Elisha's Bones - Don Hoesel [69]
“Let’s go,” I say. Without waiting for Espy’s reply, I toss money on the table to cover our untouched coffee, then head for the door. After what Sarah told us, I have no doubt that Brown has gone to find Hardy, and although the odds are slim that he would try anything in front of so many witnesses, there’s nothing to be gained by us sitting in the open.
We join the flow of people beneath the blinding sun, and I pause to get my bearings. There’s a taxi depot down the hill about four blocks away. With any luck, we will avoid any more run-ins with Brown and company and be on a plane within the hour.
I tell Espy our destination and she starts off first. As I follow her, my knee testifies to the steepness of the hill. I promise myself that if I ever make it back to Evanston, I will snatch up the first unit available on the ground level of my apartment building.
We’ve covered two blocks and the slope begins leveling out. I can see the taxi sign ahead and am gratified to see a car parked in front. The crowd is thicker here and I come near to losing Espy in the crush of pilgrims. Once, I feel a hand slide along the shoulder strap of my laptop but send the pickpocket—a child of nine or ten—scurrying with a look. I quickly move my wallet from my back pocket to the front. Meanwhile, Espy is getting farther ahead as the crowd grows even denser. Someone bumps into me and I feel my knee give; it’s all I can do to keep from falling. By the time I regain my balance, Espy is out of sight. A mild oath finds its way past my lips, and I pick up speed, hoping to catch sight of her through all the people.
A narrow alley opens up to my left and, as I hurry by, a flash of movement catches my attention. There’s a moment of disconnect between my brain and my body, with the latter stopping before the former can commit to action. I stumble and catch myself on the shoulder of a gentleman carrying two large boxes of onions, both of which tumble from his arms and send their contents cascading down the sloped concourse. Ignoring the man’s protest, I retrace my steps back to the alley, and anger sucker-punches me in the same part of my midsection that Espy worked over in Caracas. I push my way through the crowd and step between the buildings, because I know that’s what the man with the gun expects of me.
Esperanza’s eyes are large but free of panic, even though Hardy has the muzzle of a sleek pistol pressed just below her ear. I can see Brown standing behind him, but I can’t spare him more than a passing thought except to wonder at the strangeness of a world that can chart such a path for a man with his potential: an esteemed archaeologist serving as patsy and betrayer. More important is the man who stands between Espy and me—a local who is pointing the business end of a WWII-era machine gun in my direction. Behind me the street rings loud and bright, and no one pays any attention to what’s happening in this alley mere feet away.
“Hello, Dr. Hawthorne,” Hardy says.
“Why?” It’s the only question that means anything.
He shrugs, and I flinch as the gun moves over Espy’s skin.
“Because he doesn’t need you anymore.”
“And a pink slip wasn’t sufficient?” The weak attempt at levity sounds out of place even to me as the anger still pulses in my ears.
“Mr. Reese ties up loose ends.”
I have to believe it, because Reese’s puppet is here, and my continued existence is very much in question. Yet it’s difficult to jell my present knowledge of Gordon Reese with the genteel man I met in Dallas.
“Why doesn’t he need me anymore?” It’s a play at buying time. There’s only one reason why Reese would no longer