Jack Stone - Deadly Revenge (3 page)

Five.

Logistics.

That was what Stone was thinking about.

Getting to California from Phoenix was a matter of organization combined with luck. He had choices – hitchhike across country, or take the Greyhound, maybe as far as Los Angeles and then thumb a ride north.

Not for the first time he regretted not having a car.

Anymore.

After
mustering out, Stone had bought an old Second World War army Jeep, and when he discovered that his sister Susan was still alive, he had driven south from Massachusetts to Washington to begin following leads.

Within three days of starting
to search for Susan, two men who were no longer alive had burned out the Jeep and left it as a blackened charred skeleton on the roadside.

In the last eighteen months he thought often about buying another vehicle. He had money saved from his time at The Venture Group, and he had an income from his mother’s house that had been left to him in her will. But somehow Stone never figured the money from his mother’s house was rightly his to spend. Not with Susan ali
ve. Now he figured it was her house too – and so he had hitchhiked and ridden busses and trains for the last eighteen months, crisscrossing the country to follow up leads, rather than use money that one day Susan would need to get her life back.

Just as soon as Stone found her – and freed her.

Stone did a rough calculation in his head and guessed it was about twelve hours driving time to the west coast, but in the end it was Melanie who helped him decide.

“Hitchhiking is discouraged here in Phoenix,” she said. “Until you get well out of town, or maybe to a truck stop, you’re going to get hassled or fined by the cops. Most of the city is within Maricopa County,
and the sheriff has a reputation as one of the country’s toughest. You would be better getting to California by bus.”

She drove him to the Greyhound Terminal off E Buckeye Road. Pulled up in the shade of a multi-
storey building that looked to Stone like a small-sized shopping mall. There were a couple of palm trees around the entrance to the building and a shady awning that reached out over the drop off point.

Stone got out of the car. Leaned in through the driver’s side window. Kissed Melanie goodbye while overhead the sky was suddenly filled with the whine of jet turbines, carried on the still air from the nearby airport.

“I’ll miss you,” Melanie said softly.

Stone smiled. “No you won’t. You’ll forget about me soon enough and get on with your life.”

She shook her head solemnly. “No. I’ll never forget you Jack. You’re a heartbreaker.”

Stone frowned and leaned in closer.

“I don’t play games with women’s hearts, Melanie,” he said simply. “I never made you any promises. You knew when we met that it could only ever be for a short time. I’ve always been clear on that.”

He kiss
ed her again, this time longer and slower, with a whole lot more emotion and passion. Then he hefted his knapsack onto one broad shoulder and turned on his heel towards the sliding glass doors. He never looked back, so he never saw Melanie sobbing as she waved him goodbye.

Six
.

The bus reached Los Angeles just before midnight. Seven and a half hours from Phoenix, and Stone slept all the way. He stepped off the Greyhound fresh and well rested, and shared a cab with an elderly couple to Glendale on the north edge of the city.

Then he stood by the side of the road and stuck out his thumb. He was on the 101, which meandered through the coastal range of California. Traffic was light.

Hitchhiking at night was not Stone’s preferred option. He had learned the hard way that people were a lot more willing to offer a ride during the daylight hours.

Stone
didn’t stand and wait. He started walking. An hour later, just as the cool night air was beginning to make him wish he owned a jacket, an elderly man in an old white Honda Civic hatch pulled off the highway in a flurry of blinking tail lights.

Stone
rode with the old guy as far as Salinas, then stood by the side of the road in the early morning watching the sunrise until a young couple in an SUV with surfboards on its roof rack took him the rest of the way to the coast.

He
climbed stiffly from the vehicle at a turnoff that had a Mexican restaurant and a doctor’s surgery on the corner and looked ahead. The road rose in a two-lane hump that spanned a narrow river mouth.

The guy in the SUV pointed. “
Heston’s Cove is just over the bridge.”

Stone started walking.

Seven.

Stone paused on the arch of the bridge and looked ahead to the town of Heston’s Cove, nestled between the shelter of a coastal ridge, and a small harbor.

The harbor
was in the shape of a funnel; wide where an inland river spilled past shoreline sandbanks, and narrowing where two long rock break walls reached out into the Pacific Ocean like welcoming arms to visiting boats.

Around the fringe of the harbor, Stone could see clusters of low-rise buildings and jetties with expensive sleek fishing boats bobbing gently against their moorings.

Sunlight on the water cut the surface into a million glittering fragments.

He kept walking.

A single main road meandered past residential apartments, houses and a string of hotels. The road was wide and the sidewalk had trees. Stone followed the road for another mile, listening to the gentle boom of surf pounding on distant rocks gradually sounding closer, the cry of seagulls as they dipped and wheeled over the fishing boats, and all the noises of a tourist town that was winding down after a long holiday season.

Traffic was light.
Occasional cars appeared from narrow side-streets and a group of four-wheel-drives with fishing boats tied down to trailers were parked in front of a fast-food outlet that sold seafood. Stone crossed a narrow footbridge and the road began to rise gently towards another strip of businesses and shops that had been built in the lee of a low grassy hill sprinkled with tall coastal palm trees.

When he reached the first main intersection he paused. Ahead was the town’s business strip. To his right was another wide road that was fronted on one side by commercial warehouses, and the other side by the town library, some kind of a community center and the local police station.

Stone let his haversack slip from his shoulder and stood under the shade of a tree. He pulled his cell phone from his pocket. It was just after 9am. He dialed Celia Walker’s number. Held the phone to his ear and felt the stubble of new beard on his chin and cheeks.

She answered immediately.

“Stone?”

“I’m here.”

There was a pause. “In Heston’s Cove?”

“Yes. I’m standing at an intersection. There are shops ahead of me
, and a street with commercial and municipal buildings to the right. Where are you?”

Another pause. Stone could hear noises in the background. The ambient sounds of cutlery clinking and the murmur of voices.

“Having breakfast,” Celia said. “I’m at a café on the main street. There is a red awning out front and tables on the sidewalk.”

Stone looked along the road. There was a cluster of pedestrians milling on sidewalks and strolling between parked cars. He saw the red awning and started walking towards it.

“I’ll be there in three minutes,” he said. He ended the call and stuffed the phone back into the pocket of his jeans.

The café was called
‘Georges’
. It was one of those places that survived by making all its profits in the holiday season and then struggling through the winter on a meager local trade. There were a dozen small round tables set on the sidewalk, each one encircled by simple plastic chairs, and several upturned milk crates next to an aluminum sign that advertised a brand of coffee. The milk crates were covered with foam cushions. There were people sitting on the crates sipping from over-sized cardboard cups with Greek decorations on them. Most of the tables were filled by groups of two or three, lazing in the morning sun.

Under the shade of the awning, the café’s shop front was a set of wide dark windows and a doorway with thin metal chains hanging
down over the opening to keep insects away. Stone stood on the footpath and watched for a moment. A young woman came through the doorway out into the morning light with plates in both hands. She was wearing a white uniform and a black apron and she had the harried, hassled look of a girl working a long busy shift for minimum wage.

The waitress bent over and set the plates
she was carrying down on a table at the far end of the sidewalk. When she straightened and wheeled away, Stone saw a lone woman sitting at a table in a corner, her head bent over a newspaper.

He threaded his way through the breakfast crowd. Stood in front of the table.

“Celia Walker?”

The woman looked up, distracted
and frowning like she had been caught off guard. She was wearing sunglasses. She snatched them off. Looked up into Jack Stone’s face.

“Jack Stone?”

Stone nodded. Scraped back a chair and sat down. Set his haversack at his feet. Studied the woman sitting opposite.

She wore no jewelry:
no rings on any fingers, no necklace. Not even earrings. Just an elegant pink silk blouse and a black skirt.

Her hair was
light brown to her shoulders, and her skin was lightly tanned, as though just a few hours of Californian sun had gilded it. Her eyes were blue, and she had artfully touched their shape with the barest hint of makeup that emphasized their size. She wore no lipstick. Her mouth was wide – the kind of mouth that might have been accustomed to smiling, but just couldn’t in the circumstances.

She looked to be in her late twenties, Stone figured. Thirty at the most, and beneath the pall of sadness that seemed to have drawn her body tense, Stone sensed a restless energy
and vitality in the woman.

She held out her hand. Stone leaned in. Her fingers were long and elegant, her grip firm and business-like. He caught the scent of her perfume.

“Thank you for coming, Mr. Stone,” she said. Her voice was a little husky, like maybe she was barely holding everything together. Like she was on the verge of breaking down.

Stone nodded. “Call me Jack,” he said. “And I’ll call you Celia.”

She nodded. There was a flicker of an edgy smile at the corner of her mouth and a tremble in her lower lip. Stone saw tears start to well in her eyes and he waved to the young waitress and mouthed the words ‘coffee’ and ‘Coke’. Held up two fingers. When he turned back to Celia, she had taken a deep breath and composed herself.

“Where is your car?” she asked suddenly, her voice bright but brittle.

“I don’t have one,” Stone said.

Celia frowned. “A hire car?”

“No.”

“Well how did you get to
Heston’s Cove?”

Stone shrugged. “Greyhound bus from Phoenix to Los Angeles. I hitchhiked from there.”

Celia stared at him aghast for long seconds. The waitress arrived at the table. She set down a thick enamel mug and a can of Coke, then left milk and sugar in the middle of the table.

“I thought you would fly – or drive,” Celia said.

Stone shook his head. “I never fly. Ever,” he said bluntly. “And I don’t own a car.”

“What about your luggage?”

Stone held up his haversack. Said nothing.

The conversation stilted. Celia poured milk into her cup, and scooped in sugar. Stirred the mixture for about a minute, just starring into the mug. Stone watched her. He could see the turmoil of emotions behind her eyes. He could see the fear, the worry,
and the uncertainty.

He said nothing.

He could feel the warmth of the morning coming up off the sidewalk. He looked away. Watched passing cars and other people who were seated around them. Watched young mothers struggling to feed restless children and local businessmen snatching a quick coffee before their workday started. Watched middle-aged couples in loud shirts and wearing wide-brimmed hats fussing over fold-out tourism maps like they were planning a military campaign.

Finally Celia looked up at him again, and fr
esh unshed tears made her eyes glitter and swim.

“Thank you,” she said softly. “I… I didn’t realize how much I was asking of you.”

Stone shook his head. “I have to be somewhere,” he said. “It might as well be here.”

They finished their drinks in silence,
and then Celia set an elegant designer handbag on the edge of the table and took out a slim black purse. She peeled off a twenty-dollar bill from a thick wad and left it trapped under the bottom of her mug. Then she reached back into her handbag for a brass key attached to a large white plastic tag.

“I booked
you a room,” Celia said. “We’re staying at the Harborside Hotel. It’s back down the road about half a mile. You’re in room seventeen.” She handed him the key and then paused for a long time, watching Stone like she was testing him. Stone said nothing so finally she added, “I’ll be in room eighteen.”

They stood to leave. There were two men by the roadside
wheeling pushbikes towards the café. They were wearing bright, colored jerseys covered in advertising logos and plastic safety helmets.

“We’ll let the
‘mamils’ have the table,” Celia said. She ran her fingers down her thighs to straighten her skirt. Stone looked puzzled.

Celia smiled. “
Mamils,” she said again, repeating the strange pronunciation and nodding to the approaching bike riders. “Middle. Aged. Men. In. Lycra.”