Was it that fragment of night spent with Amelia, that juice of him poured over her white belly, or her hypnotic sighs? When Osborne opened his eyes, the sun was high in the sky.
Heavy-lidded, he shook himself. The bed was empty, not even warm.
The digital alarm on the night table said twelve-thirty. He cursed. Amelia had left for work with her samples, as silent in flight as she was slight in his arms. It was hot in the house. Osborne walked naked down the spiral staircase, found a thermos full of hot coffee and a note from her on the breakfast bar.
Dear Paul,
The least I can say is that, thanks to you, I had an unforgettable night. From nightmare to dream is only one step, but with you that’s a step worth taking. Everything comes to those who wait—the good and the bad. You were sleeping with your fists clenched when I left (about eight, I’m still yawning) but your crazy eyes were closed, for once, and I preferred to leave them like that. What a sight you are when you’re asleep! Like a locomotive that’s fallen to the bottom of a ravine, but with the wheels still turning . . . Funny. I don’t know what you’re on, but I still want some. I wouldn’t say the same about the situation you’re in . . . Anyway, I’d better go before I get the desire to smash your face in or go back upstairs (I know a few tricks for waking locomotives that have fallen into ravines, whether the wheels are still turning or not).
About the tests, it’s really busy at the institute right now, so I think I may be able to do a bit of overtime without attracting attention. I’ll be back tonight. Late probably—with the first results, at least I hope so.
Don’t mess yourself up too much. This whole case gives me the creeps.
P.S. 1: Don’t look for the house keys, I never lock.
P.S. 2: Your things are in the drier.
P.S. 3: Thanks for the corpse: he was my first (I’m still quite shaken).
P.S. 4: Thanks especially for the sex (ditto).
A.
She was funny. And probably a whole lot more that Osborne didn’t know. He had loved her body, her gestures, the words she had used to make him come. He had loved even her small breasts, and her wicked smile as she coated herself with him. It already made him feel sick to forget her—but he had to.
He found his things in the laundry, all clean. His shoulder hurt like hell but he managed to put them on. Through the living room windows came the sounds of the waves and the seagulls that were sharing them. Still barely awake, he had a cup of coffee, then, as the haziness hadn’t quite gone, another one. His pack of cigarettes lay on the bar with his car keys, the papers he was carrying around with him, his penknife, a few chewing gums, and his cell phone. Osborne lit a cigarette, hated the first drag, and saw that he had a message.
He listened to it as he finished his coffee, and tensed.
Pita Witkaire’s neighbor had left a message this morning, at ten thirty. Her husband had seen Witkaire at the marae, “a little while ago,” as he was checking his opossum traps.
* * *
341 West Coast Road.
In the dappled shade of a centuries-old miro tree, Hana’s grandfather was pulling up the weeds that had overrun the little cemetery behind the marae, working hard to repair the damage that had occurred during his month’s absence. Osborne found him there, bending over his wife’s grave.
“Tena koe,”33 he said.
Pita Witkaire had a wide, lined forehead, bluish-black hair sprinkled with gray, and fierce little eyes whose expression Osborne recognized. He stared at the intruder. He, too, had changed a lot.
“What do you want?” he said in English.
A way of keeping his distance. No more wero, no more hakas.
“I’ve been looking for you for weeks,” Osborne replied. “Where were you?”
“On vacation,” Witkaire replied, on his guard.
“Really? Strange that nobody knew about it.”
He didn’t believe him.
Witkaire concentrated on his weeds. “I don’t tell people about my comings and goings,” he said, without looking up. “What do you want with me?”
“Do you know Samuel Tukao?”
“No.”
“A lawyer with a practice in Mangonui. Found dead in a mass grave in Waikoukou Valley. One of the victims of Kirk, the serial killer. Tukao was a member of your tribe.”
Witkaire continued with his weeding. “What of it?”
“You’re a leading figure in the Tainui. I thought you might be able to help me.”
He lit a cigarette. Witkaire had acquired a lot of lines, running right to the corners of his face, and he seemed smaller. “I don’t know all the members of the tribe,” he retorted, “and I certainly don’t know this lawyer of yours.”
