Body of Shadows (34 page)

That evening it rained.

He got a cold blue can from the fridge and sat on the front porch in the weather.

The women had been gone for 48-hours.

That was the unofficial dividing line.

The water matted his hair and soaked through his clothes.

He didn’t care.

Then his phone rang.

It was September Tadge.

“I went over the notes again, twice actually, and remembered something that I never wrote down,” she said. “He mentioned once that he buried one of his victims on some land owned by the Apaches, forty or fifty miles east of Denver. I checked the public records and found that there really is such a place. Do you want the directions?”

He did.

He did indeed.

Two minutes later
he was in the Tundra heading east.

The storm thickened.

When he got to the location, he found something he didn’t expect. A car was in the brush off the road. A man’s body was slumped over the steering wheel. The left side of his head had been shot twice.

The smell of death was putrid.

He’d been dead at least a day, maybe two or three.

Drift pulled him back and looked at his face.

It was Michael Northway.

The trunk was popped open.

He took a look and spotted dried blood.

Kelly’s?

He got in
the Tundra, headed up the road and found an old house. Inside there were signs of recent activity but no one present.

“Kelly!”

No answer.

“Pantage!”

No answer.

A dilapidated barn out back was similarly empty.

Twilight was thick. It would be night in another half hour.

He shifted the truck into four-wheel drive and headed into the field, dodging rocks and yucca, looking for signs of a recent burial. Twenty minutes later he saw fresh dirt to the left and jerked the wheel over to it.

There he found a hole.

Inside about a foot down were two heads, infested with bugs. They were slumped to the side, motionless.

He shook them.

Neither one responded.

He spotted a shovel and started digging.

Don’t be dead.

Don’t be dead.

Don’t be dead.

Don’t you dare be dead!

113

A Month Later

August 25

Thursday Evening

With a little too much
wine in her gut, Pantage flashed her legs at a passing LoDo cabbie who jerked to a stop, then got her home just as the twilight morphed into night. She locked the front door behind her and slithered out of a short black dress as she headed for the bedroom. En route a text came from Kelly—
Lunch tomorrow?

She replied—
Sounds good
—then tossed the phone on the bed and checked her body in the mirror.

It was perfect.

It was built for sex.

She got the shower up to temperature but left the bathroom lights off, opting for the softer ambient light that filtered in from the bedroom.

She liked it dark.

The dark felt good after a scorching day.

In the shower, she put her head under the spray and let the sweet, sweet water soak through to her scalp and cascade over her face.

Then she lathered up.

It felt nice.

It felt right.

She turned her back to the spray, put her soapy hand between her thighs and moved her fingers. Her body tingled. She ran the index finger of her other hand in light circles over her right nipple.

Yeah.

That was nice.

That’s what she needed since she got up this morning.

She closed her eyes.

She spread her feet and increased the tempo.

Little sparks of lightning shot through her veins.

Her mouth opened.

Her head rocked back and forth.

The pressure in her thighs grew stronger. When she came it would be a good one, it would be one of those mind-charging bolts of ecstasy that she’d still be feeling in the middle of the night.

She opened her eyes, just a tad.

A man was standing in front of her, a huge powerful man, right there in the shower with her.

He was holding a knife in front of her face.

He was the gladiator.

He grabbed her by the throat and said, “Don’t make a sound.”

She froze.

“Don’t kill me,” she said. “I’ll do whatever you want.”

He pushed the tip of the knife into her stomach enough to dent her skin without breaking through.

“Does that feel good?”

Her heart pounded.

“What do you want?”

“Want? Nothing,” he said. “I came here to tell you something. You didn’t kill Chiara de Correggio. I did.”

“Chiara?”

Right.

Chiara.

“Chiara from California?”

“Yes,” he said. “I was hired by Marabella to kill her. She drank wine every night. I laced it with roofies. You were there that night. I watched through binoculars until you both passed out in the living room. Then I came in and did my job. You were moving a little and may have opened your eyes. I didn’t know if you saw me or not. Before I left I put the knife in your hand. I was hoping you’d believe you were the one who killed her. After all, you and her had a vicious fight not more than two hours before that.”

“Why are you telling me this?”

“Because I want you to know,” he said. “You actually believed the setup and went on the run. Marabella felt sorry for you. She tracked you down and gave you a new identity and a job. I knew she’d done that but I didn’t know you were in Denver.”

“So I didn’t kill Chiara?”

“No,” he said. “You threw her body off a cliff but you weren’t the one who killed her. That was my one and only job. I didn’t like doing it and Marabella didn’t like that I got someone else involved.” A beat then, “I spotted you on the street. The question I had was whether you would remember me if you saw me. I eventually arranged to bump into you, which was that night down at the Tequila Rose. You didn’t remember me. That was good because if you had I probably would have killed you.”

He ran the tip of the knife up her stomach drawing a thin line of blood.

“You see what I’m doing right now?”

Yes.

She did.

“Let it scar and look at it every now and then,” he said. “Use it as a reminder that you’re not to ever tell anyone what I just told you; no one, ever. If you do, you’re going to get my touch again, only this time it won’t be so nice. Do we have an understanding?”

“Yes.”

“Good.”

He slid the door open and stepped out.

Then he was gone.

Pantage stood there in the spray, alone and shaking.

Then she ran out.

The gladiator was walking through the bedroom, almost at the door.

“Hey,” she said.

The man stopped and turned.

“Thanks for telling me.”

He stared at her for a heartbeat.

Then he said, “You’re welcome,” and left.

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Jack Shadows is the author of over twenty thrillers and is a long-standing member of the International Thriller Writers. “Jack Shadows” is a penname. His thrillers have been reviewed and acclaimed by the publishing industries most prestigious and respected reviewing organizations including Booklist, Library Journal, Kirkus Reviews, Publishers Weekly, Midwest Book Review and many others. Visit his website or Amazon Author Page for a complete listing of books.