Judgement and Wrath Page 18

  He drew the knife from the man’s chest, wiped it clean on the sheet, and then threw the remainder of the sheet over the man’s ceiling-staring face. Taking the pile of clothes he went in search of the shower.

  On his way he dipped his head into the living room. Glancing around, he noticed a wooden chest pressed up against the wall below the photographs. Switching on the overhead light, he placed his supplies on a worn couch and approached the chest. It was held closed by a flimsy hasp and cheap padlock. One smack of the lug wrench was all it took to break off the lock. He threw back the lid.

  He bared his teeth in a grin of pleasure as his eyes took in the contents.

  32

  As dawn broke over the Atlantic, Harvey headed north-west towards Tampa. He took the Ford and he also took Marianne. Harvey was one of only two people on the planet that I felt easy handing the girl over to. The other, Rink, was already in San Francisco. He called to tell me he’d be on his way back as soon as his parents stopped hugging him. I asked him to hug his mum for me. For my part, I had another job to do. Several, actually, but all involving locating Bradley Jorgenson and delivering him to the safe house where Marianne would be waiting.

  While I waited for my rental car to be delivered, I took a run through the state park. A tourist pamphlet in the motel room said that there were more than four and a half miles of trails through the swamps and hummocks of brush. By the time I was finished I’d have covered twice that distance. I needed the exercise. In my line of work you have to remain at a peak level of fitness. All being equal in other areas, it was always the man with the greatest endurance and conditioning who would win a fight. I pushed myself hard. My lungs laboured for the first mile, but then I settled into a rhythm and my breathing evened out so that I was running at a steady gait and my breathing came easy.

  Finding myself on a stretch of sand overlooking the ocean, I stopped for a while. I watched the sun come up while performing a yoga ‘sun salutation’, stretching my muscles and limbering up. I dropped and pushed off two hundred press-ups and the same number of crunches. Then I spent ten minutes going through a series of prearranged patterns of movement that involved punching, kicking, and elbow and knee strikes. Nothing fancy; not karate or t’ai chi or anything so flamboyant. The moves I did were short and brutal and designed along the lines of a simple equation: minimum effort × maximum impact = devastating effect.

  Sweating like a pig in a sauna, I ran back through the swamp, detoured so I completed the course again, then headed back to the motel room. My rental was waiting for me, and I signed an assumed name and showed the delivery guy a fake driver’s licence courtesy of Harvey Lucas.

  Taking the keys for the imported Audi A8 from him, I went inside and immediately checked that my SIG Sauer was where I’d left it inside a tissue box stuffed behind the TV.

  Dripping from my workout, I went into the bathroom and turned on the shower. Then I stripped out of my damp clothes and stepped gratefully under the hot water. My muscles were pumped with blood from the exercise, and I relaxed under the steaming flow, working the kinks out of my body with a soaped-up sponge. When I stepped out of the shower my mind was back on the job.

  I slipped into fresh boxer shorts and pulled on a pair of crisp denims that clung to my damp body. Shirtless, I retrieved my SIG from its hiding place and sat on the bed to clean it. I had rags and oil and I stripped down the gun so that I had all the working parts laid out on the bed. When I was done, I inserted a full clip, racked the slide so that I was good to go. Police forces the world over teach a method of safe gun handling. They absolutely will not condone carrying a gun with a bullet in the firing chamber. In case of lawsuits, that was. Or to avoid a fumbling cop shooting off his toes. I come from a different school of thought and practise a method called ‘point shooting’. A bit like the quick-draw heroes from Western movies, I could draw, point and fire in an instant. The thinking behind the system was that there should be no natural wastage of time. And it would be a waste of a precious second if I had to rack a bullet into place before I fired. In that time I could already be dead.

  The SIG I used was specially modified so that there were no safety switch or sights on the barrel to snag on my clothing. It was a steel-bodied blowback model that barely recoiled in the fist. Handy when the 9 mm soft-nosed Parabellums it fired were a powerful enough load to stop most men in their tracks. I didn’t want a gun that I had to constantly fight to control and to retarget after every shot.

  Harvey had brought plenty of spare ammunition. He’d also supplied me with a military issue Ka-bar knife coated in black epoxy. Finally, there was a new pay-and-go mobile phone for use during the operation ahead.

  I caught sight of myself in a mirror at the back of the room. Most people would see a taller than average man on his way to forty years old, but with the hard body of someone ten years younger. They’d see the short brown hair with only a hint of grey at the temples and the eyes that flashed between blue and green depending on my mood. They’d notice the tattoo on my right shoulder and wonder what it represented. Only if they looked close enough would they notice the story of my life etched into my skin in the form of a tapestry of scars that I’d picked up during fourteen years as a counterterrorism officer and the four years since. On my right pectoral muscle is a tiny white indentation where I was shot when on patrol in Northern Ireland. The scar where the bullet exited formed a puckered mass of scar tissue an inch or so from the tattoo.

  I touched a more recent scar, running my fingers over the pink ridge in my chest just to the left of my heart. That was courtesy of a fight with an ex-Secret Service agent named Martin Maxwell who had taken to killing people and stripping bones from their corpses. The bones he took to Jubal’s Hollow, his secret repository in the Mojave Desert. Maxwell, dubbed the Harvestman by the FBI, made a mistake when he took my brother, John. I hunted the bastard down and rammed one of those bones into his throat. He got me good, though, and it was pure chance that he missed my heart and found only the meat of my pectoral muscle.

  Thinking of the Harvestman, I couldn’t help but draw parallels between him and this latest maniac I was up against. Why was it that they had to take assumed names? And often from the Bible? Martin Maxwell had believed himself Tubal Cain reincarnated, and now I had some lunatic who thought he had fallen from Heaven with Lucifer and his crew. Well, he’d certainly taken a fall, rammed off the bridge at Neptune Island and sent to a watery hell in the sea below.

  Ever the pessimist, though, I had to admit that I hadn’t seen him die. He could still be out there someplace. With that in mind I pushed the SIG into my waistband at the back and felt around for fresh socks. I pulled on my boots – still dusty from my run – then slipped the Ka-bar alongside my right ankle. A plain black V-neck T, with a loose canvas jacket over the top of that. It was too warm for outerwear but I needed something to cover the bulge that my SIG made at the small of my back. I had a licence to carry, but not in my real name. Fundamentally the cops were on the same side as I was, but it wouldn’t stop them running me in if they realised the licence was as bogus as the name on it.

  A man of many resources, Harvey had already paid the bill for the room. But I still had to hand back the keys before leaving. Pulling all my belongings into a pile, I shoved them into a plastic bin liner and knotted the top. I slung them on the back seat on passing the Audi then went and deposited the key to the room through a flap provided. Then I got in the car, and headed back towards the Dixie Highway. I watched the totem pole grow small in the rear-view mirror as I pulled away.

  The Dixie Highway went through Hobe Sound. It was still early, not yet eight o’clock, and the road wasn’t so busy. There were only a few people out on the palm-lined streets. Out of Hobe Sound the road hugged the coast. A short distance later, I found the turnpike that allowed me on to the road that traversed first Jupiter then Neptune Islands.

  As I drove I watched the boats sailing up and down the Inter-Coastal Waterway. The sea was turquoise again
st pale sand. In places I could see all the way to the bottom. The sky was equally clear with only a haze on the southern horizon that wasn’t cloud but pollution from the cities of Miami and Miami Beach. A mile overhead a passenger plane headed out over the ocean, and I imagined holidaymakers with glum faces as they took their last look down on paradise. They wouldn’t think it was paradise if they knew what had gone on down here the evening before.

  Arriving at Neptune, I slowed the Audi and pulled into a layover next to a picnic area. There were already families in attendance, but they were too busy enjoying the scenery and glorious weather to pay attention to a lone man making a telephone call. Harvey was driving so it was Marianne Dean who answered. She put the call on speakerphone so that the two of them could listen.

  ‘I hope Harvey’s treating you well, Mari?’ I said, to keep things light between us. Purposely I used the name she wished to go by; a way of reassuring her that I was fully on her side.

  ‘Don’t worry, Joe, Harvey’s being the perfect gentleman.’ Her voice sounded musical, like some of the worry had been expunged from her soul. I only hoped my next question wouldn’t send her two steps backwards.

  ‘What has hit the news about last night, Harve?’

  Harvey grunted. ‘World War Three, the way the networks are handling things.’

  ‘Anything specific?’

  ‘If you’re asking if the shooter has turned up, the answer’s no. But some old guy was found floating nearby the crash scene. Unless he was unlucky and the Lincoln landed on him, I think Dantalion did the poor sap in.’

  ‘What was he doing out there?’

  ‘At a guess? Fishing. And before you ask, the water’s too deep for wading; he had to have had a boat with him. Looks like Dantalion survived. Worse than that, he got clean away.’

  We should have made sure. It’s a pity Rink didn’t get to put a couple rounds in his ugly face for good measure before pushing him into the sea.

  But, the news didn’t exactly surprise me.

  ‘So he’s still out there,’ I said. ‘But if we were right about Gabe Wellborn being his handler, then I’m guessing he’s been cut free. He has no support network to back him up.’

  ‘Has to be resilient enough,’ Harvey said, ‘surviving the crash and getting away. I don’t think he’s about to crawl away and hide under a rock someplace. He’s probably got himself holed up somewhere and is planning his next move.’

  ‘OK,’ I said. ‘This is what we’re going to do. You go ahead with getting Marianne to the safe house; I’m going to try to get hold of Bradley. I don’t trust that asshole Seagram to protect him. Only way that piece of shit would stop a bullet would be if he tripped over his own feet and fell into the line of fire.’

  ‘Can help you there,’ Harvey said. ‘We spoke to Bradley a few minutes ago. Marianne guessed where he’d be. A motel they used to use when they were first seeing one another.’

  In the background I heard Marianne saying something about their rendezvous all being innocent, that they’d only meet there then go on to some movie or bar.

  ‘Where is he?’ I asked.

  ‘On his way back to Neptune by now. We caught him on his way out. Tried to convince him to keep well away but he wasn’t having any of it.’

  ‘Idiot,’ I said.

  ‘He has to be concerned,’ Marianne said in his defence. ‘Don’t forget that we’re talking about his home. His family.’

  Yeah, I thought. The same family who were trying their damnedest to kill Bradley and her off. I went on, ‘The place will be swarming with cops. It’s not going to be easy getting in touch with him.’

  Then Marianne chipped in, ‘I can always give you his phone number.’

  ‘He’s carrying a cell?’

  ‘No, I don’t think so. We spoke to him on the motel phone. But if he’s home I can give you a direct line through to his private office.’

  ‘Sounds good.’

  Marianne reeled off the number and I memorised it to put into my phone’s address book later.

  ‘OK, guys, I’ll let you get on with your bit. I’ll ring you when I know what’s happening. Watch your backs. If this crazy is still out there we’ve no idea where he’ll pop up next.’

  ‘Don’t worry,’ Harvey said. ‘Next time there’ll be no mistakes.’

  ‘Yeah,’ I said. My own sentiment exactly.

  ‘Take it easy, Hunter.’

  ‘Yeah, look after Marianne.’

  Marianne had her say. ‘Please be careful, Joe. And bring Bradley safely back to me.’

  ‘I will,’ I promised and pressed the button to end the call.

  Then I stabbed in the number that Marianne had narrated.

  The ringtone came back at me. And kept on coming.

  Deciding I was a little premature in ringing Bradley, I got out of the car and stretched my limbs. From where I was standing I could see the beginning of the Jorgenson estate. The wall that encompassed the landward side of the grounds was a smudge on the horizon. Beyond it I could just make out a hint of the first of the family homes beyond it. A steepled roof with turrets at each corner. But the heat haze was building, so the turrets could simply have been a play of the shifting light.

  Quite a large number of tourists were about now. Some had brought blankets. Some had fishing poles and were wandering across the sand dunes that swayed with saw-tooth grass, heading towards the inlet. Others came armed with binoculars, and I thought that there was an inordinate number of ornithologists unless some pretty special birds lived hereabouts. A noisy group of college-aged guys played volleyball on a stretch of open sand. Some of them had bottles of beer in their hands and were posturing for the young women who watched them from their beach towels. I had no beer; I’d brought mineral water with me and I slaked my thirst directly from the bottle.

  I should have thought to ask Marianne how far away Bradley’s motel was. It would have given me a clearer idea of how long he would be on the road. I didn’t even know which direction he’d be coming from. When they’d taken off last night, Seagram had driven north. But the motel could have been in any direction. My plan was to cut him off before he arrived back at the estate and take him back to Marianne. Then the problem posed by Dantalion’s apparent survival could be dealt with without the encumbrance of someone I had to protect along for the ride. With that in mind, my obvious recourse would be to park up next to the main entrance gate, but that would likely bring the police down on me in seconds. They’d have been there all night, and there would be more coming and going throughout all of this day, and perhaps many more to come. A strange vehicle with a gun-toting driver would raise the eyebrow of any cop worth his salt.

  I decided to wait where I was.

  I had a good view of the road, and would recognise the silver sedan Bradley and Seagram had taken off in the night before. If by chance I didn’t see them, I’d ring the number for his office on each quarter-hour. I hoped to have made contact by mid-morning at the latest.

  While I waited I watched the traffic heading south. I didn’t bother with those coming towards me, as none of them would have Bradley on board. Streams of vehicles drove by, some stopped at the layover, but none was a silver Lincoln. I tried Bradley’s number. No answer. A quarter-hour and about two hundred vehicles later, and I tried it again. Still no answer.

  I wondered if Seagram was clever enough to ditch the sedan and bring Bradley home in a less conspicuous vehicle. Something like an older model station wagon or the black truck with tinted windows I watched sail past. But then I recalled his panic from last night and decided he wasn’t fully suited to his chosen career. He would drive the sedan back, because that was what bodyguards drove when they had an important passenger.

  Trying the number again, someone picked up. A female voice. Officious. Cop, I thought, and hung up quickly.

  It didn’t surprise me that the police were in Bradley’s office. They’d be trying to make sense of the mayhem that had gone down at two of Bradley Jorgenson’s home
s, plus that of his cousin Petre, and would quickly tie the family business dealings to the attempts made on their lives. Police officers would be going through the records in Bradley’s office in an attempt at identifying who had attacked the houses.

  I regretted standing outside the gate when we first arrived, challenging security by shouting angrily at the CCTV camera. The cops would likely be reviewing those recordings right now. Two angry guys demanding entrance, obviously armed and pissed off, would be immediate suspects. Rink’s image and mine would be flashing across country to the FBI VICAP HQ at Quantico to try to identify us from their store of mugshots. Not that they’d find us there, but someone with a bit of savvy might think to interrogate military records, and that would finally give us up.

  Hindsight’s a wonderful thing.

  33

  The wooden chest in the dead man’s living room disgorged its secrets.

  It would have been nice to have discovered a cache of weapons but what he found instead were the makings of a disguise that could get him close to Bradley Jorgenson. Each item he lifted out was folded neatly, preserved within layers of tissue paper the way some couples preserved their wedding suits and dresses. Not that the man he’d killed in his bed ever appeared to have been married. Not to a woman at any rate. But he had been married to his career. The love and care with which he’d saved his uniform indicated that. As did the proliferation of photographs that showed him standing alone, or with groups of colleagues, proudly grinning towards the camera.