Adrian McKinty: Hidden River

The door. A blast of heat. You rode the lift to the thirteenth floor.

Unlucky for some.

The apartment. You produced the copy of Victoria’s key that you’d had ample time to make. You turned the lock. You applied the bolt cutters of the Leatherman multitool to the security chain. The chain snapped. You listened for a sound. Nothing. You opened the door.

You went into the apartment.

It wasn’t your first time here.

It would be your last.

You closed the door behind you.

Smooth. Very smooth. You took out the revolver — hopefully that wouldn’t be necessary. You’d shot Alan far from anyone on Lookout Mountain. You’d probably met him there once before so that he wouldn’t be suspicious. But even a.22 would make noise. Still, if you had to use it again you would. A superb gun. Handmade by Beretta in Italy, “from CM to AM with love” engraved in gold on the butt. Incriminating, to say the least. They’d never find Houghton, but even if you didn’t have to use it on Victoria it would be safer to get rid of it.

You reached in your pocket and found Hector Martinez’s driver’s license. You dropped it near the door.

You took out the knife. Adjusted to the darkness.

The lights were off, but through the living room window you could see the storm had started up again. You walked across the living room. Opened the bedroom door. The humidifier glowed in the corner. The fan whirred. Victoria slept. So beautiful. Peaceful.

The knife glinted.

Victoria.

Breathing.

Closer.

Closer .

Her golden neck exposed to the ambient light. Victoria’s carotid artery pulsing slightly. You gripped the knife tighter. A slash rather than a stab.

Closer. But something happened. A loud noise. Maybe you stood on something, a stuffed animal that moaned and played a bar of “Beautiful Dreamer.”

Victoria sat up, opened her mouth to scream. But didn’t scream. Instead maybe she smiled and said in a half question:

“Amber?”

The.22 flashed. A single bullet wiped out that pretty face forever.

I shivered. Suddenly woke. Looked around. The last of the rain drizzling down the portholes, weaving patterns and rivulets. The boat moving up and down against the dock. The halyards gently clanking against the metal mast.

“I’m going to be late for school,” the girl said.

“School or college?” I said.

“School.”

“Oh, God.”

“I told ya last night,” she said.

“How old are you?” I asked.

“Seventeen.”

“I could go to prison,” I groaned.

“Also for possession of cannabis resin, peddling controlled substances to a minor, criminal trespass, breaking and entering, theft, and a couple of other things,” the girl said, getting up and lowering herself onto the floor.

She had red hair, curly, long, pale skin with freckles, and she looked a lot younger in the cold light, et cetera.

“How old are you ?” she asked.

“Twenty-four, almost twenty-five.”

“You look older.”

“Thanks. So do you.”

“Yeah, but you really look older.”

“Aye, well, I’m a bad lad, hard living,” I said, and fumbled for the smokes.

“Yeah right,” she said, putting on her blouse. “Here, you want some coffee?”

“Sure. What time is it?”

“Just after ten. I’ve study until eleven, so no one will miss me,” she said.

“Your parents?”

“Said I was staying at Jane’s before I left.”

“So you went out looking for trouble?”

She didn’t reply. She went to the range and hit the gas. Struck a match on a ring, found some distilled water, put it in a pot. I got up on my elbow, swung my legs out.

“How do you know all the law stuff?” I asked.

“Read a book, Introduction to English Law. I was thinking of doing law at uni, either that or journalism.”

“ Was thinking?”

“Bored with A levels, school, load of rubbish, going to become a singer,” she said, finding a biscuit tin and opening it.

“I went to Queens,” I said. “And coincidentally I was a law student. Best time of my life, seriously, you should suck it up, do your A levels, get to college. It’s fun, you can party, good advice.”

The water boiled and she added some coffee to a cup. She brought me the coffee and a couple of digestive biscuits.

“Thanks,” I said. I took a sip and a tiny bite of biscuit.

She sat on the chart table, brushing her hair, looking at me.

“So your advice is don’t do drugs and stay in school,” she said with mild irony.

“Uh, yeah,” I said.

“And through this I, too, can reach the high plateau of your success as a man who breaks into other people’s boats?”

I took the joint out of her hand and stubbed it out.

“Too young for that,” I said.

“Ok, dad,” she said laughing.

“Seriously, not good for you,” I said.

“Your friend John gave it to me,” she said.

“Yeah, well, he’s not very responsible.”

“He said he was a policeman.”

“Exactly.”

“He said I should go with him. He said you were a bit of a druggie,” she said quietly.

I did not reply. The girl looked at me. Her young face twisted by concern.

“John said you used to be a cop too. What happened to ya? The police lay off the old men first. Were you fired? Did you get shot?”

“I resigned,” I said, and offered nothing more. I was infected with caution, even this early.

“You resigned? Why?”

“You answer one question, million others behind it,” I said with mock exhaustion.

“Are you saying I talk a wee bit too much?” she asked.

“No. But I am saying go to uni. Seriously, don’t bugger up your life. Do yourself a favor, finish school.”

“What did you get in the A levels?” she asked.

“Four As.”

“Four As, shit, are you a genius or something?”

“Or something,” I said, shivered again.

“You look way older with that beard. It doesn’t suit you at all, you grew it because you got too thin and you think the beard hides it but it doesn’t. You can tell that you were handsome, you know, the green eyes, the dark eyebrows, the cute nose, but you seem ill, to tell you the truth. All tall and stooped over. You should look after yourself better.”

“Jesus. If I look so rough, how on earth did I manage to persuade such a doyenne of fashion to—”

“Slumming it,” she said, interrupting me. “Besides, your friend John insisted on telling me in excruciating detail how he was going to fix his motorcycle.”

“Not a very exciting topic,” I agreed, and sighed. And she was right. This silly seventeen-year-old was right about everything. Ridiculous. My skin was starting to crawl. Nearly time, but this wasn’t the place and not with a child around.

“We should hit the road,” she said, anticipating my thoughts. “But I’m going to shower first.”

“Are you sure there’s a shower?”

“Checked already, there is,” she explained, and made her way to the back of the boat.

I leaned back in the bunk. Smart girl. Screwing up her life, none of my business. Her stuff on the chart table, hair clip, brush, purse. I opened her purse, stole a ten-pound note, put it in my pocket, changed my mind, put it back in the purse, changed my mind again, put it back in my pocket.

I heard the shower come on. Eventually the girl appeared in a towel.

“Good shower,” she said.

“You’re tougher than me,” I said.

“How so?”

“I can’t handle a cold shower, I like my creature comforts.”

“It wasn’t cold.”

“What do you mean?” I asked.

“I put the water heater on,” she said, matter-of-factly.