Tidal Rage by David Evans (best big ereader .TXT) 📗

crew would defend the pilot as being a professional who would not dream of lighting up while on duty.

Only Sebastian knew the whole truth: that he had killed seven people because of a tenuous link, a throwaway comment from a fellow artist. Calling him the Grim Reaper had sealed their fates. There were seven people dead, and not one ounce of pleasure to be absorbed by Sebastian. He had an itch that he could not scratch, the irritation burning away at him day in and day out.

Providence took a hand; Sebastian was called up to the captain’s cabin. The cabin was not akin to the other crew cabins on the ship. It was more a suite enjoyed by the richest of guests.

“Sit please, Sebastian,” the captain said, while pointing out the leather chair which was somewhat lower and less luxurious than the one the captain sat upon, opposite him across the large mahogany desk.

“The past few weeks have not been easy for any of us. We have all suffered the loss of our shipmates. Unfortunately, Sebastian, I must compound the sense of loss with worse news. I am afraid I have had a word from our agents, they were notified of your mother’s passing yesterday. I believe she was only fifty-three so it will be a shock for you,” the solemn captain said.

Sebastian just sat there, not feeling any loss or sorrow, but aware that he should be doing something, showing some emotion in front of the captain. The problem was, Sebastian had never encountered these feeling in his life; he had no history of emotion to call on, and he continued to sit there.

“Shock. This must be quite a shock for you. You have my condolences. We have arranged a flight back to Seattle today for you. A tender will pull alongside the ship within the hour to take you to shore,” the captain informed Sebastian, as he stood and led him to the door of his cabin.

“Not a lot of time, you need to pack your gear,” directed the captain.

The flight from Genoa to Seattle was via Heathrow. In total, the trip had taken him twenty-seven hours, and Sebastian had slept for eight continuous hours on the cross-Atlantic stretch.

After visiting the family home in midtown and depositing his luggage, he took the keys to his mother’s small Toyota and headed for Scripps Mercy Hospital, where his mother had died.

Doctor Nicholas Remy, a large, robust character, confirmed Kim had died of cirrhosis of the liver, brought on by an infection of hepatitis B many years before when she was a child prostitute. Sebastian declined to see Kim’s cadaver; however, he identified her from a video feed from the mortuary displaying only the cold, hard face of death.

Once the formalities were out of the way, Sebastian steered the Toyota down Cabrillo Freeway and cut through onto University Avenue until he reached Morley Field dog park, which was slightly down from Balboa Parkand opposite the San Diego Zoo. He parked up on the lane behind the Balboa Tennis Club.

Sebastian walked the lane between the wooded areas that skirted the San Diego Velodrome, shielded by the incline of the ridge of a hill.

Considering the thousands of people visiting Balboa Park less than 500 yards away, and the zoo a little further across the street, the area was quiet and isolated. The day was clear, with blue skies overhead and a warm wind blowing off the Pacific.

Sebastian wore short-sleeved white shirt and lightweight, taupe-coloured trousers. Putting his hand into his pocket, he felt the switchblade. A little further ahead was an older woman walking a greyhound; she was not Sebastian’s type, he moved into the bushes to avoid face to face contact. A little further on, the only other dog walker in sight was a girl of no more than thirteen years of age.

Gwen had tightly curled, mouse-colored hair, which looked natural. She walked the dog each day as part of her routine to reduce her weight. Over the past year, she had lost over thirty pounds, and she was determined to lose even more. Gwen was not the ideal candidate for Sebastian, but she would suffice. The designer French bulldog was of no concern; at best it could take a nip out of his ankles.

Sebastian followed her for a short while and saw a deserted copse which would suffice. He quickened his step until he was a few yards behind the unsuspecting girl. It was the dog that noticed Sebastian first, and the dog could sense the danger in the man.

Gwen turned to Sebastian, startled, and the French Bulldog growled and barked.

“I’m sorry, mister. Mitsui isn’t normally like this,” Gwen said, as she bent down to stroke the forehead of the agitated dog.

Sebastian felt the knife and took a quick look around to see if he was clear.

“She’s protecting you, little girl,” Sebastian said, as he removed the knife, hidden in the palm of his left hand.

Sebastian turned on his heels and walked back towards his car. “Mission accomplished,” he thought.

Sebastian was satisfied. He had set up for the kill and he had been able to walk away; he had left her alive. He needed to gain control before the monster managed him. He would kill on his terms, in his time and for pleasure, not malice.

The killing of the seven crew members on the Classical Canta Libra had left him feeling uncontrolled, taking unnecessary risks, risks which would get him caught if he continued.

Sebastian visited the McDonald’s where his father had been killed, his mind wandered back two decades to his first kill, Geraldine Mills. He still got a buzz, as his mind dissected the deaths.

Once he had played through his fantasy and his coffee and fries had been consumed, he again reinforced himself about not taking risks, and how he had been uncontrolled and hot-headed.