Rules of Honour (29 page)

‘I’ll do it myself,’ Rink said.

‘Like hell, I’m coming with you.’

‘Just remember that we are the good guys, brother.’

‘Yeah,’ I said, wondering how many of the original ring shared my misgivings when lynching Charles Peterson all those years ago.

On the way to Markus’s house we stopped off at a hardware store, the sign above the door stating:
no job too small – whatever the hour
. I wondered if their promise included abduction and execution. Avoiding the CCTV cameras as best I could, I grabbed a hessian sack, a crow bar and rolls of electricians’ tape. Waiting to pay, my basket looked like it contained a serial killer’s hand-kit, and I’m sure my face was burning as I handed cash to the teller and scuttled out of the store.

Rink drove to within a couple of blocks of the address on Clarendon Heights supplied to us by our friend. Harvey learned that Markus’s house had been built by his grandfather, who left it to his son in his will, and Markus had taken possession of it under his dad’s credentials. It struck me how easy it was to bamboozle officialdom when business was conducted at the end of a telephone: no one would pick up the disparity in age where the impostor didn’t present himself in person. What did surprise me was that Markus worked for a security company, subcontracting to the Federal Bureau of Prisons, and that their checks hadn’t been more thorough.

My purchases were in a plain plastic sack. I lugged them along, while Rink led the way, then I waited at a corner of the street while Rink went ahead to survey the house and terrain. It was late by now and there were no civilians out and about, but we had to be careful. He returned within minutes.

‘Everything’s quiet. The house looks dark, but for one light in an attic room. I watched but there was no one moving about inside. I think the asshole has left on the light to deter intruders.’

His final comment was meant in humour, but neither of us laughed at the irony.

‘What about a vehicle?’

‘Nothing, but there’s a drive that goes up one side to the back of the house. It hasn’t seen a tyre track in years.’ He handed me the keys to his dad’s car, taking the sack from me. ‘Put it around the back, out of sight. By the look of things, Markus doesn’t bother pulling his vehicle in, but just leaves it parked on the road.’

I left to fetch the car, and when I drove back Rink opened the wooden gate to allow me to pull into the driveway. Looking up at the house, I noticed it tilted slightly to one side and wondered if it was going to topple on me if I disturbed the ground by driving on it. I took it easy, not because of the fear of collapsing buildings but so that I didn’t churn up the turf that had grown over the original drive. I found that there was room at the back to turn the car, and left it nose out for a quick getaway. Beyond the parking space the garden sloped steeply, down to a stand of overgrown trees and shrubs in need of a visit from a tree surgeon, before the ground dropped abruptly into a gully. A road ran through the gully, but at this time there was no traffic on it. While I was engaged with the car, Rink closed the gate and then came to join me.

‘What if he doesn’t come back here tonight?’ I whispered.

Rink shrugged. ‘Parnell and Faulks are out of the way, and he has no way of knowing where my mom is. He’ll come back here at some point tonight. It’s just as you said: he’ll want to be somewhere he feels safe while he licks his wounds.

I indicated the uppermost room. Even though Rink had spotted no movement, Markus could be lying on a bed up there. ‘Maybe he’s already here.’

‘Let’s go find out, shall we?’

I drew my SIG. Passing the sack to me Rink drew out the crowbar. He used the jemmy, inserting it between the back door and frame and exerting pressure, to spring the latch. We entered, finding ourselves in a kitchen cum utility space. The room was in darkness, but there was enough ambient light to tell that Markus spent little time on cleaning chores. The room would best be described as a hovel, full of clutter and mismatched furniture, reeking of spoiled garbage. We moved through the space carefully, avoiding making any noise, or maybe to avoid contracting a disease. Passing the refrigerator, my shoulder brushed against a handwritten list with a pen hanging from a string attached to it. I glanced at the note but couldn’t read it in the gloom. Probably his shopping list, I assumed, and moved on. The door into the hall was partially ajar, something jammed in the narrow space. Checking, I found that a pile of dirty clothing had been left there, and it stank of sweat, mildew and decomposition. No way was I going to delve among it, but I thought that if I inspected it closely, the rotting stench would be from blood spilled during one of the previous murders.

Until now, I’d been giving the asshole too much credibility. I’d deemed him resourceful and clever, an enemy not to be underestimated. Now I understood he was a complete whack job who hadn’t even bothered to discard the items likely to prove his guilt during any investigation. That didn’t mean he was any less dangerous, but the thought of him as misguided, a man merely seeking retribution for his wronged dad, was pushed to the back of my mind. To me, he now represented a sicko who deserved what he was about to get.

We moved into the hall, stepping carefully over the clothing and watching for anything that could be knocked over and alert Markus to our presence. We found that the old house was similarly constructed to Rink’s parents’ place, with a sitting room, den and dining room all clustered around a single vestibule that served each room. The front door was midway along the vestibule, shut tight. More or less opposite it was a set of stairs that was sandwiched between the supporting walls of the sitting room and den. The stairs doglegged at the next landing, but we couldn’t make out anything of the upper floors from this position. Before going up, Rink went one way while I went the other, checking each of the ground floor rooms: who knew if Markus could have been in any of them? Not looking wasn’t a chance we could take.

I discovered that Markus had converted the den to a makeshift gymnasium, complete with weights and punch bags. More telling was an upright post, around which thick rope had been wound tight. The rope was compacted, frayed and flecked with brown stains I recognised as dried blood. The item was a
makiwara
– a punching post used by traditional karate practitioners to toughen their hands for combat. It surprised me that someone with a hatred of the Japanese people should embrace their martial practices. Judging by the time he’d spent at the
makiwara
, Markus was not one to be taken lightly.

In the back corner of the den-cum-gym I found another door. A rusted padlock held it shut, and I ignored it, deciding it was access down to a cellar. By the look of things, Markus visited the cellar as often as he did the kitchen.

We regrouped at the bottom of the stairs. I mentioned Markus’s apparent interest in karate-do. Rink’s lips turned up at the corners, but he didn’t comment. He just went for the stairs.

I covered him, before I followed up the stairs rapidly, placing my feet to the edges of the steps to avoid making too much noise. The carpet was frayed and probably hadn’t been relaid since the days of Markus’s grandfather. At the first landing we found a series of four bedrooms, all of them deserted. A bathroom turned up something more interesting. There were spatters of dried blood on the hardwood floor, more streaking down the edges of the porcelain sink. I checked the detritus lying in and around a wastebasket and saw wadded rags, dark with blood. Also I noted strips of adhesive, and part of a frayed bandage. It looked like Markus had indeed been injured by my bullet and had applied rudimentary dressings to his wound here. We shared a knowing glance. We had the right man. Immediately Rink turned for the final leg of the stairs. He went up them with his Glock extended, sweeping the area at the top. I mounted the stairs, still lugging the plastic sack, but cocked an ear to the lower floor. If Rink was correct and Markus wasn’t home, nothing said he wouldn’t arrive at any second.

Rink didn’t hang around. He grabbed the handle of the only door before us and shoved it open, stepping immediately into the cramped space of an attic room. A quick scan showed us that his summation was correct: Markus wasn’t home. But we found more proof that we had the right man.

There was a cot pushed up against one wall, an ancient wardrobe as crooked as the house, a small table and an old TV set with a turquoise-coloured surround that was probably all the rage in the 1970s. Boots and shoes cluttered a corner, as well as stacks of laundry that, this time, were clean and laundered – including what looked like a spare correctional officer’s uniform. But these items weren’t what held our gaze. On the wall above the unkempt cot a frieze had been formed from many photographs around a central poster. In some dives I’d been in, the poster had often been of a female tennis player scratching her butt, but here was something totally different. An old photograph had been enlarged, blown up to a size where it was pixelated and grainy. But when viewed from the doorway it was apparent that the image showed a large man in military uniform, standing proudly beneath the gates to Rohwer Relocation Facility. The soldier was slightly side on to the camera, as though he stood at the end of a group of people but they had been cut out of the picture. His bespectacled face was tilted towards the photographer, and a smirk adorned his face. The glasses reflected the overhead sun, making his gaze unfathomable, but judging by the smile alone I recognised something cold and snakelike about him. For the first time, we looked upon the face of the man who had started everything. We looked into the face of Charles Peterson and I hated him.

It was bad enough standing before the sickening smile of the beast, wondering what was going on inside his head. Had he already began preying on the girls when this picture was taken, or were his crimes still ahead of him? He was a sick-minded son of a bitch, and he curdled my guts. But his image was nothing compared to the smaller pictures tacked around him. They were on glossy paper, the likes of which are churned out of a computer printer. Each picture was marginally blurred, as if the camera wasn’t of the highest quality, and I guessed that the images had been snapped on a cellphone. I looked from each picture to the next, never concentrating on one for long, because I was looking into dead faces. Not only had Markus murdered the members of the execution party, but he’d also snapped evidence to bring back to his dad. He had formed a shrine of sorts, dedicated to the worship of a child-molesting monster. Now my feelings for Charles and Markus couldn’t be described in words: ‘hatred’ wasn’t near strong enough.

I placed a comforting hand on Rink’s shoulder.

He was trembling beneath my fingers, his entire body quaking, like pressure building in a hot water tank, ready to explode. He was staring at a cluster of pictures on the wall, each of them taken from a different angle as Markus had stood over Andrew Rington. In the background of more than one of them, Yukiko lay with blood pooling around her head. Rink began cursing under his breath. It was unlike him, but I could understand the change in his character.

Chapter 34

Markus pulled up outside his house at Clarendon Heights.

He left the vehicle in its customary position adjacent to the kerb. Getting out he felt better than he had earlier: perhaps the glucose and caffeine rush from the energy drinks had helped, but he preferred to think it was more to do with his Zen state of mind – ironic that one who hated the Japanese people so much should embrace their teachings. Much of the pain was relegated to a deep place in his psyche, now that the thrill of anticipation was on him. If Chaney’s men came through, he would have his third shot at the stranger within the next hour or two. His primary agenda was to punish all the members of the murder ring, but until his nemesis was out of the picture that would prove difficult. He couldn’t wait to have the bastard in his sights and to kill him. Maybe he’d make him suffer and shoot him in the ribs first, before placing a more telling bullet between his eyes. Or better yet, he’d beat him with his hands and feet before using his concealed ceramic blade to cut him to ribbons . . . then shoot him.

He could feel the shiv against his ankle as he moved, slightly uncomfortable but also a welcome sensation. He felt for where he’d pushed the gun into his jacket pocket, smoothing his hand over the cool metal and on to the crosshatched grip of the butt. For ease of carriage he’d unscrewed the suppressor and it was now in his opposite pocket. He glanced up and down the road, searching the nearby houses for any sign that his neighbours were up and about, but at this late hour he found most houses were in darkness. His glance shifted to his crooked home, and not for the first time he thought that it looked like the Bates house from
Psycho
the way it perched up on a knoll. The place was in darkness as he’d left it, but for the one light up in his room at the top. Had the light just flickered?

He stood, peering up, but the momentary disruption to the light leaching from beyond the blinds was not repeated. Nothing, he decided; an insect flying close to the bulb could cast a large enough shadow to cause the effect. Still, he walked up the path to his front door with his hand resting on his gun.

From a pocket he pulled out the key and inserted it in the lock. For some reason he found that he was taking things very quietly, teasing the lock to open. Maybe there was more to the flickering light than he originally thought. He eased the door open and entered the vestibule, his keys replaced so that he could close the door with one hand while holding his gun with the other. He stood in the darkness, listening. He stood like that for one long pent-up breath. He could hear the ticking of water through pipes, the settling of the old wooden beams, but that was all. Feeling foolish, he relaxed, placing the gun back in his pocket and reaching for the light switch. He flicked the switch over. Darkness prevailed.