The girl was great.
She led Halford to the tub and her hands moved down, unbuckling his belt, unlacing his shoes. She knelt before him and removed his shoes and pants and, reaching up, slipped her hands inside the waistband of his shorts. Her fingertips flirted with him, touching and yet not touching. She finished undressing him, leaning forward and breathing softly on him, letting her lips brush against him. She began an almost imperceptible chant in Japanese. She touched his face, felt the rigid line of his jaw, his quivering lips, and slipped two fingertips inside his mouth, tapping his tongue. Her own tongue flittered over his chest and sucked at his nipples. She took his hand in hers, helped him undress her, guided them over her breasts, her stomach, and down to hair as soft as rabbit’s fur.
His fears vanished. He was hypnotized, overcome by a sensuality more complete than any he had ever known. His manhood was restored.
Burns moved silently across the garden and stood near the door, heard her soft chant, the sounds of water splashing, the murmur of soft laughter. He took the Cotton swabbing from his pocket, wrapped a strip around one hand, held it in place with his thumb, and slipped on one of the surgical gloves. He repeated the action with the other hand. He unzipped his pants and took out the nylon cord, wrapped it several times around each hand, and tested it again, pulling it taut. The knot was centred perfectly. He eased himself to the door and looked in.
They were out of the tub. Halford lay on his back on the table, facing away from Burns, who stood watching, behind him.
Heth covered her hands with warm oil and began massaging Halford, her strong fingers kneading the muscles in his legs and chest. She stroked his arms and placed them at his sides. Then she got up on the table, straddling him, settling down on him, moving against him, leaning over him. Her butterfly tongue teased his stomach, moved lower, and her mouth enveloped him.
Halford was unaware of the new presence in the room, an obscene presence moving stealthily across the llama rug, the nylon cord dangling between latex-sheathed fists.
But Heth was aware. Her keen ears amplified each creak in the floor, the rustle of clothing, a different rhythm of breathing in the room. She reached out to the smaller table. Her fingers found a short silk string with twelve knots tied in it, each about an inch apart. She slipped her hand under Halford and began to insert the string. Halford, lost in fantasy, hardly felt it. His pulse was hammering, his breath was laboured and quick.
The tempo increased. Faster. Faster. Faster.
Halford gasped. His blood, charged with lightning, surged through his body. His head rose off the table. His body went rigid. At that moment Heth ripped the string from inside him and Halford cried out. He exploded.
As he did, Heth dropped her legs over the side of the table and clamped them under it. Her arms enveloped it and she grasped one wrist with the other hand.
Halford was caught in a human vice.
Burns dropped the nylon cord around his throat. His hands snapped apart.
The knot in the cord bit deep into the hollow in Halford’s neck. Ecstasy turned to pain. His temples erupted. His breath was cut off, trapped in his throat. His tongue shot from his mouth.
Burns snapped the cord again, tighter this time.
Halford began to shake violently. Spasms seized his body. It began to jerk against Heth’s. She tightened her grip. He tried to scream, but the cry was crushed in his throat. He looked up, saw the grotesque inverted face above him. He tried to utter one last word, a syllable, distorted and guttural, which died in his mouth:
Wh-a-a-a-r-r-ghh...’
And then his windpipe burst. He shuddered convulsively. His breath surged from him like wind squealing from a punctured balloon.
He went limp.
Heth released her death grip. She lay across Halford’s body, her arms and legs dangling over the sides of the table. Tears burned her cheeks.
Burns stepped back, unwound the cord from one hand, and pulled it free. He dropped it on the table beside Hal- ford’s body. Sweat bathed his face. His breath came in short gasps.
The girl struggled to a sitting position. She cried soundlessly.
Burns reached behind him and took the pistol from his belt. The girl made no move. She was looking towards him but not at him. It was then that Burns too realized she was blind, understood what Wan had meant when he had said it would not be necessary to kill two; There was no way the girl could identify him. He hesitated for a fraction of a second but then, like a programmed machine committed to one last act, he stepped behind her and held the pistol at arm’s length an inch from her head. She followed the sound, turning her head, as if to look back over her shoulder.
‘The door,’ he said in his brittle voice. She took the bait, turning back instantly.
The gun jumped in his hand, thunked, and her head snapped forward. He held her hair in his other hand and pulled her head instantly back up. Thank. He lowered her across Halford’s body.
Burns laid the pistol beside the nylon cord, walked quickly out of the room, crossed the garden, and went out through the gate. He stripped off the gloves, wrapped them in the cotton swabbing and walked back down the alley towards the storm sewer.
A moment after the door clicked shut, two figures emerged from the shadows of the garden and entered the room.
Burns was the first passenger on the plane. He walked to the rear cabin, found a pillow, sat down, buckled his seat belt, and settled back. By the time the flight for Tokyo roared down the runway and eased into the night sky he was deep in an untroubled sleep.
Chapter Three
ATLANTA, 1975
The face was malevolent, its mouth wrinkled and shrivelled with age and frozen in an evil leer, its taunting eyes flickering feebly as they stared through the window of the pub. Outside a cold fall wind raced across the courtyard that separated the two-storey shopping mall from the mirrored skyscraper, sweeping leaves before it as it moaned through the open plaza. They skittered along the pavement, dancing past the grinning apparition and swirling away into darkness.
A few blocks away the chimes of the cathedral began tolling midnight, striking the last seconds of All-hallow Eve. Pursued by the clock, ghosts arid goblins, saints, sinners, black magicians, and lords of the underworld raced across the moon-mad sky, and fire-eyed birds darted to the safety of skeleton trees. The last chord sounded. The piazza was quiet. A blanket settled over the city. Devilment ended. Halloween was over.
But not quite.
Evil muses were still at play, concocting one last monstrous trick.
The door of the pub called Kerry’s Kalibash opened and a man in a scarred leather jacket stepped out into the chilly night air, carrying with him briefly the sounds of merriment, of laughter and music and ice rattling in glasses. The door shushed shut behind him. The man was tough- looking, with grey hair and dull eyes. He stood, shoulders hunched, and stared across the plaza at the twenty-storey building watching the blinking lights of a jet jog across the mirrored facade. It was a stunning structure, floor after floor of mirrored windows reflecting the distant skyline. The man turned as he stared up at the penthouse where lights glowed mutely.
He had followed the woman there. Somewhere in this building was the man he had wondered about, hated, for thirty years. As he watched, there was a movement in the shrubs near the pub behind him. He seemed hypnotized by the soaring building, by the kaleidoscope reflected in its face, by the bullet-shaped elevators that shot up and down the outside wall. A couple left the pub, laughing and wrapped in each other’s arms, and walked towards the parking lot.
The hidden figure froze against the wall. Son of a bitch, he thought, too open, too dangerous. Not neat and planned like Hong Kong. But it had to be done now.
The couple vanished into the parking lot. The figure moved again. He came straight towards the back of the man in the leather jacket. As he approached him he raised his left arm. He was holding a pistol with the ugly black cylinder of a silencer attached to the end of the barrel. The gun was only a few inches from the back of the man’s head when the gunman said softly: