Solomon Creed: The only thriller you need to read this year. Simon Toyne

      The only illumination in the room was coming from the TV. It was tuned to a local news station with the volume turned low. Carlos sat silently on the edge of one of the beds, his eyes fixed on the flickering screen as if he’d been hypnotized by it. He’d been like that ever since they’d walked in the door and heard what Papa Tío had to say. Mulcahy had seen that look a few times before: once in a jail cell outside of Chicago when he was still in uniform and Illinois still had the death penalty, and a couple of times since when he’d been the cause of it. It was the look someone got when they’d resigned themselves to whatever was coming their way, like a rabbit when the headlights were speeding towards it and there was no time to get out of the way.

      ‘You got a cell phone, either of you?’ Mulcahy asked.

      ‘Yeah, I got a phone.’ Javier said it like he’d just asked him if he had a dick or not. He held up a BlackBerry in a gold-and-crystal encrusted case, the blank screen angled towards Mulcahy. ‘I switched it off though, motherfucker. I ain’t stupid.’

      ‘Good for you. Who pays the bill?’

      ‘The fuck’s that got to do with anything?’

      ‘Because if Tío pays the bill then he’ll be able to track it whether it’s switched off or not. Does he pay the bill?’

      Javier didn’t answer, which was answer enough.

      Mulcahy nodded. ‘Then he knows where we’re at.’ He turned back and looked outside, squinting against the brightness. Beyond the reception building he could see the traffic out on the highway.

      He checked his own phone, making sure the Skype app was still running. Tío had said he was going to call some people then call him back, but that wasn’t why he was checking. His pop still hadn’t called.

      ‘How come your phone’s still switched on, pendejo?’

      Mulcahy stared out at the day, felt the heat of the outside burning through the window and the cool air from the ancient air-con unit blowing feebly against his legs.

      ‘I asked you a question, motherfucker.’

      He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. If he had to kill Javier in the next few minutes – which was entirely possible – it would definitely be the highlight of an otherwise shitty day. ‘Papa Tío doesn’t pay my bill,’ he said. ‘He doesn’t pay my bill, so he doesn’t know the number or the network, and I called him on Skype so it would take him at least a few hours to trace the call and I don’t plan on being here in two hours’ time. But the main reason I’ve still got it switched on is because he said he was going to call me back – on Skype – so if I switched my phone off he wouldn’t be able to. And if he couldn’t get hold of me he might get all suspicious and send a bunch of guys round to find out why I’d turned my phone off. And he’d know exactly where to find me because you’re too cheap to pay your own bill. That answer your question … motherfucker?’

      ‘Shit, man. Oh shit, shit.’ Carlos was rising to his feet and pointing at the TV.

      A shaky aerial shot of a big fire in the desert filled the screen. It wobbled unsteadily behind a caption saying: BREAKING NEWS – plane crash starts large wildfire outside Redemption, Az.

      ‘Where’s the remote?’ Javier had stopped pacing, his eyes fixed to the screen now. ‘Where’s the fuckin’ remote at?’ Carlos held it up. ‘Turn it up, man.’ Javier jabbed his finger at the screen.

      Carlos pointed the remote at the TV, nudged up the volume and the room filled with the sombre tones of someone reporting on something serious. Mulcahy stared at the twisted wreckage of the plane, fuel and desert burning all around it, catching snatches of what the reporter was saying:

      … believed to have been a vintage airliner … en route to the aircraft museum outside Redemption …

      This was not how it was supposed to happen. The plane crash was not in the script. It was most likely an accident, it was an old plane, old planes crashed more than new ones he imagined. Except Papa Tío didn’t believe in accidents. He didn’t believe in coincidences or apologies either. If something went wrong then there was always a reason and there was always someone who had to pay.

      And Tío hadn’t called back yet.

      And neither had his pop.

      He turned to study the traffic out on the road, a slow-flowing river of metal and glass, and felt envious of the safe little lives each car contained. He wanted to join them and slide away from here, but that wasn’t going to happen. He knew that as soon as he saw the truck ease off the road and up the ramp towards the motel. It was a Jeep Grand Cherokee, just like his. Black-tinted windows, just like his. It slowed to a stop at the top of the ramp by the reception building, but the two men inside showed no interest in going in. They were checking the parked cars, looking for someone.

      Looking for him.

       17

      Cassidy drove, Solomon sat in the passenger seat, his window wound right down so he could feel the wind on his face. It was an old car, leather seats, chrome trim, lots of space.

      Lincoln Continental Mark V, Solomon’s mind informed him.

      It was nicer than being in the ambulance, the leather seats and padded doors made the experience less synthetic, but he still didn’t like it.

      ‘Would you mind closing the window, the air-conditioning doesn’t work so well with it open.’

      Solomon pressed the button to raise the window. He was thinking about the church and the altar cross and the words written on the wall, all of it revolving around the remembered image of his reflected self, the stranger in the mirror, the big mystery at the centre of it all. The church was peculiar. Maybe that was why he felt an affinity to it. For a start it was way too big for a town this size, like it had been built as a declaration of something grand or maybe to compensate for something. The interior was odd too, the fresco more reminiscent of a medieval European basilica than a church from the Old West. And then there was the strange collection of memorabilia cluttering up the entrance like an afterthought.

      ‘Why have a mining exhibition in a church?’ he wondered out loud, his toes gripping the carpet as his sense of confinement started to gnaw at him.

      ‘Tourists,’ Cassidy replied, like he was cursing. ‘About a year back we moved some of the exhibits from the museum into the church to try and get more people through the door, on account of people being far more interested in treasure than God these days, and ain’t that a sorry state of affairs?’

      Solomon nodded and gripped the edge of his seat, trying to relax away his growing nausea.

      ‘A lot of folks thought it was inappropriate, said it’s not what the church is for. They cash the subsidy cheques the trusts give out, but they don’t want to think about where that money comes from. One of the joys of being mayor: all the grief and none of the credit. Like being a parent, I guess.’

      ‘You don’t have children?’

      ‘Never was blessed. Are you OK? You seem kind of uncomfortable.’

      ‘I’m fine,’ Solomon said. ‘Just don’t like being confined.’

      Cassidy looked across at him like he was afraid he might throw up in his nice antique car. ‘Leave the window open if it makes you happy.’

      ‘Thanks.’ Solomon opened it all the way down again and relished the wind on his face. It carried the smell of smoke with it now and he could see it ahead of them, a curtain of darkness spreading right across the sky with tiny figures and vehicles spread out in front of it. ‘Only those who face the fire,’ he murmured, ‘can hope to escape the inferno.’

      ‘You know who wrote that?’ Cassidy asked.

      Solomon dredged his mind and was surprised