Heirs of Cain

by Tom Wallace

“This current situation is, to the best of my knowledge, the first time Cain has been called into play since my retirement.” Lucas sipped at his coffee. “Like old times, except …”

  “What, General?”

  “Old friends have become the new enemy.”

  “What’s Seneca like?” Nichols asked.

  “Brutal, efficient. But lacking any restraint. Cain killed. Cold, methodical, like the jungle predator. Seneca relished the act of killing. The brutality. Inflicting pain. A kill meant nothing to Seneca unless the victim suffered.”

  “What if Cain finds Seneca? How will—?”

  A knock at the door interrupted the one question Lucas knew was inevitable. It always popped up, anytime men asked about Cain and Seneca. A black lieutenant colonel entered and handed Nichols a memo. Nichols waited until the man retreated before reading it. When he finished, he handed it to Lucas.

  “Peace in the Middle East?” Nichols said. “Never gonna happen. Not in our lifetime, anyway. Three thousand years they’ve been at each other’s throats. That’s never gonna change.”

  “July 30, Camp David, the president, Israeli prime minister, Palestinian president, and a representative from Hamas,” Lucas summarized. “And you’re to oversee security. Four parts nitro. A volatile mixture. I don’t envy you, General.”

  Lucas reread the memo, paying particular attention to the time and place of the meeting. Saturday, July 30, Camp David. He handed the memo back to Nichols.

  “Do you have a problem with me informing Cain?” he asked.

  “No, not at all. Who better to have on your side than the perfect predator?”

  Lucas stood and shook Nichols’s hand. “Let me know if there is anything I can do. Anything at all.”

  Lucas left the general’s office in the Pentagon, hurried to his car, got in, and quickly scribbled the memo information onto an envelope. His thoughts were racing at blinding speed. One thought stood out: time was growing short. July 30 was less than two weeks away. There was still much to be done.

  His first priority was a phone call.

  It had to be made.

  Now.

  Houdini.

  Andy Waltz.

  Cain smiled as he mentally clicked through Waltz’s bio Readers’ Digest style: smart, hip, Jewish, streetwise son of a wealthy New York senator and his socialite wife; ex-CIA/military intelligence; married and divorced twice; now a columnist for The New York Times.

  Also: One of the initial candidates at the Shop; solid soldier in every respect, yet lacking the “intangibles” necessary to become a successful assassin; a smooth-talking con man of the highest order. He possessed a different set of talents that could be beneficial to the group, namely the ability to “scrounge,” and had the hustler’s knack for always being one step ahead of the posse. Perhaps most importantly of all, he was one of the few men Cain trusted without reservation.

  For almost five years Houdini’s greatest gift, and his major benefit to Cain, was an uncanny ability to make seemingly non-existent supplies magically materialize. Houdini would steal Westmoreland’s balls if they were deemed necessary to the success of a mission. His motto: if it’s real, it’s mine to steal.

  Waltz was sitting alone in his glassed-in office, feet propped up on the desk, reading Newsweek. Cain knocked, then opened the door. Waltz peeked over his glasses, narrowed his birdlike eyes, and smiled a familiar, crooked grin.

  “No proselytizing, so get your ugly Jehovah’s Witness ass out of here.” He slammed his feet down, jumped from his chair, and gave Cain a hug. “I cannot believe what I’m seeing. You ugly schmuck, how you been doing?”

  “Boot Hill is filled with men who called me ugly,” Cain retorted, grinning. “Better be careful.”

  “Okay, so you’re just a schmuck.”

  “That’s better.”

  Waltz went into a martial arts stance. “I can take you, Cain. We both know it.” He straightened up, put a hand on Cain’s shoulder, and said, “No shit, man. It’s great to see you. I miss those days. All the guys.”

  Cain closed the door. “We need to talk.”

  “This sounds like business, not pleasure.” Waltz pointed to an empty chair. “What’s up?”

  “Cardinal is dead.” Cain said.

  “I heard. Any idea who did it?”

  “Deke.”

  “What? Deke killed Cardinal? Killed one of his own?” Waltz pulled out a cigarette, lit it, inhaled deeply, let out a cloud of white smoke. “Goddammit, why would he kill Cardinal? Cardinal, of all people?”

  He crushed the cigarette into the ashtray and looked straight at Cain. His fingertips drummed the desktop. “This has to be dealt with.”

  “It’s been done.”

  “Good. I hope you made that big spade suffer.”

  Waltz lit another cigarette, took one long drag, then smashed it into the ashtray. “Fuckin’ Cardinal. He was one of the good guys.”

  “You heard from Seneca lately?” Cain asked.

  The question surprised Waltz. “Seneca? No. Why?”

  “Deke was working for him.”

  “That figures. Hell, those two always were joined at the hip.”

  “It’s time to scrounge again, Houdini.”

  Waltz’s face lit up. “Tell me what you need.”

  “Information.”

  “My specialty. Name it.”

  “Seneca might be living here in the City. I need an address.”

  “No problem. What else?”

  “Cardinal managed to say something before he died. ‘Fallen angels.’ That can only mean—”

  “A hit.”

  “Yeah. And my hunch is, it’s a big one. So keep your ears open. Snoop around. If you get wind of a visit, a meeting, anything that might interest Seneca, I need to know about it.”

  “I’m on it.”

  Cain took a pen from the desk, wrote two phone numbers on a memo pad, and handed it to Waltz. “The top one is mine.”

  “And the other one?”

  “Lucas.”

  Waltz whistled through clenched teeth. “You and Lucas. Damn, this must be bigger than big.”

  “I have a feeling it’ll happen soon.”

  Waltz smiled. “Leave it to Houdini. I’ve never failed you before, and I won’t this time.”

  Simon had just dozed off when the phone rang. He shook himself out of his sleepy stupor, cursed loudly, and picked up the receiver.

  “What?” he yelled. He suddenly snapped to an upright position when he recognized the voice on the other end of the line. Reaching up with his left hand, he rubbed both eyes, yawned, listened. “A pen? Got one right here. Shoot.”

  Simon squeezed the phone between his ear and shoulder while scratching the caller’s words onto a notepad. When he finished writing, his beefy hand dropped the pen and he stood up.

  “Yeah, got it, right. Okay, no sweat. I’ll give it to him.” Simon listened for several seconds, anger rising within him. “Why do you want me to read the damn message to you? Hell, you just gave it to me.”

  Simon cursed silently, then read the message back to the caller. He expected the worst, but was pleased when the caller praised him for pronouncing the words correctly. Simon hung up the phone and fell back onto the bed. That asshole Karl, he said to himself, what does he think I am—an idiot? He sat up, grabbed the bottle of Jack Daniels, and took a drink.

  “Fuckin’ bastard,” he mumbled.

  He held the piece of paper up to the light and reread the message. What was the big deal, anyway? It seemed simple enough—a time, date, and location.

  Simple enough, except for that last line, which Karl made him repeat three times.

  Tuez le messager.

  Simon Buckman was a great believer in dreams, reasoning that if all those old Bible big shots put so much faith in them, why shouldn’t he? Maybe there was something to them. Maybe sleep’s images were worth paying attention to. What if the future could be found in that nocturnal landscape? What if dreams were where the answ
ers to important questions could be found? It was something to think about.

  Last night Simon dreamed that he killed the Indian. Sliced him up with a sword and fed his body to alligators. Simon didn’t own a sword, or alligators, and had no clue why they would find a place in a dream of his. Dreams, especially those that lingered long after he awoke, rarely made much sense. But that was a minor detail. All in all he thought it was an awfully good dream, one he was more than willing to turn into reality.

  He paced the deck of his yacht, stopping only on those occasions when his empty glass needed a hit of Jack Daniels. The dream had him wired, thinking angles, scenarios. In the dream he shot the Indian in the back of the head, cut off his penis, stuffed it into his mouth, took the sword, sliced and diced the body, then made the alligators happy. It was an exhilarating dream. Simon awoke that morning with his first full erection in nearly three years.

  But the dream failed to address one important issue: how to explain the Indian’s death to Karl. Simon knew that would be a problem. His explanation would have to be precise and believable. Even so, Karl wasn’t likely to be pleased. He would no doubt view such a bold and daring move as open rebellion.

  “Fuck Karl,” Simon muttered. He fortified his growing courage by belting down another shot of Jack Daniels. “Fuck ‘em all. None of ‘em mean a goddamn thing to me.”

  Simon jumped when a gull flew overhead and squawked loudly. His hand moved inside his coat pocket and touched the Beretta. The cold steel further braced his courage. So did yet another blast of whiskey.

  Though his nerves were jangled and his energy could jump-start a dead battery, Simon felt a great surge of joy coursing through his veins. He was about to do something big, something many others, perhaps dozens of others, hadn’t been able—or courageous enough—to do.

  He was going to kill Seneca.

  His step quickened as he paced the deck. This was dangerous, he knew, but it was also something more. Much more. The prospect of actually killing the Indian, with that arrogant smile and invincible attitude, was thrilling.

  Simon could barely keep from shouting his plan to the heavens.

  But the specter of Karl curtailed his joy. How best to handle him was a question that couldn’t be dismissed lightly. As Simon played the scene out in his head, he kept coming back to a single answer: use the Indian’s reputation as the reason for the kill. Everyone knew the Indian was a renegade, a bully, with an infamous temper. His rep was legendary. Karl surely knew that. So he would tell Karl the Indian caused trouble and the troublemaker had to be done away with.

  It was logical. It made perfect sense. Karl would understand. But what if Karl didn’t buy the story? What if he challenged Simon? What if—?

  Simon drained the whiskey from his glass. No problem, he thought. If that happens, there are people I know who would be more than happy to rid the world of Karl. For enough money, anyone, even a top-echelon man like Karl, can be taken out. In this business, money always trumps sacred cows.

  Simon looked at his watch: 9:28. He breathed deeply. Only thirty-two minutes until his meeting with the Indian.

  Or so he thought.

  “Hello, fatman.”

  Simon spun around so quickly he became dizzy. Fearing he would topple over, he dropped the glass into the Gulf and clutched the rail. “How the hell did you get here?” he demanded, swallowing hard.

  “I’m like the wind, fatman. You never see me.”

  “Exactly what I need: a fuckin’ Indian mystic.”

  Simon slid his right hand off the rail and into his pocket. Even as his fingers tickled the Beretta, his nerves were screaming. A sudden realization hit: seeing the Indian in the flesh was much different than seeing him in a dream. Having him standing directly in front of you wasn’t like seeing his fleeting image in a nighttime vision. Simon leaned back against the rail, his body trembling, the desire for another drink almost overwhelming.

  “I understand you have a message for me,” Seneca said. “Let’s hear it.”

  Simon pulled out the small piece of paper and started to hand it to the Indian.

  “Read it,” Seneca ordered.

  Fuck you. Simon’s fingers gripped the Beretta’s handle. His mind screamed, barking out the order. Now is the time to kill this crazy Indian. Now is the time to erase him forever from my dreams.

  “Read it,” Seneca repeated, his voice harsh, cold.

  Simon’s trembling fingers uncurled from the gun. Now was not the right time. That would come later, when the Indian was ready to leave. That’s when the situation would be most favorable. He’d put a bullet in his brain, take the yacht out in the Bay, weigh the body down, and dump it overboard. No one would have to know, not even Karl.

  Seneca stepped forward, grabbed Simon by the throat. “I’m tired of waiting,” he hissed. “Read the message.”

  Simon brought the paper up into the light and read the message, enunciating every word clearly and precisely. Karl would have been pleased.

  Seneca nodded, like a satisfied elementary school teacher. He released his grip on Simon’s throat, stepped to the rail, and looked out at the sea.

  “Very good, fatman.” Seneca continued to stare at the calm Gulf waters for nearly a minute, then abruptly turned and started to walk away.

  “There’s more,” Simon said, his right hand again dropping into his pocket.

  Seneca turned back around. “Read it.”

  “Tuez le messager.” Simon wadded the paper into a ball and clutched it in his fist. “I hope you know what that mumbo-jumbo means, because Karl didn’t clue me in.”

  Seneca moved forward, that quicksilver smile on his face. “Just keep your eyes on me,” he whispered into Simon’s ear, “and I’ll show you what it means.”

  Seneca took Simon’s arm, lifted it up, and removed the Beretta from his hand. He stared at Simon, shook his head, and laughed softly.

  “There are dreamers, and there are men of action,” Seneca said, tossing the gun overboard. “You, fatman, are a dreamer.”

  Anger and hatred rose like white-hot lava within Simon. His lips curled back like an angry pit bull’s. He silently cursed himself for not taking out the Indian earlier, for ignoring his basic instincts. It was too late now. He’d missed his chance. All he could do now was wait for another time, another opportunity. And there would be another time. He’d make sure of that.

  “You have your message,” Simon said. “So, unless you want to tell me what those words mean, why don’t you scat?”

  “I said I would show you.”

  “Okay, so fuckin’ show me.”

  The Indian delivered a hard kick to Simon’s groin, an on-target blow that sent the big man crashing to the deck. Simon groaned loudly, rolling from side to side, his meaty hands covering his injured genitals.

  Seneca knelt beside him, held up the knife, and smiled. The moonlight danced along the side of the blade. Simon’s wide eyes, filled with fear, followed the knife until it came to rest directly below his sternum.

  “No, Seneca, please! Dear God, why?”

  “Just following orders,” Seneca answered.

  “Karl’s? Let me talk to him. I can work things out.”

  “Not Karl’s. Yours.”

  “Mine?” Simon said.

  “Tuez le messager. Know what that means?”

  “What?”

  “Kill the messenger. And you, fatman, are the messenger.”

  Simon began to whimper. “I’m begging you, Seneca, have some mercy.”

  “Don’t worry; you won’t feel any pain.”

  Seneca placed the tip of the blade right under Simon’s sternum, angled the knife downward slightly, then drove it upward with a fierce thrust. The strike was made with surgical precision, narrowly bypassing the rib cage and puncturing the heart.

  Simon died instantly. As promised, he felt no pain.

  Midnight.

  Cain lay on the bed, eyes closed, listening to the mixture of Manhattan sounds—car horns blaring
, a Hispanic man exchanging obscenities with a black woman, police sirens, jazz from a club across the street. The sounds drifted in and out like a movie soundtrack being played for a blind man.

  He was dressed in Levis, a white Polo shirt, and Nikes. Sleep edged into the picture, but he quickly shunted it aside. He had to stay awake, be alert. He thought of phoning Lucas, dismissed the idea as dumb. Then he thought of checking in with Kate but quickly assessed that notion as being even dumber. His only play: do nothing until hearing from Andy Waltz.

  At 12:30, the phone rang. He reached for it, cleared his throat, and said, “Houdini?”

  “I have an ad

  dress for you,” Waltz told him. “Five fifteen Fifth Avenue, suite ten.”

  “Lush territory.”

  “Very pricey. You won’t find much riff-raff around there. Apparently our friend has done well for himself.”

  “Or for others,” Cain said. “Does he live alone?”

  “I can’t know everything, pal. Sorry.”

  “I forgive you. Will I have any trouble getting in?”

  “No. Just so happens I have a good friend who lives there. Suite seven. You buzz her, tell her who you are. She’s expecting you.”

  “You’re still a magician, Houdini.”

  “The best, Cain. Just like you.”

  The woman, her voice husky but warm, answered the buzzer immediately, made an off-color remark about Waltz, then opened the door to the building. An unsmiling security guard lowered The Racing Form and shot Cain a nasty look. Cain walked briskly past the guard, who lit a cigar, then returned to his handicapping.

  As always, Cain rejected the elevator in favor of the steps. Elevators were death traps; too confining, no means of escape. An upright coffin. A smart assassin avoided them if possible.

  Suite ten was on the third floor, so Cain walked up to the fourth floor, waited five minutes, then walked down one flight. Seneca’s suite was at the end of the hallway, on the left.

  Standing outside the door, Cain closed his eyes and visualized what he was about to do. This was blood time at its most dangerous. This was Seneca, a worthy, deadly, vicious opponent. The most lethal opponent he would ever go up against.