Just a single speedboat hurtling along about a quarter of a mile to the north. Even from here, I could tell it was a private boat, so I gave it no further thought. Even if the skipper had immediately called the authorities, they were still many minutes away. Which meant I had no time to waste: if John was inside, especially accompanied by the Harvestman, I had to take decisive action before any innocents were injured.
Given the opportunity, I'd have scoped the place and gained a better understanding of what it was we faced. Rink and I would've devised a plan of approach. But like always, Murphy's Law took precedence here. I could only hope that the chaos rule held us in its favor as it had done innumerable times in the past.
With this in mind, I'd no recourse other than charge the screen door, lift a foot, and crash through, hurtling into whatever hell storm would follow.
Which is exactly what I did.
34
snapshot. On first perusal, it was a nice home. Reminded me of my grandparents' bungalow. On deeper reflection, the memory of their home told me everything I was afraid of.
There was a cancer at this house's core.
To maximize the sunshine, all these beach houses had been built so that their fronts were to the ocean. Therefore, through the door I shattered was a vestibule leading directly to an open-plan living area on one side and a bedroom on the other. Toward the back of the house would be a kitchen and perhaps a utility area, but these were of no interest to me.
Kick-start the world.
I moved.
My entire attention was skewed to the left as I swung into the liv- ing area. I say living area; I could already see the corpse of some hulking dog lying alongside its ceiling-staring master. The man was indisputably dead judging by the mess of his throat and the cataract-glaze of his eyes. His mouth hung open in shock, and pink spume clung to his contorted lips. Another thing I took in during that nanosecond of horror; his left hand was missing, shorn off at the wrist. The Harvestman was living up to his name.
Apart from the corpses, the room was as ordinary as any home supported by a modest income. There was the obligatory TV, settee and chairs, trinket-type ornaments, and photographs in frames. The thing that stood out was the large piano that took up most of one side of the room. Then there were the three people standing around it.
Perhaps standing around it isn't the most apt way to describe the scene.
One figure, an elderly woman, was being helped off the piano stool by the tug of a man's arm around her throat. As she stood in an awkward spasm, her fingers clawed at the piano keys and a deep-throated note vied for dominance over an equally harsh one. The man pulling her backward stared at me over the woman's shoulder, his lips split in a feral snarl.
My SIG came up. Ordinarily I'd have fired, but the man placed the muzzle of a gun to the side of the woman's face and I stayed my hand. My gaze flicked to the nearer side of the piano. Immediately I saw my brother.
At the time, I can't honestly say if I was pleased to see him. I think, deep down in my soul, I'd secretly hoped that John was dead, that the possibility that he'd become a monster had been removed.
John turned his face to mine, and shock struck his dull expression. Then a bit of hope flared. That look was all I needed to confirm that John wasn't a consenting player in this game. Immediately my attention skipped back to the man holding the woman.
'Drop the gun,' I shouted.
The man's snarl broadened ever wider and I saw ice behind his pale green eyes. Using the woman as a shield, he pressed the gun under her jaw.
'I think it's you who'd better drop the gun,' he said.
My SIG didn't waver. I took a step closer. Finger pressure increased on the trigger. Calmer, I said, 'Drop the gun.'
In answer, he thumbed back the hammer on his own gun. 'Think you can drop me before I kill this old bitch?'
'Yes.' I stared at him along the barrel of my gun.
He shook his head. 'I don't think you're as confident as you're making out. If you could do it, you would've done so by now.'
'You've got another five seconds to comply,' I told him.
The man laughed. His captor whimpered in terror. Her arthritic knees threatened to dump her on her backside, and only the dragging arm around her throat held her up. She was no lightweight, but the man didn't seem to be struggling to control her. The arm looped around her throat bulged with lean strength.
'One,' I counted.
'Aw, cut the dramatics, will you,' he taunted. As he did, he shuffled sideways, putting himself in a corner of the room. It wasn't an attempt to find an exit, but to ensure he couldn't be triangulated. His back to the corner of the room, he took away any opportunity for Rink to get a bead on him. I glanced to my left and saw Rink standing outside the open window, his shotgun trained on the man. My friend gave a subtle shake of his head. No line of fire.
'You're cornered,' I told the man. 'Let the woman go and you'll live. Harm her and we'll shoot you like a mad dog.'
'No. What you are going to do is put down your weapons. I leave with the woman.' He glanced over at a briefcase I only now noticed on the lid of the piano. 'And that.'
'No deal. You're going to let the woman go first.'
'Uh-uh. Maybe I'll just shoot her face off and take my chances, huh?'
