Wake Up Dead by Roger Smith

rest of the house. Hated the thought of those filthy bodies in the pink room. She didn’t know how long she lay there, but every second was another second of life. At least her brains weren’t part of the pattern on the carpet.
    Mr. Handsome came in, Joe’s laptop slung over his shoulder and a DVD player under one arm. “So, I see you again tomorrow, okay?”
    “Yes.”
    “You stay beautiful, hear me?” He tipped her a wink and walked out.
    The ugly man returned and stood over her with the gun. She looked up in time to see him reverse his grip, swing his arm back, and bring the butt down. The blow took her above her
right ear, and she crumpled, as blood sprang vivid on the carpet beneath her.
    Roxy lay stunned, bleeding.
    Heard doors slamming and the car driving away.
     
     
     
    THE LONG CAPE Town twilight slowly turned the sky to velvet as Billy Afrika parked across from the house that hung like bird shit from the cliff in Bantry Bay. He saw the high walls, the electric fence, and the wooden gates standing open onto a short brick driveway. Most of the structure was below the level of the cliff, but he’d checked out the house as he drove along the road that snaked its way along the coast, far below.
    Joe Palmer had done well out of his blood money.
    Billy’s cop connection over at Bellwood South had come through with more than this address. Also told Billy that the widow, Roxanne Palmer, had been called in earlier that day for a lineup. Ernie Maggott had pulled in two White City punks: a 26 and a tik head. The woman hadn’t made an ID, and the men were kicked loose. So she should be inside now, the grieving widow.
    Billy Afrika had heard of her, Joe Palmer’s trophy wife. The American model. But he’d never met her. Time to change that.
    There was no sign of movement in the house, and no lights burned as darkness crept up the mountain. But the gates were open. Billy left the car and crossed the road. As he neared the gates he could see they were trying to close, humming and clicking on their tracks, making small movements toward each other, then retreating, like nervous dancers.
    He walked to the front door and knocked. Knocked again. Reached out and tried the door. It opened. He stepped inside the house. He’d been a cop long enough to recognize the aftermath of a home invasion. In the fading light he saw a tangle of wires where the TV and stereo should have been. Empty shelves. Books, CDs and DVDs littering the floor.
    The Glock was in his hand. “Mrs. Palmer?”
    No answer. He scanned the lower level, then followed the Glock barrel up the stairs. A few closed doors. One door open at the end of the corridor. Billy paused in the doorway, saw the overturned chair, closets gaping and drawers yanked and thrown onto the floor. He saw a blonde woman lying beside the bed, hands and legs bound behind her back. There was blood in her hair and on the carpet beneath her head.
    Her eyes were closed, and she wasn’t moving.
    Billy almost turned on his heel and got the hell out of there. Stopped himself.
    He crouched down and was about to touch her neck to feel for a pulse when her eyes flickered and opened.

chapter 12
    A MAN WAS KNEELING OVER HER, GUN IN HAND.
    Another brown man. Another gun.
    “If you’re here to rip me off, you’re too fucking late.” The tremor in her voice ruined her attempt at bravado.
    The gun disappeared into the waistband of his jeans. “Take it easy. I worked for your husband.”
    That local accent, but watered down. And a slow delivery, unlike so many of these people who sounded like jackhammers on speed.
    He untied her wrists and ankles. “You okay?”
    “Hey, I’m golden.”
    She stood, felt faint, and sat down on the bed. The brown man stretched across and switched on the bedside lamp. She saw he had eyes the color of pale emeralds. Beautiful eyes.
    “Want me to call an ambulance?”
    “No.”
    Roxy looked into those green eyes but saw the paramedics
standing up from Joe’s