Rules of Honour (22 page)

‘Are the old guys settled in OK?’

‘Yup. I ordered them room service and they’re making the most of it as we speak. How did you get on at the station?’

‘Well, as you can see I wasn’t arrested.’ I brought him up to speed about my chit-chat with the detectives. How they tried the lame attempt at threatening me into compliance, followed by their plea for help. I told him about the list. ‘They’re not far from putting everything together, Rink.’

‘Crap. Don’t mention anything about that to our old buddies in there, or to my mom. They’re frightened enough without the threat of going to prison hanging over them.’

‘They won’t hear anything from me,’ I reassured him.

Next I shared my suspicions about who was trailing us in the sand-coloured car. I saw an argument forming in Rink’s mind and anticipated him. ‘They were amateurs who had no idea how to follow us without being seen. Plus they fell for the oldest trick in the book when you pulled that stunt in the alley. Any cop worth their salt would’ve radioed in another car to cut us off and stayed put to stop us coming back that way.’

‘They did call in another patrol car. Do you remember: it tore past us at that intersection on its way downtown?’

‘Could have been a pure coincidence. A patrol car on a totally different call just happened to go past at the opportune time, and we assumed that it was after us.’ I laughed to myself. Receiving a puzzled frown, I explained. ‘Your mom warned me that I assume too much; maybe she’s right.’

‘Yeah, my mom’s a wise one, all right. Pity she wasn’t as wise when she sent me after Chaney. Would have saved us all a heap of trouble now.’

‘That’s supposing I’m right, of course, and it was Chaney’s lot that was following us.’

‘Has to be him, doesn’t it? Jesus, Hunter. We’ve fought assassins and serial killers who’ve proven less of a pain in the butt than Chaney’s turning out.’

‘He’s not worth wasting any more time on.’

‘Unless the punks he sent after us try something, I’m with you. But before we leave San Francisco, I’m putting that asshole in his place.’

I let it go. I mentioned the name that had struck me as out of place on Tyler’s list of victims.

‘Mitchell Forbeck,’ Rink repeated the name. ‘Never heard of him. But I’ll have Harve check on him, see if he can figure out how he’s connected.’

‘Have we heard from Harvey yet?’ It didn’t escape me that both Rink and I had destroyed our cellphones – pointlessly it turned out, because it was apparent now that the police hadn’t fixed a trace on Rink’s signal as we’d feared – but there was always the landline inside.

‘I’m still waiting on him getting back to me. Before you ask: yeah, I did call him and give him the number here.’

‘What about the guys?’

I was referring to our friends flying in from Florida. Rink glanced at his watch. ‘Still a few hours until they get here.’

‘So what do we do?’ More than anything I hated inactivity. The next few hours were going to be a drawn-out hell for me.

Rink plucked at the sleeve of my jacket. ‘You should take that shower you’ve been putting off for hours, otherwise the bad guy’s going to be able to sniff us out.’

Chapter 25

It was approaching evening in Arkansas. A strong breeze had kicked up, bringing with it a grey haze of drizzle that smeared the windscreen like grease. The wipers batted at it ineffectually, causing blotches that only hindered visibility. Harvey Lucas pressed buttons to drop his window and peered out across fallow pastureland, trying to locate the house he was certain lay out there somewhere. Spatters of rain flicked across his face and he grunted in annoyance. Coming all the way out here to the sticks had seemed like a good idea at the time, but now he wasn’t so sure. Still, a lead was a lead and he couldn’t turn his back on it. His friends were relying on him.

Through the gloom he could see a telephone pole. It leaned to one side, the wires taut on one side, lazy the other. At its base was a rickety wooden fence, almost overgrown by couch grass. There was no other reason for their presence out here if it wasn’t to serve a homestead. The road was unpaved, a muddy trail full of potholes and ruts, and he could make out the occasional impression of tyre tracks at its edge. He’d no way of telling how old the tracks were, but it was at least evidence that another vehicle had driven this way in the recent past. He dropped the window lower, leaning out for a better view than his blurred windscreen offered. Cursing, he ducked back inside, swiping rain from his face. The moisture made a dark stain on the cuff of his suit jacket, and he cursed all the more. He should have dressed in something less expensive for a trip out to the wilds, but he hadn’t expected to go all Daniel Boone to find the goddamn place.

His Lexus wasn’t designed for these kinds of roads. He took things real easy, negotiating the deeper ruts by way of mounting the grass verge with two wheels. This made him nervous in a way conflict did not, concern for the undercarriage of his car outdoing that for his own well-being. There was always the possibility that he would not be welcomed out here: the kind of trailer trash he sought weren’t known for their love of black men. Especially not educated, well-dressed black men who were apparently financially much better off than they were. He should have kitted himself out in some old hiking gear, and perhaps left his luxury car well out of sight. He sprayed the windscreen with wash then flicked the wipers to full, but it didn’t really help. Gripping the steering, he leaned forward, muttering under his breath.

A couple of hundred yards away treetops began to dot the horizon. He glanced out towards where the telephone lines drooped and followed their angle, noting that they converged with the tree line in front. He expected that the trees surrounded the house, planted there to offer some protection from the elements. His discovery added no urgency to his progress, because the road was growing less maintained the nearer he got to the house.

Finally the road began to rise, following the contour of a hill. Here some gravel had been spread to aid traction and he pushed upward and over the crest. His headlights picked out an indistinct but relatively geometric shape beyond a stand of pine on the downslope. He thought his decision might prove injudicious, but he pushed the car on and pulled directly into a small yard at the front of the house. A pick-up truck shared the space, but from the way it listed on a punctured tyre he didn’t think it had moved any time lately. He cast a jaundiced eye over the place, noting the ramshackle and unloved house before him. It was more a shack than anything else. Planks that had once known paint had been left to darken and warp under the elements. The shingles on the roof looked like scabs the way they peeled in places, flapping in the breeze. The only stone structure on the site was a chimney where moss had nestled in all the seams. He couldn’t detect any light from behind the shutters. If he’d come all the way out here on a fool’s errand . . .

Harvey reached for the glove compartment and flipped it open. Inside was his Glock 19 in a snap holster. He took out the gun, released the magazine, checked the load and then reinserted it. He racked the slide. Pulling back the tail of his suit jacket, he clipped the holster and gun to his belt. Better safe than sorry.

He looked again at the house, then twisted to scan the nearby copses of trees, looking for anywhere else people could be. This wasn’t a working farm though, so all he found was an equally ramshackle carport across the yard. There was no room for a car beneath it, the space was dominated by junk and garbage. As much as he loathed to do so, Harvey got out the car, turning up his collar against the cold rain. Shit, his hand-tooled, Italian leather shoes were going to require attention after this. He jogged across the muddy yard, and clumped up on to the porch. The planks settled beneath his feet with a groan.

Harvey rapped on the door, gently at first. ‘Hello,’ he called. ‘Anyone home? Miss Douchard?’

Receiving no reply he knocked harder, feeling the door rattle in its frame with each contact with his knuckles.

‘Miss Douchard? Hello, my name’s Harvey Lucas. I’m a private investigator out of Little Rock, and I only have a couple questions for you.’

He wondered if Michaela Douchard had heard the approach of his car engine and had shut off the lights to deter visitors. It was a gamble offering his identity like that, but he knew how some of these people hated cops and he didn’t want to be confused with one. They probably didn’t get guys looking like him turning up at their door, unless it was to serve a warrant. ‘Miss Douchard, I’m not here for any kind of trouble. I just need to locate your son.’

With no reply, he moved along the sagging porch, hearing the ominous moan of resistance and expecting to crash through it at any second. He paused at one window. The rain pattered from the shingles overhead making it impossible to hear anything from inside. He couldn’t distinguish one shadow from another as he peered through a chink in the shutters. He went to the corner and leaned out. The chimneystack blocked his view to the rear, but he could see overgrown weeds and brambles grew wild all the way up to the side of the building, offering no route through. He backtracked to the opposite end and found a path formed of hard packed dirt. Shivering as a gust of wind sent rain against his face, he stepped down it and followed the side of the shack, looking for a back way in. There was another window at the side of the house and he found that the shutters hadn’t been closed as securely here. He teased them open, and leaned close to peer through the glass. Curtains on the other side, old, floral, a tad dingy, foiled his view. He went on to the back. Behind the house he found the secondary garbage dump, discovering a large trench that was almost full of trash. He could smell rotting food, not to mention faeces, on the breeze. The stench was unbelievably bad. How could anyone live in a place like this? He turned quickly back to the front of the house, not really sure he wanted to gain access now.

Still, he returned to the front door and knocked harder than before. This time the door shook enough that the unsecured latch sprung and the door creaked inward. Harvey averted his face as a sour odour crept out.

‘Hello? Anyone home?’

He pressed the door open and leaned inside. The interior was in darkness and he could make little out beyond the shapes of furniture. As he entered his toes caught on a carpet that rucked up beneath him. He shook his foot loose and took another step inside. ‘Miss Douchard? Nicolas Peterson? Anyone home?’

He stood still, listening, allowing his vision to acclimatise to the deep gloom. That sour odour was all around him, sending a shudder of disgust down his spine. Goddamn stench would cling to his clothing no matter what he did afterwards. But there was nothing for it. Placing one cupped palm over his mouth, he reached for his Glock with the other, resting his hand on the butt. He moved though the living area towards a secondary room, the one that he’d failed to see into from the side of the building. He guessed the place beyond the door would prove to be Michaela Douchard’s bedroom. There was a scuffmark near the base of the door, brighter than the rest, at odds with the grimy surface. He didn’t bother calling out this time, and simply rested his hand on the knob, twisted it open.

The stink in the living room was bad; now it was ten times as bad, a hundred. Nothing was worse than the stench of a rotting corpse to put you off your dinner. Harvey turned his head aside, controlling the gag reflex, then forced himself to look back. From his pocket he took out his cellphone, using the light to illuminate the scene.

There wasn’t one corpse here but two.

One was on the unkempt bed, semi-clothed in a nightdress over the top of a dull grey bra. The nightdress was ripped, as though someone had grabbed its wearer by the shoulder and then thrown her down without releasing it. Two wounds were visible in her upper chest, the edges blackened and puckered as though the bullets had been fired at point-blank range. There was also another wound and Harvey turned away from it, despite bearing witness to many gunshot wounds in the past. This final bullet had torn most of Michaela Douchard’s bottom jaw off, leaving the lower half of her face an open, suppurating sore. Harvey turned from her to look at the man who was lying over her feet, his chest and head in the dark at the far side of the bed, his hands trailing to the floor.

As much as he hated to, Harvey approached. He could see where a bullet had passed through the man’s torso, blowing a hole in his lower back. There was another wound in his left shoulder, and it was close enough to the heart that it would have proved fatal. The man’s face was still hidden. Harvey reached for his lank brown hair, taking a bunch of it in his fist, and used it to lift and turn the man’s face towards him. Following death his blood had pooled and settled by the laws of gravity, causing his face to become a large, purple haematoma. Nonetheless, there was enough in the features that Harvey recognised the dead man. He’d looked at a photograph of him enough times to know him when he located him. One thing he was sure of now: Nicolas Peterson wasn’t the murderer his friends Joe and Rink were hunting.

Chapter 26

‘It looks to me as if they’ve been lying out there for the best part of a fortnight. We’ve had a cooler than normal spell of weather out here in Arkansas that’s helped slow down decomposition, but they were still well gone. There aren’t too many insects around at the present, Hunter, but if it was the height of summer, I don’t think there’d be much more than bones left.’

Rink had left to check on his mom, with the intention of picking up McTeer and Velasquez on his return trip to Lake Chabot. So it was down to me to take the call when Harvey rang with news of his shocking discovery. I had placed a silent bet that the man behind the murders had to be Charles Peterson’s son, Nicolas, but apparently I’d lost my stake.