[David Raker 04] Never Coming Back by Tim Weaver

Author:Tim Weaver [Tim Weaver]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9780525426868
Amazon: 0525426868
Publisher: Viking
Published: 2014-07-02T23:00:00+00:00

D.K.

Wednesday, November 23, 2011 | Twelve Months Ago

At first, Eric Schiltz thought it was a sound in his head, part of a dream he was having about being back in the village he’d grown up in. But then the dream fell away and so did his sleep, and he realized he was on top of the sheets, naked, and the doorbell was buzzing. He sat up and looked at the clock. Six-forty. Who the hell was calling so early?

Shrugging his gown on, he walked to the windows of the bedroom, all of which looked out across the Mesa. Once, Clark Gable had lived in this area of Palm Springs, among its low-rise buildings and coral-colored roofs. Back then, its tight network of homes, nestled in the foothills of the San Jacinto Mountains, was a big gated community. Now, though, as Schiltz noted the blue Pontiac G8 parked at the bottom of the drive, his gate ajar, he was reminded that those days were definitely over.

Heading downstairs, into the center of a sweeping, marble-floored entrance hall with four rooms coming off it—a kitchen, a downstairs bedroom, his study and a sprawling living room—he stopped to check himself in the mirror and ran a hand through his hair.

Then he opened the door.

Standing on the front step was Cornell. He was dressed in a pair of denims, a black suit jacket and black brogues polished to a shine. The early sunlight, arcing in across the porch, cast his hairless skin a golden-brown. He didn’t say anything to Schiltz, didn’t even look at him, his eyes shifting over Schiltz’s shoulder and into the house.

“What are you doing down here?”

Cornell’s eyes pinged back to him. “How are you, Eric?”

Schiltz just looked at him. “Do you know what time it is?”

“Six-forty.”

Cornell’s eyes started moving again, darting around the entrance hall, up the stairs, into the doorways, listening to the sounds of the house. He was seeing whether anyone else was home. Schiltz briefly considered telling him there was, his brain deciding in that second, like a survival instinct kicking in, that the best way to head this off was to lie.

But then, as he went to speak, Cornell said, “I’m sorry it’s so early.”

Except he wasn’t sorry. There was no contrition in his voice.

His eyes finally settled on Schiltz. They were small and dark, like an inverted photograph of the rest of him: his smooth skin; his perfect teeth; his hair, exactly parted at the side, unruffled, immaculate. He was dressed in designer clothes, the tailored jacket tracing the lines of his body. But his eyes weren’t the same as the rest of him. The rest of him spoke of normality and reason; his eyes spoke of deception and violence.

“May I come in?”

Schiltz shrugged, as if it made no difference to him. But, in reality, he didn’t want Cornell inside his house. Ever since Schiltz’s laptop had been stolen from his room at the Bellagio, he’d noticed a change in Cornell. He’d always been a little odd: quiet, guarded, often to the point of being rude—but Schiltz had accepted those flaws.

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