For the first time since meeting the man, Hanna detected that he was being sincere.
“I thought you’d never ask.”
Chapter 43
Diego screamed, his mouth extending beyond normal limits in sheer agony.
“Dane!” Drake yelled, pulling his cutlass from the sand.
Dane didn’t even look at him. He simply grimaced, and with a heavy yank, pulled the cutlass free from Diego’s calf. Blood immediately spurted forth from a gash that had nearly severed the man’s foot.
Drake’s first instinct was to run to Diego, but when Dane raised the cutlass high above his head for a second time, he changed his approach. Instead, he ran at his brother, intent on tackling him, on driving his shoulder into his solar plexus and ending this insanity.
But Dane didn’t hack Diego’s other leg; with his free hand, he reached down and grabbed a tuft of the man’s greasy hair and pulled his head up.
Oblivious to Drake’s approach, Dane leaned in close and growled in the man’s year.
“Where is he? Where’s Smith?”
The question made Drake pause, his own grip on the worn handle of the cutlass loosening.
Diego’s eyes rolled back in his head, which made Dane pull even harder. The wounded man cried out and lucidity returned to his features.
“El phantasmo,” Diego gasped.
Dane gritted his teeth and pulled harder, hard enough that the man’s Adam’s apple jutted unnaturally from his throat.
“Where’s Ken Smith? Where’s Wesley Smith?” Dane demanded in an oddly calm voice.
Drake was still shocked by what had happened, but he realized that there was a rhyme and reason to his brother’s madness.
His methodology was insane, of course, but it was going to get them somewhere. It had to.
Drake swallowed hard and stopped several feet from Diego.
“Tell him,” he urged. “Tell him—tell us—where Ken Smith is.”
Diego’s wide eyes darted to the cutlass in Drake’s hand.
“Please,” he begged, eyes still locked on the blade.
Drake gave the cutlass a small twist, a subtle gesture, but enough for the metal to catch a beam of light.
“Tell us where they are,” he ordered with more authority this time.
Diego had started to wheeze, partly because of the angle of his windpipe, but also because of the wound that continued to weep blood into the tall grass.
Drake looked to his brother and gave him a subtle nod. Dane returned the gesture and then eased his grip in the man’s hair.
“Last chance,” Drake said, “tell us where they are.”
“The church,” Diego managed to gasp. “They’re at the church. The Iglesia de Liberacion.”
Even given his limited understanding of Spanish, Drake understood.
Iglesia de Liberacion… the Church of Liberation. The place where Ken Smith had first met—and rescued—Raul. The place where this all began and where it would surely end.
How fitting, Drake thought. After traveling more than—
There was another glint of steel, only this time it came from Dane’s blade and not his own. Drake was only three or four feet from his brother and Diego, and yet that was three or four feet too far.
He watched in horror as his brother twisted his fingers in Diego’s hair and then pulled as hard as he could. The man gasped or burped or some other visceral noise emerged from his throat a split-second before Dane slid the sharp edge of the cutlass across the man’s flesh.
“No!” Drake screamed, “No!”
But he was too late. Dane let go of Diego’s head and it smashed to the ground, blood spurting from the crimson smile.
Chapter 44
Beckett pulled his head back from the computer monitor.
“What the hell?”
He did a side-by-side comparison of the image he’d found on the Internet and that of the item that he’d pulled from Mr. Armatridge's head wound.
It was an exact match. It wasn't just a close match, identical. Beckett was by no means a fiber analyst, but he knew a perfect match when he saw one.
Feeling his headache returning, Beckett pinched the bridge of his nose and turned around to look at Dr. Nordmeyer.
Only she wasn’t there.
“Where’d you go?” he asked the empty office.
The doctor had made it clear that she wasn’t happy about him re-evaluating one of her cases, with good reason. But that didn’t bother Beckett. What gave him pause was the subtle threat that she might do the same with his.
And one case in particular—the Winston Trent suicide—might be off just enough for others to start asking questions that might prove difficult to answer.
But he couldn't exactly stop what he was doing, not now, not after what he already found.
Sure, the request had come from Screech, but it was all him now. He liked Screech, liked him quite a lot, actually. And the man knew things about him, things that no one else knew. The man had already proven that he could be trusted after what had happened at the Virgin Gorda, but when times got tough… people’s mouths started to run.
No, that’s not right. When times get tough, the tougher get times.
He shook his head and then immediately regretted it. It only served to exacerbate his throbbing skull.
“Shit,” he grumbled, realizing that he must have drifted off for a moment or two.
He blinked and reconfirmed what he’d seen on the screen. Then he pulled up a series of photographs from the inside of Mrs. Armatridge’s house. Normally, he would have had to put in a formal request with the NYPD or DA for images not directly related to the body or scene of the crime, but Screech had somehow gotten his hands on them and sent them his way.
He scrolled through the photos until he found one that showed the back of the house, the area from which Mrs. Armatridge claimed to have entered prior to finding her husband.
As expected, there wasn’t just a single door, but a whole bay of glass doors, at least fifteen feet wide, that were folded up like a compressed accordion.
This is crazy, he thought. You’re being crazy, Beckett.
But the evidence was irrefutable.
The opening in the back of Mrs. Armatridge’s house was large enough for many a creature to find their way in. A cat, a stray dog, even a raccoon.
Beckett went back to the image of the item he found in the wound and exhaled sharply.
Or an owl… an owl could definitely have come through those doors.
Chapter 45
“Huh,” Mackenzie said as he handed Hanna her drink. “For some reason, I pictured you as more of a scotch on the rocks-type girl.”
Hanna looked down at the colorful cocktail in her hand and tried to keep a straight face.
“Oh, no,” she said in a Southern accent, “Sex on the Beach.”
The man raised an eyebrow, but then let her be and sipped his old-fashioned.
As they drank, Hanna turned her back to the bartender and surveyed the room. It was filling up now, with more people arriving every minute. They all looked the same to her; all fake smiles and real jewelry. As she surveyed the crowd, Hanna made sure to direct the center of her chest, which was adorned with Screech’s tacky camera pendant, at their faces. It was a little awkward, but she figured that this display might be overlooked as some sort of debutante presenting ritual.
So far, she saw nobody out of the ordinary, nobody of interest.
Definitely no Steffani Loomis.
“Well, shall we?” Mackenzie asked.
Hanna looked at him, awaiting clarification. With a smile on his handsome face, he waved a hand toward the hallway that most people were generally moving towards.
“The auction.”
When Hanna still didn’t know what he was talking about, Mackenzie added, “The silent auction for charity?”
Hanna smiled warmly.
“Oh, but of course.”
When he held out his arm, she took it and allowed h
erself to be led away from the bar. She left the horrible saccharine drink behind.
“Hanna, come one, you sound like Honey Boo Boo for Christ’s sake. Just be normal, look around and get the hell out of there,” Screech whispered in her ear.
To Hanna, he seemed nervous, but looking around, she couldn’t see why. These people were harmless, little plastic Barbies and Kens.
Besides, she liked this Mackenzie character. Sure, he was lying to her, to everyone, but there was something interesting about him. Something unique in this setting.
“So, what do you do, Mackenzie?” She asked warmly as they maneuvered around several slow walkers. While she was waiting for him to answer, she continued to take in the crowd, trying to locate Steffani. The problem was, Hanna didn’t know what the woman looked like. Steffani had stopped posting on social media years ago, and while Screech had managed to recover some archived images, Hanna suspected that the woman looked very different now than from her wilder, college years. Especially given this hoity-toity environment.
“I fix things,” Mackenzie said at last.
Interesting.
This wasn’t the reply she was expecting; there was too much honesty in it.
“So, you're a handyman.”
Mackenzie smirked.
“Something like that; I am good with my hands, after all.”
Hanna feigned embarrassment by batting her eyelashes. She stopped just shy of puffing her hair.
Mackenzie led her into a room that was something of a great hall, complete with a chandelier that matched the one in the front entrance. The walls were covered in paintings, all of which were bathed in soft lights. The sheer number of works was dazzling, and Hanna slowed.
It was like stepping into a private museum, not a charity auction.
“You're an art lover?” Mackenzie asked, picking up on her change in pace.
“I like to dabble.”
They started on the left, planning on making their way around the room clockwise. This would allow them to pass the greatest number of people and also permit Hanna to look at the paintings. While she wasn’t an ‘art lover’ per se, she actually did enjoy certain pieces. Mackenzie led her to the first painting, beneath which there was a small table with a security guard seated beside it.
This particular painting wasn't to Hanna's liking; it was far too realistic, depicting a scene from somewhere in the Hamptons, she presumed. She glanced at it briefly, then let her eyes drift down to the auction sheet beneath.
For the second time in just over a minute, her jaw dropped.
The leading bid, despite the fact that guests had just started to arrive, had already reached the low six figures.
“Not my taste,” Hanna said quickly, trying not to make her sticker shock obvious. “Come on, show me something more… abstract.”
“Sure,” Mackenzie replied, taking a sip of his scotch.
Arm in arm, they walked past a series of photorealistic paintings until they came upon one that caught Hanna's eye.
It was a fairly basic whitewashed oil painting, in the center of which was a red dot. There were several other smaller dots arranged in a semi-circle around the central one. It was a simple painting, but there was an elegance to it and a detail to each of the dots that made them unique. Hanna could see the individual brushstrokes, and it took all her effort not to reach out and touch them. She wasn't sure what was about this painting, but it had a way of drawing her in. Maybe it was the brushstrokes or something else entirely; whatever it was, Hanna could visualize the artist hunched over, meticulously crafting those small circles.
“I like this one,” Mackenzie said in an uplifting tone.
“Me too,” Hanna admitted, her eyes still locked on the painting.
As soon as her eyes started to drift downward, her earpiece crackled to life.
“Don't even think about it, Hanna,” Screech warned.
Hanna ignored him, wishing that she’d opted for the model with a mute switch.
The artist was someone by the name of Hiro Maki Suduki, whom she’d never heard of. And, judging by the paucity of bids, she assumed that not many others had, either. Hanna looked around the room for a moment, observing the other two dozen or so couples paying attention to the photorealistic oil paintings of scenery and fruit and other inane objects.
But this one…
She looked at the center dot again, concentrating on the brushstrokes, imagining now that it wasn’t the artist making them, but her.
Without thinking, she reached for the pen beside the sheet of paper.
“Hanna. Hanna. Don’t do it. Don’t.”
A smirk formed on her face.
You made me wear this stupid dress, come to this pretentious ball, wear makeup for Christ’s sake, and now it’s payback time.
Still grinning, she wrote a number that was much larger than the previous bid.
“Whoa,” Mackenzie exclaimed as he peered over her shoulder. “You really like this painting.”
Hanna looked at him.
“Yeah, I guess I do. There's something—” movement out of the corner of her eye caught her attention and she stopped speaking.
The smile vanished.
It was Steffani Loomis, there was no question about it. The woman was tall and lean and breathtakingly beautiful. While she wasn't much older than Hanna herself, she walked with an air of someone who’d lived a lifetime already.
The word that Drake had used so many times in describing Ken Smith and those involved in ANGUIS Holdings came to mind.
As the woman ran a hand through her blond hair and took a sip of her Martini, Hanna couldn’t help but think that that word was the perfect one to describe Steffani Loomis.
This woman had power.
And for a moment, for a fraction of a second, the sight of her was so intoxicating that Hanna wanted that power for herself.
“Greta? You okay?”
Hanna nodded and casually unhooked her arm from Mackenzie’s.
“Yeah, I'll be fine. I just saw someone I recognized. Wait here for me, would you?”
Before Mackenzie could answer, Hanna hurried after Steffani Loomis, while Screech protested relentlessly in her ear.
Chapter 46
Drake's entire body went cold. He couldn't believe what he’d just seen, what his brother had done.
Dane had killed a man in cold blood. Diego had already given up the information they needed, and yet Dane hadn’t hesitated in slitting his throat. Sure, Diego was the one who had given Drake up to Wesley Smith, but he didn't deserve to die. He was just a man trying to survive, trying to make sure his family wasn't targeted.
And Dane had killed him.
“Let's go, I know where the church is,” Dane said, as he wiped the cutlass blade off on Diego’s pants. Blood was still gurgling from the wound in his neck, albeit slower than it had a few seconds ago.
Drake blinked. He was unable to move, unable to speak.
His brother took three steps toward the jungle before realizing that Drake wasn't following him. He turned and glared at him.
“He was suffering,” Dane said simply. When Drake still didn’t so much as fidget, he added, “What did you want me to do? Just leave him here? Let him bleed out slowly, die a horrible death? Suffer even more?”
Drake's jaw fell open, but he still couldn’t speak.
Dane's eyes dropped to Diego’s head, and he focused on the stained grass, the chuff of blood as the man’s heart completed its final, labored contractions.
“I didn't want him to suffer,” he said in a strange voice. It wasn’t remorse, not quite, but sadness. A deep, brooding sadness. “I don't want anybody to suffer.”
At long last, Drake got his voice back.
“Suffer? Suffer?” he nearly shouted. “You're the one who hacked his leg… you're the one who made him suffer. You didn't have to do that, you didn't have to kill him. He told us what we wanted!”
The expression on his brother’s face didn't change.
> “I didn’t make him suffer,” he said flatly.
Drake ground his teeth and tightened his grip on his cutlass before raising it high above his head. He took a menacing step forward.
“You killed him!”
He expected his brother to raise his own cutlass, which was still stained with Diego's blood, or at the very least defend his actions.
The man did neither.
Dane simply stood there, his eyes darting from Drake's face to the cutlass glinting in the midmorning sun. It was almost as if he was silently daring Drake—no, not daring, begging—to deliver the final blow.
Drake closed his eyes and lowered the blade.
“What happened to you, Dane?” he whispered, choking back a sob. “What the hell happened to you?”
Dane strode forward and grabbed Drake by the collar and shook his eyes open.
“What happened to me? What happened to me? I see the world for what it is, Drake. I’ve seen suffering on a magnitude you couldn't even imagine. I’ve seen people skinned alive. I've seen people get their genitals chopped off and fed to them. I've seen women and children mowed down in the streets.”
Drake tried to back away, but his brother’s grip tightened, and he pulled him even closer.
“I saw a woman struggling every day to breathe, begging for death. I saw a man—no, not a man, a boy—murder his mother and father.”
Drake swallowed hard.
“That boy, that boy was Ray, wasn't it? He was the one who—”
Dane pulled him so close now that their noses were nearly touching.
“I saw my best friend kill his own family to stop their suffering.”
With that, Dane lowered his eyes and finally shoved Drake away from them.
Tears welled in Drake’s eyes.
Ray had murdered his mother and father and then he’d become a zealot, someone who was determined to end suffering in any and every way he knew how. That was why Dane left.
Because he didn’t want to be like his friend.
But now that Ray was gone, Dane had filled the void he left behind.
When you’ve come to the conclusion that the world is an Erebus of suffering, it was no great feat to justify your actions.
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