Elisha's Bones Part 14

The smells of salt and fish ride the wind that spills through the cab's open window. The wind pa.s.ses over the harbor to collect the sea, to deposit it in odor and moisture on a city of almost four million, as reminders of the industry by which it was built. Tourism has long usurped fishing as Sydney's chief domestic product, but to me the place's chief ident.i.ty is that of a sea town. A very large sea town. At almost sixteen hundred square kilometers, Sydney's sprawl matches that of London, covering twice as much territory as New York City.

"I'm cold." Esperanza shivers and pulls her sweater tighter around her shoulders.

Actually, the weather's perfect. When we got off the plane, the display at the airport said 23 Celsius, which translates to around 73 Fahrenheit. It's the sort of temperature that would have one walking into any public place and spotting people wearing light sweaters, right next to others in shorts and T-shirts.

I put the window up.

"Thanks."

I watch out the window as the driver navigates c.u.mberland Street, heading toward the Cahill Expressway and the Sydney Opera House. Traffic is thick and our slow progress gives me a chance to absorb the people and the atmosphere. A man on a unicycle pa.s.ses us, going the opposite direction down a sidewalk that slopes several scary degrees in a direction I would not think someone on a single-wheeled conveyance would attempt.

"That's something you don't see every day," Espy says.

"Then you're not looking in the right places."

She doesn't respond. Under the circ.u.mstances, casual conversation seems forced. Both of us are still reeling over Al's death, made more difficult by it happening so soon after the murders in Lalibela-although Espy was a G.o.dsend during the first few hours after it happened. She kept me from disengaging, kept me in the here and now. She kept me from placing the blame for Al's death on my own shoulders. Now her own emotional reserves lowered, she needs time to think these things through and in her own way.

"Where are we meeting your friend?" Espy asks.

"The beach."

Our destination is Station Beach, northeast of Sydney. I'd wanted to meet at her hotel-the Observatory, a five star in the Rocks District-but Angie was insistent that, if I was going to crash her vacation, I would have to work around her schedule. When she got my call from Ethiopia, she wouldn't believe me when I told her I was paying her a visit. I had to put Espy on the phone to prove to her it wasn't a joke meant to ruin the tail end of her vacation. When I got my phone back, all Angie wanted to talk about was the woman traveling with me.

Seeking out Angie penciled its own way into our plans when I discovered that my Reese Industries credit card had been canceled. The ATM in the airport swallowed it and wouldn't let go. I could deal with that. What really threw a wrench in the works was when the nice young man at the airline ticket counter gave me an apologetic smile and proceeded to cut my personal credit card in half. Had Espy not had a card of her own, and sufficient available credit, I don't know what we would have done.

Espy accused me of another bad debt, and my track record has not left me in a good spot from which to defend myself. But although it's true I have occasionally allowed a debt to remain unpaid, I have never played anything but nice with Visa. This has to be Reese's doing. Or Manheim's. I know Reese has the connections to turn off a poor archaeologist's credit spigot. I have to a.s.sume Manheim does, too.

So I'm hitting Angie up for money. She doesn't know that yet. I left the reason for our visit a mystery so that she wouldn't go into hiding.

But I'm irritated that I had to revert to my old phone to reach her. I called half a dozen times with the new phone and couldn't get through, and her voice mailbox was full. The only thing I could think to do was to call with my old phone and hope she recognized the number, which she did. Now if anyone has been eavesdropping on my calls, they know my short-term itinerary.

As our driver takes the taxi up the 14, I see signs for Palm Beach and the city's congestion gives way to green and sand and the bluest water in the world. According to the driver, Station Beach is on the opposite side of Barrenjoey Head from Palm Beach. It's quiet and the water of Pittswater Bay is calm enough to keep surfers and their like away. It's warmer in the car now, so I lower the window. Espy doesn't complain. Like me, I think she's coming out of her mild funk. It's too pretty here to hold on to anything negative. We ride in silence the rest of the way until the driver pulls into a small parking area, beyond which I can make out the pristine white sand and lapping surf. I give some thought to asking the driver to stay to take us back, but then change my mind. There's only one other car in the lot and I'll bet it belongs to Angie. I'm hoping to talk my way into a ride to a car-rental agency.

I'd been wondering how easy it would be to locate Angie once we arrived and now I see I needn't have worried. As we step out onto the sand, I can see only one person from my vantage point. She's stretched out on a towel and turns her head to watch us approach. As we get closer, I see her sit up and raise her sungla.s.ses.

"What in the world happened to you?" she asks.

"It's a long story."

I know how I look. While I'm wearing new clothes, and most of my injuries are not visible, I imagine that my overall weariness has become obvious. That, and I haven't shaved in several days.

Espy leans toward me and says, "She's pretty." She doesn't sound pleased about it.

Angie rises to greet us. She looks many shades darker than when I saw her last, and she wears relaxation like a second skin.

"Hi, Jack."

"Hi, Angie." I glance around at the empty beach. "I wouldn't have pictured you here. Isn't Bondi more your style?"

"Let's just say I'm spending the last few days of my vacation recovering from my vacation," she says with a wink. "What about you? This is a far cry from being holed up in your apartment."

"Aren't you the one who told me I need to get out more?"

She chuckles and turns to Espy. "h.e.l.lo, I'm Angie."

"Nice to meet you, Angie. I'm Esperanza."

"So what brings the two of you here?"

Angie is still taking in my condition, and there is genuine concern in her question, alongside the curiosity about my traveling companion.

"Angie, I need a favor." I offer my most charming smile, but Angie knows me too well.

She looks back and forth between Espy and me and I see her fixate on my shoulder.

"You're bleeding," she says. "Jack, what's going on?"

Blood from the wound in my shoulder has seeped though the bandage and is staining my new shirt. I sigh. It's just another minor complication in a growing list, and it's not one I'm going to worry about right now.

"Let's take a walk," I say.

The three of us walk up the beach, angling for the thick tree line and rising ground of Barrenjoey Head. I tell Angie about the last few weeks, giving her the highlights only. The more I share, the more her eyes widen. I remind myself that of all the friends I have called on since this job began, Angie knows less about my past than any of them. To her, I'm just a typical archaeology professor with no social life. Picturing me in the field, much less engaging in something this dangerous, must be difficult for her. What's more, many of the details I leave unsaid are ones that would likely send her to the unbelieving camp. What I give her is enough for her to see that we're in trouble without making it sound like some James Bond adventure. When I've finished and we turn to head back toward the parking area, leaving the rough terrain and treacherous cliffs behind, Angie is silent. She is walking next to me, her eyes on the sand.

"So what do you need?" she asks when we have neared the parking area.

I half register that Angie's car is not the only one there. I don't see anyone else on the beach, but it's just a short walk to the other sh.o.r.eline, where the ocean meets Palm Beach.

"We need money, Angie. Otherwise, we won't be able to finish this."

She nods, giving my words consideration before saying, "And would that be such a bad thing? Not being able to finish? Teaching archaeology seldom causes blood loss."

I think that even as she asks the question, she knows the answer. In the short time we've talked, my guess is that she's picked up on the fact that I'm not the same person who walked out of her apartment two weeks ago.

"How much do you need?" she asks with a resigned sigh.

"You're my girl, Angie. I'll make good, I promise."

With a laugh, Angie wraps her arm around mine and leans in close.

"You'd better. And I think you have yourself a new girl now." She delivers this last in a stage whisper, meant to be heard by Espy.

As Angie gathers up her belongings, she makes certain I know how irritated she is that I'm taking her away from the beach. What redirects her is when Espy asks about her hair, and the two of them enjoy a conversation about current styles as we walk to Angie's car.

The other car is still there, parked two s.p.a.ces away from Angie's. It's a new Lexus-beautiful lines. The windows are tinted so that an observer can see nothing of the interior. It's a car I can appreciate even if it's something I'd never buy for myself.

It's as Angie is popping the trunk of the rental to stow her belongings that the driver's door of the Lexus opens and my heart is shocked nearly to stopping to see Hardy step out. Even through my disbelief I start to move before Hardy is all the way out of the car. But he raises a gun before I can gain more than two feet. He's wearing the ever-present dark suit, only this time it's accessorized with sungla.s.ses.

"h.e.l.lo, 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 a.s.sure 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 pa.s.s 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 pa.s.ses 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 pa.s.sing 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 ident.i.ty 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 pa.s.senger 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 pet.i.te 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 pa.s.sing 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 pa.s.ses 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.