Despite having just shot his way through a police cordon, Markus made the San Mateo Bridge with little drama, and sped over it towards the lights of Hayward, having negotiated the tollgates without raising suspicion. Then it was a short run up the Nimitz Freeway to San Lorenzo where he cut across country to the MacArthur Freeway and on towards Chabot Regional Park. Despite the route, he didn’t have a clue as to how close he’d come to Parnell’s and Faulks’s hiding place, he was heading further into the national park where Sean Chaney had called an emergency meeting. His new business partner had come through for him, but in a more satisfying manner than he could ever have expected. He was keen to meet the man.
As he gained a route through the wooded hills, he phoned Chaney back and was directed on to Redwood Road, and then, a couple of miles along, down a track towards the shores of a second expanse of water called Upper San Leandro Reservoir. Markus guessed that the area could be well populated by campers and had noticed signage on the way in directing visitors to various staging grounds and campsites, but where he was heading looked less travelled. The area served him well for what he had in mind.
The trail led between dense groves of eucalyptus trees, the grass and chaparral alongside the trail bleached of their natural colour by his headlights. Then he was in a gully, its steep banks strewn with boulders, and he was forced to switch back and forth as he followed the zigzag route down towards the water. He wondered how the hell Chaney knew about this place, but the answer was obvious enough. This probably wasn’t the first time that the gangster had made someone disappear without trace. How many shallow graves held rivals of Sean Chaney out in those woods? How many enemies had been sunk to the bottom of the lake?
The road ended at a wide turning area formed of hard-packed dirt. It was currently home to three vehicles: a black SUV, a panel van, and a tan-coloured Lincoln sedan, all of them deserted. The turning area was at the end of a peninsula that jutted out above the still waters of the reservoir. The car’s headlights petered out in the empty void over the lake, but closer by they highlighted an occasional night-flying bug that zapped by like a mini-meteorite. Way off on the far side of the lake pinpricks of light from widely spaced dwellings or campsites glinted. They were sufficiently far away that Yukiko Rington would not be heard should she decide to scream for help.
After parking the car and shutting off the lights, he headed for a secondary trail. It wound deep into the woodland at the edge of the lake. He was beginning to wonder where he was heading, if he’d missed a turn in the trail, when he made out a darker silhouette against the nightscape. The trees grew in clumps there among the ravines of the shoreline, creating indistinct shapes in the dark, but there was something looming ahead that was more geometrical, and as he approached it began to take shape as a large log structure with a peaked roof. Markus paused, studying the building, and couldn’t decide what it might have once been used for. His best guess was that it had been employed as a focal house, a meeting place for some group or other. Perhaps its patrons had partied there, and the sounds of music and laughter once rang out beyond its walls. Whatever its previous purpose it was immaterial now, because the sounds destined to come from it soon would be in direct contrast to those of happier times.
He passed a sign nailed to a post driven into the earth. Tough grass and briar had grown up around the noticeboard, and the wood looked stained and warped; in the darkness he could barely make out the yellow lettering on it. By the look of things the warning sign had been there for years, which gave some indication of how derelict the structure must be when it had warned of danger all those years earlier.
There was a rusty padlock and chain hanging from a latch on one side of the door. It had been unlocked, the opposite hasp standing open. Markus paused, wondering — not for the first time — if he was walking into a trap. He knew little about Sean Chaney’s trustworthiness, but when all came to all what did it matter? If the son of a bitch planned to double-cross him in any way then he’d just have to deal with the consequences. He felt more than a match for Chaney and the kind of half-witted punks he had at his disposal. He still had the gun he’d used on the cops back at his house, though he’d failed to fetch the extra ammunition he’d gone back for. His gun still held four rounds; he’d checked. His ace card was down his boot, his ceramic knife. Let Chaney try to pull a stunt and he’d cut out his lying tongue.
He shoved the protesting door inwards, lifting the warped wood to clear the accumulation of dirt and decomposing leaves that had invaded the gap beneath. He leaned to look inside. The interior was as decrepit as the outer shell, the old floorboards mostly rotted away, and showing hard earth beneath. Stacks of ancient furniture had been piled down one side of the room, cleared by God knew whom, but he doubted it was by Chaney and his gang. They were all at the far end of the large meeting hall, a storm lamp casting yellow light upwards from where it sat on a table painting their immense shadows on the inner peak of the roof. He guessed the large, bald man sitting behind the table was their leader. He’d taken the privileged position for more reason than that he simply could. Propped next to his chair was a walking stick; it appeared that Chaney’s leg was troubling him yet. Maybe it was for show, indicating how hurt and humiliated he’d been by their mutual enemies.
As Markus entered the hall he felt the change of pressure in his eardrums. This room had been locked tight for some time, he guessed. He worked his jaw, popping his ears as he strode towards Chaney. Chaney studied him as he approached, his gaze steady, unmoved by Markus’s appearance. The others were more wary, and more than one of them flexed their hands, perhaps expecting a sudden shoot-out to erupt.
Coming to a halt, Markus crossed his arms on his chest. He looked down at Chaney, ignored the others.
‘You don’t look anything like I was expecting,’ Chaney said.
‘What were you expecting?’
‘Don’t know. Murderers don’t usually look like you.’
Markus didn’t understand where Chaney was leading the conversation. Murderers came in all shapes and sizes, all creeds and colours. Markus had met many of them in his time. ‘You expected me to look insane perhaps? Maybe have a swastika or pentagram seared into my forehead? Sorry I don’t meet your expectations, but — if it helps — I don’t consider myself a murderer. I’m an avenger.’
‘Whatever,’ Chaney said. Leaning on his stick he rose up to meet Markus eye to eye. He was an inch or so too short. ‘It’s not important what you call yourself. All that matters is that you’re here. And that we can get on with killing the bastards who shot me.’
Markus peered past him to the dark space beyond. A wall had been erected, bisecting the hall at about the three quarter mark. In it was an open door.
‘Is the Jap bitch through there?’
Without turning Chaney nodded.
‘I know it wasn’t in the original plan to snatch her, but she turned up just as we were burning down her house. It was too good an opportunity to miss.’
‘You did right.’ Markus included the other men in his glance. They relaxed marginally. ‘If anything’s going to draw our enemies out it’s her.’
‘Good.’ Chaney tapped his stick against his wounded thigh. ‘I look forward to meeting those two bastards again. If all continues to plan they should be on their way here soon.’
‘You’ve left instructions about our terms, as I asked? You did mention that I want Parnell and Faulks as well?’
‘They’ll bring them. It’s like you said, Jared Rington isn’t going to put anyone before his mother’s safety.’
‘Have you learned the name of Rington’s friend yet?’
‘Nope,’ Chaney said. ‘But there’s someone down in the cellar who will tell us.’
Markus smiled, but it looked more like a grimace. Cellars were not his favourite places. However to reacquaint himself with the lying sow behind his father’s murder he’d make an exception. The terms he’d asked Chaney to relay were simple. He said that if Parnell and Faulks were brought to him, then he’d give back Yukiko. He hadn’t promised that she’d be alive.