Kissing the Dragon - 30. Out Of The Frying Pan

Inside the bedroom, I rest my forehead on the chill window pane and stare down at the calm aquamarine of the illuminated pool, as somebody somewhere switches the lights out—one-by-one. End of show, people. All is quiet now, a very different picture to the one exploding to life an hour or so ago. Deep inside I still feel an aftershock trembling from the ordeal. After settling me in the bedroom and encouraging me to shower, Kit explains that he will go and help Jeremy get things back to normal, help soothe the remaining guests. In truth I think Kit feels guilty, trying to make up for sleeping through the whole ordeal. He probably also wants to know what happened without worrying me. For some reason, despite the evening of violence, Ben’s disappointed face as he walked away still haunts me.

An hour later, when Kit returns, he locks our bedroom door and then comes straight over to me. For a few minutes, he stands quietly beside me, rubbing his palm up and down my spine, before finally putting his arms around me and pulling me into the warmth of his body. Maybe I should resist, but the gesture is exactly what I need right now.

“You’re shaking.”

“It’s not every day someone threatens your life.”

“Can’t even begin to imagine. What the hell happened, Cole? Jeremy says you’re the only one who really knows.”

I take a deep breath and tell him everything. He listens, saying nothing, although from time to time I feel his head nodding against my shoulder with understanding or sympathy. Or both.

“Something’s not right, though,” I murmur after a pause, enjoying his warm breath on my ear.

“How so?”

“I don’t know. I can’t quite put my finger on it. Hand was a villain, no doubt about that,” I say, leaning the side of my head against his. “But he wasn’t a serial killer. From what I heard I don’t think he murdered Tony. Morgan sent him to hard talk Tony, but said he found the boy already dead. And yes, he turned over Denny’s place, but Denny would have been in the pub with me when that happened.”

“Come on, Cole. People will say anything,” murmurs Kit, and I know he is probably right. “Isn’t the fact that he admits to being at both crime scenes incriminating enough?”

“Yes, I suppose so. I just wonder why he said all those things before the police showed up. Why would he bother? And you can tell that kind of thing in people’s faces. I don’t know why but I believed him, Kit. I don’t think he killed them.”

“What about Callaghan. Did Hand kill him?”

“Chaudhary seems to think so.”

“So he is capable of murder?”

“Fair comment. But why string that whole elaborate story together just for me?”

“Okay. If not him, who else? It had to be one of them. The woman? She’s a piece of work.”

“Schwartz? I thought you liked her. Mind you, I thought I liked her too, until she pulled a gun on me. One cold-hearted woman. I have no doubt she’d have shot me between the eyes in a heartbeat. But why would Denny let her in his house? He didn’t even know her.”

“Good point. She is a woman. And I doubt she’d be strong enough to haul his body to the ponds.”

“Exactly. Besides that, Morgan said she was with him and Winterbourne’s wife when Hand returned. I’ve been wondering if someone else in the pub knew him. It was a busy night, with a lot of people I didn’t know. Maybe somebody followed us back.”

Recollections send a chill through me of someone stopping at the end of Cold Blows alleyway as I stood over Denny while he vomited. Had someone followed us back from the pub? Behind me Kit must sense my concern because he steps away, gently turns me around and then hugs my body into his.

“Let it go, Colin. You’re overthinking things. Leave Sam Spade and his crew to figure things. Do you want to get some sleep?”

“Not going to happen, Kit. My mind’s too messed up to sleep,” I say, feeling his firm body pressed against mine. “I’d just lie awake.”

“How about a drink then?” he whispers in my ear. “I could try and rustle up some coffee. Or some of that Earl Grey tea you’re so fond of. Or maybe something a little stronger. Whisky or brandy?”

Despite myself, I let a sigh go and relax against him. Right now, Kit’s concern is exactly what I need.

“A brandy wouldn’t go amiss.”

“Leave that to me,” he says, and unwraps his arms from me. The absence of his warm embrace almost has me telling him not to bother.

“Hope you’re not going to raid Jeremy’s drinks cabinet? It’s probably guarded by a security system.” I say, perching on the wide window ledge as I watch him head over towards the small chestnut cabinet in the corner of the room.

“No need. I discovered something earlier tonight while you were out,” he says, opening one of the panels and revealing two decanters housing bronze liquid. He opens the other panel to reveal rows of lead crystal whiskey and brandy glasses, then proceeds to fill one of them half full with brandy.

“Wow, I need to get myself one of those.”

“No ice, I’m afraid,” he says, returning and offering the drink to me.

Without hesitating, I knock it back. The instant bite comes as a shock before the liquor numbs dry the inside of my mouth and throat. But the result is instant: warming and welcome.

“Woah, steady, tiger,” he says, taking the glass from me. “You want another?”

“One’s enough. Thank you. Hit the spot nicely.”

He leans in then and pulls my head down onto his shoulder, rocks me gently, an arm around my back.

“So how are you enjoying the weekend so far?” I ask, and feel him chuckle beside me.

Probably to distract me, he tells me what happened after we left for the pub. Seems as though the house had dramas of its own. Just as Kit turned in, a lesbian couple decided to have a loud, heated and very public argument in the upstairs corridor. His voice is nice, humming through me like the purr of a cat, and I feel my eyelids getting heavy. At one point he shakes me and when I open my eyes and turn, he has a quizzical look on his face.

“Out of interest, did you know about any of this crazy shit before you invited me down here?”

Even though, strictly speaking, I did not invite him, his question is reasonable. Beneath the numbness, I feel a shimmer of culpability. Had he joined us for the after-dinner drinks, he could have been in the line of fire, too.

“I had my suspicions. But that’s all they were, Kit. I would never knowingly put you or anyone else in harm’s way. Some things just came to head while I was here.”

“I wasn’t blaming you, Colin. Apart from tonight’s drama, I’m glad I came here with you. For many reasons,” he says, before heading into the bathroom with the empty glass.

Feeling a not unpleasant heaviness descend on me, dragging down my shoulders, I move over to the perch on end of the queen size. I know that if I were to fall back and close my eyes now, I would sleep soundly. Perhaps I should surrender. The trickle of running water comes from the bathroom. Now that everything is resolved, I may as well share other things I know with him.

“Do you know the other weird thing? Someone used one of my handkerchiefs to blindfold Roland, the rent boy. And I assumed it was stolen when I had the break in. But I gave that particular one to Denny on the Friday night he vomited. And I didn’t get it back.”

“You okay?" asks a concerned Kit, emerging from the bathroom, freezing for a moment then coming over to sit next to me. He places a bolstering arm around my shoulders again and hugs tightly.

"Tired all of a sudden," I say, leaning into him.

"That's the roller-coaster nature of shock. Adrenaline peak followed by an overwhelming plunge into tiredness."

Just then my private phone beeps. I am tempted to ignore it but know Ben is on the other end. Stifling a yawn, I squeeze the device from my pocket and try to focus on the display.

Get out of there. Now.

My first thought is that Ben's warning has been delivered a bit late, and I start to chuckle. But then I catch the time of his message, sent only a moment ago.

"It's Ben," I say. "Telling us to leave. Good advice but a little late."

"Ben?" says Kit, removing his arm from my shoulders. Apart from grieving the loss of heat again, I am in danger of falling backwards without his support.

"Sorry," I say, smiling sleepily and turning the display to him. "DC Whitehead. The message was probably delayed. He's telling us to get out of here."

"Not us, Colin. You," says Kit, taking the phone from me and standing. His voice has changed, the warmth gone. "He's telling you to get out. For a public servant, that cop cares a hell of a lot about you, doesn't he?"

"It's his job—“

"Bullshit. I see how he looks at you. Goddamn fool that I am, I thought we could be more than friends. But I put one finger on you and you jump a mile. And it's ‘cause the cop got to you first. You two have fucked, haven't you?"

Despite my tired state, I am shocked alert by his accusation. How could he possibly know? We have been totally discrete. More importantly, do I really need this conversation right now?

"Until this weekend, Kit, I thought you were straight."

"Answer the question."

"No," I say, after a short pause, because that is the answer I believe he wants to hear, and then feel a wave of remorse. My eyes always betray my mouth whenever I try to tell a lie.

With that, Kit goes quiet, then sighs softly once before going over and crouching in front of his rucksack. After rummaging through, his back still to me, he speaks again, calm and controlled, but not the Kit that I know.

"You know what I think, Colin? I think you're bullshitting me. Why else would Sam Spade be skulking out of your house at three on Sunday morning, or grinning like an idiot as the two of you stroll down your road first thing Friday? I reckon he got himself a piece of that fine ass."

The realisation of the meaning of his words hits me hard.

“That was you in the Lexus.”

“Don’t be stupid. That was Hand. We’re more discrete.”

“Who’s we—?”

“Stand up," he says, strolling back to me, his voice a command.

"Kit, I'm really tired—“

After having played him at tennis, I am well aware of the power of the stinging full-handed backhand that lands on my right temple. Knocked sideways onto the bed, I am also brought instantly back to wakefulness.

"Get up," he repeats and when I glare shocked up at him I see a new Kit Hansen, a dead expression on his face. He steps back, still towering over me, while screwing the silencer onto a black metal pistol.

"You're the penultimate piece of the jigsaw. The last payback. To think I told my sister we should let you be. But after what you made happen, I'm glad she convinced me. Get up and walk to the door."

"I'm not sure I can. I feel strange, heavy," I say, but manage to stand up unsteadily. I put a hand to my right ear which is ringing persistently from the blow. I am also beginning to sense instinctively that something fundamental has changed, that I am in serious mortal danger. Is he crazy, or am I missing something?

"That's the brandy cocktail hitting your bloodstream. You're good for another ten to fifteen, at least."

Instinctively my head jerks around to the drinks cabinet. Has he drugged me?

"I don't understand, Kit. What have I done?"

"You understand fine. You're just not trying," he says, turning me roughly around and pressing the tip of the gun into the small of my back. With a hand clamped around my upper arm, he jolts me forward. "Admittedly, you're just a pawn. But it's all a matter of analysing history. Isn't that your subject? Head out of the bedroom and turn right down the west staircase. If you try anything, I'll shoot. Not that I need you to believe me, but I am a trained marksman, so I wouldn't advise doing anything stupid. This is a SIG Mosquito, my favourite toy, and attached is a suppressor, so nobody’s going to hear the shot that takes you out. I don't want to shoot you, Colin. But I will, if I have to."

"Okay, I hear you. I'm not going to try anything," I say, stumbling forwards, and then in a rare lucid moment, something comes to me. "I never told you Denny's body was carried to the ponds.”

"No, you didn't. You see? I said you'd catch on eventually."

"And a sister? You never mentioned having a sister before."

He laughs, not a nice sound now.

"So finally you're getting there. She said you weren't worth the effort. Said thirty something year olds who wear bandanas on train rides are lost causes. I told her she was wrong. But as always she proved me wrong. So we’re going to finish what we started."

"Which is what, exactly?"

We reach the downstairs foyer where a few courtesy lamps burn on hallway tables. He shoves me in the direction of the corridor leading to the back of the building. The pressure of his grip on my forearm is keeping me from stumbling over with tiredness.

"Retribution. Don’t get me wrong. What the police found out—the truth about Oscar Callaghan—is a bonus. With the video in the public domain, Morgan and Winterbourne’s business will be set back significantly, if not destroyed.”

“So this is not about Callaghan’s death?”

“No. Sure we wanted to find what Morgan sought, the CCTV files. To beat him to the post. My new corporation would’ve paid a mint to have proof that Callaghan didn't take his own life, that his death was murder dressed up as suicide. Which, incidentally, is Hand’s speciality, not mine. Good to throw it all back in their faces, though. But ultimately that’s not what this is about. You get the gold star for that, by the way. You managed to beat everyone to the punchline.”

In the dim light of the corridor leading to the outside terrace, a shadow peels away from the wall. At first, I take a sharp breath and pray that a rescuer has come to my aid, but then the silhouetted figure comes to a halt.

"That was fast," murmurs Kit.

“I learnt from the best, li’l brother,” says the voice, female, and also American. Nichole Schwartz.

“We got to move. His cop boyfriend figured us out.”

When he flips on the hall light and moves next to her, hands her the gun to train on me, I am astonished that I never considered the likeness before. Apart from jet black hair which she has tied back by a scarlet scarf with gold stars—something instantly familiar from Croxburgh station platform—she has his features; grey eyes, long Roman nose. When Kit returns to me, he pulls out a medium blue handkerchief and shakes the cloth out.

“Do you know what this stands for?” he asks, and when I say nothing he continues on. Approaching me from behind, he carefully ties the cloth around my neck like a bandanna. “Cop fetish. Do you know anyone who might need one of these, Cole? Anyone who likes to be fucked by cops?”

“Cut the games, Carter. And let’s get this over with,” comes the irritated voice of Schwartz. “How d’you fancy a late night dip, McCann?”

I remain silent, mulling over her words, knowing they cannot mean anything good. Before I have a chance to respond, Kit takes over.

“Been running through some options,” says Kit. “Depends on how quickly we want to get this done. You see there’s that big pool out back. Not been used this weekend. Alcohol, drugs and late night swimming have never been a good mix. And apparently drowning’s a good way to go.”

“I can swim,” I say, not catching on, and then feel a wave of dismay when they both laugh.

“Not when you’re unconscious,” says Kit, pushing me stumbling forward again, past Schwartz who still has the gun on me, until we exit via a back door. At that he pulls me to a halt and then steps in front of me, his gaze searching for something.

"Carter?” I ask, to fill the silence.” So your name is Carter. Is there anything you've told me that's true?"

Still carefully but calmly scanning the area, he slowly brings his attention to me.

"You. You were true. For a time. Until I found out the kind of person you really are."

Spotlights inside the pool that earlier illuminated the water and surrounding area are now switched off, the only light coming from intermittent bursts of pale moonlight, before the immortal white orb passes a cloudy patch of night. I have difficulty avoiding the sun beds and occasionally smack my shin. Behind me Kit says nothing until the grip on my forearm squeezes painfully and he indicates me to stop.

“Kneel,” he commands, applying downward pressure to my right shoulder. I do as asked, sinking to the tiled floor at the side of the pool and perching on my heels. Without the pain of his grasp on my arm, my body starts to succumb to the effects of the drugs, and I collapse forward stopping myself from hitting the deck by thrusting out my hands.

“Can’t you just shoot him?” comes the voice of Schwartz.

“We do this as planned. If he drowns they’ll think it’s an accident. Like Butterworth. Only Morgan will guess the truth.”

“You want me to wait?”

“No time. You got the bags loaded?”

“Mine, yeah. Yours is still in the room.”

“Fetch mine and I’ll meet you at the car.”

“What about Winterbourne junior. You want me to take care of him?”

“Like we agreed. No blood on your hands. Killing’s my job.”

”Too late for that. I had to end Hand while I had the chance. And the men should both be out cold by now.”

“Hand’s different. He’s not one of them. You scoot now. Let me deal with the last two.”

“You sure about this, Carter?”

“Yeah Nicky. I’m sure,” he says, and I sense irritation in his tone. “Have I fucked up yet? Just want to watch this one go under and make sure he stays there. Winterbourne will be quick and simple, a bullet to the temple. You finish up and head straight for the car as planned. I’ll meet you there.”

Keeping my gaze trained on the dimpled floor tiles, I sense rather than see Schwartz’s departure. Moments later, a burst of moonlight bathes the area as Kit’s tan deck shoes come to a halt next to me.

“You can’t hold on forever, Colin. And once you give in to sleep, I’ll make sure you roll the right way.”

Instinctively, I realise that by keeping myself talking, I can try to keep my mind active and may be able to delay the effects of the drugs. But not for long. And even then, why bother? Right now the urge to close my eyes and succumb is almost irresistible, beckoning me to slumber as though I have not slept in weeks.

“Please, Kit. I don’t understand.”

“Carter.”

“Carter, then. Who is Butterworth?”

“Ex-employee of Morgan’s. Security guard paid off under highly suspicious circumstances. Drowned a month later during a fishing trip off the east coast of Ireland. Gas explosion onboard the boat. Carefully arranged by Tomas Hand.”

“But what has any of that got to do with me?”

“Nothing. Morgan’s methods have nothing to do with you. You’re a small part of something bigger. One’s a pay cheque, the other’s payback. Did you know fear is heightened when a prey knows the hunter is coming, but has no idea where from or when? Now go to sleep, so I can get this finished.”

He falls silent again and my sluggish mind wades through reasons. Shadow descends around me again and I am unsure if my consciousness is finally giving in or if the moon has slipped behind the clouds again. Faint traces of swimming pool chlorine and damp earthen tiles lend a funereal atmosphere to the air. With an effort of will I look up to where Kit stands and gulp out a sigh of helplessness, silently pleading with him even though I cannot see his face.

“Drop the weapon, Schwartz,” shouts a deep voice, from somewhere across the pool.

Whipping around, Kit lifts the pistol and fires off a shot into the night. While the dull pop of the silencer is absorbed into the darkness, Kit wheels around and levels the gun at my head. But in a moment of hesitation, as our eyes lock onto each others, a loud bang sounds in the night and he recoils backwards with a curse, tripping on a chair. I grab the opportunity and struggle to my feet, lumbering awkwardly towards the far end of the pool. Twice I collide noisily and painfully with silhouetted objects, scraping and clattering pool furniture, and dropping to the floor. I spring up and dive towards the back of the house, just as I hear another muted pop and feel the hammer blow of a bullet to my right thigh.

This time, thrown off balance, I tumble to the ground cracking my head on a hard object and roll over almost soundlessly into the chill waters of the swimming pool. Darkness envelopes me, threatens unconsciousness, even though the breathtaking iciness of the water gives me another wakeful slap in the face. A natural impulse, I hold my breath, even though my eyes remain open. Disorientated by the fall and absence of light, I have no concept of which way the surface lies. Weightless and cocooned by thick silence, I am tempted to relax, to let go, to succumb to the dark water kiss. Before I have a chance to decide, my body is grabbed roughly by the shoulders, dragged out of the water and deposited on my back next to a dim solid structure. When the body straightens up and straddles over me, deafening gunshots burst from directly above, fired off into the night. In the silence that follows, the silhouette kneels next to me.

“Lie still,” comes the urgent voice of Ben Whitehead next to my ear, his hand wiping hair out of my face. Never in my life have I been more grateful to hear someone’s voice.

“He shot me,” I manage to get out quietly, astonished, trying desperately to keep despair from my voice. Even now I can feel warm liquid on my cold wet trousers. While the sharp pain in my thigh is helping to keep me conscious, the chemicals coursing through my veins fight to send me under.

“I know,” he whispers, and sounds genuinely annoyed. “Looks like the bastard drugged you, too. Lie still.”

In quick succession, two bullets ricochet off the brick barbecue, sending dust and fragments clattering to the ground around us. In response, I feel Ben raise himself up and fire another deafening round of shots. This time the night falls silent. On the top floor at the far end of the house, lights snap on illuminating a part of the pool area. Abruptly Ben’s shadow rises again and he is gone. Waiting is an agony of battling unconsciousness with pain and fear. Breaking the uneasy silence, something else splashes loudly into the water, more shots are exchanged, and muffled profanities intrude into the night. Now I wait there, unable to move, sure my fate has finally been sealed and wondering whether to simply surrender to overwhelming slumber.

But I am still barely conscious when I hear movement beside me, followed by someone patting my cheek and calling my name. Relief floods through me when I recognise the voice of Ben. He kneels awkwardly beside me and I realise one arm is dangling by his side. Light from the display of his phone illuminates his face, as I hear him call for assistance.

“Are you hit?” I croak.

“Yeah,” he spits out, as he ends the call. “Not too bad. Bastard hit me in the shoulder.”

“And Kit?”

“Down. Finally.”

“What about the sister?”

“Sister? What sister?”

“Schwartz. She was here, too. She’s his sister.”

“Shit.”

With that, floodlights explode to life around us and urgent voices can be heard. When I look up at him in the new light, I realise his good hand is clamped on my leg, an expression of concern on his face. Blurry figures crowd in over me and Ben barks instructions, his exact words indecipherable. In a moment they are gone and we are alone again.

“Ben, I’m sorry.”

“Shh. Lie still.”

“Should have listened to you.”

“Yes, well, you always were a stubborn bastard.”

I release a gasp of pain as his hand prods gently around my upper thigh and I hear him groan in sympathy as he uses both hands to rip open the cloth of my trousers. When I peer up, his expression is anxious and drawn. But I feel overwhelming gratitude and serenity knowing he is there.

“Ben,” I whisper, my voice a croak now. “I want you in my life.”

“Not now, Colin,” he says, meeting my gaze. “You need medical attention. You’re losing a hell of a lot of blood.”

Despite the far too brilliant light, the ebb and flow of dark waves grows stronger around my eyes. Once again I fight against it, a need to speak my piece and make my peace before I let go.

“Find common ground. Somewhere between fuck buddy. And big gay wedding.”

Despite himself, Whitehead shakes with soft laugher, his good shoulders rocking, then winces as the other tries to follow suit.

“Shit. Will you shut the fuck up, McCann, you crazy bastard.”

Someone appears next to him, hands him something. The urgent voice sounds familiar, perhaps Vaughan, offering help and when refused, arguing loudly but finally beaten down by Ben’s growl. Instead, more orders are barked out and, once the man has gone, I feel a new burst of pain as Ben wraps something tight around my upper thigh. I gulp deep breaths to steady myself and continue on.

“Unless you answer. Going to keep talking.”

Once he finishes working on my leg, I sense his face hovering over mine.

“Yes then,” he says, bending low and speaking softly in my ear, before kissing me just beneath the lobe. “Now will you stop jabbering?”

“You mean it?” I say, lifting a leaden hand towards his head, gently touching his stubbly cheek. “Or are you fulfilling a dying man’s wishes?”

His head darts up then and scans furtively around the immediate area, before returning to me, his face inches from mine. For a moment I think he is either going to chastise me or kiss me. Although I cannot make out the exact details with his features in shadow, I am sure he has a grin on his face.

“You’re not going anywhere, sunshine,” he whispers. “Once this is over, and you’re back to full health, we are going to be shagging like sex-starved bunnies. Day and night. Twenty four seven. Catch up for lost time. If you want an incentive to stick around, then take that one.”

“Such a romantic,” I say, but by then Ben has spotted someone and is shouting urgent words I cannot make out, calling someone over to him and does not hear my parting words as I finally let go of consciousness.

“Love you, Ben Whitehead.”