Dead Men's Dust

DEAD MEN'S DUST

M a t t H i l t o n

This book is dedicated in sad memory

to my beautiful girl, Megan Rose Hilton

(1989–2006). My first and foremost fan

and critic. I miss you dearly, Megs. Your

energy, I know, goes on. When the time

is right, I will see you again.

Prologue

Jubal's hollow.

Sounds nice, doesn't it? Like one of those gentle Appalachian towns with timber-framed houses and split-rail fences. Where life takes a leisurely pace: where people actually sit on their sun-dappled porches beside a pitcher of homemade lemonade with beads of condensation. Can you almost hear the rustle of branches overhanging slow-moving rivers, the shuffle of wildlife in the long grass?

Nice, huh?

The vision couldn't be further from the truth.

Try this instead.

Nothing but scrub, sand, and more sand. Blistering midday sun, unbearable cold at night. Harsh rock formations surrounded by a blasted earthscape. Nothing lives here.

Death is the only resident. Ever present. Waiting, waiting.

Look closely. Bones litter the sand, some the petrified remains of creatures that lived in the mud of prehistoric swamps, but some are more recent. There are the bones of birds and small animals that limped here searching for nonexistent water.

Occasionally the sand will cast up bones recognizably human.

Supposedly, a troop of Confederate soldiers fled here to the western desert when they were split from the forces of Jubal Anderson Early as he fought the Yankees at Waynesboro, Georgia. Rumor is that it's their bones that are occasionally stripped bare, left exposed by the wind.

There's another myth behind the hollow's name. In the Old Testament, blind-eyed Lamech had a son by the name of Jubal Cain, father of all who handle the harp and pipe. Jubal was said to be the first musician. This is a fitting place to carry his legacy.

Jubal's Hollow, a natural amphitheater, is noted for its strange acoustics. Wind can make it moan like a dirge of funeral pipes. It is a preternatural music of the dead.

But it is not the only connection to Jubal.

Jubal had a brother named Tubal, and if legend is true, he was the first metalworker. It was he who forged the first knife. But today it is another Tubal Cain who fills this place with the bones of men.

1

pain and fear transcend everything, and know no boundaries. It doesn't matter where you are. You could be in any metropolis in the world—New York, London, Paris, Moscow— and the parallels would remain consistent. There are differences in culture, in law, in language, but at their most basic level, civilizations share one undeniable truth: the scream of a victim sounds the same the world over.

Stepping off an airplane into the sticky heat following a Florida thunderstorm, the screams of my past were ringing in my ears. Somehow I knew that the hunt for John Telfer would add further memories of pain and anguish to my already full heart.

My quest had begun two days previously and an ocean's breadth away in England. There were screams then, too.

It was just like the old days. I was back doing what I was good at. Where I crouched, broken glass and rubbish littered the floor. Nearby, a train rattled past and last week's front-page news fluttered in the service alley. It wasn't all that stirred; the stench was terrible, a mix of urine and filth.

It chilled me.

Jennifer Telfer's curtains twitched inside her apartment.

She was scared. And that was to be expected. She knew why I was there, on the street, watching her place.

It wasn't me she was afraid of.

Some people call me a vigilante. That's their prerogative. I prefer to think of myself as a problem-fixer. When you're a single mother whose children have been threatened by violent men, you send for Joe Hunter.

A black BMW slowed at the end of the street.

"Here we go."

It halted in front of the apartment building. There were three men inside: the harsh and aggressive men I'd been expecting.

First to step out was a large bald-headed man, busy pulling on leather gloves. From the back came a man equally tall. Unlike the first, his frame was lanky and thin. Together, they moved toward Jennifer's place.

The idling engine covered my approach. So did the blaring radio. The first the driver knew of my presence was when I tugged open the door.

"What the—" was all he got out before I hit him.

I aimed for the carotid sinus and struck the bull's-eye. Such a blow could prove fatal. Call me compassionate—I chopped him just hard enough to knock him out.

Leaning over him, I grabbed at the seat belt. It made a good noose. The remainder of the belt looped around the headrest and jammed into the door frame made it even better.

I caught up with the other two before they'd reached the apartments.

With a bent back, a cap pulled down over my hair, I moved toward them. I might as well have been invisible.

I straightened up and thrust the V of my thumb and index finger into the bald man's windpipe. As his hands went to his damaged throat, I slammed my clenched fist into his solar plexus and he folded over my arm. Breath exploded from his lungs as he performed a slow dive, meeting my lifted knee midway. He hit the floor hard, but it didn't matter: he was already oblivious.

There was no time for taking satisfaction from my work: Skinny was already going for something inside his jacket. Could be a gun.

Grasping his wrist and tugging his hand out of his jacket, I saw that he held a knife.

"Now isn't that just typical of you, Shank?" I flexed his wrist, hearing bone grating on bone. Made it easy to pluck the knife from his fingers.

His name was Peter Ramsey, an idiot who began his criminal career stealing lunch money from the other kids at school. But—like all third-rate gangsters—he loved his nickname. He favored a knife when threatening desperate mothers. Shank should be a scary handle for someone wielding a blade. I thought it was pathetic.

I took a fistful of Shank's hair and pressed my knuckles against his skull.

"Listen closely," I growled. "One thing, and one thing only." I snatched his head forward, meeting him eye to eye. "Jennifer Telfer is off your books. Permanently. You hear that?"

"Jennifer Telfer? Who the—"

I slapped him hard.

"You know who I mean."

Wagging the knife at him, I said, "Tell me you weren't thinking of cutting her." I lifted the blade. Sharp edge beneath his nose. His breath misted the steel. "You know something, Shank? Just thinking of that makes my blood run cold."

"I wasn't gonna cut anybody," Shank said.

"Good. You won't be wanting this back then." I dropped the knife into my coat pocket. "If I see you around here again, I'll hurt you bad."

"What have I ever done to you?"

"Messed with the wrong person," I told him. "That's what."

To punctuate the point I backhanded him across the face. "When you walk out of here, you keep on going. If you as much as look back, I'll be all over you like a bad case of hives. You got that?"

"Yeah, man, I get you."

"See you, then."

"Not if I see you first," he said, turning quickly away. "Psycho!"

"Believe me," I said, "if there is a next time, you won't see me coming."

2

"come in, joe. quick."

Jack and Beatrice huddled in front of a television. A cartoon vied for their attention and they barely gave me a glance.

In a hurry, Jennifer shut the door. Behind me came the clink of a security chain, the ratchet of a dead bolt.

"You won't need as many locks in the future, Jenny." I pulled off the hat and jacket. "Shank won't be paying you any more visits."

Jennifer hugged herself. Barely above a whisper, she said, "There's worse out there than Shank to worry about."

Fourteen years working as a counterterrorism agent had already convinced me of that. If I required reminding, all I had to do was look at the kids. Only six and four years old, they already had the look of the infinitely wise about them. "Hi, kids, what're you watching? Cartoons?"

"SpongeBob," Jack said matter-of-factly.

"He's got square pants," Beatrice added.

"Interesting," I said. I gave her a lifted eyebrow. She was too young to know who The Rock was, but she appreciated the effort. Her giggle was like soft music. A baby again. The resilience of children never fails to amaze the cynic in me.

Her mother wasn't so easily calmed. My hand on her shoulder was waved off with a gesture. Jenny took my coat and hat, abandoned them on the arm of a settee, then walked across the room. Perched on a chair next to a battle-scarred table, she had the look of a condemned prisoner.

"You can quit worrying. I guarantee you, Shank'll look somewhere else for his cash."

She plucked at a pack of cigarettes next to an ashtray overflowing with half-smoked butts. The ashtray was testament to prolonged worry.

"For now," she said. "But what about when you leave? What's to stop them coming back?"

"I'm only a phone call away."

Jennifer hacked out a cough. She stabbed the cigarette into her mouth.

"What about when I can't pay you, Joe? Are you still going to come running then?"

"You think I did this for money? I helped you because I wanted to. You needed help. All of you."

"But you don't work for free, Joe. Didn't you tell your brother John that? Why didn't you help John? If you had, then maybe he'd still be here . . ." I saw fresh tears on her lashes. "Why didn't you help us then, huh? I'll tell you why, should I? It was about the money."

I didn't answer.

She brought a light to her cigarette and went at it as if it were a lifeline. She glared at me. "You wouldn't help John when he needed it. I can't pay any more than he could."

I had to say something. First, I settled in opposite her. "Jenny, you don't really understand what happened between me and John. It had nothing to do with whether he could pay me."

She snorted, sucked on the cigarette.

"I don't know what he told you, but I guess it wasn't the truth," I said.

Her eyes pierced me.

"What are you saying, Joe?"

I sighed. "It's water under the bridge, Jenny. Forget it, okay?"

She shrugged, flicked an ash that missed the ashtray. "Suit yourself."

Silence hung in the air between us, mingling with her blue smoke exhalations.

Once, I watched a heron spearing trout from a stream. Jennifer's hand made similar stabbing motions to douse her cigarette. Then, like the greedy heron, she reached for another. I gently laid a hand on top of hers. She met my eyes. Hope flickered beyond the dullness but only for a second. She pulled her hand away, drew the pack to her. She lit up and took a long gasp. Through a haze of smoke, she said, "I want you to find John." She reached out and twined her fingers in mine. "I want you to find your brother and bring him home."

"That might not be as easy as it sounds. He's not in the country anymore."

"No, he isn't. He's in America," Jenny said.

"You've heard from him?"

Searching in her pocket, Jenny pulled out an envelope and held it to her breast. After a moment, she placed the envelope before me. I looked up at her, but she was looking over at the kids. "You two, go into your room while me and Uncle Joe are talking. You can watch TV in there." Before they could argue, she hurried over, took them by their elbows, and ushered them into their bedroom. Closing the door, she said, "I don't want them listening. After all's said and done, John's still their dad."

Nodding, I concentrated on the envelope. It was standard white and dated more than two weeks ago. It was stamped Little Rock, AK.

"Arkansas?" I asked.

"Where else?"

The tattered edge of the envelope produced two sheets of paper.

On first inspection, it looked like the kind of note you scrawl and leave in a prominent position when you have to leave in a hurry. Only longer. A Dear John letter. Or in this case a Dear Jenny? But it wasn't my brother's handwriting.

I sought Jenny's face. "Go ahead. Read it," she said.

I did.

It read:

Jenny,

I probably have no right writing you like this. No doubt you hate me, but I hope you'll listen to what I have to say.

John has gone, and I don't know what to do. Don't get me wrong, he hasn't just left me as he did with you. When I say he's gone, I mean vanished.

Maybe you don't care, maybe you think I deserve everything I get, that John definitely deserves it, but I don't think you're that kind of person. John has got himself in some kind of trouble. He was jumpy for two or three days before he disappeared. He was frightened. I think something terrible has happened. And that's why I'm writing to you now.

I placed the first sheet of paper on the table and looked across at Jenny. She'd retreated to the opposite end of the room, staring vacantly into space. The letter was my problem now.

John said that he's got a half-brother over in England.

Someone he called Hunter. I know they didn't get along that well, but John said once that if anything ever happened to him I had to send for Hunter because he would know what to do. So I'm asking, I'm begging, please do this for me. And if you won't do it for me, do it for John. Send for his brother.

Please. L.

"This woman," I asked, "who is she?"

Jenny returned to stub out her cigarette. Her words held more vehemence up close. "John's bitch."

"Is she American?"

"No. She's English."

"What's her name?"

"Louise Blake."

"How did John meet her?"

"She worked for the same company as him." She gave me a pointed stare. I just watched her, and Jennifer added, "By all accounts they were seeing each other for six months before he left me." She gave me the pointed look again. "Everyone knew but me."

"I didn't."

She wiped at her mouth with the back of a hand. "Well, you're about the only one who didn't." Her words became softer as she recalled the betrayal. "Louise stole my husband from me, Joe. Now she wants help to find him. What does she want me to do, hand him right back to her?"

"Have you ever met her?"

"Not formally. I saw her a couple times where John worked." Jenny laughed. "When I think about it, I suppose you'd say she's a younger version of me. Without the baggage around the waist from carrying two kids. Basically John traded me in for a younger model."

"But you still want me to find him?"

She sighed. Her gaze flickered toward the bedroom. The kids were very quiet and I wondered if they had their ears to the door.

"He's still their dad, Joe. He should be doing more to support them."

Yes. A sad fact. But not something I was about to put into words.

Jenny said, "Probably Louise is right: John does deserve everything he gets. But my kids shouldn't be made to suffer, should they?" She could look all she wanted but she wouldn't see any sign of disagreement from me. After a few seconds she asked, "So . . . what do you think? Is there anything you can do?"

"There is," I promised her.

And I meant it.

3

when working, i don't use a vehicle that i care about. I use an old car I picked up at an auction. That way, when the disgruntled dig a key into the length of the paintwork, I don't get too upset. The car has many scars. The only concession I make to roadworthiness is to have the engine regularly overhauled and tires of the puncture-proof variety. Both have proved invaluable in the past.

Before setting up the takedown on Shank, I had parked the old Ford a couple of streets away. Okay, I wasn't that protective of it, but neither was I going to make my wheels a sitting duck. I was approaching the car when the BMW swung into the street behind me. To be fair, I thought I'd seen the last of Peter Ramsey, yet here he was, back for more.

Maybe I should've done a better number on him the first time. My fault, but as I said, I can be a compassionate guy.

"This time . . . no messing about," I promised.

In an effort at stealth, the music volume had been turned down. Still, the thud-thud rhythm sounded like the heartbeat of a predator coiling for the death lunge. Thick tires whistled on tarmac. The engine growled. Even without looking, I'd have known they were coming.

It was like patrolling in-country all over again. Only then I was an inexperienced rookie, immortal in my battle fatigues and holding a submachine gun. Unprepared for what happened, I hadn't even realized I'd been shot until I surfaced through a morphine haze the following day and blinked up at my nurse.

You don't hear the bullet that kills you. Which meant the two bullets Shank fired at me missed their mark. Good job I'd leaped forward at the right time. The sidewalk was a little unforgiving, but a scraped elbow and knee were the least of my worries.

The BMW was a sleek black shark, as dangerous as the .38 Shank aimed at me. It made sense that the driver swung the BMW onto the sidewalk. A half-ton of metal on my head would finish me as quickly as a slug in the heart.

"Get that son of a bitch!"

Even as I rolled away from the car, I had to smile at Shank's determination.

The BMW bumped down off the curb, knocking value off the alloys. I rose up behind them. From beneath my shirttails, I drew my own gun, a SIG-Sauer P226. Unlike these cretins, I had a full load. In addition, I knew how to shoot. One round into a rear tire, two into the trunk, and one through the back windshield for good measure. More than the deflated tire, panic spun the car across the road and drove it into my parked car.

In this part of town, gunfire would ensure that witnesses kept their heads down. On the other hand, a good old-fashioned car wreck would bring the ghouls running.

"Out of the car," I shouted. "Now!"

The driver was slumped over the steering wheel, blood frothing from both nostrils. Sound asleep for the second time that evening. Shank wasn't in much better shape. Half out the window when the car collided with my Ford, he was now on the road, crying like a baby and cradling a busted elbow. His gun had slid harmlessly beneath my car. Only the third guy, the big baldy, posed any threat.

"I said, Out of the damn car."

Staring down the barrel of a SIG is enough to motivate most men. He was surprisingly sprightly when offered the correct form of stimulation. His hands went up. "Okay! Easy, man, easy."

His gloves were gone. Heavy gold rings made a rich man's brass knuckles on his right hand. Fancied himself a pugilist.

"Pick Shank up," I told him.

Conditioned to taking commands, he didn't object. He quickly stooped down and lifted Shank to his feet.

"Up the alley."

Opposite us was a narrow alleyway between a vacant lot and a video rental store that was closed for the night. Maybe the store had closed for many nights, judging by the faded posters.

I knew what was going through the big guy's mind. He thought the ignominious alley was where he was going to end his days. Give him his due; I think he was braver than he was stupid.

"You aren't taking us up there to shoot us."

"I'm not?"

"If you're going to do it, do it now. Out here in the open."

"Okay," I said.

Not so keen, Shank whimpered.

Baldy gave his boss a look that suggested there were going to be changes in their arrangement—if they managed to get out of this alive. Shank was left swaying as the big man stepped away from him.

"Go on," he challenged. "I don't think you've got what it takes."

I gave him my saddest smile.

The big man took that as a sign of weakness. He snatched at a gun tucked into his waistband.

I caressed the trigger and his right kneecap disintegrated.

He collapsed to the floor, and despite his bravado he screamed.

"What about you, Shank? Do you think I haven't got it in me to do you?" I aimed the SIG at a point directly between his eyes. "After you tried to shoot me?"

Think of an air-raid siren and you'll imagine the sound that Shank made.

"You know something, Shank? You should have listened to me."

I pulled the trigger again.

Shank fell next to his friend, clutching at his own shattered knee.

"Next time I will kill you," I promised.

4

he had the desire and the passion. he certainly had the ability. But that wasn't everything. Tubal Cain also had an agenda.

Right now he was short on materials.

There wasn't much hope of acquiring what he needed here, but for these cretins, he'd make the effort.

"You know something? You should all be damned straight to hell!"

There weren't too many things that got him riled, but these pigs on wheels were the exception. Motor homes! These monstrosities of engineering were a blight on the landscape. Colossal steel bullets fired from the devil's cannon to cause woe and destruction wherever they landed.

Without their intrusion, this oasis turnoff beside Route I-10 in Southern California had its own beauty. A semicircular drive ran up to an artesian well, and trees had been artfully arranged to block the view of the interstate. Laurel trees made a pretty silhouette against the star-filled sky, but not when a goddamn Winnebago hunkered beneath them, square, unnatural, and spewing light from a cabin the size of the flight deck of the USS Enterprise.

"It's enough to make you sick," Tubal Cain said.

Neither Mabel nor George or whatever the hell they were called argued the point. George was equivocal on the entire subject. However, that could be expected. Speaking could be difficult with a gash the width of your thumb parting your trachea.

For her part, Mabel was pretty verbal, but nothing she'd said up until now would change his opinion. She was too intent on screaming for her unheeding husband. Another thing: she wasn't giving any clues to George's actual name. She'd only refer to him as Daddy. She was obscene, like a wrinkly Lolita.

"Aw, for crying out loud!" Cain said. "Put a lid on it, will you? How do you expect me to work with all that racket you're making?"

Mabel hunkered down in the kitchen compartment. She was a hunched package stuffed beneath a fold-down counter, looking like the garbage sack George had been about to drop into the bushes when Cain surprised him.

"Daddy, Daddy! Help me, Daddy!" she screamed for about the hundredth time.

"Daddy's not interested," Cain pointed out. "So you might as well shut up."

Daddy sat in the driving seat, surrounded by the luxury of leather and walnut. But he was of no mind to point out the lushness of his surroundings. The elderly man was currently preoccupied with trying to stem the tide of blood flowing down the front of his pullover. Chalk white, his features showed he was losing the battle.

"Daddeeee . . ."

Cain took the man's hands away from the wound, guiding them to the steering wheel. His final earthly experience would be gripping the wheel as though with the intention of taking the Winnebago through the Pearly Gates with him.

The knife snicked through tendons and gristle, the old man's death grip loosened, and his hands flopped onto his thighs. Sans thumbs, his hands looked like dead squid.

Moving toward the woman's hiding place, Cain slipped the thumbs into a sandwich bag and dropped them in a pocket.

"People have to learn to take their trash home with them, Mabel." If there was anything that got his goat even more than motor homes it was the irresponsible and harmful littering George had been engaged in. Bad enough that he destroyed the picturesque beauty of the desert with this huge beast—but then he deposited its shit before he left. "Maybe if George wasn't so indiscriminate with his garbage, I wouldn't have had to call on you and teach you such a valuable lesson."

"You killed Daddy because there were no trash cans?"

"Yes. And for his ridiculous taste in vehicles."

"You're insane!" Mabel shrieked.

"No, Mabel. I'm angry."

"You killed Daddy!"

"Yes."

He stooped down, pulled her from beneath the counter. She slid out as boneless as an oyster from the shell. Cain didn't like oysters. Didn't like anything boneless.

He rapped a knuckle on her head. Just to be sure. The clunk was only partway reassuring.

"How old are you, Mabel? Seventy? Eighty?"

Her turquoise-framed spectacles lent an extra dimension to her incredulous blink. Confusion reigned, terror tamped down by befuddlement. Her mouth drooped. At least she'd stopped screaming.

"I wouldn't ask, but it is pertinent," Cain said.

"Eighty-three." Saliva popped at the back of her throat.

"Hmmm. Quite elderly." Cain gripped her shoulder. He kneaded with a masseur's skill. "Frail under all that padding. I bet you suffer from arthritis, eh?"

She showed him her misshapen knuckles.

"Thought that might be the case." His sigh sounded genuinely remorseful. "What about osteoporosis?"

He was offering hope, and she wasn't so distraught that she didn't recognize it. Even after such a long life, when faced with dismemberment, an octogenarian can still desire further years. "I'm riddled with it. I only have to sneeze and I can break a rib."

"Doesn't bode well."

"What do you want from us?"

"Nothing."

"You cut off Daddy's thumbs . . ."

"I did, Mabel. I have a purpose for them. But you needn't fear. You have nothing that I want."

"Thank the good Lord!" Mabel sobbed.

"But only for small mercies," Cain concluded as he slipped the knife back in his pocket. He didn't require a knife when dealing with an invertebrate. The heel of his shoe would be all he'd need.

Ten minutes later he was back on the road.

The Mercedes SUV he drove made a fine chariot. Interstate 10 stretched out before him, an umbilical cord drawing him ever westward, toward the fertile stalking-grounds of Los Angeles.

Billy Joel was cranked high on the SUV's CD player. A window open so that the warm breeze ruffled Cain's fair hair. He was a happy man. Beside him on the passenger seat were the tools of his trade, flagrantly displayed in total disregard of law or common sense. If someone saw them, well, so what? A cop died as easy as any man did.

With that thought in mind, he reached over and lifted the flap of the pouch. Inside was an array of knives, scalpels, and other cutting utensils. Tap, tap, tap. He danced a finger over the dozen or so hilts. Tap. Rested momentarily on the sturdy hilt of a Bowie knife.

"Ah, sweet baby," he said. Such fond memories.

A would-be knife fighter back east in Jacksonville had bestowed the knife upon him. What unashamed southern generosity. Such a polite man, too.

"You're going to have to take it from me first, sir," he'd offered.

"Gladly," Tubal Cain had agreed.

The blade was broad and easily a foot long. Whenever it was thrust into flesh, it made a satisfying thunk! A firm favorite for instilling fear in the hearts of his victims. Sadly, it lacked finesse. If carnage was your only desire, then fine. Ever the artist, he preferred a little more delicacy to his cutting.

Now this was more to his liking. Black plastic hilt, slim and unadorned. Grasping it lightly, he teased out the cutting edge. Muted moonbeams played on a curved, very utilitarian blade backed by sawtoothed serrations. Beautiful in its simplicity. It was a fish-scaling knife acquired during a northern foray to Nova Scotia. The blade had seen employment on a number of occasions since, but never on anything so mundane as trout or salmon.

Happy with his choice, he pulled the scaling knife free and held it up for closer inspection. With a thumb, he tested its keenness. "As keen as I am, eh?"

The knife went into an inside pocket of his sports jacket.

Billy Joel was winding down, Christie Brinkley demanding his full attention. The CDs spread over the passenger seat beckoned. Cain selected a Robbie Williams disc: Stoke-on-Trent's best-known export doing his best to capture the cool of Sinatra and not doing a half-bad job. He changed the CD, then bobbed his head along with the tempo swinging from the speakers.

"My kind of music," he whispered. An aptly named track—a cover of "Mack the Knife." He cut lazy figures of eight into the air with his right hand. Like conducting a big band, but instead of a bandleader's baton he imagined a blade in his hand. With each swing of the music, he cut another strip of meat from a faceless victim.

"Swing while you're sinning." He grinned. A nod toward the title of the album.

5

that evening, after the episode with shank, i returned home to a house in darkness. Nothing new there. It's been like that since Diane and I divorced.

The auction car wasn't registered to me, so I was happy to leave it in place. A cab took me to the lock-up garage I used, so it was my other car, an Audi A6, I parked on the tree-lined street. My two dogs, Hector and Paris, were inside the house, and I could just make out their forms as they pressed their noses to the glass doors leading to the patio. I must have made an indistinct shadow against the deeper night. Hector, largest of my German shepherds, huffed once, then I watched as the two dogs became animated.

I was conscious of disturbing my neighbors, but it was pointless trying to be quiet; Hector and Paris were making enough racket to wake the neighborhood. I pushed open the patio door. Instantly I was assaulted by twin black-and-tan whirlwinds. We went through a round of play fighting before the dogs would obey my command to sit.

As always, the TV cabinet became a receptacle for my car keys and wallet. It was a habit my ex-wife used to frown upon. It was only one of the many things that annoyed her before our split. Probably the very least of them.

Sometimes I wished Diane were still there to keep me right, but she wasn't. As soon as I tendered my resignation from the army, the death knell for our marriage was rung. Probably she understood me in a way that I never could. Physically I'd resigned, but mentally?

"Married men can't just rush off, placing themselves in lifethreatening situations all the time," Diane told me the night she left.

"So you want me to sit at home and die of boredom?" I demanded.

"No, Joe." She'd shaken her head sadly. "I just don't want to be the one who has to bury you."

Diane wanted someone she could grow old with. Understandable, but it wasn't something I could promise her. I'm way too impulsive for that. My promise to Jenny was nagging at me to get going. I wanted to make a start with some phone calls.

The clock on the wall had to be telling lies. Not too late, though, I decided. Hector and Paris ran out into the backyard. I followed them, pulling out my cell phone. Four years on, I still had Diane's number on speed dial.

"Hello?"

"Hi, Simon," I said, concealing any trace of jealousy. "Can I speak to Diane?"

Diane's very safe, office-bound husband grunted, muttered something unintelligible, but handed over the phone.

"What do you want, Joe?"

"I'm going away," I told her.

There was a momentary hitch in her voice. "So why are you telling me?"

"Thought you might want to wave me off at the airport."

I heard her sigh. "I already did that. Too many times."

It was my turn to sigh.

"Can you take the dogs for me for a few days?"

"Simon has allergies," she said.

"Shit," I said. "Isn't it a good job we never had kids?"

Her silence said everything.

"I'm sorry, Diane. I shouldn't have said that."

"No, Joe. You shouldn't have." In the background, Simon was whispering something. "Simon said we can take them, but they'll have to stay in the shed."

My dogs were gamboling around the yard, play fighting among the rhododendrons. Full of life.

"So long as they're exercised they'll be fine," I said.

"Okay, then."

"I'll drop them off in the morning," I said.

"No," Diane said, way too quickly for my liking. "I'll come there with Simon."

Then she hung up.

With the dogs sorted, I returned indoors, settled into an armchair, and dialed a number in Tampa, Florida.

"Hey, Hunter, what's up?"

Jared Rington's voice is a rich southern drawl that always reminds me of that guitar-playing wedding suitor in the John Wayne movie The Searchers. He has the honky-tonk twang of a country-and-western singer, which always surprises people; it's a strange anomaly coming from a mixed parentage of Japanese mother and Scottish father.

"You busy with anything, Rink?"

"Got my heel planted on a weasel as we speak," Rink said.

"I take it you're speaking metaphorically?"

"Uh-huh," Rink said. "I just gotta finish up a little one-on-one business with my client, then I'm all yours."

"So what's the deal? Anything exciting?"

"Nothing startling. Guy paid me to do a little eyeball on his wife.

He grew suspicious when she started doing too much overtime at work. Thought she could be playin' away from home."

"Maybe she was just after more money," I offered.

"Yeah, you might say she was after a raise." Rink chuckled. "I got the goods on her last night. Filmed her giving head to her boss in the back of his limousine."

"So you just have to hand over the evidence and that's you finished?" I asked.

"More or less, yeah. Anyways, what's up?" Rink asked. "You haven't rung for the sake of idle chitchat. That's not the Joe Hunter I know and love."

"I've got a job for you . . . if you're interested?"

"Uh-huh." It could've been agreement, but more likely he was waiting for more.

"Could be a long story," I told him.

"Fire away, it's your dime."

It was so still I could have been in a mausoleum. But habit caused a quick over-the-shoulder glance to make sure I was alone.

"I'm going to be coming out there," I told him.

"Out here? As in Florida?"

"Well, yeah, I was thinking of stopping over a day or so, but then I have to get myself to Little Rock, Arkansas."

"My old stomping ground?"

"It's why you're the man for the job."

"You think I'm a tour guide all of a sudden? Get yourself a map." Good-natured sarcasm was rich in his drawl. How anyone could dislike Rink is a mystery. What's not to like about a sarcastic curmudgeon?

"Local knowledge is half the battle," I told him.

"I ain't been home in eight years, Hunter. Don't know how up to date my local knowledge'll be."

"How much can Arkansas have changed in eight years?" I asked. "It's not like it's the center of American culture."

"Yeah, but it's not like it's simply rednecks in pickup trucks, either," Rink said, sounding exactly like a redneck in a pickup truck. "They're as cultured as anyplace else, Hunter. They know the difference between Paris, France, and Paris Hilton."

"It'll do you good to get yourself back there, then."

Rink chuckled. "So what's the deal?"

"Missing person," I said.

"That all? I thought it was going to be something exciting."

"There's more. The missing person is my brother."

"You mean John?"

"Yeah. He's finally surfaced, only to drop off the face of the earth again." I gripped the phone tight. "I'm worried, Rink."

"You know what guys are like. He's probably gotten himself drunk, picked up a coupla hookers, an' is holed up in a motel someplace," Rink said. "Give him a day or two an' he'll be home with his tail between his legs."

"Maybe," I agreed. "And with John it wouldn't be the first time."

"You guys had a big falling out. Why you lookin' for him now?"

"He's in trouble," I said.

"Always was."

"I'm not doing this for him," I lied. "My sister-in-law asked me to find him. I promised her I would."

"Figures." Seems like Diane wasn't the only one who could read me from a thousand paces. Rink asked, "So is he skipping out on the alimony?"

"He has for years," I said. "But that's not what this is about. Yeah, there're kids involved, but it all goes a lot deeper than that."

"Pray tell," Rink said. It sounded like a car engine burst into life, the sound only slightly muffled by the intervening thousands of miles.

"You driving, Rink?"

"Just setting off. But you can keep on talking; I got a twenty-

minute drive. Just ignore me if my language gets foul, but the I-75's a bitch even at this hour."

Rink maneuvered his Porsche through the Florida traffic. My runin with Shank and his goons was just another war story to us. The creative use of a seat belt as a noose won me kudos. So did the fact that two major assholes would be walking with crutches for a while.

I got around to the note from John's current girlfriend and the plea made by Jennifer. My promise to help.

"You always were a soft touch, Hunter," Rink said. "Never could turn down a damsel in distress."

"She's also my sister-in-law," I reminded him.

"Sister nothing. If you'd never met her before, you'd still be coming out here."

"Now you're starting to sound like Diane," I said.

"Your lady was right in a lot of respects," he pointed out.

"Even Diane would understand this time. It is my brother we're talking about."

"No argument from me, Hunter."

Even if I didn't crave the kind of action that keeps me alive, I couldn't turn my back on my brother. For all that the last time we spoke, I threatened to punch his face.

"You've missed him, huh?"

"Like a hole in the head."

It was a good place to lighten the conversation. "So how's the Sunshine State?"

"A contradiction in terms, my man. Rain's coming down in torrents. Third day in a row. They sure don't show that on no 'Come to sunny Florida' TV ads, do they?"

"I'll pack for the weather, Rink. But can you set me up with the necessaries?" Mentioning a key word—particularly gun—over the telephone is never a good idea. Especially since 9/11. Conspiracy theories aside, all kinds of enigmatic government establishments known for their acronyms are tapping phones for just such words. I know. I've been there. Last thing I wanted was to land in Florida, then get a oneway trip to Guantánamo Bay.

Rink said, "Leave it to me. You want I get you a couple of day passes to Universal Studios?"

"Best you do. Hopefully I'll have a little time for sightseeing; I don't want to be wasting time queuing." More code. Universal was a cipher. It meant the entire package: passport, Social Security number, driving documents, credit cards, the business.

"Sounds like we could be in for some fun, Hunter."

"Fun isn't the half of it," I said.

6

tubal cain was in his element. driving a flashy car in the dark with the highway all to himself.

Interstate 10 was one of his all-time favorite places, stretching all the way from Jacksonville, Florida, in the east to Santa Monica, California, in the west. A transcontinental artery with no less than three of the largest cities in the United States straddling its route. Houston, Phoenix, and Los Angeles were all ground he knew. But what appealed to him more than the cities was the transcontinental highway itself. It was a popular backpacking avenue across the states. Throughout its length there wasn't that great an elevation change, and even in winter the daytime temperatures were generally warm. He could almost guarantee a year-long stock of wandering lambs.

George and Mabel—or whatever they were really called—were good examples of what could be achieved by one as enterprising as himself. Okay, he'd only gained a couple of thumbs for his collection, but consolation was his in the form of the scorched motor home he'd left behind.

He'd spent some time in all the major tourist centers along the way, sampling the atmosphere of each before moving on. He'd thor oughly enjoyed the vibrancy of New Orleans, the Cajun flamboyancy of Lafayette, the history of San Antonio, where he'd used his Bowie knife in tribute to Colonel James Bowie, who'd met his death there. He'd sampled the culture, the music, and the southwest flavor of Tucson while hunting students in its universities. Forging westward to Santa Monica, he'd found easy pickings amid the crowds jiggling for elbow space on the world-famous pier.

Then there was Los Angeles itself, his current destination. A city he found best suited his way of life, where he could ply his trade and fear little consequence. What with all the gangs shooting and hacking each other up, his two previous victims gleaned from South Central L.A. had barely raised more than an eyebrow.

His return was overdue. He intended executing a series of atrocities that would force even the jaundiced eyes of the LAPD to take note. If he could achieve that, then he would be cementing the foundations of his notoriety.

But that didn't mean a little fun along the way wasn't allowed.

Arriving in L.A. a few hours later than originally planned was no time at all to quibble over. Not for one whose name was destined to last an eternity.

He flicked on the turn signal, politely showing his intention to pull onto the wide shoulder, even though there was no traffic behind him. Politeness was a virtue Tubal Cain believed he held in abundance. The man waving for assistance by the side of the road would never guess that such a gracious driver could be so dangerous.

"Boy, is this your lucky day," Cain said. The wing mirror made a fine TV screen for the man jogging up to his SUV. Road Runner kicking up a plume of trail dust as he charged into Wile E. Coyote's trap.

Cain noted the possibility of trouble. Though harassed and worn down by the attempt to resurrect a dead engine, the man appeared moderately young and fit. Might put up a bit of a fight if not taken carefully, he concluded. Best not to give the game away. Quickly he concealed his knives under the passenger seat. He stepped out, tasting the silicone tang of the desert.

Cain wasn't the only one acting here. Conscious that few people would even stop to pick up hitchhikers, the man was careful to show that he was harmless. His gait was amiable, boyish, friendly. As fake as Tubal Cain's smile.

"Having a little trouble, mister?" Cain asked.

"Yeah, car's broken down and I can't get it going again." Pushing an oil-smeared palm down a trouser leg gave him the look of a bumbler, but to Cain the act seemed premeditated. His offer of a hand was no more believable.

"You're not from around here, are you?" said Cain. "Here on vacation?"

The stranded driver shook his head. "It's been no vacation, believe me."

Cain studied the man's eyes. Beyond deliberate innocence, a certain amount of deceit shone through. He was hiding something, but that was all right. Everyone had something to hide.

"Not the best of places to break down," Cain noted. The Mojave nightscape demanded their attention. "Pretty barren."

Nothing much more than sand and gravel and sparse vegetation, offering neither shade nor protection from the extremes of the weather, surrounded them.

Concealment of a crime could be difficult here.

"No place is a good place to break down, mister," the man said, "but you're right about this desert. I'm only happy that it's nighttime and I'm not stranded in a hundred degrees plus."

"Yeah, things do get warm around here when the sun's up. It's a bitch having to walk any distance, believe me."

"Oh, I believe you," the driver said. He nodded toward the SUV. "I bet that beauty's reliable."

"Has been for as long as I've had it," Cain agreed. That he'd only had it for eighteen hours was academic. "You want me to take a look at your car for you? I know a thing or two about engines."

A shake of the head toward his abandoned vehicle. With its hood raised to the star-filled heavens, it looked like a lizard attempting to swallow the distant moon. "It's done. Blown a cylinder, I think."

"Let's take a look." Cain brushed past. Shoulders touched briefly. There was strength hidden beneath the man's denim shirt. Reasonably young, fit, and apparently strong. Could be trouble. Cain slipped his hand inside his sports jacket, caressing the hilt of the scaling knife.

"There's really no need," the man said. "A lift out of here'll be fine."

Cain turned around slowly. Was that a demand? Am I supposed to be obliged? "Let me take a look at the car first. If I can't get it going, then fine, I'll give you a ride."

"You're wasting your time." The man shifted his hands to his hips, inclined his chin at the broken-down vehicle. "Piece of crap won't be going anywhere."

"Let me take a look," Cain said again.

"Suit yourself . . . but it won't go," the driver said. Subtle words concealing an equally subtle action. His scratch at an itch on his side wasn't as mechanical as it seemed.

"I insist," said Cain.

Practice makes perfect. Cain had practiced this maneuver a thousand times. He pulled the blade free of his pocket, held it braced along his wrist, took a quick step forward . . .

And met the barrel of a semiautomatic pistol aimed directly at his face.

A short laugh broke unbidden from his throat. It was neither shock nor fear. His laughter was self-deprecating. Looked like a little more practice could be in order. Not least, the resheathing of his knife. Hidden from the man's view, he slipped the blade into an outer pocket of his jacket.

"No," the man said. "I insist."

Cain shook his head sadly. "You know, I can't believe you've gone and pulled a gun on me, when all I want to do is help."

"I appreciate your concern, mister, but I don't need your help. All I need is your car." A jerk of the gun was an invitation for a walk in the desert.

Casting his eye over the terrain, Cain saw a deep arroyo. It was steep-sided, the bottom choked with rocks and stunted sagebrush. A good place to hide a crime after all.

"So . . . you're going to shoot me?"

The driver sucked air through his teeth.

"You're going to put me down in that hole for the coyotes to find?" Cain shrugged his shoulders. It wasn't as if he hadn't done the very same thing to many others.

"I'll only shoot you if I have to," said the driver.

Was that so? BIG MISTAKE. Rule one: Never show weakness to your enemy.

"You're no killer."

"I will be a killer if I have to be," the man said. The new edge to his voice held a tremor. Fear or anticipation—either could cause a nervous man to pull the trigger. "Climb down in that ditch and kneel down. I'm warning you, mister, if you don't do as I say, I will use this gun."

Cain lifted his hands in supplication.

"Come on, man. You can't do this to a Good Samaritan."

"I can and I will." The man jerked the gun again. "Get moving. Down in the ditch."

"I'm not dressed for climbing."

"Well, jump."

Cain started toward the arroyo. "You think you could let me get something from my car? You're going to leave me out here in the middle of nowhere; at least let me get a bottle of water."

"In the ditch."

"It's called an arroyo."

"Well, get in the damn arroyo. If you don't, I'll put a bullet in your head and then throw you the hell in."

Cain shook his head again. No urgency to his tread. "Easy now, I'm going."

The man watched him clamber down the embankment. Cain turned and peered up at him. His face was a spectral gray in the starlight. A blob of silver that would prove an easy target for a gunman. "Turn around and face away from me, kneel down, and put your hands on your head."

"Why the amateur dramatics?" Cain asked. "You're going to take my car. There's no way I can climb out and stop you, so why do you want me to kneel down?"

"Because I said so," the man answered.

"It's going to ruin a perfectly good pair of slacks," Cain said in a singsong voice, choirboy sweet. He turned and knelt in the gravel as though at a pew.

"Okay, stay right there," the man said.

The scuff of shoes through sand marked the man's progress. Fetching something from his own abandoned vehicle, Cain surmised. The unmistakable thud of a hood being slammed. Then the sound of footsteps returning to the brim of the arroyo. Glancing over his shoulder, he saw the man outlined against the stars. In his hand he carried a backpack. He delved in the bag, pulled something out, and cast it down.

Cain's assumption was justified. Definitely not a killer. A plastic bottle three-quarters full of water settled against a boulder ten feet in front of him.

"Don't say I'm not grateful for your help," the man called down. Then he turned to go.

"Wait!" Cain shouted.

"What?"

"I'll do you a trade."

"There's nothing you have that I want."

"You sure?"

"Positive."

"How's about the keys to my car?"

That got his attention.

"Throw them up here."

"No."

"Throw them up here or I'll shoot you."

"No. Like I said, I'll do you a trade."

"Just throw the damn things here or I'll put a bullet in you."

"You do that and you won't find the keys. While you were off gal- livanting, I hid them. Fair enough, they're not too far away, but it'll take you a while to find them. Are you sure you want to waste precious time looking for them for the sake of one little request? You know, you could kill me, but what if someone was to come along while you were still searching for the keys? Are you prepared to kill them as well? Could even be a cop."

The man swore impolitely.

Cain grunted in amusement. "One little request," he repeated.

"All right, but you give me the keys first."

"No. You get something from my car first."

More profanity. Then, "So what the hell's so important?"

"Look under the front passenger seat. You'll find a utility belt. Bring it to me, please."

"Okay, but then you give me the keys. And no messing around."

"Deal." Cain lifted one hand off his head and gave the driver a thumbs-up.

What could the man do but acquiesce?

"Don't move. I'll go and get your utility belt. But if I come back and you've moved as much as an inch I'm going to kill you."

"Deal." This time he put up two thumbs.

He knelt in the gravel, ignoring the sharp edges of rocks against his knees like a monk in penance. He attained Zen tranquility through the mantra of "Mack the Knife" hummed to himself.

"You liar." The man's voice broke the trance. "The keys were in the car all along."

Without looking around Cain shrugged.

"I've got a good mind not to give you your bloody bag for that," the man said.

"It's no good to you," Cain pointed out. "You may as well leave it."

"I took a look in your bag, mister. Hope you don't mind, but I wanted to check there wasn't a gun inside. Didn't want you chasing me up the road taking potshots at me."

"Well, now you know there's no gun. Just leave it there for me, please."

"What's with all the knives?"

"Just a passion of mine."

"They don't look expensive. Not the kind of thing anyone would collect."

"I use them in my work, that's all. And you're right, they're not expensive. So it'd be pointless stealing them."

"What the hell's so important about them if they aren't expensive? You were prepared to risk a bullet for the sake of a few old knives?"

"Just call it sentimental value. I've had them a long time. They hold a lot of memories." Cain turned and peered over his shoulder. He held the gaze of the driver. "Indulge me, will you?"

The man dropped the utility belt on the ground, kicked it down into the arroyo. "Don't climb up from there until you hear me driving away. I'll be watching."

A wink. "Understood."

"Good."

As he was commanded, Cain waited until he heard the SUV grum

ble to life, then recede into the distance. What would be the good of rushing? A footrace with a 4x4 wouldn't offer good odds.

First, he retrieved the bottle of water. It felt tepid against his palm. Then he picked up his belt. He didn't need to make an inventory of its contents. He could tell merely by its weight that something was missing.

"You thieving asshole!" He tore open the pouch. His Bowie knife was gone.

This changed everything. He practically hurled himself up the arroyo wall. Reaching the top on his elbows and knees, he lurched up, took half a dozen running steps toward the road. The taillights of the SUV were mere pinpricks in the distance.

"I'll see you again, thief." His promise was as righteous as his fury. "I'll see you again. And when I do there's gonna be hell to pay."

7

so there you have it. why i hotfooted it to the u.s. I took an evening flight to Miami. On the first leg out of the U.K., I slept for hours. I dreamed of people screaming. After transferring planes in New York, the nightmare was with me still. I couldn't sleep, so sat staring out the window. Surreal cloud formations were a mild distraction. They piled all the way down the East Coast. Rink hadn't been exaggerating; storms were raging across Florida.

The air-conditioned terminal tricked me. I stepped out into rain, which I was used to, but the cloying humidity slapped my face like a hot rag.

Damp with the rain and wringing wet with sweat beneath my clothes, I walked toward Jared Rington's Porsche Boxster with a grimace of greeting for the big guy. Christ, I hadn't seen the brute in two years. Rink pressed a button and dropped the passenger-side window.

"What's with all the bags, Hunter?" he asked, nodding at the two I carried. "Figuring on staying a month?"

"As long as it takes."

"Fine by me."

I nodded at him. "Are you gonna invite me in or do I stand out here all night getting even wetter?"

"S'long as you don't get any stains on the upholstery," Rink said.

I checked out the Porsche, then looked down at my sodden clothing. "Maybe I'd best take a taxi," I said.

"The hell you will. Jump in. Toss your bags on the back shelf . . . if they'll fit. Otherwise you're gonna have to keep them on your knee. That's the problem with these beauties—no trunk space."

"Not much room for anything."

"I didn't buy a Porsche for its capacious luggage-handling qualities," Rink said.

"You got it to impress the young ladies, huh?" I clambered in, clutching one bag to my chest.

"Yup. But to be honest, I don't score as often as I used to in my old pickup truck."

Previously clean-shaven, he now sported what looked like a hairy caterpillar on his top lip. He caught me staring at it. He checked himself out in the rearview mirror. "What's wrong with my mustache?"

"Makes you look like a porn star," I said.

Rink grinned unabashedly. "Yeah, so I've been told. But then again," he puffed out his chest, "I've also got the goods of a porn star."

"Dream on, Casanova," I said. "Don't forget, I've seen you in the showers."

"Yeah," Rink agreed. "But you're forgettin' what battle stress does to a man. Sometimes adrenaline makes you shrink up like that."

"Never seemed to affect me," I told him as he was pulling away from the curb.

"Trouble is," Rink said, his tone losing its bantering edge, "nothing ever seemed to affect you the way it did us mere mortals. I sometimes used to wonder if you know what fear is."

"Oh, don't you worry," I said. "There were plenty of times I was scared to death."

"It didn't show."

"It was there, Rink. I just didn't let it show."

We joined a freeway headed west. "I made a coupla calls," Rink said as our journey took us toward Tampa. "Spoke to an old friend out in Little Rock. You don't know him. Harvey Lucas. Ex-military. A good man. I worked alongside him during Desert Storm. Met him again by chance a few years back an' kept in touch since. He's done some diggin' around for me."

"So what's he come up with?"

"Not much. First day on the job."

"Anything's a help."

"He went to see this Louise woman."

"And?"

"She wasn't exactly friendly. Said she'd speak to nobody but you."

I nodded. Her reluctance made sense. "In her letter, she said that John had been acting strange, afraid of something. She could also be scared. I suppose she's not going to say too much to a stranger asking about John's whereabouts."

"Even after he mentioned your name, she wouldn't give Harvey diddlysquat," Rink said. "But he was able to set up a meeting with her. Tomorrow afternoon, three o'clock, after she gets off work. Another thing he found out: seems your brother liked to gamble."

Yeah? That was quite an understatement. "You think it's because of the gambling he's gone missing?"

"Could be. By all accounts he's left a large IOU with a local shark called Sigmund Petoskey. Petoskey's not the most forgiving of people. Could be a good starting-off point to see what he's got to say for himself."

"As good a point as any," I agreed.

"I remember Petoskey from years ago," Rink said. "A no-good

punk with delusions of grandeur. Siggy likes to think of himself as some kinda new world Godfather type. He's gathered a gang of scum around him to do his head bashing when the punters are a little slow to pay up. Maybe John's simply had the good sense to get out with all his limbs intact."

"What's Petoskey into?"

"He's into all sorts. Got hisself a good cover as a businessperson. Real estate. Used-car dealerships. Those kinda things. But he makes most of his money from the gambling and corruption."

"Corruption?" I asked.

"Yup. Has a few names in local government by the balls. Certain cops won't touch him, either."

"What's he like?"

"A punk of the highest order," Rink said. "But I suppose with a gang behind him he's dangerous enough. To someone who's easily frightened, that is."

"Yeah, just like every other asshole we ever went up against," I noted.

Rink often seems to know what I'm thinking. "I've got the guns and stuff back at the condo," he said. "Petoskey won't give us squat unless we show him we mean business."

I nodded at his foresight. We both knew that when you went up against someone like Petoskey or Shank you had to show them that you weren't about to take any shit from them. Shank could be intimidated by a nasty promise, but in a land where every other blue-rinsed grandma toted a sidearm, you had to bring something even nastier to the negotiating table.

"Does Harvey know where Petoskey is?"

"I've got him on it. By the time we arrive in Arkansas, he'll be able to tell you where Petoskey squats down to take a dump . . . and at what time."

I said, "All I need to know is where he'll be this time tomorrow."

"Leave it with me. I'll give Harvey another call as soon as we get back to my place."

"Sure," I said.

Business sorted, Rink turned to me. A smile lit up his features. "It's good you're here, Hunter."

"Good to be here."

8

duty and soldiering go hand in hand. the same could be said for family. I might have been a little remiss in supporting my loved ones since retiring from the forces.

Diane and I were history. She had made a new life with Simon. Nevertheless, there were others I could help if they needed it. I was ashamed that my niece and nephew were living in such squalor, that Jennifer had fallen so low that my skills for pressuring people were all I could offer them.

John is my brother. If you want specifics, he's actually my half brother. My father died and my mother remarried. Then John came along. Maybe it's because we have different fathers that we've turned out like oil and water. I was the war hero, John the stay-at-home ne'er-do-well. Of course, that doesn't mean much in some eyes. Funny how our parents always took his side.

Over his fifth beer, my stepfather had once said to me, "While you've been off gallivanting all over the world, John's been here. John's the one we've had to call for if we needed help. You've never been around. It's all right for you, Joe. You've had everything you ever wanted. What's that boy ever had?"

I hadn't had it in me to argue. I just walked away.

I found John at a bar, swilling down his paycheck alongside a couple of friends. I cornered him by the pool table. Grabbing him by the collar, I pushed him against a wall. His friends knew better than to step in.

"Where the hell's all the money I gave you, John?"

His eyes wouldn't meet mine. "I've got it back home."

"Don't lie to me, John. I've just seen Dad. He told me you've been round begging him for a loan." My jaw was aching from clenching my teeth. "He just gave me a load of grief about how I should help you out. Again."

John shook his head.

"Don't tell me you've gone and blown it?" I said.

Shame made his cheeks burn. "I got an inside tip," he said. "Fiveto-one odds, what could I do?"

"Oh, for God's sake—"

I turned away from him.

John's fist thumped into my shoulder. Turning slowly, I saw my little brother setting himself up.

"Don't you dare," I warned him. "I don't care who you are, I'll punch your face in."

"Come on, then," he said. "Why don't you do it, huh? Every other tough guy around here wants to."

I almost did. But right then he was just too pathetic to waste my time on. Staring him down, I backed away. Lifting a finger, I aimed it at his face. "You're not worth it, John. I'm done with you. You got that?"

Pushing my way through the crowd of onlookers, I heard him call out, "I don't need you, Joe. You're done with me, are you? Well, to hell with you! You mean nothin' to me, either. You're not even my real brother. Just some sad bastard that I've been stuck with all my life."

Our eyes met over the shoulders of the drinkers that made a wall between us.

"I'm not your real brother?" I asked. "Fair enough. If that's what you want, John."

The light of anger went out of his eyes and he turned away. I turned away, too. Didn't look back.

They were angry words on both sides.

Despite them, John would always be my little brother.

We didn't get a chance to make amends.

The time had come to put things right again.

As a soldier, I hunted and killed men. That's what soldiers do. But with me the killing was up close and personal. It does something to you when you have to look into the eyes of those you kill. Violence breeds a sickness of the human spirit. Hatred consumes and gives birth to self-loathing. It doesn't matter that the deaths were sanctioned, just, or righteous. It's still death. Fourteen years spent tracking terrorists left me changed forever.

Maybe that's why I turned my back on my brother. If I'd stepped up to the mark then, maybe John wouldn't have run away.

I took my leave of the forces, determined that I'd settle down with Diane, lead a life of normalcy and peace.

I should've known I was pissing in the wind.

In some respects, John made me what I am. I dealt with his debts in the only way I knew how: I backed down his debtors. On the streets, that gave me a certain reputation. It wasn't long before my natural ability pushed my other, gentler attributes aside. Subtly, what began as a foray into private security consultancy changed into clients who demanded more. Occasionally I had to crack skulls and bloody noses. For fourteen years I'd met violence head-on with even more violence, and now it seemed that for all my good intentions, nothing had changed.

In another world I could've ended up as a hit man like those

I'd waged war against, or as muscle for some lowlife gangster. Only because I had morals and—yes—compassion could I find any peace at all. Without my sense of decency, I'd be nothing more than a bigger thug amid all the little thugs.

I promised Jennifer I'd find my brother.

Nothing was going to stand in my way.

9

yesterday morning, tubal cain's rage had been epic. Little wonder. First, he'd lost his SUV, stranding him out on the highway like road kill left to dry in the increasing heat. Then, he'd realized that the unscrupulous bastard who had abandoned him had also stolen his second-favorite knife. Next, he'd discovered that his penny loafers were no good for walking any distance.

But as the saying goes, that was then and this is now. Almost twenty-four hours later, Cain was feeling rather pleased with himself.

For one, he was lying on a soft bed, wiggling his hot feet in the draft from a wall-mounted AC unit. Freshly showered and wearing clothes that weren't sticky with perspiration, he was a new man. Beside him on the bed was the quiet, still form of the Good Samaritan who'd brought him to this place.

She was dead, of course, not sleeping peacefully as her pose would suggest. Her hair was spread across the pillows like a sheaf of spilled corn, hiding her slack features. Deliberate posing so that her unnatural pallor wouldn't give the game away.

"Now, I'd appreciate it if you'd just lie there like a good girl," he said. "Like you're sleeping off the effects of a heavy party. It was a good party, believe me, and you certainly deserve a nap."

Cain prided himself on his expertise at covering his tracks. That was why he remained America's most prolific undetected serial murderer. Take George and Mabel, for instance: He'd rigged the explosion so that both of them would be so charred it would take a determined investigator to guess that they'd been murdered. Essentially, Mabel hadn't been too careful with the gas cooker when preparing their supper. Either the explosion or the subsequent fire would cover the fact that George was missing a couple of digits, while his wife had suffered numerous breaks to her limbs.

Here, though, it needn't be as dramatic as flames and carcassripping devastation. Subtlety was the order of the day. He'd cranked up the AC so that the growing stink wouldn't alert anyone too soon. And he'd tucked the comforter up to the woman's chin. That would help dissuade the blowflies from searching out the decaying matter as nurseries for their brood. By the time the proliferation of insect life made the room unbearable, he'd be many miles away.

The comforter served a threefold purpose. It absorbed the blood leaking from her body and would take a lot more before it showed. It also concealed the missing digits from her right hand. Ideally, Cain would've preferred to deliver her entire corpse to his repository in Jubal's Hollow; there were some nicely shaped bones under that alabaster skin of hers. For now, he had neither the time nor the inclination for further diversion. The fingers stripped from her hand would have to do. They were easily concealed in the pocket of his jacket, easily transported, and could be dropped off next time he visited his secret place.

It was like preparing for a school picnic. He'd wrapped the fingers in cellophane, packed like snack-sized hotdogs, and secreted them alongside the plastic bag holding George's thumbs. When he had time, he'd strip the flesh away and keep only the bones. He preferred them that way. Without the associated baggage of rotting meat. For now, he could content himself with fingering his souvenirs through their plastic casing without fear of getting her filth on his hands.

In his other pocket was a similar package. Fingers taken from the woman's boyfriend, who had kindly given Cain the fresh set of clothes and the keys to his VW Beetle. The boyfriend himself was in the shower, no more alive than the girlfriend was. Locked in the cubicle away from prying eyes, he would stay undiscovered for as long as the girl did.

Finally, Cain raised himself up. Bedsprings squealed in protest at the redistribution of weight. A creaking eulogy for the woman as she settled deeper into the mattress.

"I'd love to stay and chat a little longer," he said. The woman remained unresponsive beneath the bedsheets. "I'm not normally the type who just has his way with a girl, then makes off with hardly a thanks. It's just that I've got something that needs doing and time's a-wasting."

He sat on the edge of the bed amid further creaks and groans and pulled on a thick pair of hiking socks. He had some intense blisters on the balls of both feet, but the good-quality woolen socks alleviated some of the discomfort. Socks in place, he tucked the hems of his jeans into them before tugging on sturdy lace-up boots. Then he retrieved the lightweight anorak containing his souvenirs and pulled it over his checked shirt. A black baseball cap emblazoned with an American eagle completed the ensemble.

He paused to admire himself in the full-length mirror on the bathroom door. His fair hair and pale green eyes gave him a boyish air that he knew endeared him to the ladies. "Well, hello there." He smiled at his reflection. "Who is that ruggedly handsome guy?"

He'd entered this room the epitome of Joe College. He now looked like a seasoned hiker, exactly like thousands of others who passed along this highway day in and day out.

Before leaving the room, he wiped down all the surfaces he'd touched, as well as all those he couldn't remember touching. He used the cloth to wipe the door handle, then draped the cloth over it to prevent depositing fresh fingerprints when he finally left the room. "Pays to be extra careful," he told the woman.

Best that he didn't leave any incriminating friction ridges for a CSI person to find. That would really stir things up. He scanned the room for the minutiae he might have missed, but decided he'd been as thorough as ever. He wasn't concerned about hair or saliva, or even semen. His DNA wasn't on any police record. His fingerprints were another story. Twice in towns out east he had been caught with prostitutes in his car. Luckily, the cops had dirty minds; otherwise, they might have guessed his true motive for hunting the red-light districts, and he wouldn't have gotten off so lightly, with a fine and his prints taken— the old-fashioned way, thankfully, ink on cards.

A return to the bed allowed a straightening and tucking in of the comforter. A soft pat of his hand on the woman's head. "Now don't you worry. As long as I don't leave any prints, I'll remain anonymous. By the time the police get around to checking out a sample of DNA taken under warrant, I'll already be one of two things: famous or dead. Probably both. And by then it won't matter, will it?"

His old set of clothing was packed into the dead man's backpack, along with other articles that could come in handy. His utility belt for one. He slung the backpack over his shoulder, took one last look at the woman on the bed, winked at her, then slipped out of the room.

The early morning cool washed over him. Within hours this same place would be oven-hot, the air shimmering before his eyes. But now everything was calm, and he could see way off across the sand-blasted wastelands to an orange haze on the horizon. Not the dawning sun— it was on the wrong horizon. The light he could detect was artificial, half a billion streetlights tainting the skyline with their putrid glow. Toward those lights he must travel. For it was there he'd find fame.

Not to mention the thief who stole his knife.

The motel was your typical low-slung timber structure. A series

of cabins set out in two parallel rows behind the booking office. The office was in darkness, as were the other cabins. Not too many patrons had stayed the night. Drawn up in the parking lot were only four vehicles, one of which was his recently acquired VW Beetle. True to his sense of destiny, the VW was an orangey yellow color. Just like the one driven by the man born Theodore Robert Cowell on November 24, 1946. Cowell would later adopt his stepfather's surname and be known as Theodore Bundy. Ted Bundy, the talented serial killer who was soon to be eclipsed by the exploits of one Tubal Cain.

A quick reconnoiter of the area satisfied him that no other guest was out of bed. He walked toward the VW, jangling the keys in his hand. The aged car was more stubborn wreck than it was vintage model. A little temperamental to start, if memory served. Hopefully the chugging of the engine wouldn't alert anyone nosy enough to see him depart. But then again, why should that matter? By the time the bodies were discovered, he'd have arrived in one of the cities and acquired alternative transport. The Beetle would be a burned-out shell in some vacant lot.

Opening the door of the car, he slung the backpack onto the backseat. Surprisingly, the car started on his first attempt, and he disengaged the emergency brake and drove off without a look back. He drove without hurry, but with purpose. From his shirt pocket, he teased out a slip of paper, on it a handwritten telephone number. Beneath it, he'd written the address of the hotel.

"Stupid, stupid thief." His laughter was as bitter as sucking on unripe lemons. "If you want to get into my kind of game, you have to learn the basic rules. First rule: Cover your tracks."

The amateur who'd hijacked him, taking his SUV and beloved Bowie knife, obviously hadn't thought of the consequences of wadding up the slip of paper and dropping it on the floor of his car. It had been a simple matter for Cain to ring the number and listen as a nasal girl had announced the name of the hotel in Santa Monica. The call didn't give him the thief's name, but that was academic. Cain knew where the thief planned to stay. A quick visit to the hotel itself would establish everything else he needed to know.

"Santa Monica, here I come," he said, laughing again. This time his laughter wasn't so bitter, the lemon rind sweetened with sugar. As he drove he shredded the slip of paper, depositing a tiny portion of it out the window every so often along the way.

A couple of hours would see him on the West Coast. Maybe he'd grab a little breakfast, see to the disposal of the VW, then go scout out the hotel. He'd locate the thief, then by tonight he'd be ready to move. He didn't care about regaining the SUV. It had served its purpose and would most likely have gone the way he was planning for the VW. But he did want his knife back.

Not to be sentimental about it, but the Bowie held a great number of satisfying memories. Some he liked to play back in his mind while holding the knife in his hand. He could soon buy or appropriate a replacement, but it wouldn't be the same. And besides, when he finally allowed the world to know his name, he wanted his arsenal right there beside him. The police should have the capacity to match the blade with each corpse it had been used on. He wanted the genuine knife to be kept as a museum piece documenting his infamy, not some secondrate, virgin chunk of metal.

Westward he drove. And despite appearances, the VW was a steady if plodding workhorse. He had only two complaints. First, the air-conditioning system was archaic, achieved by winding down the windows to promote a cross draft. Second, the facility for music was as outmoded as the AC unit.

He searched through the glove compartment, pulling out a couple of music cassettes. One of them, some inane hip-hop crap, he tossed over his shoulder onto the backseat. The second was more to his taste. Cain didn't recognize the band, but the bluesy guitar was to his liking. It wasn't as good as the swing music he preferred: playing air guitar wasn't as satisfying as imagining cutting away strips of flesh with a bandleader's baton.

The miles passed easily.

So did the gas in the tank.

Thirty miles short of his destination, he was forced to pull in to a gas station. Ten dollars' worth of gasoline would more than suffice. He would have paid his bill with the credit cards stolen from the dead couple back at the motel, but a credit trail would easily set the law on his path. It didn't irk him to have to use his own cash, not when it was so readily available to one who knew how to acquire it. The teller thanked him California-style and Cain smiled unashamedly. The girl—sun-bronzed and blond with a smattering of freckles on a cute nose—smiled back at him. Hey, it was good to be back on the West Coast.

Hungry, he purchased some prepacked sandwiches and a couple of Snicker bars plus a pint of chocolate milk. Skimmed milk, less than ninety-nine calories, he had a waistline to consider. He finished it before he was even out the door.

Outside the store, he stood for a while, watching traffic passing on the highway. Here the traffic flow was heavier than out in the desert. He watched vehicles sailing by like mirages through the shimmering heat, wondering what stories their occupants could tell. Where they were going, what they were doing. One thing he was certain of. None had a story to match his.

Beyond the gas station was a rest area. Picnic tables were set out on a patch of lawn so verdant it had to be fake. Bordering the grassy area, the land remained parched and gritty, the home of dust devils and windblown detritus. A family had set themselves up at one of the tables. Bottles of soda and food wrapped in tinfoil were laid out in front of them. Father was pointing out what the children should eat, while they ignored him and went straight for the potato chips. Mother sat on one of the benches, trying her hardest to coax some enjoyment out of a cigarette while squinting against blown dust and the highpitched squalling of the kids.

Cain shook his head.

"Family bliss," he said to himself. God, but he was happy he'd left those trappings behind.

He surveyed the remainder of the rest area. There was a public restroom abutting the gas station. With the pint of chilled milk forging toward his bladder, he decided a visit was in order before setting off.

Someone else had the same idea. A heavy-built guy with uncontrollable hair raced toward the door. His moon face was contorting as though he'd been caught short many miles distant. He was the epitome of desperation.

When Cain entered the restroom, the man had already disappeared behind a cubicle door. Cain could hear him struggling with his belt, issuing soft, urgent noises. Then there was the clunk of the seat followed by the indescribable sound of the man's very essence dropping into a porcelain bowl.

"Now that's either extremely gross or mildly amusing," Cain said to himself. The man's disembodied sigh decided the issue for him. "Extremely amusing."

Smiling, he unzipped at a urinal and relieved his own body of a growing urgency. That done, he could concentrate on another, more pressing ache that required assuaging.

The sink hadn't seen a cleaner's administrations in many an hour. He used a hot air blower to dry himself.

Water flushed and the fat guy came out of the cubicle and bustled directly for the exit door. Cain caught his eye and the guy, looking momentarily abashed, turned fluidly toward the sink to wash his own hands. Cain nodded at him. "Things a little desperate there, buddy?"

Embarrassed, the man shrugged.

"Better out than in, eh?" Cain quipped.

"You betcha." The man grimaced. "Must have eaten some green meat. Didn't think I was gonna make it to the can."

"Lucky for you that you did. By the sound of things you'd have made quite a mess of yourself," Cain said. "Best to stay clean, though, don't you think?"

"Cleanliness is next to godliness," the man quoted, humiliated at having been caught out, "even when you're in a hurry."

The man made a brief run of his hands under the water, then turned toward the filthy-looking towel hanging on the wall. He paused. Looked to Cain for guidance.

"Seems a little pointless, doesn't it?" Cain said.

"You're telling me," said the fat guy. His bulk formed a line of its own behind Cain at the automated hand drier. Energized by his need to get about his journey, he hopped from foot to foot in anticipation of his turn at the hot air.

Cain took his time dry-washing his hands to a point where his skin began to stick together. A tsk of frustration from the man. Cain was pleased. Finally he stood aside, gestured the man forward.

"It's all yours."

"Gee, thanks," said the fat guy, not really meaning it.

"My pleasure," Cain said. Not meaning it, either.

It would be nice to kill the fat guy. But in the end, he decided not to. Too dangerous. What if someone walked in before he was finished concealing the gross body in one of the stalls? He could obviously kill them, too, but then he'd be right back to square one. Last thing he wanted was to end up in a loop where the only guarantee was that he'd finally run out of places to conceal the dead. He would allow the man to live, but there was something he could do that'd bring him a modicum of fulfillment.

It was more than a friendly gesture as he patted the fat guy's shoulder. Two solid slaps of his hand. The man flinched at the contact, blinked at him.

"See you, friend," Cain said. He moved toward the exit. Happy.

"Yeah, see you," the fat guy intoned. Then, stupidly, he muttered something under his breath.

Cain turned and stared back at him. His look was that of a prowling leopard eyeing a wounded buffalo.

"You say something, buddy?"

The fat guy blinked rapid-fire. His jowls hung slack, framed by long, wiry curls. "No, I didn't say a thing."

Cain stepped toward him, and a piece of grit crunched beneath his boot. The sound was more invasive than loud, an expression of Cain's aversion to the man before him. The fat guy reacted as though it was a gunshot. He reared back, lifting his chin in anticipation of avoiding a blow. Cain shook his head at the overreaction. He said, "That's funny. I'm sure I heard you call me an asshole."

Now the fat guy shook his head.

"Look, mister. I don't want any trouble, okay. I just want to dry my hands and get outta here. Wife and kids are waiting for me in the car. We're going down to see my wife's mother for a day or two is all. So I don't want any trouble with you. Gonna get enough of it off the mother-in-law if I'm more than a minute late."

Funny how people babbled when they were afraid.

"I was being polite to you," Cain said. His smile was mock whimsy. "Even looked after your health and well-being for you. Not many people would've bothered. Quite happily could've let you go and get back in your car with your wife and kids. Could've allowed you to spread all those nasty little germs to them. Take them on down to grandma's house, too, no doubt. But I didn't. I thought I'd be nice and remind you to wash your hands. No big deal?"

"No," the fat guy said. "No big deal."

"So why'd you have to call me an asshole?"

"I didn't—"

"Don't lie to me. Please?"

"I'm not lying. I didn't say a goddamn thing."

"Ingratitude. Lies. Now profanity?"

Sometimes even scared fat people got to a point when enough was enough. "Look, fella. I don't know what your problem is with me, but I'm outta here." He shoved by Cain, heading for the door. His exit was as desperate as his entrance.

From the open door, Cain watched him go. A hot breeze lifted whorls of dust in his wake. The man kept glancing back, his hair waving Medusa-like. Cain waved at him. The man jumped in his station wagon, babbling loudly in distress, hands stabbing for the ignition. His prodigious wife and two equally fat children looked over at Cain. Redhaired, with pie-dish faces, they looked like orangutans in a zoo. He waved at them, too. Then the station wagon was headed for the highway with a little more haste than was sensible.

Too quickly, the show was over. While it lasted, the slight distraction had proved enjoyable. Would've been more satisfying if he'd sliced up the fat guy. But at least the look on the guy's face was a bonus.

"And I got another trophy."

In his palm was a strip of plaid cloth. A patch taken from the man's shirt when he'd patted him on the shoulder. Not just a friendly farewell, it was a well-rehearsed move. It was all part of a game he played. If he could get a slither of clothing and remain undetected he let the target live. Those who felt the tug at their clothes or the slice of the knife against their flesh he had to kill immediately.

"Fatty, you just don't realize it yet. Today is the luckiest day of your life."

10

rink's condominium was set in a small community in woodland near Temple Terrace, northeast of Tampa. Set on a limestone outcrop, it was elevated above the flat country all around. Across the way, I could see families in their backyards, reclining on deck chairs with a cool drink at hand, some splashing in private swimming pools. A different world to the one I knew back home. Rink had obviously been pulling in decent work to afford this kind of accommodation.

From the front of the house, I heard an engine growl, Rink announcing his return. Rising up from the chair, I wandered into the living room and met him coming in with his arms full of take-out food.

"Let's eat," he announced.

"You bet."

The food wasn't too fancy, but it was more satisfying than the artificial slop the flight crew offered on the plane. I chewed without really tasting anything other than the liberal quantity of Corona I washed it down with. After we ate, I collapsed in front of Rink's widescreen TV while he put on a fight DVD and passed me another beer.

Then we got around to business.

"Harvey called," Rink said. "He's gonna come to the meeting with Louise Blake. Then he wants a private meet with us after we're finished with her."

I took a sip from my beer and said, "Makes sense."

"He's got the location Petoskey does his night shift business from. Says he'll take us there if we need him."

Something was coming that I might not like. I nodded encouragement; might as well get it over with.

"Says he'll take us, but that's his involvement over with. Doesn't want a backlash from Petoskey if things turn sour."

"Fine by me," I said. "Things might turn sour."

It was Rink's turn to nod.

"Thought they might," he said.

"This nonsense about John leaving town because he owes money sounds like a cover story. I want the truth from Petoskey. If that means hitting him hard and fast, so be it."

"I'm with you, man."

"Never doubted you."

"Good."

"Shut up and drink your beer," I said.

And that was that. The planning would come later. When we arrived at Petoskey's front door. When we had a better idea of what we were up against. I hadn't been a secret agent; it wasn't for me to use guile and trickery to root out the bad guys. I was—along with Rink and a select few others—the weapon sent in when the planning was done with and all that was left was the ass kicking. Ass kicking I was good at. It got results.

Ergo, there'd be nothing fancy set up for when we paid Petoskey a visit. Either he'd be cooperative, or we'd make him wish he had been. End of story.

Rink indicated the TV with his beer can.

"I was figurin' on havin' a go at this extreme fighting stuff." On the

screen, two buffed athletes were pounding the snot out of each other in an octagon-shaped cage. Unlike pro wrestling, this fighting was for real. The blows were aimed with intent, the strangles to a point where people passed out, the arm- and leglocks occasionally ending in fractures.

"I'm sure you'd do okay, so long as you didn't forget it was only a sport," I said.

"Man, it's all in the control," Rink said. "I know when to kill and when not to."

I shook my head. "What about when one of those monsters has you up against the cage and is pounding the life out of you? You telling me you won't gouge out an eye or rip off an ear with your teeth?"

Rink shrugged. "Biting's for the likes of Tyson, man. It was just an idea. Something to keep me fit."

"Go for it, then," I said. "If you're not too old."

"Too old?" Rink looked scandalized.

"Well, you are almost forty."

"I ain't too old. For God's sake, the damn heavyweight champ's in his midforties, and he's still showing these young lions what a real fighter is all about."

I had to agree. The champion was giving a man a foot taller and almost twenty years his junior some serious grief.

I'm a realist. I couldn't compete with the likes of those athletes. Not in their arena. But put them in mine, and I was positive that the man left standing wouldn't be the sportsman. My expertise lay in the battlefield, and they wouldn't stand a chance. You couldn't go to war, then tap out when an opponent was getting the better of you. Fail in my arena and you were dead.

The same was true for Rink. He'd had the same training as me and was equally dangerous in a fight. What Rink possessed that I didn't were black belts to prove his expertise. Even before he'd signed up as a Ranger, he'd been an interstate karate champion three years running.

The first time Rink and I worked together, it wasn't during a covert operation. We were off duty, but Rink had taught me a valuable lesson.

I had been aware of the big American, but only as the silent new recruit who only seemed animated when in action. We hadn't bonded yet, and I was as confused as anyone about why the strange-sounding Yank had been drafted onto our team.

Near to our U.K. base at Arrowsake was a small fishing town. The bar next to the harbor was a favorite of our unit when it came to downtime. Rink was standing by the bar. He was cradling a pint of brown ale but didn't seem to be enjoying it. I glanced across the barroom and saw why.

There were three of them, Special Air Service commandos who'd been brought in on a joint training operation. There'd been friction from the start. Even over the murmur of the crowd I heard one of them call Rink a "reject Nip."

I saw Rink set his glass down on the bar and turn to leave.

The three SAS guys got up.

I didn't owe Rink anything, but for some reason I got up, too. There was a hush in the bar. The silence that preceded violence. Rink veered toward the side exit and the three SAS guys moved to follow him. No one tried to intervene. No one wanted to be pulled in as a witness.

The three men followed Rink into the backyard. Barrels were stacked against one wall, metal trash cans against the other. At the far end, a metal gate stood open and Rink walked toward it.

"Hey, slanteyes," one of the SAS guys shouted at Rink's back. "Where the hell do you think you're running off to?"

Rink didn't answer.

The three of them laughed and started after him. Rink closed the gate. He turned around.

I saw the three SAS guys falter in their stride.

Behind them, I closed the door of the pub, placed my hip against it.

One of them turned and looked at me.

"Got nothin' to do with you, pal," he said.

"Three to one," I pointed out. "I think it does."

I noticed Rink looking my way.

"I can handle it," he said.

"I'm just watching your back, buddy."

Rink nodded his thanks. Then he turned back to the SAS guys. "So who's first?"

"To hell with that!" one of them snapped.

The SAS guys weren't slouches. No Special Forces soldiers are. The one who'd spoken to me hung back while the other two moved in on Rink.

The first one to reach him caught Rink's front kick on his chin. He fell in a heap at the feet of his friend. The second one wouldn't be taken so easily. He feigned a punch but then turned and shot a sidekick at Rink's knee. Rink wobbled and I saw pain on his face. The man stepped in and drilled a punch into Rink's stomach. Rink folded at the waist as his hands sought the source of his pain. The SAS man stepped in, ready to finish it.

But Rink wasn't finished. He was play-acting. Even as the man threw his punch, Rink rammed his elbow upward and drove the point into the man's throat.

At the same time, the third one stooped and grabbed at an empty bottle lying on one of the trash cans.

I didn't stop to think.

I leaped after him.

The man spun, swiped at my head with the bottle. I was expecting that, so I was already ducking. My shoulder caught him in his chest and I continued to drive him backward, rushing him at speed across the yard. As we collided with the barrels, the bottle fell out of his hand and shattered on the floor. The SAS man struck at me, catching me on my left cheek. I gave him one right back and he staggered away from me.

He ended up in front of Rink. Rink grabbed him, spun him around, then head-butted him in the face. The man dropped to his knees, but he wasn't as unconscious as I'd have liked. I stepped in to put the boot in his ribs.

Rink lifted a hand.

"He's done," he said. "It's over with, okay?"

Looking down at the SAS man, I saw him blinking up at me with dazed eyes.

Rink was right then.

And he was now.

"Sorry, Rink. All those years of competition; of course you could restrain your killer instinct. It's me who couldn't do it. I haven't had the etiquette ingrained in me the way you have."

"You know your problem, Hunter? You're too cool about it all. You get off on the violence."

"I thought you knew me better than that, Rink."

"Aw, lighten up, will ya? Here, drink some more beer." He underhanded me a bottle.

Despite what had just been said, my aptitude for hurting others has always been channeled, a skill forged for a strict purpose and with strict delivery in mind. The alcohol—or perhaps it was the jet lag— made me maudlin. "You remember our training, Rink? I don't know about you, but it was about the hardest thing I ever did."

"Sure was. An' that's counting the fifty-man challenge I had to complete to get my Kyokushin black belt."

Unlike that of regular soldiers, our training had been not only in weaponry and technology, but in the use of the body to achieve desired results. Back in 1940, Captain William Ewart Fairbairn had revolutionized the unarmed tactics of the British military. He was al leged to have had six hundred and sixty-six brutal encounters that he survived by using his knowledge of hand-to-hand combat. Basically, he was no slouch when it came to a fistfight, the ideal inspiration for headstrong guys like us.

Over the intervening years, other warriors had added to the roster of Fairbairn's skills, and through intense training, their legacies were passed down to us. In effect, you could say we were the direct descendants of those masters of empty-handed combat. I can't claim six hundred and sixty-six encounters, but I'm well into triple figures. My generally unmarked face was testament to my skills, as much as Rink's black belts were to his.

"See, it's not just about finishing your man," Rink said, with a nod toward the screen. "It's about doing it in style. Has to have entertainment value or the promoters won't be able to put asses on seats. What you do, Hunter, well, it just ain't pretty to watch."

"Aren't you afraid you'll lose your edge?" I asked. I was being serious.

Rink looked pensive for a moment. Then he hit me with his enigmatic look, all hooded eyes and downturned mouth.

"Hunter," he said slowly, "we ain't in the military no more. We don't have a license to kill. Hasn't that sunk in yet?"

It didn't take much ruminating over.

"Yeah," I finally said.

But it was a sore point.

11

only eight miles from los angeles international Airport and thirteen miles from downtown L.A., Santa Monica was pretty much Tubal Cain's most favorite place on the western coast. He'd visited there many times before but never grew tired of it. How could you be bored with its striking contemporary style and architecture or its shameless attempt at snaring a buck from the tourist market?

Santa Monica had been a playground of chic Victorians. Then in the early 1900s it blossomed again with movie-star glamour. As early as the 1920s, stars such as Will Rogers, Greta Garbo, and Marion Davies had built mansions there. During the 1980s it boomed again after a multimillion-dollar restoration transformed the city.

Many people thronged to take up residence there, but many of them were transients with no roots to speak of. It was the perfect hunting ground for one who preyed primarily on strangers who wouldn't be missed.

Cain was hunting one of those transients now.

A certain thief of a certain knife dear to him.

Traversing Lincoln Boulevard in his Bundyesque VW, he grinned

at the characters he saw swarming the sidewalks. Here were wannabe actors, wannabe directors, wannabe rock stars. You name it, they were there. Then there were the others. They were there to gawk in wonder at all the other wannabes, to rub shoulders with the wannabe rich and famous. To be sure, no one truly rich and famous would wander along those sidewalks for fear of being torn to pieces by starstruck souvenir hunters. Yet Cain could see a half dozen Michael Jackson look-alikes, a handful of Marilyn Monroes. Who would know if the star was real or not?

The world was twisted full tilt in this wondrous place. But that was what Cain loved so much. It was an escape from humdrum reality, a dimension to which one of his kind belonged. He knew that he didn't exist in the everyday world that most others belonged to. As a sociopath, he understood that what he was doing wasn't acceptable in ordinary society. But as a psychopath, he didn't care. Here in this modern-day Babel he could thrive and grow, easy in the knowledge that he was surrounded by a myriad of like minds.

Cain liked to speak to his dead victims. They tended not to butt in. For the same reason, he was equally happy conversing with himself. He could be as verbose as he wished. "Rule two, thief: The easiest place to hide is in full sight. Here, I'm a sardine in a massive shoal of sardines. I'm indiscernible from the thousands of others, and unlikely to be picked out when there are so many to choose from." Not that he particularly liked the sardine metaphor, but he had to admit that it served his purpose. He tended to think of himself more as a shark or a swordfish, lurking within the shoal, ready to spring forth from concealment to show his ripping teeth or flashing blade.

No doubt about it. The thief was most likely to be holed up in his hotel room.

"You're making it too easy for me, thief. You should be out here in the sunshine, mingling with everyone else in this crazy, topsy-turvy place. What chance would I have of finding you then?"

He parked the car in a massive lot filled almost to capacity. Nearby was the promenade that led to the pier, an easy stroll he relished after driving so far. Day or night, it made no difference; people would be on the pier fishing, watching the waves, entertaining themselves in the arcades or shopping for souvenirs, riding the carousels or roller coasters, laughing, yelling, screaming in delight.

Why bother locking the car or removing the keys from the ignition? If some thief should happen to steal his vehicle while he was gone, then all the better. It'd save him the job of disposing of it later. Wiping the steering wheel, console, and doors was both sensible and necessary. Wouldn't like to think that a cop discovered the car before the joyriders did.

He strolled on the promenade beneath the bluffs, sunlight reflecting from the windows of the houses built there back in Victorian times. Where the afternoon sun caressed his face beneath the peak of his cap, it was molten honey. A couple of girls Rollerbladed by, thong bikinis barely concealing their cute little assets. It was all for show, but so was his reaction. He smiled and nodded, adjusted his cap as if in amazement. Just like any other first-time visitor who was male and red-blooded would do. "Rule three, thief: it's an easy one to remember." To avoid funny looks, he kept his words to himself now. "When in Rome, do as the Romans do."

Good advice.

To Cain's delight, a woman rode by on a bike, towing a Jack Russell terrier on a skateboard. Screwball madness, insanity, and he loved it all.

He paused at a vendor to buy some food, then continued strolling to the pier, eating directly from the carton with his fingers. Man, but this really was the life!

The day and the sights were glorious. The sun was beginning its roll toward the Pacific Ocean, the sky and sea a holiday-brochure cerulean blue. The beach was packed with beautiful people glisten ing with the sheen of tanning oil. All that was missing was Pamela Anderson in a red swimsuit.

Cain felt good. Only one thing could make the day better. But that would blow his cover as a tourist. He dumped his greasy food tray in an overflowing trash can, felt for the scaling knife in his jacket pocket. A little bone harvesting was out of the question, but he had ample opportunity for a little game, he decided. With most people skimpily attired it might be a challenge, but that only made things more interesting. And as always, a challenge conquered produced more satisfaction.

His first target was apparent immediately, a statuesque woman in khaki shorts and a vest top. She was standing at the end of a line waiting to purchase ice cream. Cain didn't pause. He moved directly in, pretended to accidentally jostle the woman.

"Sorry, ma'am," he said. "I do apologize."

The woman, forty-something but looking every bit of ten years older under her makeup, gave him a frown. Not used to the concept of strangers copping a feel from the likes of her, she wasn't concerned by the unsolicited contact. She flung back her hair and turned back to the more pressing engagement of securing her place in the ice cream line. Cain walked away, clutching a belt loop from her shorts in his left hand.

"One–nil," he whispered.

He secreted the trophy in a pocket of his windbreaker, pushing it alongside the film-wrapped fingers and thumbs of his collection. Light of spirit, he climbed a series of plank steps to a ramp leading onto the pier. From this high vantage point, he spied the woman at the kiosk. She'd already forgotten him in her desire for raspberry whip delight. Standing behind her in the ice cream line was a man in taupe shirt and chinos. He didn't appear to be checking out the ice cream menu. He seemed more interested in Cain. Only a brief glance at first, but their eyes met and locked. Then the man looked away. Hmmm, interesting. "Rule four, thief: Semper vigilo. Remain vigilant at all times."

On the pier, the pickings were even sweeter. The crowds were hemmed in, and accidental collisions were the order of the day. Within a minute, he had a button from an elderly gent's blazer and the tassel from a woman's parasol. Neither were what he considered too great a challenge, but they joined his collection just the same.

Cain wasn't finished yet.

"The catch of the day!"

She was stunning in a pale lilac swimsuit and matching sarong. Looked Hawaiian. A dark-eyed beauty with dusky skin and full red lips. Cutting her out of her bikini would make anyone a happy man.

She moved through the crowd with the fluid confidence that the masses would open a path before her. Sure, she was beautiful, but she had an innate disdain for the lesser mortals around her. Cain wouldn't hold that against her; she was a person after his own heart. He would have loved to teach her that there was at least one among the crowd who would not give way so easily. Trouble was, she was too prominent. More than one man gave her a lingering glance. Some women looked, too. But their stares were of the green-eyed variety.

The attention she commanded meant it wasn't a good idea to approach her. Someone would notice and remember. Guaranteed.

An older woman sitting on a deck chair was much more viable. He took two steps toward her and stopped. Something registered. A flash of taupe passing by. He blinked slowly. The color taupe wasn't something that would generally cause concern. Not unless you were as cautious as Tubal Cain.

He entered an arcade. Families fed coins into machines as though they were going out of fashion. A grandiose show of holiday overexuberance. Sweaty faces and the smell of popcorn. Cain absorbed and then discarded it all. He was in the Zone. He took five paces, then rounded on his heel. Walked back the way he'd come.

The man entering the arcade had no option but to continue inside. The flicker in his eyes, the almost imperceptible pause in his step, was the giveaway. Cain was more adept at this game. No one would guess that he was suspicious of the man.

Immediately outside, Cain turned toward the deck-chair woman. Spun on his heel again. Just in time to see the man in taupe shirt and chinos come out of the arcade. Pushing his hand through his dark hair, he scanned the crowd as though looking for someone else. It was good cover. Not convincing to Cain, though. Should have stuck to buying ice cream, Cain concluded.

No doubt about it, now: the man was following him. Only thing was, Cain couldn't quite guess his motive. Slowly, Cain turned around and began the walk along the pier.

He affected the look of one thrilled to be there, ogling the attractions like a country boy in the big city for the first time. But the storefronts and carousels held no real interest for him. They were cover for his own surveillance. In the reflective surfaces, he checked behind him. Taupe shirt was still there. Plus, another in a flamboyant yellow and blue striped number. He was being hunted down by at least two men.

"What have we got here, then? Muggers or cops?" Neither assumption boded well. "Time to go, I think."

Escape beckoned. The steps leading back to the promenade were in front of him. But a huge man blocked the way. He glowered like a bullmastiff as he whispered into his fist. Not muggers, then. Definitely police.

Feign indifference. Just walk on past him. Good plan, but the man stepped in front of him, held up a hand, and pushed it against Cain's chest. He was like a stuccoed wall, wide, pale as whitewash, and a little rough up close. Not too polite, either. Didn't even have the good grace to introduce himself. All he was capable of was a nod over Cain's shoulder. Ergo, his intention was to distract rather than contain. Taupe shirt or the other in candy stripes must be moving in on him.

Cain blinked up at the man. The innocent look. "Can I help you?" he asked.

"You can wait there a moment, sir." He did the over-the-shoulder nod thing again. The slight urgency told Cain that the man's friends weren't as close as they should have been.

"What's this about?" Cain asked as he pushed his hands into his pockets.

"Security," said the man. "We'd like a word with you."

"Security?" Cain's nervous laugh was real. But for a wholly different reason than he'd admit. "That's a relief, friend. For a moment there I thought you were about to rob me or something."

"We just want to ask you a couple of questions," said the man. "If you wouldn't mind waiting a minute or two?"

"Wait for what? What am I supposed to have done?"

"We've been having problems with pickpockets. Been watching you, and we'd just like to ask you to turn out your pockets." The man, large and impressive-looking, had a nervous cast to his eyes. Not been on the job long, Cain decided.

"I don't think you're at liberty to do that," Cain told him.

"If you'd just wait for my supervisor, he'll explain everything to you," said the security man. His hand was as big and hot as a Sunday roast on Cain's shoulder.

"Hey!" Cain shrugged him off. Amiable enough. A lack of aggression ensured that he didn't encourage a tighter hold.

Yes, the big guy was new to the job, obviously unsure of his level of authority here. His hand wavered in the air as though plucking at floating threads of lint.

Cain exhaled. Rule five: If you're accosted, keep them thinking. While engaged in thought, the fools aren't acting. Gives you the opportunity to act first. Rule six: If you are going to act, do so immediately and without prejudice.

"So where is your supervisor?" he demanded.

"Coming."

Cain glanced around, saw that the man in candy stripes was about twenty feet away, attempting to skirt a group of kids on an outing. He couldn't see the one in taupe. Good, that gave him a few seconds to spare.

"I can't wait here all day." Cain engaged the man by locking eyes with him. Simple but effective. It was all Cain required. His hand moved below their plane of vision. Motion that was barely a flicker. A quick jabbing action between the man's legs. Very little contact. Hardly noticeable. Then he was past the man and taking his first couple of steps down the stairs. The security man was motionless, looking down between his thighs at the lake of blood pooling between his feet.

Cain counted the steps, one, two, three, four; then the caterwauling began. A horror-movie scream as the truth became apparent. Cain's feet gave a backbeat to the howl, clattering down the remaining steps to the promenade. On the pier, heads were swiveling toward the commotion, but Cain simply ran. He needn't look back to witness the result of that one simple knife jab. A punctured femoral artery came with a guarantee; without immediate medical help, the security man would bleed to death in minutes. Confusion would erupt and allow him to escape. Also, attempting to staunch the flowing blood of their downed fellow meant the man's companions couldn't possibly pursue him, too.

Of course, Cain was also a firm believer in not trusting people to react the way you expected them to. A shout broke through the murmur of consternation rising behind him. He heard the slap of determined footsteps in pursuit down the stairs. He did glance back, a natural instinct that would not be denied. The man in taupe rushed after him. Cain swore and increased his speed.

As they had for the Hawaiian beauty, the crowds parted before him. Only the looks he received were anything but admiring. They were fearful. It was apparent to all that Cain was a fugitive. A dangerous fugitive, judging by the screaming overhead. There were no gung-ho heroes among the tourists, no one trying to snag his clothing or bring him down. But neither did they impede the man in taupe. Younger than Cain, and in reasonable shape, he was gaining fast. All the while, he shouted into a radio and—more worrying—clenched a revolver in his other hand.

Cain cut to the right, charged up some more steps and onto the ramp arching over the highway, then raced head down for the anonymity offered by the stores a couple of blocks over. The man in taupe didn't stop, matching him step for step all the way.

At the shopping strip, Cain ducked down a service alley and into the twilit underbelly of Santa Monica that was immeasurably different from the beachfront. The sights, the sounds, the smells, everything was tainted with neglect. He grabbed at a wheeled Dumpster crammed with the ghosts of pizzas past, tugged it out to block his pursuer's path. Didn't stop running. He heard the man heaving the Dumpster aside and realized that barely ten paces separated them. Sprightly son of a bitch, that one, not your usual run-of-the-mill rent-a-cop.

Fortunately, Cain gained the corner of the buildings first. He spun to his left into deeper shadows and rushed headlong through a narrow alley, trusting to luck that he didn't smash headlong into an obstruction. Thankfully, he saw the turn and ducked left again.

Cain hoped that the security man would act with caution. He'd witnessed what Cain was capable of with his knife. Only a fool would relish the possibility of bleeding out in a deserted alleyway with only the smell of garbage for the final journey to the afterlife. Fearing ambush, he would slow at the corner. Cain sprinted on, gaining precious distance on his pursuer.

On a main shopping strip parallel to the beach, Cain slowed down. It was surprising how much anonymity a single block's dash had given him. All around him the vacationers' lunacy continued unabated. Not as much as a glance or a "How are you doing?" came his way.

A mini-mall enticed passersby with the promise of major discounts on all purchases. From within the entrance Cain watched the man in taupe rush by. Problem solved, almost.

Ducking through a service door, Cain took off his cap and jacket and dumped them in a waste bin. He freed his jeans from his socks. His shirt hung loose over his waistband, concealing the scaling knife tucked in the small of his back, as well as the large bulges his trophies now made in his jeans pockets.

Back out in the mall, he ambled in shopper mode. Shoplifting wasn't a skill he'd engaged in since his school days, but the appropriation of a pair of sunglasses was as dexterous as any swish he'd ever made with a blade. Suitably disguised, he backtracked toward the pier.

Back at the promenade by the beach again, he looked toward the pier. A swarm of buzzing hornets, the paramedics and police had arrived. The wounded security man was the sheeted-up load going into an ambulance. The man in candy stripes hung his head by the open doors. Two accounted for, one to go. Behind his newly acquired sunglasses, Cain squinted left and right. No more than ten yards away, the taupe security man walked toward him. Cain wasn't concerned; he stood looking out to sea, hands bunched around the trophies in his pockets. The man made the slow walk of dejection back toward the pier, totally oblivious that he was in stabbing range of the person he sought.

Cain turned away. He'd lost interest in this pointless game. Better he return to the VW to see if he still had the chore of getting rid of it.

Then the more pressing matter of finding the thief.

12

"so this is your hometown, rink? i have to take back what I said about pickup trucks, huh?" "Damn right!" I don't mind admitting when I'm wrong. I thought I'd be flying into a sleepy town full of wooden shacks. Instead, I found a vibrant city to equal any in the midwestern U.S. I was knocked back by the sprawl of beautiful high-rise buildings, fine museums, and scenic parks along the banks of the Arkansas River.

Not that Rink was gloating. His smile was all pleasure while pointing out the major landmarks, reminding me that Little Rock was the capital of the Natural State, and not some piss-pot backwater as I'd thought.

"Pity we couldn't take the scenic route so I could see even more of your fine town."

We were in a rental car we'd picked up at Adams Field, otherwise known as Little Rock National Airport, following a four-hour flight from Tampa. The car was a regular sedan, nowhere near as flashy as Rink's Porsche, but clean and comfortable nonetheless. More trunk space, too. Rink drove. It was easier that way. This was his old stomping ground, and he could get us to our destination much quicker.

That had been the plan. Yet it seemed to me that Rink must've been a cabdriver in a past life, judging by the winding way we took through town.

"Yeah, Le Petit Roche sure has come a long way," Rink said as he pushed the sedan through a downtown convention and entertainment district. I think Rink himself was impressed. "I think you're forgettin' that this was Bill Clinton's first capital city, Hunter."

"I'm not forgetting, Rink. I didn't know. Full stop."

"Man, you're just too ignorant for your own good. Admit it, you weren't expecting anything like this, were you? We've even got the brand-new, one-of-a-kind William J. Clinton Presidential Center and Park right here in Little Rock," Rink said, indicating off to his right with a wave of his hand. "It's sure a sight to behold."

"Like Disney World?" I asked.

Rink frowned. I smiled unabashedly.

"We far from Louise's place?" I asked.

"Not too far. Another five minutes or so."

"You said that five minutes ago."

"I did. Now ain't that strange?"

"Harvey going to be there?"

"Said he'd meet us at a diner where we can speak to Louise on neutral ground. Doesn't want to be seen around her house in case anything comes back on him." Rink gave a shrug. "I don't know what he's gettin' all bowed up about. It's not as if Petoskey's the goddamn Godfather or nothin'."

"Like you said, though, he's got connections," I said. "I'm starting to worry that we're underestimating his outfit. City this big and important, he must be a key player if he's controlling the politicians."

Rink shook his head.

"Petoskey's a two-bit asshole playing at the big time, just like I told you. It's not as if he's got the governor in his pocket, just some minor politicians and low-ranking cops who're taking bribes for favors."

I grimaced, but nodded.

Rink shot me a look. "I'm telling you, man. There ain't nothin' to get riled up about. I know his type. Thirty years ago, he was froggiggin' for meat to put in his momma's stew, now he's eatin' the best cuisine and drivin' around in flashy cars. He's poor white trash actin' like a big important hotshot. On the grand scale of things, he's nobody. An' he knows it."

"Maybe, but he seems to have put the scare into John. He must have some sort of weight behind him."

"From what you told me, John ain't too hard to scare. Ran away from this weasely Shank character. I take it your brother's not the bravest dude on the planet?"

My head shake was as much from memory as from disagreement.

"He wasn't running from Shank. Shank was Jennifer's problem, not John's. There were others involved."

"I know, he'd shacked up with this Blake woman, too," Rink said. "He was runnin' from his marriage."

"Among other things," I said.

Rink pulled the rental over to the side of the road. He sat looking at me.

"What haven't you told me, Hunter?"

"I didn't think this had anything to do with what happened before," I said, "but now I'm not so sure." I was pensive for a moment. Rink continued to give me the eye. "I told you me and John had a falling out, yeah?"

"Uh-huh. But you never told me why."

My face felt like clay, cold and clammy, as I rubbed my hands over my features. I was already tired, but more than that, thinking about John's predicament made me bone weary.

"Not long after I resigned from the job, he came to me with a problem," I said.

"Go on," Rink prompted.

"He'd got himself involved with some real heavy-duty shit. Stupid son of a bitch had been playing cards and writing IOUs he couldn't hope to cover. First went his car, then the house. But it wasn't enough. He had nothing left and had no one to turn to."

"So you did the honorable thing?"

"Yeah, I bailed them out. Jenny doesn't know it to this day. I gave John the cash to pay it off. But an addiction being what it is, John went and blew it on another sure bet. I called him on it—the money—and that's when we had the falling out. It was just a stupid argument."

"You didn't talk to him again?"

"No, Rink. I didn't even see him again."

Rink nodded. "That's when he run out?"

"He must have been planning it."

"Punk."

I shrugged. "After that, the only way I could think to help him and Jenny was to face down the guys he owed and make them back off. Wasn't easy. They weren't as easily intimidated as Shank was."

"They didn't back off?"

"No."

"You're slipping, Hunter."

"Seriously," I said. "Short of going to war with them, there wasn't much I could do. So instead, I arranged for John and Jenny to disappear for a while. It was all set, they were going to go off together, assume new identities, everything. Then John went and messed it all up. Unbeknownst to all of us, he'd been seeing this Louise Blake on the side. Before we knew it, they took off together. Just flew. Gone."

"Leaving poor Jenny and his kids behind to take the flack," Rink concluded.

"Yeah," I agreed. "I did everything I could for her. Helped her get back on her feet. I had space in my house, but she refused. Said she needed a place of her own. John didn't even get in touch and let her know where he was."

"And you want to help this peckerhead?"

"He's still my brother, Rink."

Rink raised an eyebrow, but then gave a soft nod.

"Plus, I'm doing this for his wife and kids."

"Okay. But I'm surprised she wants him back."

"Jenny doesn't want him back," I explained. "She's looking for some kind of closure. I think she wants me to find John so she can spit in his eye."

"I'm with her on that one."

"Me, too. Took a lot of work sorting out the problems he left. As I said, they were a major outfit with major connections. They put out a contract on him."

"Shit," Rink said.

"In the end they saw reason. I explained that John had doublecrossed us all, that we were all equally aggrieved. So I made an agreement with them that they didn't go near Jenny or the kids. The alternative was that I'd call back up and wipe them out."

"They believed you were capable?"

"I think it was more fear of the unknown," I said. "They didn't know who I was or what I was prepared to do. But some of them had heard stuff. I believe in the end they decided it was more trouble than it was worth. You could say that going to war with me wasn't profitable."

"Did they call in the contract on John?"

"Who knows what they'd do if he ever showed up again."

"Which is why you think he's missing?"

"Nah." I shook my head. "There's more to it than that. John has

other reasons. I guess the point I'm trying to make is this: He's a selfish son of a bitch. Doesn't give a shit for anyone but himself. But I don't think he'd be running from the likes of Petoskey if it's only about a couple of hundred dollars' gambling debt." I paused, summing up exactly what it was that I was trying to say. "Something big has happened. Something he's so frightened of that he's disappeared again and he doesn't want to go back. Louise Blake has been left high and dry, the same as he left Jenny. That means he's attempting to cut all ties, so he can disappear without a trace. You don't do that for any piddling gambling debt."

Rink agreed.

"Petoskey's an asshole," he reiterated. "But I see where you're coming from. What's he gonna do? Maybe order an ass whuppin', maybe a broken arm or something? He's not going to order John's death, is he?"

"Unless Petoskey's more dangerous than we're giving him credit for," I pointed out.

"Could be, but I stand on my first opinion. He's a small potato playing at the big time. The way I remember, he's too chickenshit to take someone out for real."

"You've been gone from here a long time. People change."

"Okay, I'll concede that. But it still leaves another option, doesn't it?"

"John's made an enemy of someone else? Someone who is prepared to kill him."

Rink leaned forward, turned on the engine, and pulled out into the traffic. He turned to me, said, "But you're still fixin' to start with Petoskey?"

"Yeah. We're going to do it loud and hard. We need to shake him up, Rink. Make him fear us. I'm going to make him tell us where John is. Hopefully, it'll end there," I said. "But I don't think so."

"No," Rink said. "Now that you've got me thinking, I don't figure so, either."

The city was behind us now and we were entering a grimier section of town.

"What are we doing here?" I asked.

"Just thought we'd take a detour and scope out the land. Harvey said Petoskey does business from an office downtown, also mentioned this place he visits when the dealings are a little more underhanded. Thought we'd just drive by and take a look. Thought it would be better to hit him there than downtown. Less chance of the cops arriving and saving his ass before we're through."

Up ahead was a building right out of a ghost story. Rink raised his chin to indicate the place.

"What do you think?"

"Is it haunted?" I joked.

"Only by hobos, I guess," Rink said.

The building was a huge redbrick affair, but little of the original color showed through the accumulated soot. Five stories high with a flat roof, rows of windows on each level. Not too many of the windows retained their original glass. Some were boarded over with molding plywood, while others bore remnants of glass like the shards of teeth in a crone's mouth. The uppermost windows had fared better; perhaps they'd been replaced more recently. Beyond the dull glass there appeared to be sheets of semiopaque plastic.

"What do you think the plastic's for?"

"Not the obvious," Rink said. "It's not there to catch blood. More than likely it's to dampen down any sounds from inside."

"Looks to me like there could be squatters on the lower floors."

"Uh-huh. Good cover. Who in their right mind's goin' to want to run a gauntlet of crackheads and thieves?"

"Only those who really have to," I said.

Rink spun the car around in an abandoned lot so we could take a second drive by Petoskey's hideout. Second time around it looked no better.

"Time to meet Harvey?" Rink asked.

"Yeah," I said. In the rearview mirror, the building took on the color of old blood. It seemed to exude the promise of unrestrained violence.

13

"mr. hunter?" louise blake looked me up and down. "You're John's brother?" "Yes." "You look like him." We shook hands. "Please. Sit down. I've already taken the liberty of ordering coffee," I said.

She sat down and immediately reached for her mug. Quick gulp. Not so much a need for the caffeine as for something to occupy her trembling hands. She pushed the cup from her, almost empty. Fiddled with the handle. There was a faint knocking coming from the table as if the spirits were making contact at a séance.

You might say that she was a little nervous.

I'd never met her before, but I recalled John talking about the beauty he was working with. I'd suspected he was glorifying her through the bottom of his beer goggles, but seeing her now, I had to admit she was a good-looking woman. Even pinched with worry and nervously adjusting her clothing, she had the fine bones and full lips of a model. Not Vogue standard, but perhaps your mail-order catalog girl on the way to the big time.

Something else struck me. Louise Blake was a younger version of Jenny. One not changed by childbirth, and the ultimate betrayal of trust.

"I hope you don't mind meeting me here?" Louise said. She crossed her arms beneath her breasts to hug herself. Most likely it was another attempt at concealing the shakes. "The thing is, I don't think it would be a good idea for you to show up at my house."

"This place is as good as any," I told her. I was nursing my cup of strong coffee, while Louise looked like she wanted more. She required reassurance that she was among friends. I made the introductions.

Harvey Lucas had arranged the meeting with seclusion in mind. Neutral turf, he called it. More like minimal space. We were squashed into a booth in a greasy spoon diner at the end of a strip mall. There weren't too many customers at this hour of the afternoon, and those who were there apparently understood the concept of privacy. The booths on either side of ours remained empty, which added to the ludicrous scene of the four of us packed together at a table designed for two. Rink and I sat on one side, while Louise and Harvey sat facing us. Pressed into the corner by the window by Harvey's imposing bulk, Louise looked like a cornered rodent menaced by a panther.

When you think of a private eye, you might picture a middle-aged white man in a houndstooth sports jacket and mustard slacks. Possibly wearing a fedora to cover his thinning hair. Harvey was anything but. He was six feet five, two hundred and twenty pounds of sleek muscle, with a bullet head. And his skin was blue-black to the point that it reflected the overhead lights.

Harvey Lucas looked like a professional boxer and dressed with the panache and flair of a movie star. I'd learned that he was an exarmy Ranger, the connection to Rink now obvious.

Harvey cut into the conversation in a rich baritone. "Been some strange-looking people hanging around Miss Blake's place these past coupla days. Thought it best we did our business out of sight."

"Petoskey's people?" I asked.

"Could be," Harvey said. "But if you ask me they look too slick to be involved with Siggy. Got a few good photographs of them if you want to take a look."

"Yeah, we'll have a look when we're finished here," I said. Then I turned to Louise. "Do you know anything about who's watching your place?"

She shook her head and her reddish hair momentarily covered her features.

Harvey stepped in again. "Miss Blake was unaware of the surveillance of her home until I pointed it out to her."

"I knew something was going on," she offered in an attempt to save face. Apparently there was a tough side to Louise Blake. "I could feel it. As if there were eyes on me everywhere I went. But no, I didn't see anyone. Not that I'd know them anyway. I've never seen this Petoskey."

"What're your feelings, Harve?" Rink asked.

Harvey rolled his head on his broad shoulders, turned down the corners of his mouth. "Don't like it one bit, Rink."

Harvey had my complete agreement. To Louise, I said, "In your letter to Jennifer Telfer you said that you thought John was in some kind of trouble. Was it because of something specific he said?"

Louise shook her head. "He didn't say anything. That was the problem. What bothered me more was the way he was acting."

"What do you mean? You said he was frightened."

"Yeah, he was kind of jumpy. A car would pull up and he'd sneak to the window, peak out a corner of the blinds, that kind of thing. He couldn't sleep too well, either. Tossed and turned all the time, jumped at any noises from outside."

"Did you ask him what was wrong?"

"Of course I did. But he wouldn't tell me. Just said he had something on his mind."

"But you didn't push him about what it was?" I asked.

"No. I just thought it was to do with him starting a new job. Maybe it was too much for him to handle or something. You know, like the pressure was getting to him?"

"John started a new job?"

"So he said. Told me he was doing a bit of driving for a local firm, delivering to customers, that sort of thing. I didn't press him about who it was for. He looked a little embarrassed at first."

"Why'd he be embarrassed about a driving job?" I asked.

"Wouldn't you be embarrassed? To end up as a delivery boy's a bit of a comedown, don't you think?"

"Is that the way you saw it, Louise?"

Her gaze snapped onto me with power-drill intensity. "That's not at all the way I saw it! What do you think I am?"

"Sorry, I didn't mean it like that. I was just wondering if he'd got the notion in his mind that he'd let you down, and that was why he was acting so jumpy around you."

She exhaled noisily.

"Maybe he did have it in his mind, but he never mentioned it to me. Anyway, he wasn't jumpy around me; he was jumpy around everything else but me."

"You said he was acting like he was watching for someone?" I prompted.

Louise shook out her hair again.

"Not just like he was watching for someone," she said with a wave of a finger. "More like he was waiting for something to happen."

"Or something to arrive?" Rink asked.

"Yes." The momentary anger had gone from her eyes. "John said

that if anything ever happened to him, you would know what to do, Mr. Hunter. So . . . I mean, do you?"

I swirled the coffee in my cup, pondering the patterns of froth as if it were a psychic's divining tool. I saw less in the coffee swirls than I already knew. Which wasn't much. Finally, I switched my gaze to her face. My exhalation told her everything. "I haven't seen or heard from John since he left England; I was hoping you'd be able to bring me up to speed on what he'd been up to since coming here."

Louise's shrug was noncommittal.

"We just got by. I took a job at a beauty salon. John went from job to job. Nothing startling really. Parking valet. Stacking paint at a warehouse. Fast-food cook." She ticked off the jobs on the fingers of one hand. "Then, most recently, this driving job."

"But you don't know who for?"

"No."

"Was he delivering locally?"

She shrugged again. "Sometimes he'd be away for a few days, so I guess he got a few long-haul jobs. Don't know where he went, though. He'd phone from a motel or something, but he'd never say where he was. I didn't think to ask. I wasn't really that bothered."

"You weren't that bothered? Were you having problems with your relationship?"

Louise looked at me sharply. The power drill on overdrive. "Are you asking if he was seeing someone else?"

"Was he?"

"No."

"How could you tell?"

"Believe me, a woman knows these kinds of things."

I thought of Jenny; how she hadn't had a clue about her husband's infidelity. But then again, with the constant money worries, the fear that bad men would turn up and take it from their hides, Jenny prob ably wasn't capable of detecting the subtle signs that Louise was now hinting at. "If there wasn't another woman, was there anything else between you?"

Louise's lips trembled. I don't know if it was emotion or scorn. Then, to change the subject, she lifted a hand and waved over a waitress.

"Can I have another coffee?" she asked.

The waitress refilled her cup, offered more to the rest of us, but we all declined. Louise waited, a manicured fingernail tapping her cup, until the waitress returned to the serving counter. "As you know, John left his wife for me. Not exactly the ideal situation." She glanced around at the three of us, checking for any sign of disapproval. We were like the three wise monkeys. See, hear, and—definitely—say no evil. "Because of that, it wasn't really a good idea to keep in touch with anyone back home. We severed all ties. My family doesn't know where I am. John didn't tell his. There have been so many times that I wanted to pick up the telephone and speak to my mother, but I didn't."

"Was that your choice?" I asked.

"No. John always argued against it. Said it was best we remained anonymous for a little longer. Just another six months or so. He said it was to give everyone time to reconcile themselves with what we'd done. So that they'd forgive us." She laughed sadly at herself.

"Did you believe that?" I asked softly. "That John was concerned about what people back home thought about you?"

"I'm not a complete idiot," she said, and again a spark of anger flashed across her features. "We argued about it a lot. But that's not why he left. Believe it or not, we do love each other. It's not important what anyone thinks."

Her challenge was as direct as a laser-guided warhead. Aimed directly at me. After all, I was the only other constant here. I had come to America because of Jennifer's request as much as the letter Louise had sent. She wanted to know whose side I was on.

"You're right. It doesn't matter," I told her.

She nodded, pacified for now. "When we left England, I knew that he was hiding something. That he was running from more than his wife and children. He was in some sort of trouble and he had to run. That's the bottom line."

I sat back from the table, had to rotate my shoulders so that I could lean against the booth wall without nudging Rink into the gangway. I said, "It's not likely that the men who were after him have followed him here. The cost would exceed what he owed them."

Louise looked more than a little stunned at my words.

"I . . . I didn't know." Her eyes glazed over. "Are they . . . uh . . . bad men?"

"Yes. Loan sharks. The type who take body parts as payment."

She could've been slapped in the face and looked less surprised. "I had no idea. I thought the debt he'd gotten himself into was just the usual type that everyone ends up with." She shook her head, then met my eyes again. "Was it Jennifer's debt? He said he couldn't control her spending. He even cut up her credit cards, but it made no difference. In the end, they lost everything . . . and that's why he had to leave her."

I chose not to comment. But Rink, who had just heard the truth from me earlier, snorted in derision. Louise shifted her gaze between us. Challenging us to disagree with John's version of events.

"The men after him," I said, to steer the conversation away from John's lies, "are dangerous in their own right. But you needn't worry; they're not exactly an international outfit. They don't work outside the U.K."

"You know that for a fact?" Louise asked.

"Yes." To allay any fears about unlikely possibilities, I decided to elaborate on the truth. "I've already had a . . . well, call it a talk with them. They've backed off. They know the consequences of doing anything to John or any of his family."

"His family." Louise snorted.

"Present company included," I reassured her.

She looked at me again, and I gave her my most open-faced prom- ise in return. She turned up her nose above a twisted mouth. She wasn't so pretty now. "You didn't even know who I was. How could you make the same agreement for me?"

"My demands weren't open to negotiation. They harm John or anyone close to him and they'd pay the consequences."

I saw fear creeping into Louise's face now. Not the worry that was evident before. Something new. Something scary that had just dawned on her regarding the man who'd traversed an ocean to help her.

"Who exactly are you, Mr. Hunter?" she asked.

"I'm John's brother," I told her.

"But, who . . . or what . . . ?"

I held up a hand to ward her off.

"Just leave it at that," I said. "All you need to understand is that I'm John's brother. And by association, you are family. I'm here to help you, okay?"

Louise picked up her coffee, drained it in one continuous gulp.

"After you leave," she asked, as she set down the empty mug, "will it be safe for me to stay here?"

I gave a quick glance toward Rink, who nodded. Harvey bowed his large neck and stared at the table. I shook my head slowly.

"Maybe it's time you phoned your mother," I said. "Ask her if it'd be okay to come home."

Tears welled in her eyes. Fear, it seemed, has many expressions.

"You think John is dead."

I didn't answer. It wasn't a question, anyway.

"Don't you?" she asked.

The air I sucked through my teeth wasn't the ideal reply. In hindsight, I wouldn't have done it. I'd have considered the action, and spared Louise my concern. Trouble was, I did fear the worst, and Lou ise was intuitive enough to know it. She leaned forward into her hands and wept. Around her, three big tough guys squirmed. I reached across and took her hands from her face.

"Sorry, Louise," I said. "I know that's not what you wanted to hear."

Louise sniffed. Shook her head. Sat up a little straighter, playing with her hair. Her way to regain composure. A smile forced into place didn't work; it was too redolent of misery.

"I don't know why I'm crying," she said. "It's not as if I haven't already thought of it. He's been gone for ages now. I mean, surely he'd have called me if he was still alive, right?"

In reality, she was asking why John would bother to pick up a phone when he'd never done the same with his wife. He'd cautioned her against phoning her own mother, for Christ's sake. So just because he hadn't been in touch didn't mean he was dead.

"We can only hope that he's hiding someplace. Maybe he is. Maybe he's hiding out and won't call for fear of jeopardizing your safety." I gripped her hands with a little more pressure. "But you may have to accept the worst, Louise."

"I know," she said quietly. I gave her an extra squeeze.

"But," I said, expecting the sideways glance from Rink, "if it's possible, I'll find him. I will bring him back, one way or the other."

After that there wasn't much left to cover. Louise was done speaking and prepared herself to leave. Being the consummate gentleman, Harvey offered to give her a lift home, but she declined.

"I feel like a real shit," he announced after Louise was gone.

"No need to," Rink said.

"The more I look at this, the more I think I should be helping you guys more than I am," he said.

"We don't know what we're up against," I told him. "Don't know how it's going to turn out. So maybe it's best you leave things as they are."

He shook his head. "I've heard another whisper. I can't substantiate it, but some people are saying John disappeared owing Petoskey more than a bad debt."

"Like what?" I asked.

"No one is saying. But Petoskey is screaming murder. Making him speak to you might not be as easy as it sounds. He might very well resist. Big time."

"He's a punk," Rink put in.

"A dangerous punk," Harvey told him. "You might go in there and not walk out again. All I'm saying is it'd be better if you had an extra pair of eyes watching your backs."

"You live here, Harvey," I reminded him. "It's okay for me and Rink. We can shake up the local bad guys, but we don't have to hang around afterward. We don't have to live with the consequences of making any enemies here. You do."

"Appreciate that," he said. "But I still feel like a goddamn shitheel. It's like I'm running out on you guys."

"No need to," Rink said. "We ain't expecting you to put your head on the block for us."

"Anyway, you've done a lot for us already," I pointed out. "All we need from you now is the stuff we asked for. If Petoskey's as dangerous as you say, we'd better take it with us."

"It's in the car with the photographs I told you about," Harvey said.

The stuff we were referring to was a 12-gauge shotgun for Rink and a steel-bodied 9-mm Parabellum blowback semiautomatic SIG Sauer for me. Added to that I'd asked for a couple of military issue KABAR knives and an untraceable cell phone. To corner Siggy Petoskey, we'd be like ninja warriors assaulting the shogun's castle. A shogun, self-made or not, would have his private army of loyal retainers. However we looked at it, it was going to be a dangerous mission.

Then we got back to Louise Blake. Since she'd arrived, something had been bugging me. "There's something she isn't telling us," I said.

"Yeah," Rink agreed. "I was getting the same vibe."

Harvey simply raised his eyebrows, shrugged his wide shoulders.

"I'm not suggesting that she's involved in John's disappearance. But there's something that isn't gelling with me," I said. "She says that John was acting all jumpy and nervous, but she didn't press him for what he was concerned about. That strike either of you as normal behavior?"

"No way. We're talking about a woman here," Rink joked.

"She also said she didn't know who he was working for. I find that a little hard to believe," I said. "Even though my work was top secret, my wife still knew who the hell it was I was working for."

"I suppose he could've been doing subcontract work," Harvey offered.

"Or a little private enterprise," Rink said.

"Private criminal enterprise," Harvey added.

"If not Petoskey, who else could John have been working for?" I asked.

Harvey blew out in a harsh exclamation. "Take your pick, Hunter. Could be anyone."

"Yeah," I agreed. If John was involved in crime, he could be working for any one of half a million employers from anywhere in the States. "Louise said she didn't press him about his work, but twice she mentioned that John told her to contact me if anything happened to him. People don't give you those kind of instructions unless they're pretty sure something is going to happen to them."

"And," Rink added, "he's obviously been expecting something real bad . . . considering the business you're in, Hunter."

"Yeah," I said. "That's what worries me the most."

14

"different plates, same suv."

Tubal Cain was in no doubt. The vehicle parked in the lot of the Pacific View Hotel was the one stolen from him yesterday. Even if it had been sprayed a different color, furry dice hung in the window, and whitewall tires added, he'd have known the vehicle for his own. It had a vibe that he could feel even from across the width of the parking lot. That vehicle had witnessed death, and the pall of violence hung over it like a miasma of poisonous fumes.

As nonchalant as a man with the right—which he certainly had, in his estimation—he ambled over to the 4x4. The locks were engaged. Not that they'd stop him from taking back what was rightfully his if he were of a mind to do so.

Nothing on the front seat but an empty water bottle and the remnants of a KFC meal, but on the dash was a disc removed from the CD player. Swing When You're Winning, the very disc he'd been playing prior to stopping for the stranded motorist. If he had required confirmation, there was his proof.

He wandered to the rear of the car. A cursory inspection of the license plate spoke volumes. The area around the locking nuts was clean, unlike the rest of the plate, which had a fine coating of dust. The clean areas proved that someone had turned the locking nuts very recently. It was obvious to someone with his expert eye that someone had removed the plates from another vehicle, then screwed them in place on this one.

"Guy's a freaking amateur," he reminded himself. But—and this was a caution he would heed—not to be underestimated.

Credit where it's due, then: changing the plates was on the way to being a good idea. The thief didn't know that Cain wouldn't be reporting the theft of the vehicle, so it was sensible to install a new identity.

Some constructive criticism was in order, though. It was good that the thief had tried to cover his tracks. It was just a pity that he hadn't taken the time to do so properly. Any cop worth his salt would notice the clean area around the locking nuts and know immediately that the plates had been switched. He shook his head in pure reproof. "I don't know if it's your lack of experience or whether you're just too lazy for your own good."

A slow walk took him around to the driver's side. Peering inside he saw no sign of his stolen Bowie knife. It meant one of two things: either the knife was concealed out of sight or the thief had it with him in his hotel room. Considering the third option wasn't pleasant: that the thief might have dumped the knife somewhere along the way.

Finished with the car, he made his way toward the front of the hotel. It was a three-story affair, built on land barely a stone's throw from Route 405. Prime location, except that larger hotels blocked the view of the ocean. The name of the hotel was a marketing lie. Probably wishful thinking. Either that or the name was thirty years out of date.

Inside, overhead fans spun indolent circles in lemon-scented air, the lobby as cool and clean as a spring morning. Cain's rubber-soled shoes made a soft squishing sound on the faux-marble tiles, barely dis turbing the tranquility. On his right was a long reception desk behind which was a small office area. A young woman, a California cutie with straw-colored hair and rosy cheeks, was bent over a computer. Cain smiled at her, but she didn't as much as raise her head. Spreadsheets held more interest for her than a handsome man. Cain walked on past her toward the communal dining area.

The steward wasn't at his station. In fact, no one challenged him. The room was devoid of staff or any of the hotel's clientele. A glance at his wristwatch told Cain that it was too late for lunch and too early for dinner.

He stepped back into the lobby area, thinking about his best option. There were alternatives, but the sensible course of action would be to wait for the thief to show up at the SUV. From there he could take him out and regain what was rightfully his.

"Can I help you, sir?"

The blond woman had exited the office and now stood at the reception desk. She had a sheaf of papers in her hands and a smile on her face. Apparently a handsome man did override the attraction of a spreadsheet.

To miss an opportunity would be tantamount to a crime. Without pause Cain swung toward her, affecting his best humble-and-caringguy face. "Yeah, uhm, I was wondering if someone could help me out. I didn't realize anyone was around when I first walked in."

Like many before her who'd come into contact with Tubal Cain, the receptionist was oblivious to his lies. The power of a smile and twinkling green eyes are never to be undervalued in a lunatic's arsenal. She waved the sheaf of papers in the general direction of her office. "Sorry about that, I had my nose buried in some work."

Cain waved off her apology. "It's nothing, really," he said. "I just pulled in and noticed that a car outside has its lights on. Just thought I'd come in and let you know. Wouldn't like anyone to find a dead battery. Bit of an inconvenience for them."

The woman swung sideways, pulling a large ledger toward her. "What kind of vehicle is it?"

"Mercedes SUV. Black and silver. Has Nevada plates."

The woman checked the register. Opportunities presented must be grasped with both hands. As calmly as possible, Cain leaned over the counter, watching as she traced down a list of names with a wellmanicured fingernail. In the split second before she looked up, Cain turned his head aside and scanned a poster on the wall at the rear of the reception area as if it had held his interest throughout.

"I'll give the owner a call and let him know. I'm sure he'll be grateful for your help," she said.

"It's nothing," Cain reassured her, "but there's nothing worse than a dead battery. And it's so easily avoided, too. I'd only hope that if I were ever so careless, someone would do the same for me."

"Me, too," said the woman. "I remember one time I was at the mall and I left my lights on. Had to call a tow truck and everything. It was so embarrassing."

"And costly, I bet?"

"Oh, not too bad. It was more the inconvenience," the woman said. She covered the memory of her discomfiture with a hand over her mouth. To some the act would look coy, but to Cain it was reminiscent of a self-conscious halitosis sufferer.

"Pity I wasn't around that time," Cain said. "Could've saved you some trouble."

The woman's amused laughter was the tinkling of Christmas bells. Humble and caring guy strikes again. When she looked at him this time, it was with more interest. "Are you a guest here, sir?"

"No," Cain said. "I was just driving by and my phone rang. I don't have a hands-free kit, so I pulled over. Hope you don't mind me using one of your parking spots for a few minutes? I'd have been gone by now if I hadn't noticed the lights on the car I told you about."

"It's not a problem, sir. In fact, it's good of you to take the time

to come in and tell me. Thousands of people wouldn't have even bothered."

"That's true," Cain said in agreement. But then again, he always did suspect that he was unique. "Isn't it sad, though, that people have got to a point where they'll just walk on by without offering a hand?"

"It is." The woman nodded. "Not many people I meet are as nice as you."

Ooh, the nice word. Cain thought she was nice, too. Unfortunately, he had wholly different reasons for his opinion. His estimation was based purely upon the judgment of the ossuary-building artist within him. Clark Kent's X-ray vision was no less penetrating than his scrutiny. She had a pleasing bone structure behind the rosy cheeks. A little plump, perhaps, so that he couldn't easily define the fine skeletal lines he adored. He glanced from her face to her hands. They were slim and long fingered, the nails polished to a sheen. Now there were treasures he would cherish. Slowly he traced each digit in turn with his eyes.

She was aware of this examination. She stirred, ever so slightly uncomfortable under his gaze. Cain acted startled, offering her an abashed grin.

"Sorry. You caught me staring," he said. "It's just that . . . well, uh, you have such beautiful hands."

"My hands?" The woman didn't know how to answer, but she was flattered. Unconsciously she gripped the sheaf of papers tightly in one hand while she held out the other and studied it. Cain leaned toward her.

"I hope you don't think I'm giving you some sort of cheesy comeon," he said. "I'm simply speaking the truth. Your hands are lovely."

"Thanks," she said. "That's really sweet of you to say so."

The catch in her throat gave her an appealing huskiness. She coughed. Eyes darting toward the office as though checking for a disapproving supervisor. The unashamed impression she was portraying was frowned upon by the hotel management, either that or she genu inely was as naive as she appeared. She discretely slipped her hands below the counter. Her rosy cheeks had become twin candy apples.

"Sorry if I'm embarrassing you," Cain said. "I don't mean to."

"No, it's okay. I'm not embarrassed." Despite her words, her cheeks were growing even redder. She dropped her chin toward her chest, swayed in indecision, then laughed.

Cain laughed with her.

"Look," he said. "I have embarrassed you. I'm sorry. Please accept my apologies."

He put out a hand and the woman reached for it reflexively.

They shook hands.

"Apology accepted," said the woman, still laughing.

Cain was slow to release her hand. He allowed his fingers to trail along her palm, prolonging the sensation for as long as possible. One of his human frailties was a total lack of empathy, but what he lacked in compassion he more than made up for in sensory ability. He did not have the capacity to love a woman, but he did love to touch a woman.

He would lodge the sensation in some far recess of his mind, a memory to summon for later. If he couldn't have her hands, he could have the sensory recall of their touch whenever he desired. And that thought was enough to sustain him for now. The primary need on his agenda was his reckoning with the thief. Afterward, if everything went well—as it most definitely would—he could come back at his leisure and take her hands as genuine trophies.

Finally, he stepped back, gave a slight wave.

"Well, I'd best get going," he said. "I've taken up too much of your time as it is."

"Honestly, sir, it was no problem."

"See you," he said. "And once again, I'm sorry if I embarrassed you."

"Yeah, see you," the woman replied. She lifted her hand in reflex. Caught it in midwave. Then laughed and continued the gesture.

Cain gave her his most self-effacing grin. His wink was full of promise.

He walked back through the lobby. In the old Hollywood musicals, Gene Kelly or Fred Astaire would have made the walk a grand swagger, hands in pockets, whistling merrily before swooping around to catch her looking. Cain wasn't so flamboyant; at the exit he merely twisted at the shoulder. It was enough to confirm that, yes, she was still watching him. There was more than a little interest in her gaze. He waved again and she waved back, her face breaking into a wide smile. In true Astaire form he made a show of opening the door and pushing outside.

But as he walked away, his smile turned to a frown, then a scowl. Achieving his objective of flushing out the thief was one thing, but there was no way he could act on it now. The receptionist was a bit dim, but she still had enough of her wits about her to remember the man who had lured the client outside before he was brutally butchered.

Self-recrimination wasn't something he often indulged in, but even he could see that he'd made a mistake. I shouldn't have flirted with her, he thought. I should've simply gone in, given her the story, then got the hell back out again. By flirting with the bitch, I've forced her to take a good look at my face. Stupid, Cain, stupid. If I take the thief now, she could give a good description of me to the police. And that just will not do.

He'd put his identity at risk for the sake of a minute or two of banter with a pretty girl. Not good when you are the United States' current most prolific and undetected serial murderer.

Making matters worse, it wasn't even as if he needed to lure the thief outside. While the receptionist had checked the ledger, Cain had watched her fingers pointing out the room number of the owner of the SUV. Why bother ambushing him in the exposed parking lot when he could go on up, knock on his door, and call him by name?

Time for plan B.

Cain spun around, but all trace of Astaire was gone from his light

tread. Once more, he headed directly for the entrance door. Quick inhalation for effect, then he bustled into the hotel with feigned urgency. The woman was midway between closing the ledger and reaching for a telephone. Thankfully, she never reached the receiver. Her startled expression was a mixture of delight and regret as Cain jogged to the counter and slapped down the palms of his hands.

"Hi," he said. "It's just me again."

The woman still wore the startled look. She visibly fought to regain her composure, achieving the fixed stare and open mouth of an inflatable sex toy. Not that Cain had any experience of those kinds of things.

"You haven't called the SUV owner yet, have you?" Cain asked in breathless fashion. As the woman shook her head, he went on, "Seems I might have been a little premature coming in about the lights. While I was inside, the owner must've come back out and turned them off."

"They're off now?" the woman echoed.

"Yeah, I guess there must be another exit. I didn't see anyone leave while I was in here."

"There are a number of exits. I suppose he could've used one of them." The ledger was still beside her, and she flipped it open with professional dexterity. She nodded confirmation. "Yeah, he's got a room at the back, so he could've used the rear stairwell. I guess from his room he could see his car and noticed that his lights were still on."

"That's probably it," Cain agreed.

"Okay," the woman said. Her face had regained its natural elasticity and a smile was beginning to bloom.

"Okay," Cain replied, giving her his version of a sheepish smile. "I feel a complete idiot now."

The woman crinkled her nose at him. "What for?"

"I must look like the dead battery vigilante or something." Cain laughed. "I just thought I'd come back in and let you know everything's fine now. Save you the trouble of phoning."

"It's not a problem," she said.

"Yeah, but the owner would've been wondering what the heck was going on."

"I'm sure he wouldn't have minded," she said. "In fact, I dare say he'd have told me he'd already been out and turned them off. That would've been that, I guess."

"Yeah, I suppose so."

"Anyway, thanks again for going to so much trouble."

"No problem. Just doing my bit."

"Dead battery vigilante." The woman smiled at him, crooking a finger in his direction. "Sounds like a superhero."

"You got it," Cain said. A flippant gesture of his head and hands fisted on his hips made him more Boy Wonder than Man of Steel.

They both laughed as he walked away the second time. Before he reached the door, she called to him.

"Are you sticking around town for a while?"

Cain looked back at her, feigning disappointment. "No. Just passing through, I'm afraid. On my way to the East Coast. Have to be in Mississippi early next week for a sales convention."

Now it was the woman's turn to look dejected. "That's a shame."

"It is," Cain agreed. "But hey, who knows what's around the corner? I might be back this way in a month or so."

She gave him a lopsided smile.

"Well, if you're passing and you notice any lights on, give me a call, will you?"

Cain lifted his fingers as if they were a gun and feigned shooting her. "You got it, lady. If your battery is running down you can count on me."

Quickly he left the lobby to the sound of laughter.

"Dimwit could do with a couple of thousand volts up her ass," he assured himself.

Directly across the entry drive ran a walkway that led into the

parking lot. From there he followed the side of the building, past bougainvillea shrubs arranged to add a little privacy to the rooms on the ground floor. At the rear of the hotel the grounds were laid out like an exclusive garden, verdant with golf-course-perfect lawns and bursting with color in the proliferation of flowering plants. The grounds contained a private swimming pool.

There were a couple of female guests sitting out in bathing suits, drinking from glasses smeared with lipstick. Cain sneaked a peek at them. Ordinarily he might have lingered and enjoyed the show. Sadly, neither of them was pretty enough to hold his interest. He paid them no attention, searching instead for the stairway the receptionist had mentioned. He saw it within seconds, a tiled staircase leading up to balconies on the two higher floors. Chancing a stiff neck, he craned upward, seeking door numbers. Then, happy with what he saw, he rapidly moved away, skirting the building and returning to the parking lot.

Time for plan C.

He took the scaling knife from his jacket pocket as he approached the SUV. Kneeling down by the rear tire, he thrust the blade into the rubber seal next to the wheel hub. Pulling the knife out again, he noted that the narrow slash was barely detectable, but the almost inaudible hiss of escaping air was encouraging.

"That'll hold you for a while," he whispered. A flat tire would royally piss off someone who couldn't even be bothered to rub a little dust on the license plate.

He dropped the knife back in his pocket and straightened out his clothes as he returned to his own vehicle. The vintage VW Beetle had gone the way of the dinosaurs. Not that he required the intervention of a planet-destroying meteor; he'd merely dumped it in a dry canal bed, then set it ablaze. It was quick work to replace it with an undistinguished light blue Oldsmobile.

On the rear bumper was a sticker some might think pathetic: i brake for wildlife. Though he tempted discovery by leaving such a distinct identifier on the car, he'd allowed it to stay in place. For one, it added to the disguise he'd adopted of a meek-mannered salesperson, plus it was a statement that actually resonated with him. Though he had no qualms whatsoever about butchering those of his own species, he had no desire to harm any other living creature. Faced with running down a rabbit or swerving into a line of children on a Sunday school outing, there would be only one choice in his mind. Sunday school would be missing a number of snot-nosed brats next week.

The temperature inside the Oldsmobile was a lot cooler than anticipated. When he'd driven the car here, the sun had made the heat inside almost intolerable. That's the drawback when appropriating an older-model car: no climate control. Plus the driver's window had a fault and he'd been unable to open it with the rotating arm. Oh how he suffered for his art!

When he'd driven into the parking lot, he'd left the car beneath a stand of palm dates to conceal it from the view of traffic on the interstate. His fortuitous choice had also brought him some welcome shade.

Settling in the driver's seat, he prepared for a long wait. To pass the time, he took one of the film-wrapped packages from his pocket and teased the contents within. Kind of gnarly now, but they'd polish up nice. He imagined that the fingers were those of the rosy-cheeked receptionist. Yes, he could be in for a long wait, but he was happy to do so with his mind thus engaged.

15

harvey had done a decent job of monitoring the movements of Sigmund Petoskey. True to Harvey's word, as soon as the third-generation immigrant finished his daytime business, he headed out to the derelict building Rink had shown me earlier. He left in an entourage of three vehicles that snaked their way from the opulent business center to the run-down building, driving in a fashion that said he wasn't concerned about police patrols pulling him over. In our rental car, Rink and I followed at a discrete distance.

When Petoskey ignored a red light, we pulled up; it wasn't necessary to keep a close tail when we knew where he was headed.

The lights were reflected in Rink's gaze.

"You up for this, Rink?" I asked.

He sniffed. "Ready."

"Things could get messy," I said. "But I can't think of a better way to shake Petoskey than raiding him in the place where he feels safest."

"You take guns into a man's house, things always get messy." He gave me a melancholy shake of his head.

"Been a while since you done any wet work?" I asked.

"Been a while, yeah. But it never leaves you, Hunter." Rink looked across at me, and for a moment didn't have to say more. Only those who have taken another man's life would know what we were imagining. He was right. It doesn't matter how hard you try to bury the memories, they never leave you.

The green light saved us further agony.

When we arrived at the old redbrick building, Petoskey's entourage had lined up in the lot to its right. As well as the original three, they'd been joined by a further two cars and a van.

A couple of bored guards stood to one side, nonchalant as they sucked at cigarettes. They weren't expecting trouble. They were there for appearance's sake.

These guards were of no immediate concern. We'd be going in via a different route and would not be seen by them. I was more apprehensive about the number of street people who wandered around the area. We were strangers, and they'd be suspicious of us. None of us knew— Harvey included—if the bums were belligerent to Petoskey or not. It'd ruin our chances of bearding King Siggy in his castle if any of them went running to him. I doubted anyone would do that out of loyalty, but the promise of a reward would be too much of a temptation for some.

Discretion is the better part of valor, and don't let anyone tell you otherwise. Rather than chance early discovery, we parked our vehicle the best part of half a mile from the building, donned shabby clothes we'd purchased from a thrift store, and then wandered in on foot. My SIG Sauer was tucked in the waistband of my trousers, my KA-BAR down my boot. Rink, however, had a shotgun to conceal. Without the luxury of a violin case, he carried his over-under 12-gauge in a large carry-on bag. To further disguise the gun, he raided a nearby Dumpster and pushed in a few old tin cans and a bundle of newspapers and magazines. On cursory inspection, his carry-on would pass for the sum of a bum's possessions.

The walk in took about ten minutes, but it was just what we needed to shake off the cobwebs of inactivity. Feeling keyed up, we took a position opposite Petoskey's building. Behind a chain-link fence was another small building. It had also suffered over the years. The roof was gone, no windows remained, and the interior was the domain of rats. Even the graffiti were faded. No discerning street person would take up residence there.

We entered through a hole in the fence, negotiated a weed-choked courtyard, and entered the building through a doorless void. We had to then push our way through heaped rubbish to one of the abandoned offices from which we could watch and wait. The sunset was a raw wound on the horizon.

Without spoiling the decor, Rink emptied the junk from his bag. He checked the shotgun and seemed satisfied. He fed shells into it while peering out the window. Following his gaze, I saw that lights had come on behind the plastic sheeting on the upper floor. Though muted, shadows wove sinuous patterns on the sheeting as people moved through the rooms.

"I'd like to know what the hell's going on up there," I said.

"Don't hear nothing," Rink replied. "My guess is he's got a cook shop going."

It was a likelihood that Petoskey had some kind of lab going up there, producing crack cocaine or methamphetamine. On two counts, we were going to have to take care going in. If indeed it was a crack lab, inside there could be innocents who had been forced into this unwholesome line of work. Plus, the scum guarding the production line would be packing weapons. Scum with weapons plus innocent bystanders were never good mathematics.

"I don't know, Rink. Could be something else."

The location wasn't sitting right with me. Okay, we were in a run-down area of town, but normally crack labs weren't as public as this. People didn't turn up in limousines to conduct a quality control inspection, even if a few of the local cops had been paid to turn a blind eye.

Something I didn't doubt: whatever was going on, it was something illegal. We'd be in dangerous territory. "Looks like your standard one-two assault," I said to Rink.

He nodded slowly.

Where only two soldiers are involved in infiltrating an enemy stronghold, we always used a strategy termed a one-two maneuver. Like the name, there's nothing fancy about it. Advancing single file, the first—or point—man would engage and take out the enemy while the second would move on to the next position. Roles would then reverse, and so on, until the high ground was gained and no enemy was left behind to cause further trouble.

Of course, there are inherent problems with such tactics. It leaves way too much to chance and the ability of the individual soldier to neutralize the opposition. If things go wrong, the mission has to be aborted in rapid fashion. In the past, I've had worse experiences gaining exit than I have in the initial assault. Because of this, I prefer the less formal sobriquet of "smash and dash."

It remained our choice of approach on this occasion simply because it was all we had the numbers for. Maybe I should've allowed Harvey Lucas to join us. With three men, it lessens the chance that the enemy can outflank you. But not by much.

"Where do you suggest we start?" Rink asked. His expression was flat, but this was a front. Lights burned behind his eyes, and I knew that he was anxious.

I pointed out the opposite end of the building from where the guards patrolled. "See the fire escape? I'm guessing that there are doors at each floor. We'll go in through one of them, huh?"

Rink inclined his chin in agreement.

On its lowest floor the doors were most likely locked as tight as a

miser's billfold. But the myriad broken windows would give us easy access.

It was a waiting game. The sun went down, and shadows moved in like furtive burglars in the night. The lights behind the plastic grew brighter. Like zombies from some B movie, the street people drifted from their daytime hideaways, moving off in search of what they needed to feed their vices. More vehicles arrived. From our position, we couldn't make out how many people arrived, but from the excited yapping, someone had brought a couple of dogs with them.

"You hear what I'm hearing?" Rink asked.

"Yup. But you didn't expect this to be easy, did you?"

"Easy ain't a word in our vocabulary, Hunter."

Maybe the dogs were extra security Siggy employed after dark. I severely doubted that he was conducting doggy obedience classes. Rink and I shared a glance. Dogs, large or small, always made extreme stealth an issue.

We waited another half hour before leaving. Rink went first, shambling out through the gap in the fence. His pace was that of a man addled with drink and with no firm destination in mind. When he was out of sight around the side of the building, it was my turn to follow.

I followed the same route, joining Rink in the deep well of murk at the side of the building. There was an overpowering stench of vomit and urine. Welcome home, Hunter. It doesn't matter where my work takes me, it's always the same. I was only pleased that I couldn't see what I was standing in.

"Ready?" Rink whispered. He had the shotgun out of its bag, ready for action. I pulled out my SIG, held it at my side.

"Ready," I said.

Mounting the first set of stairs on a rusted fire escape, my mission to discover the whereabouts of my brother was finally under way. Whether or not John was inside the building, I wasn't sure. Petoskey was, and he knew something about John's disappearance. Taking Petoskey was the order of the day.

Gaining the first landing, I laid a hand on the door. The locking bar, like much of the remainder of the building, was an item lost in the past desecration of this place. The door swung open at the slightest tug. Rink immediately stepped past me, sweeping the darkness with his shotgun.

"Clear," he whispered, and I entered.

We stood still, acclimating ourselves to the ambient light leaking in from outside and listening to the natural sounds of the building. Far above, voices formed a discordant chorus. Someone was laughing. Then there were the dogs. No longer were they yapping, but snarling and barking maniacally.

"Dogfights," I whispered.

"Son of a bitch," Rink snarled. In the half-light, I saw his face grow hard. "I'm going to feed the punk his own balls."

"Yeah," I agreed. For one instant my mind shifted half a world away and I saw my own dogs, Hector and Paris. The thought of their being forced to fight to the death for the sick pleasure of the likes of Petoskey was enough to sicken even the stone-cold assassin in me.

Shake the anger loose, Hunter, I cautioned myself. It was bad enough that we were going in outnumbered. Never mind doing it in the wrong frame of mind. Go in in a rage and we'd be dead before we reached the next floor. I reached out in the dark to grab Rink's forearm.

"Go easy," I cautioned him.

"I'm cool," Rink replied. And I knew that he was.

"Okay. You take point."

"You want I go up or across?" Rink asked.

"Across," I said. In all likelihood, this stairwell was used exclusively by the dropouts who squatted here during the daylight hours. We had to go up by the route Petoskey would take, to ensure that we took out any possible reinforcements.

The corridor could have been a set from a horror movie. Cobwebs brushed our faces. Dust sifted from above and clung to my lips. From behind closed doors, the specters of this place tittered at our bravado. They beckoned to us; come and join us in hell, there's plenty of room for two more.

The far end of the corridor didn't come too soon for me.

Rink was waiting in a vestibule area. A door that had once held wire-reinforced glass but was now blocked by a tarpaulin hung on bent nails, barred our progress. The faint buzz of conversation filtered from beyond.

"What do you think?" Rink whispered.

Ever the smart one, I made a quick calculation. Held up three fingers to Rink. Not that he didn't trust me; Rink placed his face at the edge of the tarpaulin to confirm the estimate. We moved back down the corridor a safe distance.

"Two guys on the stairs. Looks like another one sitting down in a chair to the left of the door, but I could only see his feet."

"Armed?" I asked Rink.

"Nothing I could see." Rink shrugged. "Doesn't mean anything. They could still be packing."

Armed or not, it didn't mean a thing. I could chew my lips all day, but it wouldn't change our options. "We treat them like they're armed. Okay?"

"Yup," Rink said, hefting the shotgun so the barrel was skyward.

It's not what you want—and to be fair, it didn't lie straight with either of us—because it meant we were going in with what's known in our trade as extreme prejudice. In layman's terms: shoot to kill. These weren't international terrorists or even enemy soldiers, just half-assed gangland hoods. Killing them was extreme. Maybe too extreme under the circumstances. As Rink had reminded me last night, we didn't have a license to kill anymore.

"No, Rink, we can't. You happy with defense only?" I suggested.

Talk about weight coming off shoulders. I'd swear we both grew a head taller.

"Okay," I said. "We only shoot when necessary. Otherwise it's hand-to-hand."

"I'm happy with that," Rink said.

Rink again laid an eye to the edge of the tarpaulin. His raised thumb showed no change to the tableau.

Okay, we're rolling. Action!

Rink ripped aside the tarpaulin and stepped into the hallway beyond. I was a fraction of a beat behind him.

Confusion is the result of prolonged inactivity dramatically kickstarted into life. The three men in the stairwell were caught catching flies, with their hands in the cookie jar, with their trousers down, whatever your choice of metaphor. The sudden intrusion of two armed men in their midst caused shocked silence. But that was only one frame of the action. Time jumped to fast-forward.

To my left a man erupted out of a wicker chair. He had a sawed-off across his lap and was snatching for it. It was an easy decision for me. I snapped my left hand sideways. Put a back fist strike to the bridge of his nose. The man went down into his seat like the world champion of competitive musical chairs. The fact that his hands didn't reach for his broken nose in reflex meant he was unconscious. The shotgun slipped out of his lap onto the floor and I swiped it away with the edge of my boot.

Giving them their due, the other two had more sense than to challenge Rink's shotgun. They stood like mute statues until he ordered them to come forward. The one-two was on; I immediately mounted the stairs. From below me, Rink said something. Knowing him, it would be funny, but no one was laughing. The silence was followed by the thump and scuffle of feet, and I guessed my suggestion of handto-hand was being followed.

The second landing was devoid of movement. I crept forward,

stepping into dim light that leached from the floor above, bringing up my SIG to sweep the space before me. My darkness-adapted eyes sought the next flight of stairs. Below me, Rink mounted the stairs, and you'd assume that it was safe for me to go on. Bad move. You know what they say about assuming anything; it certainly made an ass out of me.

Maybe I'd grown a little rusty. I should have checked the corridor to my left before proceeding. As I committed myself to the stairs, a door opened behind me and a voice challenged me.

"The hell are you?"

Then a second voice shouted, "Five-O in the house."

I've undergone extensive hand-to-hand training in the Fairbairn method of combat. What I neglected to mention is that I've also trained in Fairbairn's armed technique known as Point Shooting. Like the hand-to-hand, it's based on the principle of immediate and reflexive action. Point. Shoot. Simple as that.

While the two men were stunned at my appearance, I could have spun and put a couple of rounds into their bodies. They would have been on their backs and I'd have been up on the next landing.

But as I'd so recently agreed with Rink, unless necessary this mission was to be carried out without lethal force. Shooting was out of the question. With that in mind, I'd no option but to turn around slowly, giving them ample opportunity to take stock of me on the stairwell. Not that I was about to give up an advantage. I kept my gun by my side, hidden from view by the angle of my body. If it came to it, I could shoot from the hip and take out both of them in a fraction of a second.

What is it with criminals? Both men were dressed in windbreakers and denims, both with the obligatory shaved heads that went with hired muscle. They could have been the American cousins of Shank's right-hand man. Perplexed at my appearance, they were caught in a limbo that stayed their hands as effectively as it did their brains. One of them had called out Five-O, street slang for police. That gave me a second advantage over them. Where they probably wouldn't hesitate to take out a rival, it wasn't okay to kill a police officer. Do that, and any agreement Petoskey had with the local police force went right out the window. When it came to avenging one of their own, the police would come down on them like a blue avalanche.

The disguise didn't fool them, but that was fine. They saw through the shabby clothes, but saw something that wasn't there. So let them think I was a cop. It's what would save their lives.

"Police," I said. "You're both under arrest."

A totally lame statement, I know, but something they expected nonetheless. They gaped at me, then at each other, before breaking into stupid grins.

"You've got to be jokin', man," said one of them.