Lost Identity Page 14

  Carla smiled. ‘Thanks again, babe.’

  ‘See ya in the morning,’ said Sylvia, as she opened the door to leave. ‘Then you can tell me all about this weird situation you seem to have gotten yourselves into.’

  ‘Bye,’ chimed Stephen and Carla, in unison.

  Seconds later, they were alone.

  ‘Seems like a pretty … uh, forthright … sort of girl,’ said Stephen.

  ‘Oh, don’t mind her direct manner. Sylvia just says what she’s thinking and doesn’t give a damn how it comes out. She’s got a heart of gold, though … can’t do enough to help when her friends need her.’

  ‘I can see that,’ he replied. ‘There aren’t many people who would allow a complete stranger to crash at their place, especially one who’s become mixed up with a bunch of vicious criminals.’

  ‘Well, like I already said, the people who inhabit the world that Sylvia and I live in aren’t exactly saints, either. We’re used to dealing with these bastards. Anyway, I don’t think any of those animals would have any idea that we’re here tonight, so we should be safe enough.’

  ‘Let’s see what’s in here,’ said Stephen, turning to the briefcase.

  It was locked. There were two combination locks: 3 digits each.

  ‘Do you know the combination?’ said Carla.

  ‘I … I think so,’ he whispered. ‘It’s something to do with a date … or dates.’

  He racked his brains. The number was there … almost within his grasp, tantalisingly close, yet somehow refusing to give itself up.

  ‘What about the dates in the diary?’ said Carla, leaning forward eagerly as the thought struck her.

  ‘Maybe …’ He checked the two dates: Thursday March 9th – today – and Sunday July 23rd.

  Picking up on the first date he tried the left hand lock with 093 – no use; then 903 – no use; he tried both combinations on the right hand lock – still no good. He slammed his hand on the lid of the case in frustration.

  ‘Try the other date,’ urged Carla.

  ‘July 23rd,’ he muttered. ‘Let’s try 723.’

  It didn’t work on either lock.

  ‘Maybe it’s got something to do with the days of the week as well as the actual dates,’ suggested Carla.

  ‘I … I don’t know,’ he said.

  The answer was so close he could almost touch it, yet … no, it just wouldn’t come.

  ‘Look,’ he said, ‘I’m sure the answer’s there in what’s left of my brain somewhere. I just need to give it a little time and maybe it will come back to me. Do you think Sylvia would mind if I used her shower? Maybe a good soaking and some concentrated thinking might work.’

  ‘Sure … she won’t mind. Not sure she has a spare stash of men’s clothes like I did, though.’

  He laughed. ‘Well, I’m not going to rummage through her things to find out.’

  ‘You go and have your shower. I’ll take a look around to see if there’s anything you can wear. I think she’s at least got a towelling bathrobe that might fit so, worst case, we could wash what you’re wearing now to use again tomorrow. Sylvia actually has a tumble dryer – pretty upmarket for a place like this, huh?’

  He grinned. ‘OK, thanks. Look, if I can’t remember the combination it shouldn’t be too difficult to force the case open with a large screwdriver or something.’

  ‘Well, I shouldn’t think Sylvia’s likely to have a tool kit in the apartment, but I’ll take a look around to see if there’s anything we could use to force the locks.’

  Stephen stepped into the bathroom. When he looked in the mirror he hardly recognised the haggard face staring back at him. He hadn’t shaved for days and there were dark circles around his eyes. When would this nightmare end?

  To his surprise, he spotted a man’s razor and a pack of blades on the glass shelf below the mirror. Maybe Sylvia had a boyfriend who was a regular visitor. Anyway, given the generosity that she had already shown, he didn’t think she would begrudge him the use of a fresh razor blade. He couldn’t see any shaving foam but, using the bar of soap by the sink and plenty of water, he was able to produce enough of a slippery lather to manage a shave without inflicting too much carnage on his face. As he ran his hand over his now-smooth chin he began to feel better already.

  Now for that shower …

  ***

  Carla was searching the kitchen for any sort of implement which might serve to force the briefcase open. So far, the best thing she could find was a corkscrew; she wasn’t too confident that would do the job, but she left it out on the kitchen counter anyway.

  What about some clean clothes for Stephen? She knew that Sylvia’s boyfriend, Kyle, stayed over quite often; maybe he kept some clothes there. Sure enough in the right hand side of Sylvia’s closet hung a couple of men’s shirts. Kyle wasn’t as tall or well-built as Stephen, but maybe one of the shirts might fit well enough. A further search of Sylvia’s drawers turned up some boxer shorts and a few pairs of socks. Maybe they wouldn’t need to resort to washing and drying the clothes that Stephen was currently wearing. Kyle was such a kind, helpful sort of guy, she didn’t think he’d mind.

  As she laid the clothes on the bed, she heard the sound of the water in the shower being turned on. Lifting her arm and taking a tentative sniff at her own armpit, she resolved to take a shower too, as soon as Stephen was finished in the bathroom. She wouldn’t have any problem finding something to wear; she and Sylvia were of very similar height and build and they were always lending each other clothes anyway.

  Her thoughts were interrupted by the gentle chimes of the doorbell.

  Chapter 18

  Having pressed the button for the doorbell, the man took a step backward, checking that the safety catch on his gun was off and tensing for action. There was a delay of only a few seconds before he heard the sound of the latch being released. Good – they obviously weren’t expecting anything untoward. However, the door opened only a few inches, before stopping short, constrained by a security chain. The curious expression on the face of the Latina girl who peered through the gap changed in an instant when she saw him; her eyes widened and her mouth flew open. He had to act fast.

  Without hesitation, he put his shoulder to the door, and flung his full weight against it; the flimsy security chain snapped like cotton, and the girl staggered backward, letting out a strangled cry. He burst past her, levelling his weapon in a two-handed grip, crouching as he swept it back and forth, scanning the room. There was no-one else in sight.

  His partner was only a split second behind him. Before she could utter another sound, the girl was staring straight down the muzzle of a handgun, her eyes bulging in terror. The man locked eyes with her, placing a finger against his lips, emphasising the unspoken message by moving the gun further forward until the tip of the silencer touched the centre of her forehead.

  The three of them stood like that, locked motionless like a freeze-frame in a movie. The only sound which could be heard was the noisy splashing of water from the bathroom, whose door was open a crack, a few tendrils of steam escaping from the gap. For several tense seconds they waited; he kept his gun trained on the bathroom door while his partner kept his weapon pressed against the forehead of the terrified girl. Nothing happened. The noise of the water in the shower had evidently masked the sound of the doorbell and the brief scuffle which had ensued when the Latina girl had cracked open the door.

  He nodded to his partner, who shifted position, moving behind the girl and clamping a hand over her mouth, while bringing the gun around the side of her head and pressing it against her temple. She did not resist.

  Now that his partner had the girl secured, so that she could not utter a sound, he began moving stealthily towards the bathroom, his handgun extended before him. As he reached the door, he paused again, listening for any sound which might indicate that he had been discovered; there was none. Using the silencer on his gun, very carefully, he edged the door open, inch by inch. The plastic shower curtain was drawn
shut and the water continued cascading down in a noisy torrent. This, he thought, should be easy.

  ***

  Stephen had heard the doorbell. He had been standing outside the shower, still fully dressed, fiddling with the impossibly temperamental temperature control in an effort to achieve something between stone cold and scalding hot water.

  Who could it be? Perhaps Sylvia had forgotten something and come back for it? But why wouldn’t she have used her key? Maybe she had tried to do so but been thwarted by the security chain? But then why hadn’t he heard her talking to Carla?

  Feeling distinctly uneasy, he cracked the bathroom door open a little, just in time to see the two men burst in. He immediately recognised the one who grabbed Carla as Doctor Holt’s murderer. The other one looked like the guy who had been standing by the open ambulance doors when he had fled the hospital just a couple of days earlier.

  What to do? It would be crazy to jump out and confront them – both men were armed, and one of them had his gun pressed against Carla’s temple. He looked around for anything which would serve as a weapon. The only thing he could find was an ancient-looking set of bathroom scales on the floor. He bent down and picked it up; it was satisfyingly heavy in his hands. He stepped back to a position just alongside the door, where he would be hidden if the door was opened, and waited, his heart pounding.

  As the door gradually inched open, he shrank back behind it, gripping the bathroom scales as though his life depended on it – which, in all likelihood, it did. He couldn’t see the intruder. Was he advancing on the shower, about to pump several bullets through the flimsy curtain? Was he about to whirl around and wrench the door back, shooting Stephen dead where he stood? When was the right moment to strike? Perspiration streamed down his face in torrents … and it wasn’t due to the steam which filled the room. Eventually, he stole a tentative peep around the edge of the door; he was just in time to see the man lay down his gun on the counter surrounding the sink.

  Why? Why would he lay down his weapon at this critical moment?

  The man reached into his pocket and withdrew a hypodermic syringe, removing a protective sleeve before holding the syringe up and depressing the plunger, ejecting a small fountain of clear liquid. What was in that syringe? Did they want to poison him rather than shoot him? Why?

  The man grasped the edge of the shower curtain with his left hand, the syringe poised in his right. With one swift movement, he yanked back the curtain. He was met with a swirling mass of steam, through which all that was visible was a cascade of scalding hot water.

  This was the moment. Seizing the brief element of surprise afforded to him, Stephen leapt from his hiding place, raising the bathroom scales high in the air before bringing them down on the back of the man’s head with crushing force. The intruder’s knees buckled, and he collapsed in a crumpled heap. Stephen raised his improvised weapon once more, ready to strike again, but it wasn’t necessary: the man wasn’t moving.

  ‘Did ya get him?’ came the other man’s voice from the living room. American accent, harsh tones.

  ‘Yeah, no problem,’ responded Stephen, effecting a gruff tone and the best American accent he could muster. In all honesty, though, he had no idea whether the voice he contrived bore any resemblance to that of his would-be assailant. He just had to hope it was close enough.

  He grabbed the gun from the counter and moved silently towards the door. Christ, just how should he play this? He had never handled a gun before in his life … at least as far as he knew. How could he get a clean shot at his opponent without harming Carla in the split second he would have available to him before the man fired back? Maybe if he could appear in an unexpected position …

  He dropped to a low crouch, pausing for a moment before shoving the door wide open, hoping to perhaps get a shot at the man in the brief moment before he refocused his gaze downward and registered who was facing him.

  It didn’t work. Although the man appeared momentarily disoriented by Stephen’s tactic, he was using Carla as a human shield. There was no way Stephen could get a shot at him without risking hitting her instead. It took the man only a fraction of a second to register what was happening and train his gun directly on Stephen.

  ‘Lay down the gun,’ he growled.

  Stephen was paralysed by indecision. He couldn’t get a clear shot at the man holding Carla, but if he gave up his weapon now, then they were surely both finished.

  The man moved the gun away from Stephen and back to Carla’s temple; her eyes bulged in abject terror ‘You got five seconds to put the gun down, or I’ll kill her … and I’ll still drop you before you can get a shot past her dead body.’ He fixed Stephen with an icy glare. ‘One … two … three …’

  Stephen bent down and laid the weapon on the floor.

  The man’s face twisted in an unpleasant smile. ‘Get up.’ Stephen did so. ‘Now kick the gun over here.’

  Stephen’s mind was racing as he tried to figure out what to do. Any attempt to tackle the man directly would almost certainly result in Carla’s immediate death and probably his own too. But if he did nothing they would both surely die anyway. The man didn’t give him long to consider his options.

  ‘Kick it over here – RIGHT NOW – or I swear I’ll kill her.’

  He had no choice. He kicked the gun forward; it went spinning across the floor, coming to rest against the man’s feet.

  Suddenly, Carla’s eyes widened; at exactly the same moment the man lifted his gaze for a split second. It took Stephen barely a heartbeat to realise they had both seen something behind him. But he wasn’t quick enough.

  Before he could turn to face the new threat, he felt an arm encircle his neck from behind in an iron grip. Stephen was a powerfully-built man, but he couldn’t shake free. He twisted his head as far as he could, just in time to see the hypodermic syringe inches from his neck. He reached back and grabbed the other man’s wrist before he could deliver the injection. Mustering all his strength, he tried to force the man’s hand away, but the awkward angle at which his arm was held meant that he could not bring full force to bear. It was a stalemate.

  The man holding Carla flung her aside, striding forward to assist his partner. In the heat of the moment, it seemed that he had forgotten about the gun which Stephen had kicked across the floor towards him. Carla grabbed the gun from the floor, jumping to her feet and rushing at the man from behind. She hefted the weapon, gripping it by the muzzle and delivering a crushing blow to the back of the man’s head. The adrenaline coursing through her body must have endowed her with strength beyond her normal reach, for the man’s eyes rolled skyward and his legs buckled as he sank to the floor, his gun falling from his hand.

  Stephen was still locked in a battle of gradually failing strength with the other man; the syringe edged closer to his neck. But seconds later Carla was on his assailant’s back, her fingernails clawing at his eyes and her legs clasped around his waist in a scissor grip. The man screamed in pain as Carla’s nails raked across his eyes and down his cheek.

  Her intervention provided Stephen with the brief respite he needed; he wrenched himself free and twisted around, now able to get both his hands on the man’s wrist. It was no longer an even contest. With his opponent half-blinded and battling to fight off Carla’s frenzied attack, Stephen was able to turn the syringe around, forcing it closer and closer to the other man’s neck until, finally, he was able to plunge it into his flesh, fully depressing the plunger as he did so.

  Almost immediately, the man’s strength began ebbing away, and within fifteen seconds his body had gone completely limp as he slumped to the floor.

  ‘Is he dead?’ gasped Carla.

  Stephen probed the man’s neck, feeling for the Carotid Artery; the pulse was strong and regular.

  ‘No,’ he panted, gasping to recover his breath. ‘God knows what was in that syringe but it clearly wasn’t a lethal drug.’

  The other man – the one who Carla had hit over the head emitted a weak groan.r />
  ‘We have to get out of here – right now,’ said Stephen, taking Carla’s hand. He bent down to retrieve the fallen man’s gun from the floor and grabbed the briefcase from where it lay on the coffee table. ‘Where are your car keys?’

  ‘In my handbag … by the front door.’

  The man gave another moan; this time he moved his foot slightly.

  ‘OK – let’s go,’ ordered Stephen.

  They rushed through the open door, Carla pausing just long enough to grab her handbag.

  The sight which met them at the bottom of the stairs caused Carla to freeze in her tracks. Her hand flew to her mouth as she stifled a silent scream.

  Chapter 19

  Stephen’s stomach churned as he stared in disbelief at Sylvia’s lifeless eyes, blood streaming from the hole in the centre of her forehead, coating her face and fanning out in an ugly dark stain down the front of her shirt. He was paralysed with shock.

  Carla took a step forward, stretching her hand towards her friend’s crumpled body. ‘Sylvia … oh, Sylvia … no.’

  Stephen snapped out of the stupor which had enveloped him and took Carla’s outstretched hand, gently pulling her towards him, but she refused to respond or turn her head; her gaze was locked on the horrific sight in front of her.

  ‘Carla,’ said Stephen, gently but firmly, ‘we have to go.’

  Finally, she turned to face him, her features frozen in an expression of shock and confusion. ‘We … we can’t just leave her there like that. We have to help her.’

  Stephen let go of her hand and kneeled down, laying the gun on the floor as he probed Sylvia’s neck, feeling for a pulse, all the while knowing that it was hopeless.

  After some seconds, he turned to face Carla. ‘We can’t help her Carla – she’s dead.’

  ‘No,’ wailed Carla. ‘She can’t be.’