Pawn, page 13
That light, that strange, beautiful, serene light that had come out of nowhere to bathe him. The voice, though it wasn’t really a voice, just a feeling of calm and safety, telling him everything was going to be all right. And then somehow he was here. In Kirby’s cottage, and there was no more pain. There were no more holes in him. And though his T-shirt was completely covered in it, he seemed to have enough blood left in him to feel his normal self.
It made no sense.
His brother, arriving from out of nowhere. The machinegun, being shot, then being here and well again. None of it made any sense.
“You’re alive!” Of course he wasn’t alone, and apparently he wasn’t the only one shocked by everything. Di was with him, lifting his T-shirt off him, inspecting him, looking for the missing bullet holes. But there weren’t any. She looked and he looked, and the skin underneath the blood when he wiped it away was perfectly smooth. Unblemished.
“I know.” He did too, even if he didn’t know how he knew. She pulled his top off him and started hurriedly rubbing him down with a warm wet cloth, inspecting him even more closely, desperately hunting out his injuries with her hands. But there were none. He’d been shot but he wasn’t injured in any way. Was she? The terrible thought struck him as he realised the gun had sprayed bullets everywhere, and though he’d pushed her away as hard as he could, it might not have been enough.
“Oh God there’s blood!” He could suddenly see it all over her, and even while she was wiping him down he lifted her summer dress up to check if she was hurt. He couldn’t see anything, but still he used his hands to make sure. She couldn’t be hurt.
“I’m fine.” And she was. It took him a while to make sure of it, to run his hands all over her, but eventually he was satisfied she was uninjured. And after that he just held her tight and tried not to give in to his adrenaline and simply scream his relief. He held her for the longest time, unable to let go.
“I don’t understand.” And he didn’t, but with the panic dying away he somehow found the strength to collapse back on to the bed, Di with him and to give up wondering. He didn’t even know how they’d got from the kitchen to the bedroom, when they’d moved, but again it was unimportant. The only thing that mattered was that she was alive and well. And on top of him.
How had that happened? Somehow he couldn’t quite remember it, but he was lying on his back on the bed with Di, completely naked, lying on top of him.
It was as though someone somewhere had turned on a light switch, as his confusion abruptly disappeared and his hormones kicked in. Gone was the fear and the excitement was back. He wasn’t alone either. He could see it in Di’s blue eyes, the fear and confusion replaced with overwhelming desire. He could hear it in her breathing as she started taking huge lungfuls of air and moaning just a little under her breath. And he could feel it in her body as she began rubbing herself against him.
Nothing was said, there was nothing that either of them could say. But hungers were igniting between them, hungers that had to be fed. Her hands found his belt and started struggling against it, trying to undo it, and when she finally had it loose, she simply pulled it off so it slid around his waist and threw it against the wall. His jeans didn’t last more than a couple of heartbeats as she simply ran her hands underneath them and pulled them down with a desperate tug, and then they were completely naked.
They joined instantly, there could be no holding back, and began their dance of love. It should have been slow and patient and wonderful, especially the first time, but they couldn’t be that. Not then. And instead they became frenzied like wild animals as they gave in to their needs, rolling over and over again as they desperately tried to reach heaven, lost in the all-consuming thrill. And when they finally reached heaven, they both screamed out in rapture.
But it wasn’t enough. It could never be enough. And no sooner had they found their joy then they started again.
It was going to be a very long night.
********************
Chapter Thirteen.
The beach was full of people for once. It was late at night, after midnight, and there were people everywhere. Crime scene guys were combing it from one end of the taped off area to the other, looking for evidence, not to mention a body. They’d set up huge floodlights to help them as they very nearly crawled over the sand searching for clues. Meanwhile officers were standing outside the taped area, trying desperately to fend off the hordes of reporters and photographers who’d shown up and were in a snapping frenzy.
The restaurant was full too. All the patrons who’d been dining there and witnessed the events of the evening, had been kept behind, and were being interviewed one by one. Inspector Barns wasn’t looking forwards to reading their reports, since he pretty much knew what they were going to say. And of course more press were outside the restaurant, blocking up the car park, rushing every person who left and pushing microphones in their faces.
This was big news, and despite his having given strict instructions that there would be absolutely no comments given, they already knew it was related to The Fiddlers. After all how many machine gun toting madmen were out there? And after what they got from the witnesses was reported, Barns knew it would only get worse. Much worse.
Brilliant lights, dead men vanishing, a woman too beautiful to describe, a gun toting lunatic taken down by his victim, and all of it linked to both a previous shootout and a missing painting. There were no words to describe just how huge this story was going to become. Or how terrible his next few days would be as the press hounded him.
“Hopkins, give me some good news please.” Barns was in a far less than happy mood as he stared out over the crime scene and listened to the reports to the scene investigators. The copious, endless and utterly impossible reports. But Hopkins just shook his head forlornly.
“Daryl Hennassy isn’t talking to us. He isn’t talking to anyone. And the doctors say it looks like he’s suffered some sort of severe psychotic break. Visions, voices, a complete loss of reality. The whole lot. They’re saying that he may never recover.” And just like that a witness, suspect and would be murderer had slipped through their grasp. That was not good. But at least he wouldn’t be shooting any more people. Not without any fingers.
“Great.” By which Inspector Barns meant anything but great. It was terrible as once more it meant the case was left without answers.
“There’s more sir.” Hopkins looked worried and Barns was certain it meant more bad news. What other sort of news was there lately?
“Go on.”
“Preliminary ballistics suggests that the gun is the same gun that was at the initial car crash, and one of the same guns that was used at the hotel.” Barns sighed a littlewhen he heard that. But it wasn’t unexpected.
“Of course it is. How many blasted machine gunning nutters did you think are out there? Daryl’s been trying to kill his brother since the start of this nightmare. The question is, why?”
“Bad blood?”
“No.” The inspector shook his head. “At least not only that. Which reminds me, I want one patrol officer Finch interviewed about the axe attack on Mr. Hennassy by his brother ten years back. An axe, one hundred and forty three stitches, a month in hospital, and a dozen witnesses who said it was an unprovoked assault. How could that ever have been listed as just a street brawl? Someone’s dirty there.” And there was little he hated more than a dirty cop, except maybe a crime that made no sense. He decided to go back to the beginning. Whenever he was stuck it was the place to start anew.
“So what do we know?” He let the story tell itself. Most of the pieces were still missing, but enough were there to weave at least part of the tale.
“Daryl Hennassy was in the crew that stole the painting originally, and he was in the white van that fled with it. He opened fire on his brother when he spotted him in the middle of the road, waving him down after surviving his own freakishly weird car crash. A coincidence certainly, a nearly impossible one in truth, but still possible.”
“Why?” Hopkins was right to ask the question, and not just because it needed answering, but because it was the key to the entire nightmare. It was what had started everything rolling.
“Daryl hated his brother with a passion, and he hadn’t seen him in a decade or more when he’d previously tried to kill him. That was part of why he opened fire on him when he came across him. It was a chance too good to miss. Also, he probably thought that Rufus might be able to recognise him, that he might be able to identify him to us. So he had to kill him and only dumb luck saved him.” Yet even as he said the last every fibre in his body was telling him no. It wasn’t luck. There was something more going on.
“Rufus Hennassy isn’t involved in the theft. Probably.” The inspector added the last simply because in this mess he couldn’t really be absolutely certain of anything. But still he seemed like an innocent, and many long years of dealing with criminals meant he was hard to fool. He hoped.
“Next he’s at the hotel, where if the agent’s information is correct, the buyers are all busy trying to find the stolen painting. Thinking Rufus Hennassy has that information or could lead them to his family. But what gave them that idea? And why is his brother there? The others are buyers. They want the painting. He’s part of the crew that stole it, so surely he already has the painting.”
“But more than that. How do the others even know about Rufus Hennassy? If they know about him, then they also know it’s his family who stole the painting. They should know there’s a rift between them. That he hasn’t seen them in ten long years. So why are they coming after him instead of them?” There was an answer, but it wasn’t one that he liked. Still it had to be said.
“It’s almost as though someone’s feeding them half truths and lies, leading them around by the nose. Creating confusion and probably using it to cover his tracks. Classic misdirection. And how did they even track him to the hotel? He paid cash. Even we didn’t know where Mr. Hennassy was staying. Everybody seems to know his every move. Everybody that is, except of course, us.” If the inspector sounded a little bitter as he said it, he had reason. He didn’t like being so clearly left in the dark.
“And then Rufus Hennassy comes here for a romantic walk on the beach. No idea where he’s been living these past couple of weeks of course, that would be too much to hope for. But we know that no one else knew where he was since there weren’t any other shoot outs.” And their would have been. Too many people wanted him dead.
“Then, in a fit of madness, he goes out for a night on the town with a pretty woman as if no one was trying to kill him or torture him for information. And of course, from out of nowhere his brother shows up. How did he know he’d be on the beach if he doesn’t know where he’s staying? But as if that’s not enough, he guns him down in front of forty odd witnesses.” And that was crazy in itself. Daryl Hennassy was a violent thug, but he wasn’t completely stupid. He should have waited until they were alone.
“And then, just when we haven’t got enough crazy, there’s a flash of light, Rufus somehow walks directly into a hail of bullets to tear the gun away, crushing its stock and barrel with his bare hands as well as ripping loose all of his brother’s fingers in the same move. Then Daryl cracks up while his dead brother and the woman vanish. Not run away or hide or anything so normal you understand, just vanish in a flash of blinding white light.”
“This case is turning into the bloody Twilight Zone!” Hopkins said nothing, surely knowing that whatever he said would be wrong, and so the silence dragged for a bit as they stare at the blood soaked beach filled with men in white suits and flashing lights.
“You know,” The inspector turned back to him, “I’ll bet that even Rufus Hennassy has no idea what’s going on. He’ll be the soul of innocence and ignorance when he shows up again.”
“He’s dead inspector. At least a dozen and a half shots to the chest. The witnesses all agree on that.” Hopkins was right of course. He had to be. And if it wasn’t for the thousand other impossibilities that seemed to be happening, Barns would have agreed with his sergeant. But not any more.
“Do you see a body?” Inspector Barns stared straight at him and the sergeant tried not to wilt before him. He was right of course, there was no body. But so too was Hopkins. No one could survive being shot a dozen or more times in the chest, or losing so much blood, and the sand was completely soaked in it.
“No, mark my words Hopkins. He’ll be back. The man’s bloody near unkillable. Some fantastic, impossible coincidence will have arisen, aliens will have landed with their super medicine, and he’ll be saved. That is becoming the only constant in this whole mess. Rufus Hennassy always survives.” Of course Hopkins looked away, trying not to shake his head openly, and Barns couldn’t blame him. It was madness. But the whole bloody case was madness.
“Another one.” One of the white suited guys called out from down the beach and instantly another started taking pictures of what looked like a worm on the beach. It wasn’t a worm, it was another of Daryl Hennassy’s fingers, and though it was wrong, Barns couldn’t help but know a small moment of satisfaction.
Daryl Hennassy was a monster. A career criminal and a thug. And what they could prove he’d done was probably nowhere close to what he’d actually done. Beginning with his life long battery of his little brother. If Rufus Hennassy was dead, as all reason said he had to be, then at least the inspector could hope that before he’d died he’d got to see his brother screaming in fear and pain at his ruined hands. It would only be the very beginning of justice but it would be something.
Of course before they could even say that they’d have to ask themselves how a man riddled with bullets could walk the dozen or two dozen feet between them, while still being shot mind, and then rip both the gun and all of the man’s fingers out in one clean jerk. It was a very strange version of justice.
“Inspector.” Just when it seemed things couldn’t get any worse, Barns heard the woman call him and tried not to groan as he recognised her voice. Agent Dikē was back and guaranteed to bring him more problems. Still he managed to put a polite smile on his face as he turned to greet her.
“Agent. Isn’t it a little late to be calling?” And more importantly giving him more headaches.
“Interpol never sleeps. You know that inspector.” She smiled at him, a polite professional smile rather then anything more warm, and from that, her perfectly pressed suit and hair tied neatly back into a pony tail, and the fact that she was there at his crime scene in the middle of the night, he gathered she had business to discuss. Maybe, just maybe, what she had would help shed some light on this mess instead of adding more confusion. But it was a thin hope.
“How can I help you agent?”
“Actually I think it’s I who can help you.” With no more than that she handed him a bunch of brown cardboard folders stamped with ‘Interpol’ and stuffed full of papers.
“DNA identities from the hotel. And grief, what a bunch of villains. They’re all internationals so won’t be in your local databases by the way.”
“First the Russians. Ivanova and Petras, no last name. Bounty hunters for Indris, one of the Russian mafia. Former mercenaries, trained in all manner of weapons and combat, and responsible we think, for at least a dozen murders including several police. Proving it is another matter. So if they’re here, it’s a good bet that Indris is one of the would be buyers. They have the money.”
The photos showed two huge man mountains, sandy haired and white, fairly much as the witnesses had described, and for some reason, dressed up in combat fatigues. But then she had said they were mercenaries, which fitted well with the assault rifles in their hands.
“Then there’s Arabas Ben. That’s a pseudonym by the way, but we don’t have his real one. He’s a nasty little freelance killer for hire. He’s killed dozens of high profile people all over the world and been extremely well rewarded for it. He also does a line in torture and extracting information from unwilling subjects. We hadn’t heard from him for a while and thought he’d either retired or someone had finally retired him. We hoped.” Barns understood that only too well. It was a hateful fact, but some killers and criminals were so capable and well connected that the best you could hope for was that they’d quit the game one way or another. You weren’t going to catch them.
“No idea who he’s working for I’m afraid. Probably another buyer. But if he’s here and out of retirement, then someone’s paid him a lot of money. An awful lot of money.”
The photo in the file was blurred, obviously taken from a great distance while the man had been moving, but the other photos of his victims were far more revealing. Just looking at them even for a second, Barns could see that the man was passionate about his knives and his garrotting wires. They were his weapon of choice, something that spoke strongly to his character. He liked to see and feel his victims die. He was also deadly. The list of his kills was frightening. The man got into secure places, did his business, and left unseen. If this guy was after Rufus Hennassy then he was in a lot of trouble. Which made it all the more difficult to understand how he’d got away. The witnesses had said he’d been bleeding from the neck, which strongly suggested he’d had a wire noose around his neck. People didn’t get out of those very often. But then they seldom survived gun fights in their hotel rooms either. There was luck and then there were miracles, and it seemed to him that Rufus Hennassy was trading in the latter.
