Every Second Counts

Chapter Thirty One

THE GIRL IN THE DARK ROOM'S words crash around in my head, 'I think he must be pretty damned clever not to have been caught by now. He's doing something which stops people thinking he's a gangster, a ruthless killer. He must have a sweet little day job.'

Not just a day job...The Man from Mississippi is an ex Detective, a bent fucking ex Detective!

'If you insist on going on a one woman vigilante crusade, Then. Keep. Vigilant. Do not let Reuben Houston fool you,' the girl in the dark room had added.

And fool me, he did! Hook line and Godsdammed sinker!

Fuck her! Fuck Reuben Houston. Fuck everyone!

I don't know what to do. Who to turn to. Polly comes to mind. I can call her, come clean and she can advise me how to approach D.I. Rutherford. Or, I could go straight to Reuben and confront him. And then? He'd do what? Images of me battered and bruised on a cold metal table in a morgue comes to mind. Then The Hulk enters my head. He warned me to stay away. He could help me now. I need protection. Right now. How much does Reuben know about me? Does he know I followed him that night? Is he playing a double bluff?

The one thing I'm thankful for is he only knows Athena Morisot. And now, I need to get the hell out of her apartment.

My breath is ragged and the banging of my heart shatters the otherwise still of the night when Floppy and I vacate the premises.

* * *

The relief to be once again installed in Red's tardy apartment is beyond description.

Sleep that night is hell, but a plan emerges. A plan to untangle my association with this assassin. First thing in the morning I ring Houston. 'Hey, I'm heading away to Venice for a few days. My friends not well.' I feel anxious I'm using Lila, but needs must! 'Can you text me if you find anything of interest?'

'Sure. Hey, I need your parent's passports before you go. I'll pick them up this afternoon,' he tells me.

There's no way I want to see that man again. 'I'm in a bit of a rush. I'll leave them downstairs with the Super in an envelope.'

'Right. We'll talk when you get back,' he says.

When I finish the call I feel the weight of terror start to wain but it's not long before its replaced with anger. Since the start of my crusade I seem to have made one bad decision after another. It's no one's fault but my own I am in this mess. But, for some unknown reason I cannot stop and take stock of where I'm at and make a clever strategy.

Instead, I start to make a haphazard and probably flawed plan. I know I'm not in the right frame of mind to make any plans, mainly because all I can think about is knifing or shooting the Man from Mississippi. Standing over his broken and bloodied body with a knife and a smoking gun! The smart thing to do is to wipe my hands of him. Let the professionals sort him out.

But, I cannot. I need to sort him myself because handing him over to the authorities will mean they'll find out I've been stalking him, breaking in and gathering evidence and then they'll ask why? It wouldn't take them long before they find the connection to Patrick Gladstone and then my involvement with the whole gory mess will follow. I can't have that!

I have to work fast or there'll be another death. He will kill again. Blood will be on my hands.

I have never felt so pressurised. Because every second counts!

* * *

I update 'What happened to my parent's' document with the latest info on Reuben Houston and the death of Leslie Hunter's wife, email it to Betsy then I hit the town.