by Matt Hilton
‘I want to get started now,’ Cain said. ‘I have an idea or two that might put us ahead in the game.’
Hendrickson nodded distractedly, lost in his fascination with the Colt. ‘I killed my first man with this gun.’
Cain sniffed. ‘I find guns so impersonal.’
‘Maybe, but they get the job done. If you only desire a man’s life, then a bullet in the brain will do it every time.’
‘What if you desire more than his life?’ Cain wasn’t being sarcastic or enigmatic. He always liked to take something from his victims — bones in particular — as a reminder of his potency. He wasn’t called the Harvestman for nothing.
‘Death is enough,’ Hendrickson replied. ‘Kill this man for me, Cain. What you do to him afterwards… I don’t care. In fact, it’s probably best that you do take your trophy.’
‘Oh, I intend to.’
‘Good, good.’ Hendrickson placed the Colt down, showed Cain the exit. ‘I have men at my disposal. Use them as you will.’
‘I work best alone.’
‘Yes,’ Hendrickson agreed. ‘But there are others who may need dealing with.’
Involuntarily, Cain’s hand moved to the scar on his throat. The lesion had never fully healed, a puncture wound that separated his trachea.
Hendrickson said, ‘Don’t worry. Like I said, I’ve a plan in motion and already have men on their trail.’
‘They’re good,’ Cain pointed out. ‘Send plenty of men.’
‘It isn’t so much the number as the quality. Rest assured, I have hired only the best in the business.’
Cain eyed him.
Hendrickson coughed low in his throat. ‘They’re not as skilled as you, but they’re sufficient to kill a couple of out-of-practice soldiers.’
‘Do not kill them,’ Cain said. ‘Take them alive. Once I’m finished with John Telfer, I want to reacquaint myself with Joe Hunter and Jared Rington.’
Chapter 8
Why Hartlaub and Brigham and, more pertinently, Walter, wanted to waste time showing me the horror wrought by Tubal Cain was beyond me. All Walter needed to do was pick up a phone, contact me at Imogen’s house and tell me what had gone down. I’d have answered his call to arms in a heartbeat.
His reticence was possibly because the last time we’d met it had been on shaky ground. Walter had used Rink and me in a scheme spearheaded by our old Arrowsake commanders. We had been forced into a showdown with a group of white supremacists intent on bringing down the government. That sounds like a noble cause, but not when Arrowsake were prodding the group to action in the first place. They had planned to use the threat of domestic terrorism to raise funds and support for the intelligence community they served. It didn’t matter to them that an innocent family were targeted, or that Rink or I might die, only that their ends were met. Coming clean about the entire plot, Walter had felt deep shame. We’d kind of cleared the air, but maybe there was still some residual embarrassment in Walter’s heart. His lying about the eventual fate of Tubal Cain wouldn’t be helping either.
Shit! The man had lied to me about the plot concerning Carswell Hicks and Samuel Gant, but that was because he’d been under orders to do so. Keeping Cain’s survival a secret was his own doing. I’d be justified in telling him to go fuck himself, to deal with the problem on his own, but he knew I wouldn’t turn my back now that I’d seen Cain’s latest atrocity. I’d just lost one old friend in Bryce Lang, and I wasn’t going to lose another.
Rink was more than a brother to me. We had both served Arrowsake, watching each other’s back, and we’d done the same since leaving the forces, not simply through a sense of friendship or duty, but through a loyalty that transcended even the bond of blood. It’s a terrible thing to admit, but his disappearance meant more to me than the danger my real brother faced now that Cain was back on the loose. I didn’t doubt that John was under the protection of some of the best people Walter could field, but Rink was on his own. Rink was as tough as whalebone, and as capable a warrior as any I’d known. But he was also human and, unprepared for a sneak attack from a monster like Tubal Cain, he could be taken down as easily as anyone.
Rink can be a mother hen with me at times; he doesn’t trust me to behave when I’m out from under his calming influence. Even when he knew I was spending a few days with Imogen he couldn’t help checking up on me. I’d last spoken with Rink yesterday and he was his usual self. No concerns, just getting on with the day job. He was working on uncovering a low-key insurance swindle, nothing that would have forced him into deep cover. Unless he was purposely hiding, the CIA team sent to bring him in should have found him.
‘Give me your phone.’
Brigham said, ‘I already told you; they can’t find Rington anywhere.’
‘Maybe he doesn’t want to be found by you.’ My words were hopeful, but a gnawing sensation in my guts said otherwise. Unbeknown to even these guys, Rink and I had secret ways to communicate. Once we’d used the relay system set in place by Walter, but since the recent shady goings-on with Arrowsake, we’d deemed it necessary to have our own structure put in place. Harvey Lucas, our friend out in Little Rock, a wizard with computers, had built our very own network that piggy-backed various communication satellites without leaving a trace. In my haste, I’d thrown my mobile phone in my pack with my clothing and it was outside in the SUV. I held out my hand for Brigham’s phone. The younger agent sought guidance from his superior, but all Hartlaub did was shrug.
I took the phone from Brigham and walked away from them, seeking a place where I wasn’t stepping in blood. I keyed in numbers, listened, but as I feared the phone went unanswered. I pressed more buttons and left an encrypted message at a voicemail box that only Rink could access. Then, on a whim, I decided maybe the most direct route was best and called Rink’s office.
‘Rington Investigations,’ answered a voice with the slightest inflection of his Hispanic inheritance.
‘Velasquez… It’s Joe.’
‘Jesus, man, me an’ McTeer have been tryin’ to get hold of you all day. We even called your girl up in Maine, but she told us you’d already gone.’
Velasquez and McTeer were ex-cops. Both men now worked with Rink at his private investigations business. They were hard cases, not the type to be easily ruffled. By the sounds of his voice though, something concerned Velasquez more than my apparently being incommunicado.
‘Do you know where Rink is?’
‘No, man. That’s why we’ve been trying to get you.’
‘He was working the insurance scam, right? Where was he headed when last you spoke to him?’
‘Somewhere down in the Everglades… Pocahontas Swamp or somewhere. Shit, man, I had a deskful myself, didn’t take much notice when he headed outa the door. I didn’t even realise he was late back until some spook-types busted into the office and asked about him.’
‘And he hasn’t been in touch since…’
‘We’ve been trying to get hold of him all day, too. McTeer is out driving around, scouting all the case’s locations on the chance he’ll find him. But I’m starting to think that’s not going to happen. What the fuck’s going on, Joe?’
I considered telling him about Tubal Cain, but decided against it. I presumed Walter wanted this kept under wraps at all costs, and that was why he’d brought me in quietly like this. Still, I wasn’t prepared to put McTeer or Velasquez at risk.
‘The shit has hit the fan, Velasquez. This is what you’re going to do. Call McTeer in. Then shut up shop and go home. Don’t come anywhere near the office until you hear from me or Rink.’
‘What the fuck?’
‘Trust me. You don’t want to be linked to either of us, not while this is going on.’
‘Rink’s my boss, but he’s also my friend. If he’s in danger then-’
‘Listen,’ I cut him off. ‘Just do as I ask, OK? You’re both good men, and the last thing I want is for something to happen to either of you.’
‘We can look after ourselv
es.’
Not against the thing that might be headed your way, I thought. I wanted to share my fears with him, but I simply couldn’t. ‘Just do as I ask… please. It’s best for everyone.’
‘Except Rink,’ he said.
‘Don’t worry,’ I said. ‘I’ll find him.’
The silence at the other end of the line was laden with Velasquez’s fear. I got what he was thinking. I would find Rink, but would he be alive or dead? That was the very thing I feared, and maybe he’d read as much in my voice.
‘OK, Joe. We’ll do as you ask. But as soon as you hear anything, and I mean anything, you let us know.’
‘Deal.’
Velasquez was about to hang up, but felt he had to add, ‘Bring Rink home, Joe. I’ve just put a down payment on a swimming pool. I need this job, man, or my wife will have my ass!’
It was gallows humour, but it made me smile. Not that I looked happy, it was a death’s-head smile at most. ‘I’ll do my best or die trying.’
I hung up.
‘Are we gonna get going now?’ Hartlaub asked.
Ignoring him, I pressed buttons. My call was picked up on the third ring. ‘Hello, Harvey,’ I said.
‘That you, Hunter?’ Harvey Lucas is an African-American who reminds me of Samuel L. Jackson in the Shaft remake. He’s as sharp as a tack and dresses the same. He’s an ex-army Ranger, the best man with a computer I’d ever met, as well as a very good private investigator. More importantly than that, he was one of the few men I could fully trust.
‘Have you heard from Rink?’
‘Not for a couple of days,’ Harvey said. ‘There a problem, Hunter?’
‘Yeah.’ I told him everything. Harvey had been involved with us when Rink and I hunted Cain the first time. Because of that, he was possibly on the killer’s radar screen and there was no way I’d leave him out of the loop.
‘Doesn’t sound good. You think that Cain might’ve got to him already?’
‘Rink isn’t the kind to get lost. I’m praying that he got wind of Cain’s escape and has gone deep cover.’
‘Not without warning us first,’ Harvey said. He was right.
‘Can you do a trace on his phone? See if you can pinpoint where it was before it was switched off?’
‘Leave it with me. I’ll get back to you ASAP.’ He hung up.
I placed Brigham’s phone in my jeans pocket. The young agent scowled. ‘I’m gonna need it,’ I snarled at him. He looked like he was about to argue but Hartlaub shook his head, and that was the subject finished with. I followed them to the SUV. Hartlaub drove, still neglecting to tell me where we were going. Then again I’d more on my mind to worry about, so didn’t ask. Half an hour nearer our destination Brigham’s phone rang and I fished it out of my pocket.
‘What have you got?’
Harvey sighed. ‘Not a great deal. The last coordinates for Rink’s cell phone were logged at 04.43 hours this morning. They show he was kinda off the beaten track, out near to the Pahayokee Overlook in the Everglades National Park.’
Pahayokee Overlook? That would be Velasquez’s Pocahontas Swamp, I assumed.
‘Walter has some explaining to do first, but then I’ll head down there.’ My words earned me a dark look from Hartlaub, but I didn’t care. Whatever Walter expected from me would have to wait. Rink was my priority.
‘Where are you?’
‘The Adirondacks. But if I have my way, I won’t be here for long.’
‘Meet me in Florida,’ he said. ‘I’ve access to a chopper so I can be there in five or six hours.’
I decided I could do with his help. I could head on down to the Everglades, but what was I going to do by myself? Beat hundreds of square miles of saw-tooth grass with a stick?
‘I’ll see you there.’
‘Do you need me to bring anything?’ Harvey asked.
My SIG Sauer P226 was a welcome weight in the back of my jeans. ‘I’m good to go.’
Chapter 9
Flathead Lake was mirror-smooth, reflecting the evening sun where it peeked over the Salish Mountains. The water was burnished with fire, glinting highlights searing the eyes of the man who sat on the shore south of the Swan River tributary. He was dressed for the cool evening, with a scarf wrapped around his lower face, a cap pulled low so that only his eyes could be seen. Even his eyes had lens coverings, giving them an unnatural amber cast, which now was reinforced by the reflected water.
He wasn’t local to the area. But then again, the nearby town of Bigfork was home to a large number of urban refugees who’d arrived during the last decade. Bigfork had fast become the leading arts community in Montana, attracting visitors from all over the world. The man’s English accent wasn’t uncommon, but neither was French, German, Swedish, Japanese or any other. In summer the population swelled exponentially, but even now, during winter, there were enough transients for the man to remain anonymous.
‘Are you ready to go, Jeff?’
The man glanced to his right. Patricia was standing on a rock, hands jammed into her jeans pockets. The rock gave her extra height, accentuating her willowy frame. Her rat-chewed urban-chic hair was stuffed beneath a woolly hat — the type with ear flaps and tassels that wouldn’t have looked out of place in Nepal.
‘How about helping me up?’ Jeff asked, extending gloved fingers to her.
‘Come on,’ she said, turning away and hopping off the rock. ‘You can manage.’
Jeff shook his head. Patricia wasn’t one for pity.
Standing up was always a problem, especially if he’d been in a certain position for too long. The scar tissue from the ‘industrial accident’ he’d suffered protested, doling out plenty of discomfort before he got moving.
His first few steps were achieved bent almost double. The sand under his feet didn’t help, and it was only when he reached the hard-packed trail leading up to a lay-by on route 35, and he was able to grab handholds of the overhanging trees, that he straightened up.
Patricia moved slowly ahead of him. She’d a nervous energy about her, and she twitched every other step, as though she needed to burn some of it off.
Toby Callahan was waiting for them in the SUV. He was older than Jeff, and fifteen years older than Patricia, too. Patricia slid into the seat next to Toby, relegating Jeff to the back.
‘Are you all done looking?’ Toby’s hair was going grey, the short bristles above his ears catching the final rays of light.
‘It’s a beautiful lake,’ Jeff said. ‘I don’t think I could ever get enough of the place.’
Toby wasn’t listening. His question hadn’t required an answer. It was more a reminder that he had better things to do than play chaperone.
They drove north-west, skirting Bigfork and heading towards Jewel Ridge. The Mission Range loomed on their right, sweeping hillsides that dropped almost vertically from the heavens. The trees were on fire with autumnal colours as the day flared in a final goodbye and night was ushered in.
The cabin nestled on a hillside overlooking a rocky valley. A stream chuckled between boulders as it sought egress to the nearby Swan River. There was a grey sedan parked in front of the wooden porch where Jeff often sat watching the night sky. Standing by the car was a man in a black windcheater jacket, blue jeans and Timberland boots. His balding head was disguised by a denim baseball cap. As Toby pulled adjacent to the sedan, the other man ground a cigarette under his boot heel.
Toby wound down the window, and Brett Hanson leaned in. Jeff could smell his nicotine-laden breath. ‘Flights are all arranged,’ Brett said. He glanced into the back, catching Jeff’s eye. ‘We leave from Kalispell in ten hours. You’d better get your shit together, Jeff.’
‘Yeah,’ Jeff said, resigned. His family had been telling him the same thing for years.
The cabin in the woods had been his home for more than six months now. In some respects Jeff would be sad to leave, but in others he couldn’t wait. It was five hours since Brett Hanson had announced that they would be going. It fel
t like five days. Ten hours to go and he’d be out of there.
He’d said earlier that he could never tire of looking at Flathead Lake, and yet he’d been lying to himself. He would be happy if he never saw the lake again if it meant he could go home. His real home. Wherever that was. He doubted he’d be welcomed with open arms at either place he’d once lived. Both the women he’d abandoned had moved on. They didn’t even know who Jeffrey-fucking-Taylor was, for Christ’s sake!
Home would have to be a new place of his own making. This cabin certainly wasn’t home. It belonged to the US Marshals Service. Supposedly a safe house, it was as much a prison as any made of stone and steel bars. It defined him as a prisoner.
Patricia Ward was beautiful. She’d been his companion through the last six months. She had walked with him, hand in hand along the lakeside. She’d strolled with him among the booths and stalls at the summer fair, sat in cafes and restaurants, laughed at his jokes. They’d even once engaged in tentative sex on a blanket under the spreading boughs of an oak tree. But she would never be his lover. She would always be his jailer. She was as much a part of the lie that was Jeffrey Taylor as everything else.
The strolling, the laughing, the sex: all part of his cover story.
Patricia was his bodyguard. She was there to see that he stayed alive for the day he was called to give evidence in the trial against the crime syndicate he’d once worked for. It was her duty to keep him alive, before delivering him into the hands of new jailers at an appointed time and place. Ward by name, warden by nature. It’d be funny if it wasn’t so fucking ironic.
Toby Callahan and Brett Hanson were also US Marshals.
It was their duty to look after Jeff, too. But they made no bones about their relationship. To them, he was a thief. He was a scumbag who’d turned against the scumbags he’d worked for, making him even more of a scumbag in their opinion.
It was odd then, that Jeff preferred both men to the woman who only pretended to be fond of him.
