Bagman by Jay MacLarty

Bagman by Jay MacLarty

Author:Jay MacLarty
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Pocket Books
Published: 2004-02-15T00:00:00+00:00


CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO Somewhere in South America

Sunday, 9 November 15:36:46 GMT -0500

At first Kyra thought she might be imagining things, that she was only suffering from irrational paranoia, but now she was sure; the pit bull hadn’t moved its eyes in ten minutes, staring right at her tiny pinhole, its eyes to hers, as hard and straight as a bar of steel. It couldn’t really see her, as a zoologist she knew that—a dog’s crepuscular vision was less attuned to detail than a human’s—but it could sense her, could calibrate the exact spot she was standing. As if to prove it, every couple of minutes the beast would emit one of its low, vibrating growls, barely loud enough to be heard, but enough to raise the hair on her arms.

El Pato grunted and rolled onto his back, his naked body damp with oily perspiration. It was the first time he had slept during the day and she had a feeling that something extremely bad would happen when he recovered from the liquor. After the bad-news call, he just sat there, naked, drinking Aguardiente Antioqueño—a clear fiery liquor distilled from sugar cane—and staring angrily at his pile of money, as if it were worthless.

Over the next two hours there had been three more calls, El Pato becoming more belligerent and drunk with each one. Twice, he screamed into his phone, assuring his partner that the “Rynerson bitch todavía está viviendo.” Both times, in two separate calls, he had used the same words: todavía está viviendo. Still alive. The final call had been the most disturbing. Though she hadn’t been able to follow much of the conversation—El Pato’s speech having digressed into outbursts of slurred Spanish—she understood enough to know he wanted to send her back in pedacitos. Small pieces.

One thing she now knew with absolute certainty, there was no reason to fantasize about being released. He intended to kill her—always had—it was only a matter of time. She needed to do something, no matter how desperate, and she needed to do it now. But how? She would never have a chance to finish the wall and that left only the door.

She closed her eyes, reviewing the exact sequence of the exchange. It was always the same. Exactly. Never once had he opened the door until she had placed her waste bucket near the door and returned to the cot. Then he would slide the pass-through closed, open the door, place an empty bucket and food tray on the floor, pick up the used bucket, and close the door. Seven, maybe eight seconds. Always the same. But, there was a moment, a few seconds, when he couldn’t see her—between the time he closed the slot and opened the door. Enough time for her to scramble up next to the wall, ready to bolt through the opening. If she could get past him, she could outrun him, she was sure of that, but how could she get past him? The man was built like a tank and never stepped beyond the door.



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