fresh out of med school, had told us.
“In other words, our son is in a coma.”
A confirmative nod. “Right now, it’s likely his brain is undergoing damage assessment and repairing what it can.”
Although George had bled profusely from his head wound, the MRI scan had shown no signs of any internal bleeding. Thank God. No brain swelling to speak of. Some unusual misfiring, possibly caused by the blow, or his
condition
. No signs that he wouldn’t make a full recovery, or at least return to the healthy boy we knew and loved.
Hadn’t stopped us fretting like traitors before a firing squad.
“Can’t you at least bring him out of it with drugs?”
“In our experience, we’ve found it’s better to let the patient’s brain decide on the right time. Your son took a big knock. His whole nervous system went into shock. The coma is temporary. It’s his brain’s way of recharging. We expect he’ll wake sooner rather than later, and with no adverse side effects.”
We hadn’t been convinced.
Worrying parents are programmed to think the worst. It’s our paternal instinct protecting us, preparing us for any eventuality.
Twenty-four hours later, George had surfaced from his catatonic sleep.
But something had changed in him.
I’d seen it in his eyes.
Something a little more wild, a little more basic.
Visible only when he’d looked my way.