by Matt Hilton
Even at breakneck speed, it was almost an hour before we caught sight of the Dodge hijacked from the house at Long Beach. We were tempted to continue at top speed, attempt to catch and then force the Dodge off the road. Though I didn't want to believe that John was dead, now, at least, we could stop the Harvestman's reign. Of course, stopping him here would bring further complications.
Conclusion? It would be more prudent to follow at a safe distance and act when there was no likelihood of an innocent passerby being caught up in the gunfire.
Cain wasn't a fool. He was a crazy, murderous bastard, but he was also shrewd. Along with that, he'd been trained as a government agent, and it was a given that he was an expert driver, versed in all manner of countersurveillance measures and reactive driving. We fell into line, allowing more than a quarter of a mile, and at least four vehicles, to separate us. Though that was a meaningless exercise.
"He knows we're here," Rink said.
I looked across at him. There he was again, reading my thoughts.
"He knows we're here and he's taunting us," Rink embellished.
I nodded. "Probably."
"Back at the house, it was almost like he was challenging you to find him. Makes me think that's why he spent so long in the city; to let you catch up."
When I thought about it, I realized Rink was right. "Yeah, he was taking a big chance driving through the center of L.A. when there could've been an APB out for him. He could've easily switched vehicles, too. Looks like he wants us to follow him."
"You want me to get up a little closer? Put a little pressure on the squirmy little punk?"
"No. Just hang back where we are. Let's see where he wants to take us."
"My guess is it's going to be somewhere remote. He's looking for a showdown. Doesn't want anyone else getting in the way."
"If it's a showdown he wants, it's what he's gonna get."
Rink and I exchanged glances.
"He's certainly made this personal, ain't he?" Rink asked.
"He made it personal when he took John prisoner," I pointed out.
"Maybe so," Rink said. "But I'm referring to him and you. When he found out who you were, I could see it in his face—it was almost as if he was excited. As if he'd found a worthy adversary, y'know? You think he's lookin' to die, Hunter? Some of these sickos like to go out in a blaze of glory. Think he's lookin' for you to kill him?"
"Whether he is or he isn't, that's what's going to happen," I promised.
"Yeah," Rink grumbled. "But be wary, man. If he has a death wish, he intends to take you with him. If he's looking to bolster his reputation, who better to have on his dead list than you?" Rink looked across at me again. "Apart from me, of course."
Even in that moment, Rink could find humor. It made me smile. "Of course."
"No, man, I'm serious. The psycho's looking to make himself famous."
I shook my head. "You really think anyone will ever know the truth about him?"
"Not if it's left to Walter."
"The provision he put on us—allowing us to bring the Harvestman down—was that his name never got mentioned again. How likely is it that my name hits the news if the maniac manages to take me out?"
"Not very, I suppose. But then again, what about your folks back home? Don't you think they're gonna want answers, that they won't make a scene if anything happens to you?"
"Diane knows what my line of work is. She'll receive a call from Walter's office. She'll be told to keep quiet. She wants a quiet life, she'll comply."
Rink grunted. "An' here was me thinkin' you really understood your ex-wife."
I squinted across at him and he looked at me as though I was a complete idiot. "Hunter, man. You're not in that game anymore. How many times do I have to remind you? There's your mom and dad. Jennifer. An' you really think for one goddamn minute that Diane ain't gonna scream to the rafters if anything happens to you? You think she'll give a shit what line Walter tries to feed her about the Harvestman's identity being an embarrassment to the U.S. government?"
I exhaled. He was right again. Of course Diane would want—no, demand—answers. Suggesting otherwise was doing her an injustice. I nodded.
"Not only that," Rink went on. "But don't you think I won't raise the subject? I don't owe Walter a goddamn thing. I never made any promises to hide the identity of his little black sheep."
"No, Rink. I made the promise for both of us. By coming along, you bought into this."
Rink's face twisted, but he was giving in.
We drove for another hour and a quarter and silence reigned over the many miles.
"Look familiar?" Rink suddenly asked.
I glanced toward a rest stop across the highway to our left. There was a diner and rest area, beyond them a cul-de-sac of single-story cabins. I shook my head.
"That's where the couple was murdered. The man and woman who picked John up in their car."
"You mean the couple who picked up Martin Maxwell or Tubal Cain or whatever it is he calls himself? It's obvious now, isn't it, what really happened?"
"You're saying that somehow the Harvestman ended up with John's
car—the one he stole from Petoskey—and it was him, not John, who the witnesses saw being picked up?"
"Yeah. Exactly."
"So how do you explain John and the Harvestman tying up together again? I mean . . . it's a bit of a stretch, ain't it?"
"Not unless something happened between John and Cain. Something that ensured Cain would hunt him down."
Rink gave an expansive shrug. "Who knows? They coulda been acting together long before any of this happened."
"No. I don't believe that. Chance threw them together. I think John became an unwilling puppet. The evidence is all there. Remember that it was John who saved the old woman, that it was John who gave us the tools to hunt Cain down. It was his decision to take my cell phone. Do you really believe he'd have done that if he was working with Cain?"
"No, I don't. An' I don't think he'd offer himself up as a sacrifice, either. I'm only playing advocate here. I don't suppose we'll ever know the true story."
"Only way we're gonna find that out is to save John," I said. "If I have my way, Cain won't be around to do any explaining."
Out here on the fringes of the Mojave Desert, there was a surreal cast to the early evening sky. Behind us, hovering above the Pacific Ocean, the sun's final gasp made the sky a mother-of-pearl banner. Alongside the road, Joshua trees cast elongated shadows like accusing fingers, pointing the way to the showdown ahead.
Four vehicles ahead, Cain flicked on his lights, ensuring that we could follow him as the night began to descend over the desert.
While he drove, Rink drank mineral water courtesy of the government. He offered me some. Pity that the bottle didn't contain something a little stronger. Nonetheless, I accepted it and chugged down a grateful mouthful.
Really, I should've been thirstier than I was, I should've felt the
need for food. Neither of us had eaten anything since early that morning. However, the continued release of adrenaline ensured that nothing would pass my lips that required my stomach to hold on to it. Anything more solid than the spring water, I suspected, would end up projected out the window in a couple of miles.
As night came, Rink pushed the SUV on. One of the cars between us turned up a side road and Rink filled the gap it left.
For two more hours Cain led us on a merry dance. Then, as if concerned that we might miss him turning off the main route, he used his turn signal, slowed down dramatically, and crawled to an intersection.
Two of the cars ahead of us overtook him before he reached the turnoff. As Cain swept to the right, the remaining car continued on to the east, and I saw Cain hit the brakes a couple of times, ensuring that we didn't lose him.
"Considerate son of a bitch," Rink muttered.
Then Cain was on the overpass, crossing the interstate, heading northward. On the bridge he slowed to a crawl, watched as we swung onto th
e off ramp. Then he gave the Dodge gas and peeled away.
"I guess we're getting close now, and he wants time to prepare," I said.
The GPS tracker had been obsolete for some hours now. Throughout it had traveled cradled in my palms, for no other reason than it stopped me fiddling with my gun. Luck, or maybe foresight, caused me to check the screen. The cursor indicating the latest triangulated location of the cell phone had finally stopped moving. I didn't even bother to frown. Cain had discovered our deception. Maybe he'd found John was carrying the device as soon as they'd left the house at Long Beach; maybe it was much later. Whatever. When he'd slowed down, it wasn't to taunt us, it was to throw away the phone.
It was clear that he wanted us nearby. More clear was his need to buy a little time before we arrived at the meeting ground.
"Put your foot down, Rink."
"I can still see his lights," Rink said. "I won't lose him."
"He won't let you lose him," I said. "He'll make sure we know ex- actly where he is. But he'll be prepared for our arrival, and I don't want to allow him that advantage."
37
"you don't look so good." Cain studied his passenger. His words, he decided, were an understatement. John was spread across the backseat of the Dodge like yesterday's fast-food wrappers; cold, soiled, and greasy. Blood from his wound caked his clothing all down his side. His hands were also reddishbrown and he had smears on his forehead. Perspiration oozed from him like water from a half-dead boiler.
"I said that you don't look so good, John," Cain said, watching John's eyelids flutter in the rearview mirror.
"Turn off the light, willya?" John mumbled incoherently.
"I need to check that you're okay," Cain said, but he reached up and flicked off the interior lights.
"Why? You're gonna kill me," John said, his voice coming out like marbles over a tin sheet. "Or have you forgotten?"
"You keep saying that. I might have a change of mind."
"Yeah, right." John forced himself to sit upright.
"Lay back down."
"I'm fine."
"The road gets kinda rough up ahead. It would be better if you were lying down. Less chance you'll open up your wound again."
"My wound's fine."
Cain gave a humorless laugh. "Suit yourself."
"Better than suiting you," John said with little conviction.
Cain drummed his fingers on the steering wheel. "You know, I'm not sure this old heap will get us where we're going. Not in any shape, at least."
"Won't matter," John told him. "You won't need it for the return trip. You'll be getting a lift in the coroner's car."
"Ha!"
"I mean it. You mess with my brother, you're buying your own body bag."
"Keep thinking that way, John. Optimism will keep you alive."
"I'm not gonna get outta this alive. I know that. I've known it all along. My only hope is that I see you die first."
"If anyone ends up dead, it'll be your high and mighty brother. Chances are I'll have to do Jared Rington, too."
"You actually believe that?"
"Are you saying that confidence in my abilities is a bad thing? Shame on you, trying to tarnish my self-esteem."
"Nothing I say would make you think badly of yourself. You're a fuckin' psychopath."
"Sticks and stones, John. Sticks and stones."
"Stop being so damn patronizing. Why don't you come clean and tell the truth? You've intended killing me all along, haven't you? I can't believe you saved me from drowning so that you could murder me. That's so twisted, nobody would believe it."
"The truth is, you're here now. Makes no difference whether you believe me or not."
John snapped, "You're gonna get your head handed to you on a plate. My brother isn't like me; Joe will kill you."
"Nah, I don't see things turning out that way."
John gave a disgusted cough, squirmed down in the seat. Either his strength was failing him or he'd decided that it was pointless talking. Not that it made a difference; if Cain wanted to talk, he would talk. "Now, then, where is the big bold Joe Hunter?"
Cain squinted into the mirror, adjusting it. Some distance back he could see the headlights of the pursuing SUV. In response, he turned off the Dodge's lights. "Don't want to make things too easy, now, do we?"
"I thought you wanted him to follow you?"
"I do, just not too closely."
"You might as well give up. Joe isn't gonna be reading you your rights. He's gonna put a bullet right between your eyes."
"Then I'll just have to make certain he doesn't see me, won't I?"
Cain grinned into the darkness.
The road had become a dirt trail, with ruts on either side and sagebrush along its center where the desert sand gathered. The moon hanging low over the horizon offered a little light, so Cain could make out the road ahead. Not that he needed to concentrate; he knew this trail as well as he knew his own dark heart's desires. Despite his misgivings about the worthiness of the Dodge, he pushed it to greater speed, smiling at each jounce and the wince of pain it elicited from his passenger.
"I bet you wish you hadn't pulled that stunt with the cell phone," he said. John didn't answer. "Right now you're thinking that—not only have you signed your own death warrant—but your brother's as well. Deep down, some errant grain of honor is festering like a malignant cancer, eating away at your insides. You're thinking, I should've paid my dues and spared the others. Now I've put my brother in terrible danger."
"No," John said. "I'm thinking you're so full of crap I can't stand the stench any longer. I'm outta here, you maniac!"
Then John grabbed the door handle and thrust the door open. The rush of wind banged it back against him.
Cain would never admit to panic, but realizing John's insane plan, he let slip a shout of denial. He immediately stomped on the brakes. John's body was thrown forward, and his forehead slammed the back of Cain's neck. The shock of the collision knocked Cain's hands off the steering wheel, and momentarily he had to fight both the movement of the vehicle and the wave of agony washing over him. In those few seconds, John threw his weight against the partly open door and fell away into billowing dust.
"Son of a bitch!" Cain screamed, stomping on the brake pedal a second time. The Dodge fishtailed, sending up plumes of dirt, ending up crossways in the road. He threw open the door and lurched out, eyes scanning the road for John. Not on the road. He began running. In the distance were the telltale lights of Hunter's car.
Forty or so paces along the road he found John sprawled at the base of a gnarly cactus. Momentarily he feared that John was dead, but then he saw the fire in the man's eyes as he squirmed around to face him.
"You stupid, stupid idiot," Cain snarled.
"Screw you," John grunted.
Cain stepped forward as John attempted to rise up against him. Cain's foot pushed him down again, pressing savagely against the wound in his chest. John screamed. Cain pressed harder. And the screaming stopped as John passed out at last.
Cain grabbed him, thrust his arms around John's chest in a bear hug, and began backpedaling. Dragging the groaning man, Cain looked up. Hunter's lights were some distance away, but looming nearer. "I should just leave you here to die, you goddamn ass. Leave you in the road so your freakin' brother rides right over you."
It was a hollow threat because he still had a plan for John Telfer.
38
the enigma that was tubal cain kept nagging at me. How does a psycho like Martin Maxwell bluff his way through the rigorous selection processes employed by the Secret Service? How does he manage to conceal his true self—a depraved stalker and murderer—and pass himself off as normal?
Not only that, but to his wife and kids, had he been the epitome of the family dad? What had gone through their minds when they'd finally seen his true face?
What had his long-lost brother imagined when they'd first met? That they'd pick up on their missing past, that they'd shoot pool
together, share a couple of beers, become bosom buddies? I bet he never imagined that he'd end up a scorched corpse in a house he'd never known, the ghosts of Cain's wife and children keeping him company.
"You're doing it again," Rink said.
I looked over at Rink, who was doing a good job of looking at me without taking his full attention from the trail.
"Doing what?"
"Wearing that face."
"What face?"
"The face that says you ain't worried about what's to come. The one you always wore on missions."
