Dig Two Graves, James Harper [e reader pdf best .TXT] 📗

laugh with him. The thoughts running through his mind guaranteed it wasn’t going to happen.

The car belonged to Liz. How did they get the license plate number? He wasn’t looking forward to breaking the news to Bella.

9

Everything went sideways as soon as he got back in the room, told Bella they had to get out.

‘Why? What’s happened? I thought we were meant to be safe here.’

‘Looks as if somebody’s been calling all the motels and hotels. They’ve got the car’s description and your license plate number.’

That wasn’t strictly true. They had Liz’s license plate. It didn’t take her long to figure it out.

‘But it’s Liz’s car . . .’

He watched the color drain from her face. She dropped heavily onto the bed, the headboard banging into the wall, a not uncommon occurrence in a place like this. He felt as bad as she did about the implications. That the men after her had somehow caught Liz and gotten the model and license plate number out of her, no prizes for guessing how they’d done it.

Except he felt worse, of course.

It had been his idea to move hotels. Liz didn’t know where they’d gone. And the men would’ve asked her. A number of times, each time more insistently. He got a too-vivid mental picture of the guy whose face he’d remodeled taking his anger out on Liz when she failed—or refused as they saw it—to give them the answers they wanted.

He knew exactly when that implication registered in Bella’s mind. She looked up at him, a mix of horror and accusation on her face.

‘She wouldn’t have been able to tell them where we are. We should never have moved.’

It was a stupid thing to say. Then she got out her phone, a pointless exercise. They both knew it. She called Liz’s number anyway, looked like she was going to throw the phone at the wall when it went straight to voicemail. He waited a long moment before he spoke.

‘We need to go.’

‘Why? Did the clerk tell them we’re here?’

‘He says not. But he’s the sort of creep who’s not going to lose any sleep over playing both ends. Or they might have heard something in his voice. The guy told him he was a cop, same as he told me. It might have rattled him. Anyway, here’s what we’re going to do.’

They left the room, hurried across the parking lot bent almost double as if they were trying to make themselves conspicuous. He got in the driver’s side. She went around to the rear passenger side keeping below the door line, opened the door and closed it again as if she’d slid onto the back seat. Then she flattened herself on the ground, rolled away into the bushes at the side of the lot, the car obscuring her from anyone parked watching. She wormed her way through them, into the trees behind. Inside the car he twisted in his seat, mumbled something under his breath to the empty back seat.

It all felt like overkill. But it was better than actual kill.

He drove out of the lot, turned right and hit the gas. She waited, ears straining, breath on hold. Nothing moved. She gave it five long minutes more, then threaded her way through the trees, moving parallel to the road. Fifty yards further down there was a gas station on the other side of the road, a diner and convenience store behind it. The lights in the convenience store were off but the diner was still open, people visible in the window seats. She hunkered down in the shadows of the trees to wait.

Ten minutes later Liz’s car pulled into the gas station coming from the other direction. It drove through, parked behind the diner. She came out of the trees, darted across the road. He was waiting by the car.

‘Nothing,’ he said.

‘Here, neither. Maybe the clerk’s an honorable creep.’

They went into the diner, ignored three vacant tables in the window, got one next to the rest rooms at the back. The waitress gave them a curious look. It takes all sorts. They ordered coffee and a stale Danish each. Then Evan phoned for a cab to take them to the airport, a quick efficient arrangement. The next one promised to be more problematic.

He spent some time on Google maps, then called the Carlson Residence. It went to voicemail as he expected, the tone of the same woman’s voice informing him that calls from people like him were not welcome at any time of day or night, thank you. He tried another three times unsuccessfully in the hope that old man Carlson’s personal weasel, Aldrich LeClair, lived in and would be dragged from his bed. It didn’t happen.

He called the chauffeur, Leon, instead. He sounded suitably annoyed at the lateness of the hour until Bella leaned over and called Hello and Evan told him what he wanted.

‘How did you get this number?’ LeClair said when he finally answered, irritation pushing aside the tiredness in his voice when he heard who it was.

‘It was pinned to the wall in the men’s room of a gay bar.’

That was only in his mind.

‘You must have given it to me. Anyway, here’s what I want you to do . . .’

An indignant spluttering sound came down the line, loud enough for Bella to hear. She stuck out her hand.

‘Here, let me.’

He passed the phone across.

‘Hello, Aldrich,’ she said, her voice all sweetness and light. ‘We haven’t met yet, but I’m Arabella Carlson. Do what he asks or I’ll fire your sorry ass the minute my father dies.’

She handed the phone back. There you go. He nodded his thanks, got ready to enjoy himself. A sullen silence came down the line at him.

‘That’s better. As I was saying, you need to arrange for Mr Carlson’s private jet to bring us back to Boston. But not to Logan. There’s a public use airport called Hanscom Field about two miles from Bedford. It’s only twenty miles from