The Devil's bounty

Four

With Melissa in surgery, two detectives from the LAPD’s Robbery Homicide Division swung by to take an informal witness statement from Lock. When he asked whether they would provide any form of police protection, they answered, as he had known they would, in the negative. They left, but he stayed to pace the corridor.

He checked in with Ty, sharing what little information he had. Everything at the hotel was quiet.

The hours passed and Lock waited. After years in close protection it was one thing he had become expert at. If it had been an Olympic event, he would have been looking at a gold medal. Eventually Melissa was moved into a private room on the fourth floor. The surgeon wouldn’t speak to him but he gleaned a little information from a nurse, who, in breach of official policy, allowed him to stand guard when he explained that the person or persons who had shot the girl might return to finish the job.

In the room, he grabbed a metal-backed folding chair from beside the bed and set it in the corner nearest to the door so that he would see anyone coming into the room before they spotted him. Someone looking to kill her most likely wouldn’t risk shooting her from the doorway, not after they had screwed up their first attempt. They’d want to be close. Pillow over the head, gun pressed in tight to dampen the sound, then squeeze the trigger. Or they’d smother her: the heart monitor would tell them when she was dead.

His shirt and trousers were caked with dried blood, he noticed. He got up and crossed to the sink mounted against the far wall. He washed his hands and face, then crossed to the bed and picked up the chart hanging from the bed rail. At the very top it had the girl’s full name — Melissa Warner — and her date of birth. The medical staff must have found some form of ID on her when they cut off her clothing.

She was lying on her side, chestnut hair fanned out over the crisp white pillow.

Melissa Warner. Charlie Mendez.

Something about the two names resonated. He had heard them before, but where? He sat down again and texted Ty with an update, then asked him to find out what he could. A few seconds later Ty was back to say he’d do some digging.

He looked across at the sleeping girl as the monitor sketched her heartbeat with a green glow. The tension in her face had slowly released as she slept but she was in the foetal position, knees pulled up to her chest. Lock had often thought that you could trace a person’s journey in the world by their sleep pattern. Little kids stretched out like starfish, open and unafraid. But that stage soon passed. If things got bad enough, you rarely slept at all, like Lock. It made his job easier. He could get by on three hours a night. But it made his life hell. He knew why he couldn’t sleep but he didn’t know the cure. He just hoped that in time it would pass.

He went back to the chair but didn’t sit down, preferring to lean against the wall. Even with his insomnia, he was worried about falling asleep. Eyes open, alert to every sound from the corridor, he stood vigil, as he had done so many times before, ready to protect the girl who had stepped from nowhere into his life.

It was a full two hours later that he saw the door handle move a fraction. Nurses had been in twice to check on Melissa but they had come straight in, as innocent people do. They pressed down the handle, opened the door and walked in.

The handle moved another fraction. Then another. Lock tensed and moved softly along the wall so that he was closer to the door.

There was a soft click as the latch cleared its slot. Lock kept inching along with his back to the wall.

The door edged open. Lock stood perfectly still as a figure stepped into the room, closing the door. It was too dark to get a clear view but the person was short, maybe five two. They wore baggy jeans, a baseball cap and an oversized jacket. A shaft of moonlight slid across the floor and he saw a long, thin steel blade in the figure’s right hand. Whoever it was walked towards the sleeping girl, the knife raised.