Jeff Abbott - No Rest for the Dead

Thomas nodded and moved to the front door, waiting for just a second before the guard pushed the security buzzer, then he was out through the glass double doors and into the night.

Thomas walked through the bright orange glare of the security lights on the front of the building and circled around back to the staff parking area. The long walk was annoying, particularly at the end of a hard day, but the insurance company insisted that the back door remain locked. Not that it would do them any good this time, he thought, wondering again just how much the Soutine might bring.

The parking lot was a great deal darker than the front of the building. It was normally lit by two large lights, one at each end, but Thomas saw that one of them, the one nearest his car, was out. He frowned and shook his head. Maintenance was supposed to check the lights regularly-again, as dictated by the insurance company-and someone had neglected the job. He made a mental note to scold the maintenance people in the morning. He certainly didn’t need trouble with the insurance company, not right now when they were about to write the museum a hefty check.

Still shaking his head at this carelessness, he fished out the car keys from his pocket and stepped over to his car, a two-year-old BMW. As he unlocked the car and reached down to open the door, he felt more than saw a shape slip out of the shadows by the building’s Dumpster and come up behind him. Before he could turn around or even straighten up, something cold and hard pressed into the back of his neck and a voice said, “Get in the car.”

Thomas froze. For a moment he could not think, or even breathe,

The cold spot jabbed harder into his neck. “In the car. Now.”

Thomas unfroze, jerked the door open, and got in behind the wheel. The shadow slipped behind him into the backseat and closed the door, quickly and soundlessly, then the cold spot was back on his neck again.

“How are you doing, Chris?” the voice said, the words friendly, but the voice that spoke them was cold and empty.

“Who are you?”

“A friend of a friend. Somebody who asked me to stop by and say hello.”

“I don’t-what friend ? What do you want from me?”

“Oh, I think we both know what I want,” the voice said with reptilian amusement. “You’ve been ignoring our mutual friend, and he hates to be ignored. Hates it like hell.” For emphasis, the man jabbed at Thomas’s neck with the gun barrel. It hurt. “Is that how you treat a good friend? Somebody who lends you that much money, from the goodness of his heart?”

Thomas now knew who had sent this man. He had known on some level since the man came at him out of the shadows, but now he was quite sure. He had half expected something like this ever since he had borrowed the money. It had been a truly stupid move, one of the few really dumb things he had ever done, but he had needed the money. And now he was paying for it.

“I can get the money,” Thomas said.

“That’s very good news, Chris. Why don’t you do that.”

“I just-I need time.”

“We all need time, Chris. But we don’t all get it.”

“No, listen,” Thomas said. “I really do-I have a very large piece of money coming to me, very soon.”

“I’m very happy for you. But I need something now.”

“I don’t have it now. But I will-I’ll have all of it, very soon.”

Nothing in the soft laughter that came from the man in the backseat was funny. “You know how often I hear that?”

“It’s true,” Thomas insisted. Reluctantly, he told the man about the canvases that would soon disappear, and the large bag of cash that would take their place.

Silence, a long and uncomfortable silence, came from the backseat. Then: “And this happens when?”

“Tomorrow. I should have the money within the week. All the money.”

Another long silence followed, and Thomas felt a slow drop of sweat crawl down his neck, in spite of the chill in the car.

Finally the man spoke. “I would hate to think you’re yanking my chain, Chris.”

“I swear to you.”

“Because you are really pissing off some very serious people.”

“I swear,” Thomas repeated.

“Give me your hand.”

Thomas blinked at the strange request. “Wh-what?”

“Your hand . Gimme it.”

Slowly, awkwardly, Thomas extended his hand into the backseat. The man took it and held it, and for a moment the small, hard circle of steel at Thomas’s neck disappeared.

“I am going to believe you just this once. And I hope this isn’t stupid of me.”

“No, I really-” Thomas said, but the man took hold of Thomas’s little finger and interrupted him.

“Don’t disappoint me.” The man pulled upward, hard, and the sound of the little finger’s snapping filled the car.

“Aaaggaaahhh,” Thomas cried out. The pain was intense, and he tried to pull away his injured hand, but the man held on.

“Do you understand what I’m saying?” the man said, wiggling the broken finger.

“I-I-aagahhh-yes, yes, I understand.”

“You sure ?” the man said with an extravigorous tweak of the finger.

“Yes, ah, I’m-ow-positive.”

“One week.” The man dropped the finger, opened the back door of the car, and disappeared into the night.

Christopher Thomas watched him go, cradling his savaged finger. The whole hand throbbed, all the way to the wrist, and for quite a while he could do nothing except hold it to his chest and bite his lip. But the pain did not die down, and finally Thomas fumbled the keys into the ignition, started the car, and drove carefully away.

Such a generous host.”

Justine said that, and he thought, Naïve . She had been in Europe twice before, as she’d made a point of telling him just before the plane took off. A month in London in her sophomore year at that place near Austin-he could never remember its name-and then four months in Amsterdam at the Rijksmuseum on some sort of internship. That was where she’d learned about painting, or claimed to have learned; he had his doubts about that, but he had never openly expressed them. Not that open expression was necessary-raising an eyebrow was often quite sufficient in the art world.

Christopher Thomas looked at her over the café table. He smiled. “But the rich always are,” he said. “I can’t recall a single occasion, not one, where I’ve been entertained-how should I put it?- parsimoniously by people with money. Can you?”

She did not reply. And the reason, thought Christopher, was that she had never really been there. She met these people through the museum, but meeting was one thing; social acceptance was another. It was different for him. Not only had he married Rosemary, but he had worked his way up through the art world. He had come from nowhere, but that was no disadvantage if you were a chameleon. Take on the local color. Think the local thoughts. It was easy. People in the art world listened to him, deferred to him.

Justine reached for the bottle of Chablis that the café proprietor had placed on the table. She filled his glass, then poured a small amount into her own.

“Well, I guess I’m not used to this,” she said, feeling slightly out of step, slightly apart from this literal ivory tower, nothing new. It was the way she’d felt in graduate school and just about every other institution. “But I must say I like it.”

He took a sip of the wine. “Of course. Who wouldn’t?”

“It sure beats work.”

He shook his hand with the bandaged finger at her in mock admonition. “Listen, this is work. Remember, this is a conference and we’re here on behalf of the museum-not because we want to spend five days in France. Not because we want to stay in the Château Bellepierce. Not because we want to sit in cafés like this and drink Chablis. We can go to Napa for all that .”