by Matt Hilton
Inside the foyer, a man waited. He was conventionally dressed in grey slacks, white shirt and a deep blue sports jacket, but that was where convention ended. His short dark hair was gelled and spiked, and he was wearing sunglasses that changed colour according to the strength of the light. Right now they were a yellowish green: the colour of decomposing flesh.
He held a semi-automatic pistol loosely by his side.
The prisoner held up his cuffed wrists. ‘Do you think these could come off now? Either that, or you put away your guns?’ His voice sounded like tearing paper.
‘The cuffs stay on for now.’
The prisoner shrugged. ‘Fair enough. But, just so you understand.. I didn’t trade one cell for another.’
‘That all depends on what the boss decides.’ The gunman, dismissing the others with a jerk of his head, led the prisoner through a sumptuous vestibule and into an equally lavish dining room.
Sitting at the head of a large table was a grey-haired man who watched the prisoner with eyes like slivers of Arctic winter. The prisoner looked back. His own pale eyes were a match for the seated man’s. Killer’s eyes. Well met, he thought.
‘Please,’ the grey-haired man said. ‘Take a seat.’
The table was large enough that, when he sat down, the prisoner remained well out of grasping range of his host.
The man with spiked hair went around to the other side of the table and sat opposite him. He slipped off his sunglasses, hooking them in the top pocket of his jacket. He placed the handgun on the table, alongside cutlery that had been laid out for a meal.
The prisoner noted that his hosts had the best silverware, but on his side was a plastic spork, one of those utensils you get with a pre-packed salad from a delicatessen.
‘You know who I am?’ The grey-hair was a square-faced man, his features a natural swarthy tan, offset by the vividness of his eyes.
The prisoner placed his cuffed wrists on the table. ‘Of course I do. You are my benefactor.’
The host smiled. He waved and his maitre d’ came forward pushing a trolley. The severe looking man began serving entrees. Around his feverishly working hands, the grey-haired man watched his guest. ‘I admit to being surprised when you contacted me. I didn’t think it would be possible from inside a prison as secure as Fort Conchar.’
‘I had my ways. It’s frightening how easy a prison guard’s greed can be played upon, don’t you think?’
‘You were certain that I would help you escape,’ said the host.
‘You had the finances available. We both share a mutual hatred of a certain individual. It was a done deal in my opinion.’ The prisoner lifted his cuffs. ‘ These I did not anticipate.’
Giving his pursuers the slip by way of the off-road motorbike, he had made for a pre-arranged rendezvous. He’d expected to be picked up and shuttled eastward to this meeting, but he hadn’t thought that he’d be treated like an animal. There were ten armed men in the party that had confronted him; they’d stripped him of his weapons and then cuffed him. He could have done for some of them at any time, but he wanted this meeting more than he desired to satiate his blood lust. That would come soon enough.
‘You’re a very dangerous man. I need reassurances before freeing you. After all, you murdered the guard I paid to help get you out.’
‘I had to make my escape look genuine.’ The prisoner smiled at his own cunning. ‘We don’t want the authorities realising that I had outside help. The guard would’ve squealed like a pig the first time he was interrogated. That would’ve caused us problems, would it not?’
‘You have a point.’ The host steepled his fingers as he studied the prisoner. ‘All of this would’ve been pointless if I’d been implicated in your escape — or what you do next.’
The prisoner shrugged. ‘So you agree that the guard’s death was necessary?’
‘As long as he’s the last of my people you harm.’
The prisoner didn’t reply. The maitre d’ placed a bowl of soup in front of him, unaware of how close he was to a man who could deal death whether his hands were chained or not.
‘Am I expected to eat with these cuffs on?’
The host and his henchman exchanged glances.
The prisoner said, ‘Five-star food with plastic silverware? Maybe you’re afraid I’ll assassinate you with an expertly thrown silver spoon?’ He chortled to himself, a whistling noise that made a bellows of his scarred throat. ‘Have you considered how dangerous a bowl of hot soup can be? Perhaps gazpacho should’ve been on the menu instead?’
The host lifted his glass and sipped the heady wine. He didn’t immediately respond, savouring the prisoner’s humour as much as the rich claret. Placing down the glass, he turned to his henchman. ‘You can release him, Getz.’
Getz stood up slowly. He picked up his handgun. ‘I’m not sure that’s a good idea, sir.’
The host turned to the prisoner. ‘Like I said, I need reassurances. How can I be sure I can trust you?’
‘You helped me escape. In return I swore that I’d help you.’
‘But is that enough? You’re an indiscriminate murderer who has killed some of my employees before.’ His eyes twinkled. ‘What’s to stop you doing so again?’
‘Things were different then. Your men were going to take away someone very important to me. I had no option but stop them.’
‘But you lost him anyway.’
‘I did, and before I was through with him.’ Emotion played across the prisoner’s face. ‘But now you’re offering me the chance to finish what I started. I’m indebted to you.’ He arched an eyebrow, waited. Finally, the host nodded to Getz, and the henchman slowly made his way round the table. The prisoner held up his wrists.
‘This man you seek… he is poised to bring me down.’ The host used his glass to indicate the room, the house, his empire. ‘He’s about to give federal evidence in a trial that could take all of this away from me, quite probably my liberty, too. I don’t want that to happen.’
‘Release me, give me the resources we agreed and I’ll guarantee he isn’t around for the trial.’
Getz had arrived at the prisoner’s side. From a pocket of his jacket he took out a key, but still he wavered. ‘Are you positive about this, sir?’
‘Yes, Getz. There’s benefit to us all if we work together on this.’
Holding his semi-automatic close to the prisoner’s head, Getz began unlocking the cuffs. As he did, he whispered, ‘The boss might believe you, but I don’t think you can be trusted. You’re a psycho who should’ve been sent to the gas chamber. Give me the slightest cause and I’ll put a bullet in your head. In fact… I’m looking forward to doing just that.’
The prisoner’s grunt of laughter was as humourless as a block of granite. He nodded at the plastic spork. ‘I’m just looking forward to the soup.’
Getz snorted at the bravado, but there was wariness to his movement as he finished unlocking the cuffs.
‘So?’ asked the host. ‘We’ll work together on this? We have a deal?’
The prisoner rubbed the circulation back into his wrists. ‘Of course we do, Mr Hendrickson. We’re friends, OK? You have my word that I won’t harm you.’ The prisoner slowly swung his gaze up towards Getz who was still standing over his right shoulder. ‘But just so we’re all clear… I don’t like it when a two-bit punk threatens my life.’
Getz sucked in air.
He should have pulled the trigger instead.
The prisoner’s elbow rammed backwards and found Getz’s groin. Getz folded forward, grimacing in agony. The prisoner snatched at his gun hand, hauling Getz down, so that he sprawled chest first, his right cheek braced against the table. The prisoner stood up, leaning over him, even as he reached for the spork. Then, with the bowl braced against his thumb, he jabbed the rigid handle into Getz’s left eye.
Getz’s reaction was to scream, to pull away in panic, his hands going to his blinded eye. He was unaware that the prisoner now held his gun. The prisoner
reminded him by placing two rounds in his chest and Getz sprawled backwards on the carpet.
There was the sound of a mass charge, and Hendrickson’s guards began spilling into the room.
The prisoner looked unaffected by their arrival, choosing instead to study the dead man at his feet. The bullets had pushed chunks of broken bone out of Getz’s chest. He curled a lip in distaste, slinging the gun down beside the corpse. Guns, in his estimation, were for vulgar killers.
Seeing the gun thrown away, Hendrickson waved off his guards. They all began backing out of the room. The maitre d’ also had the sense to leave.
‘That was a little unfortunate,’ Hendrickson said. ‘Getz was a good man.’
‘He was an asshole.’
‘I told you I didn’t want any of my men harmed.’
‘And I agree from here on. But if we do this,’ the prisoner said, his ravaged throat pinching the words, ‘we do it as partners. I won’t be anyone’s lap dog and I won’t take shit.’
They stared at each other. Both men were under no illusions: if he wanted to, the prisoner could kill Hendrickson before any of the guards could come to his assistance.
‘Deal,’ said Hendrickson, moving forward and putting out a hand.
The prisoner took it, sealing the bargain.
‘So, partner?’ asked Hendrickson. ‘You’ve gone by so many names in the past. What do I call you now?’
The prisoner thought for a moment. ‘There’s only one name I want to be known by,’ he finally said. ‘I am Tubal Cain.’
Chapter 6
Standing in the centre of the bloodbath, I tried not to ask the question, but I couldn’t stop it: ‘The bodies were mutilated, but were they whole?’
‘By whole, you mean were all the parts accounted for?’ asked Hartlaub.
I closed my eyes. ‘That’s exactly what I mean. Did the murderer take anything? You know what I’m talking about. Trophies?’
Hartlaub grimaced. It was all the answer I needed, but the last I wanted to hear. ‘They had bones missing,’ I said.
There were times in my soldiering career when I thought I’d seen the worst that humanity could inflict on another person. I’d seen people maimed, blinded, shot, cut, blown apart, but even those vivid images paled when I tried to imagine what Walter and his bodyguards must have endured. These murders hadn’t been driven by simple expedience. Neither had the mutilation been down to punishment, or even plain hatred. Whoever had dismembered these bodies had delighted in the task and there was only one man I’d ever come across who could conceive of such barbarity. The problem was: the Harvestman was as dead as Walter was now.
In a cavern beneath the Mojave Desert I’d rammed a human bone through his throat and watched him bleed to death. I’d watched the light go out of his crazed eyes. Martin Maxwell, once a Secret Service agent, had been buried and the government had covered the shame of one of their own being responsible for his crimes. His headstone bore a different name. As far as the general public knew, it wasn’t Maxwell but his stepbrother Robert Swan who’d masqueraded under the name of Tubal Cain. Outside of the establishment I was one of the few people who knew otherwise.
So had I been misled as much as everyone else? On more than one occasion I’d challenged Walter on the explanation for Cain being whisked away on a gurney. That first time, when I’d wanted to ensure the bastard was dead, Walter, in his usual enigmatic style had come back with the rejoinder; ‘We don’t bury the living.’
But that was exactly what he’d done.
‘OK, Hartlaub. The charade’s over. Take me to Walter.’
‘Charade?’ Hartlaub had made a career from lying, could come over as plausible even under the closest of scrutiny. But we weren’t enemies and he allowed the corner of his mouth to turn up. ‘Walter is dead, Hunter.’
‘And so is Martin Maxwell, right? The son of a bitch…’
I wasn’t sure who my final words were aimed at, whether Cain or Walter. I suppose that they were for Walter because they’d have been much stronger fired at the man who’d savagely tortured my younger brother, John. Walter had lied to me, sworn that Cain was dead and buried, and now he was adding to the lie by faking his own death.
‘Where is he, Hartlaub? I don’t want any more bullshit. Walter escaped this, didn’t he?’
‘OK, keep it down, Hunter. There are guys within earshot who are under the impression that Walter died alongside his guards.’
Taking in the splashes of gore, I counted where men had fallen. ‘Looks like three men did die here. Walt’s guys were killed, but who was the other unlucky bastard?’
‘You know him, I’m told.’
I had an idea where this was leading. I did know a guy, a friend and fellow fisherman who often accompanied Walter to the cabin.
‘You’re talking about Bryce Lang?’
‘Yes. Poor fucker must’ve been mistaken for Walt.’
I could see how that could have happened. Bryce had also been CIA. He was of an age with Walter, had the same air of the spook about him. Unlike Hartlaub and Brigham, who were active in the field, both of my older friends were the type who directed covert operations from offices at Langley and other institutions. They had the grey pallor and equally grey demeanour of men who spent their days cooped up in hidden places. Someone coming here with the intention of finding Walter Hayes Conrad could have assumed that Bryce was their man. Supposing that they had never met Walter face to face, that is.
If, and I was beginning to believe that I was right, it was Tubal Cain who was responsible for this carnage, he hadn’t seen Walter when we were standing over him in the cavern at Jubal’s Hollow. At the time Cain was so close to death that he must have been searing his optic nerves on the blazing flames of hell. But, if Walter had saved the man for some unknown reason, then there was the possibility that he’d visited with him since. And that begged further questions: what the hell had happened here? Why had Bryce been cut to ribbons? What had his killer been after?
Cain was looking for something.
My brother John.
‘Walter is playing at being dead, that’s it? He wants Cain to believe that he’s dead. And he sent you to bring me in. There’s only one reason I can think why he’d do that.’
‘You’ve had experience with this man before,’ Hartlaub said.
‘So it is Tubal Cain? You’re confirming that?’
‘I ain’t going to lie to you any longer. Cain was being held at Fort Conchar. There should’ve been no way for him to escape…’
‘But he did.’
‘Yes. Despite all the odds, he murdered one of his guards, used the uniform as a disguise. Once outside he gave his pursuers the slip — we don’t know how he managed that yet.’
‘Fort Conchar is a super-max facility, yet he managed to walk out in a fuckin’ guard’s uniform! What about the checks and security points? I’d’ve thought that… Oh, wait. I get it. We’re talking about Tubal Cain, aren’t we? He took the body parts he required to get past the security.’
‘Fingerprints and retinal scans are no problem to someone like him.’ Hartlaub gave me a gentle shove towards the door where Brigham was waiting. ‘C’mon. We’d best get going.’
‘It’d better be to see Walter or we’re parting company right now.’
‘Let’s move then.’
‘Do you have a phone?’
‘I do, but our orders are to maintain silence until we’ve joined Walter.’
I shook my head. ‘There are other people involved in this. If Tubal Cain is out there, then they could be next on his list.’
‘You’re talking about Jared Rington?’
Rink had been with me when I’d taken Cain down, and was as likely a target of the deranged killer as Walter was. Harvey Lucas, too, though I couldn’t see how Cain would be aware of his involvement.
‘Can save you the trouble,’ Brigham interjected. ‘Walter asked for Rington to be brought in. The team sent to find him has come up blank. Rington’s drop
ped off the face of the earth.’
Chapter 7
One day earlier…
‘My entire resources are open to you. Money, men, weapons. Choose whatever you want to get the job done.’
Kurt Hendrickson was a man of power. He was a significant figure in the criminal underworld of the Eastern Seaboard. He controlled the market in drugs, prostitution, pornography, extortion, and up until recently had been a major player in counterfeiting currency that he traded with terror groups intent on bringing down the mighty dollar. He wielded the kind of influence where he need only click his fingers to make people disappear without trace. However there was a specific man whose disappearance had nothing to do with Hendrickson. This man was under the US Federal Marshals’ witness protection programme and, unusually, this was being overseen by agents of the CIA. Tracing him wasn’t the main issue; killing him without being implicated in the murder was. It was bad enough that he was facing judicial trial; he didn’t need the murder of the key witness laid at his door as well. It served his purpose that Tubal Cain had a vendetta against the same man.
‘All I need from you is his location,’ Cain said.
They were standing in a vault that Hendrickson had installed in the wine cellar of his house. The vault contained row upon row of firearms.
Hendrickson, it appeared, had a fascination with guns.
Tubal Cain wasn’t that interested; his passion was for knives.
That stood to reason, considering his name was derived from the Biblical inventor of cutting instruments. But he was not averse to other weapons of destruction when necessary. He had a Heckler and Koch 9 mm in a shoulder rig. A Beretta 92F, a variation of the famous service weapon of the US armed forces, was in a second holster on his hip.
‘I have a plan in motion. We will have his location within a couple of days.’ Hendrickson picked up an ancient Colt and held it up to admire under the overhead lights.
