Free Shot on Location by Helen Nielsen Page B

forgotten the cigarette in his hand. When it began to burn his fingers he stubbed it out in the tray. Turning back towards Rhona he could see her face clearly in the window light, anxious and waiting for his reassurance.
    “You look almost the same as when I left you,” he said.
    “Almost?”
    “More poised—worldly.”
    She found the right word. “I’m tougher,” she said, “and so are you. And I’m a better actress than I ever was. Brad, look. Do you see this bracelet I’m wearing? It’s worth at least five thousand dollars. I’m short of cash so I sneaked downstairs this afternoon and took it out of the hotel safe. I’m going to give it to you as a retainer. It’s yours whether or not you find Harry. There’s just one thing you must promise me. If you find him—dead or alive—you must call me, personally, and tell me about it before anyone else knows. And you must keep all of Harry’s things: his cameras and films, his watch, his glasses—every single item of personal property that you can find—and return them to me. I don’t trust the police in these little countries, and I don’t want Brooks Martins messing around with Harry’s property. I want every single item—even a scrap of paper.”
    The computer in Brad’s head was working fine now.
    “What are you missing?” he asked. “What did Harry have on him that you need?”
    “You’re very clever,” she said.
    “Considering what I’ve been doing for the last few years, I had to have some intelligence to stay alive. It’s easier to find something if you know what you’re looking for. You want me to find Harry and what else?”
    She averted her face. She was working on the catch of the bracelet. “I can’t tell you, Brad. It’s personal. You’ll have to trust me.” She removed the bracelet and held it up to the light. “I could give you our car,” she mused, “but David would miss it and get suspicious. I don’t want David to know what you’re doing. I don’t want anyone to know. You’ll have to rent a car.”
    “I don’t know the roads.”
    “Hire a chauffeur. I do have a little cash in my room. I’ll put it in an envelope with your name on it and send it down to the desk with the porter.”
    “I don’t need the money,” Brad said, “and I don’t have time for this sort of thing. I should get back to London.”
    She smiled knowingly. “You have time,” she said. “Anyway, I’ll send down the envelope and the picture of Harry’s old church. He’s in trouble, Brad. You were friends once, no matter what he’s done, or what you think he’s done to you. I told you that I had to trust someone.”
    He leaned back against the pillow and closed his eyes. Finding Harry was what he had come so far to do; Rhona was just making the search easier for him. He would go, but he wanted to think without distraction. He feigned sleep. She stirred beside him and drew closer. One hand touched his cheek. “It was always good with us,” she whispered. “Remember, Brad?” He didn’t respond. It was better to let her think he was sleeping. Too much had happened too soon, and he was getting a peculiar gut feeling that something was wrong: the way a foot soldier feels, approaching a mined area.
    Then he did sleep, so soundly that he never heard her leave the bed or the room. It was daylight streaming in through the windows that finally awakened him, and by that time the only momento of her visit was the bracelet, winking at him on her pillow.

Chapter Six
    IT WAS A little past seven when Brad arrived at the mail desk in the lobby. Rhona was as good as her word: the envelope addressed to Bradley Smith was waiting. Inside he found a small coloured picture of an old church that seemed to grow out of the mountains, and four fifty-dollar bills. He asked the clerk for a manila envelope, addressed it to himself, placed the bracelet inside the envelope and had it locked in the hotel safe.
    He was travelling light: the new raincoat and a