Rules of Honour (26 page)

There are always circles within circles, some overlapping and converging, that serve to bring lives into conflict. That, I understood, was what had happened here in San Francisco. But it was also the way of the world. There was nothing I could do about it other than try to end the Rington versus Peterson loop before it continued through further generations. I knew that Rink had no children, but what if Markus Colby had a son? If so, we could find this war raging into eternity. I rejected that idea as not even worthy of a joke.

Chapter 30

Markus’s pain had gone through the entire spectrum of intensity, ranging from agonising to numb shock and all the way back again. Now it was somewhere in the middle, with an occasional flare towards the uppermost level, particularly if he attempted to move too sharply. Sweat beaded his brow and his flesh felt clammy to the touch, but otherwise he was clear-headed enough that he didn’t expect impending death. That didn’t stop him cursing his injury, or thanking his luck.

When he was shot the impact had spun him, and he’d gone over the edge of the balcony. Without doubt it had saved him from the second fatal shot that was on the cards. Even as he fell, some primal instinct for survival had made him release his pistol and grab for support. His right hand had clawed at the wall, then fixed around a metal protrusion, possibly a bracket at the base of the balcony rail. Whatever it was, he’d clung to it though the weight of his falling body had almost wrenched his arm out of its socket, then hung precariously for a few seconds while his feet scrambled for purchase. His fall had taken him into the open space of the second level down. It had been agonising building up the momentum to swing on to the next landing, but preferable to the pain he’d suffer if he fell the remaining five floors to the hard dirt below. Enduring the torture in his muscles he’d managed the swing and had collapsed on the cold tiles, breathing heavily. Above him the sound of a struggle was dull to his ears, and he would have liked to lie there for some time in order to recover. The pain shooting through his side galvanised him though and he struggled up to his knees, clamping his left palm over the wound to halt the blood flow. Every muscle fibre in his right arm throbbed, but he used it to hook over the balustrade and help himself to stand. Then he staggered towards the stairs and went down them as fast as his feet would carry him. Each step sent a new stab of pain through his frame, but there was nothing for it. He had to get away because the racket upstairs was sure to bring a police response. He couldn’t leave by the front door. His gun was out the back where it had fallen from his fingers.

He discovered the gun and slipped it inside his pocket, the shape cumbersome and awkward and pulling down on the fabric. If the cops saw him the weight in his pocket would be as much a giveaway as the blood streaming from between his fingers. At a loping run, he traced his way to the main street via the access passage he’d noticed pedestrians using earlier, and then hurried for his car at the far side of the tower. He drove away just as the first wail of sirens cut the air.

He had shed his jacket on arriving home at the crooked house. In his bathroom, he lifted his shirt to inspect the wound. The stranger’s bullet had struck him in the ribs on his left side. Only the fact that he’d been moving as the bullet hit, his body torqueing to one side, had saved his life. There was a deep groove in the flesh, a bloody set of lips in which the teeth were the exposed bones of his ribcage. The pinkish bones were scoured, one he was pretty certain was cracked. Luckily the bullet had struck and rebounded off the curve of the bones, otherwise his injury would be more telling. Really he should seek medical assistance, but he’d no way of covering up the fact that he’d been shot: any surgeon worth his salt would immediately recognise a gunshot wound, and was duty bound to report it to the police. So soon after the reports of gunfire at Hayes Tower he’d be hauled in for questioning, and it would only be a matter of time before a determined investigator began probing him for answers concerning the other shootings in town. He could point the finger of accusation back at the surviving conspirators, but it wouldn’t help. Vigilante justice was never tolerated, however well meaning. He’d go to prison. Unlike his earlier contingency where – should they be arrested – he could have them murdered in their cells, he’d have no way to get at the others then. Not while he was on the same side of the bars as they were. In all probability they would be sent to a different prison than him: if he was caught he’d end up in a Super Max, while they would do easier time at another less secure facility.

He couldn’t go to hospital, because he couldn’t go to prison. That brought his work to mind and the fact that he was due to report for duty at six the following morning. No way he could go in like this! There was no alternative this time: he’d have to call in sick. At least on this occasion he wouldn’t have to lay things on thick. He’d tell his superiors he’d been in an accident, fallen down the stairs and broken a rib. Once he was strapped up, should they require proof, he would appear to have a genuine case for absence. Perhaps he should start looking at his injury as a boon, instead of the hindrance he first feared. Off work and incapacitated, who’d ever think he was involved in the spate of killings that was about to happen?

He snorted at his egocentricity. Right then he had barely the energy to think straight, let alone continue his agenda. His ribs hurt, but
everything else
hurt too. No, he shouldn’t think like that. His other injuries were superficial and he wouldn’t allow them to stop him. They were only sprains and scrapes, nothing to worry about. Once he cleaned and dressed his ribs he’d dose himself with antibiotics and painkillers. Then he’d get on with his plan. The night was young, and one thing he was certain of was the bastard who shot him wouldn’t expect him coming so soon.

He thought about the stranger. He was a dangerous enemy. He’d proved that quite succinctly. He had survived a house fire; a car crash; and, most recently, avoided his bullet. When he’d turned up at Takumi’s house Markus had assumed that the man was a hired protector brought in by the murder ring, and now he was sure of it. There was no other reason for him to be waiting at Parnell’s apartment. As to the man’s background, Markus had no firm idea, but he took it as fact that the man had experience with firearms, and was probably handy in a fistfight. Markus relished meeting the man toe to toe in battle, and had no doubt who would be the one walking away – despite his injury. But there was no harm in raising his odds of winning. Next time they met he would have to ensure that he held the ace hand. From a drawer he fetched a length of ceramic fashioned to a wicked point, electricians’ tape wound around the flaring end to act as a handle. He’d taken the shiv from a prisoner who’d tried to sink it below his ribs one time, and now thought he’d employ it in similar fashion. He stooped down and concealed the makeshift blade in his boot. Just wait until he had the stranger at his mercy; he gleefully pictured the look of surprise on his face when Markus jammed the blade into his ribcage.

Next he thought about the two muscle-heads, and what their reason for assaulting Parnell’s home meant. Had the thugs gone to Hayes Tower to hurt the old man – as he’d first reasoned – or to settle a private score with the stranger? If it was the latter, it added an entirely new dimension to the proceedings. Was it something he could use to his advantage? Markus knew people who knew
other
people, and was sure that a few well-placed telephone calls would identify who the tough guys were and whom they worked for. From there he would learn the identity of the stranger and with that knowledge he would be in a position to take the initiative.

Before anything else, it was imperative that he cleansed his wound. His main concern wasn’t the cut in his flesh but the damage to the ribs beneath: an infection in the bone could prove life-threatening. He pulled off his shirt, wincing as the bloody fabric tugged at the torn skin. Blood had streamed down his side, pooling at his waistband and staining his trousers. He took them off, as well as his underwear, and went to the shower stall. The shower was an antique that barely dribbled warm water, but he stood under it, washing the blood from his body and watching it swirl down the drain. Watching the water go from red, to pink, then to translucent, it felt like his agony was washing away with the tainted water. He felt a little stronger.

When he’d set off on his mission he had understood that injury might be a possibility, and had compensated for that by purchasing a first-aid kit. Apart from the crêpe bandages and a tube of antiseptic ointment, it was wholly inadequate for the injury he bore now. So, naked and dripping water, he headed downstairs to the kitchen and rooted among the bottles and containers beneath the sink. He found what he was looking for and screwed off the cap, even as he headed for his living quarters. He lay on the settee, propped on his right elbow, and using his left hand he held the bottle poised over the wound.

He really wasn’t looking forward to the next few seconds.

He took in a few quick breaths, steeling himself. His martial arts training told him that pain was but a figment of the imagination and that a man who controlled his mind controlled pain.

A label on the bottle indicated the hydrogen peroxide was only four per cent proof; when it hit his wound he would swear it was pure rocket grade fuel. His scream was short-lived, but only because he collapsed into unconsciousness.

He slept fitfully on the settee, the memories coming fast and furious to build a nightmare montage of his past. At first he saw events through the eyes of his younger self, and there was no break as he segued from one scene to another.

He was a small boy, hiding under his bedclothes when a man he didn’t recognise entered his room, rocking on his heels as he swigged from the neck of a liquor bottle. The guy stank of sweat and piss, and the vest he wore over drooping boxer shorts was grimy. His stubble was grey, his forehead mottled by a birthmark. When he pulled back the blankets and leered down on Markus, his slug-like tongue lolled from between a gap in his upper teeth. ‘Howdy, boy?’ the man slurred, as he dumped the empty bottle on the floor, transferring his hand to fumble at the front of his shorts. He teased out his penis. ‘Come on out from under there and say hi to your
new
daddy.
’

Markus was about twelve years old. He was down by a culvert drain, floating twigs on the gush of muddy storm water. He was head down, intent on the voyage of his make believe pirate ship, and didn’t at first hear the other boys gathering on the dirt embankment above him. A stone struck his shoulder and Markus yelped. He turned quickly, his hands making fists. Then he staggered back as another stone struck him in the forehead, the blood immediately flowing into his eyes.
Bastard, bastard, bastard,
the other boys from his class were chanting. They rained more stones and broken branches down on him, and Markus fled from them. He ran until he fell gasping and crying in the dirt of his front yard. His mom was sitting in her chair on the sagging porch and when he looked up at her, seeking sympathy, all he received was the same bitter twist of her mouth and stone-hard glare as he ever did. ‘Get the hell up outta the dirt,’ she snapped at him. ‘Look at the state of you. You been running from them other boys again? What’d I tell you, boy? You don’t run from no one but me.’

In his dream there was no transition from where his mom got up out of her chair to fetch her switch, to where she had him inside the house, whipping the skin from off his back.

‘You don’t run away. Your goddamn father ran away from me, left me carrying you in my belly. I guess he just wasn’t the man I’m gonna make of you, boy. In future you will fight, you’ll fear no one. No one but me that is!’

Markus was older. Eighteen. He stood looking down on the shrivelled woman lying on the floor in the kitchen, barely recognising her as the woman who’d ruled his childhood with equal measures of disregard and an iron fist. She was pathetic, curled up like that in a pool of her own vomit, reeking of hard liquor and cannabis smoke. He stared at the sunken face, the dull eyes, and he gave her as much sympathy as he’d ever earned from her. He walked away, not sure if she was dead or alive, and didn’t care. He went looking for his father instead.

He had learned his father’s name – Charles Peterson – and he had the one photograph his mother possessed of the man, one where he was standing with a group of soldiers outside the entrance of a concentration camp. But they were his only leads, and he did not have the savvy or avenues to discover the man’s whereabouts. In his dream, he stared at the photograph, but the man standing in uniform and staring back at him was his own image.

A man begged for his life. Markus was an adult now, bigger and stronger than the punk who squirmed on the floor. The lank-haired man, who leaked blood from both nostrils, wore striped prison clothes. In life he had not done so, but this was a dream-tinged memory, and here the discrepancy meant nothing. When Markus had forced the names of the lynch party from Mitchell Forbeck it had been on the outside, but now he lay in a darkened cell as Markus hit him again and again. With each punch or kick he learned a new name, and the list was long.

Markus was standing on a grassy knoll, looking down on a ramshackle house surrounded by trees. In a blink he was at the door and he watched his hand rise up to knock on wood in need of a lick of paint. Unlike it had done in the real world, this door swung open to his touch and he stepped inside uninvited. A man was standing at the opposite side of the room, both hands held out towards Markus, begging for his life. Again – as in the photograph – this man wore Markus’s face, but in the deep part of his mind that told him the oddity was not real, Markus knew this man to be Nicolas Peterson. His half-brother.