Elisha’s Bones (23 page)
“Hello, Dr. Hawthorne,” he says.
I have never wanted to punch someone in the teeth more than I do at this moment.
He gestures with the gun. “To the beach,” he says, no doubt realizing that anyone would come up from the busier Palm Beach side and see what’s happening here. When we do not comply, he makes a move toward Angie.
“To the beach, or I will kill Ms. Bernard right here. The trunk is open; it would be quite a while before someone finds the body.”
Espy and I start back for the beach, and it’s only when we have almost reached the white sand that I realize Hardy used Angie’s last name. It’s proof that my phone is indeed bugged, and that Hardy can access avenues of information as easily as I can with Duckey.
Hardy marches us toward the Barrenjoey Head. I know that if he succeeds in herding us there, we’re all dead. If he hides the bodies in just the right spot, it could be a year before someone finds us.
I stop and turn to face the man.
“There’s no reason for you to involve anyone but me,” I say. “Let them go and you can do whatever you have to do.”
Hardy has his gun pressed into Angie’s side and, while she’s doing an admirable job of maintaining her composure, she looks only a handbreadth away from giving in to her fear.
“It can’t be that way, Dr. Hawthorne. Dr. Habilla knows too much.” He grins and jabs Angie in the side with the gun and I see a single tear roll down her cheek. “And it’s your fault that Ms. Bernard is caught up in this now.”
“Like Alem’nesh was caught up in it?” I accuse.
A flash of what appears to be genuine puzzlement appears on Hardy’s face.
“Who?”
“The priest you killed in Addis Ababa.”
“I can assure you that I wasn’t involved in any operation that called for the killing of a priest.”
I don’t know why, but I believe him. Something in his manner tells me he wouldn’t dance around the subject. If he’d killed Alem’nesh, he would have no qualms about admitting it.
“If you’re going to kill us no matter what,” I say, “then I’m not walking anymore. If you want to kill me, you’ll have to do it right here.”
Hardy seems to give this serious thought and, as he does, I realize I’ve made a mistake. In a situation like this, isn’t it a cardinal rule that you prolong the inevitable for as long as you can; that the longer you stay alive, the more the chance increases that something unexpected might happen? Now I’ve given him an ultimatum that can only end one way.
“Very well, then,” he says, pointing the gun at me. It happens in slow motion that I see his finger tighten on the trigger and for the second time in just a few days I find myself hoping that it won’t hurt. I don’t have time to steel myself, or to offer even a quick apology to these two women who will die with me.
I hear a crack, and Angie screams, and my eyes snap shut. A few ticks pass before I realize I’m not dead. I open my eyes and see Hardy still standing, the gun still pointed. A trickle of red runs down his nose and, when I reach over and grab Angie by the arm, pulling her away from him, he tumbles forward into the sand.
The bullet took most of his skull when it exited, and I feel Angie growing faint as she sees the gory sight.
“We have to go!” I say.
I don’t know who fired the shot, only that it came from behind me, hitting Hardy with a single shot from an impressive distance, if my recollection of sound versus projectile speed is even half accurate. It means we’re sitting ducks.
I start to run back the way we came, guiding Angie. Espy is nearby, and I see that she has scooped up Hardy’s gun. When we’ve traveled a good distance away from Hardy’s dead body, I glance over at Angie. It seems she’s allowing determination to replace the fear. She gives me a look that is both wonder and accusation.
“Welcome to my world,” I say.
Australia’s capital city has much to recommend it as one of the most unique capitals in the world, not the least of which is that it didn’t exist prior to being named such. Before the government hired a Chicago architect to build them a ready-made city from which to govern, there was nothing here but a juxtaposition of swampland, savanna, eucalyptus forest, and a few adventurous souls staking their claim to the country’s riches.
What I like most about the city, though, is its lake. The Molonglo River winds through Canberra, and previous generations dammed it to create a scenic body of water in the City Center. It can make traveling through the area a bear, especially at the height of the tourist season, but I can remember canoeing down the Molonglo with Jim, and how the city looked from the water.
Esperanza appears wide awake as we navigate Forest Avenue, the loop around downtown that passes the National Gallery, then the Parliament House. We came in through Kings Park, crossing Lake Burley Griffin, because I wanted her to see the city at night, with the lights on the tall, silent edifices of government. We have to go back across the water on Commonwealth to find someplace to stay. But from what I see in Espy’s eyes, the extra miles are worth it.
The Mustang makes a noise somewhere between a purr and a grumble, as if torn between appreciating the rest, and anxiety about returning to do what it does best: ripping up the road at over a hundred miles an hour. When we rented the car, I was surprised to find out we could get the Mustang for only a few dollars more a day than it would cost to rent an economy car. And after all that’s happened over the last few weeks, I decided to indulge the juvenile urge of feeling the powerful engine coursing through my body.
I ease the car off the roundabout and head north toward the National University. I remember there being a selection of hotels somewhere near the university. At this point I’d settle for anything, no matter how cheap, just as long as it has a clean bed. We have to be judicious with the money Angie provided. She floated me five thousand, the max that she could coax from her credit card company.
The events in Sydney shook Angie—to the point that I’m amazed she went along with lending me the money. Someone shot a man standing behind her, the bullet passing just inches from her head. It’s enough to frighten anyone half to death. What sort of relationship we’ll have should I return to Evanston in one piece is up in the air. I wouldn’t blame her if she greets me with profanity and violence. Hardy was right about one thing: I’m to blame for dragging her into danger.
My mind shifts to the identity of Hardy’s killer; the question has followed me over the miles separating Sydney from Canberra. Whoever pulled the trigger was an expert marksman. The shooter had caught Hardy with his head sticking out from behind Angie, the timing and placement of the bullet perfect. I still believe the shot came from a considerable distance. A sniper, a one-shot kill. But why were we spared?
This is one of the reasons we stayed on course. While Hardy has been a thorn in my flesh of late, I can’t forget that Manheim and I have a personal history. It’s possible he’s the one who killed Hardy and Al. All I know is that I have to stay on task. And now that Hardy is dead, there’s some cushion built into any dealings I may need to have with his boss.
The university scrolls by on the left and I see that, as much as she’d like to, Espy is now too tired to appreciate anything beyond the promise of a place to sleep. We’re almost to Braddon before I spot the yellow sign of the Days Inn. I pull the car into a parking spot but do not hear the light snoring until I cut the engine. I pop the trunk, get out and remove our luggage, then walk around to the passenger side and wake her enough so that she can follow me to the lobby.
The lobby is dark, with dim lights running along its perimeter. A petite young woman sits behind the front desk, her blond hair pulled back into a severe-looking bun. She’s wearing red lipstick, too bright for her waxen face. But her smile seems genuine, and I’m glad to see another human being who looks happy to see me, even if the expression is nothing more than theater.
“Hi there,” she says, and her voice is as chipper as her smile.
“Hi back. Do you have any rooms available?”
“We do,” she says without consulting her computer. “Smoking or non?”
“Smoking.”
She makes a face at that and then swivels on her stool and taps at the computer’s keyboard. After a moment’s study, she says, “We have two rooms available in the smoking wing. One has a queen-size bed, the other a king.” Tabitha—I’ve only now noticed the name tag—gives me an expectant look.
“Great. We’ll take both.” I would ask Esperanza if she’d prefer something in the clean-air section, but given the way she’s leaning against the desk, I get the feeling she wouldn’t care if I led her to one of the couches in the lobby and left her there.
“Both?”
“I snore.”
A few minutes later, the elevator deposits us on the third floor. I have the room keys in my pocket—128 and 133—as I set off down the hallway, lugging both of our bags. We reach 133 first, where I set one bag down so I can fish the key from my pocket. Two key cards and I have no idea which one is for this door. The first swipe has no effect on the lock’s red light. The second card produces a welcoming green color and the sound of the lock disengaging.
I push open the door, step inside and drop Espy’s bag on the floor, then turn on one of the lights. The room is of decent size and with no foul odors. It looks like she’s getting the king-size bed.
“I’ll come and get you in the morning,” I say.
“Not too early,” she says, but the last part is lost in a yawn.
I give her a smile and, stifling my own yawn, start to leave. I’m just passing by her in the narrow entryway when I catch the scent of her shampoo. It’s the same one she used when we were together; it’s another one of those old memories that people attach more meaning to than the thing deserves. But now the subtle floral smell catches me sleep-deprived. I reach my hand around her waist and pull her in for a kiss. It’s funny how something can be immediately familiar and startlingly new at the same time. They’re the same lips, but we’re different people. I wonder, in that brief moment that passes before we disengage, if that’s a good thing.
I can’t read the answer in Esperanza’s eyes, yet she doesn’t push me away. We’re close enough that I can hear her breathing.
I’m the one who pulls back. “I’m going to get some sleep.”
Without waiting for a reply, I make for the hallway, pulling the door closed behind me. Right before it clicks shut, I hear Espy say something about flossing. I stand in the dimly lit corridor for a time before resettling my bag on my shoulder and heading off to find my own bed.
T
he seat of the Australian government is a mammoth building forever fated to be reminded of its humbler beginnings. Parliament House occupies the ideological center of South Canberra, forming the southern point of the Parliamentary Triangle that claims a large section of the Lake Burley Griffin shoreline. Looking north from its main entry, though, one cannot help but notice the smaller but elegant Old Parliament House that oversaw the birth of a self-determining nation.
Espy and I ascend the fifteen or so steps to the entrance, where two guards are posted, facing straight ahead with matching staunch postures. We join the stream of people entering the building, most of them tourists hoping to visit the nonessential rooms set aside for the curious. Among these are a smattering of professionals in suits and skirts—government officials, aides, lobbyists, grifters of all shapes and sizes. I can probably include Espy and myself in the latter designation.
Inside, we stand in a massive foyer with wide white pillars reaching up to the vaulted ceiling and then slender brown wood columns supporting a second story. We follow the foyer until it empties into the Great Hall, where my shoes echo across the immaculate hardwood as I step into the open chamber. At the far end of the hall hangs an earth-toned tapestry that covers most of the wall.
I reach for Espy’s elbow. “Ready?”
I’m sensitive to the speed with which she pulls away from my grasp and walks back the way we came. As if we didn’t have enough baggage between us, now I’ve gone and ruined the whole thing with a single kiss. It’s a reminder that, once this sordid business is concluded, there’s something of greater importance which needs tending. Yet there’s little I can do about it right now. If she wants to sulk, I’ll just have to let her sulk.
At the end of the foyer is a stairway leading to the visitor gallery overlooking the main Committee Room, where one can see a portion of the legislative process in motion. It’s the most popular tourist destination, and I see at least fifty people ascending and descending the steep steps, which seem to open up toward nothing, reminding me of the proverbial Jacob’s ladder. I’m glad we don’t have to set foot on them, because my knee is complaining again. I haven’t walked this much in years, and my subpar leg is telling me it has no loyalties to anything beyond its own well-being.
I pull out my cell phone and dial the international number that came with the file from Duckey.
Someone answers on the first ring with an irritated “Yeah?” This tells me that the man I’m here to see is reticent about giving out this number—that there are a select few who would ring it.
“Hello, Mr. Manheim.”
A cruel part of me enjoys the brief pause that follows my greeting. As he struggles to place my voice and come to grips with the fact that he’s been caught off guard, I can almost smell the consternation via satellite.
“Who is this?”
As I think of how to respond—after days of travel, dead ends, and dead bodies—I harbor a desire for something direct, something akin to ripping off a bandage in one quick pull.
“This is Jack Hawthorne.”
What follows is a sound that might be an intake of breath, but I can’t be sure. What I do register is the look of surprise on Esperanza’s face. She doubtless assumed that we would engage in some sort of ruse for as long as we were able.
“I don’t believe I know a Jack Hawthorne,” the other man says, recovering.
“Did you enjoy your trip to Venezuela?” I ask. “I hear San Cristóbal is lovely this time of year.”
