"No," I answered. "I'm deadly serious."


Tweedledum and Tweedledee, they again exchanged grins.


"What the hell you on, man?" Tweedledum asked. "You know you don't come here."


"Oh? You mean an officer of the law isn't welcome in your fine establishment?" I said. Any old nonsense was enough to keep their attention on me another second or so.


"No, you're not welcome," said Tweedledee.


"Ah, now that is a shame," I told him.


"Yeah, a goddamn cryin' shame," Rink echoed as he whacked the stock of his shotgun into the nearest man's kidneys. The man buckled to his knees.


The second Tweedle twin spun to face Rink, backing up against the far wall as he reached to his pocket for a concealed weapon. Rink wasn't a black belt for nothing. He lifted a boot and kicked the man in the pit of his stomach, then held the man with his foot, pressing him up against the rotting plaster of the wall.


"Go on up," he said. "Leave these two punks to me."


"They're all yours," I told him.

I was about midway to the next landing when the shooting started. Not from below, but from above. It's natural to throw yourself down when fired upon. What is equally natural is the way I brought up my hand and fired off a return shot.


Boom! There goes the neighborhood, you might've said. And you'd have been right. All hope of engaging the enemy without shooting was gone now. Any remorse about killing had to be put behind me, too. When fired upon, there was only one recourse.


The stairwell echoed with the thump of feet. It could only be Petoskey's men looking for cover. There were four distinct voices as they called out to others in the building. Confusion was the reigning order. Someone was shouting that the police were here, while another shouted that Hendrickson's men were in the building. It didn't matter who the hell they thought they were up against; panic had turned their response deadly.


To buy a little respite, I unloaded a clip toward the head of the stairs, following my bullets with a headlong charge as I pushed another magazine in place.


Rink was still below me, snorting like a bull as he finished off the two who'd tried to take me from behind. Undoubtedly eager to finish the fight and come to my assistance. Time to wait for him wasn't a luxury I possessed. I sprinted upward to a point where there was a turn in the stairs. Suicidal I'm not, but that's what I'd have been committing if I'd poked my head around the corner for a look. Unfortunately, I had to get some kind of bead on the men waiting to ambush me. Choice made, I thrust my gun around the bend, firing three rapid shots. Just enough to force my ambushers to dive for cover. I spun into the cordite cloud searching for movement.


No one in sight, I sprang up the remaining stairs and into a recess on the left. I run regularly, occasionally go to the gym, yet I was still blowing hard. I blame it more on adrenaline dump than lack of condition.


The wall next to my shoulder was holed by one of my own bullets. I quickly pushed myself deeper into the recess, firing off two more rounds into the quiet corridor. There were doors lining the corridor on both sides, and any one of them could be concealing an enemy shooter.


"Rink! Are you about done down there or what? I could do with that shotgun up here."


Rink appeared on the stairs below me. Blood was seeping from a shallow nick below his left eye. Other than that, he appeared unhurt.


"One of the punks thought he'd do me with a set of brass knuckles," Rink said. He dabbed away blood with the back of his wrist. "I soon knocked that silly notion out of his skull."


"Get yourself up here and give me some cover," I whispered to him. "Sounds like they're holed up in a room on my right."


Rink came up the stairs, feeding shells into his shotgun. There was blood on the stock. Thug with brass knuckles versus Rink wielding a shotgun like a club: no contest.


"I'm going to try and get by that door there. If it looks like it's about to open, give 'em hell."


"Leave it to me," Rink said. He moved to the head of the stairs where he could get a line on the door I'd indicated.


Cat-footed, I moved forward, my gun extended before me. The defenders behind the door had to know I was moving into the corridor, but there was nothing for it: I had to go forward. We had to stop them and stop them fast. I feared the arrival of reinforcements who'd be able to pen us in from below. Then there was the other consideration. That Petoskey was making a quick exit by another route. If he got away from us now, it'd probably be impossible to get a second chance at him.


Passing the door on the right, I nodded for Rink to follow, and he thumped up the corridor like Frankenstein's monster. True to form, the door exploded into splinters. Even the wall opposite was shredded, the bullets continuing into the rooms beyond.


As the first barrage ended, I swung in front of the shattered door, emptying my clip through the wood. Men yelled inside the room, one of them making a series of gasps. I'd hit one of them at least. That left—what?—three more?


Rink lifted a boot and smashed open the door. Immediately he blasted the interior of the room before swinging back out of sight. Two seconds of carnage were all I required to insert a full clip of ammo. Exchanging positions with choreographed precision, I opened up, firing off bullets as quickly as I could squeeze the trigger. Then I was in the room and had moved left as Rink let off another full load of pellets.


Armed confrontations do not resemble John Woo's battles of balletic gunplay; any somersaulting or leaping through space discharging bullets is reserved for the movies. Reality is not so pretty. I slammed my back to a wall, my gun out before me, and emptied it at every target that moved. I was shouting something that was unintelligible even to me. An animal shout of loathing, fear, and unrestrained rage.


It took all of a few seconds to deplete my gun of bullets, yet I felt as spent as the bullet casings littering the floor at my feet.


Rink hustled into the room, the stock of his shotgun to his shoulder as he sought targets. Smoke hung in the air. So did the unmistakable tang of blood. One man was huddled in a corner of the room, hands over his head as he sobbed in terror. Another was sprawled over a coffee table, a hole the size of a baby's fist in his shoulder. The man murmured, delirious in his agony.


That accounted for two of them, but I couldn't see where the other two were. As Rink covered the cowering man, I ejected my empty clip and inserted a fresh one. Rink moved over to the open window. Sounds of flight ricocheted from the fire escape beyond.


"Careful," I said. Both to Rink and as a warning to the man who cringed away from the business end of my SIG. Rink gave me a wry grin as he approached the window.


"Like rats down a drainpipe," he observed. "Two of them are running for it."


"Let them run," I said. The cowering man peeked up at me through tears and smeared snot. I nudged him with a boot. "Where's John Telfer?"


In those old Poe books, victims of terror often gave out a keening wail. I'd never heard one for real and couldn't imagine what one sounded like. Until now.


I nudged him harder. "I said, 'Where's Telfer?' I won't ask again."


He must have read something in my face. Maybe my hesitancy to kill in cold blood. Whatever it was, his demeanor suddenly changed. "Go to hell, asshole."


"So now you're the brave guy?" I put the muzzle of my gun to the center of his forehead. "You don't think I'll do it? Try me."


As suddenly, he was wailing again.


"Where's Telfer?" I asked.


"I don't know who you mean. Speak to Petoskey, man. Not us. For God's sake . . . don't kill me."


I took the gun from his skull. There was a scarlet ring where the hot metal had pressed into his flesh. "Second question, and the rules haven't changed. Where's Petoskey?"


He wanted to resist. Perhaps it was bravado, but more likely it was fear of his boss that held his tongue. Back went the gun.


"Where's Petoskey?"


Fear of a bullet in the skull now or perhaps one later from Petoskey if he survived; I could see the math going around in his head. It was a simple equation.


He nodded upward, eyes on the ceiling above.


"He's upstairs?" I asked.


The man nodded again.


"How many with him?"


"How the hell should I know?" the man spluttered.


"Guess," I said.

"Three, four . . . I don't know. Could be as many as a dozen for all I know!"


"Armed?"


"What do you think?"


It was a stupid question.


"Yes. It's the end of the line, buddy," I said. Then I slammed the butt of my gun against his temple, sprawling him sideways across the floor.


"Maybe you should plug him and be done with it," Rink said from behind me.


Was that really my friend speaking?


"Can't do it."


"I know it's not right, but it makes more sense. We don't want to be going up there, leaving one of them behind us. Not when he's armed."


"You're right. But I'm not a murderer."


Rink's gaze sought the man with the new open-vent shoulder.


"He'll survive. Anyway, that was different," I said. "He was trying to kill me. But I won't kill a man in cold blood."


Rink winked at me, his stern face softening. "Just checking, my old friend," he said. "Like I said last night, we don't have a license to kill no more."


"I hear you," I told him. And I meant it. But we still had a job to do, and it was my firm guess that others would die this night. My only hope was that it wouldn't be either of us.


16

there he was. The thief. Purloiner of second-favorite knives and sports utility vehicles. He was just as Tubal Cain remembered him, though subtly altered, he had to admit. A handsome enough bloke as thieves go. Aged in his early thirties. He was dressed the way a million other guys were, in nondescript casual clothing with a ball cap down to his ears. The sum of his possessions in a knapsack slung from one shoulder. It was the same knapsack he'd carried when he carjacked Cain yesterday. Mirrorlensed sunglasses concealed his eyes.

In essence, the thief was very similar to Cain, Mr. Normal blending in with his surroundings. The thought had occurred already, but now, watching the man who'd signed his name in the hotel's register as David Ambrose, Cain came to a conclusion. "You're hiding your true identity as carefully as I am. Why is that?"


One thing was for sure, Ambrose wasn't hiding from Cain. He had no way of knowing that Cain would hunt him down. In his mind, Cain had been nothing but a hopeless freak he'd left out in the middle of nowhere.


"I'll tell you why. It means that you are afraid of someone else."

Cain leaned back in the driver's seat of the Oldsmobile, chewing his lower lip. Now this was an unexpected turn of events.


"Who are you running from, Mr. So-Called-Ambrose?" he whispered as he watched Ambrose approach the SUV. "Who is it that frightens you more than Tubal Cain?"


Ambrose gave off a vibe. An electrostatic buzz of anticipation. Almost as if he were steeling himself for a sniper's bullet between the shoulder blades. It was the subconscious way he moved, trying his damndest to appear nonchalant, yet at the same time with a posture as taut as piano wire. He could pretend not to, but Cain knew that behind the mirrors of his shades, Ambrose glanced around, alert as a mouse in a rattlesnake's den. Turning, the sunlight and dappled shadows of palms played across his glasses. Cain thought of a beetle's eyes.


The insectlike gaze skimmed over the Oldsmobile, pausing for less than a heartbeat before passing on. There was a momentary pinching of the thief's lips as he scanned the car, but the strained expression was gone in the next instant. No, it was merely an unconscious reaction, not recognition. In the shadows of his parking spot, Cain felt protected from the amateur who'd made too many mistakes.


Approaching the SUV, Ambrose dug for keys in a trouser pocket. Unhitching the knapsack from his shoulder, he unlocked the driver's door and slung the bag onto the passenger seat. Another glance around gave Cain the impression of one of those hopeless spies that Napoleon Solo—and that guy with the Russian-sounding name that Cain could never recall, let alone pronounce—used to thwart every week in The Man from U.N.C.L.E.


Cain saw the headlights flick on. The engine coughed to life like a grizzly stirring from hibernation. The SUV barely rolled forward a couple of yards before braking violently. Ambrose had forgotten all about subtlety and blending in, if the way he stomped to the back of the vehicle was anything to go by.


"Gotcha," Cain said.

Ambrose crouched down by the flat tire, running his hands over it as though he could magically restore it by touch alone. Unfortunately, he was no sorcerer. Defeated, he stood up with his hands on his hips, and even heard from across the parking lot his language was choice.


It would be so simple to come up behind Ambrose while he was distracted. Push the point of his scaling knife into the juncture of his neck and clavicle. Dig down for the vital organs in one rapturous moment. End him right there and then. At his leisure, Cain could search the dead man's possessions and regain that which belonged to him.


"Yes, that's as it could be."


That was exactly as his plan had gone. By now it was hours later, his discussion with the dippy receptionist wouldn't be connected to an apparent mugging gone wrong. Cain could go merrily on his way, his sense of justice appeased.


"But, thief, that isn't how it's going to be."


The enigma of Ambrose's true identity, and what it was—who it was—he was hiding from, was enough to give pause to anyone with an inquiring mind. And don't let it be said that Tubal Cain was not a deep thinker. Yes, his needs might be basic, but he thought long on the ways of fulfilling those needs.


His curiosity was more than piqued. It was on turbodrive. He wanted to let this play out a little longer. "Who knows, thief," he decided, "it might make for an interesting conclusion."


17

events overtook our plan way too quickly for my liking. Not that I was surprised; isn't that always the way plans go? That's always been the flaw with our tactics. Murphy's Law strikes again.

It was no longer a case of a one-two move, but a full headlong charge for the top.


The man I'd knocked unconscious didn't give me enough to make a considered judgment. There could be as few as three men with Petoskey or as many as a dozen. Think the worst, and anything else is a bonus.


It was a full balls-to-the-wall assault.


We headed for the upper floor with our guns blasting. The intent wasn't to shoot anyone per se, but to cause as much confusion as possible. Petoskey was a rat, and everyone knows what rats do on a sinking ship. I ruled out the fire escape at this corner of the building, guessing that Petoskey would head for the one we'd used to gain access.


"I'm going back across, cut off any escape route," I told Rink. "You okay with that?"


He racked the pump action. "As long as I've got ammo, I'll give 'em hell."


"When the shooting stops, I want you to come up and join me as quickly as you can."


"Damn, and here was me thinking it was time for a coffee break."


"After we're done I'll buy you coffee and doughnuts."


"Make 'em jelly doughnuts and you've got a deal."


"Sounds good to me."


Another volley of fire gained the attention of those on the populated side. I backtracked across the building.


Speed was an issue. Call me cautious, but I made my way through the building as though every nook hid an assassin. Better a minute late than thirty years too early at the pearly gates.


The remains of the door Rink had blasted were like an open mouth full of jagged teeth. The room beyond exuded the stench of battle like sour breath. Apart from the stink, the room was now empty. The unconscious man had obviously come to, and he wasn't as ill informed about our chances as he was making out. At least he'd had the sense to get the hell away from the shitstorm raging above. The man who had taken a bullet in the shoulder was gone, too. A smear of blood on the window ledge confirmed their escape route.


Happy that no one would come on me from behind, I ran along the corridor. Behind me, the boom of Rink's shotgun resonated as he unloaded it toward the upper floor.


I headed upward on the other staircase. Natural functions sometimes take a backseat when adrenaline shrieks through your veins; I took the full flight of stairs before I remembered to breathe. At the top I paused to exhale, sucked in air, then stepped out into a corridor much shorter than the one I'd passed through below.


A little over thirty feet away, the corridor had been blocked. What appeared to be a new metal door had been installed. It reverberated under the ring of urgent voices from beyond. A background accom paniment of baying dogs and shotgun blasts confirmed that I'd found Petoskey's hideout.


Cursory inspection of the metal door told me it was a no-go. There was no handle on this side, no keyhole. The soldier in me said it would be almost impregnable to anything short of heavy artillery. Abandoning the door, I stepped into the office on my left. There was the usual jumble of wrecked furniture and scattered documents.


I made my way to the wall and put an ear to it. I was quite sure that all the action was at the far end, and the possibility of getting hot lead in my ear was pretty slim.


The wall was made of Sheetrock, and by the swollen roar of activity beyond it I could tell it wasn't as heavily fortified as the door. I crouched down and took the KA-BAR from my boot.


It took less than a minute to cut away a torso-sized portion of the wall. Beyond was a second layer of the same substance. Why the Americans called this brittle stuff Sheetrock always amused me. Using only the tip of my knife, I bored a small circle in the plaster and peered into Petoskey's hideout.


As if on cue, Rink stopped firing. Makes me wonder if the link we share exceeds mere intuition and laps at the shore of the preternatural. Then again, he may have been reloading his shotgun. Whatever, the lull in activity was just what I needed.


Through my peephole, I could see an open room that ran the breadth of the building. A group of men gathered by a second doorway at the far end had to be the hired guns. Their attention was on the stairwell below them. Two more men held pit bull terriers on leashes. The dogs were blood-soaked and torn in a number of places. Unconcerned by the madness of humans, they strained at their leashes to continue their own private war. That meant that the final three men standing by a jerry-built arena in the center of the floor were the highfliers. One of them had to be Sigmund Petoskey.


Okay, quick calculation and what did I have?


Ten men in total.

Two dogs.

It wasn't the most difficult summation.

The real question was: Could I handle them all?

Whether or not I was capable wasn't an issue. I was going to, and that was it.


18

when i was a small child, i lived in a home poor in money but rich in love. What my parents were unable to provide in fine food and modern conveniences, they made up for with hugs and kisses and quality time spent with their only child. I don't miss having little in the way of material belongings, but I do miss my dad.


After my dad died and my mother remarried, things changed. I still didn't possess the treasures children yearn for, but I did get a little brother. But then it was my brother who got more of the hugs and kisses. And I looked elsewhere for comfort.


My father instilled in me a love of books. Where other kids got stereo record players and portable TVs in their bedrooms, I had a collection of dog-eared novels passed down to me by my dad. Poe, Lovecraft, and R. E. Howard were my favorites. Next in line came the comic book superheroes that I grew into when a newspaper delivery route gave me the pocket money to spend on treats. Sometimes I wonder if the books taught me about the horrors of our world, while the superheroes taught me how to deal with them. Whatever, they did give me a fertile imagination.


Probably explained why I envisioned myself as the Incredible Hulk when I erupted through the wall. The Hulk had an extraordinary strength he used against his enemies, but I didn't have that luxury. I came out shooting in a spray of dust and plaster particles.


I didn't aim to hit anyone and fired above their heads. Combined with my Hulk act, it was enough to startle everyone into immobility. Only the dogs responded with panic, circling and ensnaring their handlers with their leashes as they spun.


"No one move or the next bullet will kill you," I shouted. In reality, if all of them had turned on me at once, I wouldn't have stood a chance. The thing was, without exception, everyone thought I was shouting directly at him. No one wants to be a dead hero.


"Guns on the floor," I shouted as I took a half-dozen paces into the room. The three men nearest me weren't armed. They thrust their hands toward the ceiling.


The dog handlers were too busy trying to untangle themselves to pay me immediate attention. Stuck between me and Rink, who approached the opposite door at a gallop, the five guards at the far end quickly dropped their weapons and kicked them away.


"Inside the room, boys," I heard Rink shout. His voice jostled them like bowling pins.


My unorthodox entrance, not to mention the demanding muzzle of my SIG, commanded compliance. The three men by the fighting arena moved quickly toward the plastic-shrouded wall, their hands seeking heaven.


A shadow in the doorway morphed into Rink. It was good to see the big guy again. He shot me a wink as he ushered the five goons before him.


"Get your butts in the ring and sit on your hands," Rink told them. They crowded into the center of the fighting area. Space was at a premium as they jostled to be farthest away from the 12-gauge. Rink turned to the two dog handlers. "You, too."


One of the handlers, a skinny youth with a huge nose covered in acne, twisted his face at Rink. He was uglier than his mutt. At least the dog had an excuse; it had already gone a couple of rounds.


"Got a problem with your hearing?" Rink demanded.


"The dogs will fight," he said.


"Then it's your job to stop them, Zit Boy," Rink said. "Now get the hell in there. One of you at either end."


The big-nosed youth entered the ring first, pulling his struggling dog to him. When he was as settled as he could be, the second dog handler entered. Rink pushed the gate to, flipped a catch in place. No one moved in the arena. The tough guys huddled together. Dogs' teeth and a 12-gauge shotgun made the proverbial rock and hard place.


Harvey's surveillance shots of Sigmund Petoskey came in handy. He looked like a typical wealthy businessman. Shirt, tie, suit, and shiny shoes. Well groomed and manicured. He looked out of place in this setting. Even if I'd never viewed a photo of him, I'd have picked him out by the contempt that radiated from him.


"Hi, Siggy!" I said. "Like to bring your ass over here?"


Petoskey's eyebrows rose and he lifted a finger to his chest.


"Yeah," I confirmed. "I want a word with you."


Pointing my SIG at his chest, I indicated the bulge in his breast pocket where ordinary businessmen would carry a notebook.


"Lose the piece."


Petoskey pulled a Berretta out of the shoulder rig. Two fingers; like he'd done it before. He placed the gun on the floor at his feet, kicked it away from him.


"Okay. Get over here."


He stood his ground.


"You are making one hell of a mistake, you goddamn asshole," he directed at me. With his Eastern European name, you'd half expect him to have the stilted accent of a villain from a James Bond movie. You would be wrong. Just as Rink is a contradiction of his ancestry, so is Sigmund Petoskey. He spoke with the cultured tones of an Ivy Leaguer with top honors.


Admittedly, his first words weren't anything you'd expect from one of such a background. Then again, you only have to recall Rink's summing up of Siggy's childhood to imagine where the gutter language came from.


"No," I told him. "You're the one making the mistake."


"Who the hell are you, coming here and shooting up my place? My personal friend the mayor will have something to say about this!"


"I don't give a damn what the mayor says," I told him.


"He'll have your job for this," Petoskey said. He rounded on Rink. "And yours."


"Like I said," I told him, "you're the one making the mistake. We aren't police officers, Siggy. For all I care, your friend the mayor can kiss my ass."


For a second time Petoskey's eyebrows sought the top of his head.


"Not the police?"


"Not the police," I echoed.


"Then you're with Hendrickson. I should have known . . ."


His words faltered at the shake of my head.


"I don't know Hendrickson from Jimmy Hendrix," I told him.


"So who the blazes are you?"


"Someone who needs answers. And I want them quickly."


Petoskey looked at his feet, gave a slow shake of his two-hundred- dollar haircut. Something dawned on him and he slowly raised his face to look at me. A scowl broke across his features. "This is about John Telfer, isn't it?"


John was indeed why I was there, but I'd expected to have to draw the information from him like rusty nails from a knotty plank.


"Where is he?" I demanded. "If you've hurt him I'll—"


Petoskey sneered. "You think I have him?"


"Maybe not here, but I believe you know where he is."

"Look," he said, stepping toward me in defiance, "I already told your friends I don't know where he is. The son of a bitch took off owing me a substantial sum of money. Do you think if I knew where he was, I wouldn't have brought him back by now? Jesus Christ, how many times have I got to tell you people the same damn thing?"


I didn't answer.


This wasn't a put-on. Petoskey's words rang true. He really didn't know where my brother was. So it was pointless questioning him any further regarding John's whereabouts. Time for a change of tack.


"You've already spoken to my friends?" I asked.


"Twice!" he said. Full of impotent fury, he held out his hands. An expansive gesture, taking in the entire room. "And now this?"


"Okay, Siggy. Just cool it," I told him.


"I'll do no such thing." He lifted a stubby finger toward me. "You come in here shooting and making demands. Now you want me to act reasonably toward you?"


"Unless you want me to start shooting again, you will," Rink drawled from across the room. For emphasis, he aimed the shotgun directly at the group of men in the dog-fighting pit.


Petoskey wore righteous anger like a dead man's suit. He folded his arms across his chest. Challenged Rink with a sneer. Then he turned it on me. It faltered when I shoved my SIG into the dimple on his chin.


"Tell me," I said. "Who are these friends that you're talking about?"


"You should know," Petoskey said.


"Indulge me," I said.


"Your friends from the government. Who else?"


It was a war to keep my features flat, but this was a surprise, and it probably showed. Petoskey misread me. Maybe it was the way I allowed my gun to drop from his chin.


"See. I knew it," he announced. His two friends nodded along with him. One of them opened his mouth to say something. I shot him a warning look. The man clammed up immediately.


To Petoskey I said, "You're saying that CIA agents have spoken to you about John Telfer?"


"Aren't you listening to me? Twice they've been at my office. Twice they've demanded to know the location of John Telfer. I wish I'd never seen Telfer's goddamn face!"


"These agents actually said they were CIA?" I asked.


"They didn't need to. I can smell a spook a mile off."


"So you're only guessing?" I said, with not a little hope.


Petoskey shook his head. "They didn't exactly introduce themselves, if that's what you mean. One of them flashed a badge the first time they came around; they didn't bother the second time. Pretty much the way you haven't now, eh?"


Again I didn't answer. CIA agents, by virtue of their secretive trade, aren't in the habit of flashing badges or announcing their identities. Petoskey had to be confused, must have misread the acronym on the badge. It would be easily done, I suppose, though I doubted that the Child Support Agency would go to such lengths to trace an absent father.


Judging my silence to be guilt, he said, "You can go back and tell your bosses that they're barking up the wrong tree. For the third time, I do not know where John Telfer is. Have you got that?"


We had lost a major advantage, and unless we started shooting again, it was an unsalvageable situation.


On the same wavelength, Rink moved toward me. His shotgun still menaced the men in the arena. No one moved. It wasn't so much the fear of being shot as that they thought we were CIA. Worse than going up against the police, they weren't prepared to risk the ire of the government. They wouldn't make a move. Apparently, neither would we. Not now that we'd been uncloaked as government agents.


Petoskey was wearing a smug look on his face.

"Quite a mess, eh?" he crowed.

Yeah, it was a mess, but not for the reason he thought. We backed toward the demolition job I'd done on the wall.


"Oh, for pity's sake. Use the door, will you?" Petoskey said.


"We'll leave as we came," I said as we continued to back out.


"Do me a favor," Petoskey called as we stepped through the hole into the abandoned office. "When you do find Telfer, tell him I want my ten grand. Plus thirty percent interest. And you can tell him not to show his face around any of my places again. He's not welcome. Tell him he can post the money to me."


If he'd let it lie at that, I don't know where the hunt would've taken us next. As it was, like many self-righteous punks, he loved the sound of his own voice too much. "And tell him my car had better have a full tank of gas when he drops it off."


I stepped back into the opening. What a difference a couple of seconds had made. Tough guys all, the goons in the ring were already fighting their way past one of the dogs in an effort to get out. To win face with their boss, and without exception, they offered to chase us down. Petoskey and the other two suits had moved toward them, and Siggy wasn't a happy puppy.


My SIG rapped a sharp command, shattering the light fixture above their heads.


Did you ever play the children's game called Statues? You stand with your back to an advancing group, you turn around sharply, and the group has to become petrified in place, as though under a gorgon's stare. Anyone who moves is out of the game. Well, that's what it felt like then.


My gun was now a useless threat, but I aimed it anyway.


"Telfer took one of your cars?" I demanded.


"Yes," Petoskey snapped. "If you'd taken the time to read your friends' reports you would already know that."


"Must've missed it," I said. "What car are we talking about?"

"Read the damn report," Petoskey said.

I took three steps, my anger level rising with each one. Grabbing Petoskey by his lapels, I jammed the SIG under his chin with my other hand.


Petoskey's eyes went wide. That a government agent would actually have the balls to shoot him with all these witnesses standing around was now a definite possibility. Maybe I should have shot him. Undoubtedly, the world would've been a better place with one less scumbag in it.


"Just tell me what damn car you're talking about or I swear to God I'll kill you," I said.


"Pontiac," Petoskey snapped. "It's a goddamn Pontiac. Okay?"


"Write down the license number," I ordered.


"I haven't got a pen," Petoskey said.


"Find one." I pushed him away from me. Petoskey's face was scarlet. He actually stepped back toward me.


"Here," one of the other suits said quickly, pulling an expensivelooking gold-plated pen from a jacket pocket. Petoskey snatched it out of his hand, then glanced around looking for paper. Again the suit came to the rescue, tearing a page from an equally expensive pocket diary. Petoskey quickly scribbled down a number, then thrust it at me.


"Satisfied?" he asked.


I snatched the paper out of his hand.


"Thank you," I said.


"You're welcome," Petoskey said. Not that I believed him. My spite was reflected by his bilious glare. We were rival wolves meeting on a forest trail. We edged backward, neither wanting to be seen to be giving ground, but each recognizing the prudence of doing so.


Rink was at my shoulder. He made a cautious noise in the back of his throat, Rinkese for "We've outstayed our welcome, Hunter." How could I possibly disagree? It was definitely time to leave if the clamor of reinforcements charging up the far staircase was anything to go by.


We played it cool as we stepped through the hole in the wall. Then we ran like hell.


19

mr. so-called-ambrose wasn't a name that came easily to the lips, so Cain decided he'd refer to him simply as thief. It was all he was, and he didn't deserve to be called anything else. Thief, thief, thief.

Names always fascinated Cain. To be named is the achievement of recognition, and he wasn't about to give Ambrose the honor. He was nothing in Cain's estimation. Just a bum. Below contempt. Nothing but a sneaking thief.


The thief was back in his room now. Probably wondering what to do about the flat tire. There was a spare bolted to the rear of the vehicle, but the thief appeared to be the type of man too easily defeated when it came to mechanical contrivance. He was both inept with a lug wrench and too damn lazy to use it. The latter was probably the overriding factor. Why go to the trouble of changing a defective tire when he could go steal himself another car?


Evening was fully upon the hotel now. Way out over the ocean the stars were pale glimmers on a velvet backdrop. Here, the light cast through tinted lenses onto the hotel facade was mint green and coral pink. A cornucopia of shadows jittered and danced as a faint breeze stirred the foliage.


Cain watched as the rosy-cheeked receptionist finished her shift, wandered out into the parking lot, and drove off in an imported Ford Ka. He was tempted to follow her, to act out the fantasy that had been playing through his mind these past hours. In the end, he let her go. Weighed against the risk of losing sight of the thief, it wasn't worth it. Other opportunities would arise to invite the girl back to his special place.


Cain opened the car door and stepped out onto asphalt. The air still held the heat of the day. He shrugged out of his jacket, pulled off his tie, and unbuttoned his collar. Jacket and tie went in the trunk of the car.


He wandered around the side of the building to the garden area, savoring the scent of jasmine only slightly tainted by exhaust fumes from the highway. The pool rippled under fluorescent lighting, a vibrant blue that was now unsullied by the bobbing forms of overfed children and grandmothers floating on inflatable beds.


He sauntered over to the foot of the stairs.


Act furtively and you're done for—another pearl of wisdom from his killer's rule book. Cain mounted the stairs as if he had the right to be there. He took two steps at a time, almost bounding up to the first landing. He slowed slightly as he climbed to the next floor, tilting his face down. The thief could be on his way down, and he didn't want to be recognized before he could engineer a proper reunion.


At the top of the stairs he turned slowly to the left, surveying the scene. Then, happy that no one was approaching, he walked along the terrace toward the door of the thief's room. His rubber-soled shoes squeaked on the terra-cotta tiles. He stooped down and pulled them off.


The thief's room was at the corner of the building, and the terrace terminated just to the left of the door. If the thief happened to come out now, Cain would have nowhere to hide. Immediate action wouldn't be as satisfying as the drawn-out torment he had in mind, but there would be nothing else he could do.


At the door, he bent down and placed his shoes on the floor. Minuscule drifts of sand abutted the wall next to the door, blown there on the wind, or maybe the remnants of someone walking on the beach and carrying proof of their labor back with them.


"This rule is the one that takes priority above all others, thief," he whispered. "Be mindful of Locard's principle." That precept of forensic science held that a person left behind a small part of himself wherever he went, be it hair, saliva, semen, skin cells, clothing fibers, or soil or plant matter transported on the soles of shoes or in the folds of clothing. The list was endless. And included fingerprints.


From a trouser pocket, Cain pulled out a roll of plastic bags and some rubber bands. Cocking an ear toward the door so its opening wouldn't surprise him, he stooped down and pulled a plastic bag over each foot, stuffed the cuffs of his trousers inside, then sealed them with the rubber bands. That done, he repeated the process with his hands.


The bags were spacious and flopped at the ends of his fingertips like translucent flippers. He looked ludicrous but didn't care. The last thing the thief would think of when folds of flesh were being stripped from his body was Cain's diabolical fashion sense.


Lastly, he pulled a cloth bag from his pocket. He'd prepared eyeholes earlier, burning them into the white cloth with the cigarette lighter from the Oldsmobile. The mask made him think of the KKK. Not that he was a racist. He wasn't. Regardless of race, creed, or color, he hated everyone with equal passion.


Low and away from the balcony's edge, he slipped the bag over his

head before standing up and facing the door. The eyeholes took away a little of his peripheral vision, but that was okay. He had a single intent and would be going forward from now on.


Readiness for the long-anticipated reunion required only one more thing. He reached under the tail of his shirt and pulled free the scaling knife. He held it up before his eyes, admiring the rainbow effect along its cutting edge. Sharp, so very, very sharp.


Now he was ready.


He knocked on the door.


20

more than one thing was troubling me about the whole setup. Louise Blake continued to nag at me like a bug burrowing its way through my cerebral cortex. There was much that woman knew but wasn't telling me. Her reticence, I believed, was linked to the below-the-belt strike that Sigmund Petoskey had dealt us. The CIA could be involved, and that had jarred me to the core.


"I have to make a couple of calls," I said. Harvey Lucas extended his hospitality in the manner of a southern gent, and I was going to take him up on it. The telephone was on a desk across the room.


Harvey watched with an expression that was hard to define. I caught myself in midstride. To gather our wits after such a crushing blow, we'd returned to his office—a rented unit in an industrial complex on the other side of town. Harvey seemed pleased to see us, as if we deemed him a worthwhile ally after all. However, once I'd mentioned the CIA, he didn't appear to be anywhere near as enthusiastic. Pausing with my hand over the handset, I waited for him to object. Harvey inclined his chin.


"Sure you don't mind?" I asked.


"Go ahead." He rolled his neck, then turned to his computer screen and studied it with way too much intensity.


"When you finish up, I got a call to make, too," Rink said. He was standing behind Harvey, and I saw him reach out and grip his friend's shoulder. Rink's never patronizing; his gesture was more one of reassurance. "Can you look me up the number for the Arkansas Humane Society, Harve? Gotta drop 'em a tip concerning illegal dog fighting on their turf."


Harvey nodded, then bent to the task.


"If you'd prefer I didn't use your phone, I'll go find a public phone," I said.


Harvey returned his gaze to mine.


"Go ahead and use it, Hunter. If the CIA is involved, you can bet your ass they're already aware of my involvement." He rocked back in his seat, resigned. Nerves made him more effusive than usual. "Makes no difference if you conduct your business from here or anywhere else, they'll have you hooked up in less time than it takes you to dial the number. If you've got anything to say that you don't want them to hear, I suggest you forget about phone calls altogether."


"Yeah," I agreed. But I wasn't concerned. Truth is, it didn't matter what the CIA overheard, considering that it was one of their controllers I was about to call.


A number I hadn't used in over four years leaped straight from my memory to my fingertips. From the handset, I heard the beeping of a long-distance connection as it bounced via service providers and satellites throughout the world. A phone finally rang in a nondescript office in Langley, Virginia.


The call was picked up by an electronic answering machine, which gave me options and asked me to key in a twelve-digit number. Again from long-term memory I typed in the sequence. The line went dead for a split second. In that unfathomably short space of time recording devices kicked in. It didn't matter. Then came a purr as the connection was made. The phone was picked up after only three beeps.


"This better be good," grunted a man's voice.


"That'll depend on your perspective," I grunted right back.


"My perspective is always from the bottom of a deep dark place, you should know that by now."


My laughter was humorless. "You should get out more. Get a little sunshine on your face. You spend too much time in your little cubbyhole."


"Tell me about it," the man said. Over the line came a minuscule shift in the white noise as buttons were flicked. "You can speak now, Hunter. Line's secure."


"I've got a favor to ask," I told him.


"So much for the pleasantries, huh? Straight down to business. Even after all this time."


"No time for pleasantries, I'm afraid. It could be that we're sitting on opposite sides of the fence on this one."


I heard the creak of leather: Walter Hayes Conrad IV shifting uneasily in his chair. By that subtle shift of his body, I knew I'd struck an uneasy chord with him.


"Opposite sides of the fence? I thought you were no longer in the game, Hunter?"


"I'm not in your game."


"So you're still retired?"


"Retired, yeah, but not out to pasture yet."


"I take it this is a private job we're talking about, then?"


"It was private until I heard some of your boys might be involved."


"Oh?" Walter shifted again, and I could visualize him reaching for the on switch for the recorder.


"Just give me a minute before you make our conversation public," I said.


"Like I said, Hunter, the line's secure."

"Yeah, so let's keep it that way for now?"

"You know I can't promise you that, Hunter. If this concerns one of our operations, I can't let it go off the record."


I sniffed. "All I'm asking is that you confirm if the CIA is involved."


"That'll depend."


"I appreciate that. I'm not asking for specifics. A simple yes or no will do."


"Then the answer's no."


"Is that what you term plausible denial?"


"Nah, there's nothing plausible about it."


"You're right there," I said. "Considering I haven't even told you what job I'm involved in."


"There's no need. I haven't heard your name mentioned, Hunter."


"Well, there's a surprise," I said.


"We did wonder what you were doing on our home soil," Walter said. Walter doesn't offer information for nothing.


"So you knew I was in the country?"


"Of course. What kind of intelligence community doesn't track foreign agents flying in?"


"I'm not a foreign agent, Walt. I'm retired. Remember?"


"Same difference."


It wasn't overly surprising that my presence in the USA had rung warning bells. Neither would it surprise me if Walter had already made calls to my old commanders at Arrowsake to check that I wasn't back on the payroll of the British government. Or—worse case scenario— that I was on someone else's payroll.


"You needn't worry, Walter. I haven't turned to the dark side."


Walter laughed as if he were choking on a bitter pill.


"So what's the deal? I know you hooked up with Jared Rington. Believe me, Hunter, we dropped it there. Not interested."


"Rink's with me now," I said. "He says hi."

"I'm sure he does," Walter said scornfully. All part of the act.

"I find it hard to believe that you aren't wondering what I'm up to," I said.


"To be honest, we ain't the least bit interested. Far as we're concerned you're here visiting your old buddy. We're prepared to leave it at that. So long as nothing else comes to our attention."


"Appreciate it, Walt. But now that I have come to your attention, how are you going to play it?"


Walter sucked air through his teeth. Not the nicest sound in your ear. "Depends on the job you're about to describe."


"The one you've already told me you're not involved in?"


"One and the same."


"Figures," I said, paraphrasing Rink. "I take it that what you're not telling me is that you've no one in Little Rock, Arkansas."


"I don't doubt we've got agents there, Hunter, but not on anything you're involved in."


"You're sure about that?"


"How can you doubt me? I don't have anyone on your case. Okay?"


"Okay, that's good enough for me." I paused, considering my next words. It was a gamble mentioning anything about the job I was involved in, but it was probably too late for that now. By calling Walter, I'd guaranteed that the CIA would indeed be watching me from now on. "What about my brother, John Telfer?"


Up in his office at Langley, Walter Hayes Conrad IV went silent.


"I take it by your silence that his name means something to you?"


Walter breathed into the mouthpiece. Was that remorse?


"It does, Hunter, but not for the reason you're thinking."


"I'm thinking you've got guys on him."


"Nope. It's not that at all."


Judging by the ache between my eyebrows, my face was fertile ground begging for a frown. I was afraid to ask. "What is it then?"


"I take it you haven't looked at the TV lately?"


"No time for TV."


"Make time. If you're interested in John Telfer, you'd better get yourself acquainted with CNN. Telfer's currently their number one news slot."


I turned from the phone. "You got a TV, Harve?"


"Got one at home. Why?"


"What about your computer? Can you get CNN?"


"The news channel? Sure."


"Do me a favor and log on, will you?"


Harvey's eyebrows danced toward his shaved head. Rink was watching me expectantly. A shrug was all I offered before turning my attention back to Walter. "I'm just about to take a look now."


"Might explain a thing or two."


"So what's the deal?" I asked him.


"Take a look and make up your own mind."


"Fair enough," I said. "But you're telling me this isn't anything to do with you?"


"No matter how many ways I tell you no, you're still going to have reservations, Hunter."


"Old habits die hard," I told him.


"You doubt my honesty, but that's okay, I don't bear any grudges. If I were in your shoes, I'd be the same. For the record, I'll say it again. Then it's up to you . . ." His breath came slow and steady. The pause was not for his benefit. Bad news was coming. "The CIA is not on your case. We're not on your brother's case. But then again, I can't speak for the rest of the civilized world. Or the FBI, in particular."


"The FBI?"


"Just watch the news. You'll see what I mean."


"Okay, Walt. I appreciate your help."


"No problem," he said. "Good speaking to you again, Hunter."

"Likewise." I paused, considering. Then, "Walt, seeing as you've been so open with me, there's something I have to tell you."


"Go on."


"I was involved in a job an hour or so ago. Guy I was up against said he'd been visited by some of your boys asking about John."


"Wasn't us."


"I appreciate that. But I think you might want to look into who's going round posing as government agents. Might cause a stink for you if something goes wrong."


"I get it now. That's why you wanted to check in with me?"


"Yeah. Just in case I have to defend myself."


"They're not mine, Hunter. So . . . stay safe."


Stay safe. This from a sub-division director of black ops. In other words, Walter had just given official sanction to retaliate with lethal force if that situation should arise. What's known in the trade as an executive decision.


"Thanks, Walt."


Walter isn't big on pleasantries. I was left holding a handset issuing the soft purr of a dead line.


Something popped up on Harvey's computer screen. I set the phone back in its cradle. All I could think of to say was "Shit."


With equal lack of verbosity, Rink cursed loudly. After a beat, Harvey joined in.


On the screen of Harvey's computer were headlines I could barely comprehend.


FBI CLOSES IN ON MASS KILLER THE HARVESTMAN FINALLY NAMED


Beneath the headlines was a photograph of my little brother.


21

cain knocked again. Louder this time. Again there was no answer. Frowning beneath his impromptu hood, he stepped to the side of the door. By pressing close to the glass, he could make out any movement from within. Or in this case, lack of movement.

No one home? How unbelievable is that?

Letting out a sigh, he pulled the hood free and stuffed it into his trouser pocket. His palms were sweating inside the plastic bags, but he didn't take them off yet.


"Where the hell are you?" he wondered aloud. There was a possibility that the thief had given him the slip, but he didn't give it much credence. He'd been parked in a position where he could watch the major exits from the hotel, and unless the thief had come down the back stairs and scaled the nine-foot perimeter fence, he was still here.


What are the chances of that happening? Slim to zero.


There was a chance he'd gone down to the restaurant for an evening meal, but again it was highly unlikely. From the furtive way the thief acted when he was in the parking lot, he was hiding from some one. He wouldn't eat in plain sight in the restaurant, not when he could order food to be delivered to his room.


That left two or three possibilities. The thief was asleep and hadn't heard him knock. Or he was in the bathroom, and had again missed the knock. Or he'd slipped out while Cain had made his way around the back of the hotel and was even now in the parking lot looking for another vehicle to appropriate. Maybe an Oldsmobile.


Vacillation danced a quickstep through his mind. He could run back out to check on the state of play, or he could gain admittance to the hotel suite and check out his other theories. In the end, he chose the latter.


As quietly as possible, he tested the door handle. The door didn't open. Not a problem. He inserted the tip of his scaling knife between door lock and frame and twisted. The lock snicked open with barely any pressure.


The door swung open to reveal a short vestibule with two closed doors on one side. At the far end a door was open, and he could see part of a combined sitting room/bedroom apartment. Next to a recliner was a pair of running shoes, and a denim jacket was slung over the arm of a chair. Looked like the thief hadn't packed to leave.


Inside the vestibule, Cain listened. He could discern neither running water nor snoring. He took another step, the plastic bags making a faint sucking noise on the tiled floor. Watching the open room at the end, he pushed the front door closed, then turned to the first door to his right. Slowly he pushed down on the handle, allowing the door to swing open.


He sneaked a look into the room. It was a tiny kitchen. A couple of buzzing flies bashed themselves against a window in an effort to escape the stifling heat. There were a few dirty dishes piled in the sink and a ring-stained coffee cup on the drain board. He reached out and touched a kettle. Through his plastic shrouding, he could feel that the kettle still bore the heat of being boiled. Proof of recent or current occupancy, Cain decided.


Leaving the kitchen, he moved along the vestibule. He held his breath, anticipation building. If his assumption proved true, the next door would open into a bathroom, the most likely place to find the thief. Cain smiled to himself, imagining opening the door and finding the thief sitting on the toilet with his trousers around his ankles, a shocked look on his face. How ignoble!


He pressed an ear to the door, listening for the telltale sounds of an industrious man at work. Nothing. No soft grunts, no delicate splashes, no sighs of relief or rustle of newspaper. Neither was there the sound of a shower or faucet trickling, but that didn't mean the thief wasn't prone in a tub and taking a moment of silent reflection.


By habit, Cain always bolted the door to his bathroom, even when he knew he was alone. But the door swung open as easily as had the kitchen door. Cain stepped into the cooler confines of the bathroom, a delicate breath of lavender invading his senses. The lid on the toilet was up. The bath was empty. Unfortunately, the shower curtain was pulled to one side, so there was no chance of a Hitchcock moment.


He fought down the impulse to swear. That is for the uncultured killer; he of the chainsaw or machete and lampshades made from human hide. Turning back to the vestibule, he walked with the stealth of a ninja assassin. His blade led the way, lifted like that of a matador poised for the coup de grâce.


The open room remained constant. He attempted to tune himself to the still air, to feel the subtle drafts and eddies of the atmosphere around him. Feeling for restrained hints that human life stirred in the space out of his sight but not beyond the reach of his other senses.


At the threshold, he once more tugged the hood from his pocket and pulled it over his head. The shock of a hooded man stepping into the room would have the desired effect and halt the thief in his tracks. All he required was a second or so of addled wits in order to take charge. He drew a deep breath and stepped into the room.


"Damn it!"


The room was sterile.


Sighing now, Cain looked back over his shoulder.


"Perhaps I should've checked the parking lot first." He sighed. There was nothing he could do about that now. Might as well search the room. The thief could have left his precious Bowie knife behind in his need to move on.


Cain checked the layout of the room. The recliner was off to his right, but all that remained there were the denim jacket and the running shoes. On a coffee table there was a yachting magazine with photos of an exclusive club over at Marina del Rey.


Cain moved over to a bed and chest of drawers that took up the far wall. The bed was unmade. A pair of boxer shorts lay crumpled on the floor at its foot. Cain walked over and kicked the boxers until he could read the label inside. They confirmed the thief's nationality. Definitely an Englishman. The label read St Michael, the brand name of Marks & Spencer, the source of many a conservative Englishman's underwear.


He next tried the drawers in the chest. T-shirts were pushed into the top drawer along with more underwear and wadded socks. The next drawer down held a pair of folded sweatpants but nothing else. The final drawer held nothing belonging to the thief, just a stack of well-fingered brochures and menus from local businesses. As well as the obligatory welcome message from the hotel manager that no one ever reads.


Cain made a noise in the back of his throat. Scorn given timbre. He cast his eyes around the room. A TV rested on a table next to the recliner, but there was nothing of the thief's sitting on top of it. He turned instead to the built-in wardrobes that made up the wall next to the entrance door.


He stared at the double doors. If the thief had fled the apartment, then he would surely have taken his clothing with him. If the cupboard contained his coat and other belongings, then it was apparent that he'd be returning sometime soon.


Cain approached the wardrobe with a new idea in mind. It was the ideal hiding place. Concealed inside it, he could wait for the thief to return and then spring out when he was least expecting it. Smiling at his wisdom, he pulled open the doors.


"Ah," he said.


The thief's coat was still there. But something else assured Cain that the thief hadn't fled as he'd first feared.


The barrel of the gun pointed directly at his face.


22

"you okay, hunter?" No. I was numb. The face on the screen was unquestionably my brother's. His hair was shorter than I remembered, and there were a couple of new lines at the corners of his eyes. But it was definitely John.

"This can't be right," I said.

Reading the accompanying story wasn't helping. I couldn't concentrate for glancing at the photograph to remind me that I wasn't reading an unconnected piece of hack journalism. My heart drummed in my chest like a volley of cannon fire. Even the adrenaline rush of battle didn't affect me in this way.


"I don't believe it," I said for what must have been the umpteenth time. "There must be some kind of mistake."


Rink wasn't so certain. He didn't know John the way I did. Okay, John was a self-centered, lying, cheating thief who'd run out on his wife and kids. But there was one thing I was certain of: my brother wasn't a depraved psychopathic killer collecting the bones of his victims as trophies. Rink was taking things at face value. He tapped the screen to prove his point. "You can't argue with the forensics, Hunter."


I shook my head like there was a wasp in my ear.

"No, I can't accept it. Something's wrong here."

"How do you explain it, then?"

"I don't know, but I'm sure as hell going to try."

Reading the news release once again didn't calm my racing heart. The FBI had been searching for the perpetrator of a number of brutal murders that spanned the country from coast to coast. The deaths had reputedly occurred over a three-year period. The FBI was unwilling to divulge the quantity dead at this man's hands, but would confirm that the killer's signature was the removal of skeletal parts. The killer had finally been named as John Telfer, a British subject living in the Little Rock area.


"It's all a load of bull," I told the screen. Rink threw up his hands.


Fair enough, John had been in the country during the three-year period and had, by Louise Blake's admission, been employed as a delivery driver some of that time. This gave him the opportunity to have visited the places listed. But according to Louise, John had gone missing less than a month ago. Surely if he'd been involved in these random killings, he'd have left town much sooner than he had.


Experience indicates that a serial killer starts slowly, the time span between his kills narrowing with each attack as he craves more and more depraved satisfaction, until he reaches a point where he can no longer restrain the urge to kill. I suppose, with that in mind, John could have been doing the killings, and it was only now that he'd spiraled out of control and gone off on a final rampage.


Not that I was about to admit that for a second.


I read about a man and woman found murdered in a motel at the fringes of the Mojave Desert, how they'd both had fingers removed as trophies by the maniac the press had dubbed the Harvestman.


A witness related how the murdered couple had been seen picking up a stranded motorist the previous morning. The police examination of a vehicle found abandoned a short distance from where the motorist had been picked up showed it was registered to one Sigmund Petoskey of Little Rock, Arkansas. Mr. Petoskey had only this evening informed police that a former employee, John Telfer, had stolen the vehicle. Tests of fingerprints inside the car confirmed that the driver had indeed been John Telfer.


Police and FBI agents were now searching for the location of a yellow Volkswagen Beetle stolen by the killer after murdering the young couple found dead at the motel. There was no corroborating forensic evidence at the murder scene to tie Telfer to the motel, but due to the balance of probabilities, the FBI felt that naming him as the chief suspect was justifiable under the circumstances.


"Justifiable under the circumstances?"


"It's a logical assumption when you think about it," Rink argued. "John breaks down, he's picked up by these motorists, then they go to a motel together. John then kills the couple, steals their car, and goes on his way, headed God knows where."


I wasn't having any of it. "No way. They say here that the car contained John's fingerprints. Why wouldn't he wipe down the car the way he's supposedly done at the motel?"


Rink shrugged.


"Maybe he didn't think about wiping down the car before he was picked up," Harvey offered.


"According to the FBI, they've been searching for this Harvestman character for the past three years. Never once have they found any evidence of fingerprints before. Isn't it a stretch to think he'd forget to wipe down a vehicle he was driving if he was on a killing spree?"


"Maybe," Rink offered. "You know how these crazies are. They get to a point where they don't give a damn anymore. They believe they're indestructible, that the police can't catch them. They start taking chances, dropping the feds the odd clue. Makes it all the more exciting for them."


"So why be so meticulous at the motel? If you want to drop the feds a clue, why not leave your prints at the scene of the crime?" I sat back, crossed my arms over my chest.


"That'd probably be too blatant," Harvey offered.


"And leaving a car full of evidence isn't?" I asked.


"Not if you never suspect that the car and the killings are going to be connected," Harvey said.


"Yeah," said Rink. "It was only by chance that John was seen getting picked up by the couple. Maybe he didn't think the abandoned car would be tied to what happened at the motel."


Okay, it was a fair assumption. Not one that I shared. John was no killer. I'd have staked my right hand on it, if the wager weren't inappropriate under the circumstances. I rubbed my hands over my face, groaning with a mixture of frustration and fatigue.


"What time is it?" I finally asked.


"Late," Harvey replied.


"Does that mean it'll be morning in England?"


Both Rink and Harvey glanced at each other and made faces. Rink finally turned to me and said, "It'll be early morning. Who are you thinking of calling? Jennifer?"


"I'll have to ring her at some point. But that's not who I was thinking about."


"Who then?" Rink asked.


"Raymond Molloy," I said.


"Detective Inspector Molloy?" Rink asked. "The cop you did that job for? What do you want to call him for?"


"I need to check up on any similar murders back home. See if there's a pattern. To show if John's involved or not."


"What if he won't speak to you? It's not as if you're still on the government payroll, Hunter."


"He'll speak to me. He owes me a favor."


DI Molloy did indeed owe me a favor. I'd sorted a little problem for him concerning a pimp who'd tried to extort money from him after Molloy dallied too often with some of the pimp's girls. It wasn't a problem his own resources could handle without his indiscretion becoming public knowledge. It took only one visit to the pimp for him to see sense—and to hand over the incriminating evidence of Molloy getting very creative and athletic on a waterbed.


That didn't mean Molloy was pleased to hear from me. I'd saved his professional reputation, but I'd also made it very clear that rough treatment of a woman—paid or not—might just make me forget about helping him next time. He answered my queries curtly. Little more than yes, no, and kiss my ass.


"Thanks for nothing," I said as I placed the phone back in its cradle.


"Well?" Rink asked.


"As ever, Mr. Molloy was his charming self."


"But did he give you what you wanted to know?"


"Yeah," I said. "There are no cold investigations into murder victims subject to postmortem mutilation. Rules out the chance that John was killing before he came here."


Rink hiked his shoulders. "Doesn't mean that he's innocent. Just that he didn't start killing until he arrived in the U.S."


I shook my head as I got up and paced the length of Harvey's office.


"You don't go from being totally inexperienced to hacking up bodies and taking skeletal remains as trophies. You build up to something like that. There's nothing in John's background that hints that he was even violent. Christ, he was a number one asshole toward the end, but that was because of the problems he was having. In all that time, though, he never lifted his hand to anyone. Not Jennifer, not his kids. He wouldn't even stick up for himself when Shank threatened him. Does that sound like someone who's capable of murdering people?"


"Most murderers are nothing but low-down cowards," Rink reminded me. "It doesn't take a brave man to take a woman hostage at knifepoint."


"I agree," I said. "But it takes some balls to take out a man and a woman at the same time."


"Unless he took out the man first," Harvey said. He peered up at me from his swivel chair. "Sneaked up behind him and slit his throat or whatever. Then he could have done the woman."


Rink said, "Regardless if John's their man or not, the FBI is searching for him. Kind of complicates matters a bit, don't it?"


"Yes and no," I countered. "They've more resources than we have. They might be able to find him for us. When he's cleared of their suspicions, it could be as simple as going and picking him up."


"You think they're just gonna let you walk in and take him home?"


"If he's innocent, yes."


"And if he's not? If he does turn out to be this punk Harvestman?"


"Then they're welcome to him," I said. The words felt cold in my mouth.


"You think Jennifer's going to be happy with that?"


"Jennifer isn't going to be happy whatever the outcome," I told him.


"And what about you, Hunter? What if you don't take him home? How will you feel?"


"How d'you think I'll feel?" I pondered for a moment. "What about my family? How d'you think they'll feel when I have to tell them my brother's locked up in an American prison?"


"Won't be good."

"No, Rink, it won't."

Harvey swung his chair side to side. The machinations of thought whirred away behind his furrowed brow. In the end, he looked up at the two of us and said, "Neither of you boys thought about it yet?"


"Thought about what?" Rink asked.


"The obvious," Harvey said.


"Obviously we haven't or we'd have mentioned it already."


Christ, it was like working with Abbott and Costello.


"Thought about what?" I asked.


"When you spoke with Petoskey earlier, why didn't he mention that the FBI had been in contact with him? That they'd already talked to him about his car? That John was a suspect in the biggest hunt since the Unabomber?"


"Son of a bitch was lying to us," Rink said. "Unless he got mixed up when he said the CIA had been on his back."


"Bit of a difference between the Feebies and the Spooks," Harvey said.


"It doesn't make any sense," Rink said.


"No, it doesn't," I said. "And John as a serial killer doesn't make any sense, either."


"I'm beginning to think that nothin' about this case makes sense," Rink said.


"Me, too," I admitted. "Petoskey knows more than he's saying, that's for sure."


"What about Louise Blake?" Harvey offered. "Should we talk to her again?"


"Yes," I said. "Let's see her first thing in the morning."


"We'll have to be careful, Hunter," Rink cautioned. "With the heat on John over this Harvestman thing, you can bet your ass that the FBI is staking out her home."


I nodded.


"Harvey, you said someone was watching Louise's place. You think they were feds?"


Harvey shook his large head. "No. They've been watching her since before Telfer became a suspect in these killings."


"Any ideas?"


"All I can say is they're not from around here. They look Mexican or Puerto Rican, could even be Cuban," he said. "I spotted two of them, but there could be more; looked like backing singers for the Kings of Mambo. Slick-dressed muthas."


Whatever involvement these two had, it wasn't good.


"We have to find these guys," I said.


"Shouldn't be too difficult," Rink said. "Ain't too many homeboys hanging around Louise's hood."


"Unless," Harvey reminded us, "the FBI are already there and they've beat a hasty retreat."


Rink sniffed. "You want to have a run over and see if we can round them up now?"


I glanced around, looking for a clock. Other than that it was late, I hadn't a clue what time it was. Finally I said, "We'll wait for morning. I don't know about you boys, but I need a couple hours' sleep. Jet lag's got to me, I think."


Rink shook his head sadly.


"Jet lag, my ass. Admit it—old age is finally catching up with you."


I gave him a weary smile. "No, I just think it'd be better if we speak to them at a more civilized time."


"And," Rink asked, "in a more civilized manner this time?"


Only thing is, there's no such thing as dealing with scum in a civilized manner.


23

"son of a bitch."

Cain sighed as the gun barrel pressed to his hooded forehead. Even cultured killers let a little profanity slip now and again.


"You've got that right," said the thief as he stepped out of the wardrobe. Pressure from the gun made Cain step backward. "Now drop the knife or I'll shoot you where you stand."


Cain dropped the knife. It landed with a faint thud on the carpet.


"Kick it away," the thief ordered.


Cain glanced at his bagged feet.


"I might cut myself."


"I don't give a rat's ass if you cut yourself. Kick it away now."


Cain used the edge of his foot to prod the knife away.


"Satisfied?"


The thief grunted.


"Sit on the bed."


Argument was pointless. He sat down.


"Sit on your hands," the thief said.


"What for? You have a gun. You think I'm crazy enough to come at you?"


"Humor me."

Cain sighed expansively. Could things get any worse? Of course they could, the thief could shoot him. He was no killer, but a nervous finger could slip. Cain pushed his hands beneath his thighs.


"If you take your hands out I'll shoot you."


"Fair enough."


"You think I won't?"


Cain shrugged. "I have to give you credit. You got the drop on me."


"Good. It's best you remember that. Now . . . tell me. Who the hell are you?"


"You could call me a concerned member of the public."


"Bull."


"Honestly. I'm simply a member of the public attempting to right a wrong."


"So you say. Who the hell do you think you are? Dressed up like friggin' Batman?"


Cain tilted his head. "You don't like my costume?" he asked.


"You look like a reject from a beekeepers' convention. What's the deal? Your employers can't afford to buy you a ski mask or decent gloves?"


Cain frowned. My employers? Now what's that about?


The thief continued. "Who's with you?"


"No one."


"Bullshit! You assholes always hunt in packs. You're like a bunch of damn hyenas."


"I'm telling you," Cain said slowly. "I'm alone, so you needn't worry. You can stop waving that gun around if you like. I won't move. I only want what is rightfully mine. Then I'll walk out of here and leave you alone."


The thief made a sound of scorn deep in his chest.


"Do you think I'm an idiot?"


"No, like I said, I've a healthy respect for you. You got the drop on me. In fact"—Cain laughed in good humor—"you ambushed me exactly the same way I was planning for you."


The thief sniffed. There was a hint of self-conceit in his eyes. He was proud of his accomplishment and equally pleased at its acknowledgment. Conceit and vanity, both weaknesses Cain could exploit.


"You're too good for the likes of me. I should've known better than trying to sneak in here."


"Don't patronize me," the thief warned.


"I'm patronizing no one. Just showing my appreciation of your skills."


"Just cut the crap, will you? Tell me why you're really here?"


"To regain something that belongs to me. I told you."


"Something that belongs to Hendrickson, you mean?"


Hendrickson? Who the hell is Hendrickson?


"I've no idea who you're referring to," Cain told him. "I think you're confusing me with someone else."


"I'm not confusing you with anything but a piece of lying crap."


"Oh, but you are," Cain said. "And if you would only let me take off my hood, you'll see."


The thief paused. Considering. Then he shook his head.


"No, I don't want you to move."


"Then you take off my hood. It'll explain everything."


The thief considered a moment longer, then he pointed his gun at Cain's head as he snatched the hood away. His look was testament to the confusion Cain's face produced.


"You're that weirdo from the desert?"


"Got it in one."


"What the hell are you doing here?"


"I've told you."


"You're trying to regain something belonging to you. Yeah, you already said. But that's—" The thief shook his head. "You want your SUV back. Is that it? You can have it and you're welcome to it. Has a flat tire anyway."


"I'm not bothered about the car," Cain said. "It's something personal to me that I want."


"If you're after revenge, you can forget it. I'm the one holding the gun, remember?"


"Not revenge, either," Cain said.


"What the hell is it, then?" The thief's face was a picture of concentration. If only for a second or so. "Oh, I get it. You want your knife back."


Cain smiled.


"Well, you're wasting your time. I threw it away. All this has been for nothing."


Cain shook his head. "I don't believe that."


"Believe what you want."


"Why'd you throw away a perfectly good Bowie knife?"


The thief shrugged. He'd be useless in a game of poker; deceit was painted across his features as plain as a billboard advertising Honest John's Quality Used Cars. "What good was it to me? I've got a gun. Why would I need a knife?"


"If that's the case, why did you take it?"


"Because I wanted to," the thief said. "And anyway, I don't need to explain myself to you. You're the one who needs to start giving me answers."


"There's nothing more to say. You stole my knife, I followed you, and I want it back. End of story."


"Can't help you."


Cain shrugged. "You could at least tell me where you left it, so I can go and find it."


"Who says you're going to walk out of here alive?"

"Oh, come on," Cain said. "We both know you're not going to shoot me. If you were any kind of killer you'd have left me for dead out in the Mojave."


"I did leave you for dead," the thief said with no conviction. "I didn't think a soft ass like you would survive more than a few hours."


Cain laughed. "Next to a major highway?"


"I made a mistake."


"You made more than one," Cain told him. "Haven't you wondered how I found you so easily?"


The spark in his eye told Cain he was intrigued. Maybe more than intrigued, perhaps a little concerned.


Cain sat back on the bed, resting his shoulders against the wall. The inconspicuous movement had a twofold purpose: one, he was attempting to disarm the thief by appearing relaxed; the other, he was subtly relieving the pressure from his hands. "It's obvious you're on the run from someone. This Hendrickson guy you mentioned—you're afraid of him, right?"


As ebullient as a piece of driftwood, the thief sniffed.


Cain went on, "When you're trying to lose yourself, there're a number of things you don't do. For one, you don't use any credit cards or ATMs."


"I know that."


"I believe you do," Cain said. "Next, you don't use an alias that's anything like your real name. For instance, if you're called David Johnston, you don't go calling yourself John Davidson. It's too easily spotted."


"Yeah, I know that, too," the thief snapped.


"Third, you never write anything down that'll give away your hiding place." Cain paused, waiting for the truth to dawn on the thief. "Or if you do, you make sure it's destroyed."


The thief nodded. "I wrote down the telephone number for this shithole."


"Uh-huh."


"But how did you find it? I threw the damn thing out the car window."


"The wind must have blown it back in." Cain's shoulders lifted. "Hey, don't be so disappointed. We all make mistakes. I made a mistake by underestimating you, didn't I?"


"Yeah, you did," the thief reminded him. "But don't think I'm gonna underestimate you. I know what you're trying to do. Trying to get me to think of you as someone with my best interests at heart. I can smell the bullshit from here, so you may as well give up now."


Cain shifted marginally. He wasn't at a loss, the way the thief was. He'd just slipped one hand out of its plastic bag. His palm was slick with perspiration and he gripped the bed sheets beneath him to dry it off.


"I'm only trying to help," he said.


"Right," the thief snapped. "Why would you want to help me?"


"Because I want to." Cain shook his head. "Another lesson for you, my friend. Never turn down help; it may save your skin."


"Two things. First, I'm not your friend. Second, I don't need any lessons from you."


"You're partly right," Cain agreed. "You don't need any lessons from me. You're the one with the gun. I'm the one made the mistake. But you might want to reconsider the friend part."


"Yeah, right. What the hell do you take me for?"


"Someone in need of help," Cain said.


"I don't need or want your help."


"Shame," Cain said, "because from where I'm sitting it looks like you need all the help you can get."


"There you go again. Patronizing."


"Take it as you will. I only want to help."


"I don't need your help."

"I beg to differ."

"You'd be better off begging for your life."

"Nah," Cain said. "Why bother? We've already established that you aren't going to kill me."


The thief lifted his gun, pointing it directly at Cain's face. "Maybe not in cold blood. But who knows what I'll do in self-defense?"


Cain smiled up at him. "Like I've already said, though, I'm not going to make a move on you. So you won't get the opportunity to test your theory."


The tableau held for the best part of a lifetime. At least a lifetime counted in seconds. Finally the gun barrel wavered and dropped away from Cain's face.


"So what have we got then? Stalemate?" the thief asked.


"More like an impasse," Cain offered.


"Same thing, isn't it?"


"Depends on your perspective," Cain said. "A stalemate's when two enemies are at a deadlock. If we look at our situation as one of companions with a shared problem, then we can look to resolve it together."


"Only problem I can think of is how to get rid of you," the thief said.


"You can't very well call the police, can you?" Cain asked. "Fair enough, you could say I was an intruder, but what happens when I explain I followed you here because you hijacked my car? Two wrongs don't make a right, my friend."


The thief pondered a moment.


"I could tie you up and leave you here, though. Then I could make an anonymous call to the cops."


"They're still going to ask questions. They'll identify you in no time. I take it your fingerprints are all over this room? Not to mention the SUV—which, I'll remind you, is not going anywhere soon. And before you consider wiping everything down, may I remind you about the front desk downstairs? Are you positive you didn't leave your fingerprints there when you signed in?"


The thief sniffed again. "You're assuming the police are after me. I'm not on the run from the cops."


"You will be if I tell them you kidnapped me."


The thief watched him and Cain smiled.


"Impasse," Cain said.


"No," the thief replied. "Stalemate."


"Look," Cain said, "we could go on like this all evening. We've both wronged each other. I'll admit that. If you're prepared to let bygones be bygones, so am I."


"I can't trust you," the thief said.


"But can I trust you?"


Now it was the thief's turn to smile. Honest John's Quality Used Cars had a new head salesclerk.


Cain closed his eyes. "If I tell you something, then you're going to have to trust me. I don't want the police involved any more than you do."


The thief shook his head. "I don't want to know anything about you."


Cain opened his eyes slowly. "You did earlier."


"That was then. That was when I thought you were one of Hendrickson's men."


"And you believe now that I'm not? Well, that's a start."


"Something's bothering me, though," the thief said. "You're not here on some stupid quest to recover a stolen knife. What's the real reason?"


"I was telling you the truth," Cain said. "I do want my knife back."


"What the hell for?"


"Sentimental value," Cain explained.


"You follow me hundreds of miles, sneak into my room like some psycho from a cheap horror movie, just to get a knife back?"


"Yes."


"That's it?"


"Well," Cain said, "if you want the full truth, I did intend to make you pay for putting me to the trouble."


Glancing down at the discarded scaling knife, the thief laughed, shaking his head in disbelief.


"But now you want to help me?"


"Yes," Cain said. "Believe it or not, I like you. You're a man after my own heart."


"You like me? You're so full of crap I can't believe it," the thief said.


"Of course, if I'm going to help you, there are conditions attached."


"I give you back your knives so you can stick them in me first chance you get?"


"Exactly," Cain agreed with his most disarming grin. "And one other thing. If I keep your secret, you do the same for me."


"You don't know my secret."


"But that's part of the bargain. It's the only way we can work together. You tell me why you're on the run, and I'll do the same. Call it leverage against one another. We have to work together to keep both our secrets. That way we can't afford to betray each other."


"No, I'm not having any part of it," the thief said. "This is all just a trick so that you can escape. You'll drop me in it first chance you get."


"Not if I tell you my secret first," Cain offered.


"So what's the big secret you're hiding?" he demanded.


"We have to make a deal first," Cain said.


"Uh-uh, not until I know what the hell you're talking about," the thief said.


"Okay. But first, you have to show a little faith. Put the gun down."


"No."


"At least point it at the floor, then. I don't want it going off by accident."


"Don't worry, there's nothing you could tell me that'll surprise me that much."


"Want to bet?" Cain asked.


The thief shrugged another time, but there was something in Cain's face that made him lower the gun.


"Come on, then," he said. "Tell me."


"Okay," Cain said. "Drumroll please."


"Just get on with it."


"Fine, but it is a little dramatic. You could at least allow me my big moment."


And then the thief made the mistake. He sighed, glanced up at the ceiling as if in search of spiritual guidance. It was the moment Cain had been waiting for. He erupted from the bed in a blur of motion. He grabbed the thief's gun hand before he could bring it back up. Then Cain's other hand was at the thief's throat as he snaked a leg around the back of his ankles. In the next instant Cain was standing over him as he sprawled on the floor. And now pointing the gun at his chest.


"My big secret," Cain said with a look of triumph, "is that I'm a killer, and unlike you, I'm prepared to prove it."


24

once, i was pursued through a rainstorm that did little to dampen the fires raging through Grozny. Rebel Chechen soldiers were nipping at my heels. It was unfortunate; I wasn't their enemy. Trouble was that I was in the wrong place at the wrong time, on a mission to take out a rogue Russian Spetsnaz—special forces—soldier who was just a little too fond of prepubescent girls. To infiltrate his position, I'd gone disguised in Russian uniform, and now the Chechens were after my blood. Ironic, you might say. I was there to kill their worst kind of enemy, yet here I was being hunted like a rabid dog.


I had no intention of returning fire, so I chose to run. They were persistent. To elude my pursuers, I lay up beneath the corpse of a steer. The poor thing had avoided slaughter to feed the invading Russian troops by haphazardly wandering into a pasture sown with land mines. The steer's folly was my salvation. Even so, it was about the most miserable twenty-eight hours of my life. The stench was bad enough, but the crawling infestation of maggots made it almost unendurable. Believe me; I came close to surrender.


Yes, I've slept in some pretty grim places in my time. But even a steer's belly can be comfortable when compared to an office chair.


I slept fitfully, waking at dawn with a stiff neck and the feeling of an intense hangover.


Harvey had invited us back to his split-level ranch out beyond the suburbs, but we'd declined, wanting an early start and knowing that the tranquility of a remote farmhouse and a soft bed wasn't conducive to an early rise. Struggling out of the chair, I cracked my lower back and blinked around the small office. Rink was gone. Probably a good thing. I wasn't a pretty sight. I rubbed my eyes with both hands and yawned.


I pushed into the washroom, yawning again. Rink was standing by one of the two small sinks, his upper torso bared. The tattoo on his left shoulder was stark even against his tawny flesh. I have an identical tattoo on my shoulder, a testament to our time in the joint Special Forces unit we'd both been part of for all those years. It was a tattoo sported by only a handful of living men, and not one we ever wore when we were active in the field.


Midstroke with his razor Rink paused, glancing at me in the mirror. "Boy, you look like shit this morning."


"Gee, thanks," I said. "I feel like shit, too, if it's any consolation."


"There's a spare razor if you want to use it."


I ambled over to the sink and picked up the disposable razor. "Courtesy of Harvey?"


"Yup," Rink said, taking another stroke at his chin. "Keeps a stock of them for shaving his head."


I grimaced at the blade, checking for short bristles caught between the twin blades. "He hasn't used it already?"


Rink laughed. Didn't answer. I shrugged, ran the blade under the tap. Rink tossed me a can of shaving foam. I nodded my thanks at him, then stopped.


"Problem?" Rink asked with a twinkle in his eye.


"You've shaved off your mustache?"


"Can't hide anything from you, can I?"


I grunted. "That's what makes me a damn good detective."

Rink slapped me on my shoulder as he brushed past, heading back to the office. I washed and shaved, dried off. When I returned to the office, Rink was on the telephone to Harvey.


"Harvey's over at Louise Blake's place. He wants us over there," Rink said. "He just watched a couple of guys go inside. Didn't look like they were selling home insurance."


"How slick did they look?"


"Like eels in a bucket of sump oil."


25

john telfer sat on his hotel recliner and stared at a blank canvas no more than a couple of centimeters past the end of his nose. Light from the overhead bulb filtered through the cloth, and if he stared closely enough he could make out the minute nuances of texture and pattern in the cotton weave. It was all he'd had to visually focus on for the best part of five hours. His other senses hadn't been given many stimuli, either, not since the man had forced the bag over his head and tied his hands behind his back with an electric cord torn from a desk lamp.


He sat mute, listening for any telltale sign that his time was up, that the maniac was approaching, knife or gun ready to take his life. But all he heard was the occasional shifting of body weight on the bed across from him. Not for the first time he wondered if his captor had fallen asleep.


He heard a soft grunt. Was it the sound a man makes as he slips into dreamland? Or more likely, the sound of one coming to a decision? Fearing he was about to find out, he straightened and craned his neck to try to shift the hood enough that he could see beneath it.


"Sit still," the man commanded from across the room.


"What are you doing?" Telfer asked. His own voice was strained and distant.


"Thinking," answered the maniac. "Now please be quiet and allow me to do so."


Telfer nodded beneath the bag. Show that I'm not a threat, he thought. But he couldn't help asking, "What're you gonna do with me?"


The man snorted in derision. "What do you think?"


Telfer's shoulders slumped. He felt like asking, Why didn't he just get on with it then? But that would be suicidal. He didn't want to die, and every second of life he could hold on to, he'd do so with all his might. He kept quiet.


The minutes passed and Telfer went back to scrutinizing the inside of the cloth bag. He stared at the blurry cloth, lost in some still, Zenlike place. After a while, he began to rock back and forth.


"Will you please be quiet?"


"Unh?" Telfer asked.


"You're humming again," said the man. "That same godawful tune that has no melody."


"I didn't realize," Telfer said. Beneath his hood, he blinked slowly. He had no comprehension of having been humming a tune.


"It's getting right on my nerves. Maybe I should just cut out your voice box so you can't do it anymore?"


Telfer shook his head. "I won't do it anymore. I'm sorry."


"Good. Now if you'll just give me a little peace and quiet, I can come to some sort of decision."


"Are you going to kill me?"


"Probably. Only thing is, I haven't decided how yet."


"Thanks for being so honest."


He heard the man get up from the bed and walk over. Telfer's whole frame tightened in response. He made a short wailing sound, before something made him stop. He didn't want to die, but if he had to, he didn't intend shrieking like a lost soul. In defiance, he lifted his chin, exposing his throat for a quick slash. Then he blinked at the sudden intrusion of light as the hood was snatched away. The man wasn't holding a knife, but Telfer's own gun was pointed at him.


"I've asked and asked for you to be quiet," said the man, "but you just can't seem to keep your mouth shut. So I've decided. What I want you to do is to keep right on talking. Okay?"


Telfer squinted up at him. "What do you want me to say?"


"I want you to tell me who you are and how you wound up here. And I want the truth. No lies. Believe me, if you lie to me, I will know. And I will hurt you. Understand?"


"Yeah, I understand."


"Good. Now go ahead. But don't go raising your voice. We don't want anyone eavesdropping on our conversation, do we?"


Telfer glanced at the wall behind him. Like most hotel walls, these were about as porous as a sponge. He couldn't be sure if anyone was in residence next door, and he couldn't take the chance that their conversation would be overheard. A bit of a strange notion, considering that a psycho was holding him at gunpoint. He looked back at the man and saw a faint smile playing about his lips. He seemed amused, as though he knew that Telfer could not shout for help.


"My name isn't Ambrose," he began.


"I know that. So what is it? Your real name?"


"John."


"Mmm."


"Honestly. My name's John Telfer."


The man nodded as though he was confirming something he already knew.


"I'm from England."


"We've already established that." Again the nod of the head, the amused smile.


"I came here on a work permit," Telfer said.


"That has since run out?"

It was Telfer's turn to nod. "I haven't been able to get a full visa yet."


The man nodded. "You and a couple million others."


"So," Telfer said, "I've had to move on. If I stayed put, I'd have been deported back home."


The man watched him steadily for more than half a dozen heartbeats. Then he moved closer, pushing the gun down in the waistband of his trousers. He took out the curved knife and held it below Telfer's nose. Telfer edged back from it, the cords in his neck tightening.


"I told you not to lie." The man placed the blade so that it lay flat on Telfer's cheek, the point millimeters from his right eye. "That also includes half-truths. Now I don't doubt that you have no visa, but that's not the reason you're running. I want the full truth. Take this as your last warning." He turned the blade on its edge and sliced through the flesh. Not a deep cut, just enough to part the outer dermis. Still, blood flowed warm down Telfer's face to pool at the corner of his mouth.


"Jesus," Telfer hissed.


"Hurts like a bugger, doesn't it?" said the madman. "But you know that's just the start, Johnny boy. No more lies?"


"No more lies," Telfer echoed.


The man retreated a couple of steps, wiped the tip of the knife on Telfer's knee. He placed the knife back in his trouser pocket. Then the gun was back in his hand and pointed at Telfer's face.


"I've done something wrong," Telfer began.


The man nodded, sitting on a corner of the coffee table.


"I'm on the run."


"Also already established. Get on with it."


Telfer twisted his mouth into a knot. He didn't want the knife coming out again. "I stole something."


"Yes," said the man.


"I'm not a thief," Telfer began.


"Oh? What about my car? My knife?"

Telfer shook his head. "Okay. But I'm not normally a thief."

"You're not? You do a good impression of one."

"Until four weeks ago, I never stole a thing in my life." Telfer stopped. He knew he was lying to himself. There was the small matter of the money his brother Joe had given him to clear off a debt. Money he'd immediately lost on another hopeless bet. In one sense that did make him a thief. Then there was the matter of Jennifer and the kids. He'd stolen their hearts. Broken them into little pieces and snatched a random handful that could never be returned.


"What are you crying for?"


"Uh?"


"You're crying," the man pointed out. "Was this theft so dreadful that it brings you to tears?"


Telfer sniffed. "No. Not the theft."


"Oh. I see. There's more to it than that? Go on. Tell me."


"I have a wife and kids."


The man nodded slowly. A shadow passed behind his features. "Haven't we all?"


"I wronged them," Telfer went on. "I wanted to make things right for them again."


"Which is why you stole this thing?" The man bent down and pulled Telfer's backpack from beneath the coffee table. Telfer jolted as if he'd sat on an exposed electrical wire. He watched, eyes intense, as the man fished in his backpack and pulled out an oblong package wrapped in black tape. He placed it on the coffee table next to him, then he upended the bag and thick wads of cash thudded onto the carpet.


Telfer had no words. He simply sat looking at the taped package. The money was of no immediate interest, though there had to be upward of $600,000. Likewise, the man gave the money no attention. He nudged the package with the muzzle of the gun. He said, "I've got a feeling I know what this is."


26

louise blake's house was modest when compared to some in her neighborhood, but a palace compared to the flat John left his wife and kids in back home in England. It was a singlestory clapboard cape, with a porch and adjoining garage. The lawn and shrubs were well tended. A ginger tomcat cleaned himself on the front stoop.


The scene was one of suburban tranquillity.


But that was about to be shattered.


Rink parked the rental a block away and we rushed toward the house. Dawn in Arkansas can be cool at this time of year, but that wasn't why we wore coats. Rink's Mossberg was slung from a harness beneath his armpit. I had my SIG holstered in a shoulder rig.


Harvey was waiting for us, standing in the shadows of a shed on the next-door property. He gave a low whistle and we angled toward him.


"What kept you guys?" he hissed. "I thought I was gonna have to start the party without you."


"What's the deal?" I asked. "They still inside?"


"Yup. Two of them." He nodded up the road. "Another guy in a Chevrolet parked a block over."


"Same guys as before?"

"Yeah."

"Any movement?" Rink asked. Our view of Louise's house was partially blocked by a hedge. But we could see her kitchen windows. They reflected the early sunrise. Our vantage point didn't offer a view of the front, but as we had arrived, I'd noticed that the blinds were drawn.


"Haven't seen anything since they went in. Heard raised voices just before you got here, but it's been quiet since." Harvey held my gaze. There were the beginnings of a cold sweat on his brow. "We going in or what?"


"We're going in," I told him.


"Good," he said. He pulled a Glock from within his leather coat, racked the slide. "They've touched her, I'm gonna rain some hurt on these assholes."


"We don't know what we're going into," I cautioned him. "Could get nasty."


"Believe me, Hunter. If they've hurt her, you can bet your ass things is gettin' nasty."


"Just so long as you know things're gonna get hot in there."


He winked at me. "Don't you worry. I'm up for it."


"Okay." That was the prep done. Now all that was left was the hard part.


We fanned out. No preamble, just instinct sending us on our merry way. Harvey headed for Louise's backyard, Rink and me to the front door. Best tactic? In fast and noisy, shoot anything that wasn't wearing lip gloss.


The ginger cat was wise enough to flee.


From within, I heard something crash to the floor. Before the sound stopped echoing, I rammed straight through the screen and unlocked door and into a scene straight out of Goodfellas.


It was one of those snapshot moments where everything is so viv idly imprinted on the optic nerves that you don't have to physically look to see even the minutest of details.


It was like this:


Louise Blake on her knees, flowery skirt gathered up around her thighs. Streaked mascara. Smear of blood on her lips.


First Latin male holding her bunched hair and her two hands in one of his. Stretching her up. Exposing her ribs.


Second Latin male lifting a rolled telephone directory for another whack at her side.


These guys weren't CIA or FBI. Even if they were, they still deserved to die.


I fired.


The report of the SIG set the world back in motion.


The man with the impromptu torture device took my 9-mm slug high in his shoulder. The directory spun from his hand, pages fluttering. He staggered away, crashing up against a dresser. Stacked dishes slid and exploded onto the floor.


My next step was followed by another shot. We all have imperfections; this bullet missed him, drilling a hole in the plaster behind him.


Rink burst into the room all spit and venom. His shotgun remained silent. The second man had the sense to place Louise in the way of Rink's attack. Shielded by her body the man backpedaled. From his hip he snatched a semiautomatic handgun. The gun flashed metallic blue as it passed through a beam of sunlight pushing through a gap in the curtains.


I leaped and rolled, putting a chair between us. It wasn't any protection from a high-velocity round, but that wasn't my purpose. I threw myself into the room to draw the man's attention to me. Away from Louise.


Sure enough, he shot at me. I kissed the carpet and tatters of upholstery sifted down on me. Then I was up and moving. So was Rink. The man was caught in a pincer move and there was only one way out. He spun Louise into Rink's arms. His gun came up. And for one second I feared he would put a bullet in her spine. My response was to fire.


Lucky son of a bitch jerked aside at the exact same moment and my round nicked only a small portion of his ear—instead of a large chunk of skull. The slippery bastard lurched away from me, and now Louise and Rink were between us. Encumbered with Louise, he couldn't bring the Mossberg to bear on the man.


The man took three running steps and dove headlong at the nearest window. Drapes tangled him, glass wedged in his deep blue suit, but then he was crashing out into sunshine. I charged across the room and leaned through the window after him. The man vaulted through the topiary hedge we'd so recently stood behind. That suit of his was going to be a mess.


As he charged through the neighboring yard toward the street, a pale blue Chevrolet squealed along the asphalt toward him. I got a bead on him. I squeezed. His suit was going to get messier.


A bullet cracked the window frame next to my head. Splinters of wood jabbed into my cheek. Automatically I flinched, the action transposed to my trigger finger, and my bullet went wide.


Only one person could have fired on me. The guy I'd already winged. Move, Hunter, or die, my mind screamed at me. I dropped and spun onto my haunches. My gun began to rise, but I was again caught in a snapshot moment.


The injured man was coming toward me. His mouth was wide with a silent curse. The muzzle of his handgun was a yawning black hole about to suck the life out of me. John's face flashed through my vision. Eyes sad.


There was a single crack.


Despite myself, I jerked against the pain.


Above me the man swayed. His angry face lengthened in surprise, eyelids shuddering. I saw a deep red blossom on the breast of his silk shirt. His knees folded and he fell toward me. He was limp as I shoved him aside. Beyond him, Harvey Lucas was like an angel with a Glock in his fist.


"Welcome to the dance," I said to him.


Harvey stepped forward and, gripping the shoulder of the man, pulled him over onto his back. Air escaped from the man's lips. A grunt. A spark remained in his eyes. He made a futile attempt at lifting his gun. Futile because Harvey's size twelves ground his wrist into the floor.


"You like hurting girls?" Harvey asked him.


Then he placed a single round in the man's open mouth.


It was a classic hit. One in the heart, one in the head. It's the only way to make sure your enemy is dead.


Harvey stretched a hand out to me. I took it and he hauled me up.


"Thanks, Harvey," I said. "I owe you."


"Was nothin'." His eyes were a reflection of my own. As a Ranger, he'd known action. But not up close. Eye to eye. Harvey was now one of the exclusive club that Rink and I held lifetime membership in.


27

there was no time for cleanup. We had to move fast. Priority was getting Louise away from any backlash from the turmoil at her house. Harvey was up to the task. He took Louise one way with instructions to meet us in an hour. Rink and I streaked away from the house and the rising wail of approaching sirens.

Away from the cordon of police vehicles, I asked Rink to pull up at a telephone booth.


The call was enough to ensure that police action would be in our favor. Walter has that effect. It's the weight a sub-division director of the CIA wields.


We met at the same diner as last time. Louise was dressed as before. Still good-looking. Still worn around the edges. But she was different now. She held herself tentatively, like every muscle in her body ached. Fear haunted her eyes.


She was hurting from the beating she'd taken. Scared half to death by what she'd witnessed. I sympathized with her, but that wasn't why we were there. The men who'd tortured her did so for a reason. She knew more than she was admitting to.


She'd already swallowed a cup of black coffee and was asking for more when we walked in. Harvey, playing chaperone, was sitting opposite her in the same booth. He looked as sharp as Samuel L. Jackson did in the remake of Shaft.


In contrast, I felt, and probably looked, like someone who'd slept in his clothes and tended to his ablutions in a tiny bowl in a cramped bathroom. Though washed and shaved, my body felt gritty and as rumpled as my shirt. The splinters of wood in my cheek itched like hell.


I sat down in no mood for wasting time.


"So what've you got to tell us, Louise?" I asked.


Louise shook her head, reaching for her coffee. I put my hand over her cup and she snapped her face to mine. There was fear there, but not a little anger. Good. It was the ideal mix.


"You haven't come up with anything that'd help us find John?" I asked.


"No," she said. "I haven't exactly had the time, considering I was held captive all morning."


"Have you seen the news?"


From the tight grimace on her face, I could tell that she had.


"Have you spoken to the FBI yet?"


"Yes. They were at my place half the night. Another reason I didn't get around to looking for clues."


"So what did you tell them?"


"Just what I told you."


"Which is just about nothing," I said. Sarcasm was heavy in my voice, but I was in no frame of mind to worry about hurting her feelings. In my estimation, she wasn't the sensitive type anyway.


"I don't know anything."


"Bullshit!" I said a little too loudly. The waitress behind the serving counter shot me a concerned look. I raised an apologetic hand. The waitress nodded and went on about her business. She knew when to keep her nose out of other people's affairs.


"The men who were in your house," I said. "What did you tell them?"


"Nothing," she said. Her voice was strident. She pawed at the tail of her blouse, hitching it up. Her ribs were red and swollen from repeated whacks from the Yellow Pages. "Why do you think they were hitting me?"


Okay, then. She did have a point.


She didn't tell them anything. But it didn't mean there was nothing to tell.


Her hands were icy cold when I took them in mine.


"Now, Louise. We're going to start over again. This time you tell me what you know. Okay? You asked me here to help find John. I've traveled thousands of miles. The least you can do is tell me the goddamn truth."


Louise prized her hands free, then looked down at the table. I thought I detected a tear at the corner of one eye, but I could have been mistaken. She pushed her hair off her face, maybe surreptitiously wiping away the tear. When she looked up at me, it was with clear, defiant eyes.


"John's no killer," she said.


"I know that," I told her. "But he has been up to something illegal. And you know exactly what it is."


She shook her head, a lock of hair breaking loose and floating across her features. "If I say anything, he could go to prison."


I snorted. "If you say nothing he'll be going to prison for a damn sight longer."


"If he doesn't go to the gas chamber, that is," Rink added for emphasis.


"He didn't kill anyone," Louise said. She was adamant. Her fingernails dug at the tabletop. "He was with me when some of the murders took place. I can swear to that!"


"You have to prove it, though," I pointed out. "Your solemn word

isn't worth shit, Louise. Can you also give him an alibi for the other times of death?"


"That's the problem," she said. She glanced over at the waitress, checking that she wasn't listening. She leaned toward me and whispered, "If I say where he really was, he'll get put in prison anyway."


I looked at Harvey, then at Rink, for support. Both sat with frowns on their faces. It was helpful having such sage council at hand. When I spoke, I'd lost the hard edge to my voice. "Tell me what he's been up to, Louise. If I'm going to help John, I need to know."


She chewed at the corner of her lower lip. Any other time it would have looked as sexy as hell. Not now, though. She simply looked like a woman terrified of the consequences of her next words. "The delivery job," she said.


"Oh," I said.


She shook her mane of hair. "It's not what you think."


"Not drugs?" I asked.


Louise looked like I'd just thrown salt in her face. "No. Not drugs. Do you think I'd stand by him if he ever went near that crap?"


I placed my hands flat on the table, leaned forward to stare in her face. "Depends on how much you love him."


Louise snorted and gave me the dead eye.


"Okay. Sorry. I don't doubt that you love him."


"It wasn't drugs," she stated.


"Okay," I said, relieved. "So what was he doing?"


Louise picked up her coffee in defiance, drained it, placed the cup back down. A stall while she ordered the words in her mind. "He was couriering."


"Couriering what?"


"It wasn't so much what as who he was doing it for." She glanced around again. "Like I said, if the police find out, he'll be in deep shit."


"Let's worry about finding John first," I said. "We can worry about the police later."


Louise dropped her head in acquiescence.

"He stole something. Something big."

I blinked. "Something big?"

"That's all I know. He wouldn't say what it was."

I pushed my hands through my hair, back down over my face, then leaned my elbows on the table. "You've got to be kidding me," I finally said. Though I knew she wasn't. John had got very good at hiding secrets toward the end.


"Honestly. He wouldn't say, so I didn't ask. Whatever it was, he said he could sell it, to make life better for everyone," she said. As if that made things all right.


I swore under my breath. I knew exactly where this was taking us now. Who the fake CIA agents probably were. "Who was he working for?"


"Sigmund Petoskey," she said.


"Uh-huh," I said. "But who was he collecting from?"


"I don't know for sure. A gangster from up north. Henry-somethingor-other."


"Hendrickson?"


"Yes. That's it."


"The men who were beating you this morning," I said. "They work for Hendrickson, huh?"


"They're the ones that John's running from," she agreed. She turned her face to the table, began playing with her empty cup.


"Have they been pressuring you for John's whereabouts?" I asked. "Before this morning, I mean."


Without answering, she leaned back, lifted up her blouse. I saw a toned abdomen. She pulled down the waistband of her skirt and there were three definite cigarette burns peeking above her panty line. "I'd show you more," she said, "only I don't know you as well as my gynecologist."


I bit down on my lip. One thing I was sure about: there was going to be a reckoning with the two who'd escaped us this morning.


"Why didn't you say something, Louise? We could've stopped them from hurting you again."


Her downcast eyelids trembled. "I was trying to protect John."


I looked at Harvey. "Any word on the street about the two who got away from us?"


"Nothing, Hunter," he replied. "You ask me, they heard the news and took off to the Mojave to try an' pick up John's trail. Which I suggest is probably your best play, too."


"I've been thinking the same thing," Rink told me.


Yeah. Me, too. But there were still a few loose ends I wanted to clear up first. When we'd raided Petoskey's building, I thought he'd been too ready to talk. Made me wonder if he'd been hiding something else about John. His anger at my brother had never been about a gambling debt. It had all been about this something big Louise mentioned. "Louise, what involvement did John have with Petoskey?"


She pulled her hair into a rope with her hands. "Petoskey was paying him decent money to drive up-country. I don't know where he was going, but he was gone about three days each time. He'd come back with his van loaded with packing crates and he'd drop them off at a warehouse Petoskey owns. That was his only part in it."


"What happened to the packing crates after they were dropped off?"


"I don't know, John didn't tell me."


"And you've no idea what was inside them?"


"No."


Rink asked, "Any word about what Petoskey is up to, Harvey?"


"Nope," Harvey said. "Petoskey's probably only playing the middle man. Likely, whatever's in the crates is getting shipped out of the country."


"Where to?" I asked.


"Beats me, man," Harvey said.


I had my suspicions but let them lie for now.

"What do you think?" Rink asked me. "Petoskey, Russian Mob? The Mambo Kings, Cuban? You think there's some kind of communist connection? You know where I'm going with this?"


"Could be. But it's not our concern just now. I'm more interested in finding John before anyone else gets to him."


Rink exhaled. "You want me to wait before I call this in?"


"Yeah, Rink. The last thing I want is more involvement from the government. It's bad enough we had to call in a cleanup crew for this morning. As far as Walter's concerned, we offed a hit man. That's all."


Walter had come through for us on this one. However, just the sniff of foreign involvement would mean the entire weight of the Central Intelligence Agency coming down on us like an avalanche. At best our movements would be severely hindered, at worst we'd be locked in a small dark place for fear we'd jeopardize their mission. Our suspicions had to remain just that.


"Don't worry, Rink. If things do turn out as we suspect, Petoskey will be made to pay when this is over with," I told him.


Louise watched us with dawning horror. Panic was building in her and I gave her a look to stop her from raising her voice. But she did blurt it out. Maybe it was more of a frantic whisper. "Are you saying those men at my house could be terrorists?"


"No, I'm not saying that," I told her.


"They could've killed me."


"Of course," I said. It was pointless lying. If the beating didn't finally get what they wanted from her, who knows what they would have done next? Louise's face fell. She wrapped her arms around her body as if to stop her aching ribs from exploding. She rocked in place.


I felt shitty. After all she'd been through, I wasn't coming across as the sympathetic type. Sure, she'd been lying . . . at first. But what woman wouldn't do that to protect her man? It was probably the ideal time to give her a little hope again.


"Now that they've got a lead on John, I guarantee you won't see them again," I said.


"But what if they don't find John? Won't they come back?"


"They won't," I promised. Not if I stopped them first.


Louise was growing despondent again, speeding up her back- and-forth movement. She snatched the rope of hair into the corner of her mouth and began gnawing on it.


"At least we've got a starting point," I said. "We'll leave for Los Angeles this afternoon, try and pick up John's trail from there."


"Why Los Angeles?" she asked, coming to a sudden halt. I wondered if I'd touched on something she knew. But she didn't say anything, only waited for me.


"It's obvious that John was headed west. His car was found abandoned only a few hours from Los Angeles; I'm betting that's where he is now."


"Some big-time players out on the West Coast," Rink agreed. "You think John's out there looking for a buyer?"


"Yeah," I said.


If John wasn't the killer of those people at the motel, something had suddenly become very obvious to me. The real killer and John had crossed paths. Maybe John was already dead, buried somewhere out in the Mojave Desert. In all likelihood, the killer now had what John had stolen, which probably meant he'd be looking for a buyer for it. That meant the killer was probably in the L.A. area trying to hook up with one of these big-time players. Whatever this something big turned out to be, it was a curse; he was welcome to the damned thing. But if he had killed John, he'd just made himself a major enemy.


28

"ken bianchi and angelo buono," cain whispered to himself.

As serial killers go, their names aren't easily recalled. Not like Bundy or Gacy. Not until their singular epithet is apparent: the Hillside Strangler. Now that's a name that's familiar to every American citizen over the age of puberty.


Cousins Bianchi and Buono terrorized the western states in the 1970s, raping and killing in unison. The law only caught up with them after Bianchi's lust became too great and, without the aid of his partner, he'd botched the abduction of two women.


It isn't often that killers work together. As far as Cain was concerned, Bianchi and Buono were the only true serial killers to do so. Which was why he'd been toying with the notion that the world was overdue for another terrible twosome.


The thought hadn't appealed for long. For a number of reasons. John Telfer didn't have the gall to pull the trigger when he'd had the opportunity. He was no killer. He was a thief who deserved only to be punished. But mainly, why the hell should John freaking Telfer share any of his glory?


No, any thought of a fledgling partnership was out the window. Telfer had to die. Perhaps he'd even be Cain's magnum opus, his announcement to the world. The death that would make him famous.


However, there was still a task or two to be completed before Cain allowed himself the satisfaction of flaying the hide from Telfer's thieving hands. First off, there was the subject of what he'd discovered in Telfer's backpack.


The denouement had come as a surprise to him.


"I've got a feeling I know what this is," Cain said.


Telfer sighed. "They're plates."


"Litho plates? For printing counterfeit money."


Telfer sighed again.


Cain slowly bent down and picked up one of the wads. As Telfer eyed him expectantly, he peeled one of the bills loose and held it up to the light above his head. The watermark was there.


"Not bad," Cain said. "Though if you look closely, there's a little merging of the whorls along the edge. It wouldn't pass the scrutiny of a Treasury agent." He was lost momentarily as he studied the note, turning it over in his hand. The gun was no longer pointed at Telfer, and for a split second the opportunity was there for Telfer to leap at him. Even with his hands bound, he might have wrenched the gun free and turned the tables on his captor. But the moment passed. "This paper stock. How did you get it?"


"I don't know," Telfer said. "I had nothing to do with the printing of the money. I was just a courier."


Cain nodded to himself. "Apparently the paper's the hardest thing to come by. It's all produced up at a mill in Massachusetts. Under guard of the U.S. Treasury Department, no less. It's some sort of high-grade cotton and linen mix, extremely hard to duplicate. And see these little blue and red lines? They're rayon fibers mixed in to make the paper even more difficult to fake. Most counterfeit bills don't have these. Oh, wait, I see it now." He held the note very close to his face. "The security marks aren't actually in the weave of the paper. They've been added at the printing stage. Still, it's a very good copy."


Telfer looked at him as though he was mad—which in effect he probably was.


Cain laughed to himself. "I have a keen eye for detail, that's all."


"You sound like you know what you're talking about."


Cain waved down the flattery.


"I just know these kind of things." He laughed in a self-conscious manner totally out of character. "I suppose you could say I'm well read. A mine of useless information, huh?"


"Or you do work for the people who are after me," Telfer said. He made it sound as though he was joking, but the idea had obviously invaded his thoughts.


Cain twisted his mouth. "No. I work alone."


By the look in his eyes, Telfer believed him. But it didn't make his predicament any less dangerous.


Cain dropped the bill on the coffee table, reached for the litho plates. "These can't be originals?"


"I don't suppose they are," Telfer replied. "But they're still worth decent money to the right person."


Cain gave him a shallow smile. "Are you attempting to bribe me, Mr. Telfer?"


"If it's going to save my life, yes."


Cain's smile turned into a full grin. "At last! We're being fully truthful now. That's more like it." He pulled the tape free from the stack of four litho plates and held one of them up. "They're not real plates. They've been etched from a copy after a hundred-dollar bill was scanned into a computer. That's why there's no clarity on the scrollwork. Still, like you say, they'll be worth good money to the right buyer."


Telfer grinned along with him. "So what do you say we make a deal? My life for the plates?"


"Nah," Cain said, dropping the litho on the table. "It's not as simple as that. Why would I let you go when I can kill you and then take the plates for myself?"


Telfer inclined his chin. "You seem to know a lot about the process of making counterfeit notes. Do you also know who's in the printing game? Who'd be prepared to buy the litho plates from you?"


Nodding his head, Cain said, "Well, I have to admit . . . you've got me there."


"I've already set up a deal. I'm supposed to meet the buyer tomorrow."


Cain snorted.


"It's the truth. Why would I lie to you?"


"Who are you meeting with?"


Telfer shook his head. "Christ, man. Give me a little credit, will you? I'm trying to save my life here. You can't expect me to tell you who I intend selling the plates to."


"I could cut the name out of your throat," Cain pointed out.


"Yes, you could. But it wouldn't do you any good. My buyer won't deal with anyone but me. He's too afraid that the FBI is onto him to deal with anyone he doesn't know. If I don't show at the meet, he won't show."


"Touché."


"So that means that you need to keep me alive, or the deal will be off."


"How much money are we talking about here?"


Telfer exhaled. Indicating the pile of money, he said, "About two hundred grand for that." He paused. "Maybe half a million for the plates."


Cain raised an eyebrow. "Seven hundred thousand?"


"Three fifty apiece."


Cain shook his head. "Seven hundred for me. You get to stay alive."


The corners of Telfer's mouth turned down.

"That's the deal," Cain told him. "All or nothing."

"Okay," Telfer said after a beat. For the first time in hours, he appeared to have relaxed into the seat. "You've got yourself a deal."


Cain smiled as well, restacked the litho plates. "Yes," he said. But his voice held all the promise of a serpent.


It had been a long night. And he'd done a lot of thinking.


He wasn't a greedy man. If he wanted something, he just took it as his own. Appropriated the chattels of his victims as if they were the spoils of war. He'd never found it difficult to finance his lifestyle before, but he had to admit that the thought of a cool seven hundred thousand bucks rang sweet even to his ears. Especially when enunciated slowly.


Seven. Hundred. Thousand. Dollars.


Undeniably, the subject of the money was a distraction. He'd pondered taking what was already available and making do, but the thought that the bogus money could spell his downfall made him hold back. Why risk blowing his cover by passing a fake note at a goddamn McDonald's when he could have as much of the real thing as he'd ever require?


Not only that, but the thought of playing Telfer like a pawn appealed to his sense of the grandiose. He'd allow Telfer to touch the money, hold it in his hands, let him sniff the stench of riches beyond his dreams, before finally snatching it away from him. That would be just punishment for the trouble he'd caused.


Then, of course, it would be a pleasant trip out into the desert for the final reckoning.


Yes, the subject of the money was a distraction. But so was what he'd just witnessed on the motel's TV set. He wasn't one for watching television. Never had been. The only reason he'd switched it on was to mask their conversation from guests in the adjacent rooms.


He wasn't averse to seeing his handiwork on the screen. But there


was a major difference this time. He had a good mind to telephone the freaking FBI and put them right about a thing or two. Particularly regarding Telfer's part in the slaying of the two drifters he'd appropriated the VW from. Why the hell should Telfer get any of the glory from that?


"Don't you be getting any big ideas," he said. "We both know who killed those two, and before long everyone will know the truth. How anyone could even think you were responsible is beyond belief."


He turned from the TV to observe the trussed form lying on the recliner. Telfer hadn't the faintest idea what he was referring to. He was asleep, fatigue finally overcoming his fear and discomfort. Cain raised an eyebrow. He listened to Telfer's breathing patterns. Not feigning, then? Definitely asleep.


Cain made a noise deep in his throat, the call of a quizzical owl. He leaned forward and switched off the TV. Then he walked over to the recliner, lifted his foot, and nudged Telfer awake. It was Telfer's turn to make owl noises, this one startled and ready to take flight.


"Chill out," Cain told him. "I'm not going to harm you."


Stiffly, Telfer squirmed up to a sitting position. It wasn't an easy task with both hands and feet bound. "What's going on?"


"Almost time to go," Cain told him.


Telfer sucked in a couple of breaths, exhaled long and loud. Then he rocked forward so that he was on the edge of the recliner. He nodded at his bonds. "You planning on carrying me outta here?"


"No," Cain said, "I'm going to allow you to walk. But remember that I'll be holding a gun. Shout or try to run and I'll kill you. I don't care how many people are around, I'll do it. The truth—as they say— will out."


Telfer gave him an odd look. He had no idea what Cain was referring to. Cain smiled to himself. Let him wonder. Let him fear.


Cain indicated Telfer's feet. "I'll cut you loose in a moment. Your hands'll stay tied until it's time to leave."


"Okay."

"If you want to use the bathroom I'll let you."

"That's good of you," Telfer grunted.

"That's okay. Don't want you thinking I'm a total bastard."

"The thought never crossed my mind," Telfer said. He watched Cain. The ghost of a smile played across Cain's lips.


"What've you got in your fridge? Anything cold to drink?" Cain asked.


"Nothing. Unless you like milk."


Cain made a face. Then, hopefully, "Chocolate milk?"


"Cow's milk."


Again the face.


"There's always tap water," Telfer offered.


"I'll pass," Cain said.


"You know, I think I do need to go to the toilet."


Cain tsk-tsked. "Better only be a number one. I refuse to wipe your ass for you."


"You could always loosen my hands," Telfer suggested with a smile.


"Your hands stay tied till I'm good and ready."


Telfer shrugged. "Do you want to unzip me?"


"Forget about it," Cain said deep in his throat. "You can go just before we leave."


Telfer gave him a wink and a jerk of his head.


"What are you so goddamn happy about?" Cain demanded.


"It's good to be alive," Telfer said.


"Yeah," Cain said. "Just keep that thought in mind and we'll do just fine." He glanced at his wristwatch. "Okay, time to cut these ropes. And no Bruce Lee stuff. You try to kick me and I'll shoot your feet off."


If Telfer could have raised his palms, he would have. "I thought we'd made a deal. I'm not going to try to escape. I've promised you I'll do the deal for the litho plates. You've promised that you'll let me live. I'm happy with that."


"I'll only be happy when you're out of my frigging hair," Cain grunted.


"You could always let me go now," Telfer offered.


Cain snorted. There was something disarming about John Telfer that appealed to him. Something that made him smile. Maybe killing him was a little extreme? No, it was just. An eye for an eye. Telfer had stolen his Bowie knife and thrown it away. It was fitting that a knife be used to punish him in turn.


Cain made Telfer push both feet out. Then, in a swift draw that would have shamed a gunslinger, Cain brought out the scaling knife and swiped it down in a shallow arc. The cord from the Venetian blinds that he'd used to tie Telfer's ankles gave with a twang and Telfer's legs sprang apart. Before Telfer could control his wayward feet, the knife was back in Cain's waistband.


Cain gave him a tight smile. The quick-draw display was for more than the purpose of loosening his prisoner's legs; it was a show of his skill with a blade. Something for Telfer to dwell on while they traveled together.


"So how're we gonna do this?" Telfer asked.


"We're going to go out to my car. I'll have the gun. Simple as that."


"Do I get to put my shoes back on?"


"Obviously," Cain said.


"What about my backpack?"


"I'll carry it."


"My spare clothes?"


"Leave them," Cain said. Again he smiled, but this time there was a cold edge to it. "If you wish, you can always come back for them afterward."


Telfer sat back, lips pursed. "Do you want to pass me my shoes or can I fetch them myself?"


"Here," Cain said, slinging his shoes to him. Telfer squeezed his feet in without the benefit of untying the laces. "Ready?"


Telfer smiled in affirmation.


Cain came forward. He held the gun in his left hand, and again drew the scaling knife with his right. This time the motion was languid. He pressed the gun to Telfer's forehead. "Easy now," he warned.


Telfer didn't move except to raise his bound wrists. Cain snicked apart the electrical cord. Telfer dropped his hands but continued to work his wrists in small circles, attempting to get the blood flowing again. Cain backed away.


"Now," Cain said. "We do this nice and easy. We go out of the room and down the back stairs. You'll lead the way. When you get to the ground floor, go to the right, go around to the parking lot. When we get there, I'll tell you where my car is. Okay?"


"Got it," Telfer confirmed.


"And remember: try to alert anyone . . ."


"And you shoot me."


"Got it," Cain mimicked.


Telfer rocked his weight back in the recliner, using the motion to bring himself to his feet. As he came up, his right hand remained behind him, hidden momentarily from Cain's view.


Cain was ready for Telfer to make a break for freedom, but not at that instant. Not while Cain still held the weapons. He was totally unprepared for Telfer whipping his arm toward him, the blade of his very own Bowie knife slicing the air before him.


"Whoa!" Cain yelped, taking a step back. Out of reaction his response wasn't to bring up his gun, it was to grab his scaling knife. If Telfer wanted to, he could have sprung in close and gutted him in one motion. But despite Cain's dazed senses, Telfer never followed through. Instead, with a smile on his face, he twirled the knife over and presented the handle to Cain.


"What the hell?" Cain demanded.

Telfer said, "This the knife you were so concerned about?"

Cain gaped at Telfer for a long moment. Telfer returned his stare, watching him steadily. Finally, Cain gave his head a little shake, seemed to come out of his daydream. "So you didn't toss it away? You had it all along?"


"Down the back of the recliner," Telfer said. "A trick I learned back home. You never knew when you'd get a visitor with less than your best interests at heart. Not that I ever needed to pull a knife before, but I was always prepared. Just in case."


"You could've killed me. You could've escaped." Cain appeared to be mildly impressed. "Why didn't you?"


"I'm not a killer," Telfer said.


Cain stared at him.


Telfer sniffed. "Just call it an act of faith, okay?"


Cain's eyebrows shot heavenward.


"I've given you back your knife." Telfer paused. "All I ask is that you stay true to your word."


Cain bobbed his head in answer. Slowly he reinserted the scaling knife in his waistband, then tentatively reached for the hilt of the Bowie.


Taking it, he withdrew it slowly from Telfer's grasp. "I've done you an injustice, after all. Perhaps you're more dangerous than I thought. Maybe I should kill you now and get it over with, huh?"


In answer, Telfer raised his shoulders. "If that's the way it's gonna be, there's nothing I can do about it. Not now that I've given you back your knife."


His head tilted to one side, Cain beamed a smile. "You know something? For a thief, I think I'm beginning to like you, John. Maybe I will let you live after all."


"Just maybe?"


Cain tapped the flat of the Bowie on John's chest. "Let's not attempt to fool each other. We're both the same in many respects. One thing is obvious; we can both lie. If I told you that I promised not to kill you, would you believe me? Perhaps it's best I simply say 'maybe.' At least then you can't be sure. Does that not give you a modicum of hope?"


Telfer shook his head in bemusement. "When you put it that way, I suppose it does. Can I ask you one thing before we leave?"


Cain raised his chin.


"Can't we do this in a civilized manner? Without the threat of a gun constantly pointed at me?"


Cain agreed. "As an act of faith?"


"Precisely."


"Lead on, then, John. You know the way."


Telfer turned toward the vestibule. Cain slipped the gun into his trouser pocket and followed on behind. The Bowie he held like a baby cradled in his arms.


"Where are we going, anyway?" Cain asked.


"Marina del Rey," Telfer said over his shoulder.


Cain glanced down at the magazine spread out on the coffee table. All the beautiful yachts. He laughed. "I should have known."


29

we walked out of lax into brilliant sunshine tinged with smog. "Welcome to Los Angeles," Rink said. I stifled the urge to cough. Rink laughed to himself. "You get used to it. Just try not to breathe for the next week or so and you'll be fine."

We hailed a cab and followed Route 405 north. Off to our left was the vastness of the Pacific Ocean. We only got snatches of the blue expanse, but I was constantly aware of it. Something about the sky over the sea, like it hovered over a magnificent precipice. Signposts over the highway indicated Marina del Rey, Venice Beach, Santa Monica, all off toward the sea. All places I'd have loved to visit given the opportunity.


To our east, Hollywood and Beverly Hills beckoned, but we continued north past the Getty Center until we hit the 101, then joined the flow of traffic heading east. We passed Universal Studios, and like most, I craned my neck hoping to see someone famous. Then we were fast approaching Pasadena, where Rink had set us up a place to stay.


We had to speak to a house manager, something like a low-rent

concierge, who had an apartment on the lower floor of the apartment block where we were going to stay. He gave Rink a key card and directed us to our apartment, gesturing with the ham sandwich he held in his hand.


When we found our apartment, it turned out to be bigger than I'd expected. We both chose a bedroom, then convened in the lounge area. It was clean and roomy, and the air-conditioning was a blessing after the sweltering drive. Still, neither of us wanted to remain cooped up there for long.


"Want to hit the shower, then go out and get a bite to eat?" Rink offered.


"Sounds like a plan," I admitted. "But I think the shower can wait. My stomach thinks my throat's cut."


"What do you want?" Rink asked. "Silver service or burger an' fries?"


"Burger and fries all the way, big guy," I said.


"I know just the place," Rink said.


He took me to a diner with the unlikely sobriquet of Spicy Johnny's—I couldn't stop myself laughing, the name conjured up the kind of ad you see emblazoned across those coin-operated machines in men's restrooms. I have to admit, though, Spicy Johnny flipped a mean burger, and his Caesar salad topped off with breaded onion rings was to die for. A side plate of Cajun-spiced potato wedges and a huge banana shake finished me off.


Back in our rooms, we fell asleep almost instantly. Even my worry about John was shoved to one side by the more urgent need for quality rest. I slept for the best part of two hours, waking when the sun was at its zenith and its most intense.


My body was dripping with perspiration and I could put off my shower no longer. Coming out of the stall feeling almost human again, I could hear Rink moving around in his own room. Vacating the bathroom, I went into the living room. I popped a bottle of mineral water I found in the fridge and sat back on a comfy chair in front of the TV. The news was on, so I watched.


When Rink was finished getting ready, he joined me. We'd already discussed local contacts, and Rink was going to set us up with an LAPD officer named Cheryl Barker to see what they knew. Before that could be done, there were still a few things left over from Little Rock that I wanted to lay to rest.


"I feel a bit of a heel leaving Harvey to pick up the pieces we left behind."


"Harve'll be fine," Rink assured me. "If we hadn't allowed him to do something for us, it'd have hurt his feelings. He's a sensitive guy, you know."


I laughed. To look at him, Harvey was unstoppable, as if you would blunt an ax trying to mark his shiny dome. But Rink was right; I'd seen Harvey's vulnerability when he had to take a step back from the assault on Sigmund Petoskey. It wasn't easy for him to sit on his haunches while the rest of us went into the thick of it.


Then there was the other side.


The cool way he'd shot the hit man in the mouth.


"He'll get Louise Blake to a safe place," Rink went on. "Don't worry about that."


"As long as nothing happens to them before he gets the opportunity," I said.


"What's goin' to happen? You ask me, the homeboys who were puttin' the heat on Louise are in L.A. now. I don't think Harve's got anythin' to worry about."


"You think the FBI is going to let Louise go? She's a direct link to John; they'll be watching in case he tries to make contact."


"Harvey's good. He'll get her out safely. Whether the FBI likes it or not."


I took Rink's word for it. He knew Harvey and had told me prior to meeting him that he was a good soldier. Now I'd witnessed his skills firsthand, and I had no doubt that Rink knew what he was talking about.


"So what do you make of what Petoskey told us?" I asked.


Rink shrugged, made a clucking noise with his tongue. "All bullshit."


"In particular what he said about CIA agents?"


"Bullshit. He knew full well who those other guys were. He was just spinning us a line because he thought we were federal agents."


"You remember the name someone shouted when we were in the building?"


"Yeah. Hendrickson's men are here," he said. "They were shouting like we were from a rival gang."


"Yes. A rival gang. I think Hendrickson sent them to mess with Petoskey. I get the feeling Petoskey and Hendrickson aren't on good terms anymore. Shit, we went in there and blasted the hell out of some of his guys, shot up his building, probably ruined his evening. But he hasn't made one word of complaint to the police. If he believed that we were government agents, don't you think there'd have been a massive lawsuit lodged by now?"


"Unless he knew we weren't with the CIA and was only playing out a scenario for the benefit of his guests."


"Nah, too slim." I mulled it around my head a little longer. "Could be he thought we were sent by Hendrickson, and he mentioned the CIA to put a scare into us. You know, like a subtle threat?"


"Unless these Latinos are government agents?"


"They're not CIA. Walter confirmed that."


"He could've been lying."


"No, Rink. He wouldn't've given me approval to shoot to kill if they were any of his men."


"So why all the bull from Petoskey about the CIA?"


Back to square one.


"We can only wait and see," I said.


30

the sun was warm on cain's face. above him, a yellowand-white-striped awning dotted with dried insects flapped on a lazy breeze. He was quite at home sitting outside a café overlooking the boardwalk in an exclusive part of Marina del Rey. He could see himself living in a place just like this. Then again, seven hundred grand wouldn't buy him a toolshed here.


Beyond a six-foot wall was a yacht valued at more than five million bucks. In keeping with the area, even the concrete wasn't tacky. For its entire length, there was a bright mural lovingly painted in azure, emerald, and stark, brilliant white. Beyond it, he could hear the lapping of the water, the groan of boats as they moved against the pilings of the dock. Gulls wheeled above the masts that heaved like a forest in a gentle breeze.


Against his better judgment, Cain had allowed Telfer to enter the private harbor alone. Before agreeing, he'd first made sure that the only exit—apart from the open sea—was through the wrought-iron gate thirty yards to his right. It was of course the only way the deal could be struck. Telfer had argued that his buyer would panic if he saw a stranger tailing him onto the boat. In that case his likely assump tion would be that Telfer had set him up, and he would do one of two things: refuse to negotiate or, worse, have Telfer and Cain sunk to the bottom of the sea at the next high tide.


Cain had to agree. Though he wasn't happy about relinquishing either the bag of goodies or Telfer, had he walked aboard the yacht with a gun trained on Telfer, he could say good-bye to the promised riches and to the reckoning he still planned for him.


A waitress brought Cain an espresso in a cup hardly bigger than a thimble. He drank it in one gulp and ordered a second. The woman gave him an odd look that he greeted with a sour expression of his own. She went off to fetch another.


"Make it a double," Cain called after her, as though ordering whiskey at a Wild West saloon.


When she returned, she placed the cup—more like a teacup this time—on his table, then hurried off before he could tie up any more of her precious time. Service, it appeared, was not customary for those who came to ogle the rich dudes' yachts.


Fifteen minutes passed without any activity. Cain was sure that Telfer hadn't slipped away undetected, unless he'd snorkeled his way to freedom beneath the waves.


Still, he was beginning to grow uncomfortable.


Fifteen minutes wasn't a long time for someone to make a deal for seven hundred thousand, but it was fifteen minutes too long for Cain. Scenarios were beginning to play out in his mind, and he knew he couldn't wait another five minutes. His inner pessimist was working overtime.


What if Telfer had done the deal, but then appealed to his business partners to help him escape? What if they'd already called the cops, telling them that a self-confessed killer was sitting outside, sipping bitter coffee at the harbor side? What if, even now, plainclothes detectives were creeping up on him, disguised as rich men in Armani suits?


He surreptitiously scanned the boardwalk. Could there be police posing as tourists who, like him, feigned interest in the elegant yachts? Are they moving on me now? he wondered.


It was enough to make him squirm. Cain didn't like squirming. He liked to make others squirm.


"Enough is enough," he told himself.


Telfer had too much to lose if the police became involved. Okay, his life would be back in his own hands, and likely he would get the money, but chances were that the police would be onto him and his business associates as thick as stink on a mangy goat.


Knowing the way a thief's mind worked, Cain believed that Telfer would do the deal, then return to him with the hope of escaping and relieving him of the money when a healthier opportunity presented itself. If the tables were turned, that's exactly what he'd do. So he could do nothing but bide his time and take charge again when Telfer returned with the money.


He might as well enjoy the sunshine and his coffee.


Then he saw the two men.


They were both dark, with wavy hair and thin mustaches. Both wore silk suits and tooled leather loafers without socks. They were alike in so many ways that they could be brothers. The only thing that differentiated them was that the slightly taller of the two wore a gauze dressing on one ear. The bandage stuck out like a blind cobbler's thumb.


Something else; they carried guns. Not out in the open, but pushed down the backs of their trousers. He could see the telltale bulge in their lower backs as they sauntered past. He couldn't make out what they were saying; not only were they conversing in hushed tones, but they were speaking in Spanish or Portuguese. Cain could speak five languages, but—unfortunately—none of them of Mediterranean descent.


Ordinarily the men's presence wouldn't have alarmed him. It wouldn't be unknown for armed security to prowl the harbor side. But there was something about these men that rang his inner alarm. Their furtive approach to the gate was untoward, as was the way they glanced up at the rigging of the yacht Telfer had boarded and nodded to each other in affirmation. Then there was the way they sauntered along while unconsciously glancing over their shoulders every couple of steps. They were so obviously trying to remain inconspicuous that their presence screamed at high volume.


Cain couldn't sit on his thumbs any longer. He rattled a handful of coins onto the table and stood up, gulping down the remains of his espresso. After he'd stretched and rolled his neck, he fell into step behind the two men. Unlike them, he stayed close to the entrances of the cafés and boutiques lining the harbor, using his cover as a browsing tourist to mask his interest. Without alerting them, he got to within five yards of them.


They still conversed in whispers, but one word stood out. He heard it mentioned twice. A name. Telfer. And he knew that the men Telfer was running from had finally caught up with him.


Oh, such a dilemma. But oh, what a challenge. Cain smiled to himself, slipped his hands into his pockets, and caressed his keepsakes. Pretty soon, he decided, more bones would be joining his collection. Happy with the thought, he watched as the two men approached the pier gate that Telfer had passed through to get to the boat. One guy hailed the security guard sitting in a booth on the other side. The guard walked over, looking ridiculous in pale blue shirt, knee-length Bermuda shorts, and deck shoes, with a peaked cap perched jauntily above his sun-weathered face.


One of the men flashed something at the guard. Just a brief glimpse, but Cain got the impression of a badge in a leather wallet. The guard looked impressed, and not a little excited. He nodded vigorously as he bent to unlatch the gate. All that was missing was a tug of the forelock.


Cain's smile grew sour. Anyone worth their salt could get hold of fake credentials; the guard needed a good kick in the ass for not pay ing more attention to the man's ID. Likely he was a frustrated wannabe cop who couldn't help but worship those who carried the badge for real. His fawning was almost sickening.


The two Latinos were admitted to the inner compound. One of them rewarded the guard with a pat on the shoulder and the guard looked like he was ready to salute. He was still standing with a hand on the open gate, watching the two men walk along the pier toward the boats, when Cain stepped up behind him.


"Excuse me," Cain said, and the guard turned to him.


"Yes, sir, how may I help you?"


"I'm Special Agent Kennedy. FBI. First off, you can keep your voice down," Cain said. He used a tone like he was about to reward the man with a message of great importance. Hooked, the guard looked at him expectantly. Cain leaned in close and whispered, "This is a matter of extreme sensitivity."


Cain steered the guard back toward his booth. "Can we speak inside?"


Caught up in the mystery of the moment, the guard allowed himself to be propelled toward the booth. He even opened the door and allowed Cain to press inside the booth with him. The enclosed space had the locker-room smell of sweat.


The guard was pressed up against the single chair, almost buckling at the knees. He didn't object. He accepted this invasion of his personal space as simply one aspect of the clandestine encounter.


Cain asked, "The two men who just entered, what did they say to you?"


"They said they were with the government," the guard answered quickly. "Agents Ramos and Esquerra. They wanted to know the location of Mr. Carson's boat. Why do you ask, sir?"


"Because I'm a real government agent and those two aren't," Cain said. He tipped a nod toward Carson's boat.


"You mean their badges were fake? Damn."


"As fake as Pamela Anderson's breasts," Cain told him.

The guard appeared stunned at Cain's choice of words. "I didn't know," he finally said, as though in apology. Cain couldn't decide if he meant the men's badges or Pammy's main assets, but he let the notion pass without smiling. He said, "They're a pair of international drug traffickers, and I'm about to bust them wide open."


"You are? All alone? Don't you have backup or something?"


Cain shook his head in mock disappointment. "Me and my partner got separated. I don't even have my goddamn walkie-talkie with me to get in touch with him. These guys are real good. We've been after them for months. When I spotted them, I had no option but to follow them."


The guard was nodding along with each new nugget Cain fed him. "You want me to telephone for help?"


"I'd appreciate it if you would," Cain said.


"No problem," said the guard, turning to sit down. As he picked up the receiver and brought it to his ear, Cain was happy that the guard was sufficiently distracted. Plus, sitting in the chair, he was out of sight of any passersby. Pretending to spy out the window at the receding men, Cain leaned over him. He pulled out his scaling knife.


"Who should I call?" the guard asked. "The FBI?"


"No, 911 will do," Cain told him. "Maybe you'd best call for an ambulance."


The guard didn't detect the change in tone. In fact, he didn't detect anything more than the pressure of Cain's hand on his shoulder. He glanced up and back, and as he did so, Cain drew the knife across his exposed throat. Reflexively the guard dropped the telephone receiver, reached toward his throat, but already he'd lost control of his extremities and his palms flopped uselessly against his upper chest. Blood spurted from his severed arteries. Cain held him, placing steady pressure on the guard's shoulders to keep him from rising out of the chair. The guard's feet kicked and skidded in the blood pooling beneath them.


It didn't take long.

He was dead before the two Latinos made it to Carson's yacht.

"Totally inept," Cain told the unhearing guard. "No wonder your application to the LAPD was denied."


With no time for keepsakes, he paused only to pull down a screen that closed off any view into the interior of the booth. He felt around in the guard's pocket and found a bunch of keys, which he used to lock the door behind him.


The two bogus agents were poised at the base of a gangway that led to Carson's yacht. There was a third man on the boat itself, and he had a radio pressed to his ear. As Cain began walking toward them, he saw the third man nod, and the two Latinos began the ascent of the ramp.


"What's going on here, then?" Cain wondered aloud. Telfer had said that the man he'd stolen the litho plates from employed the men following him. The guy on the boat, Mr. Carson, was a rival of their employer. So how come the two Latinos were given unchallenged access to the boat?


Only one conclusion: double-cross. Couldn't be anything else. Telfer had been set up. And by association, so had Cain. And that made him angry. He began to walk faster, his shoes squeaking on the boardwalk. He slipped his hand into the small of his back, came out holding the gun. With his other hand, he drew the Bowie.


Only twenty yards away he heard raised voices, and he began to hurry.


Ten yards from the yacht he heard harsh laughter, then, "You think I'm about to go to war with Hendrickson over you, you goddamn asshole?"


Then Telfer's voice: "You bastard, Carson. I trusted you."


"Shame," said Carson. "Let that be a lesson for you. Money talks and shit walks, my friend."


"You—"

"Quiet!" someone barked. One of the Latino men. "You're coming with us, Telfer. Dead or alive, I don't really give a shit."


Then Cain was at the bottom of the gangway. Without pause, he went up it in two bounds. Stepping onto the deck, he saw the man with the radio. Minder, Cain decided. Probably one of a number of guards on the boat. Cain's arrival caused the man to turn. Before the surprise could even register in his face, Cain was chest to chest with him. The man grunted, looked down, and saw the handle of the Bowie knife jutting from beneath his breastbone.


"Quietly does it," Cain hushed him as he tugged down on the handle. By the law governing leverage, the blade's tip sawed upward. Eight inches of honed steel easily found the lower chambers of the man's heart. He was dead before he could make a further sound. Cain lowered the man to the deck, then tugged loose the blade, wiped it clean on the man's trousers, and turned toward the cabin door.


The yacht was huge, and the living area was about as plush as any five-star hotel Cain had ever seen. Wide sliding doors led to an elegantly furnished sitting area. It was all cut glass and sumptuous leather. Even chandeliers. A massive plasma screen satellite TV dominated the forward wall. Then there were the six men.


John Telfer was sitting in a chair across a glass table from an older man in an open-neck shirt and tan slacks. His hair and the tufts that poked from his chest were white, standing out against his deep tan. That'll be Carson, then, Cain decided.


On the table was Telfer's backpack, open to show the spurious treasure within, and a briefcase that was shut tight. Inside it, Cain guessed, was the seven hundred grand. The two Latinos were there, their backs to Cain. He noted that they hadn't yet drawn their guns, but the two other men in the room had. These were minders, like the man Cain had just stabbed. Hard-faced men who crowded Telfer yet wore cautious expressions in front of the Latinos.


Cain detected movement on the deck above him. He glanced up, ready to lift the gun, and saw a young bikini-clad woman move hurriedly away.


One of two things was about to happen. The bitch would have the good sense to get the hell off the boat, or she was going to set up a racket to alert her sugar daddy in the cabin. Cain couldn't take the chance it would be the second option. He had to act now, while he still had surprise on his side. And with the decision came action. He only had six bullets and he had to make them count. The minders first.


Cain stepped up to the doorway. One of the sliding partitions was open, so he stepped inside. He was only ten feet away from the first minder when he lifted the gun and fired. The man's head erupted in cherry-red fragments.


Then chaos ensued.


Chaos was fine with Cain. He loved chaos.


Telfer's face came up, registering shock, and not a little relief in a mad sort of way. The Latinos were spinning, both going for their guns, the second minder already rounding on Cain. Only Carson had the good sense to throw himself to the floor and attempt to escape beneath a nearby counter.


Cain snorted, and shot the second minder. He hit the man in the right arm, the bullet passing through it into the flesh of his thick chest. The man went down, though Cain knew immediately he wasn't dead. Didn't matter, he'd dropped his gun, and he saw that Telfer had the presence of mind to snatch it up.


The two Latinos were next. Cain shot the one with the bandaged ear, hitting him in the thigh as the man leaped away. The bullet spun him, and the man went to the floor at the feet of his friend. The second Latino was already bringing up his gun to fire, and Cain realized it was time to move. But instead of bolting for cover, he leaped farther into the room, shouting, "Move your ass, Telfer!"


The second Latino fired. Not at him, as Cain had hoped, but at Telfer. The bullet struck the back of Telfer's chair. Directly where his head had been an instant earlier. Telfer was already bent double over the glass table, reaching for the briefcase. As the Latino tried to draw another bead on Telfer, Cain shot him. Twice, once in the gut, then higher up at the jawline. The man went over backward, trailing a ribbon of blood that was stark against the chandeliers' twinkling lights.


Cain turned on Telfer. "Get a freakin' move on!"


Telfer snatched the briefcase to his chest, rising up at last. Cain stepped toward him. The gun trained on him. "Give me the gun."


Telfer shook his head. Lifted his own gun and pointed it at Cain.


"We haven't got time for this now," Cain warned him.


"No," Telfer said. "We haven't."


They both eyed each other over the ends of their guns.


"Let's get the hell out of here and worry about the rest later," Cain offered.


Before Telfer could accept or decline the invitation, a door burst open at the front of the cabin and another man skidded through. He had a compact Uzi submachine gun in his hands. He made a quick scan of the living area. To give him his due, the chaotic scene didn't appear to faze him much. He lifted the Uzi and let loose an arching stream of bullets as he thudded over to cover Carson. In the same instant the injured Latino rolled over, grabbing at the gun he'd dropped on the floor. Two targets, one bullet, more coming his way. Cain decided the best course of action was to get out as quickly as possible.


As bullets churned the decor behind him, he flung himself through a side window, crashing through glass to sprawl on the deck. Shouts came from inside the cabin, then Telfer was sprawling on the deck beside him, the briefcase clattering away from him. Telfer's shirt was bloody and he groaned as he rolled to his knees. Cain grabbed him, checking his hands.


"What the hell're you doing?" Telfer demanded.


"Where's your gun?" Cain snapped.


"I dropped it," Telfer said.


"Jesus Christ," Cain said. He slapped Telfer's shoulder. "Get the briefcase. We're out of here."


Telfer went on hands and knees, grabbing at the Samsonite case. He came back to Cain, the case against his chest. "That better be real money," Cain said.


"Course it is. I'm not a friggin' idiot."


Cain nodded, indicated the front of the boat. "That way. Now."


They both lurched up as the fourth minder appeared at the window they'd recently crashed through. He gave an angry shout, twisted so he could bring the Uzi into play. As he did, Cain sprang toward him with his Bowie knife. The knife connected before the man could depress the trigger, severing his thumb. The man screamed and the gun flopped sideways, bullets splintering the wooden deck next to Telfer. Cain chopped again, this time deep into the man's wrist and the man withdrew his seriously wounded arm from further harm.


Telfer was up and running. Cain glanced at him, then down at the deck. He paused in his flight to retrieve the severed thumb, popping it into his pocket alongside his other mementos.


The bodyguard was back at the window again, but only to scream in abstract terror while he attempted to replace his drooping hand in its rightful place. Cain grinned at him, then charged after Telfer.


He caught up with Telfer at the helm of the yacht. Telfer was wide-eyed as he looked down at the seemingly bottomless gulf below them. The water had a turquoise sheen from the thin layer of diesel oil on its surface.


"Jump," Cain told him.


"No," Telfer said, the briefcase clutched tightly to him.


"Jump, Telfer."

"No way. I can't swim."

"Jesus Christ on a freakin' bike! You can't swim?"

Again Telfer shook his head.

"I don't believe it," Cain said. He grabbed at Telfer and propelled him toward the rail. "Get the hell over the side. If you think I've gone to all this trouble to let you drown . . ."


Telfer resisted, though he knew it was his only chance of survival. Even as he dithered, he could hear the slap of running feet from inside the cabin.


"One of them spicks is still alive," Cain snapped at him. "So are two of the guards and Carson. Any second now, they're going to be out here and we'll be dead. You got that?"


Telfer nodded but still held back from jumping.


"Oh, Holy Christ!" Cain said as he grabbed him and flung him bodily over the railing. Telfer hit the water like a stone and sank immediately. Cain lifted a leg to the railing, just as the minder he'd shot in the arm rounded the deck. Blood had made a patchwork of his chest but he was still in the game. He had the Uzi and was already searching for a target.


Cain lifted his gun and fired.


Not at the man, but at the scuba-diving tanks he saw stacked neatly along one wall of the cabin. It was a desperate shot, one he hadn't time to calculate, but even as he plunged headfirst into the sea he felt the concussion of the explosion send shock waves through the water around him. Cain hit the water and swam deeper, his ears thrumming with the concussive blast, until his clawing hand found Telfer's shirt. Telfer twisted and tugged, in the throes of panic.


Cain cursed, letting loose a stream of bubbles. He couldn't get a grip on Telfer because he was also holding on to his Bowie. All the trouble he'd gone to in order to regain his knife and now this? He let the blade drop from his hand, watched it sink with a wistful look on his face until it was lost in the murk. Then he angrily grabbed hold of Telfer's clothing and kicked upward.


They broke the churning surface, Cain behind Telfer with an arm looped around his neck. Telfer gagged, spat, and sucked in great lungfuls of air as he cradled the briefcase to his chest like a baby. Cain guessed his death grip on the case had nothing to do with what was inside, but rather that the sealed case was a handy flotation device.


Twenty feet away, the yacht was on fire. When the tanks had gone up, they'd taken the minder with them, not to mention a good portion of the deck and cabin. Cain spied a bikini-clad figure leaping from the boat into the water. Another figure hobbled down the steps onto the pier, a white patch on the side of his head. Even from here, Cain could tell it was the remaining Latino.


Of the remaining minder and Carson, there was no sign. Perhaps the Latino had turned his gun on them before making his escape. But Carson appeared, staggered to the railing, and fired a handgun at the limping Latino trying to escape. His aim was useless, and the Latino made it to the shelter of a second boat. The Latino proved a better shot, firing back at Carson three times in quick succession. Carson folded, somersaulted over the rail, and sprawled facefirst on the boardwalk. Didn't look like he'd be getting up again.


Cain paid them no further heed. He kicked with his feet, trawling Telfer and his precious cargo backward. They'd just made it to the ladder of a yacht about a hundred feet away when the air turned inferno hot around them. Cain held Telfer down, following him beneath the water as Carson's yacht erupted in a churning fireball that scattered steaming chunks of metal and wood across the harbor.


31

"you've gotta be yankin' my goddamn chain." Rink was standing with his knuckles on the hood of Cheryl Barker's squad car. His bowed head emphasizing the breadth of his shoulders, equally emphasizing his dismay.

I wasn't feeling much better. I was thinking much the same thing as he was.


We'd both caught the TV news earlier.


A man with a hangdog expression related the disaster that had struck an exclusive yachting club only minutes earlier. The camera cut from the studio to an on-scene reporter who was standing amid crowds of stunned onlookers as a huge pall of black smoke breached the heavens behind them. I'd grimaced at the screen. The world was full of doom and gloom. Even, I'd decided, in exclusive rich men's playgrounds like Marina del Rey.


Uninterested, I'd switched channels. Then we'd driven out here to meet with Cheryl Barker.


We were parked on the ridge of a shale embankment at the head of a valley in which we could glimpse the roofs of houses amid lush greenery. Palms and peppertrees dominated. Birds called and flapped in the skies above us.


Cheryl had chosen this place for an impromptu meeting simply because it was a halfway point for us all. I could hear the disjointed chatter and squeals of children and guessed it was playtime at some park hidden in the trees. It was a surreal moment, us talking about death and destruction while dozens of kids laughed and whooped with delight below us.


Barker, an attractive woman with light freckles and short but unruly red hair, shook her head. "I ain't the one yankin' chains, Jared. It's just come over the air. The fireball in Marina del Rey is down to your good buddy John Telfer."


Rink glanced my way, and I lifted my shoulders in a noncommittal way. Since the nonsense I'd read on Harvey's computer, not to mention the subsequent newscasts I'd caught on TV and our rental car radio, it didn't surprise me that this latest atrocity was being laid at John's door. It seemed that John had superseded Osama bin Laden as the most notorious felon in the western hemisphere.


Barker was almost as tall as Rink but she was much leaner, and that made her appear diminutive next to my friend's bulk. She stood with her thumbs hooked in her belt like some Wild West gunslinger. Annie Oakley in the flesh.


Rink turned from bracing himself on the hood of the LAPD mobile. He looked Barker up and down. He took in the officer's pristine uniform.


"You ain't made detective yet?"


"Nope," Barker said.


"Someone has to see sense soon," Rink offered.


"Tell the truth, I'm in no great hurry. I'm as happy swanning around in a squad car as steering a desk. If I get the promotion, all well and good. If not, well, I'm as happy busting the balls of gangbangers and writing misdemeanor tickets for little old ladies driving the wrong way up the freeway." Barker glanced down, brushed an imaginary piece of lint off her black shirt. "Anyways, I'm partial to the uniform. Can't see why there's such a big deal about getting into civilian duds."


Rink gave Barker a tight-lipped grin. "Plus you get to drive a cool car, huh?"


"Yep, beats the hell outta the pool cars the detectives limp around in. More power under the hood, for one thing."


"You'll need it when you're chasing all those rogue grandmothers in golf carts." The small talk out of the way, Rink asked, "You putting much credence in it?"


"What? The fireball? No doubt about it, Jared. Eyewitness testimony places your boy at the scene."


"They sure it was John Telfer?" I asked, stepping into their circle.


Barker turned and squinted at me.


"Joe Hunter," I said, introducing myself. I stuck out a hand and Barker accepted it, shaking it languidly. "John is my brother."


Barker frowned and glanced at Rink, who said, "It's cool, Cheryl."


Rink's word was enough for Barker.


"Your boy's been on every network and newspaper in the country. Witness swears that Telfer was the one who brought hell to that boat."


I still wasn't convinced and it obviously showed in my face.


"Before the boat went supernova, the witness managed to get off it unscathed. She says that John Telfer must've brought a bomb on board with him. He was carrying some kinda backpack when he arrived." Barker sucked air through her teeth. "Mind you, we ain't giving the bomb part much weight. More than likely, something on the boat went bang. Apparently there were a lot of guns going off prior to the explosion."


"It's not like John," I said, thinking aloud.


Barker lifted her knobby shoulders. "Just telling you what's been said."


"Was there any mention of why John was on this boat in the first place?"


"Nothing the witness will admit to."


"Who is the witness?"


Barker said, "A hottie Rhet Carson picked up over on Catalina Island. You know how these old rich guys are. They like a touch of eye candy draped over the rails of their yachts when they pull into dock. Gives them, whaddaya call it, self-esteem?"


"Are you saying your eyewitness is a hooker?"


"Hookers have eyes the same as anyone," Barker replied. "She says that Telfer wasn't the only one to come on board. Two guys in sharp suits turned up. Then some other guy. She seems to think that the last guy on board was with Telfer. The shooting started just after he got there."


Rink and I looked at each other.


"Did she give a description of any of the three that turned up after John? The two guys in suits, for instance?"


"Let me see." Barker pulled a notebook from her shirt pocket and thumbed through to a page marked with an elastic band. I doubted she needed the prompt. "Yeah, here we are. An APB was put out for them. Both guys are in their thirties, medium build, dark haired. Kinda swarthy-looking. Dressed in designer suits by all accounts."


"The Mambo Kings." I nodded to Rink.


Barker lifted the corner of a lip at my remark. "You know these two?"


"Not personally," I said. "But I intend to."


Barker looked off across the valley. "Whatever your intentions, you can scratch one of them from your 'to-do' list. Got another dispatch not ten minutes ago saying one of them was among the dead found in the burned-out wreckage. The other could be at the bottom of the harbor for all we know. They're sending divers down as we speak."


"What about the third man? The one she thought was with John?"

Again Barker scanned her notebook. She made an exasperated noise as she puffed out her cheeks. "White guy. Late thirties to early forties. Cold eyes. That's about it."


"Nothing about his clothing? His hair coloring?"


"Nope. The witness said she only got a quick glance at him. Something about the way he looked at her was enough to send her scuttling for cover, she said." It was apparent Barker didn't like what she was reading. "Not to mention the fact he'd just gutted one of Carson's bodyguards with a knife."


It was my turn to puff out my cheeks. I looked at Rink and saw him staring back. Turning back to Barker, I asked, "Did the witness say anything else about him or John? Did they make it off the boat before it blew?"


"She says they jumped in the harbor just before the boat went up. She didn't see them after that. Chances of them surviving that kind of explosion would be pretty slim."


"John can't swim," I said, a feeling of dread gnawing at my insides. Burned or drowned, neither would be pretty. I had the fleeting impression of John's bloated face peering up at me from some infinitely deep place. Shaking off the disturbing vision wasn't easy, but I had to remain optimistic. I wasn't prepared to admit defeat just yet. Neither was I ready to give up looking for him until the police divers dragged his corpse from the murky water.


"He could've made it out," Rink offered. "Boats are generally moored closely together. Its likely he made it to another one and climbed out of the water."


"I hope so," I said.


"Funny thing is," Barker said, "this other guy, the one who was with Telfer, apparently he did something extremely odd while he was on the yacht."


"Apart from gutting someone with a knife?" I asked.


"Yeah. One of Carson's bodyguards survived the explosion. He was pretty mangled up and not making much sense. He was off his head with pain and blood loss, but he kept on saying, 'He stole my thumb.' "


I glanced sharply at Barker, who gave me a wry smile in return. "Apart from burns over much of his body, his wrist was cut open and he was missing a thumb. Of course, his injuries could've been caused by flying shrapnel from the explosion. Thing is, he was adamant that this mystery man picked his thumb up off the deck."


"Jumpin' Jesus," Rink said, and I could only agree with him.


My theory about John crossing paths with this Harvestman was beginning to take greater shape. Only thing I couldn't fathom was what that meeting meant to them. What was John doing going there with a murderer? Were they acting as allies, on some mad spree where they were working together? Or was John being compelled to work with this beast? I could only hope it was the latter. For everyone's sake.


I didn't realize I'd fallen silent, caught up in my own thoughts, until Rink nudged me. "You hear that, Hunter?"


"Uh? Hear what?"


"Rhet Carson? The guy who owned the yacht?"


I squinted at Rink in miscomprehension.


"I knew we'd lost you there," Rink said.


"Sorry," I said. "I was just thinking."


"Yeah," Rink said. "I could hear the cogs turning from here."


I shook myself into the here and now. "So what did I miss?"


"Rhet Carson's a major player. Head man of one of the outfits out here."


"What? Like the Mafia?"


Barker gave a little laugh. "The Mafia doesn't hold much sway any longer. Not if you're looking for the old-time Godfather type. But you could say he was a key player in the local underworld. Nowadays your most successful mobsters shun the old-style Cosa Nostra methods. Carson's a top-flight business executive. Runs his business from a downtown commercial center, even advertises on the cable networks."


"His business being?" I asked.


"Banking," Barker said. "But more specifically, moneylending."


I said, "You telling me he was money laundering? What better front than to use your own bank?"


Barker snapped her fingers. "You've got it, my friend. There have been a number of high-profile investigations into his business, lots of supposition, but nothing that would stick. There was the rumor that he was laundering counterfeit dollars for some outfit from the East Coast, but the case never really got off the ground. He's laid low for the last coupla years, kept his nose clean, spent more time on his boat. I'm thinking Carson was maybe about to get back in the business again."


I'd had my suspicions since our last talk with Louise Blake. What the something big was that she'd referred to.


Forged money has never been a big problem in the U.S., obtaining decent paper being just about impossible. But I also knew that it was a ploy of some terrorist groups to flood countries with fake currency. Kind of destabilized the value of the dollar, bringing down the almighty American Dream. What they couldn't achieve with bombs, they made up for in Mickey Mouse money. Petoskey and Hendrickson would have been making top dollar, selling to the enemies of the USA.


And Rhet Carson had wanted in on the action.


To Cheryl Barker, I said, "But without the drawback of being the middleman this time?"


"It's a fair assumption," Barker said.


"This outfit he was working with, do you know who runs it?" I asked.


"Not personally," Barker said. "I suppose I can find out."


"I might be able to give you a couple of names."


"You already have your suspicions?"

"Yeah. A couple. Could be a guy called Sigmund Petoskey. He has his base in Little Rock, Arkansas."


Barker shook her head at that. "Nah. The mob I'm talking about was rumored to be up in Virginia, maybe Georgia, I can't recall."


"How about Hendrickson?" I asked.


"Like I said, I don't know the names personally. Hendrickson? Sounds familiar. I'll find out."


Rink gave Barker his cell phone number.


Barker, looking every bit the cowgirl, tipped the brim of an imaginary Stetson our way. "I'd best be on my way. Dallied a little too long. Dispatcher's probably wondering if I've got myself shot dead and is already planning a search party."


I shook hands with Barker, wondering if we'd ever cross paths again. Probably not. Then Barker and Rink hugged as if they'd been intimate once. I didn't ask. Barker then turned to her car and slid behind the wheel. She gave us both an exaggerated wink. "I'll be in touch."


We watched her drive off, her vehicle almost concealed by the plume of road dust churned up by her wheels. After she was gone, we stood kicking our heels.


"So what's the plan of action?" Rink finally asked.


"Marina del Rey's about as good a place as any to start," I suggested.


32

john telfer was leaking blood. ordinarily that would have been good. But not under these circumstances. Not when the bleeding got in the way of Cain's plans. Not when it could alert a nosy observer to Telfer's plight. Anyone with an ounce of brains would immediately tie a bleeding man to the recent events occurring at the not-too-distant harbor.


"We have to do something about your wound," Cain said.


Lying flat on the bottom of the dinghy, Telfer grimaced up at him. Cain sat at the rear, guiding the outboard motor with one hand. With his other, he held the now-empty pistol aimed in Telfer's direction. The waves were choppy, causing the rubber boat to lurch as it breasted each successive wave.


"Feeling nauseous?" Cain asked.


"What do you care?" Telfer grunted.


"I care. Isn't that enough?"


Telfer twisted his face. "The only thing you care about is getting your hands on the money."


"Not true. I also care about your well-being."


"Yeah. Right."


Cain shrugged. "Think what you will," he said. He made another scan of the horizon. Off over his right shoulder, distant Catalina Island was wreathed in sea haze. He could see the ferry to the mainland chugging toward the harbor, and there were other boats on the water. There were a couple of yachts, a speedboat, and half a dozen chartered boats hauling groups of men off to favorite fishing sites. Thankfully, none of the boats appeared to be coast guard or LAPD. Equally thankfully, none of them was near enough for anyone to see Telfer lying in the bottom of the dinghy.


"Were you shot?" Cain asked.


Telfer ran a hand up his chest. He was tentative, expecting the worst. Finally, he shook his head. "I think it was more of a ricochet. Luckily whatever hit me didn't go all the way in, just scored along my flesh. Hurts like a bugger, though."

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