two
It was nearly two weeks later when Jack Graham’s chartered flight landed in the small Georgetown airport. He had never liked small planes, or flying, truthfully, and this flight, in spite of its scenery, had not redeemed his opinion. So it was with slightly unstable legs he deplaned, and set upon his mission to find one Elizabeth Crawford.
Customs was a casual event when you came to a country as small this one, which had no ambitions of being anything beyond a choice vacation spot. There were metal detectors, but rarely anyone to check when they sounded, and even fewer people at this hour when the time crawled into late evening.
Jack’s luggage, or rather, the beaten green duffel he’d lived out of for the last month, and the hanging bag that contained his only suit and a custom fitted tuxedo, were attentively packed into the back of the nearest taxi by a kid who didn’t appear to work for the airport. He handed him five bucks and settled into the back seat of a cab that smelled of salt water and suntan lotion.
A few minutes later the driver pulled into a small hotel, and Jack looked at the unimpressive façade and sighed deeply. He’d been to the Caymans before, to this very hotel, but for a vacation just before his wife passed, some seven years prior. He could have picked any hotel, the beach was littered with better accommodations, but with that came attention he didn’t want. The chartered flight had been enough of a risk, and he’d taken it only at the insistence of his client.
It was becoming increasingly urgent that Jack locate her. Beyond the demands of his client, Jack didn’t like having loose ends, and she was a glaring one whose absence from any sort of justice was sickening. He hated thieves, and she had taken millions and somehow pointed the finger elsewhere, not to mention, kept him on the road following vapor, while she’d been having the time of her life.
She was intelligent. He’d afford her character that much credit, because she hadn’t used her passport, and nothing had been charged to her credit cards once she’d left. To anyone else, it would seem as if she’d just dropped off the grid, but that sort of disappearance was usually only done with money or death.
He already knew she wasn’t dead, but it had taken hours of security footage to come across what he’d needed to find her here. Hours searching had yielded what days in staking out her house and later, her hometown had not – a lead.
He’d barely had his luggage out of the taxi before it sprinted away in search of the next tourist’s dollars. He rubbed his eyes with the heels of his palms and stood there before wearily slinging the duffel over one shoulder, the hooking the other over two fingers. He shuffled inside to get the key to his room, which held undoubtedly another uncomfortable mattress and pay-per-view porn.
The desk clerk was cool and efficient and didn't blink even when one person checked in for the total of 4 rooms booked. It was planned dead space, where noise wouldn't be remarked upon by annoyed tourists calling up to the front desk. The hotel was only about 40% anyway, according to the desk clerk he'd spoken with yesterday. The one at the desk handed him four sets of keys, a brochure of local tourist stops and a currency calculator.
The air conditioning was blowing when he opened the door, and it blasted his sweat-stained face. He dropped the bags onto the floor and fell backwards onto the most welcoming lumpy mattress he’d seen in two days. He lay there, staring at the patterns in the water-stained ceiling before rolling over and dragging the zipper on his duffel down a few inches. He pulled out a torn and creased photograph of her and studied her eyes and the slight nuisances of her nose and mouth. It was doubtful she’d managed to change any of those features.
It was a striking photograph, but only because of its subject. She, like so many he’d collected over the years, didn’t look like a thief. They never did. He propped her face against the alarm clock and pulled the bag up on the bed. He unpacked with the same ritual as always, careful to keep everything organized, in its own place.
The last box that came out was unremarkable, a simple scarred, brown leather case. He fished for the key and the case unlocked with two distinct clicks. It opened without a sound, revealing a gun housed in fitted gun-metal colored foam. It was worn, untraceable and another reason the chartered flight had finally shown some appeal. Contacts, he had, but he’d yet to make any here, and weapons would’ve been hard to come by last minute.
He palmed the gun and checked meticulously for any defects before sliding it back into its place. The top of the case unbuckled from the lid and held handcuffs, rope, small vials of mischief and a few other surprises he used to keep things from getting out of hand. He wasn’t going to be taking the legal route on this one, as the Caymans were entirely too felon friendly. Extradition would take too much time, and publicity was something his client wanted to avoid. No, this one he’d be pulling out on the sly. One day she’d be here, the next, she’d be given over to the last person she wanted to see.
The real trick was getting the money along the way. If she were smart, it would already be deposited, and make his job harder. If not, if she thought that her presence alone would keep them safe, she would have made a very unfortunate misstep.
Jack stripped off his clothing and folded it into neat little piles that he would send to the cleaners. He tossed a towel over one shoulder and tromped over to the small blue and white tiled bathroom. While he waited for the water to find a tepid medium, he studied his face in the mirror. He was looking every one of his 43 years, and he hoped like hell that the shower might take a few years off. He had to lure her in.
But, he had to find her first. He’d start with the most expensive hotel. She wouldn’t go unnoticed there.