The Hunted, page 12
The bar the boy had stopped to look into was closed and quiet. Inside a woman was going around vacuuming the floor and then polishing the tables. Kinane watched her through the window, until she noticed him staring and seemed to get nervous. So he left her to it and moved on.
After walking around a while, and on the point of giving up, he turned a corner and saw the frontage of the Rapid Link Motel. It was a motel chain he knew and, indeed, he had enjoyed its hospitality himself, on many occasions and in many different cities. It was cheap and clean and functional and nobody asked you any questions. Some of the motels were fully automated and you could check in using a credit card, be issued with a card key, be served (or rather serve yourself) with a pre-packed breakfast, and be gone the next day without seeing or talking to a soul.
But Kinane wanted a soul, an ordinary, simple, trusting soul. Somebody he could talk to.
He found him pushing a mop around the reception area, cleaning the grime off the tiles.
‘Hi there.’
‘Hi.’
‘Did you want to check in?’ the man with the mop asked.
‘No, I’m all right. Just looking for someone.’
‘Oh yeah?’
‘I was told there was a kid to rent here.’
The janitor stopped mopping the floor, took a handkerchief from his pocket, and started mopping his forehead.
‘Kid to rent?’
It was only a guess. Kinane had no means of knowing. But he calculated that no proper parent would let a child out alone at that time of night – not with people like himself about. So maybe he was a loaner, and you didn’t loan your own kids out, so that made him belong to someone else, like someone making money out of it, which would mean always moving on, which would mean a motel, which would mean . . .
‘You want to rent one?’
‘My wife,’ Kinane said.
‘Oh?’
‘It’s our anniversary and we were never able to have any of our own . . .’
‘Who is able?’ the janitor said, putting the handkerchief away and leaning on the mop, glad of an excuse to stop and take a breather.
‘So I thought it would be a nice surprise.’
‘Well, there was a kid here earlier with a man – said he was his father – only they checked out.’
Damn it. For a moment Kinane felt anger and annoyance. He’d been wasting time looking in the wrong places. He should have got here an hour, two hours ago.
‘I don’t suppose you’d have a number?’ he asked.
‘No, don’t believe so . . .’
The janitor went behind the check-in desk. ‘Ah – yes, I have. Yeah, there it is. He left a card, see. Number’s right on there. Name of Deet.’
‘Can I copy it?’
‘Take the card, mister. He paid in full. I don’t need it.’
‘Thanks.’
‘You’re welcome.’
Kinane took the card and left. He walked straight back to his own hotel, packed, paid his bill, and went down to his car in the basement car park.
He headed out of the town and drove a few miles into the countryside, to where the ground was high and clear of trees.
Reception would be good here, which was what he needed.
Then he sat and he waited. There was no point in doing it yet. Give them a while to arrive at where they were going to, then do it. He didn’t want to arouse any suspicions by calling the number too often or too soon.
To pass the time, he turned the radio on and listened to some music. Then, growing restless, he got out and locked the car and went for a walk over the fields. After a while, he stopped and stretched and looked about him. It reminded him of somewhere – the fields, the recently ploughed earth, the pattern of the ploughing, where the blades had cut into the soil making deep, parallel incisions. It was geometric and somehow satisfying.
Did a good job here, Kinane thought, as he surveyed the fields around him. The plough lines were straight and regular. Even in the corners of the fields, where the tractor had had to turn, the plough tracks were smooth and round, like the curves of letters of the alphabet. He walked on, resolving to go as far as the brow of the next hill, but there was another hill beyond it, with the promise of a better view. So he just went on walking.
He walked for several hours. By the time he got back to the car, he was hungry and thirsty, so he drove on to a village and found a shop where he could buy some food and drink. Then he drove on to the top of another high hill, where again there were no pylons or phone masts or trees. He took out his mobe and set it into the cradle of the Sat-Sys which he owned, and which had cost him several thousand units.
Now he took the card the man from the Rapid Link Motel had given him, and he keyed in the number printed upon it. Then he waited for Deet’s mobe to ring. Only it didn’t ring. It had been turned off.
‘The big city,’ Deet said, somewhat unnecessarily, as it was quite evident what it was. ‘The big smoke.’
Tarrin leaned his head against the window of the train and looked out. Deet usually preferred the small towns, the provincial capitals. Small pools suited a kind of fish like him. Tarrin wondered why they had left them for this great ocean of tarmac, brick, concrete and shining glass.
‘You can work a place out, kid. You can overstay your welcome. You come to a place, you’re a novelty. You stay a while, you’re not a novelty no more. You stay a while longer, they get tired of the look of you. In the end they either don’t even notice you, or they do, but they don’t like what they see. Either way is no distinction. The best way is moving on.’
But it still wasn’t like Deet to head for the big city. He said himself that the place made him feel nervous.
‘Only needs must, kid. It’s where the money and the chances are. It’s where the deals are done. Where the movers and the shakers do the shaking and the moving.’
They arrived at the mainline station and Deet wasted no time in getting them a cab and giving directions to another Rapid Link Motel – one not too far from the bright lights and the brash, expensive places.
‘Big-city prices, kid,’ Deet said. ‘They can’t be avoided. If you want to be here, you just have to pay them. When in Rome, pay the Romans . . .’
Once settled and unpacked, Deet insisted on taking Tarrin out to buy him a new set of clothes. They rode the Pod into the centre, to a street of designer shops. They found a shop that specialized in small sizes. They were good clothes too, expensive. But no doubt Deet had his reasons for spending the money.
It was later on, at about five o’clock, and they had stopped for burgers, when Deet announced that they had an appointment.
‘I’m taking you round to see someone later, kid. It’s someone somebody put me in touch with and they’ve got a proposition. So I want you to be on the old best behaviour, kid, as we’re going round to millionaire’s row, see, and we don’t want no crumbs on the carpet or no elbows on the table – you get what I mean?’
‘Not exactly.’
‘This is a big chance, kid, a major opportunity. Now, I can’t say too much, only you got to remember that no matter what happens, you keep faith in your uncle Deet.’ He winked. ‘You hear what I’m saying?’
‘I hear what you’re saying, Deet, but–’
‘Just remember that, kid. I’m thinking about your long-term future, see. So, no matter what happens tonight, you just remember that. You got me? Just remember that your uncle Deet wouldn’t turn his back on you – OK? And even when I’m not there, I’m still there – you get what I’m saying?’
There were times when Tarrin wondered why Deet couldn’t simply say things instead of asking him if he got what he was saying. Maybe Deet was so used to bending the rules that he couldn’t be straight now even if he tried to be. He could only hint at things, point vaguely at unspecified intentions, wink and nod. But to be specific – he couldn’t seem to manage it. He was like some antique floorboard, warped and buckled and crooked, which just simply couldn’t be nailed down flat any more.
‘Only that’s the thing to remember, kid – got me? Your uncle Deet wouldn’t abandon you. He’s playing the long game, right? He’s working to the plan. However it goes this evening, you hold on to that.’
‘How what goes, Deet? Where are we going? What’s going to happen?’
‘We’ll just have to see, kid. Just have to see. I don’t want to make no commitments or promises, as it might not turn out that way. Just have faith, kid, and we’ll just have to see. Come on then. Let’s get going.’
They returned to the hotel, where Deet not only insisted on Tarrin showering and getting dressed in the newly bought clothes, but he shaved and showered himself and put on his dark grey special-occasion suit.
‘Pack an overnight bag too, kid,’ he said. ‘A toothbrush and things, in case we decide to stay over.’
But Deet didn’t pack an overnight bag for himself. Which made Tarrin wonder. But he was so used to wondering about Deet and his motives and intentions that he couldn’t feel surprised. And he was so used to not getting any straight answers that he didn’t even bother to ask questions.
It was nearing seven when they left the room. Deet flagged down a cab and gave the driver an address. The traffic was still heavy from the evening rush, so they sat back and just had to tolerate the journey, though maybe Deet found this harder to do than Tarrin, as his eyes kept wandering to the meter as it clocked up the fare.
Deet took his mobe from his pocket. ‘Switched off,’ he said. ‘When did I do that?’
He turned it back on, checked his messages and texts and put it back into his suit.
The cab had taken them to an expensive and fashionable area of the city now, and Deet’s earlier promise of a visit to ‘millionaire’s row’ was proving not to be unfounded. They were in a street of tall Regency houses, each several storeys high, with valley gutters and slanting roofs and elegant sash windows.
‘Arm and a leg, kid,’ Deet said. ‘That’s what it would cost you to live here. And that’s just renting. To buy a house here – well, you’d need the kind of money that money just can’t buy. Number eighteen, driver.’
The taxi stopped. Deet paid the driver and led the way up some steps to the door of number eighteen. It was, like all the other houses, large and imposing, with double-fronted windows. As was his way, he knocked on the door and eschewed using the bell. His tactics seemed to work, as footsteps could soon be heard from within, as if hurrying down some stairs.
And then Deet’s mobe rang.
‘What the–’ He snatched it from his pocket. ‘Perfect! Just perfect timing!’
He glanced at the mobe screen to see the number of the caller, but the screen was blank. Number withheld.
‘Hello? Who is it?’
But no sooner had he answered the call than whoever was making it cancelled the call or was cut off.
‘What the—’
The door was opening. Deet hastily turned the mobe off and stuffed it back into his pocket. He just had time to whisper, ‘Best behaviour, kid. Best behaviour,’ before the door was pulled open and a man appeared upon the step.
‘Mr Deet, I take it?’ The man was plainly a servant, or a personal assistant of some kind.
‘Just plain . . . yeah . . . I guess. Mr Deet, and . . . this is my boy.’
‘Please come in, Mr Deet. Mr and Mrs Hartinger are expecting you.’
‘Glad to hear it,’ Deet said. He followed the man inside. ‘Come on in, boy, and wipe your feet,’ Deet instructed. Tarrin did as he was told and the door closed behind him.
But he noticed that Deet hadn’t wiped his own feet. And the man who had let them in noticed it too.
The call had been short, but it had been all that Kinane had needed to pinpoint the exact location of Deet’s mobe. The Sat-Sys gave him its precise coordinates. It was accurate to within a few metres.
Kinane noted down the coordinates, and then he fed them into the car’s navigator, so that it could work out the best, the shortest and the most traffic-free route for him. It did so within a few seconds and Kinane saw that his destination lay towards the capital, to its very vibrant and beating heart. He slipped the car into drive and pulled away. He was briefly held up by a herd of cattle, which were being taken from their field towards the farmyard and milking parlour across the road.
Kinane watched the cattle pass, their full, milkswollen udders swinging, their broad, black shoulders and their mottled black-and-white flanks moving slowly past. Their tails jerked, swatting at insects, and each cow had a yellow plastic earring with a number upon it, for identification.
‘Evening, ladies,’ he mumbled, and he smiled at their curious faces and at the large eyes which turned towards his car.
He pressed the button to lower the window, and the smell of the cattle invaded the car interior. It was warm, rich, the scent of animals mingling with the perfume of summer grass. It was an odour of milk and breath, of earth, of skin, and even of the cow muck which steamed on the road, but which had its own, not unpleasant fragrance.
The stockman who was driving the animals across the road apologized for the hold up.
‘That’s OK,’ Kinane said. ‘No hurry. Just let them take their time.’
He didn’t mind them really, not at all. He knew where he was headed. Five minutes wouldn’t matter.
‘Good yield?’ he asked the stockman.
‘Pretty good,’ he said.
‘GMs?’
‘No. Pure stock.’
‘Fine-looking animals.’
‘Thanks.’
‘Reminds me of home.’
‘You a farmer?’
‘Not for a long time. Was once though. Long time ago.’
‘So what do you do now?’ the curious stockman asked.
‘I look for things,’ Kinane said.
‘There money in that?’
‘There can be, I believe,’ Kinane told him.
‘Then I hope you find what you’re looking for,’ the stockman said, as the last of the cattle went through and he closed the gate.
‘Me too,’ Kinane nodded. ‘Me too.’
He waved to the stockman, who raised a finger by way of acknowledgement and farewell, and he drove on.
The car navigator gave him the shortest route to the city. He took it, and within twenty minutes was rolling along a five-lane freeway, with thousands of other cars.
An overhead speed camera flashed as he drove under a bridge.
But it wasn’t for him. It was another motorist, there in the overtaking lane, who was foolishly streaking by at over ninety miles an hour, maybe even clocking the hundred.
Kinane kept strictly to the speed limit. He couldn’t see the point of doing otherwise and of making trouble for yourself. In that respect, if no other, he was a law-abiding citizen. It was the tortoise and the hare, and it was going slow that got you there or, at least, taking it steady did.
So he took it steady and he drove on to the east. He’d be in the capital by nightfall. He knew exactly where he was headed.
This time, yes, this time, he might get lucky.
Padded Cell
The room was large and high ceilinged; there were two sofas to sit on, several well-upholstered easy chairs and, in a corner, by a window, was a grand piano.
Deet looked around admiringly.
‘There’s money here, kid,’ he whispered, though Tarrin could see that quite plainly for himself.
Deet went on looking at all the signs of affluence – the expensive furniture, the paintings on the wall, the thick carpets, the deep, comfortable sofas. This was the place to be, he told himself, these were the kind of people to do business with, this was where the money was, and he deserved to be right there with it.
Tarrin went to look at the piano.
‘Don’t touch nothing, kid,’ Deet warned – quite unnecessarily, for Tarrin had no intention of touching anything. He knew how to act in other people’s houses. He had been in enough of them.
He was intrigued by the book of music which sat on the grand piano.
‘Waltzes and Preludes’, the cover read, ‘by Richard Hartinger’.
Tarrin walked away from the piano and went to look at the bookcases. They filled one wall, all the way from floor to ceiling; there was a ladder in place to take you to the top.
There was a line of books on one of the lower shelves, which was just about at Tarrin’s eye level. He read the titles, none of which meant anything to him, but he saw that the author’s name was R. Hartinger. He wondered if it was the same Hartinger who had written the waltzes and preludes and, if that was so, was he also the same R. Hartinger as the man whose house they were in, and who they were waiting to see?
He moved on, to look at some of the paintings on the walls. In among those by other artists were some abstracts and some more conventional landscapes and portraits. They had all been executed by one R. Hartinger.
Then Tarrin looked at Deet and wondered what he was up to. Deet was sitting on the edge of his chair – though he could have easily sunk back into it and let the comfort and softness swallow him up. His hands were together and he was digging the thumbnail of one hand into a fingernail on the another. He looked tense and nervous and vaguely untrustworthy. But, then, he always did.
Deet saw Tarrin looking at him, and he winked.
‘This could be our big score, kid,’ he whispered. ‘So don’t worry about nothing. Whichever way it happens or whatever how it seems. You just have faith in your uncle Deet and remember he’s always looking out for you. Right?’
Tarrin nodded. He sat down opposite Deet on one of the sofas. He could have easily sat next to him, but he didn’t want to.
‘How long do they want me for, Deet?’
Deet gave a thin smile. ‘That’s the big question, kid. That’s the big, big, question.’
‘An hour?’
Deet grinned, but didn’t explain why it was funny. ‘Could be, kid.’
‘Longer?’
‘Could be longer. Have to see.’
‘For the whole evening?’
‘Maybe.’
