Until Death - Sandy Curtis

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at a different level. And for a very different boss.

      He strode over to the Statesman and opened the driver's door. 'Early morning call, Doctor Recio?'

      'Ah, Dennis,' the doctor smiled, 'some patients have no respect for an old man's need for sleep.'

      'I hope you didn't have to drive too far, Doctor.'

      'No, no. Not too far. Thank you, Dennis.' Pascual took his medical bag with him as he climbed out of the car.

      The guard waited until the doctor disappeared into the corridor leading to the lift. He had stolen the doctor's spare car key two months back, and within seconds he let himself into the Statesman. He reached under the dashboard and checked that the tracking device he had planted there was still secure, then searched the glove box and front seat thoroughly. Nothing. Nothing except a few medical magazines and a box of tissues. It was probably a fruitless exercise, but he knew that searching the doctor's car at every opportunity might one day provide a clue for his boss.

      Perhaps the listening device he had placed in the doctor's apartment would prove to be of more benefit. Sometimes the routine of his security job left Dennis itching for more excitement, but then he would think of the people involved in checking the tapes and transcribing them for clients, and he'd know what he'd rather be doing.

      Just as Dennis closed the driver's side door, he caught a flash of movement near the corridor. He quickly crouched and was pretending to inspect the tyre when the doctor spoke. 'Is there something wrong, Dennis?'

      The guard rose. 'Luckily, no. I thought I saw a nail in your tyre, but it's okay.'

      'Good, good. I forgot I'd bought milk on the way home,' the doctor said as he opened the back door and lifted out a plastic bag. He smiled. 'It wouldn't have lasted long in this heat.'

      Dennis returned the smile, but as he watched the doctor walk away he wondered just how much the old man had seen.

      Sweat ran down Conor's torso as he dug the spade deep into the earth and turned it over. In the seven years he had been in Brisbane he hadn't known such a hot December. The air hung heavy with humidity, and his tomato plants wilted under the force of a searing sun. Sweet corn grew tall in the adjoining plot. His vegetable garden was as much an outlet for stress as a reminder of a life that was now denied him. A life that each year nostalgia made sweeter.

      He finished his spade work and put the tool away in the shed at the side of the small backyard. Corn silk was brown and dry on several of the cobs, and he twisted them off the plants and carried them into the kitchen. Libby had been deeply asleep when he'd gone back into the bedroom after seeing Pascual off, so any further questioning had been impossible. Working in the garden had seemed a better option than letting suspicion gnaw at him while waiting for her to wake up.

      Pascual had been right about one thing - he was lonely. Instead of becoming more content as the years passed, he found himself more restless, as though the winds that swept through the valleys and mountains of his homeland were stirring in his veins. He felt as though he was searching for something. A woman's touch? Perhaps, but more than that. And the wide-eyed slip of a woman lying in his spare room could prove to be more trouble than even Pascual had conjectured.

      Setting the corncobs on the wooden kitchen bench, he walked into the hallway. At the door to the spare bedroom, he paused, and stiffened as he looked around.

      The room was empty.

      CHAPTER FOUR

      Suspicion flaring through him, Conor walked across to his bedroom, searched swiftly, fruitlessly, then strode down the hallway. He pushed open the bathroom door, and flinched with embarrassment as Libby recoiled in fear. She had taken off her blouse, and her small, firm breasts quivered against their flimsy covering of lace as a pulse beat rapidly in the slender hollow of her throat. A bruise high on her shoulder contrasted starkly with her fair skin.

      She snatched her blouse off the towel rail and held it against her breasts. Bruising from her head and face injury now coloured down to her cheekbone, and Conor thought she looked like a child caught using her mother's make-up. Amusement touched him as her chin tilted defiantly.

      'I just wanted to wash up,' she explained. 'It's so hot and sticky.'

      Conor nodded, feeling awkward. 'There are towels in the cupboard,' he pointed towards the far wall, 'you'll probably appreciate a shower. I'll put one of my T-shirts on the outside door handle. You can wear that while I wash your clothes.'

      As he walked back to his own bedroom, he finally allowed himself to smile. No, he didn't have anything to fear from that little kitten. He'd searched her thoroughly while she'd been asleep, and all he'd found were tissues and some spare change in her pants pocket. He was sure she was hiding something, and her amnesia was probably faked, but whatever it was had nothing to do with him. Perhaps a parent or a lover with a vicious streak. Besides, now that he was thinking rationally about it, sending someone in to check him out wasn't the way Rashod operated. No, he thought, anger gripping his chest, if Rashod knew he was here, he would come himself. Alone. And armed.

      For several minutes Libby stood in the shower, letting the tepid wash over her face while she tried to slow her churning thoughts. Gradually her mind felt clearer, but the happenings of the previous night were beginning to seem like a bad dream. A dream with too many gaps and a surreal edge.

      Was her mother really dead? Had she killed her? They'd argued many times, always in lopsided fashion, Vanessa so cool and in control, telling Libby that if she didn't keep her emotions in check she'd end up just like her father, and Libby seething with fury that her mother couldn't acknowledge that she was now an adult and entitled to her own point of view. Their last big argument had resulted in Libby throwing a cushion at Vanessa, packing her belongings, and storming out. They hadn't spoken again for ten months, and it was Libby who had finally made the effort to patch things up between them. But that had been years ago. They'd been polite and friendly since. Not affectionate, Vanessa could never unbend that far, forgiveness was alien to her nature, but Libby had made every effort to keep their relationship cordial.

      Had they argued again? Had she thrown something at Vanessa, something so heavy it had killed her? Oh, God, if only she could remember. And the men bending over the body. She hadn't seen their faces, and her memory of them was still fuzzy, but one seemed very familiar. Had they really wanted to kill her? Or had she misunderstood what they'd said and run in panic? And how could it have been Vanessa anyway? She'd gone to visit an old friend and wasn't supposed to return for at least a week.

      And her grandfather, where was he? Was this his house? It could be, a lot of things looked familiar, but so much had changed, and a childhood memory wasn't always accurate.

      Suddenly all the questions in her mind became too much. Her shoulders heaving, she collapsed against the wall of the shower and sobbed until she was exhausted. Her knees buckled, and she slid down until she sat on the floor.

      A knock sounded on the door, and she realised she must have been in the shower a long time.

      'Are you all right?' Conor's voice carried faintly through the solidness of the timber door.

      'Yes,' she called back, and when he said no more she thought he must have gone away. She pulled herself up, grabbed a shampoo bottle from the shower caddy, and washed her hair. Then she soaped herself all over, trying to wash away the dark feelings hovering at the back of her mind. She had to think calmly, rationally, she told herself. There had to be a reasonable explanation, she just needed to find it. But the terror loomed black and foreboding in the spaces in her memory that she couldn't access.

      Conor had been in his bedroom, the room adjoining the bathroom, when he'd heard Libby crying. It wrenched at his gut, bringing back memories he'd tried a lifetime to forget. Whatever else she might be faking, her distress was real, and his urge to help her rose another notch.

      He showered quickly in the ensuite he'd had built in the master bedroom, all too aware of his reaction to the sight of her skimpily clad breasts. Perhaps Pascual was more perceptive than he had given him credit for, he thought wryly.

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