through by the CSI technicians and had now been handed over to the men with the body bags.
Dantalion knew he'd be pushing his luck if he went inside the building, but his anonymity would be protected while in the grounds. As yet he wasn't even sure that Bradley had returned to the house. In fact, would it not be a better idea if Bradley went to another of the family houses where there hadn't been blood and mayhem? To one of the other family members who hadn't been in on the plot to have Bradley and Marianne murdered, for instance? That ruled out the houses of both Simon and Jack, but there were plenty of others to choose from. Was there a sympathetic aunt or uncle? Or would the officers in charge of the investigation have picked a house at random, commandeered it while they questioned Bradley and any other survivors about what had happened here?
He decided not to linger at either crime scene too long. The proliferation of law enforcement officers around both Bradley's and Petre Jorgenson's houses meant that the odds of blowing his cover were great. Though he'd remained invisible up until now, all it took was one eagle-eyed cop to challenge him, ask for identification, and that would be it. Contrary to all their faults as a collective beast, singly the officers were still trained professionals, and not to be underestimated.
Happy that there was no sign of the silver Lincoln sedan that Bradley and Seagram had made off in last night, he walked away. He headed northwards, towards the other half-dozen houses that lay strung out along the coast in that direction.
The next house belonged to Valentin's oldest sister, Hetti. Still a Jorgenson by birth, she now went by her deceased husband's name of Gorman. The family business meant little to her and she had made her own fortune in real estate. From the documentation supplied by Petre Jorgenson when he still remained Dantalion's client, he knew that Hetti kept herself aloof from the squabble between Valentin and her nephews. Aloof and unsympathetic; he doubted that Bradley would seek her out for comfort or support. Nevertheless he checked around her property for signs of the sedan, but it wasn't parked there either. He continued.
Christened Jan Jorgenson, but taking the Americanised form of John for the purpose of the business, Bradley's youngest cousin had always been referred to by the less formal name of Jack. His family home was next in line. He had no wife or children, and the house was somewhat excessive for the single man.
Simon, his brother, five years older at twenty-eight, did have a wife and a baby girl. However, the wife had taken the baby girl along with an out-of-court settlement of twenty million dollars when they'd divorced one year earlier. She'd moved with the child to her own place on Fisher's Island off Miami Beach. Like Jack, Simon lived alone, but there was a transient population of women coming and going at all times, something that had begun before the acrimonious divorce and had led to the breakdown of their marriage.
Dantalion bypassed both the brothers' houses.
He stuck to the coastline. The going was a little more difficult than if he'd walked along the road, but it was more in keeping with his disguise.
A full half-mile from Bradley's house, he found what he'd been looking for. Not the silver Lincoln, but a helicopter on the broad lawn of the next house. The helicopter was a Bell Jet Ranger, and it was decorated with the livery of the FBI. The only reason that Dantalion could think of for the presence of the helicopter was that it had some pretty important passengers. The Special Agent in Charge from the local FBI office. He would be overall commander of the investigation, and there was only one reason why he'd be at this location. Bradley had come here for tea and sympathy from his elderly great-aunt, Eunice.
From where he was standing, Dantalion could see the pilot on board the helicopter. He was passing time by going through a series of checks, flicking buttons and reading dials. Dantalion quickly walked towards the house, striding purposefully. The pilot glanced his way, but didn't appear concerned and continued with his pre-flight checks. Dantalion kept going, rounding the house and approaching the walled yard at the back.
This house was not as impressive as those the cousins lived in, but was probably still worth a couple of million dollars. A two-storey wooden dwelling with porch and railings and a steepled roof and attic windows, it reminded Dantalion a little of a house in a movie he'd enjoyed: The Amityville Horror. One of the oldest houses on the island, it looked in need of renovation — not exactly dilapidated, but a lick of paint wouldn't go amiss. The elderly woman who lived here was in fact one of the first generation of Jorgensons to arrive here back in the 1950s. The house would have been grand in its day, but now it was as dated as the chintz curtains in the windows. It looked like the old woman was just sitting out her time. When she passed, the house would likely go to one of the younger generation, doubtless to be torn down and rebuilt.
He paused at the corner, studying the cars parked at the rear of the house. There was an older model Chrysler station wagon. Plus, there it was: the silver Lincoln sedan. He took a deep breath. Felt for the Taurus.38. Touched his book. Then quickly took a step backwards as he heard the rear door opening. The sound was followed by muted conversation. He couldn't quite make out what was said, but then he detected the crunch of tyres as a vehicle approached. Angling himself against the corner of the wall, he watched a car from the Martin County Sheriff's Department draw to a halt and a silver-haired man in a grey suit get in. The vehicle then did a quick U-turn and headed back along the road. What was that about? He waited until the car was shielded from sight by the swell in the land.
Yesterday's actions had been governed by fury. He'd acted recklessly and without thought of the repercussions. His thirst for vengeance had led him to slay his supporters. He'd left himself without back-up, the proverbial lone wolf. But, hadn't he always preferred it that way?
Gabe Wellborn had been useful, but he had also been a liability. His method of concealing his network of hired mercenaries had never been foolproof. Sooner or later the FBI would chance upon his website, put two and two together and draw correlations between the fantasised murders and those they reflected in the real world. Dantalion had cautioned him. He did not want the names of his brethren used by the other killers for hire on Gabe's books. It cheapened his own identity when other men — nothing but thugs for hire in his estimation — plucked names from the Goetic pantheon with no thought for the true owners of those names. Dantalion had sought out each of those men in turn. He'd killed them all. He had planned to kill Gabe too. But not last night. That had been a reaction to the situation he'd found himself in.
This time things would be different.
He would be cool and rational. He wouldn't go in with all guns blazing: he would use subtlety and guile to take Bradley Jorgenson. Neither would he kill him instantly. He would give him a choice. Tell me where Marianne is and I won't cut off your hands. Tell me where Joe Hunter is and I won't cut off your feet. Ask kindly and maybe I won't chop off your balls and feed them to you.
Good plan, nothing psychopathic about it.
He scouted the building, looking for a sign that Bradley was inside. And found him almost immediately. He was sitting in the kitchen, his forearms resting on a table top. A man who Dantalion did not recognise sat opposite him. A digital voice recorder lay on the table between them. By the cut of the man's suit, his well-groomed hair, and the give-away clip-on badge on his breast pocket, Dantalion saw that he was FBI. He appeared to be questioning Bradley — the digital recorder there to record the interview.
There were only two others in the room: one of them the bodyguard named Seagram, the one who had offered to help him get to Bradley. That, of course, had been before Dantalion had slaughtered Petre, who had obviously been bribing Seagram to switch allegiance. He doubted that Seagram would be so keen with his sponsor out of the picture. Now that Bradley had resumed the role of his main employer, it was in Seagram's best interest to keep him alive. The last person was a very elderly lady. She was sitting in a wooden chair and, despite the heat of the Floridian sun, she was dressed in thick wool and tweed and had a blanket over her knees. She looked like she hadn't a clue what was going on, and sat smiling and nodding as Bradley answered the FBI agent's questions.
There did not appear to be anyone else around. No bodyguards, no police, only the one agent and the helicopter pilot to give assistance to Bradley and Seagram.
This was about the best opportunity for taking Bradley that he was going to get.
He quickly walked away from the house, not wanting to leave himself open to an attack from behind. As he approached the helicopter he heard the engine whine as the pilot continued his pre-flight preparations. He slipped his hand into his jacket pocket and carefully folded it round a small cylinder.
He made it all the way up to the cockpit before the pilot noticed him. The man saw only the uniform and he lifted his chin in a nod of greeting.
'Hello,' Dantalion said. He smiled. Then flicked the brim of his hat. Sunlight flashed in his eyes. He adjusted the brim so his face was again in shadow. A natural enough action to explain why he kept his hand elevated.
'Hi,' said the pilot, 'Can I help you?' He leaned out of the open door to better see his visitor. He was reading
