by Matt Hilton
It wasn’t the kind of atmosphere I wanted, so I led him round the back into a service alley. The smell of garbage rotting in a dumpster was more conducive to setting the scene. It kind of fitted my mood.
I felt like smashing him in the face there and then. But I didn’t. For all that Marianne had been an inconsequential pawn in his scheme, his daughter still loved him. I wasn’t going to hurt her by hurting her father.
Plus, he was a pathetic man when all was said and done. Beating him wouldn’t have proved anything.
‘When we first met I told you I wasn’t the man you were looking for,’ I said to him. ‘I told you I wasn’t a hit man. But that’s what you wanted.’
‘I only wanted my daughter back,’ he said, but his eyes told the lie.
‘No, Dean. You wanted your son back. But you knew that couldn’t happen. So you wanted the person you blamed for his death to die also. Sending me after your daughter was just an excuse. It was a way to get at Bradley Jorgenson.’
‘Bradley Jorgenson killed my boy.’
‘You’re wrong.’
I explained to him how Bradley opposed the military contracts, how he was working hard to make amends for the mistakes made by his predecessors. I explained how Marianne had brought all this about. How ultimately Stephen’s death had brought about the change. How he should be proud of all that his children had done. But my words fell on deaf ears.
He remained a bitter, twisted man who refused to see the truth.
‘You lied to me, Dean.’ I pulled out the photographs he’d falsely used to build his case against Bradley. Then I jammed them into his jacket. All but the one lifted from the police file. I pushed that under his nose. ‘I don’t know how you managed to get a hold of this – it doesn’t really matter – but I want you to take a good look at it. This girl loves you, Dean. And you did that to her.’
His eyes clouded as he looked at the photograph. I thought he’d accepted that his anger had been misguided. Of all the people in the world, Marianne should have been the last one he should strike out at.
‘She won’t be coming home,’ I told him. ‘But it was never really about getting Marianne back. You didn’t care what happened to her. All you cared about was that Bradley got hurt along the way.’
‘How do you expect me to feel? She was in bed with the man who killed my son,’ Dean said. ‘Marianne betrayed Stephen’s memory. She betrayed me.’
‘No, Dean, you betrayed her. I sympathise with the loss of your son. You blamed the Jorgensons for that, but losing your daughter I don’t sympathise with. That is all down to you.’
Dean blinked up at me, and I could see that his tears weren’t of shame; they were too bitter for that.
‘I paid you,’ he said. ‘You have to bring her back.’
Pulling an envelope from my pocket, I slapped it against his chest.
‘It’s all there. Every stinking cent of it.’ When he didn’t reach for it, I allowed the twenty thousand dollars to fall at his feet. ‘Take that as notice of my resignation,’ I said. ‘Effective immediately.’
‘You can’t back out. You gave your word.’ He set his jaw angrily. ‘You have to finish what you started.’
‘I just quit, Dean.’
‘Suit yourself,’ Dean hissed. He stooped quickly, grabbed the envelope and waved it in front of me. ‘I’ll send someone else …’
Grasping him by his jacket, I pushed him up against the alley wall.
I stared into his eyes. ‘A short time ago I killed a man who was trying to hurt Marianne. An old friend of mine told me he couldn’t advocate murder. I promised him it wouldn’t happen again. But, do you know something, Dean? I’m not sure I can keep that promise.’
Releasing him, I smoothed out his jacket. I fixed his tie. ‘Let it go, Dean. Let it all go.’
Then I left him to consider what would happen if he raised a finger to Marianne again. Or to Bradley.
I was twenty grand down, but it didn’t hurt too badly. While I’d been smoothing down Richard Dean’s jacket I took payment in another kind.
46
I found Marianne at Bradley Jorgenson’s hospital bedside. Bradley was sedated, his leg in splints and raised on some sort of pulley contraption. Marianne leaned close and kissed him on the forehead before she came to me.
We stepped out of Bradley’s private room and I looked down at her uptilted face. She was beautiful. But there was still a shadow of fear behind her eyes.
‘It’s over.’
‘How can you be so sure?’
‘Trust me.’
‘I do.’
I told her that the FBI was going to launch an investigation into the attempts on their lives. It was apparent that Petre Jorgenson had been the force behind the plot to have them murdered. He had also ordered the death of Caitlin Moore just because she had been instrumental in influencing Marianne, who had in turn influenced Bradley to cancel his involvement in military contracts. Petre Jorgenson couldn’t stand to lose his share of the billions of dollars those contracts meant. He’d preferred to lose family members instead. What no one was sure of was to what depths the plot had gone, and who else among the Jorgenson family had been involved. Jack and Simon were currently answering serious questions.
‘Any sniff of trouble, you let me know, OK?’
‘I will,’ she promised. ‘But what about …?’
‘Your father? He knows you won’t be coming home.’
‘He was happy with that?’
‘He sends his love,’ I lied. ‘He also sent you this.’
She held out her hand and I slipped her mother’s crucifix into her palm. It was looped on a silver chain.
Marianne studied the chain.
‘This isn’t mine.’
‘Souvenir for you,’ I said.
It was elegant and expensive. An antique piece of jewellery. It had once held the weight of a book containing thirty-six legions of spirits. The weight of the cross would easily balance that out.
Marianne looped it round her neck and lifted the cross between her fingers. She kissed it, and I saw the fear recede. Then she stood on tiptoes and pressed her lips to my cheek.
‘Thanks, Joe.’
All the gratitude I required. She turned away and re-entered Bradley’s room. I leaned against the wall next to the door. I could hear her humming something under her breath, the same song she’d been humming in the garden on Baker Island. Only this time it didn’t sound so sad.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENT AND THANKS
There are so many people I am grateful to this time that I’m sure to miss some of them out, but you know who you are, so thank you.
Special thanks go to Jim H, Richard G, Col B, Mark T, Stu H, all of whom have kept my creative juices bubbling in different ways.
As ever, huge thanks to Luigi and Alison Bonomi and all the team at LBA, without whom Joe Hunter wouldn’t be the same. Also to George Lucas at Inkwell Management, and to everyone at ILA, who champion my books throughout the world.
To Sue Fletcher, Swati and Eleni at Hodder and Stoughton, and to David Highfill, Gabe and Sharyn at William Morrow and Company, thank you for all your invaluable editorial advice and support.
Thanks also to Jacky and Val Hilton.
Matt Hilton
