Guardian of Lies

FIVE

He was halfway up the stairs when the steady sound of running water somewhere at the rear of the house stopped. In the abrupt stillness, Liquida froze in place. In the momentary silence he thought he heard something.

It was a distant and muted whisper of sound, faint, almost imperceptible. Perhaps the brush of a shoe across the deep pile of the carpeted floor somewhere at the other end of the hallway overhead.

He readied the chef’s knife, now clean and bright in his hand, and crouched on the stairs, ready to spring the instant anyone appeared on the landing above. Liquida strained to hear and for several seconds listened motionless on the stairwell. There was a slight creak and then a click. It could have been a switch snapping on or off somewhere at the other end of the hall. Or maybe it was just the house settling, causing it to creak. He listened for several seconds, his gaze trained like a laser on the landing above. There was nothing, no one, no movement. In the silence after the constant sound of the running water, his hearing was playing tricks on him.

He edged toward the top of the stairs and peeked over. He could see all the way to the end of the hall. The long corridor was clear, no one was there. Quickly he ascended to the top of the landing, then moved silently toward what he knew from the floor plan was the old man’s study. This was the nerve center of the house, the place of business. He assumed it was where the voices he’d heard earlier had come from. The lights were still on inside the study. Unless they left the lights on all night, and he had never seen this before, they had not gone to bed.

He approached the study door nearest the stairs. At a distance, perhaps ten feet, he silently darted across the opening. As he did this he gained a quick visual scan inside the study. There was no one at the desk at the far end. Of that he was certain. It was only a fleeting glimpse, but he saw neither the old man nor the woman. If the angel of death was with him, the two would now be in different rooms and he would be able to take them separately and in virtual silence. He made his way to the study door and stole a quick glance inside. The room appeared to be empty, at least from this angle. There were portions of the study’s interior he could not see.

He scanned the catwalk above, the part he could see from the open doorway. Again, there was no one there. He ventured down the hall toward the other study door, the one closer to the bedrooms farther down the corridor. From here he could see the rest of the study and the remaining section of catwalk on the study’s second level.

Katia had long since opted to use the bath near one of the guest rooms down the hall as her private sanctuary for preparation before sleep. So Emerson wasn’t surprised when he stepped from the shower and found himself alone in the master bath. He toweled himself dry and put on his robe, then stood in front of the mirror over the vanity while he ran a comb through his still damp hair. He couldn’t believe how tired he was this evening; the guests for dinner, the tension of dealing with Katia, and the heavy meal, none of which he was used to, had taken their toll.

He examined his face and an ingrown hair in his beard, then turned off the light and headed for the bedroom.

He was half-expecting to see Katia already curled up under the covers. So when he didn’t, it took a second before the image that confronted him registered. She was taking longer than usual to get ready. The room didn’t look any different than it had ten minutes earlier, except for his pants at the bottom of the bed.

Emerson turned and opened the top dresser drawer. He pulled out a pair of boxer shorts while glancing in the mirror over the dresser.

His pants were still there on the end of the bed but were now crumpled in a heap. None of this alarmed him. He seemed groggy until he saw the other item in the mirror, his empty wallet lying open on the bed next to the pants. It was like a shot of adrenaline. Instantly he was awake.