by Matt Hilton
Job done, Rink was as affable as ever. The scars would forever be a reminder of how close to death he'd come, but he wasn't overly upset. The scars on his face gave his rugged good looks even more appeal to the ladies. Or so Rink said. There were tears in our eyes when we said good-bye at the airport.
My final concern. And the most pressing. Going home. Wherever that turned out to be.
Epilogue
jubal's hollow.
A sun-blasted landscape in the middle of nowhere. The G-men had come and gone. An army of anthropologists, medical examiners, and crime scene investigators had picked the barrens clean. The remnants of Cain's depravity had been listed, labeled, sealed, and shipped off in packing crates to a secret location. And with them, the media hubbub had died down. The Harvestman story was old news now, other atrocities in the world taking center stage. The camera vans and anchors in starched suits and starched hair departed for more immediate bad news stories.
Now there was nothing but scrub, sand, and more sand.
As it should be.
But there were visitors. Hundreds of them. People came to stare and shake their heads. Twisted souvenir hunters came away with nothing but fragile bones from birds or lizards, but to the casual observer true remnants of the Harvestman's ossuary. A number of entrepreneurial tour operators made a killing from the fascination of the ghoulish tourists who sought out more than the glitz of L.A. The Harvestman was big business. Big money. He was, after all, the most despicable of all murderers this side of the new millennium. He had achieved the notoriety and fame he'd desired.
However, under constant armed supervision, the patient known only as John Doe must have found it difficult to curse through his ruined throat. For though the Harvestman was the name on the lips of every person with a penchant for dark history, Maxwell meant nothing. To the world, Robert Swan, a mediocre guitar player with hopeless dreams of the big time, had at last achieved his fifteen minutes of fame.
Acknowledgments
a very big thank-you from the bottom of my heart to all those people who have helped me along the way. To Denise, who is everything to me. To all my family, particularly my father, Jacky, and brother, Jim, who have helped me immensely in writing this book. To Luigi and to Alison, I owe you a massive debt of gratitude for having faith in me and championing me all the way. To David Highfill and Sue Fletcher, editors extraordinaire, for all your brilliant work and guidance. To Lee Child for your kind support. To Jeanette Slinger for making everyone take notice. And to everyone else in the background on both sides of the Atlantic for all your hard work.
About the Author
MATT HILTON is an expert in kempo jujitsu and holds the rank of fourth dan. He founded and taught at the respected Bushidokan Dojo, and he has worked in private security and for the Cumbria police department. Hilton is married and lives in England.
www.matthiltonbooks.com
www.matthiltonbooks.blogspot.com
DEAD MEN'S DUST. Copyright © 2009 by Matt Hilton.
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