Dead Men's Dust

by Matt Hilton

  If he’d let it lie at that, I don’t know where the hunt would’ve taken us next. As it was, like many self-righteous punks, he loved the sound of his own voice too much. “And tell him my car had better have a full tank of gas when he drops it off.”

  I stepped back into the opening. What a difference a couple of seconds had made. Tough guys all, the goons in the ring were already fighting their way past one of the dogs in an effort to get out. To win face with their boss, and without exception, they offered to chase us down. Petoskey and the other two suits had moved toward them, and Siggy wasn’t a happy puppy.

  My SIG rapped a sharp command, shattering the light fixture above their heads.

  Did you ever play the children’s game called Statues? You stand with your back to an advancing group, you turn around sharply, and the group has to become petrified in place, as though under a gorgon’s stare. Anyone who moves is out of the game. Well, that’s what it felt like then.

  My gun was now a useless threat, but I aimed it anyway.

  “Telfer took one of your cars?” I demanded.

  “Yes,” Petoskey snapped. “If you’d taken the time to read your friends’ reports you would already know that.”

  “Must’ve missed it,” I said. “What car are we talking about?”

  “Read the damn report,” Petoskey said.

  I took three steps, my anger level rising with each one. Grabbing Petoskey by his lapels, I jammed the SIG under his chin with my other hand.

  Petoskey’s eyes went wide. That a government agent would actually have the balls to shoot him with all these witnesses standing around was now a definite possibility. Maybe I should have shot him. Undoubtedly, the world would’ve been a better place with one less scumbag in it.

  “Just tell me what damn car you’re talking about or I swear to God I’ll kill you,” I said.

  “Pontiac,” Petoskey snapped. “It’s a goddamn Pontiac. Okay?”

  “Write down the license number,” I ordered.

  “I haven’t got a pen,” Petoskey said.

  “Find one.” I pushed him away from me. Petoskey’s face was scarlet. He actually stepped back toward me.

  “Here,” one of the other suits said quickly, pulling an expensive-looking gold-plated pen from a jacket pocket. Petoskey snatched it out of his hand, then glanced around looking for paper. Again the suit came to the rescue, tearing a page from an equally expensive pocket diary. Petoskey quickly scribbled down a number, then thrust it at me.

  “Satisfied?” he asked.

  I snatched the paper out of his hand.

  “Thank you,” I said.

  “You’re welcome,” Petoskey said. Not that I believed him. My spite was reflected by his bilious glare. We were rival wolves meeting on a forest trail. We edged backward, neither wanting to be seen to be giving ground, but each recognizing the prudence of doing so.

  Rink was at my shoulder. He made a cautious noise in the back of his throat, Rinkese for “We’ve outstayed our welcome, Hunter.” How could I possibly disagree? It was definitely time to leave if the clamor of reinforcements charging up the far staircase was anything to go by.

  We played it cool as we stepped through the hole in the wall. Then we ran like hell.

  19

  MR. SO-CALLED-AMBROSE WASN’T A NAME THAT CAME EASILY to the lips, so Cain decided he’d refer to him simply as thief. It was all he was, and he didn’t deserve to be called anything else. Thief, thief, thief.

  Names always fascinated Cain. To be named is the achievement of recognition, and he wasn’t about to give Ambrose the honor. He was nothing in Cain’s estimation. Just a bum. Below contempt. Nothing but a sneaking thief.

  The thief was back in his room now. Probably wondering what to do about the flat tire. There was a spare bolted to the rear of the vehicle, but the thief appeared to be the type of man too easily defeated when it came to mechanical contrivance. He was both inept with a lug wrench and too damn lazy to use it. The latter was probably the overriding factor. Why go to the trouble of changing a defective tire when he could go steal himself another car?

  Evening was fully upon the hotel now. Way out over the ocean the stars were pale glimmers on a velvet backdrop. Here, the light cast through tinted lenses onto the hotel facade was mint green and coral pink. A cornucopia of shadows jittered and danced as a faint breeze stirred the foliage.

  Cain watched as the rosy-cheeked receptionist finished her shift, wandered out into the parking lot, and drove off in an imported Ford Ka. He was tempted to follow her, to act out the fantasy that had been playing through his mind these past hours. In the end, he let her go. Weighed against the risk of losing sight of the thief, it wasn’t worth it. Other opportunities would arise to invite the girl back to his special place.

  Cain opened the car door and stepped out onto asphalt. The air still held the heat of the day. He shrugged out of his jacket, pulled off his tie, and unbuttoned his collar. Jacket and tie went in the trunk of the car.

  He wandered around the side of the building to the garden area, savoring the scent of jasmine only slightly tainted by exhaust fumes from the highway. The pool rippled under fluorescent lighting, a vibrant blue that was now unsullied by the bobbing forms of overfed children and grandmothers floating on inflatable beds.

  He sauntered over to the foot of the stairs.

  Act furtively and you’re done for—another pearl of wisdom from his killer’s rule book. Cain mounted the stairs as if he had the right to be there. He took two steps at a time, almost bounding up to the first landing. He slowed slightly as he climbed to the next floor, tilting his face down. The thief could be on his way down, and he didn’t want to be recognized before he could engineer a proper reunion.

  At the top of the stairs he turned slowly to the left, surveying the scene. Then, happy that no one was approaching, he walked along the terrace toward the door of the thief’s room. His rubber-soled shoes squeaked on the terra-cotta tiles. He stooped down and pulled them off.

  The thief’s room was at the corner of the building, and the terrace terminated just to the left of the door. If the thief happened to come out now, Cain would have nowhere to hide. Immediate action wouldn’t be as satisfying as the drawn-out torment he had in mind, but there would be nothing else he could do.

  At the door, he bent down and placed his shoes on the floor. Minuscule drifts of sand abutted the wall next to the door, blown there on the wind, or maybe the remnants of someone walking on the beach and carrying proof of their labor back with them.

  “This rule is the one that takes priority above all others, thief,” he whispered. “Be mindful of Locard’s principle.” That precept of forensic science held that a person left behind a small part of himself wherever he went, be it hair, saliva, semen, skin cells, clothing fibers, or soil or plant matter transported on the soles of shoes or in the folds of clothing. The list was endless. And included fingerprints.

  From a trouser pocket, Cain pulled out a roll of plastic bags and some rubber bands. Cocking an ear toward the door so its opening wouldn’t surprise him, he stooped down and pulled a plastic bag over each foot, stuffed the cuffs of his trousers inside, then sealed them with the rubber bands. That done, he repeated the process with his hands.

  The bags were spacious and flopped at the ends of his fingertips like translucent flippers. He looked ludicrous but didn’t care. The last thing the thief would think of when folds of flesh were being stripped from his body was Cain’s diabolical fashion sense.

  Lastly, he pulled a cloth bag from his pocket. He’d prepared eyeholes earlier, burning them into the white cloth with the cigarette lighter from the Oldsmobile. The mask made him think of the KKK. Not that he was a racist. He wasn’t. Regardless of race, creed, or color, he hated everyone with equal passion.

  Low and away from the balcony’s edge, he slipped the bag over his head before standing up and facing the door. The eyeholes took away a little of his peripheral vision, but that was okay. He had a single in
tent and would be going forward from now on.

  Readiness for the long-anticipated reunion required only one more thing. He reached under the tail of his shirt and pulled free the scaling knife. He held it up before his eyes, admiring the rainbow effect along its cutting edge. Sharp, so very, very sharp.

  Now he was ready.

  He knocked on the door.

  20

  MORE THAN ONE THING WAS TROUBLING ME ABOUT THE whole setup. Louise Blake continued to nag at me like a bug burrowing its way through my cerebral cortex. There was much that woman knew but wasn’t telling me. Her reticence, I believed, was linked to the below-the-belt strike that Sigmund Petoskey had dealt us. The CIA could be involved, and that had jarred me to the core.

  “I have to make a couple of calls,” I said. Harvey Lucas extended his hospitality in the manner of a southern gent, and I was going to take him up on it. The telephone was on a desk across the room.

  Harvey watched with an expression that was hard to define. I caught myself in midstride. To gather our wits after such a crushing blow, we’d returned to his office—a rented unit in an industrial complex on the other side of town. Harvey seemed pleased to see us, as if we deemed him a worthwhile ally after all. However, once I’d mentioned the CIA, he didn’t appear to be anywhere near as enthusiastic. Pausing with my hand over the handset, I waited for him to object. Harvey inclined his chin.

  “Sure you don’t mind?” I asked.

  “Go ahead.” He rolled his neck, then turned to his computer screen and studied it with way too much intensity.

  “When you finish up, I got a call to make, too,” Rink said. He was standing behind Harvey, and I saw him reach out and grip his friend’s shoulder. Rink’s never patronizing; his gesture was more one of reassurance. “Can you look me up the number for the Arkansas Humane Society, Harve? Gotta drop ’em a tip concerning illegal dog fighting on their turf.”

  Harvey nodded, then bent to the task.

  “If you’d prefer I didn’t use your phone, I’ll go find a public phone,” I said.

  Harvey returned his gaze to mine.

  “Go ahead and use it, Hunter. If the CIA is involved, you can bet your ass they’re already aware of my involvement.” He rocked back in his seat, resigned. Nerves made him more effusive than usual. “Makes no difference if you conduct your business from here or anywhere else, they’ll have you hooked up in less time than it takes you to dial the number. If you’ve got anything to say that you don’t want them to hear, I suggest you forget about phone calls altogether.”

  “Yeah,” I agreed. But I wasn’t concerned. Truth is, it didn’t matter what the CIA overheard, considering that it was one of their controllers I was about to call.

  A number I hadn’t used in over four years leaped straight from my memory to my fingertips. From the handset, I heard the beeping of a long-distance connection as it bounced via service providers and satellites throughout the world. A phone finally rang in a nondescript office in Langley, Virginia.

  The call was picked up by an electronic answering machine, which gave me options and asked me to key in a twelve-digit number. Again from long-term memory I typed in the sequence. The line went dead for a split second. In that unfathomably short space of time recording devices kicked in. It didn’t matter. Then came a purr as the connection was made. The phone was picked up after only three beeps.

  “This better be good,” grunted a man’s voice.

  “That’ll depend on your perspective,” I grunted right back.

  “My perspective is always from the bottom of a deep dark place, you should know that by now.”

  My laughter was humorless. “You should get out more. Get a little sunshine on your face. You spend too much time in your little cubbyhole.”

  “Tell me about it,” the man said. Over the line came a minuscule shift in the white noise as buttons were flicked. “You can speak now, Hunter. Line’s secure.”

  “I’ve got a favor to ask,” I told him.

  “So much for the pleasantries, huh? Straight down to business. Even after all this time.”

  “No time for pleasantries, I’m afraid. It could be that we’re sitting on opposite sides of the fence on this one.”

  I heard the creak of leather: Walter Hayes Conrad IV shifting uneasily in his chair. By that subtle shift of his body, I knew I’d struck an uneasy chord with him.

  “Opposite sides of the fence? I thought you were no longer in the game, Hunter?”

  “I’m not in your game.”

  “So you’re still retired?”

  “Retired, yeah, but not out to pasture yet.”

  “I take it this is a private job we’re talking about, then?”

  “It was private until I heard some of your boys might be involved.”

  “Oh?” Walter shifted again, and I could visualize him reaching for the on switch for the recorder.

  “Just give me a minute before you make our conversation public,” I said.

  “Like I said, Hunter, the line’s secure.”

  “Yeah, so let’s keep it that way for now?”

  “You know I can’t promise you that, Hunter. If this concerns one of our operations, I can’t let it go off the record.”

  I sniffed. “All I’m asking is that you confirm if the CIA is involved.”

  “That’ll depend.”

  “I appreciate that. I’m not asking for specifics. A simple yes or no will do.”

  “Then the answer’s no.”

  “Is that what you term plausible denial?”

  “Nah, there’s nothing plausible about it.”

  “You’re right there,” I said. “Considering I haven’t even told you what job I’m involved in.”

  “There’s no need. I haven’t heard your name mentioned, Hunter.”

  “Well, there’s a surprise,” I said.

  “We did wonder what you were doing on our home soil,” Walter said. Walter doesn’t offer information for nothing.

  “So you knew I was in the country?”

  “Of course. What kind of intelligence community doesn’t track foreign agents flying in?”

  “I’m not a foreign agent, Walt. I’m retired. Remember?”

  “Same difference.”

  It wasn’t overly surprising that my presence in the USA had rung warning bells. Neither would it surprise me if Walter had already made calls to my old commanders at Arrowsake to check that I wasn’t back on the payroll of the British government. Or—worse case scenario—that I was on someone else’s payroll.

  “You needn’t worry, Walter. I haven’t turned to the dark side.”

  Walter laughed as if he were choking on a bitter pill.

  “So what’s the deal? I know you hooked up with Jared Rington. Believe me, Hunter, we dropped it there. Not interested.”

  “Rink’s with me now,” I said. “He says hi.”

  “I’m sure he does,” Walter said scornfully. All part of the act.

  “I find it hard to believe that you aren’t wondering what I’m up to,” I said.

  “To be honest, we ain’t the least bit interested. Far as we’re concerned you’re here visiting your old buddy. We’re prepared to leave it at that. So long as nothing else comes to our attention.”

  “Appreciate it, Walt. But now that I have come to your attention, how are you going to play it?”

  Walter sucked air through his teeth. Not the nicest sound in your ear. “Depends on the job you’re about to describe.”

  “The one you’ve already told me you’re not involved in?”

  “One and the same.”

  “Figures,” I said, paraphrasing Rink. “I take it that what you’re not telling me is that you’ve no one in Little Rock, Arkansas.”

  “I don’t doubt we’ve got agents there, Hunter, but not on anything you’re involved in.”

  “You’re sure about that?”

  “How can you doubt me? I don’t have anyone on your case. Okay?”

  “Okay, that’s goo
d enough for me.” I paused, considering my next words. It was a gamble mentioning anything about the job I was involved in, but it was probably too late for that now. By calling Walter, I’d guaranteed that the CIA would indeed be watching me from now on. “What about my brother, John Telfer?”

  Up in his office at Langley, Walter Hayes Conrad IV went silent.

  “I take it by your silence that his name means something to you?”

  Walter breathed into the mouthpiece. Was that remorse?

  “It does, Hunter, but not for the reason you’re thinking.”

  “I’m thinking you’ve got guys on him.”

  “Nope. It’s not that at all.”

  Judging by the ache between my eyebrows, my face was fertile ground begging for a frown. I was afraid to ask. “What is it then?”

  “I take it you haven’t looked at the TV lately?”

  “No time for TV.”

  “Make time. If you’re interested in John Telfer, you’d better get yourself acquainted with CNN. Telfer’s currently their number one news slot.”

  I turned from the phone. “You got a TV, Harve?”

  “Got one at home. Why?”

  “What about your computer? Can you get CNN?”

  “The news channel? Sure.”

  “Do me a favor and log on, will you?”

  Harvey’s eyebrows danced toward his shaved head. Rink was watching me expectantly. A shrug was all I offered before turning my attention back to Walter. “I’m just about to take a look now.”

  “Might explain a thing or two.”

  “So what’s the deal?” I asked him.

  “Take a look and make up your own mind.”

  “Fair enough,” I said. “But you’re telling me this isn’t anything to do with you?”

  “No matter how many ways I tell you no, you’re still going to have reservations, Hunter.”

  “Old habits die hard,” I told him.

  “You doubt my honesty, but that’s okay, I don’t bear any grudges. If I were in your shoes, I’d be the same. For the record, I’ll say it again. Then it’s up to you…” His breath came slow and steady. The pause was not for his benefit. Bad news was coming. “The CIA is not on your case. We’re not on your brother’s case. But then again, I can’t speak for the rest of the civilized world. Or the FBI, in particular.”