by Matt Hilton
Cain was looking for something.
My brother John.
‘Walter is playing at being dead, that’s it? He wants Cain to believe that he’s dead. And he sent you to bring me in. There’s only one reason I can think why he’d do that.’
‘You’ve had experience with this man before,’ Hartlaub said.
‘So it is Tubal Cain? You’re confirming that?’
‘I ain’t going to lie to you any longer. Cain was being held at Fort Conchar. There should’ve been no way for him to escape . . .’
‘But he did.’
‘Yes. Despite all the odds, he murdered one of his guards, used the uniform as a disguise. Once outside he gave his pursuers the slip – we don’t know how he managed that yet.’
‘Fort Conchar is a super-max facility, yet he managed to walk out in a fuckin’ guard’s uniform! What about the checks and security points? I’d’ve thought that . . . Oh, wait. I get it. We’re talking about Tubal Cain, aren’t we? He took the body parts he required to get past the security.’
‘Fingerprints and retinal scans are no problem to someone like him.’ Hartlaub gave me a gentle shove towards the door where Brigham was waiting. ‘C’mon. We’d best get going.’
‘It’d better be to see Walter or we’re parting company right now.’
‘Let’s move then.’
‘Do you have a phone?’
‘I do, but our orders are to maintain silence until we’ve joined Walter.’
I shook my head. ‘There are other people involved in this. If Tubal Cain is out there, then they could be next on his list.’
‘You’re talking about Jared Rington?’
Rink had been with me when I’d taken Cain down, and was as likely a target of the deranged killer as Walter was. Harvey Lucas, too, though I couldn’t see how Cain would be aware of his involvement.
‘Can save you the trouble,’ Brigham interjected. ‘Walter asked for Rington to be brought in. The team sent to find him has come up blank. Rington’s dropped off the face of the earth.’
Chapter 7
One day earlier . . .
‘My entire resources are open to you. Money, men, weapons. Choose whatever you want to get the job done.’
Kurt Hendrickson was a man of power. He was a significant figure in the criminal underworld of the Eastern Seaboard. He controlled the market in drugs, prostitution, pornography, extortion, and up until recently had been a major player in counterfeiting currency that he traded with terror groups intent on bringing down the mighty dollar. He wielded the kind of influence where he need only click his fingers to make people disappear without trace. However there was a specific man whose disappearance had nothing to do with Hendrickson. This man was under the US Federal Marshals’ witness protection programme and, unusually, this was being overseen by agents of the CIA. Tracing him wasn’t the main issue; killing him without being implicated in the murder was. It was bad enough that he was facing judicial trial; he didn’t need the murder of the key witness laid at his door as well. It served his purpose that Tubal Cain had a vendetta against the same man.
‘All I need from you is his location,’ Cain said.
They were standing in a vault that Hendrickson had installed in the wine cellar of his house. The vault contained row upon row of firearms.
Hendrickson, it appeared, had a fascination with guns.
Tubal Cain wasn’t that interested; his passion was for knives.
That stood to reason, considering his name was derived from the Biblical inventor of cutting instruments. But he was not averse to other weapons of destruction when necessary. He had a Heckler and Koch 9 mm in a shoulder rig. A Beretta 92F, a variation of the famous service weapon of the US armed forces, was in a second holster on his hip.
‘I have a plan in motion. We will have his location within a couple of days.’ Hendrickson picked up an ancient Colt and held it up to admire under the overhead lights.
‘I want to get started now,’ Cain said. ‘I have an idea or two that might put us ahead in the game.’
Hendrickson nodded distractedly, lost in his fascination with the Colt. ‘I killed my first man with this gun.’
Cain sniffed. ‘I find guns so impersonal.’
‘Maybe, but they get the job done. If you only desire a man’s life, then a bullet in the brain will do it every time.’
‘What if you desire more than his life?’ Cain wasn’t being sarcastic or enigmatic. He always liked to take something from his victims – bones in particular – as a reminder of his potency. He wasn’t called the Harvestman for nothing.
‘Death is enough,’ Hendrickson replied. ‘Kill this man for me, Cain. What you do to him afterwards . . . I don’t care. In fact, it’s probably best that you do take your trophy.’
‘Oh, I intend to.’
‘Good, good.’ Hendrickson placed the Colt down, showed Cain the exit. ‘I have men at my disposal. Use them as you will.’
‘I work best alone.’
‘Yes,’ Hendrickson agreed. ‘But there are others who may need dealing with.’
Involuntarily, Cain’s hand moved to the scar on his throat. The lesion had never fully healed, a puncture wound that separated his trachea.
Hendrickson said, ‘Don’t worry. Like I said, I’ve a plan in motion and already have men on their trail.’
‘They’re good,’ Cain pointed out. ‘Send plenty of men.’
‘It isn’t so much the number as the quality. Rest assured, I have hired only the best in the business.’
Cain eyed him.
Hendrickson coughed low in his throat. ‘They’re not as skilled as you, but they’re sufficient to kill a couple of out-of-practice soldiers.’
‘Do not kill them,’ Cain said. ‘Take them alive. Once I’m finished with John Telfer, I want to reacquaint myself with Joe Hunter and Jared Rington.’
Chapter 8
Why Hartlaub and Brigham and, more pertinently, Walter, wanted to waste time showing me the horror wrought by Tubal Cain was beyond me. All Walter needed to do was pick up a phone, contact me at Imogen’s house and tell me what had gone down. I’d have answered his call to arms in a heartbeat.
His reticence was possibly because the last time we’d met it had been on shaky ground. Walter had used Rink and me in a scheme spearheaded by our old Arrowsake commanders. We had been forced into a showdown with a group of white supremacists intent on bringing down the government. That sounds like a noble cause, but not when Arrowsake were prodding the group to action in the first place. They had planned to use the threat of domestic terrorism to raise funds and support for the intelligence community they served. It didn’t matter to them that an innocent family were targeted, or that Rink or I might die, only that their ends were met. Coming clean about the entire plot, Walter had felt deep shame. We’d kind of cleared the air, but maybe there was still some residual embarrassment in Walter’s heart. His lying about the eventual fate of Tubal Cain wouldn’t be helping either.
Shit! The man had lied to me about the plot concerning Carswell Hicks and Samuel Gant, but that was because he’d been under orders to do so. Keeping Cain’s survival a secret was his own doing. I’d be justified in telling him to go fuck himself, to deal with the problem on his own, but he knew I wouldn’t turn my back now that I’d seen Cain’s latest atrocity. I’d just lost one old friend in Bryce Lang, and I wasn’t going to lose another.
Rink was more than a brother to me. We had both served Arrowsake, watching each other’s back, and we’d done the same since leaving the forces, not simply through a sense of friendship or duty, but through a loyalty that transcended even the bond of blood. It’s a terrible thing to admit, but his disappearance meant more to me than the danger my real brother faced now that Cain was back on the loose. I didn’t doubt that John was under the protection of some of the best people Walter could field, but Rink was on his own. Rink was as tough as whalebone, and as capable a warrior as any I’d known. But he was also human and, unp
repared for a sneak attack from a monster like Tubal Cain, he could be taken down as easily as anyone.
Rink can be a mother hen with me at times; he doesn’t trust me to behave when I’m out from under his calming influence. Even when he knew I was spending a few days with Imogen he couldn’t help checking up on me. I’d last spoken with Rink yesterday and he was his usual self. No concerns, just getting on with the day job. He was working on uncovering a low-key insurance swindle, nothing that would have forced him into deep cover. Unless he was purposely hiding, the CIA team sent to bring him in should have found him.
‘Give me your phone.’
Brigham said, ‘I already told you; they can’t find Rington anywhere.’
‘Maybe he doesn’t want to be found by you.’ My words were hopeful, but a gnawing sensation in my guts said otherwise. Unbeknown to even these guys, Rink and I had secret ways to communicate. Once we’d used the relay system set in place by Walter, but since the recent shady goings-on with Arrowsake, we’d deemed it necessary to have our own structure put in place. Harvey Lucas, our friend out in Little Rock, a wizard with computers, had built our very own network that piggy-backed various communication satellites without leaving a trace. In my haste, I’d thrown my mobile phone in my pack with my clothing and it was outside in the SUV. I held out my hand for Brigham’s phone. The younger agent sought guidance from his superior, but all Hartlaub did was shrug.
I took the phone from Brigham and walked away from them, seeking a place where I wasn’t stepping in blood. I keyed in numbers, listened, but as I feared the phone went unanswered. I pressed more buttons and left an encrypted message at a voicemail box that only Rink could access. Then, on a whim, I decided maybe the most direct route was best and called Rink’s office.
‘Rington Investigations,’ answered a voice with the slightest inflection of his Hispanic inheritance.
‘Velasquez . . . It’s Joe.’
‘Jesus, man, me an’ McTeer have been tryin’ to get hold of you all day. We even called your girl up in Maine, but she told us you’d already gone.’
Velasquez and McTeer were ex-cops. Both men now worked with Rink at his private investigations business. They were hard cases, not the type to be easily ruffled. By the sounds of his voice though, something concerned Velasquez more than my apparently being incommunicado.
‘Do you know where Rink is?’
‘No, man. That’s why we’ve been trying to get you.’
‘He was working the insurance scam, right? Where was he headed when last you spoke to him?’
‘Somewhere down in the Everglades . . . Pocahontas Swamp or somewhere. Shit, man, I had a deskful myself, didn’t take much notice when he headed outa the door. I didn’t even realise he was late back until some spook-types busted into the office and asked about him.’
‘And he hasn’t been in touch since . . .’
‘We’ve been trying to get hold of him all day, too. McTeer is out driving around, scouting all the case’s locations on the chance he’ll find him. But I’m starting to think that’s not going to happen. What the fuck’s going on, Joe?’
I considered telling him about Tubal Cain, but decided against it. I presumed Walter wanted this kept under wraps at all costs, and that was why he’d brought me in quietly like this. Still, I wasn’t prepared to put McTeer or Velasquez at risk.
‘The shit has hit the fan, Velasquez. This is what you’re going to do. Call McTeer in. Then shut up shop and go home. Don’t come anywhere near the office until you hear from me or Rink.’
‘What the fuck?’
‘Trust me. You don’t want to be linked to either of us, not while this is going on.’
‘Rink’s my boss, but he’s also my friend. If he’s in danger then—’
‘Listen,’ I cut him off. ‘Just do as I ask, OK? You’re both good men, and the last thing I want is for something to happen to either of you.’
‘We can look after ourselves.’
Not against the thing that might be headed your way, I thought. I wanted to share my fears with him, but I simply couldn’t. ‘Just do as I ask . . . please. It’s best for everyone.’
‘Except Rink,’ he said.
‘Don’t worry,’ I said. ‘I’ll find him.’
The silence at the other end of the line was laden with Velasquez’s fear. I got what he was thinking. I would find Rink, but would he be alive or dead? That was the very thing I feared, and maybe he’d read as much in my voice.
‘OK, Joe. We’ll do as you ask. But as soon as you hear anything, and I mean anything, you let us know.’
‘Deal.’
Velasquez was about to hang up, but felt he had to add, ‘Bring Rink home, Joe. I’ve just put a down payment on a swimming pool. I need this job, man, or my wife will have my ass!’
It was gallows humour, but it made me smile. Not that I looked happy, it was a death’s-head smile at most. ‘I’ll do my best or die trying.’
I hung up.
‘Are we gonna get going now?’ Hartlaub asked.
Ignoring him, I pressed buttons. My call was picked up on the third ring. ‘Hello, Harvey,’ I said.
‘That you, Hunter?’ Harvey Lucas is an African-American who reminds me of Samuel L. Jackson in the Shaft remake. He’s as sharp as a tack and dresses the same. He’s an ex-army Ranger, the best man with a computer I’d ever met, as well as a very good private investigator. More importantly than that, he was one of the few men I could fully trust.
‘Have you heard from Rink?’
‘Not for a couple of days,’ Harvey said. ‘There a problem, Hunter?’
‘Yeah.’ I told him everything. Harvey had been involved with us when Rink and I hunted Cain the first time. Because of that, he was possibly on the killer’s radar screen and there was no way I’d leave him out of the loop.
‘Doesn’t sound good. You think that Cain might’ve got to him already?’
‘Rink isn’t the kind to get lost. I’m praying that he got wind of Cain’s escape and has gone deep cover.’
‘Not without warning us first,’ Harvey said. He was right.
‘Can you do a trace on his phone? See if you can pinpoint where it was before it was switched off?’
‘Leave it with me. I’ll get back to you ASAP.’ He hung up.
I placed Brigham’s phone in my jeans pocket. The young agent scowled. ‘I’m gonna need it,’ I snarled at him. He looked like he was about to argue but Hartlaub shook his head, and that was the subject finished with. I followed them to the SUV. Hartlaub drove, still neglecting to tell me where we were going. Then again I’d more on my mind to worry about, so didn’t ask. Half an hour nearer our destination Brigham’s phone rang and I fished it out of my pocket.
‘What have you got?’
Harvey sighed. ‘Not a great deal. The last coordinates for Rink’s cell phone were logged at 04.43 hours this morning. They show he was kinda off the beaten track, out near to the Pahayokee Overlook in the Everglades National Park.’
Pahayokee Overlook? That would be Velasquez’s Pocahontas Swamp, I assumed.
‘Walter has some explaining to do first, but then I’ll head down there.’ My words earned me a dark look from Hartlaub, but I didn’t care. Whatever Walter expected from me would have to wait. Rink was my priority.
‘Where are you?’
‘The Adirondacks. But if I have my way, I won’t be here for long.’
‘Meet me in Florida,’ he said. ‘I’ve access to a chopper so I can be there in five or six hours.’
I decided I could do with his help. I could head on down to the Everglades, but what was I going to do by myself? Beat hundreds of square miles of saw-tooth grass with a stick?
‘I’ll see you there.’
‘Do you need me to bring anything?’ Harvey asked.
My SIG Sauer P226 was a welcome weight in the back of my jeans. ‘I’m good to go.’
Chapter 9
Flathead Lake was mirror-smooth, reflecting the evening sun w
here it peeked over the Salish Mountains. The water was burnished with fire, glinting highlights searing the eyes of the man who sat on the shore south of the Swan River tributary. He was dressed for the cool evening, with a scarf wrapped around his lower face, a cap pulled low so that only his eyes could be seen. Even his eyes had lens coverings, giving them an unnatural amber cast, which now was reinforced by the reflected water.
He wasn’t local to the area. But then again, the nearby town of Bigfork was home to a large number of urban refugees who’d arrived during the last decade. Bigfork had fast become the leading arts community in Montana, attracting visitors from all over the world. The man’s English accent wasn’t uncommon, but neither was French, German, Swedish, Japanese or any other. In summer the population swelled exponentially, but even now, during winter, there were enough transients for the man to remain anonymous.
‘Are you ready to go, Jeff?’
The man glanced to his right. Patricia was standing on a rock, hands jammed into her jeans pockets. The rock gave her extra height, accentuating her willowy frame. Her rat-chewed urban-chic hair was stuffed beneath a woolly hat – the type with ear flaps and tassels that wouldn’t have looked out of place in Nepal.
‘How about helping me up?’ Jeff asked, extending gloved fingers to her.
‘Come on,’ she said, turning away and hopping off the rock. ‘You can manage.’
Jeff shook his head. Patricia wasn’t one for pity.
Standing up was always a problem, especially if he’d been in a certain position for too long. The scar tissue from the ‘industrial accident’ he’d suffered protested, doling out plenty of discomfort before he got moving.