Elisha's Bones - Don Hoesel [50]
Ernesto offers a smile that is almost gracious. “Dr. Hawthorne and I simply had an old debt to settle.”
When she hits me this time, I am wholly unprepared. And since my midsection has suffered a grievous injury, the solid blow does more damage than she’d likely anticipated.
“You owe someone else money? What’s the matter with you?” And then she starts in again with the cursing in Spanish.
“I still don’t understand why someone would pay that much to have you killed,” Ernesto says. “I’m not certain you’re worth it.”
“I’ve wanted to have him killed,” Esperanza responds. “And I would have probably paid a lot to see it happen.”
Ernesto laughs. “I like her.”
“Now that we’re settled up,” I say to him, ignoring the budding camaraderie, “can you tell me anything about this guy?”
After my brief conversation with Reese, I’m convinced that, rather than the Australian who has entwined himself in my affairs, the man who made the deal with Ernesto was Gregory Hardy. The timeline fits; Ernesto’s visitor made his offer two days ago, and Hardy showed up at the dig site the following day, yesterday. I don’t believe in coincidence. It doesn’t help me understand why Reese would want me dead, but at least it’s a plausible theory.
“My curiosity got the better of me, too,” Ernesto answers. “Which is why I had him tailed.”
“You beautiful human being.” I’m choosing to ignore the failure of that statement on so many levels.
“He’s smart. Three vehicle changes. We almost lost him.”
He’s waiting for some sort of vocalized appreciation for keeping an elusive quarry in his sights, but he’s not going to get it from me.
“Whoever he was,” Ernesto continues, “he spoke with an accent that at first I thought was South African, but we determined it was likely Australian.”
The chill that seems like a frequent visitor returns now. Ernesto’s information would seem to indicate that my Reese theory is wrong. “How did you determine that?”
“Because he caught a charter flight to Caracas, where he boarded a plane bound for Sydney,” Ernesto says with a wink.
Criminal distrust is a wonderful thing.
“Anything else you can tell me?”
“Regrettably, no.”
“How were you supposed to prove that you killed me?”
“By emailing a picture of your carcass to him.”
“Oh.”
Ernesto has walked us to the door of the business, which is a legitimate industrial supply company where he rents office space. He’s told me that the other SUV escaped and, while he had orders to eliminate anyone traveling with me, he thought that bringing the chase into the city would have been imprudent. I’m glad Antonio got away. I imagine the superstitious man thought he was being punished for desecrating holy ground. He probably drove all the way back to Caracas, crossing himself the entire way. I wish him Godspeed. Ernesto had no information about the car driven by Gregory Hardy. According to his men, there were only two vehicles in our party at the time they opened fire. At this point, I can’t spare the resources necessary to care about him.
Ernesto leads us outside and, with no parting words, allows a metal door to close between us. Esperanza and I are alone on the sidewalk in the less-than-touristy part of San Cristóbal. Warehouses rise up on either side of the street, and there is a smell in the air that more than hints at chemicals and burning rubber. The ground is wet, and there are brown puddles everywhere and hundreds of drowned worms around us.
I start walking, picking a direction that takes us away from an alley filled with people sitting amid refuse. There’s an intersection ahead, where we may be able to catch a cab.
“What kind of life do you lead?” Espy calls after me. “People with guns, mysterious Aussies taking contracts out on you, a trail of bad debts all over the world?”
I can’t help but laugh. It’s funny because of the truth: that I am a boring college professor who seldom leaves my apartment. It’s this place—this crazy country—that has made me into something else.
“Why are you laughing? I’m hungry, my leg hurts, and I want to be back in my apartment taking a long bubble