by Matt Hilton
That Jenny’s abductor was Tubal Cain was obvious. I didn’t need the boys’ description of the fair-haired Yank with a scar on his throat for confirmation. The knives did it for me.
If it wouldn’t have sent Harvey and me plummeting to our deaths, I’d have turned the cockpit of the Jetranger inside out. That was the level of my rage. No, it was worse than that: it was the measure of my sense of futility. I was thousands of miles away, and Jenny was in danger.
I lost track of things after that, and rode the chopper with intense dread gnawing at my insides. I tried not to conjure the nightmare scenario of Jenny eviscerated, her skeletal remains displayed as an insane trophy, but it was there. Closing my eyes made it worse, so I stared straight ahead, trying to bury the horrific image behind the clouds.
Things were totally out of control.
For years now, I realised, I’d been very lucky in that the events I’d chosen — or been manipulated — to involve myself in had been resolved with the back-up and resources of a certain friend. But this time, trying to fix things without the benefit of Walter’s sanction made me understand how ineffective it was for one man to try to combat the evil of the world. It was always a demanding mission I’d set myself, but it was one thing punishing a low-life criminal, quite another to take on an entire network of world-class villains. Petoskey was dead, and so was Hendrickson. So what? What exactly had I achieved if it meant that Jennifer might also be slaughtered? There was no balance in that. I could kill a hundred, a thousand gangsters, and their lives would be nothing compared to that of one innocent woman.
I’d been a soldier most of my adult life. I’d been trained by the best and had served with the best. But I was no Superman. I was a human being and I suffered the same weaknesses and frailties as any man when faced by a situation beyond my control. I wanted to scream and shout and rail at the world. And God — though at that moment I couldn’t believe that a benign all-powerful being could allow such an injustice to occur — I wanted to wring His fucking neck!
Despite all that, I kept my peace. Violence, rage, anger pointlessly directed wouldn’t help anyone. Luckily Harvey could still think clearly enough to have a destination in mind. He’d had the chopper refuelled while at the heliport in Richmond, so we were good for the trip to the north. Somewhere along the way I fell asleep. Mentally exhausted, I didn’t wake again until Harvey shook me gently and I unglued my eyes and peered over at Walter Conrad’s fishing retreat.
My first sight of the cabin brought everything crashing down on me again. The last time I’d been here was to witness the deranged work of Tubal Cain. I didn’t want to be reminded of it, when in place of Bryce Lang and the bodyguards I superimposed the face of Jenny. It took me a few seconds to get a grip of myself, and yet when I did it was with a new resolve. The cabin horrified me, but I’d always been one for facing my fears. There’s an old adage I subscribe to: If you are afraid of what lies within the cave, walk in. No matter what kind of monster lurked in the darkness, running away didn’t diminish your fear of it. You have to face it and — if needs be — rip the fucker’s throat out with your teeth.
I hitched up my jeans as I stepped down from the chopper and led the way to Walter’s front door. Now that it appeared that Tubal Cain was out of the country and Hendrickson no longer a threat, Walter had chosen to return to his cabin. We found him in the living area, supervising a clean-up crew. The air was redolent with the sharp smell of disinfectant, but it couldn’t hide the sickly undertone of the depravity that had gone on here so recently. Walter was chewing on a fat cigar, but had not as yet lit it. He’d been trying to give up the vice of tobacco for years, and had only recently been able to ditch the panacea of the unlit stogie. Still, I couldn’t blame him for grasping at his old habit. He needed the comfort of it, I guessed. The truth be told, I could have smoked a cigarette myself.
Sometimes I forgot how old Walter was. He was now in his late sixties, but looking at his haunted features, I’d have put him at twenty years older again. His normally rotund body was deflated and his jowls, usually plump and full around the stub of cigar, looked like those of a bloodhound. The whites of his eyes were reddened with broken capillaries. His bald pate seemed to be expanding daily. He made me feel my own mortality like a leaden weight.
I touched the old man on the shoulder and watched as he hung his head. He’d lost a dear friend in Bryce Lang, and most likely in his regular bodyguards as well. I felt for him. But more than that, I felt for Jenny.
‘We need to end this fast.’
He nodded silently.
‘I’m a wanted man,’ I went on. ‘There’s no way that I can do things by the regular channels. Even with false documents, I can’t beat the security measures now that they’re watching for me.’
‘I’ll see to it that you’re given immunity,’ he said.
I’d been expecting him to deny me help this time. I was supposed to be on my own. He had to be kept out of the entire fuck-up. But he came across as being more intent on stopping the monster than concerned about protecting his own arse. Maybe he too was feeling his mortality.
‘You know why Cain has done this.’ I wasn’t referring to the splotches of gore the clean-up crew were tackling.
Walter chewed furiously at his stogie, but didn’t answer.
‘He intends using Jenny to bring John out of hiding. He has only one way of making his demands, and that’s through you, Walt. I want to be there, ready for the bastard when he makes the call.’
‘What if he has already killed her?’
‘I’ll make him pay.’ Never in my life had I made a more powerful resolution. ‘I don’t think he will, though. He’ll keep her alive as bait. I need you to play your part in this, Walt. I need you to have John ready to make the exchange. When that happens, I promise you, Cain won’t live a second longer.’
Walter stood there, wouldn’t even look at me. Finally he nodded and said, ‘Best prepare yourself then, son. I think he’ll make contact soon.’
I’d forgotten that Harvey was standing by my shoulder until he stirred uncomfortably. ‘What about me?’
Walter looked up at him like he was a stranger. I turned to Harvey and gave him his answer. ‘I’m doing this part on my own.’
‘Now hold on a minute!’
‘Look, Harvey,’ I said, ‘I’ve already dragged you and Rink through a huge pile of shit, but it ends here. You’re both great friends, and it has to stop. I’ve fucked your lives. It’s about time I let you get back to some sort of normality.’ Before he could argue, I turned to Walter again and I wasn’t going to take no for an answer. ‘Harvey and Rink’s involvement has to be covered, Walter. I don’t care how you do it, how many strings you have to pull or how many favours you have to call in, they weren’t involved. Got it?’
‘I’ll do what I can.’
‘That’s not good enough. I want your word on it. Their inclusion is buried. Full stop.’
‘My power isn’t infinite, son.’
‘I know. Blame everything on me if you have to, but my friends are kept out of this.’
I grew aware of a hush in the room. The cleaning crew had all paused at our raised voices. I shot them each a dark look and they went back to what they were doing. Quieter, I said; ‘You owe them as much as I do, Walt. Make sure that they’re exonerated. And,’ I leaned in close to his ear, ‘make sure that John is ready for when he’s needed.’
‘OK.’ Walter walked away without further comment. He went through to the back rooms where I’d entered when Hartlaub and Brigham first brought me here. I trusted that he was already on to it. Harvey clutched my shoulder. ‘Let’s go outside, Hunter. We need to speak.’
I followed him outside and I could tell from the way his shoulders had bunched tight that I was in for more raised voices. Yet he surprised me. ‘Thanks for what you just did for me and Rink, Joe.’
‘It’s not right that either of you should suffer for my mess.’
‘It’s not your mess. You did
n’t start this.’
‘Maybe I did, Harve. Maybe I did.’
I’d turned my back on my brother when he was at his lowest. Christ, I’d been close to punching his lights out, but had walked away instead. I’ve often asked myself whether, if I’d just handed over the money he needed then, everything would have been different. Because I hadn’t helped him, John had sought to solve his problems by running away. That had led him to cross paths with Petoskey and then Hendrickson. In turn, that had brought him into the crosshairs of Tubal Cain. It was the butterfly effect, my inaction reverberating down through the years to this point where all those I held dear were in more danger than ever. Shit, it had even made me the man I’d become. Some legend: a fucking vigilante guilty of murder. Well, enough was enough. It was time to send the bad karma back at the person who truly deserved it.
‘Do something for me, will you?’
‘Anything,’ Harvey said.
‘Go back and check on Rink. Tell him I’m sorry for taking off without saying goodbye.’
‘Tell him yourself when you get back.’
‘ If I come back,’ I corrected.
I wasn’t talking about running away from the law; I seriously doubted that I’d return in one piece. If it meant the difference between John and Jenny’s safety, and me dying under Tubal Cain’s blade, then I chose the blade. No question.
Chapter 33
Getting into the UK had been relatively simple for Cain; not so getting out again with a hostage added to the equation.
Nevertheless he was resourceful, and using Hendrickson’s contacts he arranged flights for himself and Jennifer Telfer on a private jet employed to shuttle a TV mogul back and forth across the Atlantic. Said mogul was known to travel with a contingent of staff and ‘guests’, some of the latter often a little the worse for wear when arriving at their destination, so Jennifer blended in nicely.
Cain found the flight interminable. Not because he was surrounded by starlets stoned out of their heads, but because he had no way of satisfying his urge to take a memento or three from their skinny bodies. The TV guy was an insufferable ass, someone whose ego was larger than his fat head, and was sarcastic without wit. He sat in his plush leather seat, liquor flowing freely, and a couple lines of white powder offered to him on a tray. He used a glass tube to snort the cocaine, and Cain considered going and giving him a pat on the head for all he was doing for the TV ratings. He wondered if one pat would be enough to ram the glass tube all the way into the unctuous bastard’s brain. The two minders wouldn’t be able to stop him; in fact, they were an embarrassment, engaging in the party the way they did. Cain had once worked as a bodyguard to US dignitaries, and these scumbags brought shame to his trade. The only thing that stopped him from slaughtering them was that he’d have to go through the entire retinue, and the cabin crew, and Cain did not have the ability to safely land the plane.
As a consolation prize, Cain lifted a steak knife from the silver service galley and went to thank the TV guy for his hospitality. Up close his eyes were a little crossed, and he had accepted Cain’s hand without listening to a goddamn word, but when Cain walked away again he was palming a strip of cloth snagged from the asshole’s necktie. Neither the mogul nor his inept guards realised how close Cain had got to slipping the knife under the man’s sternum and into his heart. Cain returned to his seat, and showed Jennifer his prize. She was decisively underwhelmed, as the TV guy was wont to say. Cain spent the flight rubbing the fabric between his index finger and thumb like it was an executive stress ball.
On arrival at Baltimore/Washington International, Cain had mingled with the noisy group, swaying along with the rest of them, even cackling with everyone else at a girl who went down on her hands and knees on the tarmac. As the giggling TV mogul lent his arm to the stoned girl, Cain supported Jennifer on his elbow and handed over both their passports. Used to dealing with celebrities and dignitaries, the security was lax and the couple were waved through as readily as all others in the entourage. Their fake passports would have passed muster even if Homeland Security had studied them, but the young guard manning the booth at the private entrance had eyes only for the beauties that flanked the haughty celebrity star-maker. The leggy blonde who’d recently taken the tumble was a minor celebrity in her own right, having been a stand-out on a countrywide talent show. Her mediocre singing voice might have ensured she was voted through each week, but the way she was nibbling on the TV boss’s earlobe indicated a more likely explanation.
Cain was pleased to be leaving them all behind and quickly veered away once they were through the first-class arrivals lounge.
Cain had a van waiting outside and helped Jennifer in and strapped her into her seat. For good measure he gave her another shot of anaesthetic to ensure she remained drowsy. Regretfully, he’d dumped his weapons back in the UK, but there was another set waiting for him on the passenger seat. He had been mildly surprised to find that everything was in order for his return, but it seemed that Kurt Hendrickson’s name carried weight even after his death.
News of Hendrickson’s demise had filtered through to him via the gangster’s contacts back in England. Cain hadn’t been upset at the news. Neither was he surprised. He had cautioned Hendrickson that Joe Hunter was remorseless, but his warning hadn’t been taken seriously. He was only amazed that Hunter had allowed Baron to escape when he had him in his sights. That was a big mistake, because the man had taken the loose reins of Hendrickson’s empire and was even now plotting vengeance. That he had organised the pick-up and supply of weapons for Cain meant that Baron intended using him to finish Hunter once and for all. Well, Cain thought, let Baron think he was in command, but he would be used by no one. Especially by someone who’d made so many mistakes that he was becoming a liability.
Following a foolhardy attempt at having Hunter captured by the police, Baron had fled back to the house where Jared Rington had been tortured, and where Sigmund Petoskey subsequently died. Cain had no intention of taking Jennifer there, because it was already on Hunter’s radar. Instead he’d have her held somewhere neutral, a place that he could control. If only Jubal’s Hollow had gone undiscovered… but his ossuary had been dynamited, the ground levelled, and it was now a featureless destination for ghoulish tourists following the serial killer trail.
Climbing in the van, he studied the man who was at his disposal. He liked that choice of word: disposal. He’d been so well behaved on his jaunt to England, maybe he could try out his new knives when the driver was no longer needed. He’d taken bones from Jeffrey Taylor and his bodyguards in Montana, as well as from the CIA man in the Adirondacks, plus a couple treasures from Michael Birch, the cowardly DA’s assistant, but since then his collection of trophies hadn’t grown. From his trip to England he’d only gleaned the tail-end of a waitress’s apron and a strip of a multi-millionaire’s necktie — though they were still valuable trophies. No, wait. He did have one other trophy and it was worth more than any he’d taken since his escape from Fort Conchar. He looked into the back of the van to where Jennifer Telfer slumped in her seat.
Jennifer would bring John Telfer to him.
He wondered if the woman was enough to bait his trap, or if he should have brought the two children along as well. The problem with that scenario was that getting all three of them into the country undetected would have been nigh-on impossible. No, he decided. He recalled his conversation with Ol’ Johnny Boy, and how the man had wished only to do right by his family. He would not want the mother of his children to die: Jennifer still meant an awful lot to him, Cain was sure, and would bring John running to save her.
Of course there’d be one other coming to rescue her, too.
Bring it on!
Almost as much as he wanted his final reckoning with John Telfer, Cain looked forward to reacquainting himself with Joe Hunter.
‘I’ve a bone to pick with you,’ he said.
‘Say what?’
‘Private thoughts,’ he told the driver. ‘Jus
t do what you’re supposed to and drive.’
‘Would if I knew where you wanted to go.’
Cain studied the man, giving him more attention this time. He was a hard-faced punk, fair-haired, with a wispy beard, and spectacles perched on a crooked nose that looked like it had been broken more than once. He had the look of a street fighter, and from the tattoos on his forearms Cain deduced that he’d had a tough upbringing. The coded tats were de rigueur in prison yards for someone who had killed another man. If Cain had followed that practice he’d need a body the size of a house.
‘You don’t know?’
‘I didn’t ask.’
Cain nodded. The driver was to be trusted. By omitting knowledge of a destination, he was showing that he wasn’t leading Cain into a trap. Thoughtful, Cain decided, but unnecessary. The driver was still at his disposal, whether or not he was trustworthy.
‘Take us to the harbour at Baltimore,’ Cain said.
‘You have someone meeting you there?’
‘No. I’m hungry and I hear they have great crab cakes.’
The driver adjusted his spectacles before setting the van rolling. Along the way, he cast sidelong glances at his passenger, generally followed by frowns that marred his rugged complexion with even deeper folds. He had no concept of a man like Cain, but then again, not too many people did. Cain ignored him, choosing instead to lean over the seat and keep an eye on Jennifer. She was sleeping, her head drooping over her chest. She’d have a hell of a stiff neck when she woke up, but Cain could help loosen it with a few expert probes of his knife. He smiled at the thought, and in his mind’s eye began stripping back the outer dermis to display the spine hidden beneath.
