You're Only Dead Page 5

  Emery hung his head, staring down into the basin of the sink filled with wads of shaving cream, flecks of hair, and streaks of his spunk edging towards the drain, before laughing lightly. "I hate to admit it, but you're right. Best shave I've ever had."

  The door outside the bathroom opened and shut. Emery grunted, wincing back as he noticed the stream of blood trickling down from the nick on his chin he'd unknowingly opened in the midst of his reverie. He closed his eyes hard and reopened them to blink the images away before chucking the razor and scrubbing his face clean. He was suddenly very erect and he hated it. He pulled his boxer shorts on quickly, tucking himself up into his waistband before finding his pants and shirt. Victor was setting a bag and a cup holder with two coffees down onto the table when he exited. Victor looked up at him with approval.

  "You look better."

  "Thanks," Emery replied tonelessly. He rounded the table as Victor sat and surveyed his papers before a coffee was being shoved towards him. He hesitantly took it.

  "Did you find anything useful?" Victor asked as he dug into the paper bag and pulled out a muffin, which he set in front of Emery before producing his own.

  Emery slowly shook his head. "Just that in the eyes of the public Hunter Eaton is a fucking saint."

  Victor took a large bite before cracking his neck and moving his chair forward. He scanned the papers around him rapidly and scooped up a large pile to set it in front of himself. "Okay. Let's get to work."

  Emery looked over the table in confusion. "I thought you said this was a waste of time."

  "Yeah, well, maybe you were right. What else are we gonna do?" Victor shrugged. "Also…I mean, fuck that guy. Seriously. He cost me a lot of time and money, you know? Almost killed me, too. I'm itching to see if I can't pull some skeletons out of that fucker's closet. So come on. Let's get the bastard."

  He clutched his coffee tightly and bit his lip, something like relief welling up in his chest. "Yeah. O-okay." Emery sat, cradling the cup in his lap and staring down at the chocolate muffin before him. "Thank you, Victor. I'm sorry about earlier, I didn't mean—"

  "Nah, fuck it. Come on," Victor waved a hand and didn't look up from his printed article.

  Emery set his jaw, nodding resolutely before taking a large swig of his drink and diving into the next bundle of papers.

  Sure enough, there was little to be gained from the well of information on record about his stepfather. He learned that the man was born in Sutton to Harold and Dana Eaton and lived most of his life in Chelsea, which he'd apparently never left. He had no siblings and no more living relatives. Articles on his entrepreneurial rise to power seemed to hold him as some sort of child prodigy, a brilliant boy with perfect marks who became a man of tireless work ethic. There wasn't a blemish to be found on the footprint he'd left. It was a little daunting. How could a man so twisted be so well regarded? How could his degeneracy be so well hidden? It made Emery feel so isolated again. Kurt was the only other person on earth who knew the truth—who had seen the manifestations of his abuse firsthand and could attest to its reality. There was no doubt in his mind that if accusations had ever risen in the public scope, Britain would side with Hunter Eaton. He was a 'shining beacon of Londoner ingenuity', after all, according to local newsprint. It made him wonder how many other celebrated people in history had done horrible things in secret.

  Emery and Victor spent the remainder of the day discussing plans, strategies, and probabilities as they went through and read articles aloud to one another. This was only briefly interrupted by meal breaks through which Victor attempted to continue speaking unintelligibly until Emery begged him to stop. All in all it made him supremely focused. He needed this. He needed to feel like he was dedicating his time to something helpful, to forget his emotional state and commit to a task with a business-like approach. By the time it was nearing eight o'clock he was composed and cool, watching as Victor fiddled between his computer and the phone. He connected the device through a USB port and opened another mysterious program.

  "The call should route through my speakers here," Victor explained. "Let's hope it's something good."

  "I've got a hunch," Emery replied.

  "Don't be offended if that doesn't mean shit to me."

  "It should." Emery looked up at him with a raised eyebrow. "It's how I found you in that night club, after all. My first idea was to hit Whitchurch when I arrived in England. I just had a feeling you weren't there."

  Victor snorted. "Well yeah. I'm either at my house or anywhere else in the world exactly one hundred percent of the time, so that's some hunch, Sherlock."

  "I'm rarely wrong about these sorts of things."

  "Then I guess you'd better hope your luck hasn't run out."

  "I've used up a good bit of it, I'll admit. But I only need it to get me a little bit further." Emery looked on at the phone with anticipation before catching Victor staring at him. "What?"

  Victor quickly shook his head. "Nothing."

  Then the phone rang.

  Emery and Victor exchanged glances and leaned in closer to his computer to listen to the call pick up. Hunter's voice was on the other side immediately.

  "Eaton."

  The voice that answered was deep and succinct. "Fifty-one three seven two two. Zero nine nine seven. Nineteen hundred." Then the call terminated.

  Victor sat back, eyes distant as he mentally studied the message. Emery shook his head and thought hard. A great series of numbers. Nineteen hundred—that was obviously a time. But what was that beginning sequence?

  "Coordinates," Victor answered his question before he could even ask it.

  Emery straightened up. "To where?"

  "Croydon."

  "Jesus, how do you know that? Have you got the geography of earth mapped all out in your head or something?"

  "No, see, my computer has this thing called 'Google'," Victor added his own air quotes. Emery lidded his eyes. Victor flipped his laptop around to show that he had pulled up a Wikipedia article of a familiar landmark, tapping the screen with a knuckle and clucking his tongue. "Fifty-one point three seven two two degrees North by point zero nine nine seven degrees West. Croydon Clocktower."

  "Seven p.m.," Emery added.

  Victor nodded.

  Emery grinned haughtily. "What do you think about my hunches now, eh?"

  "Don't get too cocky. We don't know that this is anything."

  "We know it's a secret—that's good enough for me."

  Victor flipped up a hand and crossed his arms. "Problem is we don't know the date."

  "It's got to be tomorrow."

  "How sure about that are you?"

  Emery leaned back, shrugging. "Sure enough for a stakeout."

  Victor put on a glum face. "I was afraid you were gonna say that."

  Chapter 6

  "I hate this."

  Emery looked over at Victor slouching in the passenger's seat. "It's only been ten minutes."

  "And I've hated all ten of 'em." Victor rested his cheek on a fist and sighed. "I don't do this kind of shit. I'm the tech whiz, not the watchdog."

  "It's no picnic for me either, but it shouldn't be long. Definitely been on worse stakeouts in my life." Emery rolled down the window and lit up a cigarette. He offered the pack to Victor, who waved it away.

  "I quit. Wait, you've done this before?"

  "Sure."

  "What was the job?"

  Emery sighed as he recalled, blowing a stream of smoke out the window. "Just had to make sure this bloke wasn't leaving his flat at night. Two straight weeks of graveyard shifts, all sitting in a car with this fat Canadian pillock who couldn't keep his gob shut for the bloody life of him. I was completely insane by the end of it."

  "Huh." Victor looked at him for a moment with interest before turning back towards the windshield. "How long ago did you go straight?"

  "Around four months, I reckon. Took up work in a shop."

  "So all that time before you were learning the trade, huh?"<
br />
  "Didn't know what else to do. And anyway, like I said, I was good at the acting bit. Plus my accents are alright. Got to pretend to be some nasty little American for a while."

  Victor snorted. "What made you decide to stop?"

  Emery frowned, pausing for a moment as his hand unconsciously touched his side. "I nearly died."

  "And that was your deal breaker?" Victor asked, unimpressed. "Word to the wise: living outside the law is sort of a never ending near death experience."

  "Sure. You'd think I'd've gotten stabbed or shot or something, but the closest I ever got to the pearly gates was an appendicitis."

  Victor broke into laughter. "Are you shitting me?"

  Emery gave him a look. "Laugh all you like, but it damn well hurt. The bloody tooth wasn't as bad as all that by comparison. I didn't know it burst and kept it to myself for a few days until I was septic and just about done for."

  "Jesus." Victor raised his eyebrows. "I don't get it though—why did that make you decide to go straight?"

  Emery hesitated for a long moment. "It wasn't my idea," he said quietly. "After it happened, Kurt…well he…sort of panicked, I guess. I don't know. He became convinced I'd die if I wasn't surrounded by babysitters at all times."

  "I guess he knew you pretty well then," Victor jabbed.

  Emery didn't reply, gut tightening slightly at Victor's use of the past tense as he stared ahead.

  Victor cleared his throat in the suddenly awkward silence and shifted. "But uh…after all this bullshit I guess he'll have to eat some crow."

  Emery mustered a weak smirk of gratitude before taking another long drag. "It's seven o'clock. See anyone?"

  "Not yet," said Victor, narrowing his eyes. "I'm not convinced that this is going to happen tonight."

  "Oh ye of little faith." Emery craned his head towards the driver's side window and followed a man walking down the street with his eyes. "Hello, who's this?"

  Victor leaned over and observed the man in question. He was probably in his thirties, average height, looking like the typical business stiff with a briefcase in one hand and the other stuffed in his coat pocket. "No one," Victor decided.

  "How d'you know?"

  Victor gave him a facetious look. "Call it a hunch."

  "I'm being serious."

  "So am I." Victor jerked a thumb over to his side of the car. "Some ritzy car just pulled up. You recognize it?"

  Emery peered out across the street where indicated. It was a black sedan, definitely very expensive. It was possible it belonged to one of Hunter's men. They watched the car shut off, lights going dim, but the windows were too tinted to see who was inside of it. "I don't, but that's not saying much."

  "Wait, wait, here we go," Victor said, pointing at a figure approaching the car from behind. It was a young man carrying a messenger bag over one shoulder, wearing a wool hat and looking more or less like a university student. He was looking straight ahead as he slowly passed the car, disappearing behind it momentarily before reemerging on the other side—sans his bag. Victor hummed. "That was sure something."

  Emery locked his eyes onto the target as he continued to wander down the street past the clocktower.

  "Guy was nervous. Didn't even wait for them to collect before he booked it." Victor scratched his cheek idly as he watched a man emerge from the car, round off, and pick up the drop before getting back in. Then the sedan pulled out of its spot along the road and slowly drove off around a corner.

  Emery tamped out his cigarette in the car's ashtray. "We've got to go after him."

  "Slow your roll, dude, we don't know for sure what we ju—goddamnit."

  Emery was already getting out of the car, flipping the door shut behind him and sticking his hands in his pockets as he marched after the mysterious delivery man. He could hear the other door open and shut and Victor was quickly on his heels.

  "Are you fucking crazy?" Victor whispered gruffly.

  "Yeah, mate, a bit," Emery replied before picking up his pace. He cleared his throat once he was in hearing range, glancing at Victor and raising his voice. "I'm telling you, we should go back for it."

  Victor stared blankly. "What?"

  "You know what," Emery continued. "That bag just sitting on the side of the street back there. By the clocktower."

  The young man in front of them stiffened, slowing his stride slightly.

  Victor's eyes darted between Emery and their target and he fast caught on. "Oh, uh, it's probably just trash, man. I've seen weirder things on the side of the road. Shoes, furniture, boxes of kittens. Whatever."

  "I dunno, maybe someone lost it. Set it down getting into their car and forgot about it, you know? Or it fell out. It looked nice—leather and all, not like something you'd just discard. Maybe it at least has a name in it we can contact or something."

  Victor put on an aggrieved sigh. "Enough with the good Samaritan shit. I just wanna get to the bar."

  "Come on, it's right outside a library. Some student probably left it filled with books and papers. Ah…to hell with it, I'm turning back. I can't just let it sit there and get—"

  "Uh, excuse me," the man suddenly broke in, having whipped around.

  Emery threw a suspicious look to Victor and looked the man up and down. "Yeah?"

  "Hi, uh," his eyes nervously darted around before and came a few steps closer. "Sorry, I just, I-I couldn't help but overhear the two of you and, um…I-I lost a bag. That's why I'm out here, actually. I've been looking for ages. I left it there, at the clocktower, I think."

  Emery let a long pause linger before raising an eyebrow. "But you're walking in the opposite direction."

  Victor was right about this one. All nerves and no brains. He nodded fervently and looked around. "Yeah, yeah, that's because I didn't know where I'd left it until you two just reminded me. So, thanks. I'll just go and pick it up."

  "Hold it," Emery said, catching him in the chest with a hand as he tried to push by. "How do we know it's really yours?"

  The man blinked. "Well because…it is."

  "I'm sold," Victor commented dryly.

  "No, it's, um, a brown satchel," he insisted, holding out his hands to simulate its dimensions. "Yay big. Brass buckles."

  Emery pretended to think about it for a moment before relenting. "Yeah, alright. Must be yours then. We'll come show you where it is you dropped it."

  "…That's alright, I can just—"

  "Naw, nonsense, come on," Emery insisted, slinging an arm over his shoulder and leading him back down the way they came. "I'm Peter, by the way. This is my friend Steve from the states."

  "Hi," Victor droned.

  "Dave."

  "You a student, then?"

  Dave looked dumbly on at Emery. "Huh?"

  "The bag. I figured it was full of schoolwork."

  "Oh. Uh, right. Yeah, I'm a student."

  "Lucky you came across us, then. Wouldn't do to have your thesis as Thursday morning's roadkill, eh?"

  Dave nodded. "Yeah…damn lucky."

  Emery continued to ramble, carefully assessing their new friend in his periphery and scanning the area as they approached to make sure there were no witnesses. "I've been there, believe me. I went on a bender or two back in my uni years I sure wished I hadn't. Forgot to do most of my assignments, failed some courses. It's a wonder I graduated."

  "Uh huh," Dave said. His eyes were scouring the streets with obvious anxiety.

  Emery could tell by a faint stiffness in his gait and a nearly invisible outline that Dave was armed with a small handgun tucked into the back of his pants. He kept his arm securely around the man's shoulders both to keep up the pretense of camaraderie and to prevent him from reaching back for it. Victor flanked his other side with a casual stride. "It was just up here. Right out in front," Emery indicated with his other arm.

  The three men stopped on the sidewalk outside the clocktower, looking all around but finding nothing.

  "Damn," Emery said, setting his hands on his hips. "I
swear, mate, it was right here. Wasn't it?" he looked to Victor.

  "Yep. Sittin' right here."

  Dave was visibly relieved, letting out a long breath and clearing his throat. "Oh, well, you know, that's alright. Maybe it wasn't mine after all."

  "It must've been. You said you left it here," Emery reminded. "That's a little too much of a coincidence, isn't it?"

  "Well I must've been wrong. Maybe it belongs to someone else. It's fine, I mean thanks and all, I-I'll just—"

  "Someone else?" Emery repeated cheerily. "Like who?"

  Dave froze in shock when the barrel of a gun was pressed into his stomach. His eyes met Emery's glowering gaze with fear.

  "Hunter Eaton?"

  The color drained from Dave's face. "I-I don't know what—"

  "Shut up," Emery ordered, reached around to the deliveryman's back and yanking out the gun before handing it off to Victor. "Keep it together and come this way." Dave's arms instinctively rose up and Emery swatted him upside the back of the head. "Put your bloody arms down, you idiot, could you look more like you've got a gun on you? Get walking." Emery pushed him around and jammed the gun into his back, leading him roughly towards their parked car. Victor took one more visual sweep beside him before following after.

  As soon as Dave was in the backseat of the car he scrambled into the furthest side possible away from Emery, who got in with him. Victor slid into the driver's seat and locked the doors. He stared hard at Emery in the rearview mirror once he was settled, setting his hands on the steering wheel. "What now, Peter?" he demanded.

  "Now, Steve, we have a little chat." Emery stared down the young man cowering against the seat next to him. "Are you really called Dave?"

  Dave nodded frantically.

  "Mm, Dave what?"

  "D-David Allen Ingram."

  Emery smirked. "Okay. Tell me, D-David Allen Ingram, what was in that bag you dropped off just now?"

  "I don't know what you mean," he insisted.