Judgement and Wrath

31

There were only two things stopping Dantalion from immediately returning to the Jorgenson estate on Neptune Island.

First, he was unarmed. He'd lost both the Beretta and the Glock in the water. He didn't doubt that he could take a weapon from one of the two-bit guards the Jorgensons had in their employment, but then there was the second thing.

It was as if half of the Martin County Sheriff's Office had turned out, along with officers from Miami PD, and he was pretty sure that some of the men and women in stylish business suits were FBI. There were even officers from a Hostage Rescue Team in attendance, dressed in black jumpsuits, helmets and armed with assault rifles. Add to that the proliferation of CSI technicians, ambulances from Hobe Sound and Jupiter, and various other supporting agencies, and the estate was a no-go area for the foreseeable future.

Or was it?

A man of his abilities could wander among so many people who were not used to working together in such numbers and he would be missed among the throng. Hide in plain sight. Become one of them. Look like he had the right to be there.

Except he was soaked through and did not have a change of clothing. He'd dumped his backpack with his kit prior to the assault on Bradley Jorgenson's house. Though it freed him up to move more easily during the anticipated gun battle, he had never intended leaving his bag behind, expecting to be able to kill them all and return for his bag at leisure. But then came the high-speed car chase, his subsequent near drowning, and the termination of the fisherman. It wasn't until he returned to the truck and drove away — passing the first blue lights and sirens hurtling towards the island — that he'd recognised his error. Right now his bag and clothing would be in the hands of a CSI tech, sealed in an evidence bag and en route to the nearest lab for forensic examination. They'd find DNA, hair fibres and other trace evidence, but that didn't concern him. They'd tie the forensics to some of the hits he'd carried out, but that was all. They wouldn't be able to pin the evidence on him.

Not unless he was caught.

And that wasn't going to happen.

More worrying was the laptop he'd left at Petre Jorgenson's house. He didn't doubt that Gabe Wellborn had taken precautions to ensure that the transactions he'd performed through that computer couldn't be easily traced. But to be sure, Dantalion would have preferred to have destroyed the damn thing entirely after Gabe had transferred the half-million dollars into his offshore account. That account was a numbered account only, and the Bahamian bank that he used wasn't famous for bending to the demands of the American law enforcement community.

The FBI had some very clever computer wizards. No doubt about it, somewhere, someone would break the codes. It would show his history; maybe even lead back to his true identity. After that he would be forever on the run. Not that they would find him. Jean-Paul St Pierre would simply cease to exist.

On top of the money he'd already earned from previous jobs, the half-million dollars would make him a wealthy man. He could go anywhere. But that wasn't even a consideration right now. He still had a mission to complete.

He'd driven the truck north to get past any road blocks the police might put up. A little part of him had hoped to intercept Bradley Jorgenson on his return to the island, but he knew that there was a only a small chance of that happening.

Approaching Hobe Sound on the Southeast Dixie Highway, he looked for an appropriate place to turn off. He found it after a couple of minutes and angled the vehicle down a cross street that headed inland towards the Jonathon Dickinson State Park. He was looking for somewhere secluded, a place he could rest up and consider his next move. Somewhere to dry out his book.

The road wound through a picture of suburban tranquillity. Beautiful houses in beautiful gardens snoozed away the night-time hours, at rest and at peace with the world. Inside families young and old would be sleeping, dreaming their dreams and murmuring in contentment. No one would expect a professional killer to come to Aurora Village, let alone take up temporary residence there.

The village ended abruptly, giving way to swamp and scrub lands. Irrigation — or more likely drainage — channels had been formed at intervals along the way, and he found himself on a dirt track and series of short wooden bridges. His tyres bumped over the wood, making a double thump like a faltering heartbeat. He could smell the swamp, the cloying odours of decaying vegetation and stagnant water, but thought the smell could be coming from his soaked clothes and body. Sea salt had invaded his clothing and his skin had begun to itch.

To his left he noted the squat silhouettes of buildings. Agriculture wasn't the largest industry here, but the buildings looked like some kind of farm. He found a turning off the track and drove the truck into it. It was little more than a series of ruts and potholes and he decided this probably wasn't the main route to the farm. Nevertheless, he switched off his headlights so that he approached in darkness. He didn't want to alert anyone to his arrival until it was on his terms.

He stopped the vehicle a hundred yards short of the buildings, turned off the engine and slipped out the door. He didn't close the door fully, only pushed it gently to. Then he moved towards the buildings at a steady lope. The bullet wound in his leg was knitting, but with each step it felt like his skin cracked open. Ordinarily such a minor wound wouldn't be a distraction, but now it made him chew his lips against the pain. The limp became more pronounced the nearer he got to the buildings.

In his black clothing, his face stark and smudged with blood, hair hanging in colourless ribbons, he felt like a B-movie vampire skulking through the night. Not a bad image — it would strike fear in the hearts of those he might come across. Fear would be his greatest weapon.

He scanned the buildings. Two were little more than lean-tos, while one was an enclosed barn. There were a couple of adobe-style outhouses and then a small, single-storey house. The house was adobe as well, more like those he'd seen in Santa Fe than those indigenous to this part of Florida. He was approaching from the back of the house, but he got the impression of large windows in all the rooms. Because of its remote location, with no discernible neighbours, the drapes hadn't been drawn when the occupants had retired for the evening. The only light he could see was from a dull bulb in a porch at the rear door.

It was hot here through the day, so he could guarantee that the house was temperature-controlled by A/C units. For them to work to their best ability, windows and doors would be kept shut during the sultry hours of the night. Shut but not necessarily locked.

The obvious door to try would be the back door. People who lived and worked in the area of the outbuildings would use that door on a regular basis. The front door would hardly ever be unlocked. Still, he bypassed the rear of the property to fully reconnoitre the building. When he got to the front of the house, it was in darkness. His peek through the large picture window showed a simple living space with sturdy wooden furniture and an old-fashioned stereo built into a cabinet. Trinkets adorned shelves on the wall. Framed photographs lined one wall, but in the darkness he couldn't make them out. Portraits for sure; sons and daughters and grandkids, more than likely.

Continuing round the far edge of the building, he found a car port. It housed only one vehicle, a Dodge pick-up, dusty and scraped from hard toil in the fields. He found the door unlocked and opened it. No alarm. He wasn't expecting one: an alarm or central locking would have armed itself by now and made the doors secure. He searched the interior for a weapon, but there was nothing. He did note something, though. The driver's seat was misshapen and tattered, but the passenger seat was as smooth as the day it came off the assembly line. Only one person ever rode this vehicle. No Mrs Farmer to contend with inside the house. Whoever lived here did so alone.

He poked around on the back of the flat-bed, and came away with a large lug wrench from a box of tools. Heavy and blunt, it was a formidable weapon. He also took a screwdriver that he pushed into his waistband. It wasn't dagger quality but it could still be rammed through flesh if the need arose.

As he made his way past the front of the house the scene hadn't changed. The lights were still off, the living room devoid of life. He kept going, gained the back of the house once more. Gnats swarmed on the screen of the porch, seeking the light bulb within. Dantalion opened the screen very slowly so that it didn't squeak, then stepped inside, accompanied by many of the darting insects. Some of them batted off his features and clung to his hair and he shivered involuntarily. He wiped them away. He turned the door handle. Felt resistance. The person inside was security conscious after all. But that was a good thing, could mean he also had what Dantalion had come seeking.

He took the screwdriver out of his waistband, inserted it alongside the lock and levered against the frame, gradually forcing open the door. The lock was as much use as nothing when the door frame was made of weathered wood. He was happy that the noise of his breaking and entering was minimal, that it wouldn't have woken even the lightest of sleepers. He stepped inside. A utility area with a stack of laundry waiting for the iron greeted him. Chequered shirts and jeans, a pair of tan nylon trousers, socks and underwear of a conservative type. His assumption of a single occupant was taking on more validity. An older man, judging by the style of clothes. He picked up the nylon trousers — a fashion faux pas to anyone under the age of fifty — and checked the size. Not that he was planning on wearing them himself; he wanted to get a picture of the man he would have to kill. They were narrow around the waist, short in the leg. Small, skinny bastard, then? He selected one of the shirts and found that it was surprisingly bulky. Who was this guy, Dantalion wondered, a goddamn ape?

There was only one way to find out. He went through into a kitchen. It had only the most basic of utilities. Cooker and hob. Sink with a couple of neatly stacked dishes on the draining board. One cup ringed with coffee stains waiting to be washed under the faucet. A drawer in a cupboard disclosed silverware. Dantalion took out a heavy-bladed bread knife. It was better for stabbing than the screwdriver, and he kept it fisted in his right hand.

Moving towards the living area, he passed an upright vacuum cleaner standing in the hall. Ambient light came in through the front door so he avoided tripping over the pipe that lay at his feet like the coils of a boa constrictor. On his right now was the living room. He gave it only cursory attention, then turned to the door on his left.

He listened, an ear to the door.

From within came the tell-tale sounds of snoring. Just a light buzz, but it did appear to be from only one person. He tried the handle and the door swung silently inwards. He stepped inside and squared his feet on the carpet. The figure lying on his back beneath a sheet didn't even stir. Dantalion was a child of the night; his condition had ensured that, so he had no problems with the darkness. He could make out the man's sleep-relaxed features where they poked from beneath the sheet. Younger than he'd thought. The man had a shaved head and a thin moustache that hooked round the corners of his mouth. One shoulder looked muscular where the sheet had dropped away. Strong, farm strong, but maybe something to do with gymnasiums and heavy weights, too. Could be a handful in a hand-to-hand tussle.

A quick stab to the carotid artery would do it.

No. The man would wake, thrash about, his blood jetting around the room, growing less with each failing heartbeat.

Maybe not the best way to kill him.

Club him senseless with the lug wrench, then cut his throat? Less thrashing but still copious amounts of blood.

A single stab to the heart would be best. Very little blood if the heart died instantly. The only problem with that was he couldn't be sure of an immediate hit. The man had a sheet over his upper torso and it appeared one of his arms was draped across his chest. It would mean lifting the sheet to get a clear view. If the man woke up there would surely be a fight.

Choices, choices, Dantalion thought, always choices.

And with each choice a myriad tangents to choose from.

The man muttered in his sleep. Maybe some primal instinct was warning him about the presence of danger hovering so close by.

Maybe I should let him choose how to die, Dantalion thought.

But no. This killing wasn't for pleasure.

Dantalion lifted the lug wrench with his left hand. Brought it down in a sweeping arch. It struck the man's head on the left temple, making a deep depression in the skull above his ear. That could prove a killing blow in itself. The man's eyes shot open, but his pupils didn't contract, they stayed wide and bewildered. He didn't even see the knife that Dantalion drove through his chest. And that wound definitely did kill him.

Dantalion leaned over and flicked on the bedside lamp. Pearlescent light shone. He pulled back the sheet until it snagged against the shaft of steel protruding from the man's chest. Just left of dead centre. Dantalion smiled at his precise stab. But he still needed a gun. He was going up against men who had guns and he had to at least even his chances of a fair fight.

He checked the bedside table. No gun.

He checked the closet but found only more of those plaid shirts and jeans. Another pair of cream nylon trousers, too. These were sheathed in plastic, as though kept for best. He took them out and saw that the leg length was much longer than the worn pair in the utility area. These hadn't seen a trip to a seamstress yet. He held them alongside his own legs and found that they stopped a full inch above his ankles, but though he'd probably look like Pee-Wee Herman they would do at a push. He set them on the bed at the foot of the mattress. He selected the less gaudy of the shirts, pale blue with a white plaid. There was also a battered stetson on a shelf at the top of the cupboard. That joined his growing pile of clothes. He found socks too. He'd be going commando, however; no way was he going to wear the man's underwear.

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.