by Matt Hilton
Then there was the small matter of the hit man.
The killer had arrived at Jorgenson's home on Baker Island at someone's bidding. He was intent on killing not just the heir to the Jorgenson billions, but also Marianne. And when push came to shove Bradley had gone out of his way to protect his girl. I was still pissed off that he had cracked me over the head with the wine bottle, but I couldn't really blame him. I was just another man with a gun placing his woman in danger. If the roles had been reversed, I'd have done the same, and a damn sight more.
Rink was very quiet on the drive over. He had more on his mind than what our impromptu visit to Neptune Island could stir up.
His mother, Yukiko, was possibly dying. He should have been with her for her final days, but he'd chosen to be here with me. If I'd had my way he'd have been on the first plane out to San Francisco. But I knew how Rink's mind worked. Men of duty accept their lot without question.
There's an old samurai adage that when it rains the warrior continues to walk up the centre of the road. His path is set, and he must not deviate from it. The untrained run for cover and get soaked anyway by the water pouring from the eaves of the houses they seek shelter beneath. The warrior knows that he will get wet, so allows fate to take its course. He cannot stop the rain, so he accepts it.
At a service station outside Port St Lucie we stopped to refuel, then ordered takeaway food at a diner on the site. The cheeseburger that I'd wished for last night had never materialised so I ate this one with the gusto of a starving man. The fries went down well, too. While I carried my greasy wrappers over to a trash can, Rink made a telephone call he'd been dreading.
Andrew Rington was of Scottish descent. In his thinking all this samurai shit could take a back seat when it came to family. His clan mentality dictated that there was nothing more important than family ties. I was with him on that one. Rink had inherited his size and build from Andrew's side of the family, but his mindset was definitely that of his mother. Duty would prevail, and his father would come round to it. But he'd likely bawl Rink out before coming to that conclusion.
When I got back to the Porsche, Rink had done speaking. I'd picked the furthest trash can I could find, and hung about watching the gnats buzzing round it for more than five minutes. Who knew what anyone watching me would have thought? Amateur entomologist, I'd have told them.
'How's Yukiko?'
'Hanging in there.' He ghosted a smile, but it was too laden with sadness to be anything but a front.
'She's a tough lady. How's your father handling things?'
'He's a tough guy,' Rink said. This time his smile held more spirit. Maybe I was wrong about the balance of genes that made up Jared Rington. For a second there he looked — and sounded — the double of his dad.
Living in Little Rock, Arkansas, Hitomi Yukiko was only five years old when the Japanese Imperial Army declared war on the US by launching an attack on Pearl Harbor. The little girl named 'Snow Child' was interned along with her parents at Rohwer, a Japanese-American relocation camp, by the very people who for two generations had been her neighbours. Following the devastation wreaked upon the Japanese mainland by the payload of the Enola Gay, the Hitomi family might have been forgiven for fleeing back to their ancestral land with a curse on their lips for the USA. Except they were US citizens and did not want to leave their home. Yukiko was seventeen when she met her husband-to-be, Andrew Rington, a Scottish-Canadian serviceman returning from the Korean War. Five years later they married. Yukiko bore three children: Yuko, a girl who died shortly after birth, Ronald, a son who would later die while serving in Kuwait, and then, at an age when she might have been content with nursing memories of the girl she'd lost, she birthed Jared. Both Yukiko and Andrew cherished their baby boy.
They still did.
As much as Rink cherished them in return.
I had a feeling that, down the line somewhere, Rink's decision to stay and help me would come back to haunt him.
'Told my father I'd be there as soon as we got finished with this,' Rink said.
I laid a hand on his shoulder.
'OK, Rink, let's get it done, then.'
14
Neptune Island was more than a home to the Jorgenson clan; it was also an integral portion of the coastal highway that ran all the way up from Jupiter City to Hobe Sound. The mega-wealthy family might have purchased the island, but they couldn't stop the flow of traffic up and down the coast. The route provided an alternative to the I-95, the picture perfect tourist route, so at certain times of the year was packed with holidaymakers travelling along the coastline between Miami and Orlando. On the sandbanks and dunes that made up much of the coastal lands, holidaymakers would often camp out, wandering down on to the beaches and searching for sea turtles in the shallow tropical waters. Overnight camping wasn't permitted on Neptune Island, but there was no law against people stopping for short spells at any of the layovers next to the road.
Slightly further to the south and west tropical palms and trees such as mahogany and gumbo-limbo were prolific, but here on the Atlantic shoreline the predominant trees were the usual oaks, pines and willows. Much of the forests had been cut down to make way for the highways and towns that sprawled up the coast, but out on Neptune some copses had survived. Grass dominated, in the form of waist-high sharp-toothed saw-grass. Sporadically, the occasional limestone outcrop, formed hummocks of higher ground where the indigenous wildlife made its home. Holidaymakers, cameras in hand, would traipse through the grasses in hope of snapping pictures of raccoons, marsh rabbits, and — if they were truly lucky — bobcats.
Dantalion had no interest in wildlife, but in the guise of a bird-watching tourist, he had free rein to conduct surveillance of the Jorgenson compound without fear of discovery. He was only one of approximately a dozen tourists he'd seen armed with high-powered binoculars. He had dressed appropriately for the scene in a cream hat and dark glasses. His shirt was a gaudy Hawaiian number, designed, by the look of things, by a disciple of Jackson Pollock on a serious LSD trip. Pants were long khaki shorts, and on his feet he wore a pair of shabby deck shoes. Hydrocortisone cream was liberally applied to his exposed arms and shins, but was in keeping with others he'd seen with smears of high factor sun cream on their lily-white skin. He blended nicely with those first- or second-day Europeans arriving in the belting sun. Over one shoulder he carried a bag that bounced uncomfortably on his hip with each step. Inside was his 90-two Beretta, a half-dozen spare ammunition magazines and his book of numbers.
The bullet wound he'd taken to his thigh caused him to limp. But that was good, added to the disguise.
He didn't look at all like a killer.
At its southernmost tip, the island was artificially raised up to support the road bridge that then arched on towards the mainland. Under the structure of the bridge, Dantalion walked, his deck shoes disappearing beneath the silt. There was a family out on the tidal sands, turning over rocks, a child hoisting a trophy in the air with a shout of glee. The trophy squirmed in his hand, chitinous legs working furiously, and the little boy dropped it with a squawk of alarm. The family laughed at him as he ran away to avoid the crab's fury.
Dantalion paid them only minimal attention. He wasn't one for human interaction. Human beings were beneath him, good for only two things. Doing his bidding and paying him money. Correction, there was a third thing they could do for him: they could die in agony and fear.
Momentarily he considered pulling out his gun and shooting the entire family. Their laughter grated on his bones, reminding him of all the spiteful laughter he'd had to endure growing up. What saved them was that he wasn't in a counting mood. The formula for writing their individual numbers wasn't the most simple of processes, and one that demanded concentration. Didn't want to spoil his list with incorrect calculations.
Away from the shadows of the bridge, he walked again in direct sunlight. He could feel the prickle on the back of his neck, and his calf muscles felt like someone was holding a blow
torch to them. Sand stung where it adhered to his skin. He pushed into the tall saw-tooth grass. If anything things got worse. The grass snagged him and made tiny itching cuts in his flesh. Enough to send him insane.
But he wasn't insane. He was a professional.
He didn't give in to mild discomforts such as these.
In the past, he'd stoically taken the beatings doled out by the older kids. Smiled at them when they were too exhausted to strike him again. Enduring many hours in hospitals, he hadn't once complained. He accepted the reality of his existence. From birth to death, existence is measured in a series of chapters governed by various levels of pain, some greater than others. Some are easy to recognise. Birth is a screaming, howling experience. Growing, stumbling, taking the knocks in life; all are forms of physical, mental and emotional torture. There is loss and then there is grief. Then you die, and it's a lucky one who doesn't perish in agony. In comparison to some things he'd put up with, pressing on through the grasses was akin to bliss.
He was a professional.
He wasn't insane. Fair enough, his penchant for killing probably was tied to a psychopathic quirk, but he wasn't mad in the sense that other killers were mad. He was not a deviant who killed for the pleasure of collecting trophies, or for sating his need for sexual dominance over a weaker creature. He did not flay the hide from women to make himself a housecoat or lampshade and he did not keep the petrified remains of his mother locked up in an attic then run around in her clothes slicing up nubile young women.
He killed because that was what he was good at.
He killed because it paid him well.
He killed because he had a strict purpose.
The others, those that he personally chose to kill, were merely a by-product of his assumed persona. It didn't take a talented assassin to drive by a victim, poke a gun out of a window and shoot a man dead as he stepped down from his front porch. Any half-assed idiot with a gun could do that. But such actions quickly got them caught, or killed. Dantalion murdered in a fashion that was more thoughtful, planned to create impact. The style of his killings mimicked the actions of a deranged serial killer, not of a hired assassin. It wasn't always apparent who his intended victim was. They were lost among the body count. Law enforcement and FBI VICAP teams were scratching their heads, searching for elusive maniacs that would never be identified with him.
Plus, the randomness of the deaths made his clients fear him. It added to his mystery and ensured that his reputation as a master of his craft guaranteed full and prompt payment. No one wanted to chance upsetting him. They knew where that would get them.
Most of his victims were collateral damage. But they served his purpose well. Success bred success. The more he killed, the more often he was sought out. The higher the fee he could set.
He had no reservations about killing those innocents he chose. They were mere props for the theatre of his schemes. Also, he did share the blame around. Everything shouldn't be ladled on his conscience. He allowed his victims a choice. Who dies first? How do they die? If they pointed the finger at their loved ones, then so be it, it was out of his hands. He was only the tool that completed their wishes. It was fucked-up reasoning, he accepted that, but it was a coping mechanism he embraced. It relieved him of the burden of guilt and allowed him to continue doing what he did best.
No, he wasn't insane.
Crazy men don't know they are crazy. And neither do they question their actions.
Psychopaths don't deliberate over death the way he did. They certainly don't share out the glory. They keep it all to their greedy selves.
Crazy men do sometimes take on personas. But so do hired killers. They never use their real names. Not in a craft that demands anonymity and mystery. Jean-Paul St Pierre wouldn't bring the clients running to pay high fees for his services. When in his teens he'd shed his old Mississippi beliefs, he'd turned to esoteric books and lore for the incarnation of the professional killer he would become.
In the Book of Enoch he'd found the perfect match. Dantalion, one of the angels cast out of heaven by Gabriel and the army of God. The panoply of the Fallen were numbered. The seventy-first spirit was Dantalion. He was a great and mighty duke of Hell. According to legend, he appeared in the form of a man with many countenances, all men's and all women's faces. For one as androgynous as he, and with his talent for disguise, what better physical description could there be? The angel Dantalion was said to know the thoughts of all men and women and carried them in a book; he could change them at will. This modern Dantalion also had the knack for bending people's resolve and for jotting down the sum of their lives within his own book. He had the power of life and death over them.
Crossing the grasslands, he paused to bring the binoculars to his eyes, looking like every other bird-fancier in the region. Then he casually swung his view past the turreted gate on the Jorgenson estate wall. Near to the shoreline, this gate wasn't used daily — possibly not even yearly. It was a relic from almost half a century ago, a sally port down to the coast, long before the suspended road had been built nearby. He could imagine the folk from simpler times wandering out of their gardens on to the beach here. Perhaps carrying a picnic basket and a blanket. Maybe Valentin Jorgenson had enjoyed boyhood playtime on this very portion of the beach. Before he was moulded into the successful business man who would continue the legacy started by his own father. Before the cancer that blighted him in his last few months. Before Dantalion put some well-placed rounds through him last night.
A wrought-iron gate barred progress into the grounds. It was in need of a coat of paint, and the corrosive sea winds had turned the gates, and the chain and padlock holding them in place, rusty. A sign was riveted to the wall next to the gate. NO ENTRY WITHOUT PERMISSION — PRIVATE PROPERTY.
Like that was going to deter Dantalion.
A fortunate occurrence presented itself. A rare snail kite soared through the sky and perched on the wall near to the gate. Dantalion, binoculars fixed to his face, walked closer. Studying, studying. Not the bird. He could see that the lock would be easily shattered by a 9 mm round from his Beretta. He could be inside in seconds.
The bird streaked away. Dantalion wandered away, too.
But he'd be back.
15
'We're here to speak to Bradley Jorgenson.'
'Name?'
'He doesn't know my name.'
'Then he isn't expecting you?'
'No, he wouldn't be.'
'Then you'll have to make an appointment through his office. You have the contact details?'
'No, I don't.'
'Then, I'm afraid you won't be able to see him. We are currently experiencing unwanted attention from the media and I have express orders to send everyone though Mr Jorgenson's press office. Good day, sir. Please move your vehicle so it isn't blocking the access drive.'
The intercom was switched off, the active green light dying. I leaned away from it back into the Porsche and looked across at Rink. His eyebrows jerked but that was the sum of his contribution.
I pressed the buzzer again.
'Sir, I already told you?…'
I didn't listen to the guard's words. I swung open the car door and went up to the gate. Peering up at the CCTV camera above it, my hands clenched by my sides, I shouted, 'Speak to Jorgenson. Tell the ungrateful son of a bitch that Joe Hunter is here. He'd have died last night if it wasn't for me.'
Turning back to the buzzer on the intercom, I pressed my finger to it. Kept the button depressed. Somewhere on the property the buzzer would be shrieking in protest, probably sending the guard insane.
The tableau held for the best part of two minutes.
Then from within the compound I heard the grumble of approaching engines. Letting go of the buzzer, I said into the speaker, 'Now that wasn't so difficult, was it?'
The guard didn't respond. Maybe he was in one of the two dark silver sedans approaching the gate.
The sedans drew to a halt on the road beyond the gate. F
our big guys with guns under their jackets got out. They eyed me coolly, the way a pack of jackals would challenge a lion. Together they could likely bring me down, but not one at a time. Rink got out the car and stood beside me. The odds now tipped the scale firmly in my favour. Rink's presence often had that effect.
One of the guards, a self-appointed delegate, stepped forwards. He was a man edging fifty years old, but he still retained a hard body and steady eyes. His brush cut indicated he was ex-army as did his straight back and staccato movements.
'What is your business here?' he demanded.
'None of yours,' I told him.
I wasn't interested in any of Jorgenson's hired guns. Looking past the man to the second sedan, I called. 'You can see me, Bradley. Same guy from last night. You would have died if I wasn't there. The way I see it, you at least owe me a couple minutes of your time.'
I waited and the man with the brush cut continued giving me dead eyes. After what seemed to be an hour, but was only half a minute, the driver's window slid open. The driver didn't say anything. To Brush Cut he just inclined his head in silent communication. Then the second vehicle began reversing up the drive. There was a turning circle twenty paces back and the sedan swung around and back up the road.
'You'll have to step back from the gate,' Brush Cut said.
About to argue, I felt Rink's fingers brush my wrist. One of the other guards had gone over to a box on a pole. He pressed a button and the huge gates began swinging towards us. We were forced to take a couple of steps back to avoid being swatted aside.
'Come with us,' Brush Cut commanded.
'We'll bring our own car.' Rink's tone said he'd brook no argument.