The Killing Hour

I stroll over to the house, knowing that slow movement attracts less attention. I don’t pause at the cobblestone pathway, I stroll up it as if I live there. The front door is open. No signs of forced entry. Coming here is tearing open a recent memory.

No tyre iron, no shotgun and I left the stakes in the car, so with nothing to defend myself I step forward and stand on the threshold of the hallway. On the threshold of Monday’s memory. On the threshold of a new horror to come. I stand still and listen but there’s nothing, so I take a few more steps and repeat the same procedure and get the same result. I put my hands in my pockets where they’ll be safe from touching anything. You can tell, when you step into a house whether it’s empty or not, and this house has that feeling, even though I’m sure Frank is home. I could just turn away and read about it in tomorrow’s paper but I need to see this. I want to see this – to see what has been done to the man who orchestrated the deaths of two beautiful women.

The lights are glowing in the lounge and it’s here that I find him, lying on his stomach with his head twisted, his arms spread in front of him, the carpet beneath soaked in blood. My breath catches at this sight and I suddenly realise why. I have killed this man and the feeling doesn’t make me feel sick or guilty. I have killed him, not directly, but as surely as if the metal stake protruding from his chest was placed there by my hand. I step closer and kneel down. The anger I feel towards him hasn’t diminished at all just because he’d dead. If anything I actually feel like kicking him. I’m not sure what that says about me, and I’m not sure I really want to know.

Frank has that distinguished look you see in middle-aged doctors on TV. His wire-rimmed glasses have been knocked askew, his eyes are open and reveal irises that are more yellowish then green. He wears a grim look on his face that death is managing to hold in place, a look that tells me the end didn’t come easy. There is a thin line of blood and drool slipping from the corner of his slightly open mouth. The edge of a piece of paper is sticking from between his lips. I reach forward and grab hold of it, and when I pull, his mouth doesn’t even move, but his lower lip is dragged backwards, his suddenly revealed teeth giving him the smile of a skull. The hundred-dollar note is damp. I unscrew it, my fingers getting wet. I read the message I wrote across it earlier. ‘Come near me and I’ll have you killed.’

I hide it in one of my many pockets, then jam my hands into two of the others. I turn around, studying the room. Expensive furniture and expensive gadgetry and nice paintings … I guess it’s true when they say you can’t take it with you, even though at this point, with his arms spread, it sure looks like Frank’s giving it a go. I call out for Kathy but she doesn’t answer. I can’t feel her with me and I’ve suddenly never felt so alone.

‘You deserved worse,’ I say, and Frank doesn’t answer. He doesn’t concede the point, or argue it. He just lies there looking pissed off, and I guess I can’t blame him. There’s nothing more I can do now until tomorrow night, until my meeting at the pier.

Slowly I drive home. I’m in no hurry to be anywhere. I pray Cyris isn’t taking his disappointment out on Jo and figure he can’t afford to. He’s lost his payment from tonight and won’t risk losing the fifty grand he thinks he’s getting from me tomorrow.

I brace a chair beneath the handle of the back door in an attempt to lock it. It’s getting close to two o’clock. Looks like it’s going to be an early night. Tonight didn’t go to plan: the idea was to follow Cyris back to Jo. I should have gone to the police last night when I got back. Should have gone the moment we walked out of that paddock while Cyris was still lying on the ground. I stare out the window at the dark sky, and for once I will be asleep before seeing the purple light of the killing hour. Dawn will arrive and I won’t see it. Evil will be here and I’m yet to see his best work.





41


My cellphone pulls me from a world of dreams into a world of nightmares. I reach from beneath my blankets and walk my fingers over the nightstand until I find it. When I pick it up I don’t bother wasting any ‘hellos’. It can only be one person.

‘Hey, arsehole.’

Cyris isn’t a morning person. I think back to Frank’s body and decide that Cyris isn’t much of a night person either. ‘Yeah?’



‘You got the money?’

‘I got it.’

‘You better show up, otherwise I’ll …’

‘Yeah, I get the point. I’ll be there.’

‘It’s a hundred grand.’

‘What?’ I ask, sitting up. ‘What in the hell are you talking about?’

‘You heard me.’

‘No, because it sounded like you said one hundred grand. That wasn’t the deal.’

‘It’s the deal now, partner.’

‘I can’t get that sort of money.’

‘Get it.’

‘I’m not a bloody bank. We had a deal.’

‘So did I, with somebody else. Deals get broken, partner. Get used to it.’