Some professional, I thought scornfully. Ex-West Point? Made me wonder if Rink's estimation of the man had been about right, except cooks aren't normally upset by the sight of blood.
Marianne had been against the idea of splitting up from Bradley, but the combined effort of the three of us had convinced her that it was in her best interests. Probably more persuasive was my argument that Bradley would be safer without the added worry that she could come to harm or — worse still — be used against him. She was just gathering up the last few possessions she couldn't do without when Seagram burst in.
'What the hell?' Rink intercepted the older man, barring his way with one hand. Seagram twisted, tried to get by and Rink grabbed him round the neck, spinning him into the crook of his elbow and giving his throat a squeeze. The pressure of Rink's corded muscles could easily have throttled the security man within seconds, but that wasn't the intent. Rink only held him, hissing into his ear, 'Calm down, Seagram. You're good to nobody like this.'
The blood on his hands wasn't his own. Neither were the smears on his trouser legs. But to look at him, you'd think Seagram was mortally wounded. His face was pale and his lips had a faint blue tinge to them. He was shivering uncontrollably. Shock, I decided.
Rink manoeuvred Seagram to a chair, pressed him down into it. 'Now, tell us what's going on.'
Hands twisted together, shivering wildly, Seagram looked past Rink. Bradley had moved to cover Marianne, but when he realised there was no immediate danger, he crept closer to Seagram. He also asked, 'What's going on, Seagram?'
Seagram moaned.
In the end, Rink lost patience. 'Call yourself a fucking soldier? Suck it up, man. You're a goddamn disgrace.'
The older man's reaction was to slump, his head going into his hands. His knees shuddered with the fear coursing through his frame, making the chair creak with each movement. Sounded ear-piercing. Enough to make my mouth flood with saliva.
Rink grabbed at him again, forcing the man's head up by gripping the longer hair at the front of his brush cut. 'Goddamn it! Do I have to beat the freakin' words outa you?'
Finally Seagram appeared to take stock of where he was. Colour swept through his features like a morning tide racing to shore. He reached up, batting at Rink's hand. 'Get off me, for Christ's sake!'
Rink released him, took a step back. He held his hand ready to smack Seagram should the necessity arise.
Seagram rocked back in the chair. He turned his hands palms out like a magician about to perform sleight of hand. To Bradley he said, 'This is Petre's blood.'
Petre Jorgenson. Recalling Marianne's earlier words, I knew that Petre was the name of Bradley's eldest cousin. One of those she couldn't believe would have anything to do with harming Bradley or her. Maybe she'd been right.
'Is he hurt?' Bradley asked.
Judging by the amount of blood on Seagram, the way he was reacting, the question was pretty redundant. But to be fair, the same words had been on the tip of my tongue. Instead, I changed the emphasis, 'Is he dead?'
Seagram's face twisted into a leering gargoyle's. He stared at the floor as if the answer to some great riddle could be found within the weave of the carpet. When he looked up, he had a touch of mania in his eyes. 'They're all dead. Every last one of them. Murdered by the same man who's after you!'
Behind me I heard Marianne moan. Bradley, too. Rink and I took out our guns.
'Tell us what happened,' I demanded.
Seagram shook his head. It wasn't in denial; he was trying to regiment the words in his head. That, or come up with a plausible lie. I've dealt with too many self-serving assholes in my lifetime not to recognise another when I saw him. I guessed the story he was about to unfold would be only partly true. As long he was honest about the important details, I didn't mind. We could deal with the lies at another time.
'Don't be mad at me, Bradley,' he began. 'I only went to speak with Petre out of concern for you. You haven't been getting on that well lately but…' His eyes flickered once to Marianne, then back to Bradley. 'But I thought that he could help. He has his own security team, and if we pooled our resources-'
'There'd be an even bigger bunch of amateurs running around the place with guns,' Rink offered.
Seagram's face darkened. But he ignored the insult. 'When I got there I could hear talking upstairs. I couldn't see any of his staff around, so I made my way up to where Petre has his office. Suddenly there were guns going off. The door slammed. There was more shooting. Then silence. I'm ashamed to say that I didn't immediately go into the room to help, but my first loyalty was to you. I thought about running back to raise the alarm then and there.'
'Very noble,' Rink said. I could see he was buying Seagram's tale about as much as I was. The only part that rang true was that he didn't try to help.
'What was I supposed to do?' Seagram asked. 'I had no idea who was in the room. No idea of the numbers or the fire power. I waited. Hid myself. That's when I saw a man come out and run down the stairs. I was going to follow him, stop him, but I realised that Petre maybe needed help.'
'Petre was dead?' Bradley asked.
Seagram looked at his hands.
'I tried to save him. But it was no good. The man had shot him twice. He was gone.'
'Who else? I asked.
Seagram looked at me as though I was a stranger.
'Tell me,' I ordered. 'Who else was dead? Numbers specifically.'
'Petre. Some computer geek I'd never seen before. Four of Petre's guards.' He made as if to wipe his hands over his mouth, but then realised they were covered in blood, and scrubbed them down the front of his trousers. 'There were others, too. The security staff downstairs were dead. At least another four.'
'So a man kills ten people single-handedly?' My question was pure rhetoric; I was weighing up the ability of the man, not questioning the figures.
'Perhaps more,' Seagram said. 'But that's how many I saw.'
'Weapons?'
'Just a handgun, I think.'
'You saw it? Describe it.'
'I didn't get a good look.'
'Useless,' Rink said.
'What did he look like?' I asked. 'Tell me about him.'
Seagram chewed his lips. It was like he wanted to tell but also to hold something in reserve for later. Like it was his 'get out of jail free' card.
'White male. Mid thirties. Tall but thin. A hundred and fifty pounds at most. Dressed like a cat burglar.'
'Anything else?'
'Yes. He had on night-vision goggles.'
'And he managed to shoot dead five men in that one room?'
'In the space of seconds,' Seagram confirmed.
Damn good shooting, I had to give him that.
'We have to leave,' I announced. Marianne didn't appear so reluctant now. She took a couple of steps towards me, and I nodded her on. Took her hand in mine. 'Don't worry. I won't let him harm you. I won't let anyone harm you.'
She flicked a glance at Bradley, her lips pinching. They clung together.
'How long since you saw the killer?' Rink asked Seagram.
'Ten… fifteen minutes, I can't be sure.'
'How far away is Petre's house?'
'Two down. Maybe a little over a half-mile.'
'So he could already be here.'
'I was inside the house a few minutes after he left. But I drove, he was on foot.'
Rink shot me a glance. We'd both caught something very obvious in Seagram's words. But we let it go.
'Seagram,' I said. 'Among your supplies, do you have any Kevlar vests?'
