by Matt Hilton
Marianne gave me a look that assured me that she had grown way beyond her years even before the terror at Baker Island.
'Love,' she said. 'It doesn't matter that he hurts me, I love him. How could I have him arrested and charged? It would destroy him. I couldn't live with that.'
'Men who hurt women don't deserve your love.'
'No, maybe they don't. But I can't help my feelings. I can't turn my back on him.'
There was a knock at the door. Jorgenson entered without waiting for a reply. When he saw my face he faltered. It took all my will not to grab him by the throat and throw him through the nearest wall. As it was I clenched a fist, considering that a gut punch wouldn't be out of order. Marianne saved him from punishment.
She hopped down off her perch and went to him. She hugged him, tilted up her face and he kissed her sweetly on the tip of her nose.
'You OK, babe?' he asked, giving me a hooded glance over the top of her head.
'I'm fine, honey.'
I had to turn away.
Love's blind, they say. Must also be an anaesthetic.
Rink came in the door, followed by Seagram.
'What's going on, Rink?'
'Been explaining to Bradley what we think is going on. About who could have sent the hit man after him. Bradley has agreed that we could be helpful in stopping him.'
'We're here for Marianne,' I reminded him.
'Marianne's with me,' Jorgenson said.
I nodded once, a curt lifting of my chin. He could see the anger in my face and wasn't so sure that it would be a good idea to piss me off.
He went on, more conciliatory, 'But Mari's safety is everything to me.' He said to her, 'If it's OK with you, babe, I'll let them stay.'
Marianne looked at me. Her confidant. 'I trust them.'
'Then we'll stay.' I looked across at Rink. Concern for his ailing mother must have been gnawing at him, but he agreed with a lift of his shoulders. Then I studied the room, the huge windows. 'This place isn't safe. We should move somewhere less vulnerable.'
Jorgenson followed my gaze. The view was phenomenal. Open sky and open sea. 'What's to fear?'
'Boat out on the water. Any half-decent sniper could shoot you from half a mile out,' I explained. 'But that isn't what I was meaning.'
'So what do you mean?'
Flicking a glance over Seagram, I said, 'Not now. We'll speak again later. First I want to get Marianne somewhere a little safer.'
'My room would be OK, wouldn't it?' Marianne volunteered. 'I've things I can be getting on with.'
'How many men have you got in the house?' I asked the question directly of Seagram.
He didn't have to think long. 'Eight including myself. Then there are five staff members.'
'Unlucky thirteen,' Rink offered.
'Round them all up, Seagram. Tell them that no one goes near Marianne until this is over.'
'Wait a second,' Seagram said. 'Who put you in charge? I'm head of security here. I decide what happens.'
'No,' Jorgenson put in. 'I decide what happens. Hunter is right. The man who tried to kill us last night was in disguise. He could be anyone. Who knows? He could already be in the house.'
'I know all of my men personally,' Seagram said in outrage. 'I can vouch for each and every one of them.'
'You care for your men,' I said. 'That's good. If you want to save their lives, you keep them the fuck away from Marianne's room. That goes for you as well.'
There wasn't anything subtle in the threat. It was a full-on challenge. I expected him to back down, and he did. He turned and walked away quickly. Back in the hall, I could hear him shouting angrily at his men. I paid him no further concern. Seagram was an asshole, and things would be much better if he kept out of the way.
'He can see to your personal safety, Jorgenson. I have no objections to that. But where Marianne is concerned, it's down to us. If you happen to be with her, then, so be it. We'll protect you too.'
'I'm seeing my legal advisers in an hour,' Jorgenson said. 'They've arranged a meeting with the police. I have to explain what happened at Baker Island.'
Complication.
'It's up to you, but I'd deny that I was there. You were here on Neptune last night, and Marianne was with you.'
'You expect me to lie?'
'For the time being.' Marianne was looking at me with her mouth partly open, wondering if she'd made the wrong decision in trusting me. I said to her, 'If the police believe that you were here, their investigation will be hampered, sure. But they aren't going to stop this killer. They aren't going to stop the person who hired him. All that will happen is that more strangers are allowed into your home. The killer could infiltrate the building and get at you. Also, it will be impossible to keep you out of harm's way if you have to go into Miami to be interviewed.'
Jorgenson jammed his hands into his trouser pockets. 'My father died. Shot dead in cold blood. How do you expect me to lie about that? I was there and saw the man who did it. So did Marianne. You did. We're all witnesses.'
Jorgenson stared at me, almost a mirror image of Marianne in his open-mouthed incredulity.
'You're right. But our eyewitness testimony isn't worth shit. The killer was in disguise. He will look nothing like the man we describe.'
'How do you know it was a disguise?'
'Something I saw but didn't realise at the time. There was a pale smear on his chin. At first I thought that it was dust, but I've been thinking about it since. I now think that he had darkened his skin. The pale patch was his natural colour. His hair isn't black either.' I remembered the person in the dark blue suit stumbling away from the wreckage of the house. At the time I thought it was an innocent caught up in the blast. I'd held back from shooting him for that very reason. 'The killer had black hair, but it had to have been a wig. Really he has longish blond hair.'
'So tell the police that.'
'Won't help.'
'The police will give us all the protection we need.'
'No, they'll only give the killer more opportunities to get at you. It's better that we do it my way. This man doesn't know that I survived the blast. He doesn't know about Rink. He isn't expecting us. We'll be able to get him.'
'What if you don't?' Marianne asked. 'What if he gets you first?'
'That's when you go to the police and tell them everything.'
18
Hobe Sound in Martin County, Florida, has a strange history. In the early quarter of the last century, the movie industry was big news in Florida. The goal of the Olympia Improvement Association was to develop Hobe Sound to build a permanent movie production centre and town in the style of Ancient Greece. For a short time, Hobe Sound was renamed Picture City. A hurricane in 1928 put paid to the plans, devastating the area and putting an end to the land boom, and the hopes of OIA came to nothing. Their legacy remained only in the names of the streets: Zeus, Saturn, Mercury, Apollo, Athena.
Strange names were nothing new to a man who went by the name of a fallen angel, but even he would have drawn the line at the Downtown Demeter Plaza. He was sitting on a terrace outside a coffee shop called Pots and Pans — complete with a welcome sign depicting a life-sized satyr blowing on a reed pipe, and the day's specials chalked across his midriff. Pan pipe music played from tinny speakers above the door, but it sounded more Peruvian than ancient Greek.
He put up with the place out of necessity. His associate had arranged the equipment for his assault on Neptune Island, and would deliver it here within the hour. In the meantime, he sat gritting his teeth, drinking coffee as strong as sump oil, and moving with the shadows under the parasol over his table.
It was late afternoon but it was still edging ninety degrees Fahrenheit, and under his voluminous coat sweat was trickling down the small of his back and pooling on the vinyl chair he was sitting on. He was uncomfortable and the wound in his thigh was screaming in protest. He wasn't very happy.
Banyan trees with their weirdly twisted trunks and branches blocked the tr
affic noise from nearby Athena Street. Against the harsh afternoon sunlight they looked like the silhouettes of deformed giants. The chatter of tourists and locals was muted, as if the heat leached all energy, making speech above a whisper too difficult.
He watched the people in the mall, conscious of the glances he received in turn. Here, under his parasol, he stood out like a candle flame in a dark pit. He didn't like being so visible, but at the end of the day he wasn't going to kill anyone here. So long as they turned off that damn piped music!
A fat man approached him. He had on wide flannel trousers and a black shirt with embroidered flames writhing up the sleeves. Sweat stood on his forehead like mountain dew. He carried a backpack. Dantalion acknowledged his associate. The fat man thought he controlled Dantalion, but Dantalion knew otherwise. He was simply the mule who carried Dantalion's supplies.
The man sat down, the chair legs squealing under his weight. He dropped the backpack at his feet, pushing it further under the table with a couple of none-too-subtle kicks. Dantalion hooked a strap with an ankle and pulled the bag the rest of the way. If felt heavy.
'You want coffee, Gabe?'
Gabe Wellborn swiped at his forehead with the palm of his hand, scattering droplets on the tablecloth. Dantalion scowled at the damp patches, then up at the man's sweaty face.
'Or would you prefer something a little colder?'
'Appreciate it, Dan.'
Dantalion beckoned to a waiter. The man came over as though he had all the time in the world and wasn't about to waste any of it.
'Coffee for me and whatever my friend is having.'
'Soda,' Gabe said. 'Ice. Lots of it.'
The waiter didn't bother scribbling the order into his book. Bad form, Dantalion thought. Then he wandered inside to fetch their drinks. He'd be back in about fifteen minutes, judging by his lack of urgency.
'You have what I asked for?'
Gabe nodded. 'In the bag. EMF meter. Gen-Three night-vision goggles. Sound suppressor and ammo for a ninety-two Beretta. Ketamine, plus delivery system, just as you asked.'
'Thank you.'
'Be careful, Dan. You're familiar with the suppressor and ammo; I don't have to tell you they're illegal. I wanted to bring the drugs to your attention. Ketamine's become the party drug of choice. If you're found with it, the police will have you down to the precinct quicker than you can think.'
'The police have never taken me before, Gabe, why the concern now? Any way, ketamine's an animal anaesthetic, isn't it?'
'Originally, yeah, but that doesn't stop crackheads shooting up with it. It's used these days as a human antidepressant, strictly prescription only. Has some serious hallucinogenic side effects if the wrong dosage is administered.'
'Don't worry, Gabe, I won't be using it on humans.'
'Mind if I ask you what you do want it for?'
'If I told you I'd have to kill you,' Dantalion quipped. From the shocked look on his face, Gabe didn't get the joke.
'That's your business, Dan. I just thought I could give you a nod on the correct dosages you'd need.'
'Enough will be enough.'
'Planning on a ghost hunt?' Gabe asked. 'Electromagnetic field meter. Night-vision goggles. They're standard equipment for paranormal researchers these days.'
'There might be a few ghosts around after I'm done,' Dantalion told him. 'Yours for one if you don't stop asking stupid questions.'
Gabe stopped the questions. He knew when to keep his mouth shut when he was around Dan-fucking-talion.
The waiter returned. He placed the drinks down on the table, slapped down the check. Dantalion scattered a few dollar bills in his direction. The man clucked his tongue. Reached for the notes. Dantalion resisted breaking his arm. That would make the lazy fucker a bit faster on his feet. When the waiter had retreated to a place where he could study his fingernails, Dantalion leaned towards Gabe.
'What's the latest news on Baker Island?'
'Rescue crews are still sifting through the wreckage. They haven't released official numbers — or names — of those they've found dead yet. There's a lot of media speculation, they're throwing names around like rice at a wedding. It's all guesswork cause they've nothing firm to go on. Bradley Jorgenson's refusing to speak to the police. I'm sure he'll be subpoenaed before long and then he'll have to come clean.'
Dantalion was engaged in lifting his coffee cup to his lips. Some of the coffee slopped down his coat, leaving a stain like a month-old knife wound. 'Wait a minute… Bradley Jorgenson 's refusing to speak?'
'Yeah, he's got some top-dollar attorneys holding off the cops with a verbal smokescreen. Of course that'll only go on so long; doesn't matter how much money he has, the police are conducting a homicide investigation and-'
Dantalion slammed down his cup.
'I killed Bradley Jorgenson,' Dantalion hissed. 'Have you forgotten, Gabe?'
Gabe blinked rapidly. He slumped backwards in his seat, gaining distance from the anticipated lunge he could see building in Dantalion. It never came. He hoped that Dantalion — despite his jokes — valued his associate's help too highly to give in to base anger. Emboldened by that assumption, Gabe said, 'Not according to CNN. They say that he's currently at his home on Neptune Island.'
'And the girl? Marianne Dean?'
'Yeah, she's with him.'
'Son of a bitch!'
Dantalion stood up swiftly. He ignored the pull in his wounded leg. Anger overrode the agony.
'I guess that's why the client was remiss in making payment?'
'I guess so,' Gabe said. 'Sorry, Dan. I thought you knew.'
'No, Gabe, I didn't know.' He reached into his pocket, toying with the spine of his book. Withdrew his fingers and wiped them on his coat. The book had lied to him. The numbers were all wrong. 'But it looks like I'm going to have to do something about that.'
So, Jorgenson and Marianne had both survived the explosion. As had the damn gunman who'd been sent to kill him. Now they were all making pow-wow at Neptune Island. Suddenly he wasn't so clear on how many enemies he was going to have to kill.
'You have access to a thermonuclear device, Gabe?'
Gabe sniggered. 'You're joking, right?'
'Do I look like someone with a sense of humour? There are a lot of people on Neptune Island about to die. Maybe every last one of them.'
Gabe gulped his soda in one continuous slurp. Smacking his lips, he said, 'Can't get you a nuclear missile, but call me if you need anything else, Dan.'
Dantalion stooped low, hooking the backpack with one hand.
'I've everything I need right here.'
He walked quickly away, leaving Gabe to sweat a lot more.
19
Jorgenson's people conducted a background check on us. Rink came back fine. He had a private investigator's licence and his business was registered at the address in Tampa. On the other hand, my own legend was a tad more difficult to come up with. I told them they'd just have to take my word for it. No one argued.
Jorgenson left with an entourage of vehicles, heading down to Miami Beach to meet with his legal advisers, and then with officers from Miami PD's homicide department. His father's body had been pulled from the wreckage, but unlike those on the ground floor, his corpse wasn't so burned or torn to shreds by the blast: it was obvious he'd been shot.
Marianne stayed with us. Just the way I wanted it.
Whatever it was that she had to get on with, she was doing it in her bedroom. I'd conducted a cursory sweep of the room, checking that an intruder couldn't gain access, and had told her to keep the blinds closed so she didn't offer a target to anyone outside.
'We should move her,' Rink told me. He'd said the same thing about a dozen times previously.
'I agree.' I'd also said the same thing numerous times.
'So what are we waiting for?'
'Marianne doesn't want to move.'
'So we convince her.'
'She won't budge. Despite everything, she loves Bradley.'
'While Bradley's outa the way, why not snatch Marianne, and have done with it?' Rink demanded. 'She'll get over it. When she comes to her senses and sees what an asshole he is.'
'Two things, Rink. We've made ourselves public coming here. Bradley would scream kidnap. We'd be hunted down by law enforcement, despite our good intentions. Plus, I'm beginning to think that Richard Dean hasn't told us everything. Neither has Marianne.'
'It's not safe here,' Rink said.
There were armed guards in the grounds, armed guards in the house, more CCTV cameras than the Big Brother house. But he was correct.
'I'll speak to her again,' I offered. 'But we have to respect her wishes, Rink. I know we're looking at her like she's a child, but she is eighteen years old. She has her own mind, and a right to make her own decisions.'
Rink rolled his shoulders. 'She isn't thinking with her head, though. She's smitten with Bradley. She's got herself into a position where she's afraid to walk away. She'll take the violence from him, twist it round, blame herself. Try harder to be the good little wife. You know how these things work.'
I did. I'd seen it too many times. Women too afraid to walk away for fear of losing everything they'd worked so hard to achieve. Not realising that whatever they did, they'd never be good enough. They'd be caught up in the circle of domestic violence that spun on through their lives until one day he wouldn't stop hitting her. Sometimes that was when the woman finally broke. She'd pick up a knife and jam it between her abuser's shoulder blades. Or the man would hit her too hard and that would be that. More women were killed by their intimate partners — or other family members — than by all the strangers or serial murderers in the world.
'I'll speak to her again,' I repeated.
