The Sacred Knife, page 17
Richard sensed the presence of danger. His sixth sense was signalling him that he was missing something, but he couldn’t put his finger on it.
Richard picked up another glass of red wine, placing his empty glass on the tray of a passing waiter.
He glanced at his watch; this was his second drink in three hours. A veteran of many official receptions, he had long ago learned to pace himself. He had seen far too many careers ruined by those who took advantage of free booze to the point of saying or doing something stupid and inappropriate. Therefore, he set a limit of not more than one drink per hour—unless he was driving, then it was zero, nada, not even one.
Sipping the wine, he surveyed the crowd as was his habit, subconsciously looking for the tell-tale signs that something wasn’t right, or something was out of place.
Although he was familiar with many of the guests, there were also a number who he didn’t know. Most were foreign commercial or military attachés from embassies and consulates, as well as a few from the United Nations based in New York. Most would know who he was, or at least, who they thought he was. Only Mike and Larry, who were based in New York, knew who—and what—he really was.
Mrs. Davies had advised him that she expected over 150 guests, prompting her to hire a catering firm to look after the food and beverage aspects of the reception. Richard recalled that the firm would be providing about twenty staff for the function. He knew none of them.
The food and drink tables were set up under a long tent, one side of which opened to the lawn and garden. The other side was closed with flaps, blocking the view of the bay.
He spotted his nephew standing by one of the dessert tables, apparently in conversation with one of the catering staff. He couldn’t hear the conversation, but the boy was smiling, holding what appeared to be a chocolate-coated piece of fruit. The waiter smiled back and walked away, with a puzzled expression on his face, looking back over his shoulder at the boy.
Jason seemed to be talking to himself and had quickly looked around as if he had just realized it and was embarrassed. For a moment, no longer than a blink of the eye, Richard thought he detected a shadow by the boy. No, thought Richard as his nephew turned to head towards the house, just my imagination, or a trick of the late-evening sun.
It wasn’t Jason, however, who was causing the unsettled feeling he had; of that, Richard was certain. Yes, the boy acted strangely sometimes, but then he was eleven and Richard was fairly certain that odd behaviour at that age was sort of normal. This was something else, something he had not felt since . . . he searched his memory . . .since the funeral.
“Richard Carver,” said a man stepping in front of him, distracting him. “Thank you for inviting me to your reception.”
The man facing Richard was Harold Lalonde, a local politician who Richard was certain had his fingers in several criminal activities. He would have preferred not to invite him, but as the old saying went, “keep your friends close, and your enemies closer.”
Richard shook Lalonde’s hand unenthusiastically, resisting the urge to wipe his hand on his pants afterwards, as if clearing away unwanted germs.
Lalonde was on the thin side, which made him appear taller than he really was. He was, Richard knew, in his late fifties, but the pallor of his skin made him seem older. His hair was black, which only accentuated his pale complexion. He was wearing a dark business suit, and gold cufflinks were clearly visible on the pale blue shirt extending stylishly from underneath the sleeves of the suit jacket. A gold Rolex watch on his left wrist caught the sunlight, and the reflected light sparkled around his wrist.
Richard was always distrustful of anyone who had a need to flaunt his or her wealth.
“I’m pleased you could make it, Harold,” Richard lied.
“The pleasure is mine, Richard. Your receptions have a reputation of being amongst the social highlights of the summer.” Lalonde looked over the crowd before asking, “What’s the occasion? I know some of the guests, but most are unfamiliar to me.”
Richard was always cautious of how much information he provided to Lalonde. “Most are attached to various consulates and embassies. I like to use these events as an opportunity to network and cultivate future contacts.”
This was true, as far as it went; for those few guests who knew what Richard really did, this reception was his opportunity to advise them that he was “retiring.”
He was spared a protracted conversation with Lalonde by the chirping of his cell phone. He reached into his pocket, glanced at the number, and said, “Sorry, Harold. I have to take this call.”
Lalonde watched Richard as he turned into the crowd, cell phone to his ear. He didn’t like Carver or trust him. He had tried on several occasions to find out how he made his money, but was always stymied, hitting a dead end on all the leads he followed. The only reason Lalonde accepted the invitation was that Avery wanted him here.
George Avery had arrived from Europe a week earlier and was staying with Lalonde. Lalonde had previous dealings with Avery, and although he didn’t particularly care for him, their transactions were profitable. Avery was intent on getting as much information on Richard, and the Carver household, as possible—an objective that Lalonde eagerly facilitated, viewing Avery as an ally. Avery was actually somewhere about the grounds, checking out the house and its security arrangements.
Lalonde sipped his drink. Soon, Carver, soon, he thought. He was looking forward to implementing Avery’s plan and eventually celebrating Carver’s demise.
***
Richard slipped the cell phone back into his pocket and resumed his study of the mingling guests. The sense of unease lingered, his subconscious warning him that something was off. It was an ability he had, like a sixth sense. He didn’t understand it, but when it kicked in, it was seldom wrong.
The last time he had experienced that feeling was at the funeral. He recalled the man who seemed out of place, dressed differently from the mourners, a man who kept his face hidden beneath the hood of his sweater. That had been the man, it turned out, who had murdered his brother and sister-in-law.
Richard once again scanned the crowd, looking for someone out of place, something that was off. There! One of the waiters was moving on the periphery of the crowd with an empty tray, presumably to collect empty glasses. However, this waiter passed several tables with empties and continued to walk around without picking any of them up.
It was then that he noticed the waiter seemed to be particularly interested in his nephew, who was walking towards the house. That set off Richard’s internal alarms at maximum volume. Then he knew.
It was him! The driver! Here! How had he traced them?
Richard reached behind and felt the pistol at the small of his back but did not pull it out. Normally, he preferred a Browning 9mm concealed in a shoulder holster, but on this occasion, he opted for something less conspicuous.
He caught Mike and Larry’s attention and gestured towards the waiter with a barely perceptible nod of his head. They glanced in the direction Richard had indicated and quickly grasped the unspoken communication. Both men responded with slight nods, and along with Richard, started to slowly make their way to the waiter.
He had taken no more than a couple of steps when the waiter looked at him intently and grinned, a grin so malevolent it chilled Richard to the core. The man then turned and disappeared through a flap in back of the tent. By the time Richard and his companions got there, the man was nowhere in sight.
A flagstone path led away from the tent to the low sandstone wall that marked the edge of the property. It continued through the wall, through a grove of evergreens, to the beach. The trio raced down the path until they reached the beach where they found a discarded waiter’s jacket.
Following the beach in either direction would lead to parking areas, where it was likely their quarry had a car waiting. They searched the sand for footprints, but there were too many to determine which belonged to their suspect. He was gone.
“Man, that guy was fast,” said Larry. “We could have used him on our college track team.”
“Any idea what he was after?” asked Mike. He picked up the discarded waiter’s jacket and examined it carefully. “He obviously had something to hide, as he definitely didn’t want to talk to us.”
Richard briefly considered denying that he knew the man but decided against it. Lying to your friends, especially close friends like Mike and Larry, was just plain wrong.
“He’s after Jason. I saw him before, in London,” explained Richard. “He killed my brother and his wife and has tried to kill Jason.”
Mike and Larry exchanged startled looks.
“Why would anyone want to hurt your nephew?” asked Mike.
Richard shook his head, “I don’t know.” He gave Mike and Larry an abbreviated version of the events since the accident a little over three months ago.
Larry pulled at his chin as he thought about the information Richard had provided. “You’re right, Richard,” he said. “It doesn’t sound like the standard ‘get rid of the witness’ scenario. What about Jason? He saw the picture; did he recognize him?”
Richard hesitated before responding, recalling Jason’s reaction to the picture. “He said ‘no,’ but when he saw the picture, he was terrified. That’s not a reaction you would have if you had never seen the person before. I didn’t press the matter with him, as he had just been shot at and was stressed out enough as it was.”
“Yeah, getting shot at can be stressful,” quipped Larry. “Even for pros.”
He clasped his hands behind his back, his forehead wrinkling in concentration. “It was a professional hit. Someone must have paid a goodly sum to contract a hit on a kid in broad daylight. It failed, so someone isn’t happy.”
Richard knew where Larry was going. “Follow the money,” Richard said. “Eve and her team checked out every lead to find out who bore a big enough grudge against my brother and his family to want them all dead. Nothing panned out.”
“Eve?” asked Mike.
Richard smiled as he recalled Eve’s face. “Sorry—that’s Detective Sergeant Eve Hunter. She is the lead detective on the case.”
“It’s personal,” stated Larry, folding his arms across his chest and looking intently at Richard. “It’s personal,” he repeated emphatically. “That’s why the police couldn’t make a link with any organized crime syndicate or terrorist cell. He may be a professional, but for this guy this is personal.”
Richard had come to the same conclusion, and it worried him. A nutcase who just happened to be a professional killer: that was bad news.
“You go check on your boy,” suggested Mike. He turned the waiter’s jacket over, studying it. “Larry and I will speak with the caterer. I’m willing to bet that this guy was a last-minute fill-in for someone who called in sick—or just didn’t show up.”
“Thanks,” replied Richard. “Also, let Mrs. Davies know what happened. She’s pretty protective of Jason.”
Richard headed for the house. “Your boy,” Mike had said.
That was the crux of the burden he felt he was carrying. This was not someone else’s kid, who would be going home at the end of the day.
The boy was his, now—his responsibility—and it scared the hell out of him.
***
Concealed by the copse of trees, another man watched the trio as they headed back to the reception.
Michael Webster was a Pegasi, and had seen the waiter run past his location, discarding the jacket as he ran. The waiter was very fast, inhumanly fast.
Webster was somewhat surprised that the three men had not searched the small stand of evergreens on either side of the path. That was careless of them, and not a mistake that they would normally make, he thought.
Webster was particularly interested in the boy’s uncle, Richard Carver, because he was the one ultimately responsible for the boy. If anyone was to get to the boy they would need to deal with the uncle, and at this juncture, he wasn’t sure just how difficult a task that would be.
Webster moved out from the trees where he was concealed and walked back to the parking lot where he left his car. It was time to advise the Circle that he was now in location and had begun surveillance of the Carver family.
***
The security guard saw Richard approach and unlatched the rope strung across the stairs. “Evening, Mr. Carver.”
“Hi, Leo,” responded Richard. “Has anyone been upstairs this evening?”
Leo shook his head. “No one but your nephew, sir. He’s been up and down a couple of times. He went back up about half an hour ago. Hasn’t come back down.”
“Okay, thanks, Leo.” He started up the stairs, and then turned back to the guard. “Apparently we had a party crasher. He took off when he realized he was recognized, but we believe he’s mentally unbalanced and possibly dangerous. It might be wise to be extra careful.”
“Yes, sir,” replied Leo. “Don’t worry. Nobody will get by me.”
Richard knocked softly on Jason’s bedroom door.
“Come in. It’s not locked,” said Jason.
Richard stepped into the bedroom, his eyes taking everything in, as was his habit, looking for something out of place, something that didn’t fit. It looked and felt like a normal boy’s room, complete with discarded clothes on the foot of the bed. He initially had intended to warn Jason about the intruder, but decided against it, not wanting to add any more anxiety to what the boy was already dealing with. Now that he was here, however, he wasn’t sure what to say.
“I, um, just wanted to make sure you were okay,” he said.
“I’m fine, sir,” said the boy, regarding him skeptically.
“Are you sure?” continued Richard. “I know this reception must be boring for you—it’s not exactly the way a kid would like to spend an evening.”
Jason shrugged. “It’s really okay, sir,” he said. “Mum and Dad held receptions and dinner parties all the time. I’m used to it.” He blinked as moisture appeared in his eyes and looked down at his lap.
Jason looked so vulnerable, but Richard didn’t know how to comfort him. Noticing a book beside the boy, he asked, “What are you reading?”
Jason grabbed the book and held it to his chest. “I was going to give it to you. Honest,” he blurted out. “Mrs. Davies told me I could look around upstairs.”
Richard was taken aback. “Jason, it’s okay. I wasn’t accusing you of stealing it.”
Jason passed the book to Richard. “It’s really old,” he said. “It belonged to Mrs. Simpson, who first owned this house.”
Richard took the book and started to thumb through the pages. “It’s a journal or diary,” he said, noting the neat handwriting. “If it really did belong to Mrs. Simpson, it’s in very good shape for something that old.”
“It’s hers,” insisted Jason defensively.
Richard realized that Jason had misunderstood him, and thought he was accusing him of lying. He thumbed through a couple more pages and said, “I’m sure you’re right, Jason. I think it is Mrs. Simpson’s journal, and therefore it is very valuable.”
He passed the book back to Jason. “When you’re done with it, we’ll put it in the library.”
Jason just looked at the book but didn’t take it. “If it’s worth a lot of money, do you really want me to have it?” he asked hesitantly. “What if I lose it, or tear a page, or spill something on it, or—”
Richard held up his hand. “I don’t know if it’s worth a lot of money or not, Jason. Its value is more historical than financial. Mrs. Simpson’s journal may provide some insight into what life was really like back then, and maybe provide some history about the house.”
He passed the book to Jason and this time the boy took it, albeit tentatively. “I know you are a responsible boy, Jason, and would never deliberately damage the book. Finish reading it and let me know if you find anything interesting.”
Without thinking Jason said, “I already did.”
“Oh. What would that be?” questioned Richard.
“Eric didn’t run away,” stated Jason.
“Eric? Who’s Eric?” asked Richard.
Damn, thought Jason. Me and my big mouth.
“Um, well, you see … ah …” he stammered. “Mrs. Simpson was adopting this boy from the orphanage.” Jason held up the diary. “It’s all in here, and Mrs. Davies told me the story about the boy running away after stealing stuff from Mrs. Simpson.” He quickly repeated the story that the housekeeper had told him.
“His name was Eric, and Mrs. Simpson didn’t believe he ran away. I don’t think he did, either.”
Now Jason had really captured his attention. “Why don’t you think he ran away, Jason?” asked Richard.
Jason turned the book around in his hands as though it would provide him with the right words. There was no way he could tell his uncle how he really knew—that he had gotten the truth directly from the boy himself.
“Because,” he said slowly and softly, “I know what it feels like to be an orphan. Mrs. Simpson treated Eric really, really well, and didn’t beat him. There’s no reason for him to run away. If it was me, I wouldn’t run away. You and Mrs. Davies aren’t mean to me, and you don’t beat me, so why would I run away?”
Richard felt like he had been kicked in the stomach: I know what it feels like to be an orphan. How was he supposed to respond to that? He looked at the boy and saw an intensity in his eyes he hadn’t noticed before.
“Okay, Jason. If you believe this boy … Eric … didn’t run away, then where did he go? Did they ever find him?”
“No, sir,” Jason replied. “This is the only diary I’ve found so far. Maybe there’s some more around that tells what happened but, but …” his voice trailed away.
Richard arched his eyebrows waiting for more. “But?”
“Well,” said Jason. “Maybe he was killed, and somebody hid his body.”
“Killed him? Like an accomplice? This Eric stole from Mrs. Simpson, and then got killed by his thieving partner? That poor boy. No one deserves that, even if he is a thief.”
