He had three choices: he could take the BART into the city, hail a cab or plump for the next bus to come along. He had taken precautions while in South Dakota, ensuring that there was no record of his visit to Whitehead, having hired a car under false credentials and paid his bill in cash. Back at this end there was of course a record of his flight, but he’d already told a couple of his work colleagues that he was heading off on a hiking trip for a couple of days, and that he was going to visit Mount Rushmore. His trip to South Dakota was no secret, only his real agenda. The chances of his presence in the state being flagged against the brutal murder in a backwoods town would be nil. Nevertheless, the fewer points on his trail that could be identified the better, so he had elected to leave his car at home and travelled to San Francisco International Airport via public transport, thus leaving no record of his vehicle in the airport car park. Now he thought he might have been overcautious, and all it meant was a slow return home. He was wiped out from the adrenalin buzz, needed rest, but was due in work at six the following morning. He decided to taxicab it to his house in Clarendon Heights, despite the cost of the fare.
One bonus was that the roads were quiet this late in the evening and the cab was winding its way up Market Street and ready for the turn on to Twin Peaks Boulevard before he realised how close to home he was. Minutes later he was outside his house. He climbed out of the cab yawning, paid and thanked the driver and gave him a hearty tip. Then he trudged up the slight incline towards his front door. He checked the mailbox on the way up, but found it empty. He was pleased; even if there had been mail it would have had to wait. Killing was tiring work, he’d found.
His house was a narrow wooden structure with a peaked attic and a veranda at each of the three floors. Built just after the great earthquake it showed its age in the slight lean of its walls, the faded paint on the rails and in the way in which the front porch steps had drooped at their centres. His grandfather built the house and — though he’d never lived here — his father had inherited it. When his father died, it had been passed on to the son. The killer had never wed, had no children, but he didn’t feel out of place in a house large enough for an extended family. As a child he’d grown used to the seclusion, because after his father disappeared there had been only him and his mom, and for all the notice she took of him he could have been alone in the world. Until she brought home her male drinking buddies, that was, and suddenly he was the centrepiece of their evening entertainment. The cigarette burns on his body had scarred him less than those wounds on his mind.
When all this was over with, when he’d sufficiently punished the others, then maybe he still would have purpose. Dan Lansdale had begged him to stop killing; even when he’d slipped the knife between his ribs and twisted it, the old man had pleaded that he end his killing spree. But he would not. Once vengeance was his, he would take his fight to those sick-minded bastards his mother had introduced him to. He had trained all of his adult life for this, acquiring the skills that would ensure he’d never be a victim again; it would be a shame to waste them.
It was cool inside when he entered the house, and dark. He flicked on lights as he progressed through the house to the kitchen. He wasn’t hungry. In fact, the only thing he would do before retiring to bed was this one simple task. He found the upright refrigerator, and placed one finger against the sheet of paper stuck to it, holding it in place while he reached with his other hand for the pen swinging below it on a piece of string. He gave the pen a shake to get the ink flowing to the nib, leaned close and scored out the fourth name on his list. He wasn’t even halfway through the list yet, but even he had to admit that having only started this thing a fortnight ago, he was well ahead of schedule.
He looked at the next names on the list, blinking away the weariness in order to bring the writing into focus. Who next? All three targets lived here in San Francisco, two of them in the same apartment block. Perhaps he should leave them until last, otherwise the connection might be made between his victims and bring the cops down on him before he was finished with the third. That wouldn’t do. He had to send every last one of them to the grave.
The thought settled him and he made his way up to the room he’d commandeered as his bedroom at the uppermost level. He could have used any of the larger rooms on the intervening floors, but this was as far away as he could get from the basement cellar. Ever since dealing with Tennant, and hearing the truth from the punk, entering basements had made him slightly uneasy.
He took off his jacket and boots, but that was all he had the energy for and he slumped back on the narrow cot he’d dragged up there. His fatigue was the effect of an adrenalin dump, and was not physical as such. In the morning he’d be fresh and ready to go again. When he woke up he would put himself through the rigorous exercise regime he’d set himself, pump himself full of energy and the desire to take the next step in his plan. For motivation he peered up at a profusion of photographs pinned to the wall over his head. They swam in and out of focus. His eyes were slipping shut, but he forced himself to lean over and hit the switch on his alarm clock. He hoped for a deep and dreamless slumber. There was no chance of that, though; as soon as his eyes fluttered closed the flames built behind their lids and the blood and screams soon followed.
Chapter 10
‘So where do we go from here?’ I asked.
‘Only one place I can think of,’ Rink said.
On the way back, Rink telephoned his mom and had her driven home by her friends. As we sat in the living room, Yukiko had gone to the kitchen and busied herself with preparing a meal. We could hear the clatter of pots and pans, and it was apparent that Yukiko was taking out her frustrations on a large metal utensil.
‘Maybe I should talk to her,’ I offered. ‘I still think she’s finding it difficult looking you in the face.’
The corners of Rink’s mouth jumped, but it wasn’t a smile. He dipped his head, and the way his hooded lids obscured his eyes made it difficult to see how my comment affected him. But that was obvious.
For all that Rink had inherited his mother’s Japanese looks and colouring, he was still very much his dad’s image. It had to be difficult for Yukiko to look at her son without experiencing another pang of loss for her husband. Before he could refuse, I stood up and headed for the kitchen. As an out for his mother’s emotions, I closed the door behind me, shutting Rink away so he could have his own privacy.
I found Yukiko leaning over the sink, both palms pressed tightly to the work counter, her elbows locked. If she didn’t support herself so I guessed her knees would have given way and pitched her to the floor. Her shoulders were shuddering, though I couldn’t hear her weeping. For a second I almost turned away, but didn’t. I brought a chair from the table and guided Yukiko into it. At first she resisted, her back forced ramrod straight, but as I placed a comforting arm around her she relented, and sat down. I found some tissues and handed her a bunch. She used them to hide behind.