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The Real Deal	By : Gallivant Category: M through R > Red Eye Views: 3201 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 1
Disclaimer: I do not own Red Eye. I am not making any money from publishing this story.

Chapter List
- 4
- 5
- 6
CHAPTER FIVE – Fierce Man of Bone
Room 3113 was typical of the standard guest rooms at the Lux Atlantic hotel; reasonably sized, decorated in tasteful corporate beiges, browns and tans with smart wooden furniture and thick carpets.
It was a warm afternoon. Beyond the large steel-framed window, Miami shimmered in the heat. Inside, there was a low droning buzz emitted by the air conditioning system and a slight tang of coolness which pinched the skin.
Lisa shivered involuntarily, cautiously aware of the slender, blue-eyed man watching her every move, an inscrutable expression on his face.
'So you wanted to see me to say goodbye?' Lisa asked.
Oddly Lisa didn't quite know what she felt at this information … most odd being the simple fact that she wasn't instantly overjoyed. Sure, there was relief, even pleasure to some degree. But this was tempered too by an unsettling sense of glumness which gnawed at Lisa's insides. Perhaps, deep down, she even enjoyed their highly charged exchanges, the tense unpredictability, so far removed from the safe daily humdrum she had scrupulously constructed as her daily life?
Lisa watched Jackson as he gulped back the rest of his Orangina. He then moved across the room towards the window, where there was a trashcan. He didn't appear to be in a hurry to reply any time soon.
He flipped open a briefcase, placed on a side table.
He rummaged its contents, his back to her.
A faint tremor of alarm struck her with enough force to slightly wind her. What if he wanted the tape as a keepsake, not because he was going away, but because he had lured her to this room with the sole purpose of finally killing her?
Thus the tape would be his trophy.
But Jackson didn't produce a knife or a gun – some dreaded means to kill her. Instead, Jackson plucked a sheet of paper from his briefcase which he presented to her, a sullen, businesslike expression on his face.
She quickly scanned what he had written, although her eyes were repeatedly drawn to the briefcase, which remained open.
Which was how Lisa spotted a tape, their tape, perched inside.
She was so enthralled at this sighting she hardly heard Jackson's explanation of the handwritten instructions, squiggles and numbers which coated the paper she was now holding.
'This is how I did it,' Jackson said.
'Did what?' Lisa asked, distracted.
'Hacked into your computer systems,' Jackson explained.
'Oh. Thanks,' Lisa said, all the while wondering how she could cross the room to the briefcase, seize the tape and make a dash for it. But she felt powerless to move, seemingly rooted to the spot by his cold blue-eyed gaze.
'Well. Seeing as I've a little time to kill,' Jackson said, a wide taunting grin on his face, 'maybe we should go out, grab a Seabreeze or two? Then … we can negotiate about … the tape.'
Now he, in turn, flicked his eyes towards the open briefcase.
'Why … why don't we just have a drink here?' Lisa asked in tremulous tones.
A bemused expression swept across Jackson's face. 'But when I offered before, you flat refused?'
'I've changed my mind. I want a glass of Champagne,' she said.
Jackson removed the bottle of champagne from the mini-bar, and with nonchalant ease, he opened it, pouring champagne into two plastic beakers.
'Sorry – that's all I have,' he said, passing a beaker of champagne to Lisa.
She had to act now, Lisa thought with sudden boldness.
She surged forwards, tossing the champagne into Jackson's face, catching him unawares. He fell heavily against the sideboard.
Meanwhile, she threw herself at the case, but Jackson had already recovered his footing and beat her to it, forcing her backwards. He gripped her arm and pulled her roughly towards him, clutching her into a tight embrace.
Lisa thrust a hand into his hair and yanked hard. With her other hand she grabbed hold of the Dictaphone and smashed it into his chin. She then tried to force her knee into his groin, but he batted it away with his own.
To her surprise, Jackson burst out laughing.
He pinned both her arms to her side. She tottered and fell against his body, her face suffused with crimson rage.
'Is this little display meant to frighten me Lise?' he whispered hoarsely. 'Because it's having quite the opposite effect.'
She then tried to head-butt him, but he veered backwards.
'That's so unoriginal,' he said dryly. 'And remarkably silly too.'
He stood up straight. Champagne was dripping from his hair, before dribbling down his face, onto his neck and shirt. He gruffly wiped away the champagne with his sleeve, but couldn't prevent the wet stain that soaked his shirt.
'And guess what? All negotiations have just been canceled,' he said peevishly.
Then in one sudden, swift movement, he hurled her against the sideboard, pressing himself against her. Lisa struggled, kicking him sharply in the shin. Jackson grimaced in pain, but still managed to restrain her.
'Well, if we're going to play this game, and you seem determined that we are,' he said breathlessly. 'We might as well have a little musical accompaniment. What do you think?'
Keeping her squeezed against the wall with one arm, he reached out for the Dictaphone, which Lisa had dropped after whacking him in the face, and pressed PLAY.
To Lisa's surprise, the poppy disco beats of Boogie Wonderland had switched to a much more serious, slightly solemn piece of Classical music - a blend of violins, staccato and angry, then subdued, climbing higher and higher, before tumbling, then rising.
Jackson grimaced. 'I have very Catholic tastes,' he said. 'But if you're not much of a Schubert fan, we can always flip to the B-side.'
Lisa sighed. 'I don't care Jackson. Whatever.'
The violins seemed to saunter along, seemingly relaxed, underscored by a deeply, resonant cello.
Jackson looked irritated. He stabbed the FORWARD button.
'Let's move onto the second movement, shall we Lise?'
He had subtly relaxed his hold on her, and they were now standing a few inches apart, although Lisa could still sense the warmth emanating from him, almost as though he was still pressed tightly against her.
He stopped the tape, pressed PLAY, listened for a moment, then hit FORWARD again.
'I'm not in the mood for a musical masterclass,' Lisa groaned. 'I've got a job to get back to, and you've got … .'
'I've got you. Here.' Jackson said, beaming. 'For now.'
He pressed PLAY.
The violins were still playing in harmony. To Lisa, they resembled a sombre organ playing in a dimly lit church.
The violins then lifted, lightening in tone, becoming almost skittish, chasing each other, up and down the scales. Then a glorious soaring melody took over, the violins still weaving in and out, up and down, loud then soft, almost as though they were conversing, or arguing.
Jackson's voice came as something of an interruption.
'This reminds me of you of course, Lise.' He sniffed. 'But you won't like the title.'
'Why's that?'
'It's kind of morbid.' Jackson edged a little closer, adding in a low whisper. 'Death and the Maiden.'
'Oh. That's cheerful,' Lisa said drolly, inwardly chilling. He was right. She didn't like the title.
'Yes. It's very sad. But kind of rousing too, isn't it Lise?' Jackson was clearly enjoying himself, a fact Lisa failed to relish, once again attempting to wriggle herself free, but his arms were outstretched, palms against the wall behind her, ensuring she was effectively imprisoned.
'Of course the title's self-explanatory,' Jackson mused, a sly, teasing smile on his face. 'And this particular movement is based on a Schubert song.'
'I don't want to know about any stupid song,' Lisa snapped.
'I wasn't going to sing it to you Lise,' Jackson chortled. 'Singing's not my thing. I prefer other means of torture.'
Lisa crossed her arms tightly, and stared hopelessly at their feet.
'So, let me see. How does it go? Well, you have the Maiden, and she says … and you have to excuse the poor translation, the original's in German … she says something like, Pass by, Oh, pass by, Go away, Fierce Man of Bone. I am still young, go my love, And do not touch me.' Jackson paused. 'I think you can probably guess the identity of the Fierce Man of Bone?
Lisa was momentarily stilled. Mesmerized in part by the music, in part by Jackson's glacial blue eyes. Did he mean himself? Was she the maiden?
'It's kind of creepy,' she said.
Jackson's face clouded. Then he gently, almost absently, caressed her cheek.
Lisa instinctively flinched.
'What's creepy? The music? Or do you mean Death?'
Lisa nodded, her mouth suddenly dry.
The music continued to dance between deep, tense and sonorous, before trilling into a rising, pulsing melody.
Lisa shuddered.
'It's OK Lise. It's not so bad. Death then says; Give me your hand, you beautiful and delicate form.' Jackson grimaced. 'Like I said, it doesn't quite work in translation … Anyway, he continues …. .' Jackson now edged so close to Lisa, he almost enveloped her body with his own. 'I am a friend, and am not come to punish. Be of good cheer! I am not savage. You … will sleep softly in my arms.'
Lisa pondered this for a moment, aware that her heart was beating at a furiously fast rate. 'That's … that's a good thing then?' she stammered. 'He … he doesn't kill her. Death doesn't kill her.'
Jackson looked doubtful. 'Well, I'm not so sure about that Lise.'
'But he says he's not savage … he lets her sleep.'
Jackson now even wore a look of faint regret on his face.
'No. No. I get it,' Lisa continued in hushed tones. 'He kills her.'
'I guess so. He just can't help himself.'
'And this reminds you of me?' Lisa shrieked, almost hysterically. What the hell was he trying to say to her?
Lisa violently pummeled Jackson's gut with her fists and then scooted the Dictaphone to the floor, where it ground to an instant, almost deafening halt.
'I hate it. And I hate you. And I hate your stupid, fucked-up little mind-games!' she screeched.
To Lisa's profound irritation, Jackson was again, laughing at her, even while absent –mindedly rubbing his abdomen. He moved towards his briefcase.
'OK Lise. So you clearly don't appreciate the glories of Herr Schubert,' he said disapprovingly. Then as a murmured aside, '… and you say I've got no soul.'
He held aloft the tape she had last seen balanced on top of the case's contents, enjoying the rapt, greedy expression on Lisa's face.
He playfully held out the tape for her. But the moment she tried to grab it, he instantly retracted his hand.
'You want to hear this instead?' he grinned. 'Want to hear us? Because I should warn you Lise, it's very sexy stuff. In fact, it's positively embarrassing how many times I've listened to it this morning.'
'No Jackson, don't,' Lisa pleaded.
Jackson's face darkened. 'Well. I suppose you do go and ruin it all,' he said, throwing the tape back into his briefcase, which was gaping open.
He checked his watch, snatched a sleek, black wash bag from the briefcase, then moved rapidly towards the bathroom unbuttoning his shirt as he walked.
'Seeing as I'm soaked in champagne and reeking of alcohol, you'll have to excuse me for one minute,' Jackson mumbled.
Lisa heard the shower burst into action.
He immediately returned, unbuttoning his cuffs. His shirt was now fully open.
'Don't do anything stupid,' he said warily.
Lisa was dumbstruck by her good fortune. How could he be so foolish?
As soon as she could hear that he was in the shower, Lisa hastened over to the open briefcase. There, nestling amongst the folds of a spare shirt was the tape.
She could just take it. Steal it. And get out of Room 3113 as fast as her legs could carry her.
However, her eyes couldn't help but be drawn instead to what was beside it.
A passport.
Steeling herself with a swift sidelong glance at the open bathroom door, Lisa picked it up. She could still hear the shower water drumming loudly in the background.
With burning curiosity she flicked the passport open, hardly daring to breathe.
So who exactly was he?
Not Jackson Rippner, according to the photo ID. But a 'James Ryder'. She studied the photo. It was definitely Jackson. No mistaking that.
The passport seemed genuine. Although … and this was odd. It was a non-fee passport. As a hotel manager she'd had plentiful experience of every form of passport from every country worldwide. And this was issued mainly to US government personnel, or at least those working on the government's behalf – diplomatic attaches, business emissaries.
She flicked it open. There were a few military stamps dotted here and there. Lots of visits to Guam she noticed. The pages were clotted with stamps of every hue and complexion it seemed. Jackson, or James according to his passport, was a very regular traveler.
Could she trace his life, his work from these destinations? A few, more regular stamps caught her eye. Karachi … that was Pakistan. London. Lots of London, distributed throughout. Moscow. Minsk. Baku … where the hell was Baku? Singapore. Bangkok. Hanoi. Vientaine, which she guessed was Far Eastern too. And Mogando. Just last week.
But why was the passport non-fee? And was this a false identity? He was an assassin after all. Maybe there were more passports. More names. More places.
She ferreted through the briefcase, overturning the shirt. There was a book, which she flung aside. An anti-perspirant. A leather-bound pad. And yes. Another passport.
At first, she didn't notice that Jackson was back in the room. He was wearing a hotel issue pale blue towel, wrapped around his lower body.
He regarded her ruefully.
'You know what Lisa, I did warn you. You really shouldn't go looking at things that don't concern you,' he said in hard, brittle tones.
Lisa froze. She automatically moved backwards, away from the briefcase, even though Jackson remained stock-still in the middle of the room, his hands on his hips. Her eyes scanned across his chest, noting multiple scars – amongst them the two gunshot wounds he had incurred whilst terrorizing herself and her father.
She was still holding the non-fee passport which suddenly felt very heavy in her hands, which were shaking.
He moved forwards, a few inches, one hand outstretched. His intense, blue eyes never left her face. Even as she flipped shut the passport, she could feel his stare burning into her.
'You … you like to visit Guam,' she said with a pretense at a half-smile.
Jackson sneered. 'I loathe the place.'
'And London … England … have you … have you friends, family there?'
She had never been so frightened of him, as she was in that moment, as he stood there, blue eyes blazing, wet chest gleaming, his dark hair matted and still dripping from the shower.
But there was something regretful in his expression too, which perhaps mitigated any immediate disaster.
At least she hoped so.
She carefully placed the passport back in the briefcase.
'If you're that worried about it Jackson, you really shouldn't leave something so important just lying about,' she said coolly, desperately steadying her voice, although she was quaking inside.
Jackson finally spoke. 'We all make rudimentary errors from time to time.' He stepped forwards, closing the space between them so quickly, Lisa tripped backwards, crashing into a bedside table.
'Including you Lisa,' he added. His hand clutched at her arm, pulling her away from the table. He then twisted the arm with considerable violence behind her back, drawing her close to him, so close her back was against his wet chest, her head resting on his shoulder. She tried to crane her neck so that she could see his face, which was next to hers. Her cheeks were grazed by the light stubble on his chin.
He bent his head even closer so that he could speak directly into her ear.
'You might not believe me when I say this, but I really, really didn't want to kill you Lisa. But. You might just force my hand.'
'I didn't meant to look Jackson,' she pleaded.
His free arm had now encircled her from the front, but his movement ensured the arm he still held and had fixed uncomfortably to her back, was rocked painfully at its joints.
'But you did look Lisa, didn't you? You simply couldn't help yourself,' he sneered.
Lisa could feel his body tense, as if set to explode into an act of great violence.
She frantically tried to free herself from his grasp, but he fought against her efforts, tightening his grip.
Suddenly the Fierce Man of Bone had never seemed so real.
'Please. Jackson. Don't,' she whimpered, squirming herself into a new position, so that she was facing him instead, his arms clasped tightly around her.
His hold on her instantly relaxed. If anything he seemed to recoil, taken aback by this sudden face-to-face proximity.
'I'm sorry, I'm truly sorry,' she said. Instinctively she slid her arms around him, falling against his chest, too afraid to look up at him, afraid of what she might see in his eyes.
Better to play dumb. Docile.
To her surprise, his arms fell loosely to his side. He was trembling, his heart pumping maniacally.
Lisa noted, almost as an extraneous thought, an aside, that it clearly took a lot of adrenaline to want to kill somebody.
Then to Lisa's surprise, Jackson's hand lightly stroked her hair.
'You're a liability,' he said softly.
Lisa shut her eyes tightly, shocked at the flutter of excitement, surprise, relief, which tingled through her.
But no sooner had she relaxed, than he grasped her shoulders with his hands, aggressively thrusting her aside.
'I hate liabilities,' he hissed, his mouth hard and cruel.
From out of nowhere, he swung at her.
Lisa stumbled and fell, crumpling to the floor, aware only of a painful ringing in her ears. Her hand instantly went to the site of the cut above her right ear, which he himself had tended. He had caught the wound with the full force of his knuckles. The band-aid was hanging loose. Blood was streaming down her cheeks, her neck.
Still kneeling on the floor, with trembling fingers, she frantically scrabbled to unbutton and remove her white blouse, to ensure the blood did not stain her collar. Aware throughout that he was standing directly above her, staring down. Ominously silent.
Say something Jackson, she pleaded silently. Don't just stand there.
He moved away. She could hear him entering the bathroom. She peered at him, over the bed. He was quick and efficient, grabbing a towel, a small blue first aid box.
He gestured to her to sit on the bed.
His clear blue eyes seemed veiled, reluctant to meet her own, which were intent on searching his face for clues, anything, which could determine how he was feeling at that moment. Second-guessing what he might do next.
Lisa wondered if his offer of medical assistance was a strange attempt at an apology.
'God help your future wife,' she muttered, seating herself on the edge of the bed. 'Unless she's a sucker for domestic abuse, that is.'
He was intent on perusing the contents of his first aid box. He alighted on a small sewing kit sealed in cellophane.
'How do you know I'm not already married?' Jackson said, a small smile on his face. He crouched on his haunches before her, his arms resting on his knees.
Lisa's stomach flipped over. Jackson married? The thought had simply never occurred to her.
'But … but … you don't wear a ring,' she stuttered.
Puzzled glee flashed momentarily across his eyes. 'And why should I?'
'Because … because. Well.' She took a deep breath. 'Last night … .' Lisa could feel her cheeks burning red with shame.
Jackson chuckled. 'Your naiveté is really rather touching Lise.'
Lisa's embarrassment deepened.
'Anyway. You kissed me, remember?' he said.
'You were hardly an innocent bystander,' Lisa snarled, through gritted teeth. 'If you were married, or, or if you loved somebody, you wouldn't sink to that level to ... .'
Jackson frowned. 'Aww Lise. You're not that bad, you know.' He unwrapped a moist antiseptic towel from its wrapper. 'You're really rather pretty.'
The corners of his mouth were twitching in amusement. Then his eyes trailed slowly downwards, over her bare neck and her throat, lingering momentarily at her scar, then to her bra and belly. 'I've had harder things to do in my life,' he said in low tones, his voice thick with meaning.
Lisa snatched the towel Jackson had brought into the bedroom from the bathroom, and wrapped it closely around her body, to deter his unnerving gaze.
'You disgust me,' she said bitterly.
He shook his head, smiling. 'Don't worry Lisa. Your secret's safe with me.'
'What secret?'
His fingers lightly touched the hickey on her neck. 'That, however much you deny yourself, you're a very sexual woman.'
Lisa clutched the towel tighter around her, speechless with fury.
In one swift swoop, Jackson tilted her head forwards with one hand. His other hand deftly wiped away the fresh flow of blood from her wound, then pressed directly onto the cut, to staunch the blood. Lisa baulked at the pain.
'Stay still,' he grunted.
'You've no right to say that about me,' she said, glad that her head was turned away from his. Instead she stared into the bathroom.
'I have every right,' he murmured.
''I was doing a job too you know,' she said in harsh, angry tones.
'Which makes you … well, exactly what does that make you Lise?' Jackson said, his voice cold and taunting. 'I mean. I can be honest about this. I'd fucking do you in a flash.' He paused. 'Wife or no wife.'
Lisa slapped his hand away. 'How dare you!'
She stared at him, her eyes fiery with resentment.
He grinned, showing her the bloody swab. 'I was done anyway.'
Ignoring her, he methodically started to unwrap the sewing kit.
'What are you doing now?' Lisa cried in alarm.
Jackson looked perplexed. 'What's it look like? I've got to stitch this cut. Stop it opening up again.'
Lisa launched backwards, onto the bed, far away from Jackson. 'No way are you sticking that needle into me,' she said, eyes wide with apprehension.
Jackson laughed. 'You're not being a scaredy-cat are you Lise?'
He stood up, threading the needle with surprisingly deft expertise, Lisa thought, with the aid of the natural light which was streaming in through the window. He moved over to a small table where there was an ashtray and a box of hotel issue matches. He lit a match, using it to sterilize the needle.
Lisa tried to peel her eyes away from his torso. She noted that he was leanly built and compact, his muscles softly rippling as he moved. His skin was smooth and taut, illuminated by the bright light from outside. His cleanly sculpted face, framed by tousled, dark hair, was washed white in the glare. In contrast, his full-lipped mouth was stained blood red.
He chewed his bottom lip, frowning in concentration.
It seemed such a shame, Lisa thought, that something so natural, so undeniable as this man's physical beauty concealed such a deeply malignant nature.
She jumped, startled by his sudden return to the bed, and by the intense expression in his cold, blue eyes.
He moved onto the bed, kneeling directly in front of her.
Lisa was overwhelmingly aware of his battle-scarred chest, the curve and strain of the tendons in his neck, the softness of his throat, and the jagged scar at its base where she had once stabbed him.
With astonishing gentleness he held her face in one hand, to hold her steady. His fingers felt warm, almost burning through her skin.
Her eyes traveled upwards, from his throat to his mouth, which was pouting with concentration as he aimed the needle for the wound on the right side of her head. He shuffled closer to her, so close his chest was almost touching her. So close she was swamped by his scent, his natural, earthy body scent.
Jackson attacked the wound with the needle. There was a light stinging, then a repeated drawing sensation as he quickly proceeded to suture the wound.
Lisa gasped in shock.
He paused momentarily, then continued. But, in an effort to soothe her, his other hand slowly, softly massaged her throat, her chin.
'Nearly done,' he breathed.
Suddenly he moved even closer, his skin gliding softly against hers. His left hand, which had been delicately caressing her face and throat, slid round to the back of her neck, easing her forwards, so that her face was buried into the warmth of his chest. His cheek brushed against hers, and she felt his lips, hot and wet, against her temple, followed by a sharp tug, at the site of her wound, where he bit the thread.
He drew his face back, but not his upper body, which remained tightly compressed against hers, one hand still supporting the back of her neck, tenderly rubbing her.
She slowly lifted her head away from his chest.
'Why's everything so darned physical with you?' she asked, haltingly.
He smiled. 'Ah, but you know nothing about me Lise.'
He brusquely stabbed the needle and thread into the mattress, then gently touched the freshly stitched wound, before stroking her hair away from her face.
'For instance, you know nothing of my passionate interest in obscure French philosophy.'
'Don't be ridiculous,' she tittered.
Jackson retreated back onto his haunches. He crossed his hands onto his lap. 'I didn't see you as a prejudiced sort Lisa. Killers don't have to be mindless fools you know.'
Lisa wondered momentarily if he was serious. His eyes were bright and bantering, but there was something else, something melancholy, in what he said, how he said it.
Suddenly, there was a loud thumping on the door.
Both of them jumped in fright.
Jackson instantly leaped from the bed, throwing Lisa's blouse at her.
'Quick. Put this on,' he said.
He sped into the bathroom.
She hurriedly dressed, her heart racing wildly. What was this urgency that had gripped him? Gripped her? Fear? Guilt?
Jackson re-emerged, pulling a thin black polo-neck sweater over his head as he walked. He was wearing black pants, which were still open at the flies.
Jackson gestured to Lisa to get into the bathroom. She was about to question why, when his finger darted to his lips, in an effort to silence her.
She took the hint, rushing into the bathroom. He closed the door behind her.
Alone, she listened intently for any sounds, any voices beyond the door. Maybe it was just room service? Or Maintenance, checking out the fire security systems? After all, she had asked them to perform a full systems check.
She could faintly hear Jackson open the door. There was a hushed burble of voices, and then the door closed. There was his voice, and another male voice, a deeper baritone who seemed to be doing most of the talking. Was it her imagination, or was this a tense exchange, judging by their occasionally raised intonations?
Lisa had her ear pressed so firmly against the bathroom door, she didn't notice that the floor was slippery from Jackson's shower. She lost her footing, and slipped heavily. She hauled herself off the floor, desperately clutching at the lavatory to steady herself.
She held her breath, aware that there was suddenly silence beyond the door. Had they heard her?
Jackson, she realized, had cracked a joke, because the baritone suddenly erupted into loud guffaws of laughter. Jackson followed this with what sounded like a farewell of some sort. The voices were moving away. Jackson had opened the door. The baritone was still rumbling on, punctuated by Jackson's brief interjections.
Lisa smiled. Even from here. Even though she couldn't make out the shape and content of their conversation, only the tone, she could still sense Jackson's growing impatience.
Finally the door closed. Lisa melted in relief.
Jackson immediately released her from the bathroom. He ignored her inquiring face, busying himself with ensuring all the contents of his briefcase were secured, before locking it shut.
'I'd better get back to work,' Lisa mumbled.
Jackson's face had become hard, impenetrable. She recognized with a cold shudder that this was his professional face, the face of the man she feared most.
Yet even while thinking this, it occurred to her that there was another Jackson too, who wore a different face; not even the slightly goofy, artlessly smooth charmer she had first met at Dallas airport, who now seemed to her a mere hologram, something elusive, shimmering, insubstantial. The reality was different, but somehow more intriguing; someone altogether more complex, a tangible, three-dimensional man, of whom she had only caught the tiniest glimpses.
All sympathetic feeling was swiftly brushed aside as Jackson roughly pushed past her to get into the bathroom where he grabbed his wash bag and the bundle of clothes he had removed to shower. He caught sight of her face in the mirror. Lisa cringed when she saw that his eyes had emptied of all warmth, all feeling … she must have been imagining things.
'You'd best stay here. Wait till I'm gone.' Jackson quickly checked his hair in the mirror, smoothing it flat with his palms. 'And don't try to follow. I'm about to disappear,' he added.
He turned round. 'Cheer up,' he said coldly. 'You've got a face like a wet weekend.'
He barged past her again. He removed a small leather suitcase from the luggage rack. He opened it, placing the wash bag and the clothes inside, then in one slick movement he zipped the case shut.
He scanned the bedclothes, seeking the needle he'd used to stitch Lisa's wound. He plucked it from the bed covers, placing it on the bedside table. He put Lisa's bloody swab into the trashcan.
An ideal guest, Lisa mused. And so like Jackson Rippner. Dapper. Meticulous. Emotionally frigid.
He was ready to go. Except …
'You've forgotten your shoes,' Lisa said, pointing at his feet, which looked strangely naked in gray socks alone.
Jackson's face darkened. 'Don't be so fucking stupid,' he spat out.
He grabbed his shoes, which were parked underneath the bed, and with his back to Lisa, he sat down and leaned over to put them on.
He stood up, grabbed his bags and moved towards the door. He paused, turning to her.
'Well Lisa. I won't be bothering you again,' he said.
Lisa wanted to say something, anything, which demonstrated her happiness at this situation, but she felt frozen, oddly perturbed by the finality of his tone.
There was something amiss.
Jackson looked irritated. 'You could at least smile,' he said.
Lisa flashed him a deliberately false smile. She folded her arms tight against her chest.
'Anyway. I can't say I'll miss you. You're a nice enough girl Lisa, but frankly, you're exhausting,' Jackson added with a grimace.
'You're lying,' Lisa said impetuously.
'I don't lie,' Jackson said.
'Yes you do. Your entire life's a lie. A cold, miserable, pathetic lie.'
Jackson's eyes burned dangerously. A muscle twitched angrily in his cheek.
Lisa took a sharp intake of breath, her eyes round as saucers. Had she finally gone too far?
To her relief, Jackson snapped his eyes away from her searching gaze and opened the door. 'Goodbye Lisa,' he said, and he was gone.
Lisa briefly wondered if she should quickly call Eric, order security to stop him before he left the hotel. But the mere thought fatigued her.
Now he'd gone. Now that he'd left her life, for good it seemed, she waited for the resultant surge of relief.
But it didn't come.
She stumbled to the bed, collapsing heavily onto it. She slumped diagonally, limbs splayed in all directions, and shut her eyes tightly.
Minutes passed.
The minutes stretched to an hour. She was still unable to get up, pull herself together, get back to the business of everyday life, of running this hotel.
Yes. He was right. It, they, this whole crazy encounter, was utterly exhausting. She should be glad it was all over. That she had survived.
Yet everything felt so …. Unresolved.
Sure. Jackson was still at large. He was still deadly. Still likely to kill her, if the whim so took him. That was the material point.
Like the Fierce Man of Bone, maybe he wouldn't be able to help himself.
But she was curious too. More than curious.
She still badly wanted to know who he really was.
One thing was for certain; Jackson wasn't just a cheap gun for hire, a Mafiosi-style henchman. There was more, much more to learn. Of that she was sure.
And he'd inadvertently given her a major clue. Gordon Buckley, the former occupant of Room 3111, had attended the Global Finance conference, and he had clearly met Jackson there. Perhaps Buckley would be able to recall exactly how he had met Jackson. Was Jackson representing someone, some company? Or was he simply a freewheeling delegate, feigning interest in Buckley's affairs? And if so, why?
One thing was certain. Tomorrow she would be visiting Mr Buckley. She would try to extract the truth, muster as much information as possible, and then she, Lisa Reisert, would track down Jackson Rippner.
The stalked would become the stalker.
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The Real Deal