Honorable Assassin

by Jason Lord Case

  Honorable Assassin

  Book One of

  The MacMaster Chronicles

  a novel by

  Jason Lord Case

  ~~~

  Honorable Assassin

  Jason Lord Case

  Published by Red Petal Press at Smashwords.

  Copyright ©2010 Jason Lord Case

  All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.All rights reserved.

  Smashwords Edition, License Notes

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  ISBN: 978-0-9825616-2-1

  eISBN: 978-0-9825616-5-2

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events, and incidents are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  ~~~

  For my dear wife Sylvia,

  who still believes in me.

  I would like to thank my parents,

  David and Mary Case, who raised me to read,

  and my sister Mardou Case without whom this

  series would never have reached the press.

  ~~~

  Chapter One: Sydney

  Terry woke with needles in his arms and tubes running up his nose and his penis. He was groggy and weak. Sensors were attached to his chest and head, and there were bags of saline and other unknown liquids dripping into his veins. He had difficulty swallowing with the tube running down his throat; it gagged him. His eyelids felt like sandpaper and his skull throbbed with waves of pain and nausea. He did not recognize the room he was in, or the emaciated, corpse-like body in the bed next to his. He was terrified and started to cry, a reasonable reaction for an eight-year-old boy waking from a coma.

  His sobbing caused Terry to gag again on the tube in his throat and he reached up, grabbed the tube running up his nose, and pulled. The feeding tube slid up his esophagus and out through his sinuses. He needed to reset his grip twice to pull the entire length out. He almost vomited as he felt it slithering out of his stomach but did not, and was able to take a deep breath once it was clear.

  The tears stopped flowing as Terry’s memories began to return. He had no idea how he had gotten where he found himself. He remembered the long and boring ride to Sydney Harbor. He remembered his father checking the systems on his yacht before sailing from Berry’s Bay. His mother was stowing the supplies for the day and talking to somebody unknown on her huge mobile phone. He remembered how her golden hair shone in the midday sun, how she smiled at him and it lit up his world. There was the memory of his mother pointing out Elton John’s Sydney mansion. He did not know who Elton John was and thought she had said the name backward. Then they passed the Prime Minister’s house situated right after Neutral Bay.

  The beach at Shark Bay had been crowded with beautiful, suntanned bodies and Terry remembered thinking he would rather have been on the beach than on the boat but he had not said so. They had passed the red and white spike of the Hornby Lighthouse. He had always liked seeing the lighthouse; it let him know the day was over on the way back in, and that the land was behind them on the passage out. North Head was less visible on the other side of the harbor’s mouth.

  About 130 kilometers south was Comerong Bay, where they had sailed in and docked at Greenwell Point where Terry’s father had walked into the town to visit what he said was an old friend. Terry and his mother ate some lunch in the park right off the docks.

  The sensors on Terry’s chest began to itch as he lay in the hospital bed and he reached up and pulled them off. Suddenly, an alarm went off, a single, unwavering tone from the machine next to his bed. Panic began to set into Terry’s young mind and he thought about how much trouble he would be in for pulling the sensors off. His first thought was that he needed to get out of there. He pulled the needles out of the inside of his elbow and the back of his hand, throwing them on the floor and then tried to pull the catheter out of his penis. It would not come. He grabbed his penis with his left hand and the tube with his right and pulled as hard as he could but to no avail. The catheter would not budge. His struggles stopped as nurses began to run into the room in a state of disorder. They were all telling him to do, or not do, all sorts of different things. Terry released his hold on the tube and began crying again.

  The tests they put the young man through seemed interminable. Two days of CAT scans, PET scans EEGs, EKGs, sonograms, blood tests, urine tests, (Terry was very glad they had removed the catheter while he slept) reaction tests, vision tests, hearing tests and psychological exams. The boy began to get upset that nobody would tell him how he had gotten there, or where his parents were.

  “Do you know what year it is, Terry?” The psychologist was a beautiful young woman named Doctor Sherry Cherry who could disarm almost any man, short of a total sociopath. She was warm, friendly and beautiful, inviting confidences not easily shared.

  “Yes, it’s 1987. October of 1987.”

  “Close, dear. It’s actually November 3rd. The hospital staff did not know when you would wake up, that’s why we have you on the long term convalescent floor. We are all so happy to have you back.” Sherry’s lovely smile was genuine. She had not been in the field long enough to become jaded.

  “So, I was sleeping for a month?”

  “Technically, dear, you were in a coma. You came to us unconscious and stayed that way for 10 days. Do you remember what happened?”

  “I was sailing with Daddy and Mummy, down the coast. We stopped so Daddy could see someone.”

  “Do you know who you were stopping to see?”

  “Oh no. I didn’t see him. I ate lunch with Mummy in the park. She always liked that park. Me too.”

  “Do you remember the name of the park?”

  “Greenwell, Greenwell Point. I like that park because there is a hollow tree with a big place to hide. At least it used to be big. I couldn’t fit in it this time. Mummy said it’s because I am getting big.”

  “Indeed, you are a fine young lad, tall and strong.”

  Terry blushed at the praise. He was another of a hundred patients at Sydney’s Saint Vincent Public Hospital who was on the verge of falling in love with Sherry Cherry.

  “Do you remember what you did after lunch?”

  “No. That is, I think I took a nap. Daddy was visiting someone. Can I see Mummy?”

  “I’m afraid that will not be possible, Terry.”

  “They’re dead, aren’t they?”

  “What makes you say that, dear?”

  “If they were alive they would be here, with me.”

  “I’m sure they loved you very much.”

  “They are dead, aren’t they?”

  “Oh, sweetheart, I hope not. We don’t know where they are. We found you floating in the ocean near Cunjurong Point.”

  “Cunjurong Point? That’s all the way down by Mollymook. That’s a hundred kilometers from Comerong Bay. Greenwell Point is in Comerong Bay at the junction of the Shoalhaven and Crookhaven Rivers.”

  “My goodness. You certai
nly know your geography. I’ll bet one in a thousand grown men couldn’t have told me that.”

  “Daddy always insisted it is important to know where you are. If you don’t know where you are, how do you know where you are going?”

  “And do you know where you were going?”

  “No. Daddy didn’t tell me.”

  “Do you remember leaving Greenwell?”

  “No. I was eating lunch with Mummy and then I woke up. I was here. Can you call my house and see if they are home?” Terry’s eyes were beginning to well up with tears.

  “Of course I will. I called yesterday. I’ll call again today. I think we’ve talked enough today. We’ll have another little talk tomorrow, ok?” Sherry Cherry flashed him a dazzling smile and reached out to squeeze his shoulder. It did not bring a smile to Terry’s face but it stopped the tears.

  There were two plainclothes policemen in the hallway. A nurse escorted Terry back to his room and Ms. Cherry went to speak with the Inspectors. Within half an hour, Terry was asleep.

  The following day there was a kindly-looking, older gentleman in the room with Sherry Cherry. He introduced himself as Inspector Barlow. He wore a nice suit and his haircut was perfect. Though his hair was mostly grey, he was not going bald. His face was clean shaven. He asked most of the questions.

  “Do you mind if I call you Terry?” he asked.

  “No, that’s my name.”

  “All right, Terry. We have hundreds of men looking for your parents, but we have not found them yet. I need to ask you some questions about them so you can help us find them. You do wish to help us find them, don’t you?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “That’s a good boy. I must say you’re very mature for your age.”

  “Thank you, sir. Daddy always said it’s manners that separate the classes.”

  “A wise man. Tell me more about your father.”

  “Well, Inspector Barlow, my daddy is two meters tall and blond. He wears glasses for reading and smokes a pipe but only in the evening with his drink. He likes to have a drink of brandy on the veranda at the end of the day, when the sun goes down. He calls it his little vice.”

  “I see. He doesn’t drink a lot then?”

  “No, sir, he says more than one will mean he is a drunk. He doesn’t want to be a drunk.”

  “Very good, then. Tell me about the people who come to visit him. You know, his friends.”

  “Daddy doesn’t have a lot of friends. He plays golf with them, but they don’t come to the house much.”

  “So you don’t see many of his friends.”

  “No. Sometimes his brother will drop over from Molong.”

  “What is your uncle’s name?”

  “Uncle Ginger.”

  “And does Uncle Ginger look like your father?”

  “How could he look like my father?”

  “What I mean is does he look like he is your father’s brother.”

  “Well, I guess… I mean he is my father’s brother so who else could he look like?”

  “Could you describe him to us?”

  “He is a little shorter than Daddy, but he’s wider. He lost his hair on top, but he has a big red beard and his teeth are bad and his breath smells.”

  “I see. Is Ginger a nickname or is it his given name?”

  “I don’t know. He’s Uncle Ginger.”

  “Does Uncle Ginger have a nice place?”

  “He lives on a farm. He raises chickens and sheep and he has some grape fields. He grows his own feed for the sheep. I stayed with him for a couple of weeks last summer.”

  “Did you like staying there?”

  “No. Uncle Ginger made me work every day and he doesn’t have a telly. He doesn’t even have a telephone.”

  “Are there any other relatives?”

  “My mummy had a sister, but she’s crazy. They wouldn’t let her come over any more.”

  “I see. Terry, do you know what your father does for a living?”

  “Insurance.”

  “And he goes to work every day, does he?”

  “Some days. He says he has other people working for him so he doesn’t need to go to the office every day.”

  “Very good, then. I’m still confident we will find your parents alive and well. I want you to keep your chin up. You are very mature for 10 years old, and I must say you handle yourself very well.”

  “Eight. I’m eight,” Terry said, beaming with pride.

  “Only eight? Well, bless me. You are quite a little gentleman for eight years old. I’m going to leave now. I’m going to go looking for your father.”

  “If you find him, will you tell him I love him?”

  “Of course I will. Or perhaps we can bring him here and you can tell him yourself. Sherry, take good care of this boy, he is really quite special.”

  “I will, Inspector, he is one of my very favorite patients.” The smile was back on Sherry’s face as she began to ask questions about what he could remember.

  “I had a dream. I was on the grass in the park in Greenwell Point with Mummy. Daddy wasn’t there and then he was there. He was running and there was a monster chasing him.”

  “What did the monster look like?”

  “I couldn’t see it. Then I woke up.”

  “Inspector, were you able to glean any information from the child?”

  “Yes, Superintendent, I was. It seems George Kingston has a brother named Ginger in Molong. Child Services can look into that after we have a talk with him. We already knew he doesn’t conduct business from his home, but it seems there is a golf course he favors and conducts business there.”

  “Anything else?”

  “Miss Cherry tells us he still has no memory of what happened after the yacht left Greenwell. She seems confident that his memory will return, but that it may take a while. A traumatic event like that can shock the mind and remove the memory.”

  “Inform her that it is imperative that we find out what happened.”

  “Yes sir. I’ll call in a few minutes. She was still with him when I left the hospital. Is there any more information I can use?”

  “Nothing substantial. Yes, he owns the insurance company in Orange, The Kingston Agency. A subsidiary of the Helping Hands Insurance Corporation. It seems the books are in good order and the Agency makes a good profit but nothing that allows a man to buy a yacht. His home was shut down as if he expected to be gone for some time. The furnace and air conditioning was shut off. The hot water heater was turned way down. What man does that for a day off?”

  “So he wasn’t planning to come back for a while, and he has an alternate source of income. Have we gone through his personal books, bank records?”

  “I have a woman looking into them now. I’ll have her report whatever she finds to you. I think he is a very careful individual, but he needed to finance that purchase somewhere. There is a safe in his home and we will be getting authorization to open it soon. I don’t think we will find much inside but it is worth a look.”

  “Very well then. I’ll report again as soon as something changes. I think I would very much like to go out to see this Ginger, if you don’t mind?”

  “Yes, Inspector, I think that it might be a capital idea. Call first.”

  “I can’t call; the man has no phone. I’ll leave in an hour or so. Oh, about the wife, Marcia Kingston. She came from a well-to-do family in Canberra. Parents were professors at Copland College. They’re both deceased. She did not work outside the home. We are looking into extramarital affairs and the like, but I don’t think we’ll find anything. She seems to have been deeply devoted to her son and husband. Local officials say she was a religious woman and spent quite a lot of time on volunteer work. We still have feelers out, but I don’t think we will dig up anything on her.”

  Inspector Barlow was on the telephone with Sherry Cherry when the news came in that the Kingston yacht had been located 80 kilometers due south of Ulladulla and 23 kilometers east of Tuross Head. The fuel slic
k that was released on a calm day allowed the pilot of a small plane to spot the location. He called it in and the police dive team located the wreck. It had been scuttled next to Bass Canyon, the immense underwater rift that shadows the entire southeastern side of Australia. Whoever had sunk the yacht had undoubtedly intended to drop it into the canyon and thereby effectively lose it forever. It was a good plan but they were a couple of kilometers short of the shelf break. As a result, the yacht was resting about 200 meters below the surface, not the 3000 meters it would have been if it had been sunk in the trench itself. Divers had identified the wreck as Agamemnon, George Kingston’s vessel, but no bodies were found.

  Inspector Barlow ruminated over the information for a while. Insurance was always motivation for sinking a ship but he discounted it in this particular instance. One cannot collect, even from one’s own insurance agency, if one is presumed dead. There was no evidence that George had a drinking problem or that he was in debt from gambling or drugs. His one excess seemed to be the yacht and he spent quite a number of weekends sailing. He lived far enough from the ocean that his home was not very expensive and it was modestly furnished.

  The real question he wanted answered was where did George go when he visited Greenwell Point? Who did he see and what did he do? Whoever George visited in Greenwell Point might have the answers to the real questions.

  Barlow took a deep breath and exhaled through his nose. He was getting nothing done and the case was getting colder and colder. He tossed his jacket over his shoulder, smoothed his thick, graying hair back and went to report to his Superintendent before leaving for Ginger Kingston’s farm in Molong.

  When Inspector Theodore Barlow pulled his unmarked Holden into Ginger Kingston’s driveway he was unpleasantly surprised. The farm was in a state of disrepair that made it look deserted. Some of the outbuildings were sagging and threatening to collapse. The smell of animal waste was to be expected on any farm that dealt in sheep and chickens but here it was overwhelming. The rusty hulks of tractors that had not run in many years adorned the sides of the house though there was newer equipment visible through a broken window in the nearer barn.