Gecko (35 page)

Jim felt he was missing something.

Mohi shut the engine off and they got out of the car. It was raining hard and he held his hand above his forehead in a futile attempt to keep some of the rain out of his eyes. Jim, with a quick dash from the car to the office, didn’t bother.

“
Remember me?” Jim asked, shaking water from himself.

“
You were here yesterday. You left without paying.”

“
If you think I came to settle my bill, you’re mistaken. I want to know who you called.”

“
I don’t know what you’re talking about.” The left eye started flapping, but only for a few seconds, because before he could say anything else Mohi’s left hand shot forward like a striking cobra, grabbing the taller man by the hair. He pulled down in a swift jerking motion, bouncing Phil’s head off the counter with a thud that sounded like a handball coming off the wall. Phil started to scream, but before sound could escape his lips, Mohi, with his left fist still balled firmly in Phil’s hair, held his head up and slapped him in the face, causing Phil to flush red. That out of control left eye stopped flapping.

Jim was stunned at the smaller man’s speed, but there was more to come. Mohi’s hand shot into his jacket pocket and came out holding a scaling knife. He slammed Phil’s head back onto the counter and held it there. He flashed the sharp steel in front of the frightened man’s eyes.

“
I will end forever your nervous little tick if you don’t answer, my friend.” He held the knife a mere centimeter from the left eye, which was flapping again, “Then I’ll give you a second chance. If you still don’t answer, I’ll put out your right eye. Then I’ll pop your eardrums and leave you blind and deaf.”

“
They’ll kill me,” Phil squeaked.

“
I’d rather be dead than the way I’m going to leave you, but then I’m Maori.”

“
I have the number taped to the cash register,” he said. Jim saw it and pulled it off. “It’s a mobile phone, on a boat somewhere. I don’t know where. That’s all I know, I swear.”

“
I think you lie.” Mohi lowered the knife from Phil’s eye and ran it lightly along his cheek. Phil shivered, and Mohi continued playing with him, running the knife along Phil’s jaw, bringing it to rest under his chin for an instant, then moving it down his neck, over his Adam’s apple and down to his throat, where with an easy flick, he pricked the neck, causing a droplet of blood and a quivering gasp from Phil. “What else do you know?” Mohi asked.

“
They have a place ten minutes out the Tutikaka Road. Big house, secluded, lot of land, several acres.”

“
How will I know it?”

“
The entry is right before a sharp bend in the road. There’s a red mail box on a post by the entry. You can’t miss it if you know what you’re looking for.”

“
How can I believe you? How can you know this?”

“
My brother delivered parts there. He recognized them from the description I gave him.”

“
What description? What parts?

“
German, they’re German. Boat parts.”

“
That’s quite enough, Phil.” A man entered, pointing a gun at Mohi. One of the men Jim had seen through the window from his hiding place in the bushes. He was still wearing the black seaman’s cap and wool sweater “You can drop the knife, little man.”

Instead Mohi did the opposite. He thrust the knife through the soft flesh under the chin up into Phil’s brain. Then he whirled toward the man with the gun, lunging toward him, screaming like a man charging into battle.

The man in black fired and Mohi spun backwards, but before he could fire a second time, Jim kicked him in the groin. He screamed and doubled over. Jim smashed his fist into his face, sending the man sprawling to the floor. He wanted to stop, but he had been hounded and terrorized beyond his limits. He was filled with anger and hate and he finally had somebody he could vent his rage on. As the man struggled to get up, Jim kicked him savagely in the head, killing him. Only then did he turn to see if Mohi was still alive.

Jim feared the worst and his thoughts were racing ahead. How could he tell Linda Tuhiwai her husband was dead? She trusted him and he repaid her trust with more grief, as if she hadn’t already suffered enough.

“
We have to get out of here,” Mohi groaned from the floor. “Help me up.” Jim obeyed, bending to help the man to his feet.

“
How bad is it?” Jim asked, thankful the man was still alive, but cringing at the sight of so much blood covering Mohi’s left shoulder. He had seen worse, Mohi would live.

“
Get the gun and let’s go,” Mohi said, ignoring Jim’s question. Jim scooped up the gun and helped Mohi hobble to the car. They were a full kilometer away when they heard the sirens. Jim Monday was still one jump ahead of the law.

“
Hospital?” Jim questioned.

“
No, I have someone I can call,” Mohi said. The words were an effort. He was losing a lot of blood.

“
But—”

“
No, it’s better this way. No report, no questions.”

“
Can you trust this someone?”

“
Yes, he’s Maori. Some of us still stick together.”

“
Can you drive?” Jim asked.

“
Sure.”

“
Can you direct me to Tutikaka Road? Would you be able to drive back after you dropped me off?”

“
Yes, but I don’t want you going after them alone.”

“
You can come back with reinforcements as soon as they patch you up, but I want to go now. Time’s running out.

* * *

Jim was cool and damp as he moved through the trees. Moving through the bush at night reminded him of night patrol in Vietnam. He didn’t like it then. He didn’t like it now. He rubbed his arms against the cold as he started up a small hill. On the top he looked to the heavens. He was directly under the Southern Cross. Its five stars had guided sailors for centuries and he hoped they would bring him luck and guide him tonight.

He started down the tree-covered hill, moving silently, every lesson he’d learned in Vietnam guiding his footsteps. Halfway down the hill he saw the house. It was built into the side of the next hill. A three story wooden home that ran along the side of the hill, each floor surrounded by a balcony that ran the length of the house. A river ran through the small valley between the two hills, sending up pleasant sounds of running water.

The house was nestled in its own little world.

He continued down the hill and was relieved to see that the river was nothing more than a shallow stream he could jump across. A twig snapped behind him and he forgot about the stream, throwing himself to the ground and hugging the damp earth. He lay quiet as something moved by in the bush to his right. He strained his eyes, but saw nothing. Whatever it was, it didn’t appear interested in him as it moved on.

He started to rise when he heard the sound of voices approaching the stream from the other side. He moved away from the stream to the cover of the bush. An insect crawled along his arm, but he let it be. The men were too close for him to risk even the slightest movement.

The arm under the cast begged to be scratched and another insect crawled on his neck and moved under his shirt, inching its way down his back, but he remained still. The voices were speaking German and were coming closer, making no effort to hide their presence. Jim willed himself to blend with the bush as they came into view on the opposite side of the stream. He held his breath as they both bent over and set their beer cans on the ground, before undoing their flies and urinating into the water. They were talking and laughing, not like they were drunk, more like they were having a good time.

He coughed and the laughter stopped. The sound of their twin streams of urine, splashing in the stream, cut through the night. Jim clenched his stomach muscles, fighting to control the spasm, while the two men finished and zipped up. They stood at the edge of the stream, ears tuned to the night, listening for a sound that didn’t belong. After thirty seconds that seemed like forever, one of them laughed and bent down to pick up his beer can. The other returned the laugh, said something in German that made his companion laugh louder and stooped to pick up his beer. Jim held his breath as they turned and headed back into the bush, glad the two Germans were not outdoorsmen.

He allowed himself a series of muffled coughs after he was sure they were gone. He started to rise when the spasm finished, but checked himself. He heard something. He remained flat, face on the ground, senses aware and he felt sick as the familiar smell of the Gecko’s putrid breath danced along on the breeze.

It was here. Out there somewhere. And he knew what he had heard earlier. It had been here all along. Waiting for him. Then he was blinded by light.

“
Don’t move.” The command was meant to be obeyed. “Stand, hands on your head, or die where you lay. Your choice.” The voice was thick with its German accent.

Jim stood, slowly, with his fingers laced on top of his head.

“
Come forward, toward the light.”

Chapter Twenty-One

Pain shot down his spine. His eyes were open but he was encased in black, unable to move. Paralysis was the first thought that struck him. The lights went on. He squinted against the intense white and his eyes gradually grew accustomed to it. The powerful light was directly overhead, its rays, reflecting off the bare white walls, showered the room.

The large clock on the opposite wall was the first thing that grabbed his attention. One-fifteen. He hoped it was 1:15 in the morning. Even so that left him less than forty-eight hours to find Donna.

He tried to get up and couldn’t. He dropped his chin to his chest, looked down the length of his body. He was naked, his arms spread down from his shoulders in an inverted vee and they were tied to the side of the bed. His legs made the same vee and were lashed to the bottom corners of the hospital bed. He was bound in the same way Donna had been earlier.

He tugged at his bonds, but they didn’t give. He was at his captor’s mercy. He remembered the feeling and he didn’t like it. His back was screaming. He had to fight for every breath. His head felt like it had been split open. His broken arm throbbed and itched under the cast. He was horribly thirsty and he had to piss, but none of this equaled the terror he felt at being confined again.

The door on the opposite side of the room burst open and one of the men in black walked in, dragging an IV stand. The man set it up by the side of the bed and grinned at Jim as he ripped the seal off the needle and held it up to his eyes, inspecting it. Apparently satisfied, he attached it to the plastic tube running off the clear bag.

“
I would have killed you last night, but Manfred wants you alive. He wants her to see you die before she burns. Great guy, don’t you think, Mr. Monday?” The man’s thick accent reminded Jim of all the concentration camp movies he had ever seen and he remained silent as the man slipped the needle into his left wrist.

“
Demerol and a little heroin, a special cocktail, to make you feel good and keep you quiet.” The man stayed in the room, watching until the drug started to work its magic. In minutes his back no longer hurt, his head felt fine, the itching stopped and he was beyond caring as he floated on a cloud of pleasure. The man in black could slice his leg off and he wouldn’t care.

“
I’ll see you in the morning. The lights are on a timer. They come on at 7:00 sharp.” The man turned off the lights and closed the door. Jim heard the sharp sound of a bolt clicking into place on the other side. He was locked in.

Overkill, he thought, because it was impossible for him to untie the ropes that bound him to the bed. And why would he want to? He felt pretty good right where he was. But there was a small part of him still resisting the drug, a part that remembered Donna and the danger she was in, a part that tried to fasten onto something the man in black had said, something that didn’t seem right, and then he drifted off, to sleep, and to dream.

But his dreams were not the drug induced dreams of well being and pleasure his captors counted on, instead they were dreams of concentration camps and terror. Even in sleep, he fought the drug, and in his tortured dreams he struggled with the problem. What did the man say that wasn’t right? He said something. A clue. He gave a clue. It was something for Jim to hang his mind on as he fought the drug and when the lights went on he was already awake and he knew what it was.

His name. The man knew his name.

And with the lights on he was able to study the room. As promised the clock said 7:00. His time was running out. He looked up at the clear bag and noticed it was still dripping the drug into his arm.

Movement. He spied movement, and he fastened his eyes on the far corner where the wall at the foot of the bed met the wall to his left. And on the ceiling, a blob of black. A blob of black that moved. It couldn’t be, but it was—a black widow.

It bounced up and down on its eight legs, a small black marble bouncing on the ceiling. Odd, he thought, black widows were native to the United States. What was one doing here, on a ceiling, indoors, in a warm room? They liked to be on the edge of things—in the dark, but near the light—in the dry, but near the damp. They were seldom seen and they seldom bothered anyone, but he had been bitten in the past and he couldn’t forget it as he watched the spider settle into the corner.