Swimsuit - James Patterson [7]
Horst laughed, said, “That is the truth. She will never tell anyone.”
Jan put down his glass, then said with edgy impatience, “Horst, please roll back the video.”
On screen, Kim said again between sobs, “I’ll never tell anyone.”
“That’s good, Kim. Our secret, eh?”
Henri’s face was transformed by the plastic mask and his digitally altered voice, but his performance was strong and his audience was avid. Both men leaned forward in their chairs, watched as Henri stroked Kim, rubbed her back, and murmured to her until she stopped whimpering.
And then, as she seemed to go to sleep, he straddled her body, wrapping his hand in the young woman’s long, damp, yellow hair.
He lifted her head from the flat of the bed, pulling hard enough that Kim’s back arched, and the force of the pull made her cry out. Possibly she saw that he’d picked up a serrated knife with his right hand.
“Kim,” he said. “You’ll wake up soon. And if you ever remember this, it will seem like a bad dream.”
The beautiful young woman was surprisingly quiet as Henri made the first deep cut across the back of her neck. Then, as the pain caught up with her — hauled her violently out of her stupor — her eyelids flew open and a curdled scream erupted from her painted mouth. She wrenched her body as Henri sawed and cross-sawed through her muscles, and then the scream cut out, leaving an echo as Henri completely severed Kim’s head from her body in three long strokes.
Arterial blood spurted against the yellow walls, emptied onto the satin bedsheets, ran down the arm and loins of the naked man kneeling over the dead girl.
Henri’s smile was quite visible through the plastic mask as he held Kim’s head by her hair so that it swung gently as it faced the camera. A look of pure despair was still fixed on her beautiful face.
The killer’s digitized voice was eerie and mechanical, but Horst found it extremely satisfying.
“I hope everybody’s happy,” Henri said.
The camera held on Kim’s face for another long moment and then, although the audience wanted more, the screen went black.
Part Two
FLY BY NIGHT
Chapter 8
A MAN STOOD at the edge of a lava-rock seawall staring out at the dark water and at the clouds turning pink as dawn stormed Maui’s eastern shore.
His name was Henri Benoit, not his real name, but the name he was using now. He was in his thirties with medium-length blondish hair and light gray eyes, and he stood at about six feet tall in his bare feet. He was shoeless now, his toes half-buried in the sand.
His white linen shirt hung loosely over his gray cotton pants, and he watched the seabirds calling out as they skimmed the waves.
Henri thought those birdcalls could have been the opening notes of another flawless day in paradise. But before the day had even begun, it was down the crapper.
Henri turned away from the ocean and jammed his PDA into a trouser pocket. Then, as the wind at his back blew his shirt into a kind of spinnaker, he strode up the sloping lawn to his private bungalow.
He swung open the screened door, crossed the lanai and the pale hardwood floors to the kitchen, poured himself a cup of Kona java. Then out again to the lanai, where he sank down into the chaise beside the hot tub and settled in to think.
This place, the Hana Beach Hotel, was at the top of his A-list: exclusive, comfortable, no TV or even a telephone. Surrounded by a few thousand acres of rain forest, perched on the coast of the island, the unobtrusive cluster of buildings made a perfect haven for the very rich.
Being here gave a man a chance to relax fully, to be whoever he truly was, to realize his essence as a human.
The cell phone call from Europe had shot his relaxation all to hell. The conversation had been brief and essentially one-way. Horst had delivered both the good and bad news in a tone of voice that attacked Henri’s sense of free agency with the finesse of a shiv through a vital organ.
Horst had told Henri that the job he had done had been well received, but there were issues.
Had he