Stolen Souls

81

THE TELEPHONE JARRED Strazdas from his bloodied dreams. He sat upright on the bed, still naked, still sweating and shivering. His heart hammered in his chest as his lungs tried to catch up. A splintering spear of pain shot from the center of his forehead to the base of his skull to dissipate through his neck and shoulders. He pressed the heel of his hand to his brow.

The phone rang again. Strazdas checked the clock: almost eleven. He had slept for less than an hour. That made no more than three hours out of the previous seventy-two.

He reached for the phone before it could tear at his nerves again with its shrill voice.

“Yes?”

“Good evening, Mr. Strazdas, reception calling. I have a Mr. Lennon on the line. Shall I put him through?”

Strazdas swallowed. “Yes.”

“Go ahead,” the receptionist said.

“You should hire some better help,” Lennon said.

“I don’t know what you mean,” Strazdas said.

“I mean whoever you sent to do your dirty work, they fucked it up.”

“I don’t know what you refer to.”

“We got away, the girl and me.”

“Which girl?”

“I’ve been thinking, though.”

“Mr. Lennon, perhaps you should talk to my—”

“How would he know I’d been called back to the station?” Lennon asked.

“You should talk to my lawyer, the gentleman you met—” “And how would he know what route I’d take?”

“Mr. Lennon, I am going to hang up now.”

“Is it Dan Hewitt? Is that who you’ve got inside? He sold me out before, and he’d do it ag—”

Strazdas returned the handset to its cradle and cursed the soul of his brother for getting himself killed in this wretched place.