‘You don’t have the choice,’ Garcia said.
‘Your guess is as good as mine then.’
‘You’re supposed to be the gambler here.’ The conversation was starting to turn into yelling. By now everyone realized the gravity of the situation and nerves were starting to get the better of everyone.
‘OK, everyone calm the fuck down,’ Hunter ordered. ‘Lucas, just do your best.’
He turned his attention back to his computer screen. ‘At first glance, the sectionals of the dog in trap five look better, but by no means is that a confident guess.’
‘I like the name of the dog in trap seven,’ Detective Maurice offered.
Captain Bolter’s look was enough to shut him up.
‘What do we do?’ Garcia asked nervously.
‘Maybe we should go with the five dog then,’ Hunter said, quickly analyzing the numbers on the race card.
‘The sectionals from the dog in trap two look pretty good too.’
‘I don’t understand what you are talking about… sectionals? Just pick a goddamn dog,’ Captain Bolter demanded.
‘Captain, this is gambling, if it were that easy we’d all be making a living out of it.’
‘We are running out of time here,’ Hunter snapped.
‘Just pick the one you think has got the best chance of winning.’ Garcia this time.
Hunter’s cell phone rang, making everyone in the room jump. He looked at the caller display – withheld. ‘It’s him.’
‘Him who?’ Lucas asked curiously.
Garcia placed his index finger over his lips telling everyone to keep quiet.
‘Detective Hunter speaking.’
‘What’s your selection?’
Hunter locked eyes with Lucas’s, raising his eyebrows as if asking ‘Which one?’
Lucas thought about it for a quick second and then raised his right hand, all five fingers spread apart. Hunter could see no conviction in his eyes.
‘Three seconds, Robert.’
‘Five, the dog in trap five.’ The line went dead.
Silence took over the room. Hunter knew nothing about greyhound racing and he was sure the killer was aware of that.
‘The result, how do we know which dog won? Can we watch the race?’ Garcia’s voice broke the silence.
‘It depends if the track has its own website and if they do live broadcasting.’
‘Can we find out?’
Lucas turned to his computer to search for the Jefferson County Kennel Club website. He found it within seconds and just a moment later he had it up on his screen. He checked the links on the home page and clicked on the Program & Results one. ‘Shit.’
‘What?’ Captain Bolter asked.
‘We can’t watch it. They don’t have live broadcasting. But they will display the result about a minute after the race has ended.’
‘How long does the race take?’
‘Only about thirty or forty seconds.’
‘So that’s it? We just wait here like idiots?’
‘There’s nothing else we can do,’ Hunter said, taking a deep breath.
Twenty-Two
Lucas refreshed the web page on his screen. ‘That’s it, they are racing.’
‘How do you know?’ Garcia asked.
Lucas pointed to the top of the page ‘Race status: racing’.
Everyone stood motionless; all eyes fixed on Lucas’s computer screen as if they could all see the race track. For an instant it felt like no one was breathing. Garcia shifted his weight to his left leg, but no position was a comfortable one. The tension inside the office was palpable.
Hunter was starting to get restless. He didn’t like this. Why was the killer playing games now? Did the killer know that one of the detectives was a gambler?
The silence in the room was broken by Detective Maurice’s voice. ‘Refresh it,’ he said excitedly.
‘It’s only been about ten seconds since they started racing.’
‘Refresh it anyway.’
‘OK, OK.’ Lucas clicked the button on his browser. The webpage refreshed in less than a second. Race status: racing. ‘See? No result yet.’
The anxiety was making everyone uncomfortable. People were starting to get fidgety, but all eyes were still on Lucas’s computer screen. The seconds went by like hours. Garcia started massaging his forehead and temples. Maurice was done biting his nail on one thumb and had now moved to the other one. Hunter hadn’t said a word since the race started.
‘Can’t we call the track and explain that someone is gonna die if dog five doesn’t win,’ Detective Maurice offered.
Garcia laughed. ‘Yeah, of course we can, they won’t just think you’re some crazy gambler who has bet all your life savings on that race. Think about it.’
Maurice realized how stupid his suggestion sounded.
Lucas refreshed the webpage once again. Still no result.
‘This is taking quite a long time, isn’t it? It’s been about two minutes since the race started,’ Garcia said with a worried look.
‘I know, and I don’t like that,’ Lucas replied.
‘Why not, why not?’ Maurice asked, unable to contain his concern.
‘Usually when it takes too long it means the result went to the judges, two or more dogs crossed the finish line together so they have to look at a photograph to decide who the winner is. If they can’t tell the dogs apart, they might call a dead heat.’
‘What the hell is a dead heat?’
‘You know nothing about races do you, Garcia? It’s like a draw, two or more dogs are declared winners.’
‘What happens then?’ Garcia’s question was directed at Hunter who had no answer.
The room fell silent again and everyone turned back to the computer screen. Maurice had stopped biting his nails and had placed both of his hands in his pockets in an attempt to stop them from shaking.
‘Let me try one more time.’ Lucas clicked his mouse and waited. The page reappeared on the screen and this time they finally had a result.
Twenty-Three
Darkness – that was all that surrounded George Slater as he regained consciousness. An unbearable pain shot up from his groin. His head was throbbing, making him dizzy. Everything was unsteady. His legs. His body. His memory. He tried to remember what had happened, but his brain wasn’t cooperating.
Where the hell am I?
How long have I been unconscious?
How did I get here?
Very slowly his memories started to form. The knock on the door. The excitement of seeing Rafael again. The strange intruder that had shown up at his rented apartment. The one-sided struggle, the confusion, the pain and then – the syringe.
He felt dizzy, weak, hungry, thirsty and scared. His hands were resting over his chest, but they weren’t tied. He tried to move them, but there simply wasn’t enough space. They touched what felt like unplaned wooden planks, his fingers feeling the splintery texture. He made an effort to scream but the gag in his mouth kept him from making a sound.
George tried moving his legs, but he could only manage one inch or so before they hit another wall in front of him.
A box, I’m inside a wooden box, he thought as panic started to take over.
I’ve gotta get out of here.
He jerked his body violently from side to side, his legs trying to kick out, his hands scraping away on the wood until all his nails were broken, but his efforts were not rewarded. He started to feel claustrophobic, making him more desperate.
He knew panicking wouldn’t help. He needed to work with whatever little knowledge of the situation he had. He took a moment to calm himself down. Concentrating on his heartbeat he took deep breaths. After a minute it started to work. George urged his brain to think. He tried to gather all the information he had so far. He’d been attacked, drugged, taken hostage and placed inside some sort of wooden box. He could feel the blood flowing normally through his body, and that told him the box was in an upright position instead of lying down. That brought him some relief. If the box had been in a horizontal position it could mean he was underground – buried alive inside some kind of coffin, and that petrified him. From a very young age George had been terrified of confined spaces. He was only ten when his mother beat him senseless and locked him inside a wardrobe for twelve hours with no food and no water. His crime – falling off his bike and tearing his brand-new pair of trousers at the knee.