Kay David - Obsession

Raul shook his head in disgust, then he walked into the hovel and knocked over the stack of bricks, slamming the door shut behind him.

As the sound reached his ears, the man struggled up from his stupor, his confusion evident. “¿Qué-?”

He had no time to say anything else. Raul’s kick landed exactly where he’d planned-on the man’s hand as he reached under his mattress. He screamed a curse, his voice filled with pain, and jerked back his hand.

Raul reached under the stained and dirty bed and pulled out the.38 the drunk had been trying to get. The fetid smell of beer wafted up between them as Raul pressed the muzzle of the pistol into the man’s cheek. Above the dull black metal, his eyes rounded.

“I want to know about your friend, amigo. The one who hired you to follow the blonde.” Raul’s voice was calm and cool, his Spanish perfect.

“Talk to me, por favor.”

THE NARROW WALKWAY smelled even worse than the two men pressing in behind Emma. It was dark, too. A single, bare bulb, hanging from two wires, offered the only illumination. She stumbled slightly, then straightened and yanked herself away from the policeman who reached toward her. A second later, they stopped her in front of a scratched and dirty door. It had a window too high to see into and more locks on the outside than she had time to count. Within seconds, one of the men had them all undone, and they opened the door and pushed her inside.

Before Emma could get her bearings, she stumbled again and immediately hit her shin on something sharp, losing her balance completely in the dimness. Crying out, she fell to the floor, turning at the very last second to land on her shoulder, instead of her face. The maneuver didn’t help; the concrete was hard and cold when it rose up to meet her with a sickening jolt.

Stunned, Emma lay motionless until the smell beneath her registered. She gagged and quickly rolled over, scrambling to her feet, her wrists still handcuffed behind her.

The room was minuscule-not even as big as her closet-and filthy, an open drain in the center of it, the source of the gut-wrenching odor. A scarred, wooden table and two broken-down metal chairs listed near the doorway. One of the chairs lay on its side-she’d obviously run into it-a leg now dangling by a single screw. The only light came from the square of glass set in the door at her back, yet it was enough to see the walls. They were scratched and nasty, the paint too old to tell the color beneath the jumble of desperate messages the room’s former occupants had managed to scrawl.

With a hopeless moan, she closed her eyes and began to sob.

IT DIDN’T TAKE too long.

Within a matter of minutes, Raul had the man talking, but he certainly didn’t like what he had to say.

“Señor Kelman hired me, sí, sí. I went into her house once just to check it out, and I…I put the bug in the lady’s purse, but that’s it. Nothing else.” His eyes were too wide and frightened for him to be telling anything but the truth, and Raul let his fingers open slightly. The man’s breathing was rapid and shallow as he clawed at his collar, still tight against his neck.

“What else were you supposed to do?” Raul shook him slightly. “C’mon. There’s got to be more.”

“No! I swear!” Beads of sweat broke out on the man’s greasy face, dotting his skin with marks of fear. “Nothing more. That’s it.”

Raul put his thumb on the hammer of the pistol and pulled it back. The sound was loud in the tiny room, and the threat produced instant results.

“I gave him the name of some friends!” he cried. His voice shook, rising and falling in panic.

“He needed more men. I told him who to call.”

“Why did he need them?”

“I don’t know!”

Tightening his hold on the drunk’s collar, Raul pressed the muzzle of the pistol into the man’s cheek; the pointed sight at the tip disappeared into the folds of his whiskered skin. “Don’t make me repeat myself a third time. Why did he need more men?”

“I…I don’t know, señor, truly!” The man was so full of dread he was quivering. “He didn’t tell me.”

“What kind of friends are these?”

The drunk blinked rapidly, then, obviously reading something in Raul’s eyes, he spoke again, this time without any prompting. “Th-they’re in the Army,” he stuttered. “They have cars…and guns. He didn’t tell me why he wanted them. He just said he needed some men who could get things done. I took him to their club and then I left. I swear.”

“When did this happen?”

“Last night.”

Raul nodded, then he pushed the man toward the door. He stumbled against the nearest wall, reached out and grabbed a cloudy mirror in a useless attempt to steady himself. It crashed to the floor, but neither of them looked. In the dark, tiny room, Raul could smell the man’s fear, and he smiled in satisfaction. He’d use it, just like he used everything.

“We’re going for a ride, and you’re going to introduce me to your friends.” Raul waved the gun toward the door. The man needed no more prompting.

Fifteen minutes later, they pulled up outside a building downtown. It looked dark and unoccupied, but as they waited, parked across the street in the SUV, Raul saw men coming and going through a door in the back corner, the only part of the building that seemed in use. Almost all of them wore uniforms and the standard look of arrogance and boredom South American officials favored, as they entered the private choperia, a club where the men could go and get their beer on tap, and on credit, too. The places were on every corner in Santa Cruz, but this one was obviously the sole domain of the men inside. He’d be crazy to try to enter it-and probably dead before his foot was in the door.

The drunk began to squirm, and Raul knew he had to do something with him. He couldn’t turn him loose-he’d head straight for Kelman or his buddies inside the choperia-but Raul didn’t want to kill him, either. As if he could sense Raul’s dilemma, the man looked across the cab at his captor. Above the tape Raul had placed over his mouth, his bloodshot eyes were terrified.

Raul leaned over. “The men you introduced to Kelman-you sure they’re here?”

The drunk nodded frantically.

“If you aren’t sure, tell me now and save us both some grief.”

The man couldn’t talk, but he didn’t need to. His eyes and his panicked nodding told Raul what he needed to know.

“All right,” Raul answered. “We’re going to sit here until they come out. Then you’re going to tell me which one the jefe is. We’re going to follow him and he’s going to talk to me. Then you’ll forget you ever saw me.” He narrowed his gaze and patted the pistol he’d stuck in the waistband of his jeans. “If you lie to me, you’ll regret it-but you won’t care for too long. ¿Comprende?” He waited for his words to soak into the man’s pickled brain, then the nodding started again.

They settled in to wait.

There was nothing else she could do, and after a while, Emma began to wonder how much was actually happening and how much she was dreaming. It didn’t seem possible that only hours before she’d been in Raul’s arms in Samaipata. The warmth of his embrace, the gentle kisses he’d given her, the hours of lovemaking in the old abbey-had they really happened, or was the harsh floor where she now huddled in fear the dream? She hadn’t had an opportunity to grab her watch, so she had no idea how many hours had passed. Time blurred and so did her thinking.

At one point, she even imagined herself back home. She felt the tiny hands of her children on her face, their touch sweet and fleeting against her skin. The smell of baby powder hung in the air, along with the cry of the mockingbirds that nested by the nursery windows every year. She whispered their names. “Sarah? Jake?”

But no one answered.

She thought then of the bag the men had found. She had no idea what had been in it or how it’d gotten there. A point of trivia popped into her discombobulated brain: Bolivia was the world’s third-largest cultivator of coca. She’d seen the green leafy plants herself, growing on the mountain sides on the way to Samaipata. A certain amount was allowed each person. The locals drank tea made from the leaves and chewed them on occasion, sometimes using it in ceremonies. The cocaleros who grew more turned the plant into black paste, then shipped it to Colombia to be refined. Powdered cocaine was as illegal here as it was in the States, but there was one difference: it wasn’t often found inside the country. How had it gotten inside her house?

The drum of boots on the tile floor in the corridor outside finally broke her reverie. She jerked into awareness, every hair on her neck standing up, every nerve in her body quivering. She’d spent what seemed like forever listening for a sound-any sound-but nothing had happened. Now, as the noise replaced the silence, she longed for the quiet once more.

They were coming for her.

She leaped to her feet, then almost fell, her legs numb from sitting on the concrete floor, her back and shoulder stabbed with pain. She caught her balance and brought herself upright, just as the key rasped in the lock.

The scarred door flew open a second later. Emma’s mouth fell open when she saw the man who stood on the threshold.

WILLIAM KELMAN’S blue eyes took in Emma’s confusion. “Ms. Toussaint.” His voice sounded concerned, caring. “Are you all right? You haven’t been hurt, have you?”

She ignored his inquiry and stared at him, her initial shock changing quickly into suspicion. “Wh-what are you doing here? How did you find-”

He waved off her questions. “Not now,” he said. “Let’s get you out of here and then we’ll talk.”