Dead Men's Harvest

by Matt Hilton

  ‘Have you had a chance?’

  We both speak English, but it isn’t the same language at all, he thought.

  At his blank look, she said, ‘The menu. Did you get a chance to read it?’

  ‘Uh, yeah,’ he said, tapping the menu. ‘I’ll have one of these.’

  ‘Sausage bap? OK, coming right up. Will there be anything else?’

  Cain hadn’t realised he’d been staring at the woman’s hand. Where she’d pulled the hangnail loose, he could see a bright strip of red was showing through. He was picturing how much further he’d have to dig to find the bone. Yes, there was something else he wanted but he had to fight the urge to take it. He shook his head, lifted his milky coffee and tried not to grimace against the sickly sweet taste. As much as he’d have liked to take a bone from this woman he couldn’t afford the problems it might incur. He was here for Jennifer Telfer and must not allow his urges to control him. He concentrated on getting the coffee down.

  His sausage bap arrived. Links of sausage, sliced and placed in a bun. Some sort of brown sauce had been smeared on them. It was actually delicious and he wolfed it down.

  Through the windows he saw that the traffic flow had picked up. He glanced at his watch. Three thirty p.m. ‘Are the schools due to get out?’

  The woman squinted at her own watch. ‘Yes.’

  He approached the counter. Coming out to face him, the woman said, ‘We don’t get many Americans round here. What brings you to Longsight?’

  ‘The delicious sausage baps,’ he said, and smiled. He handed over a ten-pound note and got change direct from the pocket in her apron. A jar on the counter said ‘tips’. He rattled the coins into the jar. ‘Maybe they’ll bring me back another day and I can sample some other local delights.’

  The woman laughed. She thought he was flirting. Let her think what she likes, Cain reflected. If she knew what he was really hinting at she would have run away screaming.

  ‘Well . . . if you need a guide, you know where to come.’

  Cain winked at her. ‘Bet on it.’

  ‘I’ll hold you to that.’ The woman pulled her cloth from her apron, sashayed so that they bumped hips. Her laughter was throaty, but more from too many cigarettes than anything sexy. Cain allowed his hand to trail across her hip and down her lower back, as if guiding her around him. She never felt the swish of the box-cutter as he moved past her.

  Later she’d note that one of the ties of her apron was much shorter than the other, and perhaps she’d reappraise her meeting with the handsome Yank, but for now Cain smiled as he pocketed his trophy. At the door he turned back. The woman was bending over his table, cocking her hip provocatively and peering doe-eyed over her shoulder. To Cain she resembled a five-buck whore. Jeez, he thought, all bets are off. Still, he offered a smile and a wave, and she grinned back, showing him the gaps in her teeth.

  He left the tea shop, wondering if she could eat an apple through a birdcage without opening the door. He chuckled at the image, then let it go. There were more important things to consider. Along the roadside, the parking spaces had freed up and further down the street came the first drift of children in school uniforms. He wondered if he’d recognise John Telfer’s children when he saw them.

  Chapter 28

  ‘I’m in.’

  Harvey confirmed my whispered message. I stood just inside the back door of the Tudor hall, peering along a narrow vestibule. Inside, the walls were white. Ancient wood along the skirting and picture rails was as dark as ebony. The floor was wood, but a runner of carpet had been laid down the middle, deadening any footfalls. I could almost smell the history embedded in the fabric of the old building. Fleetingly I wondered if this house had known bloodshed in its time in Lancashire. Had it been used as a base during the Wars of the Roses, or witnessed conflict between Roundheads and Cavaliers? Or would this be the first time it had known violent death in its six hundred years?

  I took out my knife as I set off along the vestibule, timing my breathing with my steps. On my right I saw a double door that led into the large dining room. I ignored it, continued, and found myself in an entry hall near the front of the house. On my left was a stairway that switched back on itself twice where it met the landings of the upper storeys. There was a man dressed not unlike the one I’d killed outside. His suit was grey, and his shoes buffed to a bright gleam. His hair was so short that his scalp showed through at the crown. He was cleanly shaven. The hands that fiddled at the edges of a newspaper were well manicured. He was the meet-and-greet guy, but also the one who halted any unwanted visitors who made it through the gates. The Galil machine gun hanging from the arm of his chair told me so.

  Before moving on him, I listened. There were the sounds of activity further to my left, floorboards creaked overhead, somewhere deeper in the house I heard a buzz of conversation but I couldn’t make out what was being said. One voice momentarily rose in volume, and I guessed that would be Kurt Hendrickson making his position known. No one other than the door guard was in close proximity. I strode across the floor. The man wasn’t hard-wired to expect an attack from within. In fact, he glanced at me, and my unfamiliar face didn’t at first register. By the time he did a double take, I was in position. I clamped my left hand over his mouth, stuck my Ka-bar under his ear and rammed upwards. I lifted him bodily out of the chair, resting his weight against my chest to stop his heels drumming on the hardwood planks. The newspaper fluttered to the floor. He died within seconds and not a sound announced my presence. I dragged the man across the hall and pushed him deep inside a closet, wiped my knife on his suit. Next I backtracked, straightening the rucked carpet and settling his chair, I slung the Galil over my shoulder; maybe I’d need it if things went to shit.

  The sounds of conversation drifted to me again. The voice I’d assumed belonged to Hendrickson had grown louder, like he wasn’t a happy man. If I had my way, his day would go even further downhill. I followed the voice. The house was best described as rambling. Beyond the entrance hall was another staircase. A second vestibule – this one with low ceilings and doors barely taller than I was – led into the central portion of the house, where I guessed there’d be a kitchen: that was where the raised voice originated. I scanned the other end of the house. Someone walked along a corridor and into a room, closing the door behind them. In the brief moment I’d seen the figure, I noted that it was a woman. Ignoring her, I turned quickly down the narrow vestibule towards the source of the voice.

  In my earpiece Harvey whispered, ‘Status?’

  ‘Two down. I’m heading to the back of the house. You think you can set up out there and cover for me if needs be?’

  ‘On my way,’ he said.

  OK, so he wasn’t Rink, but Harvey was proving himself just fine.

  I recalled the cars outside, tried to estimate the number of men inside the house. It wasn’t easy because I didn’t know how many of those cars belonged to Hendrickson and which belonged to his visitors. Basically, I had to err on the side of caution. Expect more enemies to come at me and any fewer would be a help. The corridor was like something from Through the Looking Glass, seemingly growing progressively narrower and lower of ceiling as I traversed it. It took me a moment to understand that the floor was a steady ramp towards the door at the far end; a quirk of the architecture. Doors on my right were locked. I gripped my knife loosely and went on, conscious that should anyone enter the corridor behind me then I was a sitting duck.

  I allowed the door to swing open under its own weight, and found a kitchen area beyond. From a side room sounded a soft clink of pots and pans. I moved quickly, swerved around a food preparation counter, and approached the annexe room. Standing with her back to me was an elderly woman in a dull grey uniform of skirt and jacket, black stockings and black shoes. She sported a pudding basin haircut. As long as it wasn’t Rosa Klebb I didn’t deem her a threat, so silently closed the door behind her and bolted it to keep her out of harm’s way. I went back across the kitchen, by-passing t
he large island in the middle, and approached a different door from the one I’d entered by. It was shut, but from beyond it came the voices I’d been following, too indistinct to make out words. I eased the door open.

  There’s an old saying: don’t take a knife to a gunfight. Good advice. I pulled out my SIG and transferred the Ka-bar to my belt. Taking one last glance at the door I’d recently shut, checking that Rosa Klebb wasn’t standing behind me ready to reveal a stiletto blade in the toe of her shoe, I was happy that I was unobserved. This was about the most foolhardy thing I’d done in a long time. Even crazier than the risk I’d taken to release Rink from his captors. I was about to descend into a basement below a house full of armed men. For all I knew the space beneath could become my tomb. But I didn’t let that put me off.

  Maybe when the Tudor hall was reconstructed here it had been erected upon the foundations of an older structure, because I found myself descending into what once might have been a root cellar. The Galil was cumbersome, so I propped it against the wall so that it didn’t knock on the stone and give me away. The stones that supported the floors above were age-worn, grimy with smoke from old kerosene lamps and candles. Still, the steps had been replaced with new ones of preformed concrete, smooth underfoot. I went down them with barely a whisper of my soles on the treads. At the bottom was a sturdy door, more like something you’d find in a bank vault than in an ordinary cellar. Luckily it had already been unlocked. The door stood ajar, little more than a hand’s span, but it was enough for me now to hear three distinct voices. The one I assumed belonged to Hendrickson had calmed since earlier, but it still held a dominating edge.

  ‘The point,’ Hendrickson said, ‘is that you came highly recommended. I’m paying you a fortune, but you’re still no further ahead than you were three fucking days ago!’

  There was the scuff of a shoe, someone moving uncomfortably as they jostled to reinstate their importance. I heard Baron’s insipid drawl. ‘We were too late in Maine. Hunter must have figured out that we were going to make a try at his girlfriend. When the team I sent for her arrived, they were ambushed. Two of them were killed and Imogen was whisked away in an airplane. I hardly think that it’s a failing on my part if she gave us the slip.’

  A wash of relief went through me. It sounded like Hartlaub and Brigham had come through for me, and for Imogen. The relief was only momentary, replaced by cold fury as I realised how close to danger Imogen had been placed again. It made me more determined to end things.

  I wasn’t the only one who was furious. Hendrickson shouted. ‘A fucking failing on your part? Considering he’d no way of knowing you were going after her, I can’t see how Hunter could have guessed. You must have fucked up. Simple as that!’

  ‘Sir, with due respect, I hardly think that Baron’s to blame.’ The third voice struck me. A tiny part of me had hoped that it would be Tubal Cain himself. To take them all out in one swirl of violence would have suited me. Yet, another part – one I can only describe as fear – warned that if Cain was inside that room, then I’d taken on more than I could handle. I was pleasantly surprised to hear the voice of Charters, the arsehole whose arm I’d broken.

  ‘Did I ask for your opinion? No. So shut the fuck up!’ Hendrickson turned his ire back on Baron. ‘You made a fucking mess of everything, Baron. Sigmund’s death is going to cause me real problems in the days ahead. I’m beginning to think that I should’ve left everything well alone, trusted in the courts to sort things as usual. My attorneys would have ripped Telfer to shreds and I’d have walked free. With Sigmund’s sudden disappearance, though, my fall-back plan will fail.’

  Reading between the lines, he meant he’d have ensured that Petoskey carried all the shit for him. In real terms, John had worked for Petoskey, not Hendrickson, so I didn’t doubt he’d already made plans to disassociate himself from any connections to my brother. He had been behind the hit men who had chased John, but I made myself a silent wager that Petoskey would have carried the can for that too.

  Baron said, ‘It was a totally unforeseen incident. Who could’ve guessed that Hunter would’ve achieved what he did?’

  ‘Broke my fucking arm . . .’ Charters began, but his words petered out and I assumed he’d received a filthy look from his bosses.

  ‘You deserve more than a broken arm,’ Hendrickson spat. ‘From what I hear, it was your knife that Hunter got his hands on. Maybe I’m blaming the wrong person for the entire fuck-up?’

  ‘No, sir,’ Baron interjected on Charters’ behalf. ‘I accept responsibility for that. And, yes, as you’ve pointed out, you are paying me a fortune for a thoroughly professional service. I’m sorry for what has gone before, but I promise you: I will not fail again.’

  I pictured Hendrickson’s face, dark with anger. Metaphorically, he would be like a pot simmering on a stove, but the flames had just been turned down. I heard him exhale loudly, then there was a metallic clunk. ‘See that you don’t.’

  It was as good a point as any to pour more water on him.

  I pushed into the room, lifting my SIG.

  ‘The first man to move dies.’

  My face was the last any of them expected. They stood there, dumbstruck. My command had been designed to achieve this. The last thing I wanted was for them to start shouting and bring reinforcements running from above.

  Hendrickson was a bigger man than I had imagined. He had strong features, pale blue eyes, and skin dark by heredity rather than holidays in the sun. His chest, shoulders and biceps stretched his suit jacket, and in his day he would have been quite a scrapper. Right now it looked like any fight had gone out of him. Charters shot me a look to curdle milk, while Baron appraised me with that supercilious smile he’d used when last we met. All three men were standing at the far end of the room, Hendrickson facing the other two. Between us were rack upon rack of guns; a good ol’ boy’s dream world, and a potential nightmare for me. I didn’t doubt that any of them were armed already, but just the sight of upward of a hundred weapons gave me pause. It must have shown in my stance because Hendrickson straightened a little.

  ‘Face me,’ I said. ‘Hands where I can see them.’

  They all turned, hands out by their sides. I made a quick scan of the room. None of the rifles or machine guns appeared to be loaded, nor any of the semi-auto handguns, but I couldn’t tell with the revolvers.

  Ideally I would have liked for them to drop their weapons, but while they were at it one of them could try to be a hero. I was sure that I could drop any of them first, but the sound of my gun would bring reinforcements and I’d be penned inside this room. Something crossed Baron’s face: realisation that I required silence to get the job done. He opened his mouth to shout, then realised that even if I did get boxed inside, I wouldn’t be the only man to die. I arched an eyebrow at him as he got the point.

  ‘We’ve a stalemate going on,’ he said.

  ‘Nah, Baron. I’ve got a gun in my hand.’

  Baron was quick on the draw, but nowhere near fast enough when I already had my SIG trained between his eyes. He kept his hands spread.

  Charters hurriedly glanced back and forth, seeking direction from his superiors. His right arm was cocooned in bandages, but his left hand was still able to grab the gun tucked in his belt. I eyed him steadily. ‘Don’t try it, Charters. Even with two good hands you were out of your league.’

  Hendrickson had taken stock and didn’t like his chances. He held up his palms. ‘Tubal Cain warned me that you were a remarkable enemy.’

  ‘Flattery will get you nowhere,’ I quipped.

  ‘How about money?’

  ‘How about you call Cain off my brother?’

  I’d made Petoskey the same deal. Hendrickson couldn’t have known that at the time, but he’d have been fully aware of the outcome.

  ‘I was never in command of that maniac’s actions.’ Hendrickson glanced at Baron as if seeking support. Baron lowered his face.

  ‘Call him off,’ I said again.

 
‘I don’t know how to contact him. He calls me, refuses to be on a leash.’

  ‘I don’t believe you.’

  ‘It’s the truth.’

  Actually, I did believe part of what he said: the bit about Cain refusing to be on Hendrickson’s leash. But I also believed that Hendrickson knew exactly where he was.

  ‘Where is he?’

  ‘Where is your brother?’ Hendrickson sneaked up the corner of his mouth. At my snort, he went on, ‘What I meant was, he’s probably where your brother is.’

  I gave him a slow headshake. ‘This is going nowhere. Unless you start talking the truth, I’m going to start shooting.’

  ‘You may as well,’ Hendrickson said. ‘Do you think I relish the thought of spending the rest of my life in prison? Death would be a better prospect.’

  ‘I’d be very happy to oblige. Then again, I might just kneecap you and make you easier game in the showers. Try fighting off a gang rape when you’re on all fours.’

  Baron slowly lifted his head again. ‘Hunter, if you kill Hendrickson I won’t be paid.’

  ‘Your point being?’

  ‘I’m a hired hand. I have no personal stake in this other than the money. Let me go, I’ll walk away.’

  I considered his offer for all of a second. ‘You’re forgetting.’ Other than the obvious – that he would try to kill me at his first opportunity. ‘You sent men to capture my girlfriend. You had Petoskey murder Louise Blake. You tortured my best friend. For any of those, you deserve to die. My friend, Rink . . . do you know what I promised him? I swore I’d save him a piece of your arse, but I don’t think that’s a promise I can keep.’

  Baron shrugged. ‘Worth a try.’

  Hendrickson was looking at him open-mouthed. ‘That had better have been a bluff, Baron.’