The Hunt (Mike Greystone, Book 1) (7 page)

13.

I woke up
very early the next morning and took a cab to my hotel. I had a quick shower and hurried to the airport to catch a plane back to Philadelphia. I remembered Martin had mentioned Lilith, the medium, was trying to get in touch with me.

Lilith was a very interesting character. She had quite unique skills. She could see events before they happened. She didn't always see the true events, and did make mistakes, but in general she was quite accurate. She’d tried to explain to me that the visions she had could come in two ways. One way was on demand, for instance when requested by somebody else. The other was unsolicited visions, when she just saw them without anybody having asked for it. She didn't always know where the unsolicited ones belonged, so she would normally ignore those. But when she had some clue and knew the person, she might contact them if she was in a good mood, which wasn't too often. Moreover, the visions, especially those on demand, were exhausting, putting a lot of strain on her physical and mental capacities, so she had to be careful not to overdo things. Lilith charged a lot for each consultation, a nice sum of up to a thousand dollars or more for a short session (although she didn't work every day), so her clients were on the rather wealthy end of the spectrum. They ranged from jealous husbands, suspicious wives, cunning politicians to shrewd business people, although the first two, husbands and wives, were the majority according to Lilith. She once said to me, “Mike, in this world, it's all about getting laid, as often as possible, with as many partners as possible, to perpetuate the species. It's not a fad, it's biology, there's nothing you can do about it.”

Lilith had a difficult childhood. She was raped by her stepfather from the age of four. Her step father was a celebrity and later it emerged she was not the only one. She did tell me some details, and those were terrifying. She endured a decade, but eventually took control of the situation; she slit her stepfather's throat and cut off his dick. In fact, she said she did it in reverse order as apparently he was quite vocal about the discomfort of losing this vital part, but Lilith didn't allow him to ponder this topic for too long. With the thing chopped off, she went to her mother, who knew about the abuse but was terrorized herself. She showed her the trophy and forced her to hush up the whole event. Even though her mother was in a way relieved about this development, she was also attached to her husband, or rather the few million-dollar estate she wanted to get from him. However, he was also a gambler, so the estate was worthless. Lilith's mother didn't yet know that at that time, and wanted to hush up the scandal, protecting the estate against any potential lawsuits that would follow, as she knew Lilith wasn't the only one who’d been abused. Consequently Lilith warned her mother that if she ever mentioned what happened to the police or anybody else, the same fate would await her, I suppose she meant the throat only, as her mother was unlikely to have a dick. As you see, she wasn't particularly emotionally attached to her mother, but as she didn't get any emotional support from her, or in fact any support during nearly a decade of abuse, you wouldn't really blame her. Lilith's mother was clever, and she called the police claiming she returned home and there was her husband dead, with a cut throat and his dick chopped off. Not knowing what to do with the penis, she shoved it into her husband's mouth, using plastic gloves so as not to leave fingerprints, the same as her daughter did. She thought that way the crime scene would look more dramatic. Obviously she didn’t tell the cops it was her who put the dick into her husband’s mouth. Lilith told me with the gaping hole of his mouth closed by insertion of the penis, the whole corpse was more balanced and esthetically pleasing. The crime was so outrageous, that nobody for even a moment suspected the wife or daughter of the deceased, even though the wife should be the obvious starting point of the investigation.

Whether the psychic skills she had were from birth, or whether she acquired them during her troubled childhood, I didn't know. What mattered was, her skills were very useful to me.

I liked Lilith, I must admit. She was good looking, had a slim body and long legs. Long, slightly curly auburn hair, and a pale complexion suited her professional image well. I think she actually enhanced the paleness with some makeup, but she didn't overdo it, so it still looked classy. She had a prominent nose, I think they called it Roman nose, but not too big. Under the proper lighting conditions at certain angles, her nose and eyes looked as if she was an eagle, although some would say rather like vulture. Anyway, the complete package was very good, and even despite her childhood and teenage history of sexual abuse, she’d managed to recover to some extent and she didn't shun sex at all. I did spend a night or two with her and liked it, no doubt. But I wouldn't treat it as a permanent relationship, rather as an ad-hoc event, as she had an inconvenient habit of trying to cut her sexual partners with a knife. She did cut me the first time, so the next time I was more careful. She said she just wanted to mark me with a tiny scratch, but I actually got a three-inch gash on my forearm. She said it made her feel more complete, although I struggled to understand how. Moreover, with her track record of chopping off dicks and slicing throats, I preferred to be safe rather than sorry, and had to be vigilant on those rare occasions that I slept with her. Which defeated the purpose really, as it was difficult to wind down that way (it was pleasant though).

I dialed Lilith’s number: "Hi Lilith."

"Hi Michael, I was expecting your call," she answered.

"How are you getting on, how are you keeping?"

"I can't complain, especially as I hope you're going to pay me a visit soon. We have a lot to catch up on," she said voluptuously.

"I might someday, although I met somebody interesting recently."

"Oh, that's sad, at least for me. Are you sad too?"

"Not really, in fact, I'm happy. Early days yet. But even apart from that, are you still so keen to cut off my manhood?"

"Don't be a girl Mike, I wasn't after your dick, I just wanted to mark my territory. Although the knife I used would come in handy for that purpose too."

"There you go," I said.

"Joking aside, when are you going to fuck me, please?" Lilith meant business.

"I'm in a sort of relationship, as I said."

"Knowing your social skills with women, I give you six months before she dumps you," Lilith laughed. "Then you'll come running to me."

"We'll see. Anyway, you have some information for me?" I felt uncomfortable with the way the conversation was progressing.

"Are you blushing, little boy?"

"I'm not! What did you want to tell me?"

"Okay, let's get serious. I saw the St. Brigid School shooting on the news. I feel you must be involved in it?"

"I am, how do you know? I didn't advertise it," I was surprised.

"I just know, you know."

"Right, I’m trying to track down the gunman."

"I may be able to help."

"I'm listening, go ahead," I encouraged her to get to the point.

"I had a vision, although that's not the right term, as what I experience is a mix of sight, sound, feelings, and thoughts. The vision was related to your job. You have to figure out where this is, but it was about a house in the suburbs being blown up by a bomb or something. Inside were two children and their mother. I didn’t see their father. What was strange, was the kids seemed not to be really there, but in some other place with lots of beds. I could see them next to their mother, but not necessarily in the house. Their mother was in the house for sure, and was dressed in black, and I could feel a lot of pain and sorrow. Maybe she was a widow? Does that tell you anything?" Lilith finished.

I was silent for a brief moment.

"It does," I said. It must be Lauren Wimbledon. I knew she might be in danger. "Any more detail? When is it going to happen?"

"I don't know when, it could be an hour, it could be a week, it could be a month. It could be never."

"Thanks Lilith, that's very useful. I have to hang up now and check it out."

"No problem. For you, anything. Just remember to send the usual amount in an envelope," she concluded and added: "And remember, when your current lady dumps you, I'm here for you. Don't be shy, my boy," I heard her laughing.

"Sure, thanks," I finished the conversation.

Without delay, I called Dr. Jane Lockerby.

"Hi Jane, where are the Wimbledons, are they at the hospital?"

"Hi Mike, what’s happened? You seem very serious. The kids are here at the hospital. Lauren went back home."

"She might be in danger. What's her address? I need to get to her asap."

She gave me the address.

I dialed Martin's number: "Martin, I have to stay in Pittsburgh for a few more hours. I called Lilith and she saw the Wimbledons’ house being blow up. I have to pick her up and take her to the hospital, where she'll have police protection. Have you arranged that yet?"

"Yes, the cops should be at the hospital within two hours."

"Good, can you reschedule my flight for later today?"

"Sure."

"Thanks," I finished.

Squirrel Hill was a nice, leafy residential area. Wilkins Avenue was a very long street, cutting across Squirrel Hill diagonally and horizontally. I asked the cab-driver to stop a few houses before the Wimbledons’, paid him, asked him to wait, and briskly continued on foot. I scanned the area, it seemed quiet, no unusual individuals or cars. I knew this guy Ron Morgenthal was probably smart enough to realize that Lauren may get police protection, so he'd prefer to act fast. I just hoped it wasn't too late. It seemed too quiet for my liking.

I walked onto the property and approached the house. I knocked on the door and went along the porch to inspect the front of the house while waiting for Lauren. Then I noticed the explosives in a shaded area under the porch by the stairs. The self-timer showed “32 seconds.” "Fuck," I said and ran to the door. I kicked the door open, entered and shouted. "Lauren, it's Mike, there's a bomb, where are you?" I heard some music in the kitchen so I hurried there and saw Mrs. Wimbledon with an expression of surprise on her face.

I shouted: "Bomb, run!" and dragged her outside to the garden, as I’d noticed a sturdy brick garden shed in the far corner.

The explosion was massive, a hot wave swept thought the garden, splinters and masonry were flying all over the place. We were behind the shed. Its front wall caved in and the roof collapsed. But it held, and as it was quite far from the house, we were unscathed.

The Wimbledons’ house had ceased to exist. Lauren had had a narrow escape and was shaking with shock. The only words she managed to utter were: "Thank you Michael, you saved my life."

I took her to the hospital. The police were already there to keep an eye on her.

A little while later.

"Oh my god, Mike, what happened?" Dr. Jane asked anxiously.

"The gunman from the St Brigid School shooting wanted to finish off what he left unfinished. He planted a bomb in the Wimbledons’ house."

Jane couldn’t utter a word for a while.

"I'm so happy that you’re all right."

"I'm all right, but Lauren had a narrow escape," I answered.

"How did you know he would make an attempt on her life?"

"I have my sources," I said, I didn't mention it was a medium. That would cause more questions than necessary. "Besides, it was quite obvious. He didn't get her the first time, and didn't want to let it go."

"Poor girl, at least the police are here to protect her."

"She’ll probably need a shrink on top of that as well."

"Mike, you have no sympathy whatsoever."

"Just the opposite, I mean I wanted to pay for a few sessions with a psychologist, same as for her children."

"That's a different story now, but it didn't sound that way when you said ‘shrink.’ Have you ever heard about 'tact' in the context of human relationships? I’m not surprised you haven’t always had plain sailing with women." Dr. Jane added sarcastically.

Not knowing what to answer, I just said "She’s been through a lot recently, especially the bomb. Professional treatment would help her to deal with the mental stress."

"Now you're talking."

I stayed at the hospital for another hour or so, and eventually departed from Pittsburgh heading home.

14.

Back in Philadelphia
.

On the way home, I dialed Martin's number. "Hi Martin, I'm back home, can you arrange a meeting with Mr. Zhao for me?"

"Sure, no problem," Martin said. "You'd better bring a nice gift for him. He's quite particular in that respect."

"Do we have any of the whiskey that we got from Dermot left?"

"He doesn't drink that much I think. He's Asian, many Asian people suffer from so-called 'Asian Flush.' They can't process alcohol efficiently. I don't think whiskey is a good present for him."

"Really, I didn't know about that," I was surprised.

"That's why you pay me well to know these things. Can I have a pay rise please?" Martin joked. "And I'm not joking, by the way," he joked again.

"Jokes aside," I wasn’t joking, "let's discuss it some other time, okay?"

"Okay, back on the topic of Mr. Zhao then. You need something unusual or expensive. He has sophisticated taste. And he’s a connoisseur sadist."

"I suppose a vice for torture and a gold bar would appeal to both of his tastes," I jested.

"Well, a gold bar would be expensive, but not sophisticated."

"Do we have any nice toys in our interrogation room?"

"Sure, we can find something adequate."

"How about the nice cute contraption that looks like a big glove, the one that sticks needles into the tender flesh under the fingernails?"

"Yeah, I remember that one, it's actually quite strong and well built. It’s ancient, but looks classy, if you know what I mean. Like the Patek Philippe of torturing devices. I think he should like it," Martin said.

"And it was quite efficient too, I must admit, the subject we used it on was quite vocal and revealed all we needed quite quickly. Mr. Zhao should like that."

"All set then, let me schedule the meeting. Anything else?" Martin asked finishing the conversation.

"That's it, thanks."

Martin arranged the meeting for later that evening. I drove to Mr. Zhao's house. He lived in a massive mansion, built with modern materials incorporating quite a lot of elements from traditional Chinese architecture. Not that I knew what traditional Chinese architectural elements were. There was quite a lot of wood in his house, nice. It looked like a reasonably healthy environment. Although the people that occasionally died in the house wouldn't agree it was a healthy environment.

I was ushered into the reception room.

Mr. Zhao wasn't very tall, but looked fit, athletic and reasonably good-looking. I’d heard he was quite good at martial arts. I’d also heard he was quite traditional, so I was expecting some traditional attire, but he was wearing just a regular suit. Mr. Zhao controlled, directly or indirectly, the North East and North East Central, with the tentacles of his crime empire spreading to the northern parts of the South Atlantic and South East Central. Martin had explained to me it was more complex than that, but in any event Mr. Zhao was the man to talk to.

"Good evening Mr. Greystone," he greeted me.

"Good evening Mr. Zhao," I answered.

"Oh, I see you finally learned which is my given name and which is my surname," Mr. Zhao said with a grain of sarcasm.

"That was an unforgivable error, sorry about that."

"Bygones."

"I have a gift for you, Mr. Zhao," I handed him the parcel.

"Oh, how nice." he opened the parcel. "What is this?"

"It's a portable interrogation device," I explained. "No electronics, no wifi, no funky gimmicks, just well-proven, traditional, mechanical operation."

"I think I like it."

"What's more, anything you glean from the subject in this way is much more ethical than using, say, vulgar electricity, or a blow torch or something. It's like eating organic food, pure and unadulterated, if you know what I mean."

"I like you, Mr. Greystone, I like you."

"Thank you, Mr. Zhao."

"It’s a great coincidence. A shipment of cocaine went missing last week, and I have a suspect. He's a tough cookie, so I'd love to try out this new toy, if you don't mind. Would you accompany me?"

"Sure, I'd love to," I said even though I wasn’t a big fan of torturing people. I did value this interrogation technique for what it was, but I wouldn't do it as a hobby, as Zhao seemed to like to.

We went downstairs to the underground bunker, guarded by armed goons and a biometric access system.

Some poor chap was chained to the chair. There was a bit of blood around his nose, but the interrogation must have barely begun.

"Let's put this machine on," ordered Mr. Zhao. His voice had lost all its previous sweetness and courtesy, but had gained a note of enthusiasm. In hindsight he looked like a young boy who had got a new toy.

You couldn’t imagine the screams. The whole vault reverberated with mad howls, as if they were skinning a live animal. If you’d ever been cutting your nails and cut yourself slightly into the flesh beneath the finger nails, you would know what kind of pain it was. That was just a prelude. Now multiply it by a hundred, as the needle went in deep, down to the very bone. The guy was indeed a tough cookie. He lasted nearly five minutes before he started singing. The one I once interrogated managed only two minutes or so. Mr. Zhao was beaming. The new toy was certainly pleasing to him.

"You are a master interrogator, Mr. Zhao," I flattered him.

"Thank you Mr. Greystone, it's a pleasure to be in the presence of a person who can appreciate the art of making people talk. The art of conversation is long lost in this society," Mr. Zhao had recovered his poise and polite voice. "I love talking. I love interacting with people."

"I don't often resort to torture, my operations are far smaller than yours and have slightly different focus, but I admit it's a very valuable tool when used properly, especially by a virtuoso like you."

"You are so discerning, Mr. Greystone. I appreciate that. Let's have some tea and then we’ll talk business," Mr. Zhao suggested.

We went back to the living area. Calling it a living room wouldn't do it enough credit. We sat on low-cushioned benches, nearly on the floor, in front of a small square table. Two ladies brought in trays with ceramic containers, something between a mug and a bowl. One with hot water, the other empty. And loose tea leaves on something resembling a saucer.

"In China, we call it 'the Way of Tea.' This is not just drinking tea, this is a way, it goes from somewhere, to somewhere. But it doesn't matter from where, or to where. The way itself is the most important thing, not the destination, if I got the theory right," he said and took some leaves, put them into the bowl, and poured in hot water. "The water should not be boiling, that kills the taste and spirit of the tea."

I followed exactly what he did to prepare my tea.

He continued: "And don't hurry, this is a way, this is not about a point in time. This is about the journey. Also, it's a way of meditating, you don't rush meditation. Let's close our eyes and breathe deeply, to appreciate the spirit of the tea even more," he said while he closed his eyes and started counting: "Breathe in, one, two, three and four. Pause. Breathe out, one, two, three and four. Pause."

Willy-nilly, I closed my eyes, well, nearly, it wouldn’t be safe to close my eyes fully, and started breathing deeply. One, two, three, four. Pause, and back again. Well, it felt kind of nice after a few rounds.

"The tea is ready," Mr. Zhao declared. "Let's enjoy it." He started drinking from his cup.

I tasted my tea. It was strong and bitter, probably some kind of green tea. Apparently full of antioxidants and things like this, but you must really like it to enjoy it. Not my cup of tea, really. "Lovely tea, it's been a long time since I drank something this good." I lied not to offend my host.

"Thank you Mr. Greystone, I knew you'd love it. Only a real connoisseur can appreciate the rich and unforgettable taste of real green tea. I am full of admiration for you," Mr. Zhao said. It was an unforgettable taste no doubt, I thought to myself, I’d have to get rid of it with a lot of bourbon. Mr. Zhao continued: "What can I do for you, Mr. Greystone?"

"I need to find a person. I'm looking for the guy who did the shooting at St. Brigid School a few days ago."

"Is it a private or public assignment?"

"Public, so to say."

"I can imagine the government want to get him badly."

"You know, Mr. Zhao, how it works, it's not strictly government, as the department I work for doesn't officially exist. And yes, in effect the government want to catch him."

"When I heard about it, I asked my guys if it was one of my people. It wasn't anybody from my organization, you can be sure of that."

"When interviewing witnesses, I came across the name of Ron Morgenthal as a potential suspect. Have you heard of him?"

He thought for a while. "No, I haven't heard of him. I'll ask around and will let you know as soon as I find out something."

"Thank you."

I finished my tea. In fact, Mr. Zhao ordered a second round. Willy nilly I had to drink another cup. A double bourbon to wash it off later.

I got up and said good bye: "Thank you Mr. Zhao for your help and hospitality."

"No problem, and thanks for the lovely gift. Much appreciated. Rest assured it won't be sitting idle. I'll find plenty of use for it. In fact, I normally have an interrogation or two a day. Oh, such a busy life."

"Thank you Mr. Zhao and good bye," I said leaving.

"Good bye Mr. Greystone. I hope to have some information for you shortly."

I left Mr. Zhao's headquarters. Not much gained today, a waste of time to be honest. But at least one blind alley was closed off. Besides, Mr. Zhao could be a prospective client.