Free Judgement and Wrath by Matt Hilton

Bradley was responsible.’
    ‘The witnesses denied it, too. But if you remember, the gossip was that Bradley beat her after some bad deal went down.’
    ‘Someone beat her, that’s for sure.’
    ‘What’re you saying, Rink? That it could’ve been another one of these disgruntled family members? They beat Marianne so they would get their way with Bradley. Maybe to force him into their line of thinking?’
    ‘Could have been,’ he said, dismissive. It wasn’t like him. He closed down his emails, not meeting my eyes. There was something wrong with him, that was for sure.
    ‘You should get some sleep, Rink.’
    ‘No time for sleep,’ he said, sounding a little like his old self.
    ‘Nothing we can do for now. We don’t even know where Jorgenson and Marianne are, let alone the killer.’ Getting up and leading the way out of the office, I hoped that Rink would follow me. He didn’t.
    ‘Rink?’
    He lowered his face. What is it about men that they don’t want to show any weakness? He was my best friend, for Christ’s sake. His pain was my pain. I moved back towards him.
    ‘What is it, Rink?’
    He coughed. Another male thing. His big fingers, capable of throttling a bullock, trembled over the keyboard. Rink was afraid of something. But I doubted that it had anything to do with hired killers or the dysfunctional state of the Jorgenson family. I’d been there when Rink was going into battle. Like the rest of our Special Forces unit, he’d practised the art of compartmentalisation – as had I – and could shove that fear somewhere where it didn’t inhibit his ability to function. Like the rest of us he could use that fear to galvanise him. Make him a more efficient soldier. Rink’s reticence now, the trembling in his hands, stopped me in my tracks surer than all the bullets ever fired my way.
    ‘I should go to San Francisco, buddy,’ Rink said.
    Rink’s parents currently lived in San Francisco. The wheels of trepidation began to churn in my gut.
    ‘Tell me, Rink. What’s happened?’
    ‘My mother.’ His eyes closed slowly and it was all the explanation I required.
    ‘She hasn’t …’
    ‘Died? No, not yet. But she is very ill.’ Rink started shutting down the open windows on the computer. ‘She’s had a heart attack. I should go to her.’
    Immediately I said, ‘I’m coming with you.’
    Rink shook his head, looked at me with sparkling eyes. ‘We have a job to do here, Hunter. There’s a girl out there who needs us. There’s a chance we can still save her.’ There was a long pause, filled only by Rink’s harsh breathing. ‘It’s maybe too late to save my mom.’
     

     

12

    Dantalion was on his way to Neptune Island further up the coast. It wasn’t really an island, but a long finger of land separated from the mainland by a marshy inlet surrounding the Inter-Coastal Waterway. At the northern end, a causeway gave access to the island, the causeway constructed so that it was a permanent route and not governed by the tides. At the southernmost tip the coastal highway crossed the inlet on a suspended bridge that attracted weekend naturalists and bird watchers who parked on the bridge to view the wildlife on the estuary below.
    It wasn’t a densely populated region of Florida.
    In fact, one family practically owned sole rights to call Neptune its own.
    For three generations the Jorgenson estate had claimed much of the land that straddled Neptune’s Atlantic shoreline. Since the late 1950s the family had purchased, acquired or built twelve family houses on the land. Each house was distinct in itself, but all were enclosed within a single walled estate that stretched almost three miles down the coast. At intersections every four hundred yards, access was gained by gates that were under twenty-four-hour surveillance. CCTV cameras were mounted on tall poles between each gate, so there was nowhere along the three-mile stretch where an intruder could gain entry without a swift visit from the