Julia threw a sigh as she slipped into another dream.
Henri went to his duffel bag, sorted through the contents, put on the clear plastic mask and blue latex gloves, unsheathed the hunting knife.
Masked and gloved but otherwise naked, Henri placed the knife on the nightstand, then knelt behind Julia and stroked her back before lifting her hips and entering her from behind. She moaned in her sleep, never waking, as he pumped into her, his pleasure overtaking reason, and told her that he loved her.
Afterward, he collapsed beside her, his arm across the small of her back until his breathing slowed. Then he straddled the sleeping girl, twirled her short hair around the fingers of his left hand, and lifted her head a few inches off the pillow.
“Ow,” Julia said, opening her eyes. “You hurt me, Charlie.”
“I'm sorry. I'll be more careful.”
He waited a moment before drawing the blade lightly across the back of Julia's neck, leaving a thin red line.
Julia only flinched, but with Henri's second cut, her eyelids flew open wide. She twisted her head, her eyes growing huge as she took in the mask, the knife, the blood. She sucked in her breath, shouted, “Charlie! What are you doing?”
Henri's mood shattered. He'd been filled with love for this girl, and now she was defying him, wrecking his shot, ruining everything.
“For God's sake, Julia. Show a little class.”
Julia screamed, bucked violently against the restraints, her body having more range of motion than Henri expected. Her elbow collided with his hand, and as the knife danced away from him, Julia filled her lungs and let loose a long, undulating, horror-movie screech.
She'd left Henri no choice. It wasn't graceful, but it was ultimately the best means to the end. He closed his hands around Julia's throat and shook her. Julia gagged and thrashed against the ropes as he squeezed off her air, controlled every last second of her life. He released, then squeezed her neck again – and again – and then finally she was still. Because she was dead.
Henri was panting as he got off the bed and crossed the floor to the camera.
He leaned toward the lens, put his hands on his knees, said with a grin, “Better than I planned. Julia went off script and ended our time together with a real flourish. I just love her. Is everybody happy?”
Chapter 46
Henri was stepping out of the shower when he heard a knock at the door. Had someone heard Julia screaming? A voice called out, “Housekeeping.”
“Go away!” he shouted. “Do not disturb. Read the sign, huh?”
Henri tightened the sash of his robe, walked to the glass doors at the far end of the room, opened them, and stepped out onto the balcony.
The beauty of the grounds spread out before him like the Garden of Eden. Birds chirped their little hearts out in the trees, pineapples grew in the flower beds, children ran along the walks to the pool as hotel staff set up lounge chairs. Beyond the pool, the ocean was bright blue, the sun beat down on another perfect Hawaiian day.
There were no sirens. No men in black. No trouble on the horizon for him.
All was well.
Henri palmed his cell phone, called for the helicopter, then went to the bed and pulled the comforter over Julia's body. He wiped down the room, every knob and surface, and turned on the TV as he dressed in his Charlie Rollins gear. Rosa Castro's face grinned at him from the TV screen, a sweet little girl, and then there was the continuing story of Kim McDaniels. No news, but the search went on.
Where was Kim? Where, oh, where could she be?
Henri packed his gear, checked the room for anything he might have overlooked, and when he was satisfied he put on Charlie's wraparound sunglasses and ball cap, swung his large duffel onto his shoulder, and left the room.
He passed the housekeeper's cart on his way to the elevator, said to the stout brown woman vacuuming, “I'm in Four-twelve.”
“I can clean now?” she asked.
“No, no. A few more hours, please.”
He apologized for the inconvenience, said, “I've left something for you in the room.”
“Thank you,” she said. Henri winked at her, took the stairs down to the marvelous velvet jewel box of a lobby with birds flying through one side and out the other.
He settled his bill at the desk, then asked a groundskeeper for a lift out to the helipad. He was already thinking ahead as the hotel's oversize golf cart ran smoothly alongside the green, the wind picking up now, blowing clouds out to the sea.
He tipped the driver and, holding down his cap, ran toward the chopper.
After buckling in, he raised his hand to say hello to the pilot. He pulled on headphones and, as the chopper lifted, he snapped off shots of the island with his Sony, what any tourist would do. But it was all for show. Henri was well beyond the magnificence of Lanai.
When the helicopter touched down in Maui, he made an important call.
“Mr. McDaniels? You don't know me. My name is Peter Fisher,” he said, brushing his speech with a bit of Aussie. “I have something to tell you about Kim. I also have her watch – a Rolex.”
Chapter 47
The Kamehameha Hostel on Oahu had been built in the early 1900s, and it looked to Levon like it had been a boardinghouse, with small bungalows surrounding the main building. The beach was right across the highway. Out on the horizon, surfers crouched above their boards, skimming the waves, waiting for the Big One.
Levon and Barbara stepped over backpackers in the dark lobby, which smelled musty, like mildew with a touch of marijuana.
The man behind the desk looked like he'd washed up on the beach a hundred years ago. He had bloodshot eyes, hair in a white braid even longer than Barb's, and a stained “Bullish on America ” T-shirt with a name patch: “Gus.”
Levon told Gus that he and Barb had a reservation for one night, and Gus told Levon that he'd need to be paid in full before he handed over the keys, those were the rules.
Levon gave the man ninety bucks in cash.
“No refunds, checkout at noon, no exceptions.”
“We're looking for a guest named Peter Fisher,” Levon said. “He has an accent. Australian or South African maybe. ' Pee-ta Fish-a.' You have his room number?”
The clerk flipped pages of the guest book, saying, “Not everyone signs in. If they come in a gang, I only need the one signature of whoever's paying. I don't see any Peter Fleisher.”
“Fisher.”
“Either way, I don't see him. Most people eat in our dining room at dinner. Six dollars, three courses. Ask around later, and you might find your man.”
Gus looked hard at Levon, said, “I know you. You're the parents of that model got killed over on Maui.”
Levon felt his blood pressure rocket, wondered if today was the day he would be cut down by a fatal myocardial infarction. “Where'd you hear that?” he snapped.
“Whad'ya mean? It's on TV. In the newspapers.”
“She's not dead,” Levon said.
He took the keys. With Barb behind him, they climbed to the third floor, opened the door to an appalling room: two small beds, mattress springs poking at grimy sheets. The shower stall was black with mold, there were years of crud in the blinds, and the scatter rug looked damp to the touch.
The sign tacked over the sink read, “Please clean up after yourselfs. There's no maid service here.”
Barbara looked helplessly at her husband.
“We'll go downstairs for dinner in a while and talk to people. We don't have to stay here. We could go back.”
“After we find this Fisher person.”
“Of course,” Levon said. But what he was thinking was, If Fisher hadn't checked out of this hellhole. If the whole thing wasn't a hoax like Lieutenant Jackson warned him from the day they met.
Chapter 48