by Matt Hilton
Chapter 10
To look at him you wouldn’t believe that Walter was supposed to have been cut to ribbons by a deranged killer. In truth he looked better than he had for some years, with a little colour in his usually pallid features and some of the unhealthy weight gone from around his middle. Giving up on those cigars and junk food must have finally paid off for him. The only dead thing about him was the fish-eyed stare he shot my way as I stepped into his temporary living quarters on the eastern shore of Tupper Lake in the Adirondacks National Park.
‘I guess that I deserve the ass-kicking you’re about to give me,’ he said.
‘Let’s not go there, eh?’ The son of a bitch did deserve a mouthful of abuse, or worse. Actually, I could have wrung his fucking neck, but I didn’t have it in me. Right then I didn’t see him as the lying piece of crap he was, but an old man mourning the loss of his best friend. So, I wrapped an arm around his shoulder. ‘I’m just glad to see you’re OK.’
The old man shivered in my embrace, then he pulled away and I let him go. He turned his back on me and I followed, allowing him the moment to gather himself. I made a silent bet that when he finally met my gaze there would be more moisture in his eyes.
His temporary quarters were in a large lakeside house, an almost square block formed of beams and planks all painted a uniform red and a slightly pitched shingled roof that angled down towards the surface of the lake. A porch led to a jetty where there was a cabin cruiser moored in the shallow water. He led me through the house, along the planks of the jetty and on to the boat. Behind us, Hartlaub and Brigham waited on the decking.
Walter ushered me into the cabin and sat in a plush leather chair. A bunk opposite him indicated that Walter had taken a nap, but judging by the twisted blankets it had been an uncomfortable forty winks. I sat down on the bed, fisted my hands on my thighs, waited for him to speak. He delved in a cooler box and came out with bottle of sour mash, № 7 brand.
‘JD?’ he asked.
I declined and watched as he took a swig directly from the bottle. He wiped his lips with the back of a wrist and I zoned in on his fingers, which were trembling. The healthy flush in his cheeks must have come from this bottle. I had no desire to watch him get drunk, but he’d lost an old friend today, and even someone who’d been around death for most of his adult life wasn’t immune from its touch. Maybe the alcohol would help him steady himself, so I wasn’t about to get on my high horse about his drinking.
‘I’m sorry about Bryce,’ I offered.
‘Me too, son,’ he said. ‘But more than that, I’m sorry that you were lied to. It must have been a shock when you were told about my.. my demise?’
‘It was. But I see now why you did that.’
He blinked then finally looked up at me, his eyes now glassy. ‘You do?’
‘You wanted your survival to be a secret. When Hartlaub and Brigham came to find me, you feared that I’d tell Imogen the truth. That would’ve put her at risk. It was good of you to think of her.’
There could have been a morsel of truth in my theory, but I guessed the genuine reason he wanted people to think he was dead was to rule out a second attempt on his life. He possibly read my face because he looked away. ‘I must have put you through hell, son.’
‘I’m all right. But I wish you’d told me what was going on instead of wasting so much time. You know that Rink’s missing?’
‘I heard. It spoils my plans somewhat.’ He lifted a consoling hand, knowing that his words offended me. ‘My intention was to bring you both in, ask you to help me stop the Harvestman before he could organise himself. But I see that by doing so, I’ve made a real error of judgement. Cain has moved much faster than I ever expected.’
‘What about John?’
‘John? Uh, he’s fine. He’s surrounded by a team of marshals and I’ve arranged for him to be moved to a place of safety.’
‘So my priority is to find Rink.’
‘No, Hunter. Your priority is stopping Tubal Cain.’
I held my breath. There was nothing conscious about the act, simply a bodily response as I studied the face of my old friend. He took another chug at the neck of the Jack Daniels bottle. I let out the pent-up air, reached across and took the bottle from him. I placed it on the deck next to my feet. ‘You’ve some explaining to do — why you spared that evil bastard — but right now I’m not interested. It’s enough to know that he’s out there and up to his old tricks.’ An image of Bryce Lang being carved like a Christmas turkey came to mind and I had to slow blink to clear my mind. I jerked my head, an indistinct motion, but it conveyed my meaning as I indicated Walter’s colleagues outside. ‘You have your own resources to hunt down Cain. I’m going to find Rink.’
He leaned down and placed his head in his hands. ‘Last time we spoke, you advised that I distance myself from Arrowsake. I did that.. to the best of my abilities. But they wouldn’t let me go. Tubal Cain was their project, Hunter. It was they who briefed me at Jubal’s Hollow, who told me that I should contain him at all cost. You thought that you’d killed him, well, you almost did. When I realised he was still alive I had him transported to a medical facility where his life was saved. After that he was transferred to Fort Conchar to be held for…’ He paused, seeking the words.
‘Future use?’ I offered.
He shook his head. ‘Further study.’
I didn’t have time for a convoluted explanation, but now that Walter seemed poised to offer one curiosity won out. I looked at him questioningly.
‘You’ve heard of MKUltra?’ he asked.
Of course I had. It was a CIA experiment conducted during the Cold War; one that had sought to turn out brainwashed assassins who could be used to target those deemed enemies of the USA. It had been fictionalised by Hollywood on more than one occasion, most famously in the movie The Manchurian Candidate. What I believed Walter was hinting at was that Arrowsake had recognised Tubal Cain as a potential future weapon. They had kept him alive in order to mobilise him when it became necessary.
‘Arrowsake again,’ I grunted. My old masters were fast becoming my nemesis.
Walter shook his head, then finally lifted it from his cupped palms. ‘No, Hunter. They are responsible for keeping him alive, but they had no part in his escape. If they wanted him out to do their bidding, they would’ve simply had him moved to another facility, then released without the hullabaloo that surrounded his escape from Conchar.’
‘You’re saying that someone else helped him?’
‘He couldn’t have escaped without external aid. Everything was too easy for it to have been left to chance. Tubal Cain has the backing of someone with money and resources, that’s obvious.’
‘How long has he been out?’
‘Only a few days.’
‘He’s resourceful. He probably had a series of secure drops set in place before he was imprisoned. Documents, money, weapons, everything he needed to move around the country at his leisure.’
‘A likely assumption,’ Walter agreed. ‘He must’ve got his hands on fake identification and such, because it’s apparent that he’s flying here, there and everywhere. He couldn’t have been in the number of places he has been otherwise. But, still, he needed help from someone to set up his escape in the first place. He had a getaway vehicle waiting, and quite probably was picked up and transported out of the state by someone later on. I think the plane he’s using belongs to whoever is helping him.’
‘You have your suspicions?’
‘I do. I believe that Cain contacted his benefactor, offered his services, in exchange for assistance to get out of prison.’
‘Only one person I know who’d benefit from such a thing,’ I said. ‘You’re talking about Hendrickson.’
Walter acknowledged my accurate assessment. ‘A month from now, Kurt Hendrickson, Sigmund Petoskey and other members of the Hendrickson organisation are facing judicial trial. As you well know, your brother John is our key witness in the case against them. It would su
it the Hendrickson organisation if John doesn’t make it to trial.’
‘And it will suit them even more if John’s death can be blamed upon an escaped convict with a vendetta against him,’ I finished. ‘With John out of the way, the trial will collapse, they’d be exonerated, and free to continue where they left off.’
‘Of course it would be a simple matter to show their hand in this, but for one thing.’
I snorted. I’d already seen it coming, but it still made me sick. ‘To implicate them, it would mean coming clean about Tubal Cain.’
‘The scandal the government wanted to avoid the first time around would be magnified tenfold.’
‘That’s why nothing has made the news about his escape? Cain is supposedly dead, so how could he be on the loose again? And that’s why you’ve brought me in…’
‘We have to do this quietly, son.’
‘I can’t guarantee that,’ I said.
‘You must. It’s imperative that Cain is silenced, without the government’s inclusion being a factor in any of the fallout. You will have our full backing, but only on our word. Nothing will be recorded anywhere, we will exercise full deniability. In the past I’ve influenced the decisions of the other agencies, I’ve had your actions covered up. On this occasion the consequences are way too big to do so again. If you don’t cover your own tracks this time, well, you might have to pay the consequences.’
‘So if things go wrong I’ll be vilified? Painted as the crazy vigilante I’m suspected of being? It’s some deal you’re offering me, Walter.’
‘It’s why you must do things quietly.’
There was no question that I was going to become Walter’s bloodhound. That was a given. But I was certain he hadn’t realised the enormity of the beast he was letting loose. I hated Cain; he was a monster who shouldn’t be allowed to exist. But Walter had just aimed me at other enemies, too. The Hendrickson Organisation. If it proved that they were behind Cain’s escape, and were sponsoring him against my brother John, then they had nothing to worry about concerning an upcoming trial. If I had my way, none of them would be around to make their day in court.
‘For the time being Hartlaub and Brigham are at your disposal. I’ll have them take you anywhere you want to go, but then they will have to withdraw,’ Walter said.
‘They can take me to the nearest airplane. I’m going after Rink.’ Before Walter could argue, I added, ‘I’ve a feeling that when I find him, I’ll also find Cain. And God help anyone who gets between us.’
‘Just remember, son…’
‘I know, Walter. I have to do it quietly. You say John’s safe. You can guarantee that?’
‘He’s safely out the way.’
‘Keep things like that and I’ll do what you ask. But if anything happens to him all bets are off.’
Chapter 11
His trip to the Adirondacks had proven more a distraction than a step in the right direction. Tubal Cain had never seen the man responsible for saving his life that day in the cavern at Jubal’s Hollow, but he had heard his name whispered during frequent visits by doctors who conducted their studies upon him while he was confined at Fort Conchar. He didn’t feel that he owed Walter Hayes Conrad a thing: the man’s apparent magnanimity hadn’t been born from humanity. He had tracked the CIA man to his retreat in the woods, before news of Cain’s escape forced him into deep hiding. He’d ambushed the two goon-like bodyguards, shooting both of them before moving on to the older man. Give the old bastard his due, he’d held out even when Cain dismembered his bodyguards in front of him. Only when Cain turned his ministrations to the CIA man himself did he elicit any answers. Shame that he hadn’t mentioned sooner that he wasn’t the one Cain was looking for. It would have earned the man a quicker death than the one that followed.
Still, he wasn’t complaining. The distraction had proven quite enjoyable. Just like old times. Cain left the Adirondacks feeling rather nostalgic.
With Conrad apparently aware of his escape, he would be untouchable for now, so Cain had moved on to another avenue that would lead him to his prey. He found Michael Birch easily enough.
Birch thought he had made it when he’d landed the job with the Virginia State Attorney’s Office. He was only an underling to the state attorney himself, but so what? He was moving in the kind of circles he’d always aspired to. Securing the job, he’d expected a new lifestyle that included big money. As a top analyst in his field, he’d attained the rewards befitting his position, but had avoided the media interest that occasionally made the state attorney’s life unbearable. He rested easy in his obscurity, just took the remuneration and left the accolades to his boss. He’d thought himself safe from the men and women that his office prosecuted. Untouchable. But he hadn’t vectored the Harvestman into the equation.
Cain — once an agent with the United States Secret Service — knew how the Federal Witness Security Programme worked. He also had insider knowledge of the creation of new identities for those placed into the safe keeping of the US Marshals Service.
The idea was to create total anonymity for the witness, to help them relocate and blend into a new community. Jobs, housing, subsistence payments and identity documents were all laid on. In a country of over three hundred million people the witness should be untraceable. Since its inception in 1970, no person under the WITSEC programme, who’d followed the strict security guidelines, had come to harm. But there was always a first time.
It was a system in which Cain saw too many flaws.
For one, there was no such thing as a fresh start when it came to criminals. Notification of past transgressions was often passed to the local law enforcement community. A thief of John Telfer’s magnitude would be on someone’s database.
Second, and most important, although witnesses were given new names, they were encouraged to keep their first names, or select a new name with the same initials. There couldn’t be too many JTs on the Marshal Service’s books.
Then there was the reason why Cain had sought out Michael Birch. Although a secretive process, there was always a trail back to some lowest denominator. The attorney general made final determination based on the recommendation of the state attorney assigned to the federal case, but it was always the lackeys of said attorney who wrote up the accompanying reports. Birch was one such lackey.
Birch wasn’t a brave man.
Not when Cain was standing over him with a knife in his hand.
He soon gave up the codes to enter the database on his laptop computer. As well as the fingers Cain took as a memento of their meeting.
Cain would have liked to have spent a little more time with Birch but he had to get from Virginia to Montana fast.
He worked best alone, but wasn’t averse to a little assistance on occasion. He touched down at Glacier Park International Airport north of Kalispell and alighted from Kurt Hendrickson’s Challenger 604 private jet only a few hours later. The jet was of the type employed for executive travel and could carry up to nineteen passengers, a flight crew and steward. It had a full galley with the capacity for gourmet catering, stereo DVD, satellite phones, the business. It was sheer indulgence for one man. But Cain would have it no other way.
A rented Ford Explorer was waiting for him.
Cain was extensively travelled, but he’d never been to Montana. He’d formed the impression that the state’s topography was primarily grassland, but in this north-western corner near the Canadian border he was surrounded by towering, snow-capped mountains. He had his own take on the veneer of reality that surrounded him, but even he could appreciate the beauty of the mountains. The tree covered slopes offered plenty of opportunities for the concealment of corpses.
Tapping coordinates into the sat-nav, he picked up the route south towards Somers at the head of Flathead Lake, before turning east towards Bigfork — the aptly named ‘village by the bay’. On the drive down he made a point of studying the vehicles passing in the other direction. Jeffrey Taylor could be in any of them.
&
nbsp; Michael Birch’s laptop had offered up three names with the initials JT. Joanne Theriault was a no-brainer, and it didn’t take much digging to find that Jonah Thexton was a fifty-eight-year-old African-American. Jeffrey Taylor and John Telfer had to be one and the same.
Something else that Birch’s computer had given up: Telfer was due to be moved within the next few hours. Cain could have waited for him at the airport, but there was also an Amtrak depot in the nearby Glacier National Park, where he could board a train to Seattle or Chicago. If Cain missed him, he might never get another chance at finishing what he’d begun at Jubal’s Hollow. So too, at remote Jewel Ridge, the likelihood of taking Telfer away from his protectors would be greater than at either an airport or rail terminal. There was less chance of outside intervention.
WITSEC normally leave their charges pretty much to their own devices. They don’t offer a round-the-clock bodyguard service, not until the witness is being returned to give evidence at trial. Still, Cain knew that Telfer would have been afforded more than the norm. Not only was he the key witness in the trial of the Hendrickson/Petoskey counterfeit currency ring, but he also knew the secret of the Harvestman.
Official records said that the Harvestman was Robert Swan, Martin Maxwell’s estranged half-brother. The government said that Swan had murdered Maxwell, along with his wife and children, before going on his four-year killing spree. Cain found that most insulting. Swan, a hopeless musician, could barely pick a tune out of a guitar, never mind pick the bones from a body. Nevertheless, the story served the government well, considering they did not want a scandal erupting that one of their own was a psychopath. John Telfer knew otherwise, so the CIA, Secret Service and others would want to ensure that he kept that knowledge to himself. Likely he’d have twenty-four/seven chaperones so that he didn’t get too loose in the lips.
Cain and Telfer shared a common bond.
Both were living dead men.
According to the government records Telfer had been the Harvestman’s final victim and, like Cain, he hadn’t survived Jubal’s Hollow. It was time to put a final exclamation mark on that statement.
