“Screw complicated,” Slater said, slapping his thigh hard enough to sting slightly. “No strings, yeah? Just some fun. We both want it, right? Or have I completely lost my ability to read people?”
“No, your ability is strong.”
“So what do you call it in Australia? A bit of no strings attached fun?”
Aston grinned. “A casual shag, maybe. That’s what you’re talking about? There are less polite terms.”
“Like what?”
“An easy root?” He grinned, a bit too drunk, but enjoying it.
“A root?” Slater said, laughing and frowning at the same time.
“Aussie as, that is,” Aston said, turning the accent up to eleven. “Getting a good root with a top Sheila. That’s why we laugh when you lot say you’re rooting for your favorite team. It means something else entirely to us!”
Slater laughed. “Rooting for your team!” she repeated. “What a mental image that is now!”
“Hey, did you know the Kiwis invented the condom?” Aston said.
“Kiwis? You mean New Zealanders?”
“Yeah, they’re called Kiwis after their national bird.”
“They invented the condom?”
“Yep. They were the first people in recorded history to use a sheep’s intestine as a condom.”
“No, really?”
“It’s true. Except it was us Australians who refined the concept. We’re the ones who came up with the idea of taking it out of the sheep first.”
Slater tipped her head back in a genuine belly laugh. Her eyes fell back to meet his. “Woo. I’m actually really drunk.”
He stood, a little shakily and took a deep breath to steady himself. “Me too. Let’s book a room, eh?”
On the shore of Lake Kaarme, under cover of darkness, a figure stepped carefully between rocks, leaving deep footprints in the soft mud. The wind whipped his dark, cowled cape, wrapping the damp, filthy hem around his ankles. Over his shoulder he carried a small hessian sack that flexed and kicked a little as he moved. A roll of something was tucked under his arm. Hardly any moonlight shone through the cloudy sky, and even less illumination from the stars, but he avoided the deepest shadows cast by the trees. Eventually he picked a suitable spot and crouched to lay out a woven reed mat just a few feet from the water’s edge, and dropped the weakly thrashing sack to the ground. The lake lapped gently, the soft slap of wavelets on the shore strangely soothing.
The figure dropped to his knees on the mat, hands clasped together, and began to chant. His voice was deep and melodic, the words mysterious and hypnotizing.
For more than ten minutes the man continued his unbroken litany, watching intently over the water. He suddenly stiffened, attention sharp, and reached inside his cape to withdraw a strange icon of straw and sticks, a small parody of a man, arms and legs spread wide. He placed the handmade figure into the mud, pressing its feet down so it stood before him, facing out over the water. He drew back his dark sleeves to reveal well-muscled forearms, and held out his hands, basking in the night and the exultation of his dark ritual.
He found a knife inside his cape, heavy, thick-bladed, shining in the weak moonlight, and slit the ties holding the sack closed. He reached in and withdrew a rabbit, its eyes wide in shock as it kicked against him, but his grip was sure. He turned it over, holding its back legs tightly and sliced deeply across the creature’s throat. Its blood gushed, steaming in the cold air, and the man held it over the icon to drench the stick figure and the wet surrounding mud. After several seconds of bloodletting, he pitched the still-twitching carcass into the water.
The chant went on and something caused the tiny waves coming in to increase. The slap and splash got louder as a smooth hump crested only an inch or two above the surface some twenty-five yards out. The smooth hump crested again, just slightly, and a few long spines seemed to flex and flick droplets of water into the air.
Not breaking his chant, the man stood, gathered up his mat and backed away, bowing repeatedly, his eyes, lost in the shadows of his hood, never leaving the lake.
Something massive briefly crested once more as the man deemed himself safely distant and turned to hurry back toward town.
The blood-soaked stick man stood in the mud, waiting.
Chapter 16
Aston woke with the mother of all hangovers. His parched mouth begged for water and his eyes burned from the thin light through the curtains. He groaned and rolled over.
Slater lay next to him with one arm draped over her face. “Yeah, tell me about it,” she said softly.
Aston forced his eyes open and found that his pounding head was relieved slightly at the sight of her curves under the covers. He drank in the sight for a moment, a soft smile tugging at his lips as he remembered the previous night through the slight haze of inebriation. They had certainly been compatible, at least in one aspect of their relationship.
He reached out to touch her, perhaps suggest a repeat performance, but the moment his hand landed she rolled over and got up.
“Lots to do today,” she said perfunctorily. “We’d better get moving.” Without a backward glance she disappeared into the shower.
“That’s that then,” Aston muttered, and closed his eyes again.
They finally emerged from the hotel room a little after ten. Ravenous, Aston’s stomach roared a rapacious counterpoint to the drumbeat inside his head. The bar was quiet and still as they passed through it and out into the crisp day.
Slater pointed across the street. “There’s a cafe. Breakfast and coffee await.”
“Excellent.” Aston caught her eye as they headed over the road. “No regrets?”
“None.” She kept her hands thrust deep in her jacket pockets. “But let’s forget about it for now and get back to work, yeah? Just a no-strings hookup, right?” She grinned. “An easy root.”
Aston laughed, though he was disappointed that he might not get to repeat such wonderful fun. “Sure.” He decided to change the subject quickly before the urge to wheedle rose all the way to his mouth. “So, Old Mo then? And where the fuck is Dave?”
“I’m worried,” Slater admitted. “I had tried to be content with telling myself he was goofing off, getting drunk and being irresponsible or whatever. Maybe arrested, like we talked about. But that Rinne guy would certainly have mentioned it last night, right? So it seems like he’s really gone. And that begs the question, gone where? And why?”
“You think something might have scared him off?” A thought occurred to Aston, from their encounter the night before. “You think maybe that Superintendent Rinne dickhead got to Dave while he was in town, but didn’t arrest him? Just gave him the hard word and that scared him away? He might be enough of a dick not to mention that and wait until we ask about it.”
Slater pursed her lips, shook her head slightly. “It’s possible, I suppose, but I know Dave. He wouldn’t just leave. He’d come back to me and tell me he was leaving. Or call, at the very least. I’m sure of it.”
They entered the café and picked a table covered by a red and white checked cloth. A small glass vase stood in the center holding a few ragged wildflowers, half wilted. Only a handful of other people were there, the smell of coffee and bacon rich in the air. Aston’s stomach rumbled. Tiny speakers let out some classic fifties rock’n’roll, Eddie Cochrane if Aston wasn’t mistaken.
They scanned the menus and ordered coffee and fried food. The waitress was tall and willowy, long blonde hair in a ponytail that almost reached the tie of her apron.