Heirs of Cain

by Tom Wallace

  This was no time for mistakes.

  But Cain immediately sensed something was off. The scene had a bad smell, a too-easy feel to it. What he might expect from a lesser foe. For one thing, the door wasn’t locked. Seneca would never leave himself that vulnerable. Also, the music coming from inside was too loud. No way Seneca, or anybody else inside, could possibly hear an intruder. Seneca would never be that careless.

  Slowly, Cain turned the knob and nudged the door open. He dropped into a crouch and eased inside. In front of him Seneca sat on the sofa, locked in a tight embrace with a dark-haired woman. Their backs were to him, so he crept closer, his mind racing, his thoughts telling him that this was too easy, that a novice could successfully execute this take out. Mixed in was a feeling of disappointment. This wasn’t how it was supposed to play out, not when two giants collided. This wouldn’t be a kill worthy of a legend.

  He carefully circled behind the sofa, stopping at the position that gave him his best angle from which to launch his attack. Seneca would go first, quickly, a judo chop to the Adam’s apple, followed by a savage blow to the bridge of his nose. In three seconds, his deadliest rival would be history.

  The girl? He would have to kill her as well. She was an innocent victim, a loose end, and loose ends can’t be left dangling. Eliminating her was ugly, but necessary. He would do it swiftly, humanely.

  In a move that took less than a heartbeat Cain grabbed Seneca by the neck, rolled him onto the floor, and prepared to deliver a blow to the throat. He drew back his right hand, fingers extended, ready to inflict the fatal blow.

  Only, it wasn’t Seneca.

  The face staring up at him, though registering total fear, was an almost-identical version of Seneca—twenty-five years ago. Identical down to the most minute detail. The black eyes, square jaw, high cheekbones, dark skin, movie star looks. A remarkable resemblance in every critical detail. With the exception of the age difference, this was Seneca.

  Cain stood, looked at the terrified woman, then helped the young man to his feet.

  “Please,” the Seneca clone said, shaking with fear, “I have no money, but whatever else you want, you can have. Just don’t hurt us.”

  “Who are you?”

  “Joey … Joey Rainwater.”

  Cain motioned toward the woman. “Who’s she?”

  “Emily. My girlfriend.”

  “Where’s Seneca?”

  “Who?”

  “David Rainwater.”

  “Florida, I think. At least, that’s where he said he was going.” Joey looked at Emily, then at Cain. “You’re not going to hurt her, are you?”

  Cain tilted his head toward the sofa. “Have a seat and relax,” he instructed, softly. Emily, terror still etched on her face, followed his command. “What’s your connection to David Rainwater?” he asked Joey.

  “He’s my brother. Half-brother, actually.”

  “I didn’t know he had a brother.”

  “That’s not surprising. You see, David’s mom died and his father married my mother. My mom was only eighteen or nineteen at the time, much younger than my father. When I came along, David was already in his mid-twenties and in the Army. So we haven’t been close like typical brothers. Fact is, I hardly even know him.”

  Cain scoped the suite. “Who picks up the tab for this place? You?”

  “Are you kidding? I’m studying film at NYU. I couldn’t afford a room at the YMCA, much less this place. Nothing in here is mine except for some clothes and the video equipment. No, my brother pays.”

  “Place like this … David must be doing okay.”

  “Yeah, I guess so.”

  “What’s his line of work these days?”

  “He’s a consultant for some big oil companies. Halliburton, Exxon, companies like that. Works overseas, mostly. I think he does, anyway. Me, I don’t ask too many questions.” Joey looked at Emily, forced a smile, whispered, “I love you,” then looked at Cain. “How do you know my brother?”

  “Army.”

  “A friend from the old days, huh?”

  “Something like that.”

  “Throwing someone to the floor is a strange way to greet a friend,” Joey said.

  “We play rough.” Cain shifted his gaze to Emily. “Still scared?”

  “Yes.”

  “Don’t be. You’re in no danger.”

  She smiled weakly. Joey moved around and sat down next to her. He leaned over and kissed her on the cheek. After a long silence he turned to Cain and said, “Why are you looking for my brother?”

  “What makes you think I’m looking for him?”

  “I don’t buy the story that you’re some long-lost Army pal who just happened to drop by for a visit.”

  “You’re a smart kid, Joey. No, you’re right. That story’s bullshit. Truth is, I need to give him something. It’s extremely important. That’s why I need you to help me find him.”

  Joey put his arm around Emily and pulled her closer. “I don’t know how I can help.”

  “Did your brother say where in Florida he was going?”

  “No, he didn’t.”

  “Ever hear him mention the name Simon Buckman?”

  Joey shook his head. “Not that I recall.”

  “What about a phone number, an address? How do you reach him in case of an emergency?”

  “I couldn’t, unless he just happened to call here. He never gave me a number where I can contact him. Like I told you, my brother is seldom here, and when he is, he never talks about his business or his travels. Sorry.”

  “When was the last time you did see him?”

  “About a week ago. He came by to pick up some stuff. Stayed about thirty minutes, then booked.”

  “Any idea when he might be coming back?”

  “No.”

  Cain walked to the door. “Sorry about the rough stuff, but you do bear a striking resemblance to your brother.”

  “Physical resemblance is about the only thing we have in common,” Joey said. “From what my father tells me, David and I are as different as good and evil.”

  “I’d say your father is absolutely right.”

  The past three days had been troubling and unsettling for Hannah Buckman. She had spent them in virtual seclusion, staying in Simon’s condo on Siesta Key, not once venturing outside. Friends had called, asking her to go out, but she declined, feigning illness. When Simon asked why she was so banged up, she told him she’d slipped and fallen. Hannah deplored lying and liars, but until her battered body healed she would do or say whatever was necessary to keep out of sight.

  By the fourth day, most of the marks covering her body had begun to fade and she felt comfortable enough to make the trip into downtown Sarasota. Slacks and a light, long sleeve cotton turtleneck sweater hid the damage done to her body; sunglasses covered the purple bruises around the eyes. She could attribute the visible scratches on her cheeks and chin to an accidental fall. Her friends, knowing she was something of a klutz, wouldn’t give it a second thought.

  Psychologically, she was much less certain about the time it would take to recover. Those scars were slower to heal, to fade away. Questions kept bombarding her. Why had the Indian treated her so brutally? What had she done to provoke his outrage? Hadn’t she willingly given herself to him? Hadn’t she made it clear how much she wanted to sleep with him? What had she done wrong?

  And most of all, after what happened, why couldn’t she get the Indian out of her mind? She thought of him constantly. Saw his eyes, felt his touch, heard his voice. Wanted to be with him again. By all rights, this was a man she should hate. She should tell Simon, let him handle it. Or go to the authorities, get the law involved. Goodness knows, what the Indian had done was a crime punishable by law. Plenty of men had been prosecuted for much less. But Hannah knew she wouldn’t tell Simon, or the police, or anybody for that matter. Those conflicting feelings had been at war for four days, and now the war had ended. Only one truth was left standing.

  Sh
e had to be with him again.

  Hannah put the convertible top down and inserted a Norah Jones CD. She turned up the volume and began to sing along. It was a good song, happy and upbeat, and it helped take her mind off the Indian. The song also reminded her of why she was going into town tonight, two days sooner than she had intended.

  She was on her way to see a man.

  His name was Roger Shaw. A writer for Sports Illustrated, he was a Connecticut native on assignment in Florida to do a story on a hot young rookie with the Tampa Bay Devil Rays. Hannah had bumped into him on the dance floor at Downing’s Pub two weeks ago. After they exchanged apologies and quips about their clumsiness, he offered to buy her a drink and she accepted. They spent the next two hours dancing, drinking, and laughing.

  He wasn’t at all her type, and she realized it immediately. He was too educated, too cosmopolitan, too intellectual for her. But he was kind and he was funny. He made her laugh, and these days with Simon, laughs came about as often as snowstorms in the Everglades. Most of all, though, she liked Roger’s honesty. He told her right off he was married but would like very much to spend the night with her. She declined, even though she was sorely tempted to say yes. She told him that given her husband’s temper, and his network of snitches, their getting together wasn’t worth the risk.

  But after what had happened to her in the past two weeks, she changed her mind and decided to give Roger a call. After all, she reasoned, I deserve to have some fun. To be treated like something other than a ditzy second-class citizen or a punching bag. She remembered the motel where Roger was staying, and on the chance that he still might be in town, she gave him a call. He had eagerly accepted her invitation.

  Roger was standing at the bar when she walked in. His eyes came alive when he saw her.

  “It’s good to see you again,” he said, kissing her on the cheek. “I was hoping you’d call, even though I really didn’t think there was much chance you would.”

  “I almost didn’t.”

  “Well, believe me, I’m glad you did.” He squeezed her hand. “The bar okay, or do you prefer a table?”

  Hannah pointed to an empty booth in the corner. “How about over there? It’ll give us more privacy.”

  “That’s great.” Roger picked up his beer mug, wrapped an arm around Hannah, and led her to the booth.

  “This is dangerous, you do understand that?” she said, sliding into the booth. “I mean, like, really dangerous.”

  “We can go someplace else if you’d like. Or we can go to the motel. If we leave separately, it won’t look suspicious to anyone.”

  “You’re pretty sure of yourself, aren’t you?”

  “Why else would you have called?” He finished his beer and waved to the waitress. “Why else would you take the risk if you weren’t interested in going to bed with me? Let’s face it—we were attracted to each other from the beginning. We both felt it right away. It happens sometimes. What are you drinking?”

  “Fuzzy navel.”

  “A fuzzy navel for the lady and another pint of Harp for me,” Roger said to the waitress.

  “Maybe I’ll surprise you,” Hannah said. “Maybe I’m only here for a drink and a few laughs.”

  He reached across the table and took her hands in his. “Look, I’m really a very nice guy and I’ll abide by whatever rules you set. If you want to sleep with me, that’s terrific. If you don’t, that’s okay, too. Just being with you is a lot better than not being with you. But I hope you do want to sleep with me, because I know it would be an exquisite experience for both of us.”

  “I was buying that until you got to the ‘exquisite experience’ part.” Hannah paused as the waitress set their drinks on the table and then left. Hannah continued, “Then I think you kinda eased over into the bullshit category.”

  He laughed. “Revealed as a fraud. I confess, I confess. Please forgive me, Madam.”

  “I’ll take it under advisement.”

  “Be lenient in your punishment.” Again, he gently squeezed her hands. “I really do believe making love to you would be nice.”

  “What happened to exquisite?”

  “I don’t want to promise a home run, then strike out.”

  “We’d better leave separately,” Hannah whispered. “Most of the people in here wouldn’t care. They know what an asshole my husband is. But for safety’s sake, we shouldn’t leave together. You never know. My husband has friends, too, most of whom can be bought for the price of a drink.”

  “I’ll leave first and go to the motel. You hang around here as long as you think is necessary.”

  “You know nothing can come of this, don’t you?” she asked.

  “I understand that.”

  “And you’re okay with it?”

  “Yes.”

  After Roger left, Hannah relaxed, settling into the booth, even smiling for the first time in weeks. She had come here knowing that she would sleep with this man, that she would accept and welcome his kindness, perhaps even his love, and that it would be as close to wonderful as she’d had in years. It was risky, yes. She knew that as well. Anything that could trigger Simon’s temper was always risky. But just maybe, for one night at least, she could cast out those doubts and allow herself a moment of sweet peace.

  Sweet.

  And fleeting.

  Because two precise and detailed visions combined to jolt her out of her dreamscape and back into the harsh world of reality: the vision of the Indian flashing in her head, and the sight of him coming through the door and walking toward her booth.

  Cain caught the first available flight to Sarasota: Delta departing at midnight. He was exhausted and ill-tempered. Twice before leaving La Guardia, he phoned Lucas and Kate. He connected with neither. Kate was attending a faculty meeting, and Lucas simply didn’t answer. His failure to make contact only added to his already foul mood. No matter. He would try again during the layover in Atlanta.

  Cain dozed off twice during the flight. His periods of sleep were brief and unsatisfying, more turbulent than the bumpy ride. On both occasions, upon waking he noticed the woman sitting in the opposite aisle seat staring intently at his hands, with great concentration, like a sculptor committing to memory her next project.

  She was tall and thin, mid- to late-thirties, her black hair sprinkled liberally with gray. She had high cheekbones, full lips, and large green eyes. There was an air of supreme intelligence about her, a look combining dignity and culture. A young Susan Sontag, maybe, mixed in with a bit of ex-hippie.

  “You seem to be very interested in my hands,” Cain remarked.

  “More intrigue than interest,” she answered. There was the trace of an accent, almost lost, that Cain couldn’t quite place.

  “You an artist?” he asked.

  “No. I’m a palm reader and fortune teller.”

  “Ah, a sorceress and a mystic.”

  He laughed; she didn’t.

  “What’s so intriguing about my hands?”

  “I suspect they hold many dark secrets,” she said, looking away.

  “Wouldn’t that be true for most people?”

  She smiled but didn’t answer.

  Cain dozed off again and was on the verge of dreaming when he was awakened by a Nazi-like pronouncement informing the drowsy passengers they would be landing in Atlanta in ten minutes. A second order followed immediately, this one demanding that all seats be returned to a locked and upright position and all seat belts fastened.

  Cain shook the grogginess from his eyes and looked at the woman across from him. She was drawing a pair of hands on a sketch pad. When she finished, she lifted her head and let her eyes meet his. There was no hint of emotion or recognition.

  During the ninety-minute layover in Atlanta, Cain ate for the first time in sixteen hours. He wolfed down a burger, fries, a slice of pizza, and a Pepsi. Then he found a bank of phones and called Lucas. He needed Simon Buckman’s address, and if he didn’t get it from Lucas he would be at the mercy of the phone
book or the local authorities. Either way, a bummer. Phone books were always iffy, especially when the number belonged to a cheap hustler like Simon. Now with so many cell phones being used, more and more people were opting not to have their numbers listed in city directories. As for the locals, approaching them was always a last-ditch option. The fewer people involved, the better.

  Ten rings, no answer.

  Cain hung up, silently cursed Lucas, turned, and saw the black-haired woman moving briskly in his direction. She had a large bag on one shoulder and two hardback books in her left hand. The lines on her face were deep. She looked resolute.

  “Pardon me, but I was wondering if I might read your palm. That is, if you have the time.” She extended her right hand. “My name is Ariel.”

  “Cain.”

  “Cain? First name or last?”

  “Just Cain.”

  “Man of mystery; is that it?” Her lips drew back in a near-smile. Cain immediately assessed her as a woman who did not smile easily or often. “It’ll only take a few minutes. Promise.”

  “Sure. Where?”

  She looked around. “How about in there?” She nodded toward the snack area.

  They found a table near the back. She ordered hot tea with lemon; he ordered a Diet Pepsi.

  “Which hand?” Cain said. “Right.”

  She took his hand and gently ran her forefinger across the palm. Her touch was soft, sensual, almost erotic. He was especially struck by the different look on her face. The hard edge had been replaced by a tender, gentle look. He wondered if perhaps this was her way of making love.

  “What do the lines tell you?” Cain asked.

  “That you’re a terribly impatient man.” She made another attempt at a smile, almost pulling it off. “Your hands are unlike any I’ve ever touched. They’re very distant, very … it’s as if they aren’t your hands. And they’re so hard, so rough.”

  “I work out a lot.”

  “You have a very divided personality,” she said. “I suspect you’re a Gemini.”

  Her fingers traced his palm, delicately, sensuously. She closed her eyes, tilted her head back slightly, and began rocking slowly back and forth, as if she were in a religious trance. After several seconds, she let out a deep sigh, leaned back and opened her eyes.