Acquainted With the Night (9781101546000) (13 page)

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Authors: Piper Maitland

BOOK: Acquainted With the Night (9781101546000)
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“Let's get out of the city,” Jude said, firmly buckling her seat belt. “Then I'll explain.”
CHAPTER 16
Georgi held up his hand, trying to block the light, ignoring the searing pain. The zinc oxide ointment wasn't working. His flesh reddened and his vision blurred. Even with his sunglasses, if he didn't get into the shade, he would go blind permanently. He heard footsteps, then two shapes ran down the pavement. Georgi sniffed. Was it the girl? He smelled guns and leather, the stink of cheap hair tonic. Firm hands grabbed his arms.
“Who are you?” Georgi whispered.
“Police,” a deep voice answered.
“Take me out of the sun!” Georgi said, then realized the police might think he was playing at vampirism, that he was a Goth with sunblock and faux fangs. But he'd had quite a bit of experience in quelling the peasants' paranoia. “I'm a sick man,” he added. “I'm taking medication that makes me allergic to sunlight.”
The officers carried him into a café and set him down in a chair. Georgi straightened his sunglasses and looked at the men. They were blurry, ringed with halos. “Hurry, or she will get away.”
“Who?” one of the policemen asked.
“A woman murderer,” Georgi said. “She killed my partner. It happened minutes ago. Her name is Caroline Clifford. A British national.”
“Who did she kill?” an officer asked.
“I told you. My partner was killed on Bulgarian Boulevard.” Georgi licked the blisters on the back of his hand.
The policemen did not reply.
“If you won't find her, I will.” Georgi rose to his feet and wobbled sideways. “She must pay for her crimes.”
An officer caught Georgi's arm and led him back to the chair. “Leave that to us,” the man said. “It's too dangerous for civilians.”
“I am not a civilian.” Georgi pulled out an ID badge. Bloodred spots churned in front of his eyes, and his skin tingled. “You are wasting my time. Find the murderer before she kills again!”
“Please calm down,” the officer said.
“Calm? How can I be calm? My partner has been bisected.” Georgi paused. Truth and lies came as easily as wound-licking, and they were just as soothing. “This woman has murdered others. She kidnapped a Russian tourist from the Hotel Ustra.”
Now that Georgi was out of the sun, his vision began to clear. He smelled blood, fresh blood. He surveyed the café.
Not here
, he thought.
Not now.
He tried to remember if Teo had closed the trunk. But the pain had clouded his mind.
The bell above the door dinged as customers walked in and out. He blinked at the window. The sun darkened, as if a giant hand had stuffed it back into the clouds; a moment later, it broke free. He reached into his pocket, wincing as his burned flesh hit the fabric, and he drew out a rumpled fax. The picture showed a smiling girl with too much hair.
“This is her.” Georgi licked his lips. “Be careful. She is a dangerous woman.”
CHAPTER 17
Caro gripped the seat as Jude drove out of the alley and turned onto the crowded boulevard. Lights from police cars whirled along the street, casting a blue tint on the windows of nearby buildings. In the far lane, pedestrians surrounded the white truck.
“We're going the wrong way!” she cried, and glanced nervously out the window. The man in the black sweater was still there. His gaze passed over the Fiat, and then his head snapped around. Glaring at Caro, he held up his cell phone, as if to take her photograph.
“Get out of here, Jude!” She pointed. “That man is taking a picture of your car.”
Jude steered the Fiat onto the sidewalk and drove toward an outdoor café. Pedestrians leaped from their tables and scattered.
“Hold tight.” Jude's voice sounded amazingly calm, as if he drove on sidewalks every day. He didn't flinch when a plastic chair went flying over the hood.
Caro shut her eyes when the Fiat plowed into a green chalkboard where the daily specials were written in pink chalk. She opened one eye just as Jude drove off the sidewalk, into the boulevard, and zigzagged across four lanes of traffic. He turned down a narrow street, the tires bouncing over cobblestones. A bearded man leaped out of the way and fell into a garbage bin. The can tipped over and rolled down the alley. A policeman on a motorcycle swerved around the corner and rammed into the can.
At the end of the street, three police cars blocked the exit. Jude drove the Fiat toward the opposite sidewalk. The tires jumped the curb and slammed into wooden boxes. Onions and potatoes went flying and rolled down the sidewalk. A metal light pole rose up, but before Caro could scream, Jude swung the Fiat back into the street and cut down an alley. The sirens faded as he navigated down a series of narrow lanes. He took another right, onto a street lined with row houses. In the distance, floodlights shone on St. John the Precursor.
“It's getting dark,” Jude said and turned down another side road.
“But that's good. The police will have a harder time finding us.”
“Maybe, maybe not.”
“I should call Mr. Velikov.” Caro fumbled in her bag. A second later, she remembered that her phone was lying in pieces on the sidewalk.
“No.” Jude caught her arm. “Don't call anyone.”
Every drop of her blood rushed to her head. She jerked away and scooted against her window. Flashing a malicious gaze, she said, “Mr. Velikov will understand.”
“Don't be naïve.”
Caro bit down a sharp retort and glared out the window. He didn't know her well enough to pass judgment. Yes, she was naïve, but her deductive skills were intact. Who'd cut Jude's tendons? Was he a victim or some type of assassin?
“Didn't you see me at the hotel?” Jude's calm voice held a flinty edge. “You ran away.”
“But you found me. You always do.”
“You're sorry I didn't leave you back there? The burly fellow had you in a headlock.”
“That doesn't make you a hero.”
“I'm not trying to be one.” He turned down a street that was lined with empty warehouses.
“Look, Jude, I don't know what's going on, or how you're mixed up in this. All I know is, those men followed me from my hotel and kidnapped me on Bulgarian Boulevard. They stuffed me into the boot of their car. And there was a dead woman inside. They would have killed me, too.”
Jude stiffened. “You were kidnapped?”
“But I got away. The short guy chased me. I jabbed him with an ink pen. It's not my fault he stumbled and got smashed. Well, maybe it is. A little.” She lifted her chin. “I'm not sorry. Not one bit.”
Jude didn't comment. She frowned and shook his arm. “Didn't you hear me? I'm a manslaughterer.”
“He deserved to die.” Jude shifted gears, and the car passed a building with shattered windows. A skinny dog trotted over to a trash bin and stood on its hind legs. The rest of the street looked deserted.
“You're not telling me everything,” she said. “I saw you looking at that creepy Bulgarian. You know him, don't you?”
Jude squeezed the steering wheel, and his jaw clenched.
“You
do
know him!” She unbuckled her seat belt. “Stop the car. Now!”
Jude angled the car to the curb, then shifted in his seat. His legs looked too long to fit comfortably in the cramped car. He started to touch her hand, but she grabbed the door handle and said, “Don't.”
“Caro, listen. I
do
know that man. But it's not what you think.”
She cracked open the door. Cold air blew around her shoulders, stirring her hair. “Start talking,” she said.
“The men who kidnapped you are assassins.” Jude stared down at his legs.
“I can believe that. But how did you figure it out?”
Because he's mixed up with them?
She swallowed.
Jude cut his eyes at her. “They tried to kill me.”
A tingling sensation started in Caro's fingertips and crept across her palms, as if thousands of baby spiders had hatched beneath her flesh. She slammed her door and took a breath. “When?”
“Two years ago. The guy who got hit by the lorry? Well, he held me down while the tall Bulgarian cut my tendons. Another man was with them. A big redheaded guy. But I haven't seen him in Kardzhali.”
She forced herself to keep breathing, but the prickly feeling got stronger, plunging into her forearms. “Why would your attackers come after me?”
“I'm fairly sure they killed your uncle,” he said.
Her legs began to shake. She put her hands on her knees, trying to hold them still. What would Jude think when she told him about her roommate's violent death? Would he claim Phoebe's murder was part of an international conspiracy or the work of two Bulgarian thieves? Were those men mixed up in the underground antiquities trade? She'd gone on digs with Uncle Nigel many times, and without fail, they'd encountered black marketers. Archaeology was a dirty, lucrative business, and it could be deadly. So, yes, thieves could have killed her uncle. But had those same men attacked Jude
two whole years ago
?
“Sorry,” she said. “I don't see how this is connected? You. Me. Uncle Nigel.”
“I don't know, either.” He glanced away.
He's not telling the truth.
She looked at her legs. She'd stopped shaking, but the itchy-crawly feeling had moved into her chest and she couldn't get a deep breath. Pressing one hand against her sternum she said, “Mr. Velikov can help. Let's find a phone.”
Jude stared out his window, tracking the skinny dog. “And tell him what?”
“What you told me. That those men killed my uncle.”
“We'll talk about Velikov later. Right now, we need to get out of the city and hide the car.”
“Don't go to the Hotel Ustra. It's not safe.” She watched Jude's face, her heart pounding. Had he burgled her room or was he trying to help? And how had he found her on Bulgarian Boulevard—in all that traffic?
He swerved down a wide street. “I know a safe place.”
“Good. Then we'll call the embassy.”
He glanced away from the road and gave her a penetrating stare. “I don't trust the authorities, especially in Bulgaria.”
“Not even the British consulate?”
He shook his head. “You shouldn't trust them, either.
She rubbed her chest, feeling too tired to argue. At least the spiders had finally gone quiet. Through the windshield, a rosy streak held over the mountains, rising into layers of blue. Concrete buildings blotted out part of the sky, with chimneys and satellite dishes jutting up from the rooftops. The buildings looked empty, even though the upper-level windows glowed with fluorescent lighting.
Jude steered the Fiat into the street and drove south. The buildings ended and weedy fields began. He angled up a steep driveway and parked in front of the Akacia Hotel. Through a gap in the evergreens, Caro saw the Kardzhali Dam.
“This is too close to town,” she cried. “Let's drive a little farther. The dam is only fifty kilometers from the Turkish border.”
“We won't make it through the checkpoint. Turkish border crossings are tough.” He opened his door. “Come on, let's go inside.”
They walked to the lobby in silence. While Jude spoke to the clerk, Caro tried to calm down. She glanced into the bar and watched a silver-haired man push a white rag over a marble counter. A television hung down from the ceiling, and canned laughter rang out. Behind the bar was a restaurant with knotty-pine walls and a fireplace.
She expected the desk clerk to demand their passports. She pulled hers out, but the clerk slid a key across the polished counter. Jude lifted it.
Caro wasn't a hundred percent sure that he was trustworthy—he seemed rather paranoid—but she wasn't letting him get away until she had some answers. She followed him to room 344.
He unlocked the door and swung it open. She stepped past him and dumped her bag onto the bed. Through the windows, the lights of downtown Kardzhali were starting to shine.
“All right,” she said. “How did you know my uncle was tortured?”
“Can you read French?”
“Yes.”
He pulled a wrinkled
Le Monde
from his backpack. “Turn to page four.”
Her hands trembled as she flipped the pages.
BRITISH ARCHAEOLOGIST MURDERED IN BULGARIA
Sir Nigel Clifford, a world-renowned Oxford University professor and archaeologist, was murdered Thursday night at the Perperikon cultural site in southern Bulgaria. The seventy-two-year-old professor was found the following morning by tourists. Police refused to speculate on the motive, but a source claimed it was a robbery gone awry. Although details are sketchy, it appears that the archaeologist was tortured—both Achilles tendons were severed, and he was savagely bitten. The Interior Ministry told the British embassy in Sofia that they will bring the murderers to justice. A spokesperson for the embassy said, “We are deeply shocked and saddened by the murder of Dr. Clifford. . . .”
Caro lowered the paper. Okay, fine. Jude hadn't personally known details of her uncle's murder. He'd learned the gory details from
Le Monde
. But he was still holding back.
He rubbed his forehead. “I've been keeping track of odd murders,” he said.
“Isn't that an unusual hobby for a biochemist?”
“Not if your Achilles tendons have been cut.” His eyes blazed. “In the last two years, there have been four reported cases of severed tendons. Your uncle's case is the fifth.”
Caro rubbed the back of her head and winced. How hard had the Bulgarian hit her? She couldn't feel a lump, but her scalp was tender and she was having trouble focusing. Maybe she had a concussion. Jude was watching, so she said, “I got bashed in the head.”

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