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.
‘Crap!’ He had only replaced the light bulb a month earlier. This old house took up more of his goddamn time than it was worth.
He thought about going directly up the stairs to hit the light switch at the next landing, but decided against it and headed for the kitchen where he was sure there were spare bulbs in a drawer. He only made it a couple paces before his boot crunched on shards of glass. Now that was wrong! He wasn’t the most house-proud of people, and it was probably many weeks — if not months — since he’d run a vacuum cleaner along the hall carpet but he’d be damned if he’d allowed broken glass to litter the floor. He crouched, feeling around, and felt a prick of his fingertip. Ignoring the brief flare of pain, he snatched up the offending shard and held it close to his face. He could already feel the curve of the thin glass, but he pulled out his cell and pressed a button, scrutinising his discovery under the pale blue light from the screen. He looked up and back at where the ceiling rose hung empty. The freaking bulb couldn’t have been screwed in tightly enough, and had worked its way free over time. He scowled at his theory, figuring the chances. It didn’t surprise him, not when the rest of the place had been deteriorating round his ears for years.
He continued on to the kitchen and reached for the light switch. Once more he was rewarded with enduring darkness.
‘What the hell is going on?’ he demanded into the pitch shadows.
What were the odds of two goddamn bulbs blowing in short succession? Fucking nil. Paranoia shrieked through him.
He turned back for the hall, adamant now that he’d be better off heading directly for his room, where he’d stashed the extra ammunition he’d come to fetch, then get the hell out of there. Something caught in his peripheral vision and he swung back. He stared across the breadth of the kitchen; the familiar shapes of the table and cluttered worktops were not what had caught his eye. He looked beyond them to where the back door was, wondering at the sliver of city light down its edge. He took a step that way, angling his body for a better view, and was sure that the door stood open an inch or two.
He rested his hand on his gun once more, teasing it part-way from his pocket. The door had been opened, probably for the first time in years, and he was sure as hell he hadn’t done it. He took another step that way, before turning abruptly and peering back towards the hall. He remembered again the flicker of shadow from his room and understood that it wasn’t something as mundane as an insect moving about up there. He felt a cold blade wedge through his gut at the realisation that whoever was up there had seen the results of his work. He didn’t fear discovery, because in time he’d like the truth to be uncovered, he only feared it coming too soon. His wasn’t the best neighbourhood, he knew, and it had its inherent problems like any other. Burglars were known to prey on the old houses here, seeing them as insecure and an easy target. Markus wondered if a thief had noted the house’s apparent abandonment and had entered seeking anything worth stealing. He couldn’t discard the idea, because even burglars could be swayed to drop the police a tip concerning a greater crime than theirs. He had to stop whoever was up there, no doubt about it. He brought the gun fully out, and began stalking along the hall.