In the past, he'd stoically taken the beatings doled out by the older kids. Smiled at them when they were too exhausted to strike him again. Enduring many hours in hospitals, he hadn't once complained. He accepted the reality of his existence. From birth to death, existence is measured in a series of chapters governed by various levels of pain, some greater than others. Some are easy to recognise. Birth is a screaming, howling experience. Growing, stumbling, taking the knocks in life; all are forms of physical, mental and emotional torture. There is loss and then there is grief. Then you die, and it's a lucky one who doesn't perish in agony. In comparison to some things he'd put up with, pressing on through the grasses was akin to bliss.
He was a professional.
He wasn't insane. Fair enough, his penchant for killing probably was tied to a psychopathic quirk, but he wasn't mad in the sense that other killers were mad. He was not a deviant who killed for the pleasure of collecting trophies, or for sating his need for sexual dominance over a weaker creature. He did not flay the hide from women to make himself a housecoat or lampshade and he did not keep the petrified remains of his mother locked up in an attic then run around in her clothes slicing up nubile young women.
He killed because that was what he was good at.
He killed because it paid him well.
He killed because he had a strict purpose.
The others, those that he personally chose to kill, were merely a by-product of his assumed persona. It didn't take a talented assassin to drive by a victim, poke a gun out of a window and shoot a man dead as he stepped down from his front porch. Any half-assed idiot with a gun could do that. But such actions quickly got them caught, or killed. Dantalion murdered in a fashion that was more thoughtful, planned to create impact. The style of his killings mimicked the actions of a deranged serial killer, not of a hired assassin. It wasn't always apparent who his intended victim was. They were lost among the body count. Law enforcement and FBI VICAP teams were scratching their heads, searching for elusive maniacs that would never be identified with him.
Plus, the randomness of the deaths made his clients fear him. It added to his mystery and ensured that his reputation as a master of his craft guaranteed full and prompt payment. No one wanted to chance upsetting him. They knew where that would get them.
Most of his victims were collateral damage. But they served his purpose well. Success bred success. The more he killed, the more often he was sought out. The higher the fee he could set.
He had no reservations about killing those innocents he chose. They were mere props for the theatre of his schemes. Also, he did share the blame around. Everything shouldn't be ladled on his conscience. He allowed his victims a choice. Who dies first? How do they die? If they pointed the finger at their loved ones, then so be it, it was out of his hands. He was only the tool that completed their wishes. It was fucked-up reasoning, he accepted that, but it was a coping mechanism he embraced. It relieved him of the burden of guilt and allowed him to continue doing what he did best.
No, he wasn't insane.
Crazy men don't know they are crazy. And neither do they question their actions.
Psychopaths don't deliberate over death the way he did. They certainly don't share out the glory. They keep it all to their greedy selves.
Crazy men do sometimes take on personas. But so do hired killers. They never use their real names. Not in a craft that demands anonymity and mystery. Jean-Paul St Pierre wouldn't bring the clients running to pay high fees for his services. When in his teens he'd shed his old Mississippi beliefs, he'd turned to esoteric books and lore for the incarnation of the professional killer he would become.
In the Book of Enoch he'd found the perfect match. Dantalion, one of the angels cast out of heaven by Gabriel and the army of God. The panoply of the Fallen were numbered. The seventy-first spirit was Dantalion. He was a great and mighty duke of Hell. According to legend, he appeared in the form of a man with many countenances, all men's and all women's faces. For one as androgynous as he, and with his talent for disguise, what better physical description could there be? The angel Dantalion was said to know the thoughts of all men and women and carried them in a book; he could change them at will. This modern Dantalion also had the knack for bending people's resolve and for jotting down the sum of their lives within his own book. He had the power of life and death over them.
Crossing the grasslands, he paused to bring the binoculars to his eyes, looking like every other bird-fancier in the region. Then he casually swung his view past the turreted gate on the Jorgenson estate wall. Near to the shoreline, this gate wasn't used daily — possibly not even yearly. It was a relic from almost half a century ago, a sally port down to the coast, long before the suspended road had been built nearby. He could imagine the folk from simpler times wandering out of their gardens on to the beach here. Perhaps carrying a picnic basket and a blanket. Maybe Valentin Jorgenson had enjoyed boyhood playtime on this very portion of the beach. Before he was moulded into the successful business man who would continue the legacy started by his own father. Before the cancer that blighted him in his last few months. Before Dantalion put some well-placed rounds through him last night.
A wrought-iron gate barred progress into the grounds. It was in need of a coat of paint, and the corrosive sea winds had turned the gates, and the chain and padlock holding them in place, rusty. A sign was riveted to the wall next to the gate. NO ENTRY WITHOUT PERMISSION — PRIVATE PROPERTY.
Like that was going to deter Dantalion.
A fortunate occurrence presented itself. A rare snail kite soared through the sky and perched on the wall near to the gate. Dantalion, binoculars fixed to his face, walked closer. Studying, studying. Not the bird. He could see that the lock would be easily shattered by a 9 mm round from his Beretta. He could be inside in seconds.
The bird streaked away. Dantalion wandered away, too.
But he'd be back.
15
'We're here to speak to Bradley Jorgenson.'
'Name?'
'He doesn't know my name.'
'Then he isn't expecting you?'
'No, he wouldn't be.'
'Then you'll have to make an appointment through his office. You have the contact details?'
'No, I don't.'
'Then, I'm afraid you won't be able to see him. We are currently experiencing unwanted attention from the media and I have express orders to send everyone though Mr Jorgenson's press office. Good day, sir. Please move your vehicle so it isn't blocking the access drive.'
The intercom was switched off, the active green light dying. I leaned away from it back into the Porsche and looked across at Rink. His eyebrows jerked but that was the sum of his contribution.
I pressed the buzzer again.
'Sir, I already told you?…'
I didn't listen to the guard's words. I swung open the car door and went up to the gate. Peering up at the CCTV camera above it, my hands clenched by my sides, I shouted, 'Speak to Jorgenson. Tell the ungrateful son of a bitch that Joe Hunter is here. He'd have died last night if it wasn't for me.'
Turning back to the buzzer on the intercom, I pressed my finger to it. Kept the button depressed. Somewhere on the property the buzzer would be shrieking in protest, probably sending the guard insane.
The tableau held for the best part of two minutes.
Then from within the compound I heard the grumble of approaching engines. Letting go of the buzzer, I said into the speaker, 'Now that wasn't so difficult, was it?'
The guard didn't respond. Maybe he was in one of the two dark silver sedans approaching the gate.
The sedans drew to a halt on the road beyond the gate. Four big guys with guns under their jackets got out. They eyed me coolly, the way a pack of jackals would challenge a lion. Together they could likely bring me down, but not one at a time. Rink got out the car and stood beside me. The odds now tipped the scale firmly in my favour. Rink's presence often had that effect.
