Brian Freeman - Spilled Blood

He parked on the Barron side of the dam and got out. He buttoned his coat and tugged up his collar. The wind off the water bit his skin. He shoved his hands in his pockets and marched onto the concrete bridge. To his left, the lake sprawled over a mile of erratic banks like a well-fed spider. Below him, winding toward the town, the Spirit River swirled in white foam as the dam squeezed a pulsing current through its gates into the narrow canal.

Florian saw a dark blue van parked on the concrete deck. Its windows were smoked; he couldn’t see inside. Its headlights blinked at him. Aquarius was waiting, but Florian didn’t hurry. As he crossed the dam, he glanced in every direction to make sure they were alone. His fingers gripped the gun in his pocket.

The driver’s door of the van opened. A man climbed out. Without his anonymous threats, and with his identity unmasked, Aquarius was an ordinary man. He was a stranger, but he wasn’t scary. Florian didn’t know him, but he studied him carefully, assessing the danger. The man was underdressed for the weather, with no coat. He saw no gun in the man’s hands and no place where he could hide one. He wondered if the man was foolish enough to think that Florian would come unarmed.

He didn’t see Julia.

They approached each other warily, like spies at a prisoner exchange. When they were ten feet apart, Florian stopped, and so did Aquarius.

‘Mr. Florian Steele,’ the man announced. ‘I’ve waited a long time for this moment.’

‘Where’s my wife?’

‘First things first. I’m sure you have a phone. Please throw it in the river.’

Florian reached inside his coat and slid out his phone from an inner pocket. He stood next to a steel railing. In the warmer months, people fished here, dropping their lines into the agitated water. He flipped his phone into the whirlpool, where it disappeared.

‘You came alone?’ the man asked. ‘No police?’

‘That’s what you told me to do.’ His eyes darted toward the van and the lake. He listened, but the roar of the water through the dam was a thunder covering every other noise.

Aquarius smiled. ‘You’re wondering if I’m alone. You’re wondering if someone else is in the van with your wife. Or perhaps there is a sniper on the bank, with a cross-hair trained on your head.’

‘Is there?’

The smile washed away. Aquarius headed for the passenger door of the van and opened it, and he helped Julia out to the bridge. His wife, always as perfectly arranged as jewels in a store window, looked fragile and pale. Aquarius took a pocket knife from his pocket and cut the bonds that held Julia’s hands behind her back. She stretched her fingers, restoring the circulation.

Their eyes met. He tried to decipher her expression. He saw sadness and fear. Anger. There was sorrow, but no love. Her heart was dead to him. He realized you can’t rescue someone from a cage you built yourself.

‘Are you all right?’ he asked her.

She said nothing. She brushed her tangled hair from her eyes.

Aquarius held out his hand to Florian. ‘Your car keys, Mr. Steele.’

‘Why?’

‘I promised you I would free your wife. I’m keeping my promise.’

‘And me?’

‘I thought it was understood, Mr. Steele,’ Aquarius said. ‘You’re not leaving.’

Florian wanted to laugh. The threat sounded hollow, but there was no hint of a bluff in the man’s eyes. There was no mercy. He shrugged, extracting his keys from his pants pocket, throwing them across the short space. The man caught them and passed the keys to Julia.

‘Go,’ Aquarius said.

Julia shook her head. ‘I’m staying.’

‘This doesn’t involve you, Mrs. Steele.’

‘Go, Julia,’ Florian told her. ‘Get out of here. Please.’

Her hesitation was eloquent. There needed to be words between them, but they were at a loss. She didn’t want to hear him say he loved her. They were beyond that. She didn’t need empty encouragement, and she wouldn’t believe it. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said, because he’d brought them here, to this place, to this moment. It was his fault.

He looked for tears and didn’t see any. Not Julia.

‘I was wrong, Florian,’ she said. ‘God didn’t want any of this to happen.’

She hugged herself in the cold, and she hurried past him. He heard the tap of her shoes, click click, moving away from him, until her footsteps were covered up by the rumble of rushing water. He didn’t look back; he didn’t take his eyes off Aquarius. Seconds later, he heard his car engine on the other side of the bridge. She’d left him here, which was the only thing she could do.

She was safe.

‘Now we’re alone,’ Florian said. ‘Or do you have accomplices with you?’

‘We’re alone, Mr. Steele. It’s just the two of us.’

‘That’s what I wanted to know.’ Florian drew out the Ruger from his pocket and pointed it at the chest of the man in front of him.

He fired.

49

‘ Marco! ’

Chris hammered on the door of the motel owner’s house, which was a tiny cottage two hundred yards up the slope from the motel itself. The view down the river valley gave him a perfect vantage on the headquarters of Mondamin. It was easy to imagine Marco Piva here, staring each day at the company he despised, contemplating his revenge on Florian Steele for the death of his wife of thirty-two years.

Lucia Causey.

There was no answer. Chris was too late to stop him. He pushed heavily with his shoulder against the lock, and the door caved inward; it was open. The cottage smelled of garlic and browned beef. Opera music played softly on the stereo, but no one was in the living room to listen to it. He searched quickly from room to room. The formal dining room was set for two places, but dust had gathered on the plates and glasses. There was an unopened bottle of red wine on the table, and a candle in the floral centerpiece, with a box of matches beside it. He remembered Marco telling him that his wife had always set a place for a guest who never arrived. The house was a shrine to a woman who wasn’t coming back.

In the kitchen, there she was. Everywhere. The oval dinette table overflowed with photographs. Chris recognized her from the Face-book photo. It was the beautiful Lucia Causey, channeling Sophia Loren with her wicked smile and low-cut dresses. Even in her fifties, her bronzed skin looked preserved by time, taut and attractive. This was a woman who peered into a microscope by day and danced in the bistros at night. This was a woman whose animal lust was obvious even in the still life of old photos. This was a woman who must have made her husband laugh, scream, bellow, cry, and groan with pleasure.

This was a woman who had been eaten by a demon. Gambling. A woman who had sold her soul to the devil to escape.

Florian.

Marco was in the pictures, too. A young man. An old man. Years of pictures. Eating, drinking, dancing, singing, playing, traveling, sleeping, waking. He hung on his wife as if she were his treasure, which she clearly was. One of the pictures showed them kissing on a crowded sidewalk in Rome, and their passion for each other was so obvious that it made Chris want to run home to Hannah and sweep her into his arms and carry her to the bedroom. That was how much Marco Piva loved Lucia Causey. That was the void in his soul that she left behind.

The man who took her away would suffer.

He found Marco’s bedroom, which was small and dark. The heavy curtains were closed. The furnishings were in cherry wood. Religious icons in gold leaf graced the walls. He saw heavy metal crosses and paintings of Christ. Marco’s bed was a twin, and he’d made it neatly before he left, creasing corners into the blanket and smoothing the floral drape on the pillows. A Bible lay open on the bed, and a necklace of silver-and-black rosary beads was spread across the pages. On the floor, he could see the indentations on the carpet of a man who had spent hours in prayer.