Chapter 34

Markus pulled up outside his house at Clarendon Heights.

He left the vehicle in its customary position adjacent to the kerb. Getting out he felt better than he had earlier: perhaps the glucose and caffeine rush from the energy drinks had helped, but he preferred to think it was more to do with his Zen state of mind — ironic that one who hated the Japanese people so much should embrace their teachings. Much of the pain was relegated to a deep place in his psyche, now that the thrill of anticipation was on him. If Chaney’s men came through, he would have his third shot at the stranger within the next hour or two. His primary agenda was to punish all the members of the murder ring, but until his nemesis was out of the picture that would prove difficult. He couldn’t wait to have the bastard in his sights and to kill him. Maybe he’d make him suffer and shoot him in the ribs first, before placing a more telling bullet between his eyes. Or better yet, he’d beat him with his hands and feet before using his concealed ceramic blade to cut him to ribbons… then shoot him.

He could feel the shiv against his ankle as he moved, slightly uncomfortable but also a welcome sensation. He felt for where he’d pushed the gun into his jacket pocket, smoothing his hand over the cool metal and on to the crosshatched grip of the butt. For ease of carriage he’d unscrewed the suppressor and it was now in his opposite pocket. He glanced up and down the road, searching the nearby houses for any sign that his neighbours were up and about, but at this late hour he found most houses were in darkness. His glance shifted to his crooked home, and not for the first time he thought that it looked like the Bates house from Psycho the way it perched up on a knoll. The place was in darkness as he’d left it, but for the one light up in his room at the top. Had the light just flickered?

He stood, peering up, but the momentary disruption to the light leaching from beyond the blinds was not repeated. Nothing, he decided; an insect flying close to the bulb could cast a large enough shadow to cause the effect. Still, he walked up the path to his front door with his hand resting on his gun.

From a pocket he pulled out the key and inserted it in the lock. For some reason he found that he was taking things very quietly, teasing the lock to open. Maybe there was more to the flickering light than he originally thought. He eased the door open and entered the vestibule, his keys replaced so that he could close the door with one hand while holding his gun with the other. He stood in the darkness, listening. He stood like that for one long pent-up breath. He could hear the ticking of water through pipes, the settling of the old wooden beams, but that was all. Feeling foolish, he relaxed, placing the gun back in his pocket and reaching for the light switch. He flicked the switch over. Darkness prevailed.

‘Crap!’ He had only replaced the light bulb a month earlier. This old house took up more of his goddamn time than it was worth.

He thought about going directly up the stairs to hit the light switch at the next landing, but decided against it and headed for the kitchen where he was sure there were spare bulbs in a drawer. He only made it a couple paces before his boot crunched on shards of glass. Now that was wrong! He wasn’t the most house-proud of people, and it was probably many weeks — if not months — since he’d run a vacuum cleaner along the hall carpet but he’d be damned if he’d allowed broken glass to litter the floor. He crouched, feeling around, and felt a prick of his fingertip. Ignoring the brief flare of pain, he snatched up the offending shard and held it close to his face. He could already feel the curve of the thin glass, but he pulled out his cell and pressed a button, scrutinising his discovery under the pale blue light from the screen. He looked up and back at where the ceiling rose hung empty. The freaking bulb couldn’t have been screwed in tightly enough, and had worked its way free over time. He scowled at his theory, figuring the chances. It didn’t surprise him, not when the rest of the place had been deteriorating round his ears for years.

He continued on to the kitchen and reached for the light switch. Once more he was rewarded with enduring darkness.

‘What the hell is going on?’ he demanded into the pitch shadows.

What were the odds of two goddamn bulbs blowing in short succession? Fucking nil. Paranoia shrieked through him.

He turned back for the hall, adamant now that he’d be better off heading directly for his room, where he’d stashed the extra ammunition he’d come to fetch, then get the hell out of there. Something caught in his peripheral vision and he swung back. He stared across the breadth of the kitchen; the familiar shapes of the table and cluttered worktops were not what had caught his eye. He looked beyond them to where the back door was, wondering at the sliver of city light down its edge. He took a step that way, angling his body for a better view, and was sure that the door stood open an inch or two.

He rested his hand on his gun once more, teasing it part-way from his pocket. The door had been opened, probably for the first time in years, and he was sure as hell he hadn’t done it. He took another step that way, before turning abruptly and peering back towards the hall. He remembered again the flicker of shadow from his room and understood that it wasn’t something as mundane as an insect moving about up there. He felt a cold blade wedge through his gut at the realisation that whoever was up there had seen the results of his work. He didn’t fear discovery, because in time he’d like the truth to be uncovered, he only feared it coming too soon. His wasn’t the best neighbourhood, he knew, and it had its inherent problems like any other. Burglars were known to prey on the old houses here, seeing them as insecure and an easy target. Markus wondered if a thief had noted the house’s apparent abandonment and had entered seeking anything worth stealing. He couldn’t discard the idea, because even burglars could be swayed to drop the police a tip concerning a greater crime than theirs. He had to stop whoever was up there, no doubt about it. He brought the gun fully out, and began stalking along the hall.

At the stairs he paused.

Burglars didn’t normally break light bulbs on their way through a house. He looked up into the solid wedge of darkness above him, feeling a flare of excitement.

What if it wasn’t a burglar who’d found access to his home? What if it was someone else entirely?

He half expected to see the stranger appear from the gloom, as he had in his recent nightmare, the flashes of gunfire lighting up his features as he came at Markus. He almost welcomed the scene, because this time he was ready for him.

Knuckles pounded on the front door.

He was caught in a moment of flux: what should he do? Answer the door or check for the intruder? What if both were connected and the person banging at the door was a distraction to allow the one inside the house to steal up on him in the dark? He understood now why the bulbs had been broken — it was a deliberate act in order to confuse him.

He took a tighter grip on his gun, and placing his back to the wall next to the door, he kept an eye up the flight of stairs. Then he snatched his gaze away for the briefest of seconds to peer through the dingy glass in the door. A shape moved beyond the murky glass: a shadow only, cast by the headlights of a vehicle parked on the street.

The banging came again. ‘Charles Peterson?’

‘Who is it?’ Markus yelled.

‘Police. Open up.’

How the hell had the police made the connection to him? Whoever it was upstairs must have called them, he realised. They had seen the photographs, been horrified by their discovery and immediately telephoned the police.

There was more banging on the door. ‘Open up, Peterson.’

There was no possible way that he could allow himself to be arrested. Not yet. Markus had a single recourse, and it forced his hand.

He lifted his gun and fired, directly through the wood. He was wise enough not to shoot through the door, as the cop out there would not stand directly in the line of fire. He angled his shots so that they passed through the worm-eaten walls to either side of the door. He heard a yelp of pain, and the thud of someone going down hard on the porch. There was a corresponding shout from another person more distant. He knew the likelihood of other cops surrounding the house was very high, but he also doubted that they would have come in force based only on a tip-off. They would wish to investigate first, and then arrest Markus after establishing just cause.

Markus quickly pulled the door open a few inches, peering down at the cop rolling on the porch in agony. He saw a man in a navy-blue suit, with dark hair that had flopped over his pale face. Markus ignored him, seeking instead the source of the second voice. He spotted a large fair-haired man rushing towards the house, his gun held out in the two-handed grip as he sought to cover his fallen comrade, and to find a viable target at the same time. When the big cop caught sight of Markus it was too late. Markus fired directly at the cop and hit him high in the chest, knocking him down. The cop let out a yowl that was more anger than it was pain, and Markus realised he was probably wearing a bulletproof vest. He fired again, seeking to hit the man in a more telling place. The cop came up to his knees, and then scrambled for cover. He was yelling at Markus to drop his weapon, but didn’t yet return fire.

Markus stepped out of the door.

He quickly scanned around, seeking the hiding places of other cops, but saw that other than the one car drawn up at the rear of his own vehicle, no other cruisers were on the scene yet.

He smiled, the momentary concern of before replaced by savage satisfaction at having defeated the cops sent to interrogate him. They would definitely call in reinforcements, but not if he snatched that opportunity away from them. He looked again for the big cop and saw that he’d managed to place a shrub between them. The bush offered no protection from Markus’s gun, but did make targeting more difficult. Markus fired two rapid shots into the greenery, and saw the big cop throw himself flat. He wasn’t sure if he’d killed him or not, but immediately turned his attention to the nearer detective.

There was a gun lying out of reach of the man. In any case, he didn’t look capable of lifting it. Markus could now see that his shots through the wall had been deadly — or would prove to be so judging from the copious amount of blood pouring from the man’s neck. The cop had both hands on the wound, and his mouth was opening and closing in silent shock. His dark eyes were pools of despair as he stared up at his slayer.

Markus pointed the gun directly at the cop’s face.

He pulled the trigger.

The gun cracked noisily.

Aimed directly at the cop’s skull, the nine mm round would kill him, but Markus’s aim was knocked askew at the last second.

He did not see where the bullet struck, but it was not in human flesh from the resounding crack! Markus let out a shout of anger, as much at missing his shot as at the man who grappled with his gun hand. He felt his wrist twisted violently, somebody trying to tear the gun from his grip with such sudden violence that it tore skin from his fingers.

Rage struck Markus in a flash flood. He should never have taken his attention off whoever was lurking in his house. Now he’d allowed himself to be captured. Goddamnit, no! He would not give up. He struck out, throwing all his weight against his attacker. He rammed his elbow backwards, but though he struck, the body was too prepared to be hurt badly. Instead he pivoted, hard and fast, and head-butted the face of the man struggling with him. It wasn’t the stranger — it was Jared Rington. The man was momentarily dazed, and Markus plucked his hand free. He swung to gut shoot him.

Another gun blazed, someone coming down the stairs fast. Markus skipped back and on to the porch, almost tripping over the fallen cop, missing his opportunity to finish Rington. Thankfully the man’s large body blocked the doorway and thwarted his friend’s aim. But now Rington was going for his gun. He could still kill him and quite possibly the stranger as well. But then the fair-haired cop joined the shooting party. His shots were ill aimed, and punched into the walls of the house. Rington ducked back inside, swearing loudly, and Markus understood the notion of discretion being the better part of valour. Caught in the sights of three guns he didn’t stand a chance. He turned quickly and leaped from the porch, charging across the unkempt garden for the low wall. The cop had no clear target through the foliage and Markus capitalised on his blind shooting, knowing that it would also pin down the other two men.

‘Goddamnit, Jones!’ someone yelled. ‘Hold your fire. He’s getting away!’

The cop either didn’t hear or didn’t care. He fired again at the house, just as Markus went over the wall and landed on the hood of his car. He was inside it in seconds, the car squealing away from the kerb, leaving behind twin ribbons of rubber on the asphalt. As he forced the car round the first bend, Markus was grinning savagely. He was adrenalised, the blood raging though him. Now that was just the kind of warm up he required for the night ahead.

Загрузка...