The Columbus Affair: A Novel

Three PNR officers emerged.

Keep you here.

Now he knew why.

They might escape out the back, but the chances of making it to the Range Rover and leaving, without attracting the police’s attention, seemed slim. No. These three had to leave on their own.

“Listen to me, senor,” he said to the curator. To make his point he pressed the gun tighter into the neck. “I will be right over there, just down that hall. I want you to send these police away. Tell them we left. We headed west, out of town, in a Mercedes coupe. Yellow-colored. You hear that?”

The man nodded.

“If you so much as twitch, I will shoot you dead, then them. If you say one word that hints at trouble, I will shoot you dead. Comprende?”

Another nod.

“And know this. If you do what I tell you, not only will you still be breathing with no holes in your body, but I’ll double that $500 you took.”

“Si. Si.”

He released his hold and backed away from the window, but not before catching a last glance as the three uniformed officers drew close to the front door. He shrank into the corridor and carefully peered around the edge.

The curator seemed to be grabbing hold of himself. Bene hoped the promise of more money would keep the lying bastard from doing anything stupid. He meant what he’d said. He’d kill them all, but preferred not to. To make his point, when the Cuban tossed a nervous glance his way he displayed the gun, aimed straight at him.

The locked front door’s knob jiggled.

Then, a knock.

The curator answered, and the three officers entered. Each was armed with holstered guns. Interesting, since Bene could recall seeing many of the state police before, but none with weapons. He wondered how much the Simon was paying for this special service.

He kept his own weapon ready.

Behind him he caught movement and saw Tre appear in the doorway. He quickly gestured with his hand for him to stay there and be quiet.

Halliburton nodded and disappeared back into the room.

He listened as the officers asked about two men, one black, the other white, from Jamaica, come to see the museum. The curator said they had been here, but they left suddenly. He tried to stop them, but they would not listen. They drove out of town, headed west in a yellow Mercedes, maybe ten minutes ago.

He liked that last part. Nice touch. That meant they were catchable.

The policemen, though, seemed not in a hurry to leave.

One sauntered around the displays.

Bene wasn’t sure if the interest was genuine or feigned. Did he sense a lie? The other two remained near the front door. The curator stood silent, watching all three. The one officer approached dangerously close to the hallway. Bene shrank back, the gun pointed skyward, its barrel just below his nose, finger tight on the trigger. He could not risk a look. He held his breath, closed his eyes, and focused on the footfalls from the plank floor as the officer strolled the room.

“What is back down that way?” he heard one of them ask.

“Storage rooms. Nothing there. We get few visitors this time of year.”

A few moments of silence passed.

More footfalls, toward him.

Then, away.

He exhaled and glanced around the corner’s edge. All three policemen were at the front door. The curator was thanking them for coming, his voice calm.

They left.

He came back into view and hustled to the door, locking it. He stared out a window and saw the officers trotting to their cars. He heard engines rev and watched as they sped away. In an instant he pounced on the curator, slamming the man to the floor, stuffing the gun into an astonished face. Wide eyes stared back, the body beneath him frozen with fear.

“How long has the Simon owned this place?”

No answer.

“How long?” His voice was a shout.

“The family has paid for a long time. Senor Simon has been especially generous with us.”

“Did he tell you to call the police?”

The man shook his head, though the gun stayed close. “No. No. No. He tell me only to keep you here.”

Tre appeared from the hall. “Bene, my God, what are you doing—”