Killer Move - Michael Marshall [51]
Fighting a feeling of nausea, Warner looks round at him. “She gave you someone else, didn’t she.”
Hunter smiles. “I’ll be back.”
He sits down on the edge and is about to drop over it, but then stops, as if struck by a thought. “One thing, though,” he adds. “Driving down Longboat, I saw something. Don’t know what it’s about, but you might. Seems like the cops are taking an interest in your house. Saw four or five cars. Plus a CSI wagon or two. Seems like a lot of hardware for some guy who’s gone missing, no matter how rich he is.”
He winks, and then he’s gone.
The water has made a difference. His thoughts have clarified. Warner knows the effect is temporary, and for some reason the image that comes into his mind is that of a faithful dog, locked into a house with its old, dead owner, lapping at the body’s blood, biting a hole, snuffling and chewing at what’s inside. Great, in the short term. A meat bonanza. But when it’s gone, it’s gone.
He feels okay. His thoughts are more able to restrict themselves to the positive, to the golden hours and days. His thoughts are like strong hands, lifting moments up in front of his mind. He can hold them there, turn them, look at the past from every angle. In the past this would have been associated with pinpricks of guilt and doubt. But now? There’s no need, no space, and no time. He can be who he is and has always been.
He stares straight ahead, eyes open. After a time they start to smart, and collude with the oncoming twilight to make the edges of the room shade away.
When the women arrive, he knows they are only in his imagination. He’s still not sure about Katy, but he knows that the figures that start to appear now around the periphery of his vision are nothing more than the product of his memory. He remembers then that he did come up with an idea something like the fantasy index Katy’s ghost told him about. He knows that’s what his mind is serving up, except that the figures that are coming to share this space are not those who were attracted to him. He had a very different role in their lives, and there are many of them. He’d never realized quite how many.
He’s not afraid.
But he’s not a fool, either.
When he’s ready, he holds the ends of both arms of the chair with his hands. He anchors down with the balls of his feet. He closes his eyes and pushes, raising the front legs just a little.
Then he throws his back against the chair, hard.
The chair rocks, once, twice, and then tips slowly backward over the edge.
CHAPTER TWENTY
I didn’t go far. After I’d made it onto the main road without being confronted by a cop car, I calmed down a little. I knew what I was doing was not smart, but also that it wasn’t a CNN-worthy Bronco debacle either. How was I to have known that the cops were on their way? Well, okay, because Karren had told me—but they didn’t know that (yet). And they should have called ahead, right? You can’t just assume people are sitting around with nothing better to do. I had business to attend to. I had a client to meet, a dentist’s appointment, a brand-building encounter group and astrology “fragfest” up in Bradenton. I had to do . . . whatever the fuck.
So I wasn’t home. So sue me.
I drove into downtown Sarasota and developed an idea on the way. It was a small idea, but it was the only one I could find, and some form of positive and direct action seemed like a good plan right now (and a great excuse for not being at home, too).
I parked on Felton Street and walked the extra block to the offices of Not Just a Beach. I could see through the big glass doors that someone was still behind the desk, but when I tried to open the door, it was locked. The girl looked up from her computer and shook her head with the god-given authority of receptionists everywhere.
We be shut. It de law.
I went through a mime show to indicate that I knew it was after six and they weren’t open, but that I was desirous of communicating with her anyhow—and not likely to give up any time soon. She took her time interpreting this, or maybe just wasn’t too smart. In the end