Dead Men's Dust

Cain nodded solemnly. Inwardly he was relieved. He didn't want Telfer dying on him before he was ready. Still, he didn't want Telfer to know that. The last thing he needed was for Telfer to start kicking up a commotion out here on the water. If Cain had to kill him, it could attract unwanted attention. And he didn't relish attempting to outrun the coast guard in this paltry boat.

"As soon as we make land I'll take a look at it for you," Cain offered. "I know it's only a couple of hours since, but it shouldn't be bleeding now."

Telfer rolled his shoulders. "It'll be okay. I think I just opened the wound crawling into the boat."

"Maybe so, but it won't harm you if I take a look."

Telfer sighed. "Why're you bothering?"

"Bothering? Because it's important to me."

Telfer shook his head. "You don't give a shit about me. I know you've got no intention of upholding our bargain."

"You can think what you like. Just ask yourself one thing. If I intended killing you, why would I bother saving you when I could as easily have left you on that yacht back there?"

"That's easy. You needed me to carry the money."

"So what about when you were in the water? I could've let you drown. It'd have been easier for me to take the briefcase than to haul your sorry ass to safety."

Telfer thought about that one. In the end, he had no reply. Instead he asked, "So what exactly do you intend doing with me?"

"First things first, eh? First, we get to dry land. We clean you up. Then I'll decide what happens from there."

"What about this?" Telfer reached behind him and touched the briefcase he was using as a somewhat uncomfortable pillow.

Cain gave him a smile. "I'll unburden you of that. You're injured. It would be unfair of me to expect you to lug it around with you."

"I've still got one good arm. It'll be no problem, really."

Cain laughed. "I like your sense of humor, John."

"I'm not joking."

"Regardless. You're still a funny man."

Telfer smiled at the thought. Even under the circumstances, he felt strangely pleased with himself. "You should see me when I'm happy. I'm the life and soul of the party."

Cain shook his head, as though at the amusing antics of a toddler. He adjusted the outboard so that they began angling toward land. Here there was a stretch of golden shore, where beach houses on stilts crowned the low horizon. Beyond them loomed mist-shrouded tower blocks where the urban sprawl of South L.A. crept past Redondo Beach toward Long Beach. He selected one of the beach houses at random and headed for a wooden jetty that nosed out into the waves.

Beyond the jetty was a summerhouse; a playground for the not so rich judging by the way the paint flaked from the window frames. There was only one car, a battered Dodge sitting under the porch that abutted the southern side of the house, and no speedboat at the mooring point. The house had a semidilapidated edge, as though it were used infrequently, and maintained even less. There were no kiddies' swings or toys strewn along the edge of the beach, and no sign of a family in residence at the stone-built barbecue, which contained only ashes and a lingering scent of burgers gone by. If anyone were home, it would be barely more than one—two at the most.

He deftly steered the dinghy up to the pilings, a lasso action snaring the boat to a stanchion. He used the threat of the gun to motivate Telfer. "Bring the briefcase," he ordered. "I'll take it off you when we get inside."

"What if there're people home?" Telfer asked.

"Then we impose on their generosity to get you fixed up."

"That's all?"

"What else?"

Coming to a painful crouch on the jetty, Telfer studied the empty windows. "You won't hurt them, will you?"

Cain looked pained. "I thought you were beginning to understand me by now."

"I am," Telfer said. Then to himself, "That's the trouble."

"I heard that," Cain said in singsong fashion.

"You were meant to."

Cain's features went from night to day in an instant. "I suppose it all comes down to whether or not they're willing to be of assistance. I don't care for selfish people. What about you, John?"

"I don't suppose they have much choice when you're pushing a gun under their noses."

Cain shrugged.

"What if there are children?" Telfer continued.

"I haven't killed a child lately," Cain said.

Telfer didn't reply, concentrating on shuffling by his nemesis to

conceal his disgust. Cain allowed him to take the lead. He glanced down at the empty gun, considered its convenience as a tool, and decided that as long as no one suspected it was empty, it was still worth the effort to lug it along with him.

Telfer shuffled the length of the jetty, the briefcase stuffed beneath one armpit. Behind him, Cain grinned to himself. Telfer reminded him of a shambling mummy as he clawed at a railing to help him up the steps to the house. Beyond them the summerhouse presented a skull-like visage, dark empty eye sockets for windows and a grinning jaw of picket-rail teeth. It was an image that appealed to Cain but only added to Telfer's apparent foreboding. He turned and gave Cain an imploring look.

"On you go, John. You've got nothing to worry about."

Telfer shook his head. He set his shoulders, unresigned to the prospect of further violence. Cain nudged him in the small of his back but he resisted the push.

"You don't have to kill anyone."

"No," Cain agreed. "I don't have to."

Telfer still refused to move.

Cain said, "But I might just start here and now if you don't move your ass."

A propane blaze of anger flushed Telfer's face. Slowly he turned and faced his captor. Cain glared back. The tableau held for half a dozen heartbeats. "You know," Telfer said, "the more you threaten someone, the less those threats mean."

Cain grunted, but this time in humor. "You should know by now that I don't make threats idly, John."

"I'm fully aware of what you're capable of. All I'm saying is that maybe you should take care who you direct those threats at. Sooner or later you're going to have to do something about it."

"Now who's making threats?"

"No. Not a threat. Call it friendly advice."

Cain winked. "Okay, John, I get you. Now do me the honor of getting yourself inside on your own two feet before I have to plug you and drag you in by your ears."

"Another threat?"

Cain shrugged. "Call me Mr. Predictable."

Telfer loped on ahead, and Cain glanced down and saw a pattern of dark splotches on the wood planks. Telfer was bleeding worse than he'd thought. Probably the reason for the bravado. A last-ditch attempt at showing he had a backbone after all. Following the trail, Cain lifted his gaze once more to Telfer's shuffling form. Maybe patching him up was a waste of effort; maybe he should just end it now. Dead, he'd no longer be the hindrance he was proving. And he'd be more manageable stuffed in the trunk of the Dodge than up front riding shotgun. But that would mean changing the plans he'd fantasized over these past hours. Killed here with little fuss or later at the designated place with all the pomp and ceremony the occasion demanded? It wasn't too difficult a choice. He followed on behind, his mind made up.

Although the house looked uncared for, the tiny yard was a different story. Bougainvillea in terra-cotta troughs made a pleasant border for the final approach to the front door. He curled his lip. Kind of spoiled the overall ambience. So, too, did the tinkle of piano music coming from beyond the screen door.

Exhaling at the homeliness of it all, Cain hurried so that he came to the door just as Telfer raised a hand to rap on the door frame. He was about to halt Telfer when the crunch of feet on gravel achieved that for him. Synchronized, they turned and greeted the man rounding the side of the house. Then they both glanced down at the Rottweiler that strained at the leash in his grasp. Telfer's mouth held the ghost of a smirk as he looked at his captor.

"Help you gentlemen?" the man asked from ten feet away. He ap peared to be about sixty years old, sunburned and paunchy. An early retiree on a short break. Cain would bet his right testicle that this man prefers to take his holidays in a mobile home. The massive dog continued to tug at the leash, tongue lolling in anticipation of a couple of tasty morsels.

In another sleight of hand, Cain spirited the gun into his waistband and his hand clapped down tight on Telfer's shoulder to halt any telltale movement. "Hopefully you can, brother," Cain said, stepping past Telfer. "My friend here is injured. I'd appreciate it if you'd call 911 for us."

"Need an ambulance?" the man asked, craning to see past Cain as though attempting to ascertain the severity of Telfer's injuries. Subtly, Cain shifted onto his other foot. The blood on Telfer's shirt was like a flashing light to the man. Eyes wide he lurched forward, aided by the pull of the heavy dog. "My God," he spluttered. "You're bleeding!"

Cain held up a hand. "Don't worry, brother. It looks worse than it is. But we'd appreciate your help nonetheless."

"Yes, yes," the man said, coming forward at a trot. The dog bounced along at his side, no longer tugging at its leash. Cain gave the dog a nanosecond of perusal. He feigned alarm. Stepped away. The man saw the movement, gave a shake of his head. "Oh, don't be worried about Popeye none. He looks scary, but really he's a big old softie. More likely he'll lick you to death than bite you."

"Phew. That's a relief," Cain said. For Telfer's benefit he raised an eyebrow, gave a lopsided smile. Telfer gave a short cough, but already Cain was dropping to a knee as if to greet the dog.

As the dog brushed past, Cain swiped his hand under its muzzle. An innocent enough looking pat of its broad chest. It took only two further paces before it collapsed. It didn't even offer a startled yelp before it died. Stunned, the man stared down at his dog. Eyes pools of bewilderment, he looked back at Cain who was rising from his crouch.

"Don't like dogs," Cain said.

The man's gaze traveled the length of Cain's arm, fixed on the ultimate point. The scaling knife was almost devoid of blood, so quick and easy was its entry and exit.

"They're competition," Cain said. "For your bones."

"Oh," the man said, his knees buckling at the same time.

33

the last time i was on a motor launch it was at night and I was being deposited on a deserted beach in the Indian Ocean. I was part of an eight-man team sent to extradite suspected terrorists who'd been holed up there since a predawn attack on a village full of women and children.

On that occasion I didn't take too much notice of my surroundings. It was an in and out, a smash and grab mission that left no time for sightseeing.

Now, standing on the prow of the launch, I took the time to feel the spray of the ocean on my face, to smell the tang of brine in my nostrils and feel the wind in my hair. The Bailey motorboat was riding high on the ocean, lifting majestically with each swell, dipping down with each trough. I stood with my legs braced against the motion, but neglected to reach for the handrail.

"If you close your eyes and hold out your hands it feels like you're flying," Rink said from behind me.

I snickered at the image. "Start singing like Celine Dion and I'll throw you overboard," I promised him.

Rink grunted, moving up next to me. He leaned forward and rested his meaty forearms on the guardrail. "What makes you think they've headed south?"

"Just a feeling," I said.

"A feeling? What? Like a sixth sense or something?" Rink wasn't kidding. Like most soldiers, he knows there's a force out there that isn't tangible in the proper sense. Many a soldier's life has been saved by an enhanced sense that borders on the supernatural. Something that warned him about the concealed tripwire or sniper lying in ambush. Some argue that it's simply a product of supercharged adrenaline and a keenly trained eye, but I believe there's more to it than that. It's more than the creeping-flesh sensation that unseen eyes are watching you. But the feeling I was referring to had nothing to do with that or any other power. It had simply to do with deduction.

"No, a feeling that if I was in their shoes I'd've headed south, too."

"If they survived."

"There's no doubt about it, Rink. Whoever this guy is that John's with, he knows his stuff. Only someone with training goes onto a yacht full of armed men and ends up blowing it and everyone aboard to shit."

"Unless he's got the other important ingredients: he's as crazy as a bag of weasels, has more balls than sense, and he's the luckiest goddamn son of a bitch on the planet." Rink raised his shaggy brows, inviting disagreement.

I shrugged, moving to join him at the guardrail. Below us, the bow wave split like blistering phosphorus against the deep aqua of the ocean. "Maybe he has both," I said. "The training and the other ingredients. He had a get-out plan. You can bet your life on it."

"So it stands to reason," Rink acquiesced, "that he heads out to sea to avoid the cordon of blue lights converging on the harbor."

"Coast guard has their base to the north. It's what I'd've done," I told him, and Rink nodded in agreement.

"So who is this guy? You think it really is this Harvestman the media's screaming about?"

"Has to be," I said. "It'd explain why John's fingerprints turned up in connection with the killings of that couple at the motel. Somehow, John's got himself into something way beyond his ability to get out of. Only thing I can't fathom yet is what part he's playing in all this. I can't believe he'd be a willing participant to murder."

Rink said, "Maybe you don't know John the way you think you do."

"You keep saying that. Maybe you're right, Rink, but until I'm proved wrong, I prefer to give him the benefit of the doubt."

"Fair enough," Rink said. "But what if he has turned, Hunter? What if your brother has acquired a taste for blood? What if he's a goddamn willing participant?"

I didn't answer for a moment, my gaze fixed on the horizon. Like the point where the sky and ocean met, my reason blurred into a haze of nothingness. Finally, I turned to Rink and saw that he was studying me with an intensity common to him. I blinked slowly, breaking the connection. "If that's the case, it puts a whole new slant on my purpose for finding him."

Rink nodded sagely, lifted a hand, and placed it on my shoulder. "Let's hope it doesn't have to come to that, huh?"

A shout from behind us broke my melancholy and I turned to squint back at the skipper who was at the wheel of the boat.

He was pointing with excitement toward the shore. A little more than five hundred yards away I saw what he indicated. To me, it was nothing more than one more boat tied to a short pier.

Together, Rink and I made our way back to the skipper's cabin. He was grinning. "The dinghy over there," he said with an exaggerated nod of his head. "It's from the Morning Star."

"The Morning Star being one of the yachts moored in the harbor?" I asked.

The skipper snapped his fingers, then pointed a gnarled digit at me. "Got it in one."

"How can you be sure?" Rink asked.

The skipper's eyebrows did a little jig. "I've been around them boats all my working life. I know what skiffs belong to what and to whom. Not only that, but if you look at the painting on the outboard, you can see that it's a five-pointed star coming up over the sea, not the sun, as you'd expect."

I squinted across the waves. I could barely see the outboard motor, never mind the motif on it. I looked back at the skipper, and he grinned again.

"I'll trust your better eyesight," I told him. "But couldn't there be a rational reason why a dinghy from the Morning Star would turn up here?"

"None that I can guess at," the skipper said.

"No, I suppose not." I looked back at the dinghy. "Can you bring your boat in close to the same berth?"

"Tide's a bit low for my girl. I'll get in as close as I can, but you might have to wade to shore."

"Okay," I said, turning to Rink. "You ready for this?"

Rink patted the bulge under his armpit. "Ready, willing, and able."

Returning my attention to the skipper, I indicated the beach house a short way up from the jetty. "Do you know whose place that is?"

He shook his head. "I'm good with boats, haven't a clue about houses."

I shrugged. "Okay. Can you get the emergency services on your radio?"

"Yeah. Of course."

"Yeah," I agreed. "Once you've put us ashore, shout for help. Tell the cops to get to this location as fast as they can."

The skipper was no naive old fool; he knew we'd chartered his boat for the strict purpose of hunting someone fleeing the scene of devastation up at Marina del Rey. What he didn't know was exactly who we were chasing. Or why.

"You expecting trouble, son?" he asked.

"Maybe of the worst kind," I told him.

"So why don't you wait till the cops get here before you go ashore?" he asked. For the first time, there was a hint of something less than his ordinary ebullience.

"We could have some kind of hostage crisis. I can't wait for the cops to get here before any innocents are harmed." The first was for the old man; my next was directed at Rink. "If the men we're after have already been and gone, I've got a horrible feeling that there'll be some cleaning up to be done. Best we leave that to the authorities this time."

Rink nodded in understanding, while it was the skipper's turn to squint at the rapidly approaching shoreline. He didn't ask for an explanation and I offered him none. He guided the prow of the Bailey toward the jetty, and as he'd predicted we were more than fifteen feet short of the boardwalk when we felt the judder of sand beneath us. The skipper threw the boat into reverse, edging back until we were in clear water. From the front of the boat, I gave him a thumbs-up and the skipper nodded at me.

"You want me to wait for you?" he called from the cabin.

I shook my head over the sound of the idling engine. Whatever the outcome, I didn't believe I'd be boarding a boat again anytime soon. "Maybe it's best you pull back from the shoreline. Could be bullets flying around before long."

"I appreciate the warning, son, but you don't have to worry about me. Completed two tours in Vietnam, so the prospect of flying bullets means nothing to me."

"Fair enough, but I don't want your death on my conscience."

The skipper grunted, but then he winked, dipped the peak of his cap. "It's your mission, son. Keep safe. An' tell your big buddy to do likewise."

"Will do," I said, glancing Rink's way. He was standing at the prow, scanning the beach for movement. His shoulders twitched, adrenaline searching for release. As I walked toward him, I placed my hand under my armpit and felt the reassuring bulge of the latest SIG Sauer supplied only an hour earlier by Cheryl Barker. It was the older Swiss P230 model, with no manual safety button, so the weapon could be brought into action very rapidly. Brought back memories from my Point Shooting days.

We went over the side of the boat together, splashing waist deep in the foam. Sand immediately invaded my shoes, and my trousers clung to my skin. I forgot my discomfort as we pushed toward the dinghy.

"Blood," Rink observed even as we approached. It was smeared over the edge nearest the dock as though something limp and lifeless had been dragged onto the walkway. I pressed up to the boat. More frothy blood was pooled in the bottom. Rink and I shared a look. All this blood wasn't a good sign that we'd find John alive, but it meant my hunch was correct after all. There couldn't possibly be a more likely explanation for this boat to be here than that it had carried escapees from the carnage at Marina del Rey.

Pulling my SIG out of its holster, I chambered a round. I heard a similar kachunk! as Rink followed suit with his Mossberg. We followed the dock on to the beach. Rink fanned off to my left. Before us was a wooden house with a well-tended yard. A dust-streaked Dodge was parked alongside the house. There was no further room in the lot for another vehicle so I guessed that John—if he was still alive—was inside the house. Not good in one sense, it added to my apprehension of a possible hostage situation escalating beyond my power to control.

Rink was twenty yards away now, moving toward the house. I sucked in a deep breath and moved onto a gravel path that led to the door of the house.

I saw spatters of blood on the doorstep. Hearing the sputter and roar of an engine, I saw that the skipper was heeding my warning. I wondered if he'd already called for backup, and then searched the sky for a helicopter.

Nothing.

Just a single speedboat hurtling along about a quarter of a mile to the north. Even from here, I could tell it was a private boat, so I gave it no further thought. Even if the skipper had immediately called the authorities, they were still many minutes away. Which meant I had no time to waste: if John was inside, especially accompanied by the Harvestman, I had to take decisive action before any innocents were injured.

Given the opportunity, I'd have scoped the place and gained a better understanding of what it was we faced. Rink and I would've devised a plan of approach. But like always, Murphy's Law took precedence here. I could only hope that the chaos rule held us in its favor as it had done innumerable times in the past.

With this in mind, I'd no recourse other than charge the screen door, lift a foot, and crash through, hurtling into whatever hell storm would follow.

Which is exactly what I did.

34

snapshot. On first perusal, it was a nice home. Reminded me of my grandparents' bungalow. On deeper reflection, the memory of their home told me everything I was afraid of.

There was a cancer at this house's core.

To maximize the sunshine, all these beach houses had been built so that their fronts were to the ocean. Therefore, through the door I shattered was a vestibule leading directly to an open-plan living area on one side and a bedroom on the other. Toward the back of the house would be a kitchen and perhaps a utility area, but these were of no interest to me.

Kick-start the world.

I moved.

My entire attention was skewed to the left as I swung into the liv- ing area. I say living area; I could already see the corpse of some hulking dog lying alongside its ceiling-staring master. The man was indisputably dead judging by the mess of his throat and the cataract-glaze of his eyes. His mouth hung open in shock, and pink spume clung to his contorted lips. Another thing I took in during that nanosecond of horror; his left hand was missing, shorn off at the wrist. The Harvestman was living up to his name.

Apart from the corpses, the room was as ordinary as any home supported by a modest income. There was the obligatory TV, settee and chairs, trinket-type ornaments, and photographs in frames. The thing that stood out was the large piano that took up most of one side of the room. Then there were the three people standing around it.

Perhaps standing around it isn't the most apt way to describe the scene.

One figure, an elderly woman, was being helped off the piano stool by the tug of a man's arm around her throat. As she stood in an awkward spasm, her fingers clawed at the piano keys and a deep-throated note vied for dominance over an equally harsh one. The man pulling her backward stared at me over the woman's shoulder, his lips split in a feral snarl.

My SIG came up. Ordinarily I'd have fired, but the man placed the muzzle of a gun to the side of the woman's face and I stayed my hand. My gaze flicked to the nearer side of the piano. Immediately I saw my brother.

At the time, I can't honestly say if I was pleased to see him. I think, deep down in my soul, I'd secretly hoped that John was dead, that the possibility that he'd become a monster had been removed.

John turned his face to mine, and shock struck his dull expression. Then a bit of hope flared. That look was all I needed to confirm that John wasn't a consenting player in this game. Immediately my attention skipped back to the man holding the woman.

"Drop the gun," I shouted.

The man's snarl broadened ever wider and I saw ice behind his pale green eyes. Using the woman as a shield, he pressed the gun under her jaw.

"I think it's you who'd better drop the gun," he said.

My SIG didn't waver. I took a step closer. Finger pressure increased on the trigger. Calmer, I said, "Drop the gun."

In answer, he thumbed back the hammer on his own gun. "Think you can drop me before I kill this old bitch?"

"Yes." I stared at him along the barrel of my gun.

He shook his head. "I don't think you're as confident as you're making out. If you could do it, you would've done so by now."

"You've got another five seconds to comply," I told him.

The man laughed. His captor whimpered in terror. Her arthritic knees threatened to dump her on her backside, and only the dragging arm around her throat held her up. She was no lightweight, but the man didn't seem to be struggling to control her. The arm looped around her throat bulged with lean strength.

"One," I counted.

"Aw, cut the dramatics, will you," he taunted. As he did, he shuffled sideways, putting himself in a corner of the room. It wasn't an attempt to find an exit, but to ensure he couldn't be triangulated. His back to the corner of the room, he took away any opportunity for Rink to get a bead on him. I glanced to my left and saw Rink standing outside the open window, his shotgun trained on the man. My friend gave a subtle shake of his head. No line of fire.

"You're cornered," I told the man. "Let the woman go and you'll live. Harm her and we'll shoot you like a mad dog."

"No. What you are going to do is put down your weapons. I leave with the woman." He glanced over at a briefcase I only now noticed on the lid of the piano. "And that."

"No deal. You're going to let the woman go first."

"Uh-uh. Maybe I'll just shoot her face off and take my chances, huh?"

He pressed the barrel of his gun into her left eye socket, eliciting a shriek from the woman. Again my finger tightened but didn't follow through.

Think of damp ashes, that was the color of John's face as he turned to me. He supported his weight against the piano, body racked with pain. Weak and hurting. "He means it, Hunter. He'll do it."

My gaze jumped between him and the gunman. A smile flickered at the corner of the gunman's mouth, a tensing of his eyes. Did he recognize my name? How could he, I told myself, it's not as if I'm James Bond. To John I said, "Get over here behind me, John."

The gunman grunted. "You two know each other?"

Neither of us answered, but the silence was palpable.

"Wait a minute. Hunter?" The man searched my face. Lines crinkled at the corners of his eyes as though something amusing had struck him. "Not Joe Hunter?"

Unbidden, my face pinched. My teeth ached as my jaw tightened. Some secret I turned out to be. Maybe I should have worked under a code name after all.

"Well for the love of all that's holy! Who'd have thought they'd have put you on my trail?"

Again I didn't answer, and the man turned his attention to John.

"Wait a minute . . . I see it now. The family resemblance. You're so full of surprises, John. You didn't tell me you were related to such a notorious assassin as Joe Hunter . . ." He squinted across at Rink, who remained statue solid at the open window. "And don't tell me . . . not Jared Rington as well?"

John's face puckered. It can't ever have occurred to him before just who—or what—his big brother really was. He was aware that my work involved hunting terrorists, but I don't think he appreciated what that actually entailed. To him, I was just a soldier killing other soldiers. Now he was probably wondering, Aren't assassins the bad guys?

I don't appreciate the term assassin, but I suppose, at the end of the day, it all comes down to your perspective. Rink and I were either saints or sinners. At that moment, I saw myself as the saint; the man with the gun shoved in an elderly woman's eye socket assured me of that.

"Let her go," I commanded.

The man wasn't interested. My identity seemed to please him in a way I found troubling. His next words went some length to explain his apparent pleasure. "I guess I should be honored. Does that mean I've finally won the notoriety I deserve? Huh? I suppose that means you know who I am now?"

"I don't give a shit who you are, or what insane reason you have for murdering innocent people. All I'm interested in is you dropping your gun before I put a bullet in your head." To assure him of my intentions, I took another half step toward him.

In return, he giggled. Said, "If I'm going to die, I'm taking her with me. Maybe one or two of you, as well."

I drew back again. Inwardly I cursed myself. I'd just made the mistake of showing him that I wasn't in charge of the situation. One up for the real bad guy. He moved the barrel of his gun so it was under the woman's ear now. Once more the woman murmured in fear. Her eyes rolled my way, beseeching. I had to do something.

"John," I snapped. "Get yourself over here."

He staggered over, one arm tight against his chest where his sodden shirt clung to him. I moved a step to my right, giving him clearance to gain the doorway. At my shoulder, John came to a stumbling halt. Something bothered me about the abruptness.

Without thought, I pivoted on my right foot, smacking against the near wall, eyes still on the gunman to my right, but my peripheral vision searching out what had stopped John. I saw the gunman's eyes widen in surprise, saw him flinch, and I knew that there was new danger in the house. Danger to us both. I was caught between two equally vicious enemies, and it was a split second's decision on my response. Even as I swung to my left, I gave a silent prayer that Rink would cover the killer I couldn't keep my eyes on. My gun swept the air, and I fired without pause.

Even as he was stepping into the living room, my first bullet caught Hendrickson's hit man in his right shoulder, spinning from his fingers the gun he'd pointed at John's head. I'd seen this man before— testament to that was the wound on his ear. Even if I'd never had the privilege, I would've recognized him for what he was: a stone-cold killer. Something else: he was an apt stalker in his own right, and he'd used Rink and me to lead him to John. The memory of the speedboat racing toward us after we'd disembarked from the skipper's launch came to mind.

Injured, the Latino dropped low. He grunted, but he was already reaching left-handed for a second weapon concealed in an ankle holster. My gun boomed again, but even as I fired, I snatched the barrel up so that the bullet swished above his head to splinter the door lintel. I'd missed him, but it was a good job I did. It meant I also missed John, who'd chosen that moment to stagger into my line of fire.

Things were rapidly turning to shit.

I ran around John, expecting the killer at my back to put a bullet in my spine.

I cleared John just as the hit man came up from his crouch. His gun fired. Instinctively I'd already twisted, but a searing coldness snapped alongside my ribs. Wind whooshed out of me, but I couldn't allow the thought of the hit to stop me.

Before he could fire again, I struck his gun hand with the barrel of my SIG, knocking his aim wide. His bullet lifted keys from the piano with a tympani of discord. Moving swiftly, as though it were a rapier, I swept my gun under his forearm and snaked my arm up his back.

In close and dirty, we went to town. I ground him against the wall, both our guns momentarily scraping and rasping against wallpaper. His gun went off, further marking the wall. With his free hand, he grabbed at my testicles. I stabbed my fingers into his eyes, tore at his damaged ear, and he forgot all about squeezing my balls. Instead, he punched me in the mouth. The tricky bastard. Right back at you, I thought, as I smashed his nose into a new position on his face.

He was slippery, even shot in three different places—he had a wounded thigh that I was only now vaguely aware of, plus the two I'd given him. His nose was broken and he was bleeding, but the adrenaline-charged flood of endorphins gave him the strength of desperation.

He fought back, tried to head-butt me, but instead found the point of my elbow as I rammed it into his cheekbone. His eyes rolled upward. Before he could recover from the ringing concussion, I pulled his head down, straight into the path of my up-rising knee.

It was like a mallet pounding a watermelon, and the tendons in the backs of both knees failed him.

As he dropped, my gun followed him, and even as he sprawled out, I put two bullets into the rear of his skull.

"That's for Louise Blake," I hissed through my teeth. Then I shot him again between the shoulder blades. Touching my ribs where I could feel the first sting of contact, I added, "And that one's for me."

Captain Fairbairn once wrote that the average armed fight is over in seconds, it is literally a matter of the quick and the dead. I had acted instinctively, relying on speed and the extension of the gun in my hand. Now the hit man was dead. Once again my mentor's ghost spoke volumes. But it wasn't over.

No other guns had barked during the few seconds it took to dispatch Hendrickson's man. The threat of Rink blasting him had likely stayed the Harvestman's hand. Allowing the Latino to lie in his own blood, I shifted again, reaching down and clawing John from the floor even as I swung my gun to find its next target.

Coming up with John clutched beneath one arm, I eyed the man who still grasped the elderly woman as a shield. But he wasn't pressing the gun to her head so forcefully.

"I couldn't have done a better job myself," he said.

"I'm not interested in what you think," I snapped back at him.

"I remain impressed nonetheless. If my hands weren't so full I'd applaud you," he said. "I'm leaving now. I'm taking the woman as insurance. If you stay put, I promise you she'll be released unharmed. If you follow me she will die."

The deal wasn't an option. I knew the only way the woman would be returned to us would be without significant portions of her anatomy. I slowly shook my head. Prodding the dead assassin at my feet I said, "You know what I can do. You've seen it with your own eyes."

"I don't doubt that you're good. But are you really prepared to put this dear old lady at risk?" His smile was that of the Antichrist. "Even if you shoot me now, are you certain that the trauma of a bullet in my skull won't make me jerk this trigger? Are you willing to take that chance?"

Reluctant to give him an edge, I said, "We'll just have to see."

Again the old woman mewled, and a torturous pain shot through me at having to subject her to such terror. Unfortunately, I had no recourse. To allow the Harvestman to take her was out of the question. If she didn't die now, she would certainly die later. And it wouldn't be at the mercy of a quick and painless bullet through her brain.

On the grand scale of things, if this woman were to die, then it would be best if the murderer died along with her. It would be a supreme waste of life, but her sacrifice could mean the difference between life and gruesome death for many others if the psychopath was allowed to live.

Surprisingly, John came to my rescue.

Cradled in my armpit, I felt him shift. Then he clawed at my shirtfront, as if drawing himself upright.

"Let me go with him," John said. His voice was as brittle as monthold crackers.

I shook my head.

"You have to let me go, Joe," he said. "Cain, let the woman go and I'll be your hostage."

The Harvestman's brow furrowed.

"John?" I said, grabbing at his collar, but my brother pulled himself loose. He took a faltering step toward the murderer, hands wrapped around his torso in an effort to subdue the pain he felt.

"Let the woman go, Cain. Take me instead."

The murderer looked beyond John, staring at me. I didn't move. I hated this guy but had to concede that this arrangement was a way out for him. Complex emotions were churning behind his cool facade.

Taking another step, John said, "We have unfinished business, Cain. We both know that. If you let the woman go, I'll see it to the end. I'll sacrifice myself for her."

"What do you say, Cain?" I asked. "Do we have a deal, or do we start shooting?"

Cain gave me a serpent's grin. "Bring the briefcase, John."

Cain removed the gun from the woman and waved me aside with it. "Back off, Hunter. Go over there next to the window with your friend."

Rink gave me a subtle shake of his head, not for a second taking his aim from Cain. His features were set in bronze. "I think we can take the frog-giggin' son of a bitch," he hissed.

"No, Rink. Stand down," I said. Without lowering my own gun, I crabbed over to the window, blocking Rink's line of fire.

"What you doin'?" Rink whispered harshly. "I can take the punk."

"Just let it go, Rink," I whispered back. "For now."

Behind me, Rink's curses were blasphemous, whatever Good Book you follow.

"Hunter?" he pleaded, but I was already refocused on Cain. John had grasped the briefcase to his chest and was nearing him. As he blocked my view of Cain, the woman was unceremoniously shoved to the ground, then Cain had John by the shoulder and was spinning him around. Without pause, Cain used him as a shield as he moved away. At the door, Cain issued a final warning. "Don't try to follow us too soon. If you do, John dies in more agony than you could ever imagine."

I stayed put. Rink was as itchy as a flea-bitten dog, and without taking my eyes off Cain I whispered, "Just wait."

From behind me I heard the answering response, indicating that Rink understood. "I'm waitin'."

Cain didn't hear the whispered exchange. He was as nutty as squirrel shit, but he was no fool. He paused in his tracks. "I guess this won't be the last time I lay eyes on you?"

"Count on it," I told him.

"Don't worry, I will," Cain said. "I look forward to it. It'll look good to have such a formidable trophy as Joe Hunter on my résumé."

Cain held my gaze a moment longer; then, in an act I should have expected from one of such a depraved mind, he waved good-bye. It wasn't his hand he used. It was the bloodless souvenir taken from the old woman's husband.

Then Cain and John were gone.

Before I could move, the old woman wailed and began scurrying across the floor on her hands and knees to the still form of her husband. She folded over the top of him and her sobs were pitiful.

Grief is a savage torment, especially when so raw as this. It can leave a person insensible to what is happening around them, and totally unaware of consoling hands. My soft words were probably gobbledygook to her.

While she wailed, I gave her the quick once-over. Her injuries were minimal, a little bruising on the throat, a bumped elbow. Searching for any broken bones, I traced the folds of her blouse with my fingertips. Bodily she was intact, but there was a narrow rent in the fabric. I studied the slashed cloth, noting that a patch about the size of two fingers was missing, stripped away, wondering how in hell that had happened.

I shook off the thought as Rink charged into the living room. "They've taken the old lady's car."

I nodded at him.

"So what're we doin' standin' around? Let's go after the son of a bitch," Rink said.

"There's no rush," I told him.

Rink inclined his head. "What's goin' on?"

"Like I said, we only have to wait."

Rink wasn't aware that John was laying down a trail for us.

"When John was holding on to me," I explained, "he took my cell phone out of my shirt pocket."

"I can't see him gettin' the opportunity to call in his location," Rink said.

"Doesn't need to," I said.

"No. Of course. We can have the phone signal triangulated. It'll lead us straight to him."

"I trust you have someone in telecommunications that can do it for us?" I asked.

"I might know a woman who does."

"Cheryl Barker? It's okay, Rink, I've just had another thought."

The sirens came.

It was only minutes before Rink and I were kneeling with our hands behind our heads as we were frisked for concealed weapons.

"Get me Walter Conrad," I told a stern special agent from the FBI's Hostage Rescue Team. "He's a sub-division director with the CIA."

On reflection, I was in no position to make demands, but if anyone had the ability to trace the phone John was carrying it was Walter.

To my surprise, he said, "Don't worry, Mr. Hunter. Your boss is already on his way."

35

your boss is already on his way.

It's not often that Walter Hayes Conrad IV gets into the field these days. As a handler of undercover agents, most of them up to their elbows in wet work, he has to maintain a degree of anonymity and distance himself from the dirty deeds used by his government in the name of national security. On this occasion, however, it was necessary for him to fly out to this place marginally north of Long Beach. Everyone's orders were to contain what was rapidly escalating into a massive embarrassment for both him and the security community at large.

He walked into the bedroom where I'd been confined for the last twenty minutes. All that was missing was a fanfare blast of trumpets to announce his arrival.

Walter greeted me with a tight-lipped smile, an unlit cigar clamped between his fingers. Without preamble, he dismissed the two Hostage Rescue Team troopers who'd been my uneasy jailers. Funnily enough, the FBI agents immediately deferred to his authority.

"Walter," I acknowledged with a nod. I stood up from the bed, smoothing out the rumpled comforter with a tug.

Walter's cigar went from one hand to the other. Gripping it as though it were a lifeline, he offered his other damp palm. I shook hands with him, regarding him solemnly. He didn't say anything.

"You must have hotfooted it out here, Walter," I said, "seeing as it's less than half an hour since the call went in."

Walter bunched his prodigious cheeks in what was supposed to be a smile. "Got my very own Lear."

"You're telling me," I said. But he didn't get the joke. When he didn't respond, I added, "Even a jet couldn't have got you all the way across country in that time."

"It's a very fast jet," Walter said, and now the smile was genuine. "Nah, I've been in L.A. since early this morning."

"Can I ask the reason why?"

"Of course not," he said.

It was a game. His game; one that Walter loved to play.

I offered my deduction, to see what lies he came up with.

"When we talked on the phone I piqued your interest. Got you thinking, huh?"

"Pure speculation."

"So tell me, Walter, who is the Harvestman?"

"What makes you think I know that?"

"Don't play with me, Walter. You haven't flown all the way across the country for nothing. You're here because you know who he is. You're on a containment mission."

Walter jammed the unlit cigar between his teeth. "I gave up smoking eight months ago," he said. "Still carry a cigar around for moments just like this."

"So it's not for celebrations?"

"No, I'm talking about a reminder of how much I've fucked up in the past." For the first time I honestly believed him. "There's a lot of truth in that concept, Hunter. That your past always catches up with you in the end."

"Yeah," I agreed. His words echoed my own feelings precisely. He sat down on the bed I'd recently vacated, fists on his ample thighs.

"The Harvestman knew me," I told him. "He also knew Rink. Makes me think he has to be a member of the security community."

Walter nodded but didn't volunteer anything.

"Is he one of yours, Walter?"

Walter shook his head. "Not CIA."

"Secret Service?"

He wagged a fat finger, pleased with his top student.

"So how is it you're involved?" I asked. "Last I heard the CIA and Secret Service were separate entities."

"Like you said, Hunter. Your call got me thinking, made me tie a few loose strings together. It's a joint agency decision that I step in as SAC."

"Special agent in charge? You pulled rank?"

"Of course." He smiled.

"Figures," I said. "So what happened? What makes a bodyguard turn into a killer?"

"Is there a difference, Hunter? Isn't the purpose of a bodyguard to kill or be killed? We're talking brass tacks here, none of that ethical bullshit you see in the movies."

"There's a huge difference, Walter," I reminded him. "Bodyguards protect the sanctity of life; they don't take trophies to display on their dining room wall."

"Not in the classic sense," he demurred. "But they take trophies nonetheless. You just gotta speak to any long-serving agent and they wear their trophies on their sleeves. Metaphorically speaking."

I shook off his comment and sat down on the bed next to him.

"So are you going to tell me?" I pressed.

"Situation's kind of delicate, Hunter," Walter said. He shifted un- comfortably and the bed creaked in protest.

"Everything you touch is delicate. What's so different this time?"

"Do you realize the extent of the scandal if it gets out that a former Secret Service agent's responsible for murdering upward of twenty people?" He turned his large head to me, and I could see the pain behind his slick brow. "Christ, Hunter, it'll be ten times worse than all the screaming over the Iraq campaign. It'll lend weight to the naysayers who're preaching that our government is allowing the murder of innocents in order to justify the invasion. Hell, if they find out the Harvestman has had free rein for over four years, do you think for one moment they'll believe it wasn't with the blessing of the government? Next thing you know, the crazies will be swearing that he's still on our payroll and has been taking out people who knew the truth behind JFK's assassination."

"Are you telling me that you've been aware of him for four years? That nothing's been done to catch the crazy son of a bitch? Makes me wonder if he's still on the payroll."

"He's only recently come to our notice," Walter said. "FBI have been investigating a number of random killings spread the length and breadth of the country. It hasn't been an easy task, simply because most of the bodies have never been found. People were reported missing, presumed dead. Others, well, you know the headlines, they've turned up missing body parts. Other than the MO nothing could tie the murders together."

"What? No forensics? I find that a little hard to believe." Frustration made me get up and stomp the length of the bedroom. I leaned on a dressing table that wouldn't have looked anachronistic in the 1970s. Hands on the cabinet, I stared at my reflection in the mirror. It wasn't a face I recognized. Or liked. "This is all bullshit, Walter!"

Walter eyed me with not a little annoyance. "It's the truth, Hunter."

I turned around so I could hold his gaze. "Walter, you wouldn't know the truth if it sneaked up and bit you on the ass."

"I'm telling you the truth."

Returning to the bed, I again sat down next to him. "So what alerted you to the Harvestman's identity? I mean, considering that you haven't found any forensics? Did he start sending you taunting letters challenging you to catch him?"

Walter made a noise in his throat. "There's no need for sarcasm. And anyway, I didn't say there were no forensics. You said that," he said.

This time I didn't bite.

"The thing is, the forensics have only just recently come to our notice," Walter went on. "The FBI didn't have access to the USSS DNA records. We did. We only became aware of the Harvestman's identity following the murders of the couple at the motel out in the desert."

"You mean the murders that my brother's been blamed for?"

"Exactly."

"Yeah, but you know it wasn't John," I said.

"I know. But it served our purpose to put that story out."

"Served your damn purpose? Walter, you know I love you, but sometimes you're a complete asshole!" I was challenging him to disagree with me. In reply, he could only shrug.

"Comes with the job," he said.

Yes, I suppose it did. "So you tipped the media about John? What for? To draw out the real killer? You thought his ego would get the better of him and he'd show himself in order to take back the glory? Or was it a ploy to conceal the Harvestman's true identity?"

"A bit of both, I suppose," Walter said.

"Christ, Walter! Even when you're being truthful I can't get a straight answer out of you."

"Okay, I'll explain. That way you'll have everything I have." With a grunt he rose and walked away from me, fumbling the cigar to his lips. "Are you familiar with the book of Genesis?"

"I've read it, don't necessarily believe it," I answered.

"It's not necessary that you believe it, only that you have some idea of its content."

"I remember there are a lot of people with odd names begetting one another. Everything else I know I learned from Charlton Heston movies."

Walter shook off my sarcasm. "You've heard the story of Cain and Abel?"

"Yes."

"It's nothing new for some demented bastard to take on the name of Cain," Walter said. "In fact, the psyche of a murderer is often referred to as the Cain Complex. Murderers often look up to the great grandpappy of all murderers as to some sort of godhead in his own right. They think they're carrying out his work on earth and all that bullshit."

"And your sicko is no exception?" I asked.

"No, no, no. Not the Cain."

"Who then?"

"I'll come to that in a minute. First a little background on our man," Walter said. "His name is Martin Maxwell."

"Doesn't ring any bells."

"It won't. He didn't use that name when he was on active duty. Called himself Dean Crow. Thought it sounded tougher than Marty Maxwell. More befitting a U.S. Secret Service agent."

"Sounds like a complete peckerhead," I offered. "But I must admit I do recall something about him. Some low-level scandal involving a presidential candidate's wife, wasn't it?"

"He was relieved of duty after he was found supposedly looting the good lady's wardrobe for what he called in an interview 'a token of his skill.' "

"He's a damn panty sniffer?" I asked.

Walter shook his head. "Nothing so gross. He cut a patch from one of her blouses is all."

I recalled the missing piece of cloth from the old woman's blouse after she'd been held hostage next door. I was about to say this when Walter added, "I say supposedly. The truth is the good lady was wearing her blouse at the time. Marty said he took the token to show her how vulnerable she was, how much she relied on him at all times."

"Crazy," I said.

"Yeah. Supremely crazy."

"So how'd he get through the net? Surely the psych tests should've singled him out before he achieved agent status?"

"Some psychos are good at covering their true identities. Up to that point Marty Maxwell was well respected and had seniority. It was a surprise to find that one of their most able men was crazy as a fox."

I grunted. "And all that happened was that he was discharged from service? Why didn't anyone keep an eye on him? Surely the signs were there, that he was capable of spiraling out of control?"

"Secret Service kept an eye on him as best they could. Only thing was—crazy or not—he was no fool. He knew that he'd be under surveillance for the foreseeable future. He wasn't prepared to let that happen."

"He went underground?"

"More than that. He faked his death. Supposedly, in an act of shame, he killed himself. And the other members of his family. Wife and two kids."

"Oh, God . . ."

"Shot them dead in their beds, turned the gun on himself, stuck it under his chin, and blasted off his head. He'd set up an incendiary device to burn the lot of them. Left only charred corpses in the burned-out ruin of their home." Walter hung his head in shame, but I guessed it wasn't in memory of Maxwell's wife and children. "Their identity wasn't in dispute. That was an end to it. They messed up."

"You're telling me. Obviously the DNA wasn't matched or they'd have known before now that he was still on the loose."

"I don't fully understand the science. They were happy it was Marty Maxwell. Considering he'd blown away half his head, they had no teeth for a dental comparison. His fingerprints had been burned off down to the bone. With the odds-on favorite that it was him, where would you have put your money?"

"Considering the training he'd had, what he'd have known, I'd have looked at the possibility that there was more to his death than met the eye. Who was the fourth body? If not Marty Maxwell? His father? A brother?"

"According to Marty's file he was a single child. Both parents died years before. Mother died following complications during childbirth, father from congenital heart disease. Let's not forget that until then, he hadn't committed any crimes. It was put down as a murder-suicide. They believed Maxwell was dead and that was that. Case closed."

"But obviously he did have a brother?" I asked.

"Turns out he had a half brother called Robert Swan. Daddy Maxwell had been a naughty boy on his stag night, got an old sweetheart of his pregnant. It was Daddy Maxwell's best-kept secret. We only found this out afterward. The brother's mother noticed he was missing when her money stopped coming in. She's a lush, lives alone in a tenement up in the Bronx; seems like the son was sending her money whenever he could. A good boy. Looked after his ma, like any good boy should."

"But Maxwell found out about his brother? I thought you said it was a secret."

Walter grimaced. "Daddy Maxwell must've come clean in the end. Maybe he confessed his transgression on his deathbed. His wife was already on the other side; I guess he could've been seeking absolution. From what we've been able to put together, Maxwell sought out his half brother, but still kept his identity secret from everyone else. Makes you wonder if he had the brother in mind for this very purpose all along, doesn't it?"

I thought about Walter's story; wondered what level of insanity it took to not only murder your family but plan it for God knows how long before doing it.

"If Maxwell had had the foresight to kill his brother's mother, we would probably be sitting here right now wondering how the hell a dead man had risen from the grave," Walter said.

I asked, "So what has the Cain reference got to do with it? Other than that the psycho likes assumed names?"

"His half brother was a musician," Walter said as if that would explain everything to me. I looked at him blankly. "Genesis. Like you said, everyone begetting one another."

"I'm still not with you."

Walter raised a stubby finger again. Sermon part two. "Well, if you've read your Bible you'll know that there was an old blind guy named Lamech."

"I must have missed that bit."

"Lamech had two sons. Jubal and Tubal."

"Yeah," I agreed. "I remember now. Jubal and Tubal Cain."

"Jubal was the inventor of music," Walter began.

"Tubal was the forger of knives and swords," I completed. "I see the connection now. If the brother, a musician, is synonymous with Jubal, that makes the Harvestman Tubal Cain."

"Took a load of FBI profilers to come up with that one."

"Hence Maxwell's love of knives?"

"Yup."

"And the bones?"

"Some of these profilers have got it in mind that he's set himself some kind of mission, that he's taking the bones from his victims for some express purpose."

"What?" I asked. "Other than that he's demented?"

"Believe it or not, they believe he's feeling remorse for the killing of his brother, that somehow he's attempting to make amends."

"Why his brother? Why not his wife and kids?"

Walter gave a body shrug. "It's just a theory."

"It'd make sense, I suppose. If he has this notion that they're Jubal

and Tubal Cain reborn, it'd only be right that he'd attempt to make amends. You think the killings are symbolic? Y'know, Bible-related?"

"Nothing in the Good Book that extols the virtues of offering up body parts," Walter said.

I was puzzled. "So what do you think he's doing?"

"Don't know. Could be making soup stock for all I know."

"John said that they had an arrangement, that he would see it through to the end. That he'd sacrifice himself for the old woman. You don't think he was literally talking about sacrifice?"

"Hmm," Walter said. "Sacrifice is something that appears in the Old Testament. Maybe it's something that would appeal to Maxwell."

Until now I'd been relaxed enough about going after John. But with this new understanding of Tubal Cain's intentions, I was off the bed in an instant.

"We can't stand around here any longer," I said. "Where's Rink?"

"Cooling his heels next door," Walter said. As I started for the door, he said, "Hold it, Hunter."

"You aren't in a position to stop me, Walter."

"I don't intend stopping you. That's not why I was brought in. I want to give you my blessing. And to ask you a favor."

I stirred restlessly. "A favor?"

"A favor. When you kill the son of a bitch, you don't breathe his name to anyone. Ever."

I scowled at him. Then nodded slowly.

"Help me, Walter. Give me the resources I need to find the bastard, and I promise you that Marty Maxwell—or Tubal Cain, or whatever the hell his name is—will be buried without a trace." "I knew I could count on you."

36

back on the road again.

I knew then, even as we sped away in a commandeered government SUV, that the outcome was bound to be bloodshed. The only thing that gave me heart was that I wouldn't be the only man doing the bleeding. By the grim set of Rink's features, he knew it, too. Cain had made two implacable enemies in us, and I could almost pity the fool. Almost.

Rink drove. I held the Global Positioning Satellite receiver supplied by Walter. On the display screen a red cursor blipped on a map of the Los Angeles area. Periodically the cursor shifted on the map, meaning not only that Cain was still on the move but that he hadn't yet realized that John was in possession of the cell phone.

It could only be a matter of time before Cain discovered John's duplicity, or the makeshift tracking device became obsolete when John was buried in a Dumpster or sunk to the bottom of a river.

Going for us was the fact that Cain was using diversionary tactics to shake off pursuit. Guessing that he might be followed by more conventional methods, he was taking surface streets and alleyways to navigate the sprawling city. Though he had more than an hour's lead on us, we'd been able to gain back much of that time by following a direct route. Another thing that very quickly became obvious—even though he often backtracked or ran parallel to his intended target—Cain was making for Interstate 10, the main eastward route out of Los Angeles.

Initially picking up the 405, we hurtled north past Redondo Beach toward LAX, struck eastward on the 105, then again headed north on the 110, hoping to cut Cain off where the two major routes converged near the downtown L.A. Convention Center. It was apparent that it wouldn't be as easy as that when Cain jinked northeastward, skirting the center of the city on its northern border, while we continued east again toward Interstate 5 and became snarled in traffic.

I watched the cursor skip across the map, pick up Interstate 10, and continue past the Rose Bowl as Rink cursed and pressed on the horn, attempting to force our way through the traffic.

After twenty minutes of very little forward progress, the traffic began to open out ahead of us, and Rink pressed the throttle with disregard for the speed limit. Slaloming in and out of lanes, he gained open road and booted the SUV.

Picking up Interstate 5, we made the short trip northward before meeting Interstate 10 again and swinging in pursuit of our quarry, now more than thirty minutes ahead of us.

"We can still make it," I told Rink. "The prick's certain he's in the clear. He doesn't seem to be traveling much over sixty." I glanced over at the odometer. Rink was pushing the SUV to 120 miles an hour. "If you can keep this up, we'll catch him in no time."

"Darn tootin' I can keep it up. If all these goddamn Sunday drivers would get the hell outta my way." To add weight to his promise, Rink laid his hand on the horn, causing vehicles ahead to swerve out of our way.

It was an exhilarating ride. If it weren't for the fear of arriving too late to save John, I'd have whooped and howled like a kid on a roller coaster. Instead I stayed grimly silent, my gaze on the GPS screen. I didn't have to be so observant. Cain was already out of the urban sprawl and headed toward the vast American southwest.

Even at breakneck speed, it was almost an hour before we caught sight of the Dodge hijacked from the house at Long Beach. We were tempted to continue at top speed, attempt to catch and then force the Dodge off the road. Though I didn't want to believe that John was dead, now, at least, we could stop the Harvestman's reign. Of course, stopping him here would bring further complications.

Conclusion? It would be more prudent to follow at a safe distance and act when there was no likelihood of an innocent passerby being caught up in the gunfire.

Cain wasn't a fool. He was a crazy, murderous bastard, but he was also shrewd. Along with that, he'd been trained as a government agent, and it was a given that he was an expert driver, versed in all manner of countersurveillance measures and reactive driving. We fell into line, allowing more than a quarter of a mile, and at least four vehicles, to separate us. Though that was a meaningless exercise.

"He knows we're here," Rink said.

I looked across at him. There he was again, reading my thoughts.

"He knows we're here and he's taunting us," Rink embellished.

I nodded. "Probably."

"Back at the house, it was almost like he was challenging you to find him. Makes me think that's why he spent so long in the city; to let you catch up."

When I thought about it, I realized Rink was right. "Yeah, he was taking a big chance driving through the center of L.A. when there could've been an APB out for him. He could've easily switched vehicles, too. Looks like he wants us to follow him."

"You want me to get up a little closer? Put a little pressure on the squirmy little punk?"

"No. Just hang back where we are. Let's see where he wants to take us."

"My guess is it's going to be somewhere remote. He's looking for a showdown. Doesn't want anyone else getting in the way."

"If it's a showdown he wants, it's what he's gonna get."

Rink and I exchanged glances.

"He's certainly made this personal, ain't he?" Rink asked.

"He made it personal when he took John prisoner," I pointed out.

"Maybe so," Rink said. "But I'm referring to him and you. When he found out who you were, I could see it in his face—it was almost as if he was excited. As if he'd found a worthy adversary, y'know? You think he's lookin' to die, Hunter? Some of these sickos like to go out in a blaze of glory. Think he's lookin' for you to kill him?"

"Whether he is or he isn't, that's what's going to happen," I promised.

"Yeah," Rink grumbled. "But be wary, man. If he has a death wish, he intends to take you with him. If he's looking to bolster his reputation, who better to have on his dead list than you?" Rink looked across at me again. "Apart from me, of course."

Even in that moment, Rink could find humor. It made me smile. "Of course."

"No, man, I'm serious. The psycho's looking to make himself famous."

I shook my head. "You really think anyone will ever know the truth about him?"

"Not if it's left to Walter."

"The provision he put on us—allowing us to bring the Harvestman down—was that his name never got mentioned again. How likely is it that my name hits the news if the maniac manages to take me out?"

"Not very, I suppose. But then again, what about your folks back home? Don't you think they're gonna want answers, that they won't make a scene if anything happens to you?"

"Diane knows what my line of work is. She'll receive a call from Walter's office. She'll be told to keep quiet. She wants a quiet life, she'll comply."

Rink grunted. "An' here was me thinkin' you really understood your ex-wife."

I squinted across at him and he looked at me as though I was a complete idiot. "Hunter, man. You're not in that game anymore. How many times do I have to remind you? There's your mom and dad. Jennifer. An' you really think for one goddamn minute that Diane ain't gonna scream to the rafters if anything happens to you? You think she'll give a shit what line Walter tries to feed her about the Harvestman's identity being an embarrassment to the U.S. government?"

I exhaled. He was right again. Of course Diane would want—no, demand—answers. Suggesting otherwise was doing her an injustice. I nodded.

"Not only that," Rink went on. "But don't you think I won't raise the subject? I don't owe Walter a goddamn thing. I never made any promises to hide the identity of his little black sheep."

"No, Rink. I made the promise for both of us. By coming along, you bought into this."

Rink's face twisted, but he was giving in.

We drove for another hour and a quarter and silence reigned over the many miles.

"Look familiar?" Rink suddenly asked.

I glanced toward a rest stop across the highway to our left. There was a diner and rest area, beyond them a cul-de-sac of single-story cabins. I shook my head.

"That's where the couple was murdered. The man and woman who picked John up in their car."

"You mean the couple who picked up Martin Maxwell or Tubal Cain or whatever it is he calls himself? It's obvious now, isn't it, what really happened?"

"You're saying that somehow the Harvestman ended up with John's

car—the one he stole from Petoskey—and it was him, not John, who the witnesses saw being picked up?"

"Yeah. Exactly."

"So how do you explain John and the Harvestman tying up together again? I mean . . . it's a bit of a stretch, ain't it?"

"Not unless something happened between John and Cain. Something that ensured Cain would hunt him down."

Rink gave an expansive shrug. "Who knows? They coulda been acting together long before any of this happened."

"No. I don't believe that. Chance threw them together. I think John became an unwilling puppet. The evidence is all there. Remember that it was John who saved the old woman, that it was John who gave us the tools to hunt Cain down. It was his decision to take my cell phone. Do you really believe he'd have done that if he was working with Cain?"

"No, I don't. An' I don't think he'd offer himself up as a sacrifice, either. I'm only playing advocate here. I don't suppose we'll ever know the true story."

"Only way we're gonna find that out is to save John," I said. "If I have my way, Cain won't be around to do any explaining."

Out here on the fringes of the Mojave Desert, there was a surreal cast to the early evening sky. Behind us, hovering above the Pacific Ocean, the sun's final gasp made the sky a mother-of-pearl banner. Alongside the road, Joshua trees cast elongated shadows like accusing fingers, pointing the way to the showdown ahead.

Four vehicles ahead, Cain flicked on his lights, ensuring that we could follow him as the night began to descend over the desert.

While he drove, Rink drank mineral water courtesy of the government. He offered me some. Pity that the bottle didn't contain something a little stronger. Nonetheless, I accepted it and chugged down a grateful mouthful.

Really, I should've been thirstier than I was, I should've felt the

need for food. Neither of us had eaten anything since early that morning. However, the continued release of adrenaline ensured that nothing would pass my lips that required my stomach to hold on to it. Anything more solid than the spring water, I suspected, would end up projected out the window in a couple of miles.

As night came, Rink pushed the SUV on. One of the cars between us turned up a side road and Rink filled the gap it left.

For two more hours Cain led us on a merry dance. Then, as if concerned that we might miss him turning off the main route, he used his turn signal, slowed down dramatically, and crawled to an intersection.

Two of the cars ahead of us overtook him before he reached the turnoff. As Cain swept to the right, the remaining car continued on to the east, and I saw Cain hit the brakes a couple of times, ensuring that we didn't lose him.

"Considerate son of a bitch," Rink muttered.

Then Cain was on the overpass, crossing the interstate, heading northward. On the bridge he slowed to a crawl, watched as we swung onto the off ramp. Then he gave the Dodge gas and peeled away.

"I guess we're getting close now, and he wants time to prepare," I said.

The GPS tracker had been obsolete for some hours now. Throughout it had traveled cradled in my palms, for no other reason than it stopped me fiddling with my gun. Luck, or maybe foresight, caused me to check the screen. The cursor indicating the latest triangulated location of the cell phone had finally stopped moving. I didn't even bother to frown. Cain had discovered our deception. Maybe he'd found John was carrying the device as soon as they'd left the house at Long Beach; maybe it was much later. Whatever. When he'd slowed down, it wasn't to taunt us, it was to throw away the phone.

It was clear that he wanted us nearby. More clear was his need to buy a little time before we arrived at the meeting ground.

"Put your foot down, Rink."

"I can still see his lights," Rink said. "I won't lose him."

"He won't let you lose him," I said. "He'll make sure we know ex- actly where he is. But he'll be prepared for our arrival, and I don't want to allow him that advantage."

37

"you don't look so good." Cain studied his passenger. His words, he decided, were an understatement. John was spread across the backseat of the Dodge like yesterday's fast-food wrappers; cold, soiled, and greasy. Blood from his wound caked his clothing all down his side. His hands were also reddishbrown and he had smears on his forehead. Perspiration oozed from him like water from a half-dead boiler.

"I said that you don't look so good, John," Cain said, watching John's eyelids flutter in the rearview mirror.

"Turn off the light, willya?" John mumbled incoherently.

"I need to check that you're okay," Cain said, but he reached up and flicked off the interior lights.

"Why? You're gonna kill me," John said, his voice coming out like marbles over a tin sheet. "Or have you forgotten?"

"You keep saying that. I might have a change of mind."

"Yeah, right." John forced himself to sit upright.

"Lay back down."

"I'm fine."

"The road gets kinda rough up ahead. It would be better if you were lying down. Less chance you'll open up your wound again."

"My wound's fine."

Cain gave a humorless laugh. "Suit yourself."

"Better than suiting you," John said with little conviction.

Cain drummed his fingers on the steering wheel. "You know, I'm not sure this old heap will get us where we're going. Not in any shape, at least."

"Won't matter," John told him. "You won't need it for the return trip. You'll be getting a lift in the coroner's car."

"Ha!"

"I mean it. You mess with my brother, you're buying your own body bag."

"Keep thinking that way, John. Optimism will keep you alive."

"I'm not gonna get outta this alive. I know that. I've known it all along. My only hope is that I see you die first."

"If anyone ends up dead, it'll be your high and mighty brother. Chances are I'll have to do Jared Rington, too."

"You actually believe that?"

"Are you saying that confidence in my abilities is a bad thing? Shame on you, trying to tarnish my self-esteem."

"Nothing I say would make you think badly of yourself. You're a fuckin' psychopath."

"Sticks and stones, John. Sticks and stones."

"Stop being so damn patronizing. Why don't you come clean and tell the truth? You've intended killing me all along, haven't you? I can't believe you saved me from drowning so that you could murder me. That's so twisted, nobody would believe it."

"The truth is, you're here now. Makes no difference whether you believe me or not."

John snapped, "You're gonna get your head handed to you on a plate. My brother isn't like me; Joe will kill you."

"Nah, I don't see things turning out that way."

John gave a disgusted cough, squirmed down in the seat. Either his strength was failing him or he'd decided that it was pointless talking. Not that it made a difference; if Cain wanted to talk, he would talk. "Now, then, where is the big bold Joe Hunter?"

Cain squinted into the mirror, adjusting it. Some distance back he could see the headlights of the pursuing SUV. In response, he turned off the Dodge's lights. "Don't want to make things too easy, now, do we?"

"I thought you wanted him to follow you?"

"I do, just not too closely."

"You might as well give up. Joe isn't gonna be reading you your rights. He's gonna put a bullet right between your eyes."

"Then I'll just have to make certain he doesn't see me, won't I?"

Cain grinned into the darkness.

The road had become a dirt trail, with ruts on either side and sagebrush along its center where the desert sand gathered. The moon hanging low over the horizon offered a little light, so Cain could make out the road ahead. Not that he needed to concentrate; he knew this trail as well as he knew his own dark heart's desires. Despite his misgivings about the worthiness of the Dodge, he pushed it to greater speed, smiling at each jounce and the wince of pain it elicited from his passenger.

"I bet you wish you hadn't pulled that stunt with the cell phone," he said. John didn't answer. "Right now you're thinking that—not only have you signed your own death warrant—but your brother's as well. Deep down, some errant grain of honor is festering like a malignant cancer, eating away at your insides. You're thinking, I should've paid my dues and spared the others. Now I've put my brother in terrible danger."

"No," John said. "I'm thinking you're so full of crap I can't stand the stench any longer. I'm outta here, you maniac!"

Then John grabbed the door handle and thrust the door open. The rush of wind banged it back against him.

Cain would never admit to panic, but realizing John's insane plan, he let slip a shout of denial. He immediately stomped on the brakes. John's body was thrown forward, and his forehead slammed the back of Cain's neck. The shock of the collision knocked Cain's hands off the steering wheel, and momentarily he had to fight both the movement of the vehicle and the wave of agony washing over him. In those few seconds, John threw his weight against the partly open door and fell away into billowing dust.

"Son of a bitch!" Cain screamed, stomping on the brake pedal a second time. The Dodge fishtailed, sending up plumes of dirt, ending up crossways in the road. He threw open the door and lurched out, eyes scanning the road for John. Not on the road. He began running. In the distance were the telltale lights of Hunter's car.

Forty or so paces along the road he found John sprawled at the base of a gnarly cactus. Momentarily he feared that John was dead, but then he saw the fire in the man's eyes as he squirmed around to face him.

"You stupid, stupid idiot," Cain snarled.

"Screw you," John grunted.

Cain stepped forward as John attempted to rise up against him. Cain's foot pushed him down again, pressing savagely against the wound in his chest. John screamed. Cain pressed harder. And the screaming stopped as John passed out at last.

Cain grabbed him, thrust his arms around John's chest in a bear hug, and began backpedaling. Dragging the groaning man, Cain looked up. Hunter's lights were some distance away, but looming nearer. "I should just leave you here to die, you goddamn ass. Leave you in the road so your freakin' brother rides right over you."

It was a hollow threat because he still had a plan for John Telfer.

38

the enigma that was tubal cain kept nagging at me. How does a psycho like Martin Maxwell bluff his way through the rigorous selection processes employed by the Secret Service? How does he manage to conceal his true self—a depraved stalker and murderer—and pass himself off as normal?

Not only that, but to his wife and kids, had he been the epitome of the family dad? What had gone through their minds when they'd finally seen his true face?

What had his long-lost brother imagined when they'd first met? That they'd pick up on their missing past, that they'd shoot pool together, share a couple of beers, become bosom buddies? I bet he never imagined that he'd end up a scorched corpse in a house he'd never known, the ghosts of Cain's wife and children keeping him company.

"You're doing it again," Rink said.

I looked over at Rink, who was doing a good job of looking at me without taking his full attention from the trail.

"Doing what?"

"Wearing that face."

"What face?"

"The face that says you ain't worried about what's to come. The one you always wore on missions."

"I'm worried, Rink."

"Don't look like it."

Then he changed the subject.

"Heads up, Hunter. The lights have just gone out."

I peered into the darkness ahead. I couldn't see the Dodge's taillights, either. They'd long taunted us, and their sudden disappearance brought an uncomfortable feeling. Like a hole had opened up and the devil had escaped us by fleeing back to hell.

"You think he's stopped? Maybe fixin' to escape?" Rink glanced my way again, back to the road.

"No. He's running blind. He wants to get ahead of us so he can set up an ambush."

"Time we played catch-up, then," Rink said. The SUV surged ahead, bouncing over the higher ruts, blasting directly through others so that gravel and small rocks banged and clattered in the wheel wells.

Now the chase was truly on.

Again I checked my SIG. Full clip. Two spares in my waistband. Then I reached down and felt the hilt of my military issue KA-BAR where it was tucked in my boot. Somehow I suspected that the knife would be my weapon of choice when I finally came eye to eye with the murderous bastard.

Stars twinkled in the vault above us. Out here, in the middle of this empty space, the sky was endless, the starlight sharply defined. Shadows were stark, and the sand and gravel had a faintly luminous quality. Rocketing across the night landscape, the beauty of the desert was lost on me. I didn't give any of it a second's notice. How could I think of beauty when I was chasing something as loathsome as Tubal Cain?

I was inclined to lean out the window to check the night sky for another reason: as we'd used the technology Walter had given to us, I had no doubt we were being tailed as diligently as we tailed Cain. They wouldn't be coming in cars; they'd have command of helicopters, possibly even an AWACS aircraft high in the heavens to plot our course. In the end, I didn't bother looking. Helicopters would be piloted without running lights, and a high-altitude spy plane would be impossible to spot.

"When we find him we do him quickly," I said to Rink.

"My intention all along."

"Walter's goons will be coming," I added.

"They won't try and stop us."

"I know. They'll be coming to mop up, to make sure everything's clean. I don't want John falling into their hands." I looked pointedly at Rink, and he jerked his chin in response. "They'll make John disappear. They might even make us disappear."

"They'll goddamn try, frog-giggin' punks."

I returned my attention to the road ahead. The brush country was giving way to a higher elevation. On the skyline ahead, I could detect a deepening of the shadows, as if a colossal wall had been erected astride the desert.

"You any idea where we are?" I asked Rink.

"Nope."

I looked for the GPS, switched it on, and studied the faintly glow- ing map on the LED screen. Tightly knit lines showed that the terrain was more mountainous ahead. The road wasn't marked on the map, but that came as no surprise. I placed the GPS down at my feet. "Keep on going. Looks like we're heading for those hills."

Rink obliged. But we'd traveled no more than a quarter of a mile before I slapped my hands on the dashboard and commanded him to stop. I craned around so I didn't lose sight of what was at the side of the road. Rink brought the SUV to a halt even as I was opening the door to get out.

I jogged back the way we'd come, slowed down, and came to a halt twenty yards from what I'd noticed protruding from a clump of brush.

I listened.

Nothing moved in the sandscape. All I could hear was the throaty hum of the SUV behind me and the rushing blood in my veins. Still, I remained motionless, using my peripheral vision to probe the shadows. What is often missed when viewed directly can be picked up in the peripheral, the slightest movement amplified tenfold. It's a prey animal thing, a throwback to the days when man was hunted by carnivorous beasts.

Finally satisfied that this wasn't part of Cain's ambush, I stepped forward. A quick inspection showed that the dirt and gravel at the side of the road had been disturbed. More concerning, I saw a damp patch of blood where a body had been dragged across the earth. I guessed that John had made some effort at escape, only to be captured and forced back into the Dodge. Cain had John, yes, but he hadn't noticed the briefcase that was hung up in the bushes farther along the trail.

I trotted over and snatched the Samsonite case from the brush. I was in no doubt that it was the one I'd seen John clinging to at the beach house. Chance could have dumped a briefcase way out here in the desert, but not one glistening with sticky blood. I didn't spare the time to check its contents, noting only that it was heavy before I stuffed it under my arm and headed back to the SUV.

When I was back in the car, Rink set off again after Cain. He asked, "You thinking what I'm thinking?"

"Money," I said. I opened the case on my lap. Bundle upon bundle of bills filled the case. Rink gave a low whistle.

"Counterfeit?"

I checked.

"No. The real thing."

"So that's what this is all about," Rink said.

I shook my head. "I don't think so, Rink. It was never about the money. Cain wants blood. That's all it's ever been about."

"Bones," Rink corrected.

"But I do think this is what it's all been about for John."

"Goddamn greedy fool."

I shook my head. "Believe it or not, I don't think he did this out of greed. I think he sees it as a way to put things right."

"Yeah," Rink said with no conviction. I shrugged. I knew John better than that. I believed that he'd changed. The old John wouldn't have jeopardized his safety for the old woman; he wouldn't have risked lifting the cell phone from my pocket for fear that Cain saw him. To me, John had turned a corner in his life, where more than his next bet meant something to him.

Even what we'd just come across back there on the trail now made sense to me. He hadn't attempted to escape at all; he'd jumped from the Dodge so he could leave the cash for me to find. The money wasn't for him; it was for Louise, it was for Jenny, it was for his children. Stuffing the case beneath my seat, I put the money to the back of my mind. I could see to it later.

39

"how do you like the place?"

Oblivious to Cain, John slumped against the wooden supportbeam, smearing it with blood as he forced himself upright. His head lolled on his shoulders and he mumbled something incoherent.

"You could act a little more enthusiastic than that," Cain said. "I've gone to a lot of trouble to get the place just right for my brother. Put a lot of time and effort into the decor. Don't you think the ambience is just right?"

John staggered. Cain clutched him under an arm, mindless of the way his fingers dug into flesh. "Watch that first step; it can be a real bitch."

Then, with a shove, he pressed John forward. Watched as his captive tumbled down the short flight of steps into darkness. Only semiconscious, John made little noise. He fell as if constructed from rags that made only soft contact with the steps. A grunt was all that marked his resting place.

"That'll teach you to pay attention," Cain said. He wasn't happy that John had lost the case of money, but neither was he unnecessarily concerned. Either Joe Hunter would fetch the money for him, or he could backtrack and collect it when all this was over. Concern was unnecessary, but a little necessary cruelty would remind John Telfer what it meant to cross Tubal Cain. Taking one last glance behind him, Cain followed John into the darkness.

Fifteen feet down, the steps leveled out on a floor made of bedrock. Last time Cain had been here he had swept the desert sand away, but already he could feel windblown dust beneath his feet; it was the main downside to his hideaway that he had to continually maintain it by brushing and sweeping to keep the desert at bay.

He prodded John with a foot, moving him aside as he reached out in the dark and clutched for the padlock that held the metal door shut. Holding the lock in one hand, he traced the fingers of the other up the near wall, found a narrow niche he'd dug into the sandstone, and pulled out the concealed key. The key opened the lock with little resistance. Cain pushed and the door swung inward on well-maintained hinges.

The smell buffeted him.

He smiled.

Even in his semiunconscious state, John gagged at the stench.

"What the fu . . . ?" John groaned.

Cain didn't comment; he bent down and grabbed John's shirt, hauling him to his feet and pushing him into the room before him, urging him into the charnel stink. John gave some resistance, refusing to breathe, steeling his shoulders as he attempted to ward off the sickening stench of rotted meat.

"Get inside," Cain said, almost a whisper.

"No," John gasped.

"Yes." Cain pushed him into the cloying darkness.

Cain entered the room with a breezy exuberance. He fairly skipped over to the nearest lamp, scratched around until he found the butane lighter beside it, then set flame to wick, casting writhing shadows around the room. That done, he emptied his pockets of the bones he'd garnered during his latest trip. They made quite a mound. Then, hands on hips, he surveyed the space before him.

"Now what do you think, John? Do you think Jubal would be pleased?"

On the floor, John was curled into a fetal ball. One arm covered his face, but Cain could see the whites of his eyes reflected in the lamplight, searching the room with a mix of fascination and revulsion. His pupils were like pinpricks in yellowed snow. Yes, Cain decided, John was very impressed.

40

"remind me not to invest in a holiday home out here," Rink said. "Could be a bitch lettin' it out during the winter season." "It'd be a bitch in any season," I told him. The Mojave Desert occupies more than 22,000 square miles, bordering California and portions of Arizona, Utah, and Nevada. Where we were at that given moment I couldn't even begin to guess. I was only pleased that we had a vehicle. If we'd had to walk out of there in the daytime, I didn't think much of our chances for survival.

Not that it was a desert in the true sense of the word. It wasn't made up of mile after mile of dunes like I'd experienced in the Sahara. But one look at the blasted landscape told me it was every bit as arid.

We were climbing higher into the foothills. All around us the night sky was torn along the horizon by weird shapes that I knew were Joshua trees. In my imagination, they appeared to be misshapen giants waving us on to our doom. The road was now all but gone, and what Rink followed was the faint trail Cain's Dodge had left upon the earth.

During the day, this area was hot, and through the middle hours of the night the temperature could drop uncomfortably low, but we were driving during those hours when the heat stored during the daylight hours still radiated from the rocks and gravel. Still, even with the heat on in the SUV, I felt the first hint of the cold. I shivered, found myself tightening in reflex.

"You okay, Hunter?" Rink asked.

I mumbled assent.

"Everything's gonna go fine, you just mark my words."

"I'm okay, Rink," I reassured him. "Just felt like someone walked over my grave."

Rink fell silent. Maybe my words were too prophetic for his liking. He concentrated on guiding the SUV up an incline toward a pass into the foothills marked by two gargantuan crags. Nearing the summit, he turned to me. "It's Cain who's gonna die."

I exhaled. "I hope it's all over tonight."

I looked at him. He coughed deep in his throat, a low grumble. "Cain's number's up. That part'll be finished. But what about the rest?"

"What rest?" I asked, but already the question was rhetorical. He was referring to John, to Louise Blake, Petoskey and Hendrickson, Walter, the Secret Service. All the victims and the families of the Harvestman. Maybe Cain would die tonight, but how long would the repercussions last? There were other deaths—Cain's victims aside—involved along the way. In particular, the hit man killed at Louise's house, the other I'd killed back at the beach house. How were those going to be resolved?

"We're gonna have us a three-ring circus out here," Rink said.

I stared straight ahead. The two gigantic pillars of rock dominated the skyline. Against the purple sky, they looked like monoliths, stones to mark the tombs of twin giants. And we had to pass between them.

Driving between the huge crags, I knew we'd just gone beyond

the point of no return. Clichéd, yes, but true. Once more, I checked my weapons. They were still prepared, just as they'd been minutes earlier. Momentarily I wondered if they would be enough.

Beyond the rock gates was a flat expanse of sandstone. It sloped gently toward the horizon, shelf built upon shelf of petrified sand. Millions of years ago, this area had been the bed of a prehistoric ocean, teeming with weird and astonishing life forms. But now, hundreds of feet above present sea level, the huge rock was devoid of life. Only dust devils moved here, tiny zephyrs plucking and whirling particles of grit across the unresponsive land.

"Looks like we just touched down on Mars," Rink breathed.

It was apparent by the way the table of rock disappeared into the night that we were on a massive shelf of land, and I cautioned Rink, urged him to slow down. Just something about the color of the night beyond the scope of our vision gave me pause, as though we were standing at the edge of the world and an unwary step would pitch us over the edge.

Rink pulled the SUV to a halt. We leaned forward, craning our necks to look down on the mist-shrouded valley below us. We shared a look. If Rink hadn't stopped when he did, we would've dropped two hundred feet to our deaths.

"Which way now, Daniel Boone?" Rink asked.

"Any way but forward," I said and we both laughed.

Careful not to slip us over the rim of the cliff, Rink edged the SUV to the left, then drove with the caution of someone suddenly struck blind. Here the rock became rutted with deep crevasses, and Rink drove back inland, did a complete U-turn, then swung back the way we'd come. Out of the night loomed queer shapes. Only as we drew alongside them did I realize that we were traveling amid the husks of burned-out vehicles. Predominantly they were camper vans and Winnebagos, the occasional minivan. Cain, it seemed, had a major gripe with the drivers of those vehicles. Then we found the Dodge abandoned. Both front doors stood open and the interior light was a yellow glow against the night sky.

Nothing stirred inside the car. Cain could've been stretched out across the backseat, waiting for us to blunder over and poke our heads inside so that he could shoot us. Or he could've been hunkered down behind the car. I dismissed both ideas.

What fun would that be?

He hadn't brought us all the way out here just so he could hit us with potshots while we were out in the open. Cain had planned a more interesting game than that.

But we still had to check.

We got out of the SUV fifty feet shy of the Dodge. Cautiously we moved to the Dodge and checked it out. While I trained my barrel on the interior of the car, Rink moved in closer and checked the rear seat.

"Clear?" I asked.

Rink nodded me in closer.

"Check it out, Hunter."

I did. And I could do nothing but groan. The backseat was covered with blood. Not pools of the stuff, but enough streaks and smears to indicate that John didn't have much time left on this earth.

While I continued to stare at the mess in the car, Rink quickly checked the trunk of the Dodge, finding it locked. Cain wasn't about to slip out from inside it while our backs were turned. Rink came to stand beside me and nodded to where patches of scuffed rock marked someone's passing. So did the periodic droplets of blood that glistened darkly against the paler surface.

We were off again. Fanning out so that a dozen paces separated us, we edged forward. Then no more than a hundred yards from the parked car, we reached the brink of the cliff. Out of the confines of the SUV, we could approach nearer to the cliff than before, so the void below us no longer appeared so empty. The cliff fell more than two hundred feet to a sloping embankment of shale and sand before leveling out into a natural amphitheater that extended farther than I could see. It was a great bowl shape, alkaline white, with gathering mist hanging over it like a multitude of specters. The sun-bleached basin reminded me of only one thing: the scooped-out, hollow interior of a human skull. I hissed. If Cain could call any place home, this would be it.

Outlined on the escarpment's rim, we made easy targets for anyone positioned below. We stepped back.

"Over there." Rink motioned. "Looks like a way down. Has to be the way they went."

I saw the fissure in the earth and nodded. Moving toward it, I peered over the edge. A casual glance probably wouldn't have revealed the fabricated steps leading down the cliffside, but they were what I'd been looking for. Cain had been here many times in the past; the steps were testimony to that.

"I'll take point," I told Rink. Then I set off. The steps weren't as sheer as they first appeared, and surprisingly, you wouldn't have had to be mountain-goat nimble to climb down. However, burdened with John, I did wonder how Cain managed to make his way down without tripping and carrying them both to their deaths. It gave me a healthy new respect for what the man was capable of.

I reminded myself that he was a trained Secret Service agent, that he was probably whalebone-tough beneath the unassuming exterior. Now I had to credit him with above-average strength and determination. He wouldn't be easy to take out in a chest-to-chest fight.

Rink didn't need guidance on how to handle our descent. He waited until I'd hit the bottom before he set off.

While he descended, I covered him. When he reached bottom, I stalked forward. Rink followed, scanning left and right, periodically behind. We traversed the slope of the bone-white hollow in that fashion until we found level footing. The ground was no longer as treach erous as it had been on the descent, but the mist rose up before us, obscuring our view. That was bad enough, but it also played tricks on our ears. As I stepped out on the sand, I could've sworn I heard the tinkle of music. I paused, turned back to Rink.

"You hear that?"

Rink's eyebrows knitted. "That a radio playing?" he whispered.

I shrugged, stepped forward. Between patches of mist, I thought I saw something move. In response, my hand swung toward it, fingertip caressing the trigger of my SIG. Again the tinkle of music. Then the mist writhed and the shape I'd glimpsed was gone.

"What the hell was that?" Rink hissed at me. Which confirmed I wasn't hallucinating.

"Don't know," I replied.

"Freakin' ghost," Rink muttered under his breath.

Music tinkled from in front of me. Like the dissonant chimes of a musically challenged orchestra. Once more I snatched a glimpse of the conductor waving his baton. And inured to horror as I'd become, even I cringed back from what stood before me.

"Crap," I breathed.

Rink had been right; the monstrosity before me was indeed best described as a ghost.

41

cain whistled while he worked. he kept harmony with every wince of agony from John, exhaled loudly in time with every grunt of pain, laughed when John ground his body against the rock wall in an effort to pull away from his slicing administrations.

"The pain will go away soon," Cain reassured John. "Once I'm through the dermis, as far down as the bone, I'll be beyond the nerve endings."

John howled.

Cain stepped in closer, eyes like lasers, guiding the scaling knife with a surgeon's precision. In such deep concentration, the tip of his tongue poked from beneath the slash of his lips, writhing like a fat worm as he plied his tool. Beyond flesh was bone, and that would require effort. His whistling stopped, and now he moaned more often than John did.

John was beyond agony now, beyond the point of human endurance. Cain sighed. His work wasn't the same, didn't hold the same satisfaction, if his subject wasn't around to appreciate it. Shaking his head, he stepped away. Then, hands on hips, he surveyed his work of art.

Not bad, I suppose, he told himself. Though it still lacked a certain flamboyant statement to finish it off. If this was to be the magnum opus of both Jubal and Tubal Cain, he required a truly magnificent centerpiece to finalize it.

He slipped the scaling knife into his waistband, retrieved the empty gun from where he'd laid it on the floor, and headed out into the night.

42

i've often wondered if there's anyone more superstitious than a soldier. You'd think that with such a reliance on fact, science, and technology, the basis of modern warfare, there'd be no room for a belief in the supernatural. But there is the firm belief in many a soldier's mind that paranormal skills are often within the warrior's arsenal. I am a believer in a sixth sense, the heightened ability to detect the unseen watcher, the sniper on the rooftop or the tiger hidden in the long grass. It's so widely believed that it has even been given a term: Rapid Intuitive Experience, the soldier's very own ESP.

I accept that the proof of such a thing is subjective, but it has saved my life enough times that I give it full credence. But up until now, despite my fanciful notions during the assault on Petoskey's building, I hadn't given the existence of ghosts much credibility. How could I? The number of men I've killed, I would go insane if I dwelled on the number who must haunt me.

Still, belief in ghosts or not, for more than a heartbeat I genuinely accepted that the thing in front of me was a vengeful spirit risen from its grave to exact retribution. I stepped back, eyes wide, mouth hanging open. And if the blade it held in its clawed fist had been animated, I doubt that I could've stopped it scything my head from my shoulders.

"Holy Christ!" I heard the words, but was unsure whether it was me or Rink that said them. Maybe we both did.

Point Shooting is based entirely on the natural posture, the natural reaction to lifting the gun and firing wherever danger presents itself. When confronted by this diabolical creature, my reactions failed me. The SIG hung useless by my side.

Then Rink was beside me. He laid a hand on my shoulder. "Hunter . . . we gotta keep moving, man. Can't let this damn thing throw us."

"It's a little hard not to," I croaked.

The miasma of fear gripped me, and it was an effort to shake free of it. When I did, it was through the exhalation of pent-up fear.

"What the hell is it?" Rink asked.

I looked again at the specter in the mist. A human skull grinned back at me. But I could see now that there was no life behind the recessed sockets, no drool dripping from its widely splayed teeth. It was a simulacrum, given the illusion of life by Cain's artistic dementia. The skull was mounted on a pole pushed into the sand. A tattered blanket was draped over a crossbar to give the semblance of a body. Hands and forearms—withered skin and tendons holding together the bones—were bound to other poles concealed within the blanket. I shuddered.

"It's a warning," I finally managed. "Or a gatekeeper. I think we've found him, Rink."

"You're not kidding."

We both heard the music again; a sonorous piping this time. I stepped closer to the skeletal form. The music was coming from its bones. Tiny drill holes along the radius and ulna of the forearms made for a maniac's idea of a flute. When the wind picked up, it disturbed the blanket and produced a racket like a wind chime.

"Son of a bitch's crazy as a bag of weasels," Rink offered.

As we walked on, I couldn't help peering back at the ghostly form. Who do those bones belong to? I wondered. Is there a family someplace that to this day hopes that their loved one will turn up one bright morning and announce that he's fine, that he only needed to get away for a while but now he's back? I promised myself that I would see to that return, that I would take this person home again. The day wouldn't be bright, and neither would he be fine, but he would be going home.

As would the next twelve skeletons we came across as we walked.

It was an unholy baker's dozen.

All were posed in similar styles to the first, strung up on poles, bodies formed of blankets. But some were in reclining postures, others placed to give the impression of flight, two of them strung together as though engaged in a slow waltz. Cain was indeed crazy, as dangerous as a pit of venomous reptiles, and every bit as sly.

Across the amphitheater we went, and with every step my dread grew. I wondered if we were already too late. If John were already strung up in an insane effigy to Cain's dementia.

The tiny bones strewn in the sand gave me an even greater loathing for Cain than before. Many were the remains of tiny animals and birds fallen out of the sky, but here and there, I saw the phalanges of human fingers protruding from their graves as though clawing their way to an afterlife denied them. Rink looked equally disturbed. I didn't know what face I wore, but I was sure that if my friend studied me now, he'd see that I, too, could fear.

The wind was picking up. The mist—not true mist, but particles of the alkaline desert borne on the wind—billowed around us. It invaded my mouth and nostrils, caused me to squint. I had the horrifying notion that the desert was actually formed of particles of bone, and I gagged and spat in reflex. It was an absurd notion, but it was there. I pulled my shirt up over my face as protection against inhaling dead men's dust.

"Hunter."

I heard Rink's whisper. He was thirty feet to my left, crouching down, gun trained on something I couldn't see. I stopped, took up a crouch of my own. Rink indicated something beyond him that I couldn't discriminate from the shifting veil of sand. Duckwalking, I made my way over.

"There" was all Rink said. I could make out a hulking formation of rocks jutting out of the desert like the ruins of a mythical castle. Like the sand, the rocks were chalk white and glowed with phosphorescence against the night sky. If this amphitheater had once been the floor of an ocean, then the rocks were millions of years old, ancient testimony to volcanic activity that had shattered the sea floor in a cataclysmic upheaval. Directly ahead of us, two more spectral forms marked a fissure in the rocks. Truly, they were gatekeepers this time.

This had to be the final place. Cain's place.

43

alone, either man was a formidable enemy. together, Cain had no hope of defeating them. Not when he was armed only with his scaling knife while both of them had semiautomatic handguns. The only chance he had was to separate them; use their loyalty for each other against them. It was a weakness Cain immediately saw. Though they were fearless warriors, neither wanted to die or to lose his friend. Cain, on the other hand, had no such qualms. He was prepared to die to achieve his aims.

Both Joe Hunter and Jared Rington transcended the level of even the most hard-boiled soldier. Their training . . . no, their indoctrination . . . had seen to that. Maybe they were beyond the normal psychological and physiological responses to the death of a friend guaranteed to halt even the sturdiest warrior in his tracks. Perhaps, like Cain himself, they had reached that ultracognizant level where they could elevate themselves above the ken of mortal man, to float on the seas of chaos where the "natural" order of being meant that nothing was as it seemed. This was the realm in which Cain existed; what if these two had achieved the same level of consciousness? What if, after all these years, he had found worthy protagonists, contenders for his title of Prince of Chaos?

He chuckled to himself. Careful that the sound didn't betray his hiding place.

Not a chance.

44

standing at the threshold to cain's domain, i balked at entering without a full reconnaissance of the area. Yet at the same time I knew that time was of the utmost importance. John was in terrible danger, possibly with only seconds to live, and I was dithering at the entrance to his torture chamber. Still, that unnatural talent for spotting the viper in the grass was screaming at me and I had to heed it.

I had to choose between my own and John's well-being, and at the end of the day I was left with very few choices. If I waited, he'd be dead. If I charged in, he could still end up dead. I had to act.

I stepped forward.

Rink was behind me. I knew that Cain couldn't come on me from that direction. Rink, on the other hand, had me as a buffer if Cain chose to come at us from the rocks. I went slowly, gun out, eyes and ears scanning for any sign of life. Periodically I looked up.

The rocks towered over me. They were sheer enough that I didn't believe Cain could scale them, but more than one soldier had lost his life by ignoring what was lurking above his field of vision. In Vietnam, many a jarhead was taken by surprise by a noose dropped around his throat, or even by the constriction of an assassin's legs dropping from an overhanging bough. The martial art named Viet Vo Dao is based upon that very premise.

I know I was crediting Cain with more tools than he perhaps possessed, but at that moment, before meeting him in combat, I had to credit him with everything possible. In my line of work, to underestimate an individual is to invite death.

The twin sentinels watched my progress. They were larger than those skeletons we'd already passed. More formidable to the eye, with their bison skulls and hulking forms of tattered rags and strips of leather. They looked like something out of a Tolkien novel; chimeralike demons guarding the door to the lower realms.

Beyond them, I came upon a well-beaten path that led to the center of the rock formation. The fissure in the rocks was natural, but here and there I detected evidence that Cain had helped widen the doorway by means of hammer and chisel. Also, he'd marked his progress with weird symbols and pictograms straight out of a Hieronymus Bosch painting. In retrospect, I believe the paintings on the rock surface were a history of his killings, but at the time, I couldn't give his demented story much more notice.

Rink was disciplined enough that he didn't immediately follow me into the passage. I was aware of him somewhere behind me. I could hear his breathing as he crouched at the entrance to the passageway, the strange acoustics amplifying his trepidation. But no words passed between us now. Talking would identify our position. We had to rely on stealth to get us through this thing unscathed. I walked on, mindful of not stepping on a loose pebble or piece of wind-blown brush that would alert Cain. Sweat moistened my brow, tickled between my shoulder blades. My vision was constricted to a narrow focus and my blood rushed in my ears. Not the ideal conditions for hunting. But they were was a response to the adrenaline racing through me and there was nothing I could do about it.

The passage widened out, opening into a cul-de-sac hemmed in on three sides by the towering rock formation. There was only one way in; the ideal location for a trap. Quickly I scanned the rocks above me, my gun at the point of my vision. Nothing stirred; there was nothing to indicate that an ambush would come from above. I stepped into the cul-de-sac, circling on my heels to cover all directions as best I could. Twenty feet in, I found the hole in the ground. Steps leading down into darkness. Breath caught in my throat.

I couldn't make out anything beyond the first few steps. The night had fully descended, and though my eyes had adjusted to the darkness, the steps descended into a space I can only describe as being devoid of anything. It was beyond night, beyond black.

I couldn't bring myself to step into the hole. I even looked back for moral support from Rink. If he could have seen me then, he would have seen the face of terror. I couldn't allow that; I quickly stepped forward, tracing the first step with the toe of my boot. Then, before my desperate boldness fled, I descended the stairs as rapidly as I could.

When I reached the bottom, I could make out the faint outlines of a door before me. The reflection of a flame leaked out from beneath the door. Beyond the door a lamp burned. That knowledge gave me the courage to reach out and tug on the door handle. I did so sharply, then stepped into the room it revealed, my gun searching for targets.

The smell hit me first.

I gagged. That was bad enough.

Then my eyes began to make sense of what I was looking at, and for the first time in my life, I retreated with a cry of alarm.

45

oh, what an idiot. you're baring your neck to the headsman's block. You deserve to die with ignominy, you stumbling, sightless fool! To think I credited you with respect when you're as blind as all the rest. Die, cretin. Die, Jared Rington.

Rink was there, no more than an arm's length from him. The big lummox's nerves were strung taut, shredded, fraying under the pressure. His head swung from side to side. He didn't know which way to look. Because of that, he didn't look anywhere. He saw everything, but in doing so, he saw nothing. His mind was so full of stimuli that it was unable to process what was right before his eyes.

And that was all Cain required. He would use Rink's blindness to his advantage. He timed the rhythm of Rink's movements, watched and discerned the momentary gap where the eyes swung a fraction of an instant before the barrel of the gun followed. Into that fraction of space, Cain would insert himself. Before Rink could make any sense of his appearance, it would already be too late.

A-one and a-two and a- . . . now.

From within the shroud of blankets that was the body of the bisonskulled monstrosity to Rink's left, Cain erupted. He made as little sound as possible, and didn't so much leap out as jut forward from his waist, arm streaking down at the juncture of Rink's neck and shoulder. It was a guaranteed instant kill. The point of his blade jabbing down to puncture the heart from above. Rington would die instantly, drop like a slaughtered steer. No shout of warning to Joe Hunter.

Except Rink wasn't as blind as he looked.

He detected the shifting shadows and he jerked away. The blade still slid into flesh, but instead of finding that pinpoint where the blade could be forced down into the heart, it found resistance in the form of his sturdy clavicle. The metal scoured bone, but it was deflected away from the vitals and into the pectoral muscle.

"Sumbitch!" Rink grunted, his gun coming around. He fired in an arc, not waiting for the target to present itself before jerking on the trigger. Three times he fired. Two bullets cut chips from the rocks, one snatched at the blanket swathing Cain's form. Then Cain's knee thumped against his forearm, halting the gun, and the knife once more cut a swathe through the night. Rink staggered back, blood from his sliced forehead invading his vision.

Move, move, move. A mantra for both men.

Even as Cain extricated himself from his hiding place, Rink was firing again. Blind, but with determination. One bullet scoured Cain's left thigh, another plucked hair from his head. But then Cain was out of the line of fire and he cut again at Rink.

Sliced to the bone, Rink kicked back. His foot caught Cain in the gut, propelled him backward. Cain was too canny a fighter to be caught so easily. Instead of floundering for balance, Cain allowed his momentum to take him over in a roll that brought him back immediately to his feet. And in that instant he was already coming back at Rink. Rink was big, powerful beneath his clothing, trained to deal with dangerous foes, but unprepared for one as determined as Tubal Cain, Father of Cutting Instruments. The Harvestman.

Rink shot again. But the bullet passed through space that Cain had occupied a second before. He was already two paces to the left. As Rink swung toward him, he arced his blade under the barrel of the gun. The pinching of Rink's eyes showed Cain he'd cut him. Then Cain gained the space below Rink's armpit, squirmed under and behind the big man, and looped his free arm around his throat. He jerked backward, sliced at the throat.

Rink grabbed at his knife, but Cain heard the telltale groan of someone in pain. Cain released him, kicked him away. Rink staggered and his head banged off the rock wall. Pivoting, he fell flat on his face. Blood mingled with the chalk-white sand.

Finally, Cain gave voice.

But all he had to say was "Ha!"

He stepped forward. Rink didn't get up. Cain smiled. Leaned down and plucked the gun out of Rink's grasp.

Distantly, he caught the sound of someone calling his name.

He turned quickly, heading into the narrow passage.

46

i should've expected something like this. cain's history should have prepared me. The photographs of his victims viewed on Harvey's computer. The skeletons posed out there in the desert. The grotesque art daubed on the rocks outside. But nothing primed me for the chamber I now stood in.

The chamber wasn't huge. But Cain had used the space economically.

There wasn't a surface more than the width of my hand on walls or ceiling that wasn't decorated with human skulls, scapulas, or pelvic bones. Femur, humorus, radius, and ulna bones formed strange mosaics. Spinal columns had been arranged as borders to separate one insane montage from another. Interspersed between the human remains were countless bones gleaned from road-killed wildlife. And equally disturbing in their own way, myriad patches of cloth snagged from unsuspecting bodies were woven between the bones. Human rib cages dominated the far end of the room like shields on coats of arms. And there, as the living embodiment of Cain's insanity, was his centerpiece.

"Oh, my God. John?"

My voice came out as a wheeze and my arms reached out. My feet wouldn't follow them.

"John?" I asked again.

He was displayed like all the other of Cain's exhibits, attached to the walls of the cave by chains fixed to iron spikes hammered through the stone, his chest against the bedrock. Cords were looped around his throat, woven around his skull, and fixed to a hook in the ceiling. His head was forced back on his spine so that he peered upward. His arms were outstretched, the skin peeled from his back stretched taut beneath them like demonic wings. I could see what Cain was attempting to portray. He intended that John be seen as a supplicant, beseeching a higher spirit in the heavens above him. A fallen angel begging for God's grace?

Walter said that FBI profilers had concluded that Cain might be attempting to make amends for slaughtering his own family. Perhaps John was representative of the demon that was Martin Maxwell, and in reality, it was he who begged grace from God. Maybe we'd never know the true meaning, and everything was simply the product of his depraved mind.

It wasn't just the pose that shocked me. In itself it was terrible. The way in which Cain had stripped the flesh from John's back, exposing the musculature, went way beyond awful. Yet that wasn't the worst. What made me shrink inside was that John still shivered with life.

Caught in a snapshot moment again, eternity was measured by the thrum of one heartbeat.

Then I was moving forward with no sense of volition.

One moment I was standing at the threshold, the next I was cradling John's head between my palms. My SIG was lying in the dust at my feet, forgotten in my urgency to help my brother. All that was in my head, my heart, my soul, was to give John a modicum of comfort. He wasn't conscious; not in the real sense of the word. He stirred. I didn't want to look at his wounds, but inexorably my eyes drifted down. My eyes screwed tight, blocking the image, but I knew I'd see it for a long time to come.

"Oh, my God," I moaned again. Beyond reason, the prayer was for my own mortal soul. I gently caressed John's head, and this time he responded.

He shrieked.

He pulled away from me, shrieked again.

"John. It's all right. It's me. It's Joe. Your brother."

John squirmed away from my touch.

"John. John." I couldn't find words to comfort him. To let him know that he was going to be okay. I was there for him. I wouldn't allow the beast to harm him further. I would save him. Find him medical care. I would do all those things. But I was useless. I averted my face and allowed my frustration to escape me in a ragged howl of fury and loathing. All the while, I hung on to John so that—if nothing else—he would know I was there.

I pressed my face to his shoulder, held him. I was talking to him, though I can't recall my words. They were nothing more than low, gentle platitudes that issued between wrenching sobs.

Finally, I reached across and tested the iron nails that had been hammered into the wall. The nails were slick with John's blood and I couldn't get a grip on them. I couldn't undo the chains without the key. So instead I started pulling free the cords that bound his head. Only distantly was I aware that the cords were the dried tendons and ligaments stripped from previous victims. I managed to pull them free, and John's head lolled on his shoulder.

The resilience of human nature is outstanding, the terrific injuries bodies can endure before life finally flees. That John was not only alive but in charge of his faculties was truly remarkable.

"Joe?" he croaked.

"Yes, John." I almost burst out crying again. "It's Joe. I'm here to help you."

And just as I said it, I heard the gunfire.

I spun from John, stooping for my SIG and lifting it toward the door. The gunfire was from somewhere outside. Rink, I thought. Killing Cain. Or being killed. I took three hurried steps before catching myself. I turned back to John.

"Everything'll be okay, John," I promised. "I'll be back."

"No," John moaned. "Don't leave me."

I shook with indecision but my training took over. "I'll be back. I promise."

And I started for the steps leading out. I had to defend this place. If Cain had taken Rink out, then he only had to keep me penned inside with no recourse but to watch my brother perish. If there was any way possible that he'd survive his horrific injuries, John required immediate medical help.

Even as I reached the steps, I heard gunfire again. A second of nothing, then one last shot. Then silence. I quickened my pace up the steps. I took them in three bounds, then I was out. Searching for targets, finding none. Immediately I set off in the direction of the narrow cleft between the rocks.

I shouted one word: "Cain!"

The cleft was a dark slash between the towering boulders, but I thought I could see movement there. Instinctively I pulled the trigger. And as reactively, someone shot back. I felt the wind of its passing as the bullet punched through the air next to my head. In midstep I dropped and rolled, came back to one knee firing again. A return shot tugged loose cloth at my elbow. I didn't let it stop me, kept on firing. Six shots in rapid succession, directly into the narrow passageway where I just had to get at least one killing shot into Cain's body mass. I heard him curse and knew that I'd hit him.

I dropped to my belly, fired the remaining two rounds in my gun, snatched backward at my waistband for a fresh clip even as I ejected the spent one.

It was a practiced movement I could achieve in less than two seconds, but it's surprising how much ground a determined man can cover in less than two seconds. Even as I pushed the clip into my SIG, Cain came charging at me out of the gloom.

Point.

Shoot.

The bullet caught him. It struck his left arm. But he didn't recoil; he fired back. Kept on coming.

Bullets punched the earth in front of me, spraying me with salty dust. I felt fire sear my left calf. I grunted. Fired again. And this time Cain doubled over. Though it didn't stop him. He launched himself at me.

Prone, I was at his mercy.

I had to move.

I twisted sideways, barely avoiding the elbow that Cain thrust at my skull. Then I twisted back toward him, firing at point-blank range. Only Cain had also twisted away and my bullet missed him. He slashed at my gun hand, and the stiffened edge of his hand struck the nerves on my forearm. The SIG fell from my lifeless fingers. Cain's gun swung toward me. I kicked at his chest and his aim went wide. Then we'd thrown our bodies together, and even as I thrust at his throat with my left hand, Cain jabbed his knee into my groin. I headbutted him in the face, reached for his gun, and wrenched it from him. He chopped at my wrist and I allowed the gun to drop so that I could return the blow.

We rolled across the sand, and there was no reason behind the strikes we aimed at each other, only that they were vicious and aimed at vulnerable points. Delivered with evil intent. Neither had the advantage. We were both wounded. Both of us were insane with hatred. Both of us wanted only to kill. At any second one of us would get what we wanted. Then the earth gave way beneath us and we were falling into space.

Somewhere deep inside I knew that our battle had taken us to the lip of the stairs leading to Cain's lair. We caromed against the steps, each taking the bone-jangling force as we somersaulted downward. Hitting the bottom we were forced apart, scattered on the floor.

I pulled myself to my knees, my teeth bared as I spat blood from my mouth. Cain was in a similar pose. There was a wound along his scalp that made his pale hair stick straight up. Another wound above his right hip leaked blood. His eyes were pinched; pinpricks of fury.

"I'm gonna rip your fucking head off," I promised him as I pushed up from my crouch.

"Come on." Cain beckoned. But even as I stepped forward, he spun on his heel and charged into the chamber. I half expected him to throw the door shut, and I primed myself to throw my shoulder against it. But Cain did nothing of the sort. He took half a dozen running steps into the chamber, then turned to face me. Almost languidly, he drew a knife from his waistband, held it up before his eyes, grinned at me. "Come on. If you think you're up to the challenge."

I stooped, drew my KA-BAR. Nodded. Stepped into the chamber.

"Ding, ding. Round two." Cain looked like he was enjoying himself.

I pointed the KA-BAR at him, a matador taunting a bull.

"Sanctimonious shithead," I called him.

Cain's lips pinched. "I can see where John gets his colorful language."

I swung my head. "Let's leave John out of this. It's between you and me, Cain."

He jerked forward. I feinted at his gut, and we both skipped back out of range. Cain prowled to my right. I turned with him. He hopped to the left. Ten feet separated us. Beyond him, John hung on the wall, an unwilling witness to our duel. I spared him only a glance. Cain also glanced John's way.

"You see this, John? The great liberator has arrived. You really think he can help you? That it makes one iota of difference to your fate?"

"Leave him out of this," I snapped. "Me and you, Cain. If you've got what it takes."

Cain smiled as if he were hiding a great secret. "Oh, I've got what it takes. Believe me. But what about you? Up in Washington I heard your name whispered. Like you're some sort of silent killing machine that even presidents are afraid of. Me, I think it was all hyperbole. I don't think you're anywhere near as good as they say you are. Me, on the other hand, well, just look around. I reckon the proof's in the pudding. Just take a look at what I did to our mutual buddy John Telfer."

John made a noise, a hiss of anguish. I lunged forward, cutting at Cain's torso in a bottom-to-top oblique slash. Cain skipped away laughing. My knife edge had missed by a mile. But that was okay. I'd only cut to get Cain to move, allowing me to leap through the space he'd left and position myself before John. Realizing his mistake, Cain shook his head. Made a tut-tut noise.

Now it was my turn to be the facetious one. I wiggled the fingers of my left hand at him, beckoning him to me. "Come on, Cain."

Cain did come on. He dropped low, thrusting at my abdomen. As I shifted to block his knife, he twisted to one side. He slashed in an S, bringing the blade perilously close to my throat, a centimeter shy of my carotid artery. Only I was also ducking and my return stab forced him back on his heels. I followed him, jabbing at his throat, at his groin, back to the throat. Cain shouted in forced humor. Slashed back at me. I struck at his knife blade with my KA-BAR and sparks danced.

I thrust my left foot into his gut. Cain absorbed most of the kick— but not all. He went into a wall, scattering bones across the floor. Immediately he spun, struck at me. It was all I could do to save my throat, at the expense of a deep cut across the back of my left hand. I flinched, and Cain saw that as a weakness. He came at me again. To show him I was no weakling, I jabbed my blade into his thigh. I'd have preferred to rip out his femoral artery, but the meat was as good a reminder of my potency as anything was. Cain didn't like it. He jumped back, slapping his free hand over the wound.

He stood there, breathing deeply through his nose as he slowly lifted the blood-smeared hand before us.

I nodded at him. There you go, you son of a bitch. I repositioned myself so that I guarded John from his blade. Inclined my head, inviting him in.

Cain postured. He did an adjustment with his feet reminiscent of a young Cassius Clay—a show of bravado to indicate that the wound wouldn't slow him down any. I smiled knowingly. Bravado was the tool of a frightened man.

"What's wrong, Cain? Not so sure of yourself anymore? It's one thing cutting up helpless people. What's it like to have your victim turn on you?"

"Fun."

"I bet." I took a slow step forward. "Bet it isn't as much fun as when you murdered your wife and kids."

Cain stiffened slightly.

"Or when you killed your brother, huh?"

"Leave my brother out of this," Cain said.

I gained another half step on him. "What was it like, Cain? Murdering those that loved you? Was it a thrill? Some sort of sick fantasy come to life?"

Cain growled. My taunting was having the desired effect. For one, my words were angering him. An angry man doesn't reason. And when reason goes, so does training. And my speaking was forcing him to consider the actual words. Even if his response was only to swear, his brain was engaged as he deliberated his answer. While he was measuring those words, he wasn't capable of planning his next attack. It was a lesson I learned many years ago. Ask a question of your enemy. As he answers, hit him.

"Did you watch them burn, Cain?"

"Yes," he replied. "Watched them burn like torches."

"Bit of a waste, though. Bet you wish you'd brought them here, eh? What a waste of good bones."

Cain paused. I could see that there was regret behind the scowl. He opened his mouth. I didn't wait for his response. I leaped at him.

It should have ended then. My knife should have found his throat. He should have fallen to his knees gripping his wound, attempting to halt the flow. But as I'd always been cautioned, should-haves and could-haves have nothing to do with the reality of blood and snot combat.

Even as I stabbed at Cain's throat, he was already lifting a hand. Instead of the soft tissue of his throat, I found a sinewy forearm. All right, I wounded him sorely. If he didn't staunch the blood loss, then he would ultimately weaken and die. But he was still in the fight. And unfortunately, my KA-BAR was wedged in muscle and bone. And Cain's blade was still free.

47

you've undoubtedly heard that old story about how at the moment of death your entire life flashes before your eyes. It's not true. Well, not for me it wasn't. I guess my life had been way too eventful for that. Not many people get the luxury of playing out a billion reminders before sinking into oblivion, not when death comes in an instant. Instead of the whole panoply of incidents from an event-filled thirty-nine years, only two things flashed through my mind. First, the face of my ex-wife, Diane. It wasn't a genuine image, but one my mind conjured of future events. She was standing at my grave, but she wasn't grieving. She wore a face of disgust, even anger. As if she'd always known that this was how it was going to end.

Second—and equally poignant—an image from only minutes before. John beseeching me, "Don't leave me."

On reflection, those two images whorled through my mind in less than a heartbeat, so I suppose the important facets of my life could've been played out within seconds. But I didn't have the luxury of seconds. If I was to live at all, I had to act now.

I loosed the hilt of my KA-BAR. It was pointless attempting to wrench it free. While I tried, Cain could have cut enough of my hide to fashion himself a new pair of boots. Instead, I stabbed my fingers at his eyes. It didn't stop his knife from parting flesh and grating on bone, but it was enough to deflect it from my heart. It also forced us apart. It was a slow release, and I swear that I could feel every cold inch of steel as it sucked free of my chest. Cain went backward, eyes screwed tight as he tried to fight the response of tears invading his senses. I went to one knee, clutching at my chest.

Cain backed to the wall again, his shoulders brushing more bones on the floor. He scrubbed at his eyes, cursing me in short guttural snatches of sound. I remained kneeling, almost overwhelmed by the agony. His knife hadn't killed me, but at that moment I wasn't sure that the pain wouldn't finish the task for him.

Ignoring the agony, I rose up to see where he was, and already Cain was coming for me. He was half blinded, but he didn't need eyes to know I was at his mercy. He was armed. I wasn't. I was severely wounded. It would be a matter of seconds to finish the job.

But would-be is a phrase that sits alongside should-haves and couldhaves in combat. And the difference between Cain and me was that only I understood that at that moment. He hadn't seen Rink step into the doorway behind him. Rink was bleeding from his belly. He had a gash across his chin, another across his arm. His face was plastered with gore from another wound across his forehead. But life seethed in his furnace-hot gaze.

Cain faltered. Something in my face must have alerted him. He stumbled to a halt. Swung around to face Rink.

"Drop the knife," Rink roared as he lifted a gun and aimed it at Cain's face.

Cain laughed. "You found my gun? I wondered where I dropped it."

"Drop the knife, Cain," Rink said again. He stepped closer, the gun trained between Cain's eyes.

"Sorry. Can't do it."

"Drop it now or I blow your goddamn head off."

"I'm surprised you're still alive," Cain said, as if he genuinely cared. "I really thought that I'd opened you up back there." Cain sucked air through his teeth, noting that Rink's throat was fully intact. "I didn't realize that you got your arm in the way. I only cut your chin, eh? Suppose that'll teach me for rushing the job."

"Don't try messing with me," Rink warned. He looked unsteady on his feet. Loss of blood and what looked like a knock on the head were making him weak. "I know what you're trying to do. Do you think you can get me with that pigsticker before I blow a hole in you?"

Cain glanced my way. I could see a smile begin across his face. "You know something, Rington, I believe I could."

I knew it. Cain knew. Even Rink knew it. The gun was empty.

"Shoot him, Rink," I shouted.

Rink pulled the trigger.

A click as the hammer fell on an empty chamber.

But it was enough. Cain almost swaggered as he advanced on Rink. As he did so, I was already moving. I snatched at the clutter on the floor, came up with the first thing my grasping fingers found, and with all my might I forced the broken end of a human rib into the soft flesh in the hollow of his throat.

The result was instantaneous. Cain shuddered, his knees gave way. He stumbled toward Rink, who was already coming at him. I snatched at his left arm even as Rink grappled with his right, pulling the knife from Cain's listless grasp. Cain twisted toward me. His eyes were wide, as though caught in an epiphany of insight. His mouth was wide, too, but nothing issued forth but a gurgle. My own face was flat, emotionless, as I plucked my KA-BAR from his flesh.

We could have done it then. A frenzy of stabbing and slashing. Doling out as much torment as Cain had subjected his victims to. But neither of us succumbed to our base instincts. We did something immeasurably crueler. We allowed Cain to suffer the ignominy of a slow and painful death. If he hadn't reveled in displaying the trophies taken from his victims, I would have been left weaponless. No doubt about it . . . he'd have won the day.

Instead, he had to suffer his last few minutes of life in the knowledge that he'd messed up.

He collapsed to his knees. He searched our faces. We both grinned at him. Miraculously he found a laugh. But it was lost on us. He was simply pathetic. And he knew it.

He sobbed. Lifted a beseeching hand to me. I shook my head. He lifted faltering fingers to the half-inch stub of bone protruding from his throat.

His eyes said it all.

"You reap what you sow," I told him.

Cain laughed a final time at the irony of it.

48

just as i suspected, walter arrived like a celebrity at a Hollywood bash. There's no show without Punch. He entered the chamber only after the storm troopers had given him the all clear. Medics were in the throes of strapping John to a gurney—belly down, of course—hooking up IV bags and inserting all manner of hypodermic contraptions into his failing system.

Sitting in the dust, clutching at a dressing on my chest, I watched it all with a strange sense of distraction.

Medics fussed over Rink, but I gave them as little notice as I did those working to save John. I was only concerned with Walter. I wasn't worried that any of us would end up buried under the dirt as I once contemplated. Walter was seeing this through the right way. Showing his gratitude. Otherwise, the armed strike force wouldn't have given ground to the medical team; they'd have simply shot us where we sat.

"What kept you?" I asked.

Walter came to stand beside me. He even gave me a fatherly pat on the shoulder. But his eyes were on Cain. We had left him where he'd come to rest, slouched on his knees, hands folded in his lap, head tilted forward on his chest. Apart from the blood dripping on his breast, he looked like a supplicant at prayer.

"I didn't want to step on your toes," Walter said. "This was your gig, Hunter."

I spat phlegm and dust and God knows what else on the floor.

"You could've come sooner. You were monitoring us all along. Why didn't you send in your team before now?"

"And would you have thanked me if I had?"

"No," I answered truthfully. "I suppose not."

"Then all's well that ends well."

I gripped the dressing a paramedic had placed on my chest wound. Thought about how close Cain had come to finishing me. All's well that ends well? "Yeah."

Walter walked away from me then. It wasn't that he didn't care for my well-being, only that Cain held a more immediate fascination for him. He went and stood over Cain, stared down at him for a long time.

"He's dead."

"As disco," I said.

"You know," Walter said, "there's many a profiler up at Quantico would've given their eyeteeth to speak to him before he died."

"My heart bleeds for them," I muttered. In hindsight, considering how close Cain's knife had come to finishing me, they weren't the most appropriate words. Even Walter glanced at me to see if I was serious. I slowly blinked.

Returning his attention to Cain, Walter went on, "Don't know how he managed to elude us all this time."

"Maybe you didn't look hard enough."

Walter nodded. Then, totally out of character for a man who'd ordered plenty of wet work but never gotten his own hands dirty, he gripped Cain's hair and pulled back his head. A shadow crossed Walter's face. He looked to the medics.

"See to this man," he ordered.

I jerked. Walter stepped in front of me, pressing me down as Cain was loaded onto a gurney. "Don't worry, Hunter. I'm going to bury him."

"He is dead?" My words were more question than fact.

"We don't bury the living," he pointed out.

That wasn't necessarily true, but I wasn't of a mind to argue. Walter never talked straight.

As Cain was rushed away, Walter and I watched him go. Walter sighed, and I should have guessed what was coming. "We were looking in the wrong place."

I squinted at him.

"It's not him."

"What?"

"It's not him," Walter repeated.

I experienced a moment's panic. "What do you mean it's not him? It's definitely Cain." To emphasize the point, I threw out a hand, inviting Walter to take in the sheer horror of his surroundings. Walter lifted a palm, a calming gesture, but I struggled up from the floor to stand beside him. My nose was inches from his. "Can't you see what the son of a bitch did here?"

"Easy now, son," Walter said. "It's Cain all right. No doubt about it."

"So what the hell are you talking about?"

"It's not Martin Maxwell."

"What?" I stared into Walter's face. Searching for the lie. Not that it helped. I didn't know Martin Maxwell from Mickey Mouse. Only thing I was sure of was that I'd stopped the Harvestman.

"It's the brother," Walter explained.

"The brother? You mean . . . ?"

"Uh-huh. Robert Swan. The musician."

I got it then.

"You need a name to give to the press, Walter?" I said. "And you

want Swan to take the blame for this. To protect the good name of the Secret Service."

"Yes."

Thing is, at the end of the day, it didn't much matter to me. Whoever Tubal Cain ended up being, it didn't matter in the large scale of things. He was a demented killer regardless. One that I'd put down like a rabid dog. And for that I was thankful. If Walter needed to spin the world a line of bullshit, then so be it.

I grunted, looked Walter dead in the eye. He stood there expressionless. Then I nodded. "The musician? If you say so, Walter."

Walter winked. "I say so."

I turned my back on him and clutching my chest I limped toward the exit door. The bullet graze on my calf hurt worse than the chest wound. It was still night out, but the sky was ablaze with searchlights from the helicopters coming and going. As I reached the stairs, Rink joined me. He placed a hand on my shoulder. I couldn't determine whether it was to support his weight or mine. It didn't matter. As always, we'd support each other.

"You going to be all right, Rink?"

"Fine and dandy," he said, yet involuntarily his hand went to the dressings on his face and chin. "He got me good, Hunter. Slashed my gut, but luckily for me he only got the muscle. He came close to getting my throat, too. If I hadn't been knocked cold when I banged my head, the son of a bitch might have really finished me off."

"It was a close one," I said. The cut on his chin wasn't lifethreatening, but if it had been an inch lower, my friend wouldn't be beside me now. Most likely I wouldn't have been alive, either.

"Too close," Rink said.

With no sense of volition, I'd made it up the stairs and found myself standing ankle deep in the white sand. The cul-de-sac wasn't large enough to accommodate all the choppers and personnel brought in by Walter, but there were a fair number of men and women in jumpsuits and body armor. They stood around with their weapons cocked, as though Cain were still a threat.

Leaning on each other, Rink and I made our way to the cleft in the rocks. It was awkward walking through the gap shoulder to shoulder, but we made it.

Outside was as Rink had earlier described it—a three-ring circus. Helicopters dominated the sky. Hummers and SUVs prowled along the lip of the escarpment in the distance. Undoubtedly FBI and Secret Service, but this was now Walter's gig, and he was calling all the shots. Everyone else had to make do with prowling on the periphery. The only thing that concerned me was the presence of the air ambulance Walter had had the foresight to call in. And even as I confirmed its presence, paramedics rushed past us with John strapped to the gurney.

"Think he'll make it?" Rink asked.

I remembered the awful wounds on his back and couldn't see how.

"It's amazing what the doctors can do these days," Rink said, his words sounding hollow. Even he doubted them.

"He'll pull through," I said softly. "He has to. Otherwise all of this will have been for nothing."

"Not for nothing, my friend." Rink slipped an arm around my shoulders and pulled me into an embrace. "We've just stopped a monster. Me an' you, Hunter. Just like the old days."

49

in the days that followed, walter attempted to explain the thinking behind it all. In his take on the Harvestman, Martin Maxwell hadn't gone off the rails. All right, he'd messed up his life when he'd gone playing with the governor's wife's lingerie, but that, it turned out, was his only transgression. Other than a sleazy penchant for women's underwear, he wasn't the fiend he was suspected of being.

Some would even argue that Maxwell was a decent enough fellow. After all, he'd sought out his less privileged brother. Taken him into the fold of his home. Given him the kind of life he'd been missing. But it appears that the man who would become Cain wasn't one for gratitude. His was a soul festering with jealousy, and with dark fantasies and desires he couldn't achieve as a no-name musician in a nation of musicians whose talents far outshone his. So Cain instead coveted something that could never be his. He stole the skills of his brother. Maybe Martin gave the knowledge willingly. He had to have taken the brother under his wing, for Cain's skill with weapons, particularly the knife, didn't come without many hours of practice. Or his understanding of tracking and surveillance. Or—and this was the most troubling aspect of Walter's take on Cain—how he could have known my name. But that was easy enough for Walter to explain: he simply left me out of the equation. As far as anyone would ever know, it was federal agents who'd taken Cain out.

In the end, I didn't bother thinking about it. Let Walter play his games. It was what he did, after all. What better way to cover up the depraved actions of a government employee than to deny that he was one? Plausible denial. That was what Walter thrived on. If he wanted the world to believe that Martin Maxwell wasn't their man, then so be it. He could feed them the bullshit about Robert Swan, but I knew the truth.

I had other, more important things on my mind.

John for one.

He was currently recuperating in a military hospital beyond the prying eyes of the media. As far as anyone was concerned, Cain had left no living victims. I was happy enough with the arrangement. It got Hendrickson's men off his back. Walter promised me that on his recovery John would be placed in the witness protection program. In effect, he would disappear. New name, new identity, the works. The only time he'd be drawn back into the limelight would be if charges were brought against Hendrickson and Sigmund Petoskey for their part in the counterfeiting ring. Then John would be returned to obscurity.

It meant never going home for him. But given that he'd been gone so long, that his time with Louise Blake was now behind him as well, maybe it was for the best that John start over.

My next concern was for Rink. My best friend. Who'd given so much for me. Who had suffered as much as I had. We went off to the hospital together to be patched up. My chest wound turned out to be superficial, as did the wounds to Rink's chin and arm, but the slash to the gut meant he had to undergo observation for a few days.

After Rink was cleared from any signs of complications, Walter extended his hospitality to the use of his Lear. A few hours later we were back in Florida. We spent two days at Rink's condominium in Tampa. The rain had passed and we spent those forty-eight hours reclining in the sun and drinking. Of course, it wasn't all partying. There was a lot of healing to do.

Plus, we still had work to do. A certain briefcase liberated from a boat at Marina del Rey required our attention. Not to mention the seven hundred grand that was inside it. I'd no qualms about putting the money to good use; John had paid in blood and agony for this reward. As far as anyone was concerned, the cash had burned along with Rhet Carson's yacht. The problem being, blood money never brings happiness. It was handed over to Walter as evidence that would help bring down John's enemies.

As a sweetener for my time in the U.S., Walter transferred a sizable sum of money into a fund set up for Jennifer and the kids. This was cash from his department's budget, so did not reek of agony and blood. It was clean. So was my conscience.

I spoke to Harvey Lucas. He told me he was looking after Louise Blake. Something in his tone made me smile. He was looking after her? I bet he was.

Job done, Rink was as affable as ever. The scars would forever be a reminder of how close to death he'd come, but he wasn't overly upset. The scars on his face gave his rugged good looks even more appeal to the ladies. Or so Rink said. There were tears in our eyes when we said good-bye at the airport.

My final concern. And the most pressing. Going home. Wherever that turned out to be.

Epilogue

jubal's hollow.

A sun-blasted landscape in the middle of nowhere. The G-men had come and gone. An army of anthropologists, medical examiners, and crime scene investigators had picked the barrens clean. The remnants of Cain's depravity had been listed, labeled, sealed, and shipped off in packing crates to a secret location. And with them, the media hubbub had died down. The Harvestman story was old news now, other atrocities in the world taking center stage. The camera vans and anchors in starched suits and starched hair departed for more immediate bad news stories.

Now there was nothing but scrub, sand, and more sand.

As it should be.

But there were visitors. Hundreds of them. People came to stare and shake their heads. Twisted souvenir hunters came away with nothing but fragile bones from birds or lizards, but to the casual observer true remnants of the Harvestman's ossuary. A number of entrepreneurial tour operators made a killing from the fascination of the ghoulish tourists who sought out more than the glitz of L.A. The Harvestman was big business. Big money. He was, after all, the most despicable of all murderers this side of the new millennium. He had achieved the notoriety and fame he'd desired.

However, under constant armed supervision, the patient known only as John Doe must have found it difficult to curse through his ruined throat. For though the Harvestman was the name on the lips of every person with a penchant for dark history, Maxwell meant nothing. To the world, Robert Swan, a mediocre guitar player with hopeless dreams of the big time, had at last achieved his fifteen minutes of fame.

Acknowledgments

a very big thank-you from the bottom of my heart to all those people who have helped me along the way. To Denise, who is everything to me. To all my family, particularly my father, Jacky, and brother, Jim, who have helped me immensely in writing this book. To Luigi and to Alison, I owe you a massive debt of gratitude for having faith in me and championing me all the way. To David Highfill and Sue Fletcher, editors extraordinaire, for all your brilliant work and guidance. To Lee Child for your kind support. To Jeanette Slinger for making everyone take notice. And to everyone else in the background on both sides of the Atlantic for all your hard work.

About the Author

MATT HILTON is an expert in kempo jujitsu and holds the rank of fourth dan. He founded and taught at the respected Bushidokan Dojo, and he has worked in private security and for the Cumbria police department. Hilton is married and lives in England.

www.matthiltonbooks.com

www.matthiltonbooks.blogspot.com

DEAD MEN'S DUST. Copyright © 2009 by Matt Hilton.