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Authors: Matt Hilton
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towards the parking area. The buggy I’d rented to get me here from the ferry landing was flattened beneath fallen masonry.
Two cash deposits I wouldn’t be getting back.
There was rubble heaped everywhere. Thankfully there weren’t any chunks of burnt flesh or bones poking from the mounds. Which didn’t negate the possibility that Marianne was buried beneath the wreckage of the house.
Movement nearby caught my eye. A shadow moving away from me. Wearing a dark suit, neither Jorgenson nor Marianne. The killer, I thought, making his escape. I lifted the SIG, drawing a bead on him. But then I let the barrel droop. The figure had longish fair hair, whereas the killer’s had been jet black. For all I knew this was an innocent passer-by caught up in the fury of the explosion.
Moving back to the side of the building, batting cinders from my hair, I sought the couple’s exit route. The building was still standing here, even if the upper portion now boasted a view to the sky and crenellations that hadn’t been there previously. At ground level I saw an open door, steps leading upwards. A service stairway down to the dumpsters stacked against the wall.
The sound of an engine caught my attention.
Spinning on my heels, I ran towards the boundary wall, hooked my elbows over the top and pulled myself up. As I cleared the top of the wall I looked down to where the promontory pushed out into Biscayne Bay.
No sign of Marianne, but Jorgenson was standing in the cabin of his boat. His face was smudged with dirt, but he looked like he’d escaped the explosion without serious injury. I could only hope that Marianne had fared equally well. I shouted to Jorgenson. My voice was lost amidst the crackling flames, the creaking of collapsing masonry, the thrum of the boat’s engine. But Jorgenson looked my way.
Our eyes met.
Jorgenson snarled in my direction. Then the boat was swinging away from the dock, heading for open water. I felt more than a little inadequate. Especially when I caught a flash of pale blue sweater, and realised that I’d failed to get Marianne away from her abuser.
In my pocket my mobile phone vibrated.
Pulling it out, I looked down at the screen. Despite myself, I smiled.
YOU STILL ALIVE ?
Pressing buttons, I returned the call.
‘Hi, Rink. Where are you now?’
‘Watching some kinda fireball from out on Biscayne Bay,’ Rink said. ‘Don’t tell me that was your doing.’
‘Not responsible,’ I reassured him.
‘But as usual you’re smack bang in the middle of it.’
‘Who, me?’
Rink laughed. ‘Glad you’re OK, Hunter. Did you get Marianne away?’
‘Afraid not,’ I said. ‘Something else went down here, Rink. But at least the girl is safe. We can pick her up later.’ Then I told him about the killer, and what he’d done.
‘Sounds like one desperate son of a bitch,’ Rink offered. ‘Any idea who he was? Why he was there?’
‘I overheard a little. Sounded like a real sadist: he wanted Jorgenson to pick which of them died first.’
‘Ah, just your typical whacked-out freak with his own agenda, huh?’
‘He came across like a psycho killer, Rink. But there was more to it. He was a professional. He wasn’t there just to get his kicks. He’d been sent by someone who wants Jorgenson and Marianne dead.’
‘But they got away?’
‘Yeah. And when this asshole realises he missed them, he’ll be back.’
And we’d be waiting.
11
The destruction of Jorgenson’s home was all over the news before I even woke up. I was greeted by the early-morning paper slapped down on my chest by my big buddy, Rink. It had the desired effect of rousing me from troubled dreams where I was engulfed in flames while a demon tittered at me from behind a wax mask. Sitting bolt upright on my impromptu bed, I found it was the couch in the front office at Rington Investigations. Took a few seconds of head shaking to recall the mad flight from Baker Island, dodging police and Coast Guard boats
Two cash deposits I wouldn’t be getting back.
There was rubble heaped everywhere. Thankfully there weren’t any chunks of burnt flesh or bones poking from the mounds. Which didn’t negate the possibility that Marianne was buried beneath the wreckage of the house.
Movement nearby caught my eye. A shadow moving away from me. Wearing a dark suit, neither Jorgenson nor Marianne. The killer, I thought, making his escape. I lifted the SIG, drawing a bead on him. But then I let the barrel droop. The figure had longish fair hair, whereas the killer’s had been jet black. For all I knew this was an innocent passer-by caught up in the fury of the explosion.
Moving back to the side of the building, batting cinders from my hair, I sought the couple’s exit route. The building was still standing here, even if the upper portion now boasted a view to the sky and crenellations that hadn’t been there previously. At ground level I saw an open door, steps leading upwards. A service stairway down to the dumpsters stacked against the wall.
The sound of an engine caught my attention.
Spinning on my heels, I ran towards the boundary wall, hooked my elbows over the top and pulled myself up. As I cleared the top of the wall I looked down to where the promontory pushed out into Biscayne Bay.
No sign of Marianne, but Jorgenson was standing in the cabin of his boat. His face was smudged with dirt, but he looked like he’d escaped the explosion without serious injury. I could only hope that Marianne had fared equally well. I shouted to Jorgenson. My voice was lost amidst the crackling flames, the creaking of collapsing masonry, the thrum of the boat’s engine. But Jorgenson looked my way.
Our eyes met.
Jorgenson snarled in my direction. Then the boat was swinging away from the dock, heading for open water. I felt more than a little inadequate. Especially when I caught a flash of pale blue sweater, and realised that I’d failed to get Marianne away from her abuser.
In my pocket my mobile phone vibrated.
Pulling it out, I looked down at the screen. Despite myself, I smiled.
YOU STILL ALIVE ?
Pressing buttons, I returned the call.
‘Hi, Rink. Where are you now?’
‘Watching some kinda fireball from out on Biscayne Bay,’ Rink said. ‘Don’t tell me that was your doing.’
‘Not responsible,’ I reassured him.
‘But as usual you’re smack bang in the middle of it.’
‘Who, me?’
Rink laughed. ‘Glad you’re OK, Hunter. Did you get Marianne away?’
‘Afraid not,’ I said. ‘Something else went down here, Rink. But at least the girl is safe. We can pick her up later.’ Then I told him about the killer, and what he’d done.
‘Sounds like one desperate son of a bitch,’ Rink offered. ‘Any idea who he was? Why he was there?’
‘I overheard a little. Sounded like a real sadist: he wanted Jorgenson to pick which of them died first.’
‘Ah, just your typical whacked-out freak with his own agenda, huh?’
‘He came across like a psycho killer, Rink. But there was more to it. He was a professional. He wasn’t there just to get his kicks. He’d been sent by someone who wants Jorgenson and Marianne dead.’
‘But they got away?’
‘Yeah. And when this asshole realises he missed them, he’ll be back.’
And we’d be waiting.
11
The destruction of Jorgenson’s home was all over the news before I even woke up. I was greeted by the early-morning paper slapped down on my chest by my big buddy, Rink. It had the desired effect of rousing me from troubled dreams where I was engulfed in flames while a demon tittered at me from behind a wax mask. Sitting bolt upright on my impromptu bed, I found it was the couch in the front office at Rington Investigations. Took a few seconds of head shaking to recall the mad flight from Baker Island, dodging police and Coast Guard boats
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