Dead Men's Dust

by Matt Hilton

  The clock on the wall had to be telling lies. Not too late, though, I decided. Hector and Paris ran out into the backyard. I followed them, pulling out my cell phone. Four years on, I still had Diane’s number on speed dial.

  “Hello?”

  “Hi, Simon,” I said, concealing any trace of jealousy. “Can I speak to Diane?”

  Diane’s very safe, office-bound husband grunted, muttered something unintelligible, but handed over the phone.

  “What do you want, Joe?”

  “I’m going away,” I told her.

  There was a momentary hitch in her voice. “So why are you telling me?”

  “Thought you might want to wave me off at the airport.”

  I heard her sigh. “I already did that. Too many times.”

  It was my turn to sigh.

  “Can you take the dogs for me for a few days?”

  “Simon has allergies,” she said.

  “Shit,” I said. “Isn’t it a good job we never had kids?”

  Her silence said everything.

  “I’m sorry, Diane. I shouldn’t have said that.”

  “No, Joe. You shouldn’t have.” In the background, Simon was whispering something. “Simon said we can take them, but they’ll have to stay in the shed.”

  My dogs were gamboling around the yard, play fighting among the rhododendrons. Full of life.

  “So long as they’re exercised they’ll be fine,” I said.

  “Okay, then.”

  “I’ll drop them off in the morning,” I said.

  “No,” Diane said, way too quickly for my liking. “I’ll come there with Simon.”

  Then she hung up.

  With the dogs sorted, I returned indoors, settled into an armchair, and dialed a number in Tampa, Florida.

  “Hey, Hunter, what’s up?”

  Jared Rington’s voice is a rich southern drawl that always reminds me of that guitar-playing wedding suitor in the John Wayne movie The Searchers. He has the honky-tonk twang of a country-and-western singer, which always surprises people; it’s a strange anomaly coming from a mixed parentage of Japanese mother and Scottish father.

  “You busy with anything, Rink?”

  “Got my heel planted on a weasel as we speak,” Rink said.

  “I take it you’re speaking metaphorically?”

  “Uh-huh,” Rink said. “I just gotta finish up a little one-on-one business with my client, then I’m all yours.”

  “So what’s the deal? Anything exciting?”

  “Nothing startling. Guy paid me to do a little eyeball on his wife. He grew suspicious when she started doing too much overtime at work. Thought she could be playin’ away from home.”

  “Maybe she was just after more money,” I offered.

  “Yeah, you might say she was after a raise.” Rink chuckled. “I got the goods on her last night. Filmed her giving head to her boss in the back of his limousine.”

  “So you just have to hand over the evidence and that’s you finished?” I asked.

  “More or less, yeah. Anyways, what’s up?” Rink asked. “You haven’t rung for the sake of idle chitchat. That’s not the Joe Hunter I know and love.”

  “I’ve got a job for you…if you’re interested?”

  “Uh-huh.” It could’ve been agreement, but more likely he was waiting for more.

  “Could be a long story,” I told him.

  “Fire away, it’s your dime.”

  It was so still I could have been in a mausoleum. But habit caused a quick over-the-shoulder glance to make sure I was alone.

  “I’m going to be coming out there,” I told him.

  “Out here? As in Florida?”

  “Well, yeah, I was thinking of stopping over a day or so, but then I have to get myself to Little Rock, Arkansas.”

  “My old stomping ground?”

  “It’s why you’re the man for the job.”

  “You think I’m a tour guide all of a sudden? Get yourself a map.” Good-natured sarcasm was rich in his drawl. How anyone could dislike Rink is a mystery. What’s not to like about a sarcastic curmudgeon?

  “Local knowledge is half the battle,” I told him.

  “I ain’t been home in eight years, Hunter. Don’t know how up to date my local knowledge’ll be.”

  “How much can Arkansas have changed in eight years?” I asked. “It’s not like it’s the center of American culture.”

  “Yeah, but it’s not like it’s simply rednecks in pickup trucks, either,” Rink said, sounding exactly like a redneck in a pickup truck. “They’re as cultured as anyplace else, Hunter. They know the difference between Paris, France, and Paris Hilton.”

  “It’ll do you good to get yourself back there, then.”

  Rink chuckled. “So what’s the deal?”

  “Missing person,” I said.

  “That all? I thought it was going to be something exciting.”

  “There’s more. The missing person is my brother.”

  “You mean John?”

  “Yeah. He’s finally surfaced, only to drop off the face of the earth again.” I gripped the phone tight. “I’m worried, Rink.”

  “You know what guys are like. He’s probably gotten himself drunk, picked up a coupla hookers, an’ is holed up in a motel someplace,” Rink said. “Give him a day or two an’ he’ll be home with his tail between his legs.”

  “Maybe,” I agreed. “And with John it wouldn’t be the first time.”

  “You guys had a big falling out. Why you lookin’ for him now?”

  “He’s in trouble,” I said.

  “Always was.”

  “I’m not doing this for him,” I lied. “My sister-in-law asked me to find him. I promised her I would.”

  “Figures.” Seems like Diane wasn’t the only one who could read me from a thousand paces. Rink asked, “So is he skipping out on the alimony?”

  “He has for years,” I said. “But that’s not what this is about. Yeah, there’re kids involved, but it all goes a lot deeper than that.”

  “Pray tell,” Rink said. It sounded like a car engine burst into life, the sound only slightly muffled by the intervening thousands of miles.

  “You driving, Rink?”

  “Just setting off. But you can keep on talking; I got a twenty-minute drive. Just ignore me if my language gets foul, but the I-75’s a bitch even at this hour.”

  Rink maneuvered his Porsche through the Florida traffic. My runin with Shank and his goons was just another war story to us. The creative use of a seat belt as a noose won me kudos. So did the fact that two major assholes would be walking with crutches for a while.

  I got around to the note from John’s current girlfriend and the plea made by Jennifer. My promise to help.

  “You always were a soft touch, Hunter,” Rink said. “Never could turn down a damsel in distress.”

  “She’s also my sister-in-law,” I reminded him.

  “Sister nothing. If you’d never met her before, you’d still be coming out here.”

  “Now you’re starting to sound like Diane,” I said.

  “Your lady was right in a lot of respects,” he pointed out.

  “Even Diane would understand this time. It is my brother we’re talking about.”

  “No argument from me, Hunter.”

  Even if I didn’t crave the kind of action that keeps me alive, I couldn’t turn my back on my brother. For all that the last time we spoke, I threatened to punch his face.

  “You’ve missed him, huh?”

  “Like a hole in the head.”

  It was a good place to lighten the conversation. “So how’s the Sunshine State?”

  “A contradiction in terms, my man. Rain’s coming down in torrents. Third day in a row. They sure don’t show that on no ‘Come to sunny Florida’ TV ads, do they?”

  “I’ll pack for the weather, Rink. But can you set me up with the necessaries?” Mentioning a key word—particularly gun—over the telephone is never a good idea. Especial
ly since 9/11. Conspiracy theories aside, all kinds of enigmatic government establishments known for their acronyms are tapping phones for just such words. I know. I’ve been there. Last thing I wanted was to land in Florida, then get a one-way trip to Guantánamo Bay.

  Rink said, “Leave it to me. You want I get you a couple of day passes to Universal Studios?”

  “Best you do. Hopefully I’ll have a little time for sightseeing; I don’t want to be wasting time queuing.” More code. Universal was a cipher. It meant the entire package: passport, Social Security number, driving documents, credit cards, the business.

  “Sounds like we could be in for some fun, Hunter.”

  “Fun isn’t the half of it,” I said.

  6

  TUBAL CAIN WAS IN HIS ELEMENT. DRIVING A FLASHY CAR IN the dark with the highway all to himself.

  Interstate 10 was one of his all-time favorite places, stretching all the way from Jacksonville, Florida, in the east to Santa Monica, California, in the west. A transcontinental artery with no less than three of the largest cities in the United States straddling its route. Houston, Phoenix, and Los Angeles were all ground he knew. But what appealed to him more than the cities was the transcontinental highway itself. It was a popular backpacking avenue across the states. Throughout its length there wasn’t that great an elevation change, and even in winter the daytime temperatures were generally warm. He could almost guarantee a year-long stock of wandering lambs.

  George and Mabel—or whatever they were really called—were good examples of what could be achieved by one as enterprising as himself. Okay, he’d only gained a couple of thumbs for his collection, but consolation was his in the form of the scorched motor home he’d left behind.

  He’d spent some time in all the major tourist centers along the way, sampling the atmosphere of each before moving on. He’d thoroughly enjoyed the vibrancy of New Orleans, the Cajun flamboyancy of Lafayette, the history of San Antonio, where he’d used his Bowie knife in tribute to Colonel James Bowie, who’d met his death there. He’d sampled the culture, the music, and the southwest flavor of Tucson while hunting students in its universities. Forging westward to Santa Monica, he’d found easy pickings amid the crowds jiggling for elbow space on the world-famous pier.

  Then there was Los Angeles itself, his current destination. A city he found best suited his way of life, where he could ply his trade and fear little consequence. What with all the gangs shooting and hacking each other up, his two previous victims gleaned from South Central L.A. had barely raised more than an eyebrow.

  His return was overdue. He intended executing a series of atrocities that would force even the jaundiced eyes of the LAPD to take note. If he could achieve that, then he would be cementing the foundations of his notoriety.

  But that didn’t mean a little fun along the way wasn’t allowed.

  Arriving in L.A. a few hours later than originally planned was no time at all to quibble over. Not for one whose name was destined to last an eternity.

  He flicked on the turn signal, politely showing his intention to pull onto the wide shoulder, even though there was no traffic behind him. Politeness was a virtue Tubal Cain believed he held in abundance. The man waving for assistance by the side of the road would never guess that such a gracious driver could be so dangerous.

  “Boy, is this your lucky day,” Cain said. The wing mirror made a fine TV screen for the man jogging up to his SUV. Road Runner kicking up a plume of trail dust as he charged into Wile E. Coyote’s trap.

  Cain noted the possibility of trouble. Though harassed and worn down by the attempt to resurrect a dead engine, the man appeared moderately young and fit. Might put up a bit of a fight if not taken carefully, he concluded. Best not to give the game away. Quickly he concealed his knives under the passenger seat. He stepped out, tasting the silicone tang of the desert.

  Cain wasn’t the only one acting here. Conscious that few people would even stop to pick up hitchhikers, the man was careful to show that he was harmless. His gait was amiable, boyish, friendly. As fake as Tubal Cain’s smile.

  “Having a little trouble, mister?” Cain asked.

  “Yeah, car’s broken down and I can’t get it going again.” Pushing an oil-smeared palm down a trouser leg gave him the look of a bumbler, but to Cain the act seemed premeditated. His offer of a hand was no more believable.

  “You’re not from around here, are you?” said Cain. “Here on vacation?”

  The stranded driver shook his head. “It’s been no vacation, believe me.”

  Cain studied the man’s eyes. Beyond deliberate innocence, a certain amount of deceit shone through. He was hiding something, but that was all right. Everyone had something to hide.

  “Not the best of places to break down,” Cain noted. The Mojave nightscape demanded their attention. “Pretty barren.”

  Nothing much more than sand and gravel and sparse vegetation, offering neither shade nor protection from the extremes of the weather, surrounded them.

  Concealment of a crime could be difficult here.

  “No place is a good place to break down, mister,” the man said, “but you’re right about this desert. I’m only happy that it’s nighttime and I’m not stranded in a hundred degrees plus.”

  “Yeah, things do get warm around here when the sun’s up. It’s a bitch having to walk any distance, believe me.”

  “Oh, I believe you,” the driver said. He nodded toward the SUV. “I bet that beauty’s reliable.”

  “Has been for as long as I’ve had it,” Cain agreed. That he’d only had it for eighteen hours was academic. “You want me to take a look at your car for you? I know a thing or two about engines.”

  A shake of the head toward his abandoned vehicle. With its hood raised to the star-filled heavens, it looked like a lizard attempting to swallow the distant moon. “It’s done. Blown a cylinder, I think.”

  “Let’s take a look.” Cain brushed past. Shoulders touched briefly. There was strength hidden beneath the man’s denim shirt. Reasonably young, fit, and apparently strong. Could be trouble. Cain slipped his hand inside his sports jacket, caressing the hilt of the scaling knife.

  “There’s really no need,” the man said. “A lift out of here’ll be fine.”

  Cain turned around slowly. Was that a demand? Am I supposed to be obliged? “Let me take a look at the car first. If I can’t get it going, then fine, I’ll give you a ride.”

  “You’re wasting your time.” The man shifted his hands to his hips, inclined his chin at the broken-down vehicle. “Piece of crap won’t be going anywhere.”

  “Let me take a look,” Cain said again.

  “Suit yourself…but it won’t go,” the driver said. Subtle words concealing an equally subtle action. His scratch at an itch on his side wasn’t as mechanical as it seemed.

  “I insist,” said Cain.

  Practice makes perfect. Cain had practiced this maneuver a thousand times. He pulled the blade free of his pocket, held it braced along his wrist, took a quick step forward…

  And met the barrel of a semiautomatic pistol aimed directly at his face.

  A short laugh broke unbidden from his throat. It was neither shock nor fear. His laughter was self-deprecating. Looked like a little more practice could be in order. Not least, the resheathing of his knife. Hidden from the man’s view, he slipped the blade into an outer pocket of his jacket.

  “No,” the man said. “I insist.”

  Cain shook his head sadly. “You know, I can’t believe you’ve gone and pulled a gun on me, when all I want to do is help.”

  “I appreciate your concern, mister, but I don’t need your help. All I need is your car.” A jerk of the gun was an invitation for a walk in the desert.

  Casting his eye over the terrain, Cain saw a deep arroyo. It was steep-sided, the bottom choked with rocks and stunted sagebrush. A good place to hide a crime after all.

  “So…you’re going to shoot me?”

  The driver sucked air throu
gh his teeth.

  “You’re going to put me down in that hole for the coyotes to find?” Cain shrugged his shoulders. It wasn’t as if he hadn’t done the very same thing to many others.

  “I’ll only shoot you if I have to,” said the driver.

  Was that so? BIG MISTAKE. Rule one: Never show weakness to your enemy.

  “You’re no killer.”

  “I will be a killer if I have to be,” the man said. The new edge to his voice held a tremor. Fear or anticipation—either could cause a nervous man to pull the trigger. “Climb down in that ditch and kneel down. I’m warning you, mister, if you don’t do as I say, I will use this gun.”

  Cain lifted his hands in supplication.

  “Come on, man. You can’t do this to a Good Samaritan.”

  “I can and I will.” The man jerked the gun again. “Get moving. Down in the ditch.”

  “I’m not dressed for climbing.”

  “Well, jump.”

  Cain started toward the arroyo. “You think you could let me get something from my car? You’re going to leave me out here in the middle of nowhere; at least let me get a bottle of water.”

  “In the ditch.”

  “It’s called an arroyo.”

  “Well, get in the damn arroyo. If you don’t, I’ll put a bullet in your head and then throw you the hell in.”

  Cain shook his head again. No urgency to his tread. “Easy now, I’m going.”

  The man watched him clamber down the embankment. Cain turned and peered up at him. His face was a spectral gray in the starlight. A blob of silver that would prove an easy target for a gunman. “Turn around and face away from me, kneel down, and put your hands on your head.”

  “Why the amateur dramatics?” Cain asked. “You’re going to take my car. There’s no way I can climb out and stop you, so why do you want me to kneel down?”

  “Because I said so,” the man answered.

  “It’s going to ruin a perfectly good pair of slacks,” Cain said in a singsong voice, choirboy sweet. He turned and knelt in the gravel as though at a pew.