Haven, page 17
“House is white with green trim? Says Wiggins on the mailbox?" asked Jasmine when told that the place looked deserted.
“I've got the right house. She's not here.”
“Then you've been set up. Get out of there now.”
The Algerian was tempted but not without Aisha. "That number they gave you? Call it right now. Then call me back here. I'll wait.”
“Don't you get out of that car 'til I do. You keep that car moving, you hear me?”
Nadia drove her car forward, up on the front lawn. She saw in her headlights that the door was intact. No sign of forced entry. No locks shot off by those shots she heard earlier. That was something at least. But what she wanted to hear most was the sound of a telephone ringing inside. She heard nothing but crickets and frogs.
Her own cell phone rang. It was Jasmine again.
“No answer," said Jasmine.
“Then the number was a phony," Nadia felt her voice trembling. "The whole story was a ruse. Jazz, I think Aisha's been taken.”
“Then the ruse was for you. Get out of there Nadia.”
“I'm going. You call the State Troopers.”
Elizabeth knocked before entering the cabin. It was stupid but that's what she did. Martin was right once again. She was stalling.
The bunk had collapsed under Pratt's frantic kicks and the girl's own attempts to get free. The post to which she was shackled had held but she had managed to kick off the sheet. The top of her swimsuit had fallen away, leaving her nude to the waist. The shorts Pratt pulled down had been kicked free as well. They lay on the floor with the bedding. Her wrists were chafed raw by the handcuffs that held them. Her eyes had started to discolor and swell; Pratt had hit her with a sap more than once. She jumped at the sound of the opening door and gasped when she saw the black figure that entered.
“Oh, no. Oh, please," she cried out. She kicked with bare feet to keep Elizabeth away.
Elizabeth realized what the girl must have thought on seeing a veil and abaya. She had told Martin, damn it, she'd be no good at this.
“It's all right," she hushed. She tried to sound soothing. "No one will hurt you. I'm taking you back home.”
But those words, far from calming her, caused her to panic. "No!! You can't take me back. I'm not going with you. I have to wait here for my mother.”
“Your...mother's coming where? You don't mean to this cabin?”
The girl answered by trying to kick her again. "You can't make me leave before she comes. I won't go.”
For a moment there she'd wondered if the mother had sent Pratt. But no, she must be coming to visit. "Stop kicking and listen. I'm not with those men; I did not mean back there, wherever that is. I meant back to Van Der Meer, Cherokee.”
At this the girl trembled, part relief but part doubt. Those...men. Where are they?”
“They're gone. They can't hurt you.”
“No, they're not. I heard them outside.”
“What you heard...they shot at us but then they ran. They ran down the road to their car.”
The girl now understood all those deafening sounds. "Who are you?" she asked. "Is Nadia with you?”
“Nadia is waiting for you to get home. I'm going to help you get dressed now, okay?" Elizabeth reached to untangle her suit and fitted it over her breasts. Cherokee tensed but she allowed it to be done.
“Can't you take off these handcuffs?" the girl asked as she zipped her. "Let me up and I'll do this myself.”
Elizabeth might have freed her if she'd thought to get the keys. It was better that she hadn't, she realized. "I need to find a key that unlocks those things. And I need to make sure that those men don't come back. You'll be safe where you are until I'm finished.”
“On this bed?" she asked, blinking. "Please don't leave me like this. Can't you shoot off the chain or something?”
“That...really only works in the movies," said Elizabeth. "But there's someone outside standing guard with a gun. No one can get in here but me.”
As Elizabeth spoke she was scouting the room. On the far bunks, unmade, she saw folded blankets and towels. A garment bag of the carry-on type had been left just inside the rear door. This had to be Pratt's; he must have checked out of the Players Club. Pratt's other bag, the one he'd had with him at Reilley's, had been knocked to the floor in his scramble to shoot Martin. His camcorder and tripod were lying nearby. Near them she saw a large roll of duct tape and a jumble of clipping and photos. A bottle of Scotch had rolled out of the bag and had stopped against one of girl's sneakers.
“I see your shorts...and your tennis shoes. What else were you wearing when they grabbed you?”
“That means...you're really going to take me home?" She had not fully believed it until that question was asked.
“Just as fast as I can. What else did you have?”
“Just my hat.”
“What's it look like?”
“It's straw. It has feathers. I think it fell off when he hit me.”
“Then it's where? In the jitney? I'll find it," she promised. It would not do to leave it. Nor any of the photos that were pinned to the bunk. She shook out one blanket and approached the bed with it. The girl recoiled once again.
“I won't cover your head," said Elizabeth quickly. "This is only to warm you until I can free you. But that brings up another problem I have.”
“You...don't want me to see what you look like?”
Elizabeth covered her up to her shoulders. She reached to brush the girl's hair from her eyes. "I don't want to blindfold you. I know that would scare you. But we'll have to figure out something, okay?”
“Yes, but why? I mean, if Nadia knows you...”
“Cherokee, honey, it's better for both of us. I guess I have to ask you to trust me on that.”
Elizabeth leaned over and kissed her head lightly. That kiss, that touch, and the use of an endearment seemed to do more to calm her than all her assurances. Elizabeth could not remember in all her adult life the last time she used an endearment. Or the last time she comforted a child.
SEVENTEEN
Kessler had heard the girl's voice shouting "No!" and pleading with Elizabeth not to make her go back. Her reaction to Elizabeth didn't surprise him. She looked like she just had flown in from Riyadh.
More interesting, however, was the look on Pratt's face. For an instant he seemed to forget his own pain and his eyes opened wide in disbelief. Kessler could see that Pratt was now thinking the same thing the girl must have thought. That Elizabeth must be a bounty hunter too. And that he, Kessler, had not come to rescue the girl in that cabin but rather to steal her from him.
“That son of a bitch," Pratt cursed, spitting blood. "That son of a bitch, I'll kill him.”
Kessler refrained from asking whose life he was threatening because Pratt clearly thought that he already knew. He shrugged and told Pratt, "I can't say I blame you," in hopes of eliciting more indignation.
He left Pratt to fume and hold on to his belly while he went back and dragged the two dead men to the dock. He emptied their pockets and took off their watches. These he left in a pile a few feet from Pratt.
Pratt, still in a fury, began coughing up blood. This was not a good sign, thought Kessler. The trouble with shooting a man in the hips is that fragments and bone go every which way. His mind still seemed clear as long as it was focused on whoever was the object of his rage. Even so, he would not last much longer. Kessler wasn't sure how long he dared wait to start getting some answers from this man.
To move things along he walked up to the cabin and returned with a pair of concrete blocks that were used to prop the corners of the rotting old deck. He stripped the belts from the two dead men and ran one through the holes of each block. The belt of the smaller dead man was cheap plastic but it seemed strong enough for his purpose. The clothing this man wore was also cheap cotton and yet his watch was a Rolex. Kessler wondered about that but he could ask later. He went back to the deck for a third heavy block which he set down at Cyril Pratt's side.
“Wait...what are they for?" the Englishman asked.
“They're to weigh down your bodies," Kessler answered distractedly. "We can't have you bobbing around in the swamp.”
“You're going to kill me? What for, for Christ's sake?”
Kessler didn't answer because what had distracted him was the Rolex
that was suddenly missing.
“Let's have it," he said, "The watch you just took.”
“It's mine," Pratt answered. "I was letting him use it.”
“You have holes in your belly and you need to know the time? Give it back or I break both your arms.”
Pratt surrendered the watch, now smeared with his blood. His face was twisted with hatred. Kessler rubbed his thumb over the back of the watch where he saw an inscription in Arabic.
“Your watch, you say? That's not what it says here." The only Arabic Kessler could read was how to tell men's rooms in Middle East airports but Pratt, he assumed, would not know that.
“So he told you to get it?" the Englishman sneered. "That bugger-ass bastard even told you to bring back his watch?”
“Which bugger-ass bastard would that be?" he asked as if he knew but was toying with Pratt. But before Pratt could answer he looked up toward the cabin and froze. He saw the black shadow approaching again.
Elizabeth came bearing a stack of old blankets. The Englishman's tennis bag hung from her shoulder. She dropped one blanket near each of the dead men and a large roll of duct tape between them. She tossed a third blanket at the Englishman's feet and two worn terry towels as well. She stood for a long moment glaring at Pratt. Her eyes seemed to promise that her time with him would come. She bent to pick through an assortment of keys that Kessler had taken from the Englishman's pockets. As she lowered herself Kessler saw in the bag what looked like the neck of a bottle of Gleneagles. He reached out and took it.
“Why waste it?' he asked her in response to her scowl."Also leave your Jambiya. I'll need it." Elizabeth was reluctant to part with her knife but she did in the hope that he would find a good use for it. She turned and walked off without saying a word. She did not go back to the cabin.
His moment now gone, Kessler showed no more interest in the watch or its owner. He picked up the towels and tossed them at Pratt. "Press these tight against your belly. You won't lose so much blood.”
Pratt snatched at them eagerly. He seemed greatly relieved. He saw the gift of the towels as a promise, perhaps, that they don't want him to die after all. Kessler rolled the Gleneagles toward him as well. "This might take the edge off the pain," he said.
“The woman," Pratt asked, "Is she going for a doctor?”
“Elizabeth? Why would she want to save you?”
“That's not Stride," said the Englishman, suddenly defiant. "Stride's been dead and in hell for a year.”
Wishful thinking, thought Kessler. He answered, "As you like.”
“Anyone can put on a set of black rags. You can buy that damned knife in any souk." As this, his eyes widened as another thought struck him. "Oh, Christ. That's Halaby, isn't it.”
“Not at all. I assure you”
“No." He relaxed. "No, it couldn't be, could it. You're here after Halaby too." He managed to open his bottle and drank deeply before adding, "But don't try to tell me that's Stride.”
Pratt's doubt, Kessler knew, was more than denial. A year doesn't go by without some woman turning up and claiming to have been the Black Angel. The Black Angel shows up in some European tabloids as often as Elvis Presley. Kessler didn't bother to argue the point. He opened a blanket and shook it out over the body of the man he had shot. The man's papers said his name was Faisal Amini. He rolled this one up in it forming a shroud which he secured at both ends with long strips of tape. He considered attaching the cement block to his neck but that could wait, he decided, until they were out in the swamp. Hauling these three men into the boat would be hard enough without dragging their anchors as well. This one's belt was leather but of discount store quality and his boots looked like army surplus. This did not surprise Kessler who had already concluded that Pratt doesn't go top dollar for his help. As for Pratt, his shorts had no belt, just elastics. For Pratt he would have to use shoelaces.
“And you. Who are you?" demanded the Englishman. His voice had more strength now thanks to the towels and a swallow of scotch but it sounded squeezed out more than spoken.
“Martin Kessler," he answered. He cut off some more lengths of tape with the knife.
The Englishman snorted. "My ass.”
“I know," sighed Kessler. "Anyone can speak with a German accent." He gestured toward the trademark scar at his eye. "And you can get one of these bumping into a door.”
“Kessler walked off with millions. He wouldn't touch this. That's how you got hired? You claimed you were Reineke?”
Those millions again. The Israelis again.
“But you damned sure didn't tell him that cunt with you was Stride. No Muslim would hire Elizabeth Stride.”
True enough, thought Kessler. But he wondered what if anything this man would believe. Are these other two only taking a nap? Is the pain in his gut indigestion? He added more tape to the first of the men, then started on the one who the other called Mahfouz. The blankets were good thinking on Elizabeth's part. At low tide their bodies will be harder to spot, even if their feet should float up to the surface. The tape, however, was far from ideal. It was silver and shiny. He'd have much preferred cord.
“Bandari...that shit," the Englishman muttered.
Kessler noted the name but showed no reaction. "Business is business," was all he could think of to say.
“But I had her, or Christ's sake. I already had her. She was as good as on a plane back to Cairo.”
Kessler shrugged. "There is more at stake here than that girl.”
All Kessler intended was a vague provocation to keep the dialogue moving along. Pratt reacted, however, as if the words gave him hope.
“So you are here for Halaby. Well, you've never get near her. But I know where she is right this second.”
Kessler saw what was coming. Save me, we'll share Halaby. To encourage that subject would only waste time. "More even than Halaby," he answered.
Pratt looked at him, stunned. He coughed up more blood. As Kessler looked on, a cold building rage pushed the pain and the fear from the Englishman's eyes. Kessler wondered what it was he'd just said.
“That Fuck!" Pratt exploded. "You're working for Tarrant. That's how you knew to come straight to this cabin.”
“A smart man hedges his bets," answered Kessler.
This brought on a whole new string of obscenities aimed at the person named Tarrant. Not an Arabic name like the other, thought Kessler. British, perhaps, or American. Kessler took this occasion to pick up Pratt's weapons and throw them out into the swamp. The splashes of the Skorpion, Pratt's pistol, extra clips, quieted the frogs for a moment. He stepped into the boat and tested the motor to make sure that he understood its workings. It roared to life instantly. The motor, for some reason, caused the frogs to croak louder.
Pratt still hadn't finished. "That bastard," he growled. By now he made bubbles as he spoke. "That bloody rat bastard, I'll ruin him.”
This man and reality are strangers, thought Kessler. Here he is holding his intestines in place and he's plotting revenge for the future.
“The truth," Pratt demanded. "Did he tell you to kill me? Or just to make sure this got done?”
“You want my opinion? I don't think he likes you." Kessler laid out the last of the blankets near Pratt.
“That bloody rat bastard," the Englishman repeated.
“Ah, you see?" asked Kessler. "It's exactly that attitude that's his problem with you. I think maybe he knows you don't like him much either." He reached for Pratt's ankles to drag him onto the blanket.
“And he's right. Will you wait?" Pratt managed to grip a low post of the dock. "There's a way to get rich off of Tarrant.”
Kessler released him. "How rich?”
“You said it yourself. There are millions at stake here. I can wreck this one deal he's got going.”
“He knows that already. It's what's getting you killed. Why would I want to know the same thing?”
“Will you listen, for Christ's sake? I'm telling you millions. He'll pay just to stay out of prison.”
Kessler folded his arms. "I'll listen five minutes or until your first lie." he said. "Make it good and I'll get you to a doctor.”
Elizabeth had watched for a while from a distance as Martin played his head games with Pratt. She didn't like head games. They take too much time. Nor did Pratt have much time for them either. Her guess was that he had ten minutes at best before blood loss and shock made it pointless to question him further. A few probes with her knife to the joint of his knee would have worked much more quickly than a few sips of scotch.
She went first to the place where they had hidden the jitney. She found the girl's hat on the floor between seats and also a map on which the route to the Players Club had been marked. Ahead, among the Junipers, she could see a low spot in which water had ponded to a depth of several feet. Down there, she decided, it could go undiscovered for weeks, even months, and only then if some hunter comes across it.
She took a minute to wipe most of the vinyl surfaces with handfuls of rotting wet leaves. Next she started the engine with one set of the keys she had taken. She put the jitney in gear and stepped out as it started to roll. She watched it settle, partly submerged, until the water caused the engine the sputter and die. She would rather have abandoned it far from this cabin but the jitney was too conspicuous to risk being seen in it.
She returned to the place where they had left Martin's car. She peeled off her veil and removed the abaya, then shook out her hair with her fingers. The dark contact lenses could stay in for now. She would hide her hair under a kerchief. Unless she could bring herself to blindfold the girl, that might have to do as a disguise.
