It was as if half of the Martin County Sheriff's Office had turned out, along with officers from Miami PD, and he was pretty sure that some of the men and women in stylish business suits were FBI. There were even officers from a Hostage Rescue Team in attendance, dressed in black jumpsuits, helmets and armed with assault rifles. Add to that the proliferation of CSI technicians, ambulances from Hobe Sound and Jupiter, and various other supporting agencies, and the estate was a no-go area for the foreseeable future.
Or was it?
A man of his abilities could wander among so many people who were not used to working together in such numbers and he would be missed among the throng. Hide in plain sight. Become one of them. Look like he had the right to be there.
Except he was soaked through and did not have a change of clothing. He'd dumped his backpack with his kit prior to the assault on Bradley Jorgenson's house. Though it freed him up to move more easily during the anticipated gun battle, he had never intended leaving his bag behind, expecting to be able to kill them all and return for his bag at leisure. But then came the high-speed car chase, his subsequent near drowning, and the termination of the fisherman. It wasn't until he returned to the truck and drove away — passing the first blue lights and sirens hurtling towards the island — that he'd recognised his error. Right now his bag and clothing would be in the hands of a CSI tech, sealed in an evidence bag and en route to the nearest lab for forensic examination. They'd find DNA, hair fibres and other trace evidence, but that didn't concern him. They'd tie the forensics to some of the hits he'd carried out, but that was all. They wouldn't be able to pin the evidence on him.
Not unless he was caught.
And that wasn't going to happen.
More worrying was the laptop he'd left at Petre Jorgenson's house. He didn't doubt that Gabe Wellborn had taken precautions to ensure that the transactions he'd performed through that computer couldn't be easily traced. But to be sure, Dantalion would have preferred to have destroyed the damn thing entirely after Gabe had transferred the half-million dollars into his offshore account. That account was a numbered account only, and the Bahamian bank that he used wasn't famous for bending to the demands of the American law enforcement community.
The FBI had some very clever computer wizards. No doubt about it, somewhere, someone would break the codes. It would show his history; maybe even lead back to his true identity. After that he would be forever on the run. Not that they would find him. Jean-Paul St Pierre would simply cease to exist.
On top of the money he'd already earned from previous jobs, the half-million dollars would make him a wealthy man. He could go anywhere. But that wasn't even a consideration right now. He still had a mission to complete.
He'd driven the truck north to get past any road blocks the police might put up. A little part of him had hoped to intercept Bradley Jorgenson on his return to the island, but he knew that there was a only a small chance of that happening.
Approaching Hobe Sound on the Southeast Dixie Highway, he looked for an appropriate place to turn off. He found it after a couple of minutes and angled the vehicle down a cross street that headed inland towards the Jonathon Dickinson State Park. He was looking for somewhere secluded, a place he could rest up and consider his next move. Somewhere to dry out his book.
The road wound through a picture of suburban tranquillity. Beautiful houses in beautiful gardens snoozed away the night-time hours, at rest and at peace with the world. Inside families young and old would be sleeping, dreaming their dreams and murmuring in contentment. No one would expect a professional killer to come to Aurora Village, let alone take up temporary residence there.
The village ended abruptly, giving way to swamp and scrub lands. Irrigation — or more likely drainage — channels had been formed at intervals along the way, and he found himself on a dirt track and series of short wooden bridges. His tyres bumped over the wood, making a double thump like a faltering heartbeat. He could smell the swamp, the cloying odours of decaying vegetation and stagnant water, but thought the smell could be coming from his soaked clothes and body. Sea salt had invaded his clothing and his skin had begun to itch.
To his left he noted the squat silhouettes of buildings. Agriculture wasn't the largest industry here, but the buildings looked like some kind of farm. He found a turning off the track and drove the truck into it. It was little more than a series of ruts and potholes and he decided this probably wasn't the main route to the farm. Nevertheless, he switched off his headlights so that he approached in darkness. He didn't want to alert anyone to his arrival until it was on his terms.
He stopped the vehicle a hundred yards short of the buildings, turned off the engine and slipped out the door. He didn't close the door fully, only pushed it gently to. Then he moved towards the buildings at a steady lope. The bullet wound in his leg was knitting, but with each step it felt like his skin cracked open. Ordinarily such a minor wound wouldn't be a distraction, but now it made him chew his lips against the pain. The limp became more pronounced the nearer he got to the buildings.
In his black clothing, his face stark and smudged with blood, hair hanging in colourless ribbons, he felt like a B-movie vampire skulking through the night. Not a bad image — it would strike fear in the hearts of those he might come across. Fear would be his greatest weapon.
He scanned the buildings. Two were little more than lean-tos, while one was an enclosed barn. There were a couple of adobe-style outhouses and then a small, single-storey house. The house was adobe as well, more like those he'd seen in Santa Fe than those indigenous to this part of Florida. He was approaching from the back of the house, but he got the impression of large windows in all the rooms. Because of its remote location, with no discernible neighbours, the drapes hadn't been drawn when the occupants had retired for the evening. The only light he could see was from a dull bulb in a porch at the rear door.
It was hot here through the day, so he could guarantee that the house was temperature-controlled by A/C units. For them to work to their best ability, windows and doors would be kept shut during the sultry hours of the night. Shut but not necessarily locked.
The obvious door to try would be the back door. People who lived and worked in the area of the outbuildings would use that door on a regular basis. The front door would hardly ever be unlocked. Still, he bypassed the rear of the property to fully reconnoitre the building. When he got to the front of the house, it was in darkness. His peek through the large picture window showed a simple living space with sturdy wooden furniture and an old-fashioned stereo built into a cabinet. Trinkets adorned shelves on the wall. Framed photographs lined one wall, but in the darkness he couldn't make them out. Portraits for sure; sons and daughters and grandkids, more than likely.
Continuing round the far edge of the building, he found a car port. It housed only one vehicle, a Dodge pick- up, dusty and scraped from hard toil in the fields. He found the door unlocked and opened it. No alarm. He wasn't expecting one: an alarm or central locking would have armed itself by now and made the doors secure. He searched the interior for a weapon, but there was nothing. He did note something, though. The driver's seat was misshapen and tattered, but the passenger seat was as smooth as the day it came off the assembly line. Only one person ever rode this vehicle. No Mrs Farmer to contend with inside the house. Whoever lived here did so alone.
He poked around on the back of the flat-bed, and came away with a large lug wrench from a box of tools. Heavy and blunt, it was a formidable weapon. He also took a screwdriver that he pushed into his waistband. It wasn't dagger quality but it could still be rammed through flesh if the need arose.
As he made his way past the front of the house the scene hadn't changed. The lights were still off, the living room devoid of life. He kept going, gained the back of the house once more. Gnats swarmed on the screen of the porch, seeking the light bulb within. Dantalion opened the screen very slowly so that it didn't squeak, then stepped inside, accompanied by many of the darting insects. Some of them batted off his features and clung to his hair and he shivered involuntarily. He wiped them away. He turned the door handle. Felt resistance. The person inside was security conscious after all. But that was a good thing, could mean he also had what Dantalion had come seeking.
He took the screwdriver out of his waistband, inserted it alongside the lock and levered against the frame, gradually forcing open the door. The lock was as much use as nothing when the door frame was made of weathered wood. He was happy that the noise of his breaking and entering was minimal, that it wouldn't have woken even the lightest of sleepers. He stepped inside. A utility area with a stack of laundry waiting for the iron greeted him. Chequered shirts and jeans, a pair of tan nylon trousers, socks and underwear of a conservative type. His assumption of a single occupant was taking on more validity. An older man, judging by the style of clothes. He picked up the nylon trousers — a fashion faux pas to anyone under the age of fifty — and checked the size. Not that
