Authors: Matt Hilton
‘I’ll swap it for another of these,’ I said, holding out my cup to her. ‘To go, please.’
Then, with my replenished drink in hand, I followed Special Agent Cooper out to his vehicle to see what treats he’d brought me. There were more than I expected.
7
Situated between a store selling collectable vinyl records and a gift shop that appeared to hold the monopoly on cheap video and photography equipment, Billie Womack’s art gallery was a thin wedge of red brick, a single plate-glass window and door, and more class than both neighbouring establishments combined to the power of ten. Despite the two tatty shops, Hill End, Washington, was the type of town I loved. Surrounded by forest and hills, and bordered on two sides by a forked river that perpetually foamed over boulders in its descent to the point where the rivers converged again a mile west of town, it was picturesque. There was a proliferation of Victorian-era bridges, metal arches and stanchions buried deep into the bedrock. The dwellings and business establishments were primarily Victorian as well, a mixture of timber and brick, painted in pastel shades. If not for the satellite dishes and modern vehicles parked on the roadsides, you could be forgiven for thinking you’d taken a trip back to a quainter time.
I was happy to note that the major chains hadn’t moved in on the main square, and that family-run establishments still held sway, even in the current climate. Though it was off the beaten track, Hill End attracted enough tourism to save the town from going under. As I moved towards the gallery from where I’d parked my rental car, I had to skirt an Asian couple flouting common sense to stand in the centre of the street to snap their vacation photographs. I wondered if the man had newly purchased his camera from the cheap store next to Billie’s gallery, as he fiddled wildly with the contraption before he was happy with his shots. His partner, probably his wife, didn’t lose her pose or her cheesy grin despite how long he took setting up the perfect shot. When I glanced in the direction he was aiming and saw a dramatic skyline of snow-topped mountains I understood the attraction. I’d grown to love Florida in the years I’d made it my home from home, but it was a nice change to see a bit of countryside with some elevation.
Habit prompted me to take a last look around before I entered Billie’s shop. There were dozens of pedestrians out on the main strip, an equal number of motorists, but nobody that caught my attention, certainly nobody who struck me as a Procrylon-sponsored killer. I went up three steps to the front door and pushed inside. A bell above the door announced my arrival. I expected to smell paint and white spirit, but the aroma was redolent of scented candles: cranberry, I thought. The showroom was small, narrow, and every available space was filled with canvases. Billie Womack shared some of her gallery space with other artists, but perhaps seventy per cent of the paintings bore her trademark image of an indistinct figure in a red coat standing at lakeside. Having learned that Billie was a talented artist I’d searched for images on the Internet, both of her and her work, so I immediately recognised the woman sitting behind a counter in the far right corner.
Billie wouldn’t have been able to find anything about me via a similar search, certainly not a picture, but when she looked up from what she was busy with I caught an immediate crinkling of her eyes as she studied me intently. She even went as far as mouthing my name as I walked towards her.
‘Yeah, I’m Joe Hunter.’
She stood up from a stool. Not that it made much difference to her height, which barely topped five feet. She was slim, but there was strength in her forearms. I saw the ligaments move as she stretched out a hand flecked with paint in myriad colours to greet me. Her skin though proved dry and warm to the touch.
‘Pleased to finally put a face to the voice,’ she said.
‘Hope it doesn’t disappoint? People tend to expect Kevin Costner when they hire a bodyguard.’
She smiled briefly, and then swept a hand over her hair, patting down a stray lock. Her hair was a blend of grey and brown, cut in an easy-to-maintain style. A paint-splattered blouse hung loose over jeans and boots. She had a tight, fit body: a wilderness girl, despite being in her late thirties. ‘Who am I to complain?’ she said in a self-deprecating manner. ‘I guess I’m not of the star calibre you’re usually employed to protect.’
On my arrival in Seattle, and prior to meeting Brandon Cooper, I’d called Billie on her cell. I’d already explained that I wasn’t usually engaged in close protection work, not in the way that an outsider would recognise or understand. I’d protected people, or tried to at least, but I was no bodyguard. Still, it was a tag she was happy with, and I suppose was what I’d signed up for when accepting the job.
Billie appraised me. The top of her head came up to my collarbones. I looked down into clear lavender eyes. It took a moment to realise she was wearing tinted contact lenses. They loaned an unnatural sheen to her eyes, but couldn’t hide the fact that some of the spark had gone out of her. I wasn’t sure if it was through grief, or through fear.
‘I’ll do my best to keep you safe,’ I said.
‘Let’s hope that there’s nothing in Agent Cooper’s concern.’
‘We’ll know soon enough.’ If Cooper was correct and Richard Womack had resurfaced, at much the same time an undercover ATF agent was murdered while investigating his case, then it made sense that Procrylon might have a sudden interest in Billie. To be fair, I was never the most patient, and part of me hoped that Procrylon would show their hand soon. Another part hoped that it was all smoke without the fire and Billie would never again be troubled by the misdeeds of her husband. She’d suffered enough through the loss of her daughter without handling a personal threat.
Billie sat on the stool. I noted that she had a work in progress on a small easel behind the counter, but couldn’t tell what she was painting. She saw me craning for a look.
‘I don’t usually work here, but I followed your advice and came where I felt safest.’
‘I hoped that you’d have other people around you,’ I pointed out.
‘My assistant Hilary just stepped out. She’ll be back in a few minutes.’
‘Do you get many visitors to the gallery?’
‘Passing trade only. Most of my artwork is sold online these days.’
‘Is it regulars you get or mainly tourists?’
‘A bit of both.’
‘So you wouldn’t immediately be alerted to a stranger?’
‘Not normally but I think I’ve been on high alert since Agent Cooper’s visit. There was a guy this afternoon who struck me as . . . uh, odd.’
‘In what way?’
She thought for a moment, then crinkled her nose in distaste. ‘It wasn’t so much anything he said or did, it was his odour. He stank of mould, or rotting vegetation. I actually lit a few scented candles to clear the air after he left.’
‘There’s a lot of forest out there; maybe he was a worker, a tree feller or something?’
‘Wrong type, and he didn’t strike me as a regular hiker or camper, either.’
‘Describe him to me.’
‘I can do better than that. Follow me.’ She was up off the stool and heading for a door at the back of the shop. I went after her, my heels loud on the wooden floor. The door frame was misaligned, and the door didn’t fit neatly. When Billie pushed it open it barely made two feet of clearance before it wedged against a stack of boxed items. ‘We’re a bit cramped for space back here,’ she said. ‘You’ll have to squeeze in.’
Billie sat on an office chair before a cluttered desk on which sat an old computer monitor. The air was crisp with ozone, and the hard drive blipped and blooped merrily beneath the desk. I moved into the narrow gap behind her as she played her fingers across the keyboard and a feed from a CCTV system came up onscreen. The screen was divided into four equal-sized quadrants but the bottom two were blank. The top left screen showed a view of the sidewalk outside the store, at too tight an angle to see anything but the tops of heads and shoulders of passers-by. The second image, the top right, covered the interior of the gallery. The image came from a fisheye lens, so that everything near the camera bulged and enlarged, while to either side objects curved and shrank the further away they were.
‘Not the best CCTV that money can buy,’ Billie muttered. She ignored the exterior view and brought up the interior one so that it filled the screen and didn’t look as skewed. Billie began keying in commands and I watched a date/time stamp rotate backwards at speed. I watched us retreat from the office then stand at the counter, before I walked backwards out of the shop. Billie sat at the counter. A woman backed into the store, spoke with Billie, before making a weird reverse trip around the gallery, untidying as she went. Billie shook her head, keyed in another command and the recording speeded its backwards journey. A young couple backed into the store, danced around in the aisle, then backed out again. An old woman came in, went out. A man in a suit followed – or actually preceded her visit – then a young mother with a child in a stroller. No one left with a painting or even spoke with Billie or her assistant. Then there was a length of time – corresponding to a couple of hours – where nobody but Billie or Hilary was in view. I watched as Billie unlit some candles and knew that we were nearing the point where her unsavoury visitor had called. Sure enough, Billie shuffled in her seat, anticipating the man’s arrival. When he appeared he was almost a blur as he backed into the shop, hung about, then backed out again. Once the image of the shop was clear of him, Billie hit buttons and the recording first halted, and then began to advance at normal speed. ‘He should come into view any second now.’
I leaned in, my thighs brushing the back of Billie’s chair. On screen I saw the door open. It was at the far left of the fisheye scene, so at first the figure was small and indistinct. But he moved further inside the shop and perused some of the paintings on view. He glanced down the gallery towards where Billie sat. The man then moved closer and I got a good look at him. There was nothing remarkable about him, nothing to make him stand out in a crowd. He looked to be aged in his late twenties, not tall, not built, just your average guy. His hair was short, combed neatly right to left. He was wearing a dark red ski-style jacket over a black shirt and jeans, boots too. He could have been a hiker or camper, except that his clothing looked too new. The neatness of his clothes – even showing creases where they’d recently been folded and packaged – was at odds with the odour that Billie claimed had come off him. The man positioned himself in front of an easel, but I could tell he was looking over it towards where Billie sat at the counter. Even when Billie’s assistant, a good-looking young woman, passed him, he didn’t pull his gaze from Billie.
‘He was taking a lot of interest in you,’ I said.
‘Maybe he was star-struck at seeing a famous artist at work,’ Billie quipped.
Onscreen the man turned his head aside, and it was because Hilary had walked by him again. He was averting his gaze, avoiding any contact. As Hilary moved towards the counter, her face was scrunched, and she gave a discreet wave of her hand under her nose. I watched as the onscreen Billie lifted her head and looked directly at the man. He reacted exactly as a guilty man would: he began to scrutinise the paintings with far too much interest, his facial expressions and body language exaggerated. Then he made a show of looking at his wristwatch, and moving for the exit as if he’d just recalled he had an urgent meeting elsewhere.
‘I thought he was a shoplifter,’ Billie said.
I ignored her words, still watching the screen. I noticed a shadow in the far right of it that hadn’t been there earlier. ‘Can you bring up the other screen and rewind it to the same point?’
‘Sure.’ Billie did as asked, and the image on the monitor was replaced by the view of the sidewalk.
‘He didn’t leave immediately,’ I said, pointing out the obvious. The smelly man hung about outside the shop, peering in through the window. He’d positioned himself so that he wasn’t obvious to anyone inside, watching Billie through the narrow gaps between paintings in the window display. I watched the clock on the screen and saw that he hung around for another seven minutes. Perhaps he’d have stayed longer but another man approached him. This man was older and wore a suit. They spoke for a few seconds before the suited man beckoned the other away and they disappeared offscreen.
‘Fast-forward the picture,’ I said, and Billie complied.
Sure enough, after two hours of no customers a young mother pushed a stroller inside the shop, leaving shortly afterwards. Then the man in the suit came back. He entered the shop. Billie went to switch views, but I touched her wrist. ‘Hold on.’
Smelly Man reappeared and took up his earlier position, peering in through the gap in the window display.
‘They’re working together, all right.’
Billie looked up at my words, frowning.