definitely been set up to die by Petre.
He turned the truck round.
Sped back northward.
He pressed the button to lower the window. Pulled free his Beretta, hanging it out of the window.
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. Dantalion murdered in a fashion that was more thoughtful than that, planned to create impact. But every now and again a good old drive-by shooting was just what was required.
He slowed down and held the gun steady against the window ledge.
But he was too late.
The Porsche was already inside the compound, following a silver sedan. Other men were climbing into a second silver sedan. One of them was Brush Cut. A single guard was standing next to a control box, and the gate was swinging shut. Dantalion pulled the Beretta back inside, just as the guard glanced his way. Dantalion gave the man a nod, a tourist enjoying the drive. The guard didn't even notice.
Opportunities like that one didn't present themselves too often. He'd missed it. But this evening he'd make his own opportunities and this time he would not miss.
17
'Who are you?'
The same question kept being asked of me. I suppose this time I owed more explanation than simply giving my name and that I was there to help. Marianne deserved as much.
'My name is Joe Hunter.'
'So you weren't lying.' I didn't quite catch her meaning, and she went on. 'Yesterday when you introduced yourself, you told me you were called Joe.'
'I wasn't lying about the rest, either.'
'That you were there to help?'
We were in a room adjacent to the library. Rink was keeping Bradley, Seagram and the third man company. I only hoped his surliness didn't provoke a confrontation before I could reassure Marianne of our good intentions.
She'd changed since I saw her last.
She had on black trousers and pumps, a pale cream blouse. But that's not what I meant.
She looked different.
Her light brown hair was loose, full of body as though recently washed. Her skin was pink and she wafted a scent that was more delicate fragrance of soap than expensive perfume. I guessed her shower had been long and very hot. Her flight from the house on Baker Island would have meant her clothes were tinged with the reek of smoke and dust and debris. But that wasn't what she was trying to scrub away. You could wash all you wanted, but you also had to expunge the memories from your mind. It sometimes took that to remove the stench after witnessing violent death.
She was perched on the edge of a desk, her feet swinging in space. Her arms were crossed beneath her breasts. Her body language was in conflict. The swinging feet were those of a young innocent girl, but the folded arms said she was now much wiser than her years, and understood the need to protect herself. She'd experienced something that most adults never have to go through, never mind a child. She had survived where she should have died, and she was suddenly feeling her mortality weighing on her as heavy as the collapsed house she'd so narrowly escaped.
'How did you know that… that monster was coming?'
'I didn't,' I said. 'I was there for another reason.'
She stared down at her feet. They were still now.
'My father?'
'Yes. Your father asked me to bring you home.'
'I don't want to go home.'
'I understand. You're an adult now. You want to live your own life.'
She shook her head slowly. 'That's not what I meant. I don't want to leave. My life is here now. With Bradley.'
'You don't have to be afraid of him. If you want, I'll take you away from here now.'
Marianne gave a small laugh. It wasn't humour, though. Not relief. 'Afraid of him. Yes, you could say that.'
'I won't let him hurt you again,' I promised.
'If you take me home, there will be no way to stop him. You couldn't be there all the time. He'd get to me sooner or later.'
'What has he done to you, Marianne? To make you so afraid? I saw the police photographs of your assault. Why didn't you go through with an official complaint then? This would all be over now. You'd be free of him.'
Marianne gave me a look that assured me that she had grown way beyond her years even before the terror at Baker Island.
'Love,' she said. 'It doesn't matter that he hurts me, I love him. How could I have him arrested and charged? It would destroy him. I couldn't live with that.'
'Men who hurt women don't deserve your love.'
'No, maybe they don't. But I can't help my feelings. I can't turn my back on him.'
There was a knock at the door. Jorgenson entered without waiting for a reply. When he saw my face he faltered. It took all my will not to grab him by the throat and throw him through the nearest wall. As it was I clenched a fist, considering that a gut punch wouldn't be out of order. Marianne saved him from punishment.
She hopped down off her perch and went to him. She hugged him, tilted up her face and he kissed her sweetly on the tip of her nose.
'You OK, babe?' he asked, giving me a hooded glance over the top of her head.
'I'm fine, honey.'
I had to turn away.
Love's blind, they say. Must also be an anaesthetic.
Rink came in the door, followed by Seagram.
'What's going on, Rink?'
'Been explaining to Bradley what we think is going on. About who could have sent the hit man after him. Bradley has agreed that we could be helpful in stopping him.'
'We're here for Marianne,' I reminded him.
'Marianne's with me,' Jorgenson said.
I nodded once, a curt lifting of my chin. He could see the anger in my face and wasn't so sure that it would be a good idea to piss me off.
He went on, more conciliatory, 'But Mari's safety is everything to me.' He said to her, 'If it's OK with you, babe, I'll let them stay.'
Marianne looked at me. Her confidant. 'I trust them.'
'Then we'll stay.' I looked across at Rink. Concern for his ailing mother must have been gnawing at him, but he agreed with a lift of his shoulders. Then I studied the room, the huge windows. 'This place isn't safe. We should move somewhere less vulnerable.'
Jorgenson followed my gaze. The view was phenomenal. Open sky and open sea. 'What's to fear?'
'Boat out on the water. Any half-decent sniper could shoot you from half a mile out,' I explained. 'But that isn't what I was meaning.'
'So what do you mean?'
Flicking a glance over Seagram, I said, 'Not now. We'll speak again later. First I want to get Marianne somewhere a little safer.'
