Chapter 49 - Hot Pursuit

Image by Jurre Houtkamp from Unsplash

Strange, Gary thought. Why on Earth should he feel so buoyant, so light as if he were bobbing along on a current, for once sure of his destination and his destiny?

He pondered on this fascinating mystery while meandering through the crowds of fellow travellers trundling towards the exit at Rome's Fiumicino airport, but it wasn't until he had joined the queues at the taxi stand that he stumbled over an explanation.

He would see Ike again.

A second later, he discarded the silly thought. Yes, he cared for that woman, he even liked her though didn't quite know why. No reason to get excited or feel so ridiculously happy, though. He was here to do his job: push the killer off track so he and his partners were safe and the tours could continue without further crossfire. Gary's treacherous heart did another of those skips and hops, but that could have been because he finally arrived at the head of the taxi queue.

It stood to reason fate would saddle him with the one driver in Rome who insisted on sticking to the speed limit. Nothing he could do about it, so he slumped into the stained upholstery of the back seat with a sigh, then stared at the air freshener that dangled from the rear mirror, failing to combat the stink of old nicotine and sweaty socks. There was no rush. Ike had survived the night, Gary had hers and Brigitte's messages to prove it. Still, it would be nice if that bloke wouldn't break at every traffic light, anticipating it to turn red.

Which it did. Every single blasted time.

"Traffic is very slow today, isn't it?"

"Si, yes very slow," the driver said cheerfully, braked, waved in a blond lady with sunglasses the size and colour of Minnie Mouse ears. Finally, he got going, only to brake again for a rubbish collection van idling on the left, then followed contentedly in its stinky wake. Resigned, Gary wound up the window. Never would he permit himself more than a frown to express his displeasure. It took a lot to make him mad. When it happened, people were surprised by the meltdown, didn't think he had in him. But then, few could look behind the facade. Or rather: were permitted to.

Beyond the smeared panes of the ill-sprung vehicle, squalid suburbs crawled past. Now the rubbish van was gone, they should make better headway. Gary stared into the clouds. The sun was shining, but there was a blustering wind that had turned the aeroplane's approach into a bumpy affair.

The old lady hadn't embarrassed him and held his hand; instead she busied herself with comforting her distressed dachshund. Once back on safe ground, Gary had heaved her hand luggage from the overhead compartment for which it was kilos too heavy, then he shook her stick-like fingers. As they went their separate ways, he wondered where he might have met her before, which Gary was sure he had done.

Somewhere, somehow

He stored the memory, to be revisited whenever relevant. Right now, he had a job to do.

Assuming he ever got there.

With a sigh, he tried Ike's number again but, as usual, they kept missing each other.

A message from Jon, he and his honorary aunties were off to the nearest Safari Park to visit the lion cubs. Speaking of lions, Gladys the cat was sulking in the wardrobe, and all was well.

Oh, and a message from Aline, the bookings were up and could he please get that murder business sorted and the Daphne Du Maurier trip underway. Plenty of guides and a second coach driver to be interviewed once he was back. In the meantime, happy hunting.

Very funny.

The driver shifted a frazzled toothpick from left to right. "Pensione Violetta, yes?"

Yes, he was still going there. Nothing had changed.

Aloud, he said: "Indeed. How much longer do you reckon?"

"Ah, not so long, not so long. Traffic light today."

This crawling, stinking queue of cars was light? Amazing, really. He listened to the taxametre tick along until they reached the turnoff for the hill when a sudden burst of superfast Italian burst from the intercom. With a shudder, the vehicle surged forwards. Apparently, the driver had sussed the function and purpose of an accelerator. He zipped up the serpentines, swerved around the pedestrians, nauseating his passenger, and went to a screeching halt in front of Ike's latest abode.

"Pronto, Signore," the driver said proudly.

Everything's relative, matey.

The driver paid but clearly undertipped if the scowl was anything to go by, Gary's rucksack parked temporarily with the concierge, he clattered and rattled towards the sixth floor and beelined for the last room on the corridor.

He knocked. Once. Twice. Three times.

Still no response.

When he tried the handle, it gave under fingers that had gone cold with sweat.

"Ike?" His heart in full gallop, Gary entered.

Only to find the room empty.

###

When Ike returned to the here and now, she caught herself clutching the battered first edition Miss Marple the lemon had given to her, which must have doubled up as anchor and safety belt. Ike touched her temples, but other than a twinge, she found not much amiss. Nausea tickled the back of her throat, yes, her vision wobbled whenever she turned her head to the side, but as far as physical discomfort was concerned, the fallout was nothing compared to her previous experiments.

As to her emotions—oh, a different thing altogether.

Where diving into Cecilia's testament had left her with a profound sense of loss, sadness and stranded her in a sea of pity, this time she felt soiled and sickened.

No surprise, really. Instead of diving deep into an author's vision, she had immersed herself in the mind of a killer.

The tickle at the back of her throat turned into a retch and Ike dashed into the bathroom. She almost didn't make it. All the while she was heaving, sweaty hands grasping the basin she swore to herself.

Never again!

As suddenly as they had arrived, the convulsions stopped with a final hiccup. Ike rose, rinsed out her mouth and returned to the room, to flip on the kettle. While waiting for it to heat up, she opened the door to the small balcony and sucked in what was supposed to be fresh air. The greasy whiff from the kitchen came tainted with a funky smell coming from the potted tangerine tree, which made her gag all over again.

Still, all of it better than the sterile aggression she had hit upon at the bottom of a boring little business letter. As confessions from a murderer went, this one was unique. Unfortunately, none of what she had seen would be admissible in any court on this planet.

The kettle bubbled and steamed, then clicked itself off.

Ike poured. Instant coffee, not the little capsules they provided in the other place. It didn't matter. Caffeine in any form cured all diving woes and if push came to shove she still had the emergency pods in her handbag.

Even coffee couldn't sluice away the revulsion itching under her skin, tainting her heart, sticking like a slimy oil slick.

The thoughts of a would-be murderer, written before the deed. He had killed because he imagined himself thwarted and belittled. By Gary. What started out as sabotage had gone down the drain and escalated to murder.

That's way too clinical. Try again.

The bastard hated the world but some people he hated more than others. The competition—Gary—among them. And women. Especially poor Shalon.

Only one thing was rather strange. Not one of his thoughts had revolved around Ike, so why was he coming after her? She had never met the man, never been given a "chance" to reject him. Did he hate her simply because she was female? He never attacked Brigitte. That made no sense whatsoever. Unless he hated her because she was a partner in LiteraTours. A female partner.

Could that be it?

If she hadn't been around, the guy would have gone after Gary.

Icy fear shot into her guts. He might still plan to do so. The hatred she had sensed would need another outlet. And another. Until the man got stopped.

Terminally.

But the police didn't have him on the radar.

Nobody did but she.

The thoughts raced through her head in a wild jumble, bounced left, then right and ricocheted off the mirror.

The mirror.

Poor Shalon, in the wrong place at the wrong time.

With a sudden flash of insight, Ike knew what must have happened. The murderer thought he had cornered Ike, realised he was wrong, then killed the young woman anyway. Not to protect his secret, oh no. Because he could. Because Shalon dared to spurn his advances. Because he was a complete and utter bastard.

A tiny voice piped up in Ike's brain, telling her she wasn't fair, wasn't facing mindless acts of violence. Instead, she had confronted the deep frustration of a man lashing back at a world that didn't accept him for who he was. At people who noticed only the handicap, the wheelchair and let their gaze slide over the person in it. Sometimes with contempt, often with pity.

That wasn't an excuse for murder, though.

And his view of women was horrifying.

Once more, she felt the scathing touch of his thoughts, sensed the hatred burning in her mind.

The bitter taste of the instant coffee rose in her throat, the walls of the room closed in, and Ike could take it no longer.

Get out of here!

She jumped up and rushed into the corridor, slamming the door shut behind her before she dashed down the steps and, without remembering how she got there, found herself in the street.

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