Rules of Honour (32 page)

The road ended at a wide turning area formed of hard-packed dirt. It was currently home to three vehicles: a black SUV, a panel van, and a tan-coloured Lincoln sedan, all of them deserted. The turning area was at the end of a peninsula that jutted out above the still waters of the reservoir. The car’s headlights petered out in the empty void over the lake, but closer by they highlighted an occasional night-flying bug that zapped by like a mini-meteorite. Way off on the far side of the lake pinpricks of light from widely spaced dwellings or campsites glinted. They were sufficiently far away that Yukiko Rington would not be heard should she decide to scream for help.

After parking the car and shutting off the lights, he headed for a secondary trail. It wound deep into the woodland at the edge of the lake. He was beginning to wonder where he was heading, if he’d missed a turn in the trail, when he made out a darker silhouette against the nightscape. The trees grew in clumps there among the ravines of the shoreline, creating indistinct shapes in the dark, but there was something looming ahead that was more geometrical, and as he approached it began to take shape as a large log structure with a peaked roof. Markus paused, studying the building, and couldn’t decide what it might have once been used for. His best guess was that it had been employed as a focal house, a meeting place for some group or other. Perhaps its patrons had partied there, and the sounds of music and laughter once rang out beyond its walls. Whatever its previous purpose it was immaterial now, because the sounds destined to come from it soon would be in direct contrast to those of happier times.

He passed a sign nailed to a post driven into the earth. Tough grass and briar had grown up around the noticeboard, and the wood looked stained and warped; in the darkness he could barely make out the yellow lettering on it. By the look of things the warning sign had been there for years, which gave some indication of how derelict the structure must be when it had warned of danger all those years earlier.

There was a rusty padlock and chain hanging from a latch on one side of the door. It had been unlocked, the opposite hasp standing open. Markus paused, wondering – not for the first time – if he was walking into a trap. He knew little about Sean Chaney’s trustworthiness, but when all came to all what did it matter? If the son of a bitch planned to double-cross him in any way then he’d just have to deal with the consequences. He felt more than a match for Chaney and the kind of half-witted punks he had at his disposal. He still had the gun he’d used on the cops back at his house, though he’d failed to fetch the extra ammunition he’d gone back for. His gun still held four rounds; he’d checked. His ace card was down his boot, his ceramic knife. Let Chaney try to pull a stunt and he’d cut out his lying tongue.

He shoved the protesting door inwards, lifting the warped wood to clear the accumulation of dirt and decomposing leaves that had invaded the gap beneath. He leaned to look inside. The interior was as decrepit as the outer shell, the old floorboards mostly rotted away, and showing hard earth beneath. Stacks of ancient furniture had been piled down one side of the room, cleared by God knew whom, but he doubted it was by Chaney and his gang. They were all at the far end of the large meeting hall, a storm lamp casting yellow light upwards from where it sat on a table painting their immense shadows on the inner peak of the roof. He guessed the large, bald man sitting behind the table was their leader. He’d taken the privileged position for more reason than that he simply could. Propped next to his chair was a walking stick; it appeared that Chaney’s leg was troubling him yet. Maybe it was for show, indicating how hurt and humiliated he’d been by their mutual enemies.

As Markus entered the hall he felt the change of pressure in his eardrums. This room had been locked tight for some time, he guessed. He worked his jaw, popping his ears as he strode towards Chaney. Chaney studied him as he approached, his gaze steady, unmoved by Markus’s appearance. The others were more wary, and more than one of them flexed their hands, perhaps expecting a sudden shoot-out to erupt.

Coming to a halt, Markus crossed his arms on his chest. He looked down at Chaney, ignored the others.

‘You don’t look anything like I was expecting,’ Chaney said.

‘What were you expecting?’

‘Don’t know. Murderers don’t usually look like you.’

Markus didn’t understand where Chaney was leading the conversation. Murderers came in all shapes and sizes, all creeds and colours. Markus had met many of them in his time. ‘You expected me to look insane perhaps? Maybe have a swastika or pentagram seared into my forehead? Sorry I don’t meet your expectations, but – if it helps – I don’t consider myself a murderer. I’m an avenger.’

‘Whatever,’ Chaney said. Leaning on his stick he rose up to meet Markus eye to eye. He was an inch or so too short. ‘It’s not important what you call yourself. All that matters is that you’re here. And that we can get on with killing the bastards who shot me.’

Markus peered past him to the dark space beyond. A wall had been erected, bisecting the hall at about the three quarter mark. In it was an open door.

‘Is the Jap bitch through there?’

Without turning Chaney nodded.

‘I know it wasn’t in the original plan to snatch her, but she turned up just as we were burning down her house. It was too good an opportunity to miss.’

‘You did right.’ Markus included the other men in his glance. They relaxed marginally. ‘If anything’s going to draw our enemies out it’s her.’

‘Good.’ Chaney tapped his stick against his wounded thigh. ‘I look forward to meeting those two bastards again. If all continues to plan they should be on their way here soon.’

‘You’ve left instructions about our terms, as I asked? You did mention that I want Parnell and Faulks as well?’

‘They’ll bring them. It’s like you said, Jared Rington isn’t going to put anyone before his mother’s safety.’

‘Have you learned the name of Rington’s friend yet?’

‘Nope,’ Chaney said. ‘But there’s someone down in the cellar who will tell us.’

Markus smiled, but it looked more like a grimace. Cellars were not his favourite places. However to reacquaint himself with the lying sow behind his father’s murder he’d make an exception. The terms he’d asked Chaney to relay were simple. He said that if Parnell and Faulks were brought to him, then he’d give back Yukiko. He hadn’t promised that she’d be alive.

Chapter 37

Yukiko had the impression of an echoing space around her, though the sack pulled tightly over her head made it difficult for any of her senses to operate sufficiently to make a considered decision. The rough hessian chafing the tip of her nose and forehead smelled strongly, but under that she could detect a loamy aroma of rotting wood, must and vegetation. The ground beneath her was solid enough, but felt as though she sat beneath some great overhang of earth poised to tumble down and crush her beneath its colossal weight. She wondered if this must be how it would feel to lie in an open casket, waiting for the grave to be backfilled on top of her, burying her in its cold embrace.

Is this how her dear husband had felt as she stood over his grave, dropping a handful of soil on to his coffin lid? She hoped that his soul was not trapped within his casket, but had been set free to fly to the promise of heaven. Had he though, had he been embraced by his God, or sent for judgement for what he did to Charles Peterson all those years ago? Was she to be judged next? The sensation made her shudder, though she forced the disgust from her and tried to sit a little straighter. It wasn’t an easy task with her hands bound between her shoulders, a loop thrown over her head and secured under her chin. Doing so made the rope nip at her wrists and throat, but she didn’t care.

Something very important had struck her.

These men intended to kill her, but she was not afraid.

If they only desired her dead, they would have killed her back at the house when first they’d surprised her and knocked Bridget unconscious. They had an agenda to complete first, and while they played out their game there was an opportunity at escape. While there was a way out – however slim her chance at freedom might be – there was still hope. Jared would not rest until he had come to save her. Joe would not rest. He too was a
good son
. Hope emboldened her. It reaffirmed her determination to see this through to the end. She would be strong, the way her ancestors were strong. But if she were wrong – if she were to die – she would be brave and face her slayer. That also was the way of her ancestors.

She guessed who was behind her kidnapping. Never had she got a look at her captors because the sack had blinded her too quickly, but she was under no illusions about who they were. The big one who’d sat next to her all the way here, poking her with the point of a walking stick to check she was still conscious, was Sean Chaney. Her understanding brought a trickle of unease she could not give complete description to; she should fear the man, for if anyone wished her harm it ought to be him. It was because she pointed the finger of blame at him that her son, Jared, had hurt him. Jared had not told her the specifics, but she thought that before this Sean Chaney had not walked with the aid of a stick. Yet she did not fear Chaney. He was a bully and a coward, one who had not stood up to Andrew: a man twice his age. But she did fear who it was that Chaney intended handing her to. No. It wasn’t fear of the man himself, but of what he might do to her. Would he punish her the way he had the others? Tennant and
poor
Takumi? Firm as her resolve was to face death with her chin held high, the thought of immolation sent a qualm of abhorrence through her tiny frame. She could not discount the irony here: Charles Peterson had died in a cellar, and now it seemed that history would repeat itself. She did not expect pity; the son would do anything to complete his mission to avenge his father’s death. But then there was irony in that statement as well. Her son also had a father to avenge.

It would be easier for Rink to concentrate on his mission if she was not a shield before his enemy.

She must be stronger. She had to get free so she did not burden her son.

She pushed up from the stool on which she’d been sitting. She twisted at the ropes around her wrists. Oh, how she longed for the vitality of youth once more. Her old woman’s arms did not have the strength to loosen her bonds, her arthritic fingers unable to untie the knots. Yet she had to try.

‘Sit down.’

The voice snapped from above her.

She knew that voice. It was the same one that taunted her husband as she’d sneaked up on the killer, intending knocking him out with the vase she’d silently lifted from the hallway cabinet.

His boots rang on the short flight of stairs down which she’d been carried earlier.

‘I said
sit down
, bitch.’

Before Yukiko could respond to the order, hands grabbed her shoulders and forced her down. She resisted momentarily, but she was nothing in his hands. She fell back, only stopped short by the seat of the stool smacking against her backside. The hands holding her steadied her with brusque efficiency. Then the hands moved away. Yukiko sat, her arms aching as she twisted them to a position where it would relieve some of the pressure on her throat. She lifted her head as best she could.

‘Am I not allowed to see the face of my murderer?’ she asked.

‘All in good time.’

Yukiko thought that there was no good time. It was a poor expression. Though she would not tell him so; it would only give him satisfaction.

‘First,’ her tormentor went on, ‘you’re going to listen to me.’

‘It’s difficult hearing anything from beneath this hood. You may as well take it off; you’re going to kill me anyway, so what’s the difference if I see your face?’

‘You’ve already seen my face, that’s not the reason the sack’s staying put. It stays because I fucking say when it comes off.
Not you
.’

Yukiko would have preferred the hood to be removed sooner rather than later. The more time she had to study her surroundings, and to devise a way out of this predicament, the better. Still, there was little she could do while the brute was here in the cellar.

‘What are you planning on doing to me?’ The question surprised Yukiko, because she had not formulated it in her mind before asking.

‘I’m going to kill you. What else?’

Yukiko would not allow herself to slump: she would not show she was fearful.

‘You have nothing to say to that?’ asked her captor. ‘That’s probably best, because there’s nothing you can say that’ll change my mind. When I set off on this, your death was always marked.’

‘I’m not afraid to die.’

‘Maybe not, but that doesn’t mean a thing to me. I’m going to kill you even if you beg and plead. Your lies murdered my father and that’s unforgivable.’

‘Your father died because he was a rapist and child molester.’

Without warning a blow to her head knocked Yukiko off the seat and she went down hard on her side. The slap was more of a shock than a powerful blow, but pain screamed through her frail body from the collision with the floor. Before she could recover, hands grabbed her and hauled her back on the stool. She sat gasping for a long moment. Fingers grasped the collars of her blouse and yanked them tight. She was pulled forward, and even through the sackcloth she could feel the heat of anger radiating from Peterson’s son.