Cruel Comfort (Evan Buckley Thrillers Book 1) (15 page)

He hadn't been back to his apartment
since the day before McIntyre attacked him and he'd stayed with Faulkner. On
that occasion he'd been surprised that the memory stick he'd mailed to himself
hadn't arrived, but it was there when he collected his mail that evening.
Perhaps the postal service had siphoned it off thinking it was suspicious, or
maybe the postal workers union had held a day of action, but whatever it was,
it had arrived now.

He took the elevator up to his floor
and walked down the corridor to his apartment. It was obvious before he got
there that something was wrong. The door to the apartment was standing slightly
open. He carefully pushed it open all the way and peered in. From where he was
standing outside he could already see the chaos inside. He stopped and listened
carefully but couldn't hear anything. He stepped cautiously into the hallway
and started to creep forward making his way towards the living room at the end.

Suddenly there was a fast blur of
movement and something black shot between his legs and out into the corridor.
Evan jumped, almost losing his balance, and let out an involuntary yelp as his
heart slammed in his chest. It was just his neighbor's cat. At least he knew
there was nobody in the apartment now - the stupid cat would never have
ventured in if there was. The whole place reeked of cat spray which meant the
pesky animal had been enjoying its new found territory for at least a couple of
days. That probably meant McIntyre had come round the same evening he attacked
Evan.

The whole apartment had been turned
upside down, more for effect than anything else. Surely McIntyre - it couldn't
be anyone else - didn't believe he’d hidden the pictures inside the books on
the bookshelves, but he'd thrown them all over the floor just the same. Evan
had some nice first editions and they'd be ruined now. He bent down and picked
up a Robert B. Parker and put it back on the shelf. What would Spenser do now,
he wondered? Go round and kick McIntyre's ass, that's what. Unfortunately he
didn't think he was up to it.

He'd had the lyrics to Bob Dylan's
Sara
framed for his Sarah and now they were lying on the floor, the glass smashed.
He'd always teased her saying that Dylan got the words the wrong way round and
she would say she was Sarah, not Sara, so it didn't count. He picked the frame
up and tapped the broken glass out into the trash can, before hanging it back
on the wall.

The only consolation was that
McIntyre hadn't ripped open all the upholstery as well. Probably just allergic
to feathers.

There wasn't any point in calling
the police. McIntyre might be acting like a maniac but he wasn't stupid and he
wouldn't have left any evidence. Not that the police would have been interested
anyway - not if they sent someone like Ryder round. What he did do, was call Stanton's wife again.

When she heard who it was she
started ranting again as if the call had never been interrupted, but he just
talked over her.

'Since we last spoke, I've found out
McIntyre ransacked my apartment. You probably knew that last time we talked. I
don't give a shit either way, but will you please try to get it into his thick
skull that I haven't got any copies'. He didn't even feel any guilt this time.
'Also point out to him that if I was a blackmailer I wouldn't just leave all my
valuable evidence lying around for some amateur sneak thief to break in and
find. If it existed,
which it doesn't,
it'd be in a safe deposit box.'

He paused to catch his breath. She'd
gone quiet, shocked by the force of his outburst. 'One last thing; I haven't
been to the police about the attack and I'm going to let this ride as well. But
that's all. Any more of this shit and I'll tell them everything I know, and
then maybe they'll start poking
their
noses into things. I hope we're
clear on this.'

He ended the call before he said
anything he regretted. He'd been a hair's breadth away from saying he'd tell
her father about the affair. Then they'd have to deal with that shitstorm,
photos or no photos. He really didn't want to have to do that, because it would
turn him into the blackmailer they were so certain he was.

He spent the rest of the evening
putting his apartment back together which didn't do his mental state any good
at all. There were a lot of memories of his life with Sarah spread around the
apartment, except now they were spread around the floor. On a day-to-day basis
they tended to merge into the background and he didn't really see them. But an
evening spent picking up the pictures that McIntyre had thrown across the room,
and all the other mementos of their life together plunged him into a trough of
despondency. What was even worse was that he started feeling guilty about his
afternoon romp with Barbara. He knew it was ridiculous, but there it was.

Once he'd got the place back into
some kind of order he had a couple of stiff whiskies and took himself off to
bed. He fell asleep immediately and dreamed of a fishing trip with Faulkner and
Kevin Stanton, catching one Largemouth Bass after another, all of them with
Sarah's sad face and Barbara's perfectly-formed breasts; then laughing wildly
as they gutted the furiously flapping fish, while Hugh McIntyre shot at them
from the shore with a high-powered rifle.

He was up early the next morning
like a small boy excited about his long-awaited fishing trip with a favorite
uncle. In reality, he wasn't looking forward to it at all. There were too many
awkward questions to be asked. Perhaps he should ask them in the car before
they got out onto the lake, where he had a chance to get away. It was a
ridiculous thought. If he was thinking along those lines he shouldn't be going
at all. Apart from being a bit gruff at times, Faulkner had treated him well.

What niggled was that he knew
Faulkner was holding something back. Not only that, the more he looked into the
case, the more it seemed Faulkner was hiding. The only way he was going to find
out the whole truth was by talking to him.

So here he was, driving the now
familiar route to Faulkner's trailer park at this unearthly time of day. He
hadn't been fishing since he was about eight years old when his old man used to
take him before his health gave way. It looked like it was going to be a
beautiful day and, if it hadn't been for the doubts he had about Faulkner, he
couldn't have imagined a better way to spend it. Well, thinking back to
yesterday's unexpected delights, he could – he’d swap Faulkner for Barbara -
but this wasn't such a bad alternative.

He couldn't see any signs of life
when he got to Faulkner's trailer. He'd expected to see a pile of fishing gear
ready and loaded into his car, and hopefully a jumbo icebox full of cold beer
too. Perhaps Faulkner had overslept. He smiled to himself. It would be just
perfect; he was looking forward to waking him up with a few choice words to get
him back for his comments the previous evening. They’d see who couldn’t haul their
lazy ass out of bed.

He knocked on the door a lot louder
than was necessary, and then did it again without giving Faulkner a chance to
get to the door. Despite all the noise, there was no sound or movement coming
from inside the trailer. Nobody could have slept through all that. Maybe he was
on the can. He gave it another couple of minutes and knocked again. Still
nothing. Something wasn't right.

He looked around and saw an old
packing crate lying behind Faulkner's car. He carried it over and put it under
the window next to the door, then climbed up onto it and looked through the
window.

'Hey, you. What the hell do you
think you're doing?' a voice shouted from behind him. Evan jerked round at the
sound and slipped off the crate, raking his shin on the edge as he went. He
hadn't heard the guy coming. The guy was big and fat. He was also aggressive
and didn't smell too good. 'What do you think you're doing?' he said again,
still advancing on Evan.

Evan held up his hands. 'I'm looking
for Matt Faulkner. We're supposed to be going fishing.'

'Fishing?'

Evan decided not to try out
Faulkner's wiseass comments on the guy. He didn't look as if he was in a
laughing mood. 'Yes, fishing. We agreed I'd meet him here at seven, and we'd go
fishing together.'

The guy grunted. 'Maybe he
overslept. No need to go waking the whole trailer park,' he said, calming down
a bit. 'Why don't you try ringing his phone, instead of trying to break his
door down?'

Evan felt a bit stupid that he
hadn't thought of that before this meathead. He got out his phone and dialled
Faulkner's number. They could hear it ringing inside the trailer.

'It's ringing out,' he said, and
closed the connection. 'I was about to see if I could see anything through the
window.'

The guy shrugged. 'Give it a go, why
not.'

Evan was pleased to get the official
go-ahead from the park's unofficial security force. He climbed back up onto the
crate and peered through the window shielding his eyes with his hands against
the glass. He couldn't see anything.

'Can you see anything?' Meathead
asked.

'Nothing.'

'Try knocking again. But not so loud
this time.’ He made a keep-it-down gesture with his hands. ‘I don't want you
waking up the wife. Only damn time of day I get to myself.'

Evan was amazed that he was married,
but, then again, he hadn't seen his wife yet. They say there’s someone for
everyone. He had a bad feeling about the whole situation and didn't think there
was much point in knocking, but he was anxious to keep the fat guy happy. He
climbed down and knocked again. They stood and waited together in the early
morning light.

'What happened to your ear,' Fatso
said.

'Somebody bit it.'

The guy gave him a look like he'd
never heard of such a thing. Which was odd, because, in Evan's opinion, if
there was going to be any ear biting going on, this guy looked exactly like the
sort of person who'd be doing it.

'You don't say.' He shook his fat
head in amazement.

'I know, unbelievable isn't it.'

'What did you do to him?'

Evan wasn't about to put himself
down by admitting he'd done precisely squat. Besides, he wasn't here to pass
the day shooting the breeze with Faulkner's neighbors, he was here to catch
fish. He cocked his ear theatrically. 'I think I heard something inside.'

'I didn't hear anything and I've got
two good ears,' Fatso said with a smirk.

Evan made a point of knocking on the
door again even though he knew he wasn't going to get an answer.

'Is there a superintendant or
somebody with another key?' he asked.

'I've got a key.'

'Really?'

'Yeah, really.' He couldn't fail to
pick up on the surprise in Evan's voice. 'What, don't I look responsible enough
to have one?'

Evan certainly didn't want to go
down the road of insulting the man's trustworthiness.

'I think it would be a good idea if
you went and got it and we checked to see if he's okay.'

'I suppose. He's an old guy and
all.'

He lumbered back to his trailer,
opened the door gingerly and tip-toed back inside. It was obvious he was scared
stiff of waking the slumbering wife inside. That was why Evan hadn't heard him
coming. He reappeared a few seconds later carrying a big ring of keys. He
caught Evan staring at them.

'Surprise, surprise, eh. Lots of folks
trust me to keep a spare key.'

Evan had no idea where his defensive
attitude came from. Something must have happened in his childhood to make him
overly sensitive.

'Absolutely. I think you’re the most
trustworthy person I’ve seen all day. Shall we just open it up and see if he's
okay?'

Fatso found the right key and
unlocked the door. He pushed it open, then stood back and gestured for Evan to
go in first.

'Faulkner. You in there?' he called
as he climbed the steps. He went in and looked left and then to the right.
Everything looked exactly like it had the last time Evan was there apart from
the fact that Faulkner was lying on the floor, half in and half out of the
bedroom. There was a vicious looking gash on the side of his head, which was
lying in a pool of congealing blood.

Evan ran across and knelt down next
to him to feel for a pulse. It took him a while to find the right spot, but the
pulse was there. He could feel it very faintly. He could also see Faulkner's
chest rising and falling with each shallow breath.

'Get an ambulance,' he shouted at
Fatso who had just entered the trailer.

'Oh shit. There's no way she's gonna
sleep through all this.'

'I'm sure Faulkner will be touched
by your concern for his welfare. Call an ambulance. Now!'

The guy's mouth was hanging open and
his face had turned ashen. Even threw his cell phone to him.

'You don't have to live with her,
buddy,' he said, catching the phone and fumbling with the keys.

Evan looked down at Faulkner
helplessly while the guy gave the details to the 9-1-1 dispatcher. He had no
idea what to do. It looked like he'd lost a lot of blood, and it wasn't good
that he was still unconscious which could mean he was in shock. There was a
gaping laceration where the skin had been split wide open, but he couldn't see
any visible bone fragments or exposed brain. The bleeding had already stopped
so all he could do was sit tight until the ambulance arrived.

It didn't take long for them to get
there. When they arrived, the fat guy was back outside, sitting on the packing
crate with his head in his hands.
Some tough guy you turned out to be
,
Evan thought. He explained the situation to the paramedic in charge as his crew
loaded Faulkner into the ambulance.

'Do you have any idea what time it
might have happened?' the medic asked.

'It was sometime after seven p.m.
last night. That's when I last saw him.'

'That's a twelve hour time frame. Do
you know if anyone else saw him after that?'

'He had a visitor who was still here
when I left. Apart from that I don't know. You should probably work on the
basis that he's been out for twelve hours.'

Which in his opinion was exactly
when it happened, down to the last quarter hour - between the time he left just
after seven p.m. and precisely fifteen minutes later when Carl Hendricks blasted
past him on the highway.