by Matt Hilton
Contents
Cover
Also by Matt Hilton
Title Page
Copyright
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Forty
After
Also by Matt Hilton
The Grey and Villere thrillers
BLOOD TRACKS *
PAINTED SKINS *
RAW WOUNDS *
WORST FEAR *
FALSE MOVE *
ROUGH JUSTICE *
COLLISION COURSE *
Joe Hunter series
RULES OF HONOUR
RED STRIPES
THE LAWLESS KIND
THE DEVIL’S ANVIL
NO SAFE PLACE
MARKED FOR DEATH
* available from Severn House
BLOOD KIN
Matt Hilton
This ebook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.
First world edition published in Great Britain and the USA in 2021
by Severn House, an imprint of Canongate Books Ltd,
14 High Street, Edinburgh EH1 1TE.
Trade paperback edition first published in Great Britain and the USA in 2022
by Severn House, an imprint of Canongate Books Ltd.
This eBook edition first published in 2021 by Severn House,
an imprint of Canongate Books Ltd.
severnhouse.com
Copyright © Matt Hilton, 2021
All rights reserved including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. The right of Matt Hilton to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs & Patents Act 1988.
British Library Cataloguing-in-Publication Data
A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.
ISBN-13: 978-0-7278-9096-2 (cased)
ISBN-13: 978-1-78029-795-8 (trade paper)
ISBN-13: 978-1-4483-0534-6 (e-book)
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Except where actual historical events and characters are being described for the storyline of this novel, all situations in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is purely coincidental.
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ONE
Orson Keeler Burdon boasted that he could put an arrow through a dime at twenty paces. It was one thing shooting at a static target, another when it came to taking down a nervous buck at twice that distance and currently mostly obscured by foliage. Twice already he’d missed shots that should have been a walk in the park for him, and now he wasn’t as confident of filling his freezer with venison. He must get closer.
It was hunting season, but this was private land and he’d no right to be there. He was there illegally, a poacher. He didn’t wear the hunter’s orange, he was clad in military surplus jungle camouflage, and to further disrupt his outline he’d smeared grease paint on his face and wore a shapeless net through which he’d entwined some of the local moss and leaves. As long as he made no sudden moves he would be indistinguishable from the landscape, but the instincts of prey animals bordered on supernatural. The slightest sound and that buck would spring away, and he’d miss.
He kept low, moving on cat’s feet, his attention darting from the deer to the ground underfoot: he mustn’t step on a fallen twig. For now he was downwind, so his scent wasn’t an issue. He moved at a tangent to the deer, aiming to both close distance and if it came to it, funnel the beast towards a gap in the deadfall of trees to his right. If it ran, he felt he could still shoot before it cleared the bottleneck of fallen branches and bring it down. The deer flicked its ears and tasted the air. He stopped, as still as the trees around him, and held his breath. The deer looked all around, then lowered its head, returning to grazing.
Orson set his teeth in a grimace of effort as he slowly drew back the arrow, lining the broad tip up a few inches behind the deer’s foreleg. The draw weight on his compound bow was sixty-five pounds, and his arrows were heavier grain, ideal for bringing down larger game such as elk and moose, perhaps excessive for a white-tailed deer. When he was drunk and boasting to the ladies about his sexual prowess, he’d remind them that it was all about girth and depth of penetration. He rarely impressed any woman with that kind of dirty talk, but that was Orson Keeler Burdon for you. He struck out romantically more often than he did taking a killing shot at a game animal. Third time would be the charm, he hoped.
At full draw, he held the deer under his aim. He slowly exhaled, a bare second from releasing his arrow.
Something crackled, and it was as if the deer was on a tripwire release of its own. As he shot, the deer sprang forward, and his arrow glanced from its rump rather than embed deep in its heart. The deer kept going, a flash of dun color and flicking white tail, and then it was at the deadfall. His quiver was attached to his bow for easy access. Except there was no possible way that Orson could fit and draw another arrow before it fled from sight. It wasn’t even in his mind to reload; he was too busy cursing his bad luck, while looking for whatever had spooked the darn animal. He turned and the curse caught in his throat.
Standing behind him was a man cradling a rifle.
The guy was dressed similarly to Orson, in top to toe camo, but he hadn’t bothered with the face paint or ghillie net. He wasn’t a poacher and had no need to hide. He was a big man, thickly muscled across the chest and shoulders, with a bushy blond mustache riding his top lip. The rifle he deliberately leveled at Orson was not designed for bringing down game, it was a M4 carbine, a man killer.
‘Did you get yerself lost or somethin’, boy?’
Orson dragged off his ghillie net and held his bow out to the side. Without an arrow nocked his weapon didn’t pose much of a threat but he didn’t want to give the gunman a reason to shoot. ‘Look, buddy, I was going to take one buck and that’s all. Got me a brood of kids in need of feedin’ and—’
; ‘You’re trespassing.’
‘Yeah, I maybe wandered in and—’
‘You ignored the signs.’
‘I saw them, but—’
‘Take that bow off him.’
Orson flinched as another figure materialized from the foliage. The second man wore camo and carried a more conventional rifle. He was a younger man, muscular but with an expansive belly, and looked enough like the first man to be kin. He flicked the end of his rifle at Orson. ‘Give it here.’
Orson shook his head and addressed the older man. ‘Look, I’ve done wrong. I trespassed on your property … I was poaching. But gimme a break, man. I’m just tryin’ to feed my kids and I can’t do it without my bow.’
‘Take that bow off him,’ the man repeated, as if oblivious to Orson’s words.
The younger man came forward, and shifting his rifle to one hand, he reached out and grabbed the bow with the other. Orson didn’t relinquish it. The man stuck his rifle in Orson’s gut.
‘Gimme it.’
Orson let go of the bow and stepped back, holding up his hands in surrender.
The older man gestured with the carbine. ‘Search him for other weapons.’
A third man had moved in on Orson. He wasn’t sure if the trio had already been here when he’d stalked the deer or if they’d encircled him after: it was as if they’d materialized from the very earth. Discounting the crackle of branches that had startled his prey, they had given him no hint of their presence or approach. He guessed that they’d deliberately made the noise, purposefully ruining his shot.
‘You’ve no right searching me,’ Orson said.
‘I’ve every right,’ said the first man. ‘You’re a goddamn thief and you snuck onto my land. Gonna make sure you can’t do any of mine any harm.’
Showing his palms, Orson said, ‘I did wrong, and I apologize, man. But just let me go, yeah? Gimme back my bow and I’ll leave. I promise I’ll never bother you again.’
He was ignored.
He was brusquely searched, and his belt knife taken away.
The eldest man was the leader. Orson had heard of him. ‘C’mon, Eldon, you don’t have to—’
‘So you know who I am?’
‘Yes, you’re Eldon Moorcock, you’re an important man here abouts,’ said Orson, hoping he could appeal to the man’s ego.
‘You know who I am, and that I’m important, but still you come onto my land to steal my game? How many different ways can one man disrespect another?’
‘This isn’t about disrespect, man, it’s just about—’
‘Feedin’ your kids?’
‘Yeah. Sure. That’s it. You’re a family man, a father. You wouldn’t hold it against me for tryin’ to put some food in their mouths, would ya?’
‘I wouldn’t.’
Orson shrugged disarmingly.
‘Except I know you too, Orson Burdon,’ Moorcock went on. ‘I’ve been watchin’ you sneakin’ on and off my land these last few weeks. I had you checked out, boy, makin’ sure you weren’t no fed, pretending he’s a poacher. I’m satisfied you ain’t no fed, but you ain’t no father neither. You’re a bum, a drunk, and you live alone. You don’t have any kin hereabouts to speak about, let alone a brood of kids. So not only are you a thief, you’re a goddamn liar too, and they’re both aspects of a man I don’t care for. Stick him, Darrell.’
Orson was too surprised by Moorcock’s pronouncement to understand the seriousness of his final words. It was only when the man who had searched him suddenly lunged forward that Orson flinched. The man was Darrell Moorcock, another son of Eldon, and his fist thudded into Orson’s gut. As Darrell’s hand withdrew, Orson was horrified to see it was still holding his belt knife, and that his blood smeared it.
He cupped his hands over his belly, but could do little to stop the blood gushing out of him; the cut was longer than both hands could cover. Darrell had opened him up the way Orson had his kills when dressing game: he always began by removing the gut pile. Orson opened his mouth in dismay as he sought pity from Eldon Moorcock. There was no pity in the man. Darrell wouldn’t help, so Orson tried to beseech the other of Moorcock’s sons.
‘You go ahead and stick him too, Randolph,’ said Moorcock. ‘Stick him good.’
Randolph had slung his rifle, but it was so he could nock an arrow and draw back the string on Orson’s bow. The heavy grain arrow with its broad tip point went through Orson’s heart and stood out a foot between his shoulders.
‘Nobody disrespects me and gets away with it, boy,’ said Eldon Moorcock as Orson collapsed in the undergrowth.
The father and two of his sons stood around Orson. The arrow had stopped his heart, killing him instantly, though it hadn’t been a mercy shot.
‘D’you think he saw anything he shouldn’t’ve, Pa?’ asked Darrell.
‘Far as I know he didn’t get close enough. Wasn’t about to take any chances, though.’
‘What d’you want us to do with him?’ asked Randolph.
‘Strip him of anything useful,’ said Moorcock, ‘then put him down Booger Hole with the others. He doesn’t have any kin, but he might be missed in one of those bars he frequents in Muller Falls. We don’t know if he’s boasted about poachin’ here before. Best be on the lookout for any of his drinkin’ buddies comin’ out here lookin’ for him.’
‘If they do,’ said Randolph as he admired the bow, ‘they can join him in the booger’s den.’
TWO
The vintage Ford Mustang prowled Commercial Street, bypassing the wharves of Portland Harbor. Its driver hung an elbow out of the window, trailing a cigarette pinched between his fingers. The sleek lines and glistening black paintwork gave the muscle car a predatory look, as if it were a shark stalking the shallows on the hunt. The car was a common sight to the locals, but it drew the approval of tourists, some of who took snapshots of it on their cell phones. On those occasions the driver averted his face. He wasn’t doing anything untoward. Nicolas ‘Po’ Villere was simply killing time as if it was a lazy Sunday morning. It wasn’t. It was a Thursday afternoon, but he was at a loose end with nothing better to occupy his mind.
He checked the time and wondered what was keeping his partner, Tess Grey. It was more than two hours since he’d dropped her off at the Maine District Courthouse on Newbury Street, with a promise from her that she wouldn’t be long. He wasn’t impatient, and Tess couldn’t be held responsible for the turgidity of court proceedings. He was only happy he had followed instinct and kept well out of the way. As an ex-con he had experience of courtrooms and they were not happy memories. He far preferred the freedom of the open road than kicking his heels in a waiting room, even if it was just here on the bustling harborside where he found few opportunities to drive faster than at a snail’s pace. It didn’t matter; the slower he drove the more he got to people watch. Occasionally he spotted a familiar face and he flicked his hand in greeting; mostly he just flicked ash. These days he rarely smoked in his car, more for Tess’s sake than for preserving its leather interior. Without her beside him, he made the most of it. He still drove with all the windows down so he didn’t stink it out: being a person that’d quit the evils of nicotine she was particularly sensitive to its ‘godawful smell’ these days.
He took a right turn, then another, following the loop back up towards the main thoroughfare of Franklin Street, where he’d be in pouncing distance of the courthouse should Tess summon him. Tess didn’t call though, so he headed down Fore Street, one of the areas that attracted nighttime drinkers, and also hearty numbers of diners during the day. Po owned a retro-style bar-diner called Bar-Lesque, but it was out on the edge of town, and he had often considered shifting his business here where he might attract more custom. Beyond keeping an eye out for any appropriate venues coming vacant, he hadn’t given too much thought to the idea. On his behalf, Jasmine Reed and Chris Mitchell, the front of house and bar managers respectively, had helped turn the one-time strip joint into a destination eatery, and he was unsure they�
��d be as successful surrounded by so much competition. Nevertheless, it did no harm checking out potential venues, should he decide to expand his empire. For now there was nothing that caught his fancy.
Back on Commercial Street he swung into a parking lot and took a stroll. He was tall, rangy of build, with dark hair tending to grey at the temples, a weathered face and denoting his Cajun heritage he had eyes the color of turquoise. Wearing a black leather jacket with contrasting cream stripes down the sleeves, black jeans and high-topped boots he dressed like an aging rock star. He caught glances, some admiring but others tentative, because he had an aura of potential danger surrounding him. Po was as striking a figure as the muscle car he drove. Some of the locals knew he’d spent time incarcerated for killing a man, and avoided him, but others admired him: they knew the man he’d killed had murdered his dad, and what man given the opportunity and skills wouldn’t try to avenge his loved ones?
He set up in the sunshine outside a coffee shop with the largest unsweetened Americano they sold and lit up another in a long string of Marlboros. The outside seating area was on a boardwalk overlooking the mooring spot for the Cushing’s Island Ferry. From where he sat he could see a triptych monument wharfside, formed of three segments of the historic Berlin Wall, transported there after its demolition in 1989. From past experience he knew the slabs of concrete carried original graffiti – including the hammer and sickle of the USSR – but also a message to never forget the tyranny of the wall or the love of freedom that made it fall. The memorial attracted tourists seeking a photo opportunity more often than his muscle car did. As he killed time, he watched people come and go, pose by the slabs for their selfies, then wander on as they sought new delights. After a while the faces all blended together and he began to lose focus. He listened to the shrill squawking of gulls competing over some morsel of food dropped by a careless tourist and watched a pleasure craft returning after a trip around Casco Bay.
He looked away from the monument for half a minute and almost missed spotting a familiar face. His gaze slipped back from the pleasure craft as the skipper maneuvered it snugly to the wharf, and settled a moment on the tall, red-haired woman lining up her cell phone’s camera to get the best shot possible of her kid posing as if he was presenting the star prize on a TV game show. Po barely registered the boy, squinting instead to bring the woman’s features into focus through a blue pall of cigarette smoke. She looked older, naturally, because he hadn’t seen her in more than a decade, but little else about Elspeth Fuchs had changed. She was still willowy but in an athletic way and dressed in those bohemian skirts and blouses she’d favored in her twenties, and she still held back her thick mane of hair with a knotted scarf. She wore huge silver circlet earrings and at least a dozen rings and bangles. She’d always reminded him of a free-spirited artist, or even a New Age pagan priestess, and nothing about her dispelled the image now.