by Matt Hilton
It was like someone had hit him with a hammer and his mind flashed with scarlet agony. The pain was excruciating, sense-numbing. Darkness descended for the briefest of moments, and his hands slipped from the steering wheel.
And that was all it took.
In the next instant his mind was full of flashes and bangs, and he was rocked sideways, jerked upright, then slammed back in his seat. The volume of noise was horrendous and seemed to go on and on and on. Around him the Lincoln shuddered like a dying behemoth. Finally, he blinked, and silence surrounded him.
Stunned, he was only vaguely aware that the Porsche was now passing him, then in front of him, moving away at speed over the arch of the bridge and out of sight.
He was sitting in the driver's seat and both his hands were in his lap. He'd lost his grip on the Glock, and it was now somewhere out of view in the footwell. The partly inflated airbag that had erupted from the steering column didn't help. He wasn't concerned about the Glock. He could soon pick it up again. As with the Beretta. First he had to check that he was uninjured. Both arms were all right. His hands responded to the messages sent from his brain, fluttering up his midriff to find the comforting bulge made by his book beneath his sweater. His toes wiggled at command. His legs ached, primarily the one that was already injured, but he detected no broken bones. His jaw hurt more than anything. Tremulously, he lifted his fingers to check the wound. Part of his mind expected a gaping wound through which would project shattered teeth, but his fingers found only a groove in the meat itself. It oozed blood, but it wasn't going to kill him.
He looked out of the open window.
He had lost control and the Lincoln had collided with the barrier at the edge of the bridge. The metal barrier was mangled into a twisted heap. But it had done its job. It had stopped the Lincoln from sailing out unchecked into the Inter-Coastal Waterway. The front of the Lincoln hung a precarious two feet over space, only one loose portion of the barrier holding the sedan in place.
He laughed. There was a slight manic edge to the sound: realisation at how close the car had come to going right through the barrier and into the sea a long way below him.
But that was when he heard the roar of an approaching engine.
Swinging round to stare at the vehicle barrelling towards him, he had only a second or so to register the face of the driver. It was enough.
Rink, Seagram had called him.
Black hair, hooded eyes, livid scar across his chin.
Rink made no attempt at shooting him. Neither did he stop the car. He kept on coming and rammed the car into the side of the Lincoln.
Dantalion was rocked and slammed yet again. There was the rending of metal all around him. The front wheels went through the barrier and the car abruptly dipped forwards. Rink continued to force his vehicle against the Lincoln. Then the world tilted as the back wheels of the Lincoln were forced over the demolished barrier.
He barely registered what had happened.
All he saw was the solid black wall that reared into his field of vision. It approached him at speed and it was only when it was a few yards away that Dantalion made out sparkling highlights on the wall. A second after that he recognised the highlights for undulating waves casting back the reflections of his own headlights as the Lincoln hurtled down towards the sea.
27
'Son of a bitch,' Rink sighed. 'There goes my no claims discount.'
We were in a beauty spot, but he wasn't interested. He was standing with his hands on his hips, surveying what remained of his Porsche.
We'd stopped at a parking lot on the northern side of the Jupiter Inlet, near to a terracotta tower over one hundred feet tall that served as a lighthouse to steer boats into Loxahatchee River. The beacon itself stood on a mound almost fifty feet tall, so it was a definite landmark that I'd been able to pick out. Rink arrived minutes after Marianne and me.
While Rink bemoaned the death of his pride and joy, we stood shoulder to shoulder. On the shoreline, we looked south, watching traffic zoom by on the Federal Bridge, and even more traffic on the A1a highway bridge beyond that. Across the water I noticed yet another marina, and found myself thinking that you couldn't live in Florida without owning a boat. I saw my first mangroves, but in the darkness they just looked like a bundle of twisted branches dumped on the water. Which, I supposed, was exactly what they were.
The lot was next to a visitor centre that served the lighthouse. Through the day the place would be a jumble of vehicles and bustling tourists snapping photographs. At this hour we were the only ones there. I'd parked the Porsche beneath a stand of palm trees so that it was hidden from the nearby road. Rink had parked adjacent to us. The big grey Ford Crown Victoria he had brought wasn't as bashed up as the Porsche, and hadn't been the target of numerous bullets. Nevertheless it did have a crumpled fender and one of the headlights was smashed. Any cop snooping around would immediately associate the two cars with the high-speed gun battle at nearby Neptune Island.
'What happens now?' Marianne asked.
'We take you somewhere safe.'
'But that madman is dead, isn't he? Didn't your friend say he rammed him right off the bridge and into the sea?'
'I did just that,' Rink said, coming over to join us. 'But he's not the only danger we have to contend with.'
'If he's dead, can't we just go to the police?'
'Not yet,' I told her. 'We still don't know who sent the hit man after you. Whoever did so could try to get at you again.'
'All the more reason to tell the police what's going on. Why do we have to keep running away? It's him who should be punished, not me and Bradley.'
'You're right. But we're not ready to get the police involved yet.'
'Why not?' she asked.
'They'd take you from us,' Rink explained. 'And we don't want that to happen. We're committed to protecting you and we can't do that if you're kept away from us.'
'I don't get it,' she said. Then she looked directly at me. 'Yesterday on Baker Island, you said you were there to help me, Joe. But I don't understand how you could have known that I was in danger. You aren't doing this for nothing. Someone is paying you. Who sent you?' Then she closed her eyes, shook her head. 'No. Don't answer. I know who it must be.'
So I didn't answer.
Marianne said. 'How could my father have known this was going to happen? No, wait… he couldn't have. He sent you to take me away from Bradley. I can't believe that he just won't let things go.'
Rink said, 'Doesn't matter who sent us. Or why. Truth is we're here, and that should give you peace of mind. We ain't going to leave you until we're sure this damn thing is over with.' He turned and scanned his Porsche again. His lips turned down. I looked at him. That was quite a mouthful from my usually imperturbable friend, and I guessed he was saying it for my benefit as much as Marianne's.
'Sorry about your wheels, Rink.'
He shrugged. 'S'OK. I was about due to trade it in anyway. C'mon, better get moving, folks.'
We weren't talking cars. Not as such. I was expressing my regret at keeping him away from his mum's sick bed. He was telling me that material objects didn't mean much to him. Ergo, his mind was fully on his mum and nothing would change that. Except getting this job done.
'Better take the Crown Vic,' Rink said. 'Porsche is done, you ask me.'
'We leaving the car as it is?' I asked. The Porsche was full of trace evidence, fingerprints, fibres, spent rounds, and would be tied to us even faster when a CSI team got to it.
Rink took out a petrol lighter and flicked back the lid. He turned the wheel and orange flame sprouted.
'Like I said, I was about to trade it in anyway.'
We drove away in the Crown Vic, the guttering inferno that once was a Porsche lighting up the parking lot. The flames were reflected on the hundred-foot lighthouse and bounced back off the lens at the top like a ghost-light.
Rink was in the driving seat. Both Marianne and I took up position in the back. She sat in a far corner,
her legs pulled up and her feet tucked under. She hugged both arms round her knees. For safety's sake I'd made her put the Kevlar vest back on. It swamped her, the collar riding up almost to her ears, so that only the upper portion of her face from the tip of her nose was visible. Cute in its own way. Desperately sad in another. She was lost in her own thoughts, so I concentrated on what we were going to do next.
Rink had called our mutual friend Harvey Lucas. It was time to find out what he'd come up with. I had his number stored in my mobile phone and hit the hot key. Harvey picked up in seconds, his mellifluous tones rich in my ear. I put the call on to speaker so that Rink could catch what was said.
'You guys are up to your necks in it as usual,' Harvey said.
'Tell us about it,' I said. From the front seat Rink grunted agreement. He was navigating an interchange and taking us up and over the A1a highway bridge towards West Indiantown Road, crossing the broad Loxahatchee River inlet.
'Don't have much on your shooter,' Harvey said without preamble. 'Seems he's a bit of a ghost.'
'He is now,' Rink said.
'You got him?'
'Pushed him into the sea from a great height,' I said. The eternal sceptic in me wouldn't accept he was dead until I saw him laid out all white and bloated on a coroner's slab.
'So the heat's off?' Harvey asked.
'Not yet. Don't know how many other players we have,' I said. 'What've you found out about who hired him?'
'Nothing yet, but I have done a bit of digging around regarding the Jorgenson business.'
I glanced across at Marianne but she was lost inside her own head. She didn't even look my way, and didn't appear to be listening to the conversation. Thinking of other things: Bradley, for sure.
'Go on, Harve,' I prompted.
'You want the full history or just the potted version?'
I checked the charge on my phone. Down to two bars. 'Best just give me the main points.'
'OK, then.' Harvey paused, as though ordering his thoughts. Not that he needed to. I believed he knew exactly what he wanted to say. 'First off, you know the family business goes back three generations here in the US, right? Since Korea, Vietnam, and up to the modern day, the Jorgensons have been working hand-in-fist with the Pentagon. The partnership has been a rosy deal and brought millions — actually billions — of dollars into the Jorgenson coffers. Problem is, it seems that for the last half-dozen years Valentin Jorgenson has been ruffling a few feathers. On both sides. His company has been responsible for the development and production of vaccines for the use of the military. Well, you remember the fuss following Desert Storm, don't you? Gulf War Syndrome, it was sometimes referred to. Soldiers returning from war complained about debilitating problems brought on by the inoculations they were given before going out there. Well, Valentin wanted no part of the fallout from that. Seems like old news now, but with the current rumblings in Iraq and Afghanistan, there are new questions being raised in Congress about the chemical soup our troops are being fed these days.'
'The chemical soup that the Jorgensons are supplying?' I clarified.
'One and the same. The Jorgensons certainly don't have a monopoly on government supply, but they do develop some of the vaccines. Valentin didn't want any involvement in the same kind of scandal that went down first time round, so, basically, he's pulled the plug.'
'And the other Jorgensons aren't happy?' I thought back to when Bradley had defended his father in the room at Baker Island.
Harvey said, 'His ethical decision could cost them billions in lost revenue.'
'You're saying could cost them? So the contracts haven't been terminated yet?'
'No. As in all businesses, Valentin hasn't got the ultimate say. Has to be a majority agreement. He has had some stiff opposition in the form of his partners.'
'These being his nephews and son?'
'Yeah.' Harvey sounded like he was riffling through papers. 'Petre, Simon and Jack. His son, Bradley.'
'I'm guessing that Valentin had a majority share in the business?'
'No, just over the quarter mark.'
'So how come he was outvoted? Oh, wait, I get it. Bradley?'
'Yeah, Bradley's vote went his cousins' way. Between them they own a little over seventy percent of the vote. With Bradley on their side, the decision was made to honour their agreement with the government.'
'So why, if that's the case, is someone trying to kill Bradley? Are you saying that our shooter might belong to some group opposing the supply? Some Gulf War Syndrome support group?'
'Not at all,' Harvey said.
I was relieved by Harvey's answer. I had some friends from back in the day who had suffered badly on their return from Desert Storm, could sympathise with them in a big way. Didn't really want to go up against anyone with the same fundamental belief that I had on the subject. Apart from the fact their decisions could mean death for innocents like Marianne. For that I'd fight them tooth and nail.
Harvey went on: 'Bradley has changed his outlook these past few months.'
'He's gone across to his father's way of thinking?'
'He has. Valentin was dying — you knew that, huh? — and he had recently bequeathed his share of the company to Bradley. Added to his own shares, that gives Bradley a majority sway. He hasn't done it yet, but when Bradley takes over, then the military contracts will be dropped. It'll cost the company billions of dollars.'
Marianne was rocking in place, humming that same sad tune I'd first heard in the garden at Baker Island. Suddenly I knew where Harvey was going with this.
'Someone has Bradley's ear? That's what you're suggesting?'
'His opinion changed round about the time his new girlfriend came on to the scene.'
I noticed Marianne's eyes flick my way but she didn't add anything. Neither did she argue.
'It's starting to make a little sense now,' I said. 'So Bradley has gone against his cousins, and that's pissed them off? If Bradley is killed off then they inherit his voting power. They keep on with the billions that the government are happily handing them.' I again looked at Marianne and saw that her eyes had closed. Confirmation of my theory. To her I said, 'And that's the reason the killer wants you as badly as your boyfriend? You're the reason that Bradley has changed his way of thinking.'
She didn't answer, but her nose dipped below the neckline of the bullet-proof vest.
From the front, Rink asked, 'Where are you now, Harvey?'
'Where I said I'd be,' Harvey said.
'OK, buddy, we'll see you in a short while.'
'Gotcha, Rink,' Harvey said.
'Keep on digging in the meantime,' I added. 'See if you can find out anything on the shooter. You might want to listen in to what's going on at Neptune Island. By all accounts, the crazy fucker paid Petre Jorgenson a visit before he came for Bradley and Marianne again.'
'Reading between the lines, I take it that Petre didn't survive?'
'No one survived,' I said. 'Except some pussy that goes by the name of Seagram. Bradley's bodyguard. Maybe you can do a little digging on him, too. West Point's a good starting place.'
'Leave it with me.'
'Thanks, Harvey.'
'Pleasure.'
I clicked off the phone, pushed it in my pocket.
We'd come off the highway on to surface streets. Nice enough area. Low single-level houses with pretty gardens. No one around as though people here lived only for the sun and dissipated when darkness fell. On our right was a tributary of the Loxahatchee. The water was slow and still. I wondered if alligators sometimes crawled up out of the river and wandered these lonely streets. That would explain the lack of domesticated animals prowling through the night. There were no cats, no dogs, but then again, there were no alligators, either.
We had agreed to meet Harvey up at Hobe Sound. That meant taking a circuitous route back up past Neptune while avoiding the coast road. There'd be an army of law enforcement personnel converging on the Jorgenson estate by now and I didn't want to run a cor
don of blue lights. The only way I trusted that Marianne would be safe was if she stayed with us. OK, it appeared that Petre Jorgenson was now shaking hands with his murdered uncle, and it would take a very lucky man to survive the fall from the bridge into the sea, but that didn't mean that other attempts wouldn't be made on her life. It didn't take a rocket scientist to work out the probability that Petre and the shooter were in cahoots. Something had happened between them that had left Petre dead. But that didn't mean all our enemies were done with. There were still two cousins alive who had reason to wish both Bradley and Marianne were out of the picture.
28
Following our detour round the back streets of the suburbs of Jupiter, Rink found a slip road that took us to the Florida Turnpike, where we picked up the 95 north. He drove on through the darkness in silence, and eventually we arrived at a motel on the edge of Seabranch Reserve State Park. Here I saw my second lot of mangrove, as well as sand pine and scrubby flatwoods and many other trees I didn't recognise. Wild buckwheat and fetterbush grew interspersed among the trees and the wild sandy hummocks that the Atlantic had moulded into weird shapes.
Harvey's rental was in the lot outside the motel entrance. It was a Ford Explorer, not unlike the one I'd been forced to abandon down at SoBe. For our purposes it wasn't the most discreet of vehicles but it was still less conspicuous than the bashed-up Crown Vic. Rink pulled into the parking lot and I accompanied Marianne towards the room that Harvey had booked. Rink drove off again, heading for the nearby state park on a short errand to get rid of the Crown Vic. Maybe it would turn up one of these days when the shifting and squeezing of the earth's crust forced it out of the depths of the mangrove swamp like a corroded leviathan rising from the depths.
The motel celebrated the local Native American Hove culture, but spoiled it somewhat with a fake totem pole, copied from one I'd seen a few years ago commemorating the great Chief, Seattle, in the Northwest city of the same name. The totem pole was mid-centre on a swathe of grass in front of the motel reception. Standing nine feet tall, it almost dwarfed Harvey Lucas where he leaned against it. Almost, but not quite. Harvey is a huge man. He doesn't have the musculature of Rink, but he's still a physical specimen that would make most men envious. He stands well above my near six feet. His skin is so black and sleek that he looks like he has been carved from jet by a master sculptor. On his broad shouldered, slim-waisted frame, clothes hang on him the way clothes are meant to hang. At forty years old he could give men half his age a run for their money on the football field, as well as a lesson in style.