The Forgotten (John Puller 2)
Page 62
“He just does sometimes.”
“Does it have to do with the photos of kids he has in his wallet?”
Ryon looked up at him, stunned. “What are you talking about?”
“The guy’s a pedophile?” snapped Carson. “Where is this place?” asked Puller sharply. “It’s north of here, up near the bay. Nothing else really around it.”
“You have the address?”
“Yes.”
“Why, do you like kids too?”
“No, of course not,” shouted Ryon, and she started to cry again.
Puller squeezed her shoulder once more and cupped her chin and directed her gaze right at him.
“We’re g
oing to give you a chance to make amends, Jane. But you only get one shot. You blow this, it’s all over. Do you understand?”
She looked back at him, the fear etched on her face.
“I understand.”
CHAPTER 67
Mecho put his phone away after making the call.
It was the longest he ever had been on the phone. The man on the other end was critical to the success of Mecho’s task. The man knew this and Mecho knew this.
It was give-and-take. What the man wanted Mecho would have to give him, if he wanted to succeed. And he had never wanted anything more in his life.
“You will have to prove that to me, Mecho,” the man had said. “Words are available to anyone with a mouth and half a brain.”
“It will be done,” Mecho had told him. Now he just had to figure out how.
He left his room at the Sierra and walked to a diner nearby. He ate lightly for such a massive person. He had never eaten very much for the simple reason that he had never had much available to eat. Over the years one’s stomach and appetite withered.
But it was partly the hunger that drove him, kept him on edge. Complacency and comfort were not words that he accepted or even understood.
He drank copious amounts of water, though. The physical ordeal of swimming through the Gulf still lingered. He felt like he would never get enough liquid inside him.
He paid for the meal with some of the dollars he’d earned keeping Peter Lampert’s property pristine.
He considered it blood money. Anything that helped the man was blood money in Mecho’s mind.
He looked around the small diner and was not unduly surprised to see two uniformed police officers eating their meals. They sat near the door. A man and a woman.
The male was short and burly with a shaved head. The woman was taller with an athletic build and blonde hair. They were having an intense discussion. The man looked upset, the woman looked consoling.
It seemed to be a woman’s lot in life to ease the ridiculous anger of men, thought Mecho.
As he rose to leave, both officers’ gazes rose to meet his.
He nodded, attempted a smile, and walked out.
He did not much care for the police. For him they were as much an adversary as his actual one. They were bound to uphold the law.
There was no law that would ever touch Peter Lampert or Stiven Rojas. They were too clever and too dangerous by half for anything as impotent as laws to bother them. They had to be punished in other, more straightforward ways.
He walked down the street, trickles of sweat winding down his shoulders and broad back. He opted to take a stroll on the beach, to attempt to catch an ocean breeze before he headed back to the little oven that was his room.
He trudged across the sand, oblivious to the other beachcombers, but his antennae were still on high alert.
Or so he thought.
“Mecho?”
He turned but he already knew who the speaker was.
Chrissy Murdoch stood there, sandals in hand. She had on a white sundress and the wind whipped it around her long legs.
Mecho simply stood there, neither advancing nor retreating.
She walked toward him, looked up at him.
“Why are you here?” he asked.
“I was just walking on the beach and saw you.”
“Mr. Lampert has a private beach nicer than this one.”
“I suppose he does. I’m surprised you know that, though.”
“Enjoy your walk.”
He turned to walk back to the Sierra. Every warning bell he possessed was clanging so hard he felt almost deafened.
“Mecho?”
He stopped but did not turn back around.
He felt her hand on his arm.
Still he didn’t look at her.
“I understand that you were asking about the whereabouts of my bedroom,” she said.
This question was not the one he had been expecting.
She stood in front of him.
“Was there a reason for your inquiry?” she asked. “Beyond the obvious one?”
“What is the obvious one?”
She smiled disarmingly. “Sex, of course.”
He did not smile back. He had no reason to smile. She was playing an odd sort of game with him. But of course it wasn’t a game at all. It was never a game when people died.
“I doubt that the guards would let me into the main house.”
“Well, we’re not at the main house right now, are we? Where are you staying?”
He turned and trudged off down the sand.
She followed, her feet making springy steps over the sand.
He stopped so abruptly that she almost bumped into him. He turned, looked down at her.
“So what is the non-obvious reason?” he asked.
She didn’t seem surprised by the question. “Since it’s not obvious, I’m not really sure.” “You treat everything so casually?” he asked. “Your English is much better in town.”
“I learn quickly.”
“About my bedroom?”
“Who told you I was making inquiries?”
“I like being on the top floor. It gives one some interesting perspectives.”
“On what?”
“Lots of things.”
“Why are you at Lampert’s?”
“I’m staying with Mr. Winthrop.”
“The man who doesn’t care if another man screws you?”
“There are lots of men like that, Mecho.”
“I am not like that.”
“No, I would imagine you wouldn’t be.” She slipped her sandals back on. “The sand is so hot even at this hour. So where are you staying?”