Swimsuit - James Patterson [59]
I wondered whether Henri was donning a new disguise, whether he was undergoing another metamorphosis — but the seat was still empty.
The waiter came toward me again, said that Mr. Benoit had phoned to say he was delayed and that I was to start without him.
So I ordered lunch. The Tuscan bean soup with black kale was fine. I took a few bites of the penne, ate without tasting what I imagined was excellent cuisine. I’d just asked for an espresso when my cell phone rang.
I stared at it for a moment, then, as if my nerves weren’t frayed down to the stumps, said, “Hawkins” into the mouthpiece.
“Are you ready, Ben? You’ve got a little more driving to do.”
Chapter 77
COACHELLA, California, is twenty-eight miles east of Palm Springs and has a population of close to forty thousand. For a couple of days every year in April, that number swells during the annual music festival, a mini-Woodstock, without the mud.
When the concert is over, Coachella reverts to an agricultural flatland in the desert, home to young Latino families and migrant workers, a drive-through for truckers, who use the town as a pit stop.
Henri had told me to look for the Luxury Inn, and it was easy to find. Off by itself on a long stretch of highway, the Lux was a classic U-shaped motel with a pool.
I pulled the car around to the back as directed, looked for the room number I’d been given, 229.
There were two vehicles in the parking lot. One was a late-model Mercedes, black, a rental. I guessed that Henri must’ve driven it here. The other was a blue Ford pickup hitched to an old house trailer about twenty-six feet long. Silver with blue stripes, air conditioner on top, Nevada plates.
I turned off my engine and reached for my briefcase, opened the car door.
A man appeared on the balcony above me. It was Henri, looking the same as the last time I saw him. His brown hair was combed back, and he was clean-shaven, wore no glasses. In short, he was a good-looking Mr. Potato Head of a guy who could morph into another identity with a mustache or an eye patch or a baseball cap.
He said, “Ben, just leave your briefcase in the car.”
“But the contract —”
“I’ll get your briefcase. But right now, get out of your car and please leave your cell phone on the driver’s seat. Thanks.”
One part of me was screaming, Get out of here. Jam on the gas and go. But an opposing inner voice was insisting that if I quit now, nothing would have been gained. Henri would still be out there. He could still kill me and Amanda at any time, for no reason other than that I’d disobeyed him.
I took my hand off my briefcase, left it in my car along with my cell phone. Henri jogged down the stairs, told me to put my hands on the hood. Then he expertly frisked me.
“Put your hands behind your back, Ben,” he said. Very casual and friendly.
Except that a gun muzzle was pressed against my spine.
The last time I turned my back to Henri, he’d coldcocked me with a gun butt to the back of my head. I didn’t even think it through, just used instinct and training. I sidestepped, was about to whip around and disarm him, but what happened next was a blur of pain.
Henri’s arms went around me like a vise, and I went airborne, crashing hard on my shoulders and the back of my head.
It was a hard fall, painfully hard, but I didn’t have time to check myself out.
Henri was on top of me, his chest to my back, his legs interwoven with mine. His feet were hooked into me so that our bodies were fused, and his full weight crushed me against the pavement.
I felt the gun muzzle screw into my ear.
Henri said, “Got any more ideas? Come on, Ben. Give me your best shot.”
Chapter 78
I WAS SO IMMOBILIZED by the takedown, it was as if my spinal cord had just been cut. No weekend black belt could have thrown me like that.
Henri said, “I could easily snap your neck. Understand?”
I wheezed “yes,” and he stood, grasped my forearm, and hauled me to my feet.
“Try to get it right this time. Turn around and put your hands