More Deaths Than One (6 page)

“Maybe he didn’t see the obituary.”

“We’ve got him now,” Baritone said with great
satisfaction. “All we have to do is wait for him to show.”

“You think so?” Deep Voice sounded dubious.
He paced the room, but paused briefly to glance out the French
doors, giving Bob a good look at his face. “If you want to know
what I think—”

“I don’t,” Baritone interrupted.

Bob stood in the shadows of the hedge for
another five minutes. He heard nothing more than the small,
restless sounds of men bored with waiting, but he did catch
fleeting glimpses of them as they moved about the room.

Very slowly, he inched backward. When he
finally left the yard, he sauntered down the alley and around the
block to where he’d parked his car. He’d almost reached the vehicle
when it occurred to him that the VW could be under surveillance.
Not wanting to remain in the area long enough to find out, he kept
walking toward Colfax.

His brain churned. How had they traced him?
Through the car? His traveler’s checks? The taxicab company? What
did it matter; in this age of computers, there is no privacy. As
the man had said, they could find anyone, anywhere, anytime.

Striding along Colfax, Bob passed a small
cinema that showed full-length skin flicks twenty-four hours a day.
He backtracked and entered the theater. A few other dispossessed
souls dotted the expanse of empty seats, and in the flickering
light of ten-foot-tall tits, he caught a glimpse of gleaming
silver—the man with the aluminum foil headgear.

Who was the foil man? Another refugee from an
alternate universe? A time traveler from another galaxy, one with
less harsh cosmic rays?

It did not seem peculiar to Bob that these
thoughts should be coursing through his mind. They were no stranger
than the fact that two men had been searching for him ever since he
had landed in Denver. They had even staked out his mother’s
funeral; he had seen them—the men standing off to the side.
Apparently they had not noticed him hidden in the shadows of the
lilac bushes. No wonder they had seemed familiar to him at the
time; he had also seen them at the airport scrutinizing everyone
who got off the plane. How had they missed him?

Then he recalled the young woman who’d been
struggling with a baby, a toddler, an oversized purse, and a huge
diaper bag. When the toddler dropped his teddy bear, Bob picked it
up and handed it to the boy, who promptly dropped it again. Bob
retrieved the bear. Holding on to it, he asked the woman if she’d
like some help. She looked at him for a moment, then nodded, and
handed him the diaper bag. He draped the strap of the bag over his
shoulder and entered the terminal with the woman by his side and
the boy tugging at his pants, demanding the return of his
Binky.

If Baritone and Deep Voice had been looking
for a man alone, no wonder they missed him, but why did they want
him? What papers were they searching for? Who was Evans?

Bob sighed wearily. Too many unanswerable
questions. He closed his eyes and dropped his chin to his
chest.

He awoke to find two bright blue eyes inches
from his face. The foil man darted away, but after a moment he
moved close again.

“I thought Sissy got you,” he said in a loud,
sibilant whisper. “Do you want a ray deflector? I can show you how
to make one.”

Bob gave the suggestion a moment’s
consi-deration. In a way, it would be a great disguise since no one
ever looked closely at the foil man; on the other hand, the foil
itself attracted attention.

“No thank you,” he said, propelling himself
out of his seat. He stretched, not at all refreshed by his nap, and
left the theater. The foil man followed along behind.

Bob turned to look at him. “What’s your
name?”

The man stared wide-eyed at him for a few
seconds, then bolted down the street.

A bus pulled to the curb. Bob climbed aboard,
thinking prey such as he should keep on the move.

He gazed out the window, watching the world
pass by. Toward the end of the line, he got off the bus and walked
to a nearby motel.

He asked for a room at the back.

The blowsy, bleached-blond clerk glanced at
the name on his registration card and handed him a key. “You’re in
luck, Mr. Blake. We still have one vacancy on that side. Room
two-thirty-two.”

Bob sat on the bed in the bland but clean
room and stared at the ecru walls. He’d heard something today that
kept poking at him, demanding to be acknowledged.

Then it came to him. Baritone had said, “I
thought for sure the funeral would have flushed him out.”

Had the obituary been a hoax after all? If
so, it certainly had been an elaborate one, involving, as it did, a
real burial.

Or at least the appearance of one.

***

Bob ordered dinner at the restaurant attached
to the motel. Hunger made his stomach growl, but he ate slowly,
savoring every mouthful of chicken-fried steak smothered in brown
gravy, mashed potatoes, corn, and cherry pie.

“Can I get you anything else, honey?”

Bob looked at the waitress, a hefty,
tired-looking woman about his own age.

“I’m fine,” he answered.

She fluffed her short, curly brown hair, and
smiled flirtatiously. “I get off at ten.”

Bob studied her with interest, contemplating
her offer. Although she wasn’t his type, she seemed pleasant, if
sad and lonely. Besides, he hadn’t been with a woman since he left
Thailand.

“I’m staying at the motel,” he said
non-committally, in case he misread the situation.

“What room?”

“Two-thirty-two.”

“I’ll meet you there when I get off work.”
She turned to walk away, then glanced back at him, frowning as if
she already regretted her proposition.

At five after ten, she knocked on Bob’s motel
door. As soon as he let her in, she unbuttoned her uniform. She
displayed no hint of the flirtatiousness she had shown in the
restaurant, no smile, no small talk. She finished undressing with
an air of dogged determination and slid between the sheets.

When he lay beside her, she took him in her
arms, still exhibiting no amorous expectancy. Her manner seemed to
be that of a person who had decided on a course of action and now
wanted to get it over with as quickly as possible.

He wondered if she was punishing someone.
Husband? Boyfriend? Herself? Had she picked him, thinking he’d
deliver the retribution swiftly? If so, she had picked the wrong
man. Neither his own urgency, nor her lack of it would hurry
him.

He explored her body, luxuriating in the feel
of her heavy breasts, the soft mound of her belly, her padded
hips.

When he finally entered her, he felt his body
melt into hers, and he lay on top of her for a few moments without
stirring to prolong the sensation.

He moved in her, slowly, steadily. He caught
the scent of frangipani in her perfume. All at once sixteen years
disappeared, and he was back in Thailand, the first time he’d gone
to Madame Butterfly’s.

***

Madame Butterfly smiled at him, a tiny
knowing smile, and ushered him down the hall of her brothel to a
small room, where she left him alone.

The room looked nice enough, but compared to
the sumptuously ornate reception area, it seemed simple. The walls
had been painted a very pale gold, and a darker gold carpet lay on
the floor. An ordinary bed made up with white cotton sheets, two
pillows, and a red and gold spread jutted out from one wall. Next
to the head of the bed stood a small red lacquer table with a
fringed Chinese lamp on it, and at the foot of the bed reposed a
matching red lacquer bench. A decorative folding screen partitioned
off one corner.

A Chinese woman stepped out from behind the
screen. She dressed like the other girls in a silk cheongsam, but
she was older, angular—no soft femi-nine curves at all—and
exceedingly plain.

The woman came to him, took his hand, and led
him behind the screen to a plant-filled bathroom containing a
shower stall and a tub filled with steaming water redolent of
frangipani and sandalwood.

She undressed him slowly and methodically,
and hung his clothes on a rack. Then she turned on the water in the
shower and gestured for him to rinse himself off.

Afterward, she took his hand again and led
him to the tub. Feeling his control slipping, he got into the
fragrant water and lay back. The woman stepped out of her dress,
knelt by the tub, picked up a bar of strange-smelling soap, and
washed him. All her movements were brisk and unsensual. Still, by
the time she had finished, he tingled with desire from head to toe,
and he had an immense erection.

When she helped him out of the tub and began
to dry him vigorously, he grabbed her and pulled her toward him.
Instead of putting her arms around him, she reached down, cupped
his balls, and jabbed the tip of her finger into a pressure point
at the base of his scrotum. He sucked in his breath. The immediacy
of his need drained away, but his erection grew even harder.

She laid him on the bed and proceeded to
massage his head, his scalp, behind his ears. Slowly she worked her
way almost to his groin, then she skipped to his toes and worked
her way up his legs.

By the time she reached the top of his
thighs, he was gasping for breath, desperately in need of release,
but again she jabbed him with a finger, and again the immediacy
passed.

She played with his nipples, soft bites and
gentle scratches, acting as if she had all the time in the world.
She turned her attention to his belly and finally to his
crotch.

He lay there passively while she stoked his
desire to a red-hot electric glow, igniting erogenous zones he
didn’t even know existed.

After one more painful poke, she climbed on
top of him. She rode him steadily until he exploded with an orgasm
so great he felt as if he had shattered into a million pieces.

Through it all, the woman never stopped
moving. Still sensitized, he could feel himself grow hard again
immediately.

He fell asleep for a few moments while she
rode him, and he had the most wonderful dream of everlasting sex.
His orgasm awakened him. This time it didn’t come as a shattering
explosion, but like surf crashing on the shore—warm, sweet waves of
bliss that she managed to keep ebbing and flowing for so long he
finally passed out from sheer exhaustion.

When he awoke, he gazed at the angular
Chinese woman lying next to him. She smiled at him, not erotically
as would be expected from such an accomplished courtesan, but
innocently, almost mis-chievously, like a young girl. Looking at
her, he could not believe that for even a second he had considered
her plain—she was beautiful, perhaps the most beautiful woman he
had ever seen.

***

The sudden scream from the Denver woman
bucking wildly beneath Bob brought him out of his trance. He
erupted; the woman screamed once more. They collapsed and lay
still.

Later they came together again and yet again
before they arose in the morning. While she dressed, she kept
staring at him. She opened her mouth as if to speak, then closed
it.

She left without saying anything.

Chapter 6

Bob looked at the address he had written on a
scrap of paper, then at the group of buildings. Sperling Plaza, the
sign said.

His brother lived in a downtown office
complex? He checked the address again. According to the phone book,
his brother did live here somewhere.

As he ambled about the plaza looking for his
brother’s building, he came across the sales office with publicity
stills of the sales representatives in the window. Although the men
and women all looked alike—smug, arrogant, prosperous—one face
jumped out at him. The nameplate under the photograph confirmed it
was his brother.

He went inside. The receptionist talking on
the phone didn’t look up as he strode past her. He saw an office
door with Jackson’s name on it, but found it locked.

When Bob left the building, he heard a man’s
overloud laugh. He turned his head to see his brother talking to a
well-dressed couple in their thirties.

“You’re going to love it here,” Jackson said,
clapping the man on the back and winking at the woman. “I myself
live in one of the condos, and I couldn’t be happier. Close
proximity to great restaurants, theaters, museums, and shopping, to
say nothing of the fabulous views—what more could a successful
young couple like you want?”

Bob shook his head, thinking his brother
still acted like a charmer—a snake charmer. He wondered if the
prospective customers were aware of the cool calculating look in
Jackson’s eyes, or if they only noticed the wide smile, the bright
teeth, the too effusive personality.

As if he heard Bob’s thoughts, Jackson
absently glanced his way, but didn’t seem to notice him.

***

“I thought you left town,” Kerry said,
bringing Bob his hot chocolate. “I haven’t seen you in here for a
few days.” Putting her hands on her hips, she frowned at him. “You
look different.”

Bob stirred his drink, watching the swirls of
whipped cream disappear into the chocolate.

Kerry sat across from him, folded her arms on
the table, and leaned forward. “You’ve discovered something.”

“Maybe.” He told her about going to the VA,
and how his records indicated that he had no left foot.

“Robert limped,” she said, eyes bright.
“Those must be his records.”

“Could be, or perhaps my name ended up on
another person’s file. According to Dr. Albion, such things are not
uncommon in the military.”

While he sipped from his cup, he could feel
Kerry’s gaze focused on him.

“There’s something you’re not telling me,”
she said at last. “I’ve never known anyone who talks as little as
you do.”