Shafted Page 12

  The man thumbed through the bills. "Four hundred."

  Did he expect caviar on his morning bagel? Strike the salesman angle. This guy definitely wasn't one. No haggling.

  "Look, I'll give you three grand, up front, for the week. Whether I stay for the duration or not."

  A giddy squeak welled up in Amy's throat. That was more money than she'd ever seen at one time. Cash like that could really help fix up the old house, pay off some bills she still owed in Detroit, and buy new books and clothes for Renee. Heck, even a few things for herself. With some left over for a rainy day. But she wasn't about to shelter a man she didn't know.

  "Sorry."

  He reached into his breast pocket and pulled out a gold case. "Here's my business card. Call my office. Check me out."

  She'd already checked him out. Though on the thin side, she sensed a nice build. Maybe he'd been ill. Maybe his tailor had gone on vacation. Maybe she needed to focus on her problems and stop imagining what he looked like without that bulky suit.

  "Go ahead. Take it."

  Amy snapped back to attention, warmth creeping into her cheeks. The man was still offering his card.

  She reached for it, her hand so close to his she could feel the heat radiating from him, the pent-up energy.

  Something wasn't right with this guy. She'd lived by her wits long enough to trust her instincts and they were chattering to her now like a flock of magpies in the presence of a hungry hawk.

  She took the card, anyway. Not that it meant much. She could print up a bunch of her own, declaring herself to be Michelle Obama, if she chose. And his office? The number could belong to his great aunt Sophie, coached to say whatever he wanted. Still, it was easier to agree. The sooner he was on his way, the sooner she could get back to work. She glanced at her watch. The hardware store, and the call, would have to wait until tomorrow.

  "I'll phone in the morning. Have a good evening." She turned towards the house and made her way up the walk, examining the card.

  Sam Hutchinson. Barrister.

  She read the address. So Jag Man was a Calgary lawyer. At least now she knew how he got the car. But what was the guy doing here this time of year? It wasn't exactly the height of tourist season. Many of the family-run businesses were shut down for the winter.

  "Excuse me, Miss."

  She stopped and looked over her shoulder. "Yes, Mr. Hutchinson?"

  The man's smile was designed to thaw the coldest jury during a January ice storm. "I didn’t get your name."

  Because she hadn’t given it. But what would it hurt? It wasn't her real one.

  "Tesher. Amy Tesher."

  "Thanks, Ms Tesher." The car lights flashed as he made his way around to the driver's side. "See you tomorrow."

  * * * * *

  Sam knew he'd outstayed his welcome.

  When the woman turned back to him, she'd stepped forward, looking like she might refuse another visit. So he'd jumped in the car and sped off.

  No wasn't an option for him.

  He parked down another dirt road under a dead tree, hoping police didn't patrol the area. His presence would be difficult to explain, impossible to justify.

  He reached over to the passenger seat, snapped opened the locks on his briefcase, and shuffled through the newspaper clippings.

  The first dated back fifteen years--articles from the old Cincinnati Post, the Atlanta Constitution, the Toronto Star, and Saskatoon's StarPhoenix.

  All involved children. All of them dead.

  Boys, mostly, but a few girls sprinkled in here and there. Fresh faces looking out at him, sadness behind their eyes, as if they'd known their fate before it happened.

  He came to the most recent clippings last--Calgary newspapers documenting the newest victim.

  Tommy.

  Sam caressed the boy's picture, as if he could tousle the brown locks one more time. Of course, the black and white photo didn't show the color of Tommy's hair. It didn't reveal the freckles on his nose, or the multi-colored braces he wore to straighten a crooked incisor.

  It didn't capture Tommy's screams, either. Or show how he suffered before his death.

  Sam rested his head against the high seatback and closed his eyes, waiting for the queasiness to pass. He tried to remember the last time he'd eaten. And couldn't. Not that it mattered. He had more important things to do.

  He pulled the lapels of his suit jacket around his neck and grabbed the scotch he'd purchased that afternoon. He ripped off the cap, keeping the bottle in its brown paper bag. No sense in drawing more attention to himself.

  The heady scent of scotch filled his car, oaky and rich. He took a swig, gritting his teeth as the amber liquid burned its way down his gullet. Sam hated the taste. But after a few more gulps, he wouldn't notice. The scotch would have done its job.

  He shivered. The nights were getting cooler. At least the alcohol would keep him warm. Until he could convince Amy Tesher to open her house to him.

  The first step in his plan.