He waggled the gun at them threateningly as he backed away along the hallway and out the front door, then turned and ran off into the night.
But now, as he tried to sleep on the flight, those boy’s eyes were with him again, strangely haunting… reminding him of that night twelve years ago with Jessica Roche, that woman walking her dog staring at him. Only once before had he left a witness alive, and look where that had led.
Jac sat anxiously outside Truelle’s office building, his earlier telephone conversation with Cynthia still rattling through his mind.
‘When do you expect him back?’
‘I don’t know. He didn’t say.’
‘Do you know where he’s gone?’
‘Didn’t tell me that either.’
‘What about the patients he has today?’
Cynthia sighed tiredly. ‘That, if you don’t mind me saying, is none of your business.’
Jac sensed he was getting the run-around, that something was wrong — but if he pushed harder and she revealed anything sensitive, anyone listening in on Truelle’s line would hear it at the same time, and so he’d signed off then, ‘I’ll try him again later,’ deciding in that moment on another unannounced visit.
He’d originally planned to wait outside and observe for thirty or forty minutes, then barge in and let loose with all guns — on Truelle if he was there, on steel-blonde Cynthia if he wasn’t. But then Mike Coultaine’s call about Melanie Ayliss had come through just as he was leaving his hotel, and suddenly he felt vulnerable sitting in the open in the street. It was bad enough posing as Ayliss, padded out like a Weight Watchers reject, feeling as if he was in a constant pressure-cooker, worried that half his face might suddenly melt and slide off — but now he had this crazy ex on his tail, telling the police or anyone who’d listen that the man running around town as Darrell Ayliss wasn’t her husband!
After only fifteen minutes, his nerves were worn, spending as much time looking round at the street for anyone who might be looking at him as at Truelle’s entrance and window.
Still no sign of Truelle, only a couple of people he didn’t recognize, perhaps going to other offices in the building, and a DHL messenger heading in and then out again two minutes later. Jac managed to last only another three minutes.
A short gasp from steely Cynthia as he burst in, then a cool, imperious eyebrow raised. ‘What do you want? I told you earlier he’s not here… and he still isn’t.’
‘Save it!’ Jac snapped. He went through to Truelle’s office to check, then glared back at her. She held the same cool stare; she was getting used to this by now. He moved towards her desk, leant on the edge of it. ‘So, let’s try again. What time do you expect Mr Truelle back?’
‘I don’t know?’
Jac sighed tiredly. A re-run of their telephone conversation forty minutes ago. He asked where Truelle had gone and she said she didn’t know that either. Jac closed his eyes for a second, the sigh heavier now — severely pissed off. He leant over a fraction, more intimidating.
‘We could spend the next half hour with me asking variations on those same questions, with you continuing to be uncooperative — but the only problem with that is, I don’t have much time. I’ve got a man on death row because of Truelle, and the clock’s ticking fast against him. That’s why, when I was here yesterday, I gave Mr Truelle a deadline.’ Jac glanced at his watch. ‘Now at that deadline, only half an hour from now, if Truelle isn’t in the DA’s office ready and willing to talk, then the DA is going to have him arrested. And if he’s not here to arrest, then he’s going to have you arrested instead and charged with obstruction of justice.’ A bluff, but he doubted Truelle had told her enough for her to know that; he’d probably simply instructed, don’t say anything. She stared back at him, hardly a flicker or flinch. Mrs Cool-steel-blonde. ‘And you’ll end up having to answer these same questions after a night in a jail cell and with a year’s sentence hanging over your head.’ Jac eased the syrupy Ayliss smile. ‘Only I don’t have time to wait for you to languish in jail for a day — I need the answer to those questions now!’ He slapped one hand against the desk for emphasis; in the quiet of the office, it was like a rifle-shot.
She didn’t move or flinch, all it raised from her was a slow blink. Defiant: you’renot going to break me. She returned the smile smugly.
Jac reached for his back-up ammunition, took the photo of Nelson Malley out of his briefcase and slid it across her desk, asking, ‘Do you know this man?’
‘No… no, I don’t.’
Jac knew that she was lying; the flinch in her eyes, the first so far, screamed Yes! And, like Truelle, she’d hardly looked at the photo, as if afraid to fully confront it.
‘He’s going to come round here, too… asking you the same questions. But he’s not going to be nearly as nice as me. He’s going to have his hands round your throat and a gun in your face sooner than you can blink.’ Another faint flinch, her blinking a beat quicker. ‘And he’s not going to think twice about pulling the trigger.’
A faint swallow, Cynthia looking down rapidly, not wishing Jac to see that he’d struck a chord.
And as Jac looked down too, he noticed the open appointment diary before her, her arms on it, guarding. From upside down, he thought he could make out the word ‘Rearranged’ and then another time written alongside on a few entries. He grabbed for the book to turn it his way, but she held on to it tight, and he had to twist and wrench hard, finally shoving her back with one forearm to wrestle it free.
He could now see more Rearranged’s with fresh times alongside, with some on the next page as he flicked over. Seven in all rearranged over the next three days, and she was probably working on the rest as he’d walked in.
‘So, now at least we know how long he’s going to be away — at least the three remaining days of this week. And with all those appointments rearranged for the end of next week and some the week after, maybe as long as a week.’ Jac raised an inquisitive eyebrow, but she just glared back at him, red-faced and slightly breathless from the brief tussle. ‘So now all that’s left to find out is where he’s gone?’
‘I don’t know, he… he didn’t tell me.’
But Jac could see that she was more hesitant, less sure of her ground; perhaps uncertain now, after their brief tussle, just how far he’d go to get the information. He gave the diary one more quick scan, an entry to one side hitting his peripheral vision, but not at that instant seeming relevant. He laid the diary back in front of Cynthia, leaning over again at the same time.
‘Come on, Cynthia… I don’t have time for any more of your fooling around.’ Three days. Larry would be dead by then! ‘I need to know where, where?’
She looked down awkwardly again, not wanting Jac to see what was in her eyes; or perhaps, in that instant, seeing in Jac’s eyes everything he’d been through: almost drowning in the lake, being framed for murder and hunted by the police, representing a man who he was sure was innocent now only a day and a half away from execution. Dawning on her then that having gone through all of that, he wasn’t simply, after a few trite fob-offs, going to walk away.
And as Jac looked down again, he noticed that Cynthia seemed to be more concerned with covering that side entry — that’s what she’d been covering before! From where he was, he’d been able to see the rearranged appointments. Shielding them hadn’t been as vital.
He yanked back at the appointment book, shoved her arm away from covering the entry, and read fully what before had only half registered:
Apartado 417, Sancti Spiritus, Cuba.
DHL: 8422016CS.