'My room would be OK, wouldn't it?' Marianne volunteered. 'I've things I can be getting on with.'
'How many men have you got in the house?' I asked the question directly of Seagram.
He didn't have to think long. 'Eight including myself. Then there are five staff members.'
'Unlucky thirteen,' Rink offered.
'Round them all up, Seagram. Tell them that no one goes near Marianne until this is over.'
'Wait a second,' Seagram said. 'Who put you in charge? I'm head of security here. I decide what happens.'
'No,' Jorgenson put in. 'I decide what happens. Hunter is right. The man who tried to kill us last night was in disguise. He could be anyone. Who knows? He could already be in the house.'
'I know all of my men personally,' Seagram said in outrage. 'I can vouch for each and every one of them.'
'You care for your men,' I said. 'That's good. If you want to save their lives, you keep them the fuck away from Marianne's room. That goes for you as well.'
There wasn't anything subtle in the threat. It was a full-on challenge. I expected him to back down, and he did. He turned and walked away quickly. Back in the hall, I could hear him shouting angrily at his men. I paid him no further concern. Seagram was an asshole, and things would be much better if he kept out of the way.
'He can see to your personal safety, Jorgenson. I have no objections to that. But where Marianne is concerned, it's down to us. If you happen to be with her, then, so be it. We'll protect you too.'
'I'm seeing my legal advisers in an hour,' Jorgenson said. 'They've arranged a meeting with the police. I have to explain what happened at Baker Island.'
Complication.
'It's up to you, but I'd deny that I was there. You were here on Neptune last night, and Marianne was with you.'
'You expect me to lie?'
'For the time being.' Marianne was looking at me with her mouth partly open, wondering if she'd made the wrong decision in trusting me. I said to her, 'If the police believe that you were here, their investigation will be hampered, sure. But they aren't going to stop this killer. They aren't going to stop the person who hired him. All that will happen is that more strangers are allowed into your home. The killer could infiltrate the building and get at you. Also, it will be impossible to keep you out of harm's way if you have to go into Miami to be interviewed.'
Jorgenson jammed his hands into his trouser pockets. 'My father died. Shot dead in cold blood. How do you expect me to lie about that? I was there and saw the man who did it. So did Marianne. You did. We're all witnesses.'
Jorgenson stared at me, almost a mirror image of Marianne in his open-mouthed incredulity.
'You're right. But our eyewitness testimony isn't worth shit. The killer was in disguise. He will look nothing like the man we describe.'
'How do you know it was a disguise?'
'Something I saw but didn't realise at the time. There was a pale smear on his chin. At first I thought that it was dust, but I've been thinking about it since. I now think that he had darkened his skin. The pale patch was his natural colour. His hair isn't black either.' I remembered the person in the dark blue suit stumbling away from the wreckage of the house. At the time I thought it was an innocent caught up in the blast. I'd held back from shooting him for that very reason. 'The killer had black hair, but it had to have been a wig. Really he has longish blond hair.'
'So tell the police that.'
'Won't help.'
'The police will give us all the protection we need.'
'No, they'll only give the killer more opportunities to get at you. It's better that we do it my way. This man doesn't know that I survived the blast. He doesn't know about Rink. He isn't expecting us. We'll be able to get him.'
'What if you don't?' Marianne asked. 'What if he gets you first?'
'That's when you go to the police and tell them everything.'
18
Hobe Sound in Martin County, Florida, has a strange history. In the early quarter of the last century, the movie industry was big news in Florida. The goal of the Olympia Improvement Association was to develop Hobe Sound to build a permanent movie production centre and town in the style of Ancient Greece. For a short time, Hobe Sound was renamed Picture City. A hurricane in 1928 put paid to the plans, devastating the area and putting an end to the land boom, and the hopes of OIA came to nothing. Their legacy remained only in the names of the streets: Zeus, Saturn, Mercury, Apollo, Athena.
Strange names were nothing new to a man who went by the name of a fallen angel, but even he would have drawn the line at the Downtown Demeter Plaza. He was sitting on a terrace outside a coffee shop called Pots and Pans — complete with a welcome sign depicting a life-sized satyr blowing on a reed pipe, and the day's specials chalked across his midriff. Pan pipe music played from tinny speakers above the door, but it sounded more Peruvian than ancient Greek.
He put up with the place out of necessity. His associate had arranged the equipment for his assault on Neptune Island, and would deliver it here within the hour. In the meantime, he sat gritting his teeth, drinking coffee as strong as sump oil, and moving with the shadows under the parasol over his table.
It was late afternoon but it was still edging ninety degrees Fahrenheit, and under his voluminous coat sweat was trickling down the small of his back and pooling on the vinyl chair he was sitting on. He was uncomfortable and the wound in his thigh was screaming in protest. He wasn't very happy.
Banyan trees with their weirdly twisted trunks and branches blocked the traffic noise from nearby Athena Street. Against the harsh afternoon sunlight they looked like the silhouettes of deformed giants. The chatter of tourists and locals was muted, as if the heat leached all energy, making speech above a whisper too difficult.
He watched the people in the mall, conscious of the glances he received in turn. Here, under his parasol, he stood out like a candle flame in a dark pit. He didn't like being so visible, but at the end of the day he wasn't going to kill anyone here. So long as they turned off that damn piped music!
A fat man approached him. He had on wide flannel trousers and a black shirt with embroidered flames writhing up the sleeves. Sweat stood on his forehead like mountain dew. He carried a backpack. Dantalion acknowledged his associate. The fat man thought he controlled Dantalion, but Dantalion knew otherwise. He was simply the mule who carried Dantalion's supplies.
The man sat down, the chair legs squealing under his weight. He dropped the backpack at his feet, pushing it further under the table with a couple of none-too-subtle kicks. Dantalion hooked a strap with an ankle and pulled the bag the rest of the way. If felt heavy.
'You want coffee, Gabe?'
Gabe Wellborn swiped at his forehead with the palm of his hand, scattering droplets on the tablecloth. Dantalion scowled at the damp patches, then up at the man's sweaty face.
'Or would you prefer something a little colder?'
'Appreciate it, Dan.'
Dantalion beckoned to a waiter. The man came over as though he had all the time in the world and wasn't about to waste any of it.
'Coffee for me and whatever my friend is having.'
'Soda,' Gabe said. 'Ice. Lots of it.'
The waiter didn't bother scribbling the order into his book. Bad form, Dantalion thought. Then he wandered inside to fetch their drinks. He'd be back in about fifteen minutes, judging by his lack of urgency.
'You have what I asked for?'
Gabe nodded. 'In the bag. EMF meter. Gen-Three night-vision goggles. Sound suppressor and ammo for a ninety-two Beretta. Ketamine, plus delivery system, just as you asked.'
