Judgement and Wrath

by Matt Hilton

  With a flourish the killer swept his hand out. The man flinched, but then saw what Dantalion was holding. A book, attached to his body by a silver chain. With a thumb, he flicked open the book. He rifled through the pages, displaying rows of numbers.

  ‘They’re all listed,’ Dantalion said. ‘The names numbered. Each correspond to a different person I have killed. Do you know how many there are in this book?’

  The man shook his head.

  Dantalion neglected to enlighten him. The plethora of handwritten pages should be evidence enough.

  ‘I am still walking free,’ Dantalion said. ‘None of my clients has ever been tied to my work. Does that make you happy?’

  ‘I’m happy.’ The man stuffed his hands into the pockets of his linen jacket, scrunching the cloth between his sweating palms. He took a discreet step away. He glanced around at the men near the statue.

  ‘The alternative is I walk away,’ offered Dantalion. ‘The downside of that is, well, you’ve seen me. You can identify me. If you aren’t happy, you’d best set your dogs on me now.’

  Out on Biscayne Bay a speed boat swept by, throwing out a phosphorescent spray in its wake. Music drifted on the air from the nearby Hard Rock Café. Strolling couples talked in low murmurs. The fountain danced to life amidst a chorus of wonder from the gathered tourists. It was a strange setting for the stand-off that Dantalion had just offered.

  Finally the man turned and walked away. Over his shoulder, he said, ‘I understand your terms, and I trust you. I’m happy, OK?’

  Deal done, Dantalion stood up. He straightened his long coat over his lean frame, adjusted his hat. The two men over by the amphitheatre were watching him with their jaws set. Dantalion flicked the brim of his hat at them – just to let them know.

  4

  It was hot in Miami. But that was OK. I was enjoying the sun on my face and making the most of the sightseeing opportunity. Other times I’d been in Miami, I’d got off a plane, then hightailed it elsewhere. Breezing along the causeway in my Ford Explorer, I had the AC on high, and a John Lee Hooker CD belting out of the surround speakers. My idea of cool.

  Interstate I-95 connects Miami Beach with the mainland. Straddling Biscayne Bay, it’s the main route on to the island, and at this time of the day it was relatively free of traffic in both directions. Sometimes people refer to Miami and Miami Beach in the same breath, but Miami Beach is a city in its own right, a distinct municipality of Dade County. I was heading for the South Beach area – again not just a beach, but an urban sprawl – which was regarded as an affluent area these days. Considered one of the richest commercial areas now, it had suffered from urban blight prior to the fame lavished on it by the TV show Miami Vice. I knew it was just a veneer: in SoBe, as it was known, poverty and crime were still rife, just a kick in the ass away.

  Cutting across the city, I picked up Washington Avenue and followed it south until I saw the Portofino Tower, a huge terracotta-coloured edifice that Rink had told me about. Here I swung west, back towards the marina overlooking Baker Island. There’s no road across to Baker Island; the rich and famous demand privacy. The only way across was by boat or helicopter.

  Once the Vanderbilts owned exclusive rights to the island, but after it was sold for development in the 1960s more than two hundred homes had been erected on the man-made land. It still remained exclusive to the super-rich set, and once had equalled nearby Fisher Island as one of the richest per-capita locations in the USA. Maybe it still did. The northern portion of the island was barely settled, but in the south-west it was well developed with mega-homes. That was where I hoped to locate Marianne Dean.

  Jumping a ride over on a water taxi, I arrived at the island among a group of giggling teenagers. It was handy, because there were a couple of bodyguards within the group, and I blended in with the stern-faced men who watched me as though I was a challenge to their employment. Once I was back on dry land, I hired what looked like a beach buggy and drove the short way over to yet another marina on the south-west shore. There, Tiffany, my real estate agent, passed over the keys to the condominium I’d leased. The week-long rental had already snatched a significant portion of the twenty K Richard Dean had supplied, but I wasn’t there because of the money.

  My prime concern was getting Marianne Dean to a safe place. Richard Dean had painted a pretty ugly picture of Bradley Jorgenson and the way he treated the girl, but there was something about the man’s motivation that was giving me cause to question how I’d complete my task. Dean wanted Bradley stopped – no longer a threat to him or any of his family – and I knew exactly what he meant by that. He didn’t strike me as the overly affectionate type of father and he seemed more concerned with punishing Bradley than with getting Marianne home.

  From the balcony of the condo, I looked over a circular swimming pool, which in turn looked over a palm-fringed garden and down on to the marina. Yachts and motor cruisers seemed to be the preferred mode of transport here.

  To my left was the house that Jorgenson had leased for the summer. He had his permanent place of residence up the coast at Neptune Island and a boat moored at Puerto Banus, in Spain, but this was my best chance for getting Marianne away from him.

  I was there on a scouting mission. Rink would join me later after he’d finished a little business of his own in Tampa. Dressed in shades, a short-sleeved cotton shirt and Bermuda shorts, I set myself up on the private balcony. A glance over the rail and I could see beautiful bikini-clad women frolicking in next door’s pool. The deckchair was comfortable and the beer cold; it was mind-numbingly boring on stakeout, but someone had to do it.

  By the time the sun started to set, the bathers had disappeared inside and my beer had grown warm. Even the executive-class sun lounger was beginning to feel like a torture device. The sunset made up for some of my chagrin, though. It was spectacular, setting Miami city and Biscayne Bay aflame with bronze and gold highlights.

  Also, as if he was a vampire out of lore, Jorgenson made his first appearance.

  In a cream linen suit, his reddish hair slicked back, and a mobile phone to his ear, he wandered out on the tiled area next to his pool. The water was like a mirror, reflecting his downcast face. Bradley didn’t seem very happy.

  ‘I’ve told you,’ he grunted into his phone. ‘Over and over again. No! When is that going to sink into your stupid fucking head?’

  Whoever he was speaking to must have pleaded their case. As he listened, Jorgenson chewed his lips, and even from my high vantage above him I could hear the rasp of his breath.

  ‘You know what I should do to you?’ Jorgenson suddenly shouted. ‘I should have you …’ His voice faltered, and his gaze nervously searched for unseen watchers. His dark eyes flicked my way, but I’d already moved back out of sight. His next words were whispered and I couldn’t hear what was said. But I heard the snap of his phone as he closed it. Then followed the clop of leather heels as he hurried inside. More shouting ensued but it was muffled, then there was a crash, and – I’m pretty sure – a woman’s voice crying out.

  I’d made up my mind already, but the man’s words and actions only served to confirm that. Jorgenson was a bully. And anyone who knows Joe Hunter knows I can’t abide bullies.

  My plan didn’t extend to walking up to his front door and ringing the bell, but at that moment I felt the urge to get on the move. It was the stirring of anger that always drove me to violent conclusions. Rink has accused me of getting a kick out of the violence. But I don’t. I only want peace. The problem is, I want that peace to extend to everyone, so if it means cracking the skulls of those causing the rot in the world, then so be it. As a counterterrorism soldier my career was dictated and channelled towards specific targets. Now, free to roam, I could pick and choose who needed sorting. And I’d decided: Bradley Jorgenson required setting right on a point or two.

  Despite the glitz and riches, Marianne Dean had to be very unhappy. I’d seen it many, many times before: a woman giving up everything for the m
an she loves. She will take the beatings and humiliation, won’t reach out for help, because, underneath it all, he loves her. It must be her own fault.

  Domestic violence is a curse on society. Most times it stays hidden, but even when a woman is brave enough to come forward and report what is happening behind closed doors, the finger of blame can be pointed back at her. What was she doing to push her man to hurting her? Likely she got exactly what she deserved!

  But I wasn’t from that school of thought.

  The way I look at it, men who hurt women are only a step lower on the ladder of shame than those who hurt children. Sometimes there is no distinction between the two. Marianne had blossomed into a beautiful young woman, but she still remained the shy child captured in that school portrait less than a year ago. Likely she wouldn’t thank me for saying so, but to me, Marianne was still a baby. Suddenly I could understand her father’s vitriol, his desire to see Jorgenson dead.

  In the past I’ve been accused of many things. Some have called me a vigilante. Fair enough, I can live with that. But I don’t see things the same way. I prefer to be seen as someone who can help. When the full weight of the law can’t do anything, well then, that’s where I step up. I don’t take the law into my own hands. Not as such, not when the law doesn’t extend to what is occasionally required.

  The thing that stopped me approaching Jorgenson right that instant was one undeniable truth. I still hadn’t seen Marianne. I’d no way of knowing if she was even inside the house. Introducing myself to her violent beau at this stage could mean that I never saw her again.

  Better to wait, then.

  There would be a time for entering that house, but it would be later, under the cover of darkness and with Rink watching my back.

  Jorgenson – notwithstanding his sudden rise to prominence as one of Florida’s social elite – was third-generation money. His grandfather had come over from Europe in the late 1950s. He brought with him a pharmaceutical supply company that rocketed along with the post-World War II financial boom. The Korean and Vietnamese conflicts didn’t do any harm either, and set Jorgenson’s father, Valentin, at the helm of an industry driven by military contracts that were fed by Desert Storm and the more recent campaigns in Iraq and Afghanistan. With his father ailing, Bradley was now poised to step up and take the reins. He was the face of twenty-first century consumerism.

  My worry, and this was possibly due to my doubts regarding the man’s character, was that he was living a lifestyle usually associated with another kind of pharmaceutical. Those that don’t come with a prescription.

  Two could play to those rules. Whatever he was peddling, I had a painkiller of my own.

  I reached for my SIG Sauer.

  5

  As a child of the Mississippi Delta lands, Dantalion had been raised on the myths and legends surrounding haunted groves and magical ceremonies performed by High Priestesses of Voodoo. Louisiana Voodoo, Haitian Vodou or West African Vodun in its generic form, had all appealed to the fertile mind of a child with too much time on his hands. From an early age he had eagerly grasped at tales of spells and enchantment, of living dead men, and ritual sacrifice. But in his early teens, he left all that nonsense behind. He turned his attention to other legends, in particular a story everyone knows, though their take on the Fall from Grace was normally mired in the dogma preached by the Church.

  How could this impressionable youth not seize on the notion of angels, when his alabaster skin and ice-blue eyes had singled him out and set him above all the other human cattle? His earliest recollection had been of his momma cooing that he was her little angel. They were fond memories. Next came the bullies at school stripping him to see if his wings had been cut down to stumps, then beating the shit out of him when their suspicions had proved wrong. They were fond memories too, which confirmed in his mind that he was better than them. Encouraged him to embrace the reality. The Fallen did not have wings. They were seared from their backs when God cast them into the flames of Hell.

  In the subdued darkness of his hotel room in the SoBe district of Miami Beach, Dantalion was not concerned about the stares he received in day-to-day life. In this enlightened age, people were more sensitive to the feelings of others. Still, people passing him in the street couldn’t help the involuntary flicker of their eyes as they tried to probe beneath his coverings, seeking out what the hell he was.

  They were ignorant of his condition. Most assumed that he was an albino, but that was not the case. Vitiligo is an acquired disorder distinguished by patches of depigmented skin. Ordinarily people with vitiligo lack melanin in the epidermis, and form patches of milky- or chalky-white skin. In extreme cases – as in Dantalion’s – the hair and retina of the eye are also affected. Various treatments are available, but in cases where depigmentation affects more than half of the body, a bleaching agent named monobenzone is applied to the normal skin to match it with the paler areas. It is not usually debilitating, but the skin can become more sensitive to the sun. Occasionally, dermatitis can be a side effect of the treatment. As long as he remained covered he was in no danger, and thankfully it was only patches on his hands and face that required hydrocortisone creams. Ingestion of immuno-modulating drugs also formed a necessary precaution, though the risk to his bone density was a potential and serious side effect he could do without.

  In this room, though, with the dimmer switch turned to its lowest setting, he felt at peace. He was stripped to the waist, his body faintly luminous against the darkness. He had disdained his dark glasses in order to see what he was writing in his book.

  He had people to kill.

  He was confident in his abilities.

  When he chose to kill, there was only one outcome.

  He was so confident that he’d already assigned the numbers. Two new figures he jotted down. They were for starters; there were always others he could add if he so wished.

  6

  Watching the boats sailing into the marina, I was acutely aware that nothing was getting done. The buzz of adrenalin I’d experienced earlier was wearing off, and I was beginning to get a slightly nauseous feeling in my gut. The beer I’d drunk on an empty stomach wasn’t the best idea I’d ever had. There was no public restaurant on the island that I was aware of and I was starving.

  Rink was due soon, though, so I sent him a text requesting a detour to the nearest fast food joint for something substantial. He replied, ‘YUR GONNA GET FAT!’ So I told him: ‘I’D PREFER A CHEESEBURGER.’

  Told you stakeouts were boring.

  With nothing for it, I returned to my recliner and sat watching the adjoining property. Things were silent in the household now, but I knew that Jorgenson hadn’t left. His personal boat was moored to the peninsula jutting out into the seaward end of the marina directly at the foot of his garden. Assuming that Marianne was with him, my best course of action was to sit and wait. To kill time, I again took out my SIG and for about the fourth time that evening I stripped it down and cleaned it.

  That done, I went inside and shucked out of my shorts, pulling on a pair of black jeans and sweater. Carrying my boots on to the balcony, I laced them up while glancing down into the pool area of Jorgenson’s property. I’d only been gone seconds, but already the tableau had changed. A woman was moving through the garden, her arms folded beneath her breasts. Her light brown hair was pulled up in a knot and was pinned in place to the back of her head. In pale blue cardigan and blue jeans she looked more like the girl in the school photograph. Even without a good look at her face, I was pretty sure that it was Marianne Dean.

  She seemed lost in thought. Singing softly to herself. Was it a sad song?

  Quickly I let myself back into my condominium and took the steps to the lower level two at a time. I exited into the garden nonchalantly, whistling loudly to myself as though I was unaware of the woman on the other side of the palm-fringed border which was all that separated us. Armed with a net, I approached the swimming pool and began scooping bugs and non-existent wi
ndblown dross from the surface. The woman must have heard me come outside, and I sensed that she was watching me from between the palm fronds.

  I kept up the charade just long enough to make it look natural, then swung round to place the results of my labour on the garden. Widening my eyes, stepping back, I said, ‘Oh! Sorry. Didn’t see you there. I hope my whistling didn’t disturb you?’

  Marianne seemed amused. She shook her head. ‘I didn’t know we had neighbours,’ she said. ‘Maybe it’s us who should apologise about the noise.’

  Approaching so that I was leaning through the fronds, I offered her my most disarming face. Studying her features, I couldn’t make out any signs that Bradley had been up to his old tricks. ‘Just arrived. I haven’t heard anything.’

  Her lips pinched momentarily and I wondered what had flitted through her mind. ‘I had some girlfriends over earlier. They behaved like kids. We had to send them home before they had us run off the island.’

  Nodding at her wisdom, I said, ‘Beautiful island, isn’t it? Wish I could live here all the time.’

  ‘Yeah,’ she said, her features smoothing out.

  ‘I’m only here for a few days,’ I told her. ‘Couldn’t afford this lifestyle all year round. As much as I’d like to. What about you? That your parents’ place?’

  ‘No.’ She didn’t expand. There was an uncomfortable second or two. To fill it, I stuck out my hand. ‘Sorry, I’m being rude. Name’s Joe.’

  Her arms were still tucked tight beneath her breasts and it didn’t look like she was going to accept my proffered hand of friendship. Her glance skipped towards the house. But then she leaned forwards and shook my hand gently.

  ‘Mari,’ she said.

  ‘Nice to meet you, Mari,’ I said. Mari, not Marianne. The little girl all grown up and demanding her place in the world. Demanding individuality.