by Matt Hilton
Taxis rocketed by, but the driver held the van at a couple miles below the speed limit. He had no intention of giving the local cops a reason to pull them over. The distance to Baltimore was short, and within half an hour they were moving through traffic that had slowed to a crawl as it navigated the routes into the centre of Charm City. Jennifer’s eyelids began to flicker: she was lost in a dream, but as long as it wasn’t a nightmare and she started screaming, she was of no concern for now.
Cain eyed a Gothic building standing alongside more recent skyscrapers. The look of the building conjured years gone by, an anachronistic monument to older, simpler times. Cain grunted when he saw that it was an original Bank of America tower; nothing simplistic about that. Now the tower was a symbol of control and order, the antithesis of everything he stood for. He turned his eyes from it and towards the Inner Harbor directly ahead of them. From their slightly elevated vantage he could see across to the headland where Fort McHenry squatted, but he’d had quite enough of forts in the last year or so. Instead he directed the driver to the left, passing the Spirit of Baltimore that was moored at the wharf, and a twin-level collection of restaurants and boutique shops. Towering over it all was the World Trade Center, an odd construction with five sides, and beyond it a massive indoor aquarium complete with a cascading waterfall tumbling through a faux rainforest. A Hard Rock Cafe, a book store and sports bar dominated a reclaimed power plant and offered lively entertainment. None of those sights held any attraction for him.
‘You want crab cakes still?’
Cain frowned at the driver.
‘Crab cakes?’
‘You said you were hungry.’
‘Not for crustaceans, my friend. I prefer my bones on the inside.’
The driver adjusted his glasses again.
Another one that his wit was wasted upon, Cain thought. Maybe if the driver knew his passenger was the famous Harvestman he’d have chosen to be less trustworthy. That was a point worth redressing before they parted company. ‘Just take me to Fells Point, willya?’
‘Good restaurants there,’ the driver acknowledged with a wry smile. He knew exactly where Cain was heading to.
Baltimore Inner Harbor was the tourist destination of sightseers, Fells Point the place those same tourists flocked to of an evening, but beyond the spit of land were the shipping wharfs and one in particular owned by associates of Kurt Hendrickson. Baron had suggested it as an appropriate place for Cain to hold Jennifer.
Fells Point passed without attention from Cain, who was too intent on studying Jennifer again. When first he’d laid eyes on her he’d thought she was beautiful, and he didn’t give much credence to the old adage that beauty was skin deep; quite the opposite in fact. He couldn’t wait to discover Jennifer’s hidden treasures. He must keep her alive to bait his trap, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t make a start on her. Truth be told, it was a struggle not to clamber into the back of the van there and then and try out his new blades.
The van edged along an industrial area, warehouses alternating with freight yards stacked high with containers destined for locations throughout the world. It passed through a gate electronically controlled, but also under the baleful gaze of an elderly black man. The old guy had suffered an accident at some point and the lower half of his right leg had been amputated. Cain idly wondered what had become of the limb. The gate closed behind them and the driver directed the van along smooth concrete paving towards a loading dock and a decrepit container ship. The ship was circa 1950s vintage and carried each of its six decades etched in the corrosion of its metal work. The Queen Sofia now had the look of an aging dowager, and was about as appealing. In this case, Cain thought, ugly is also more than skin deep, and definitely runs to the bone. But to him the ship was a real sight for sore eyes.
Leaning into the rear compartment, Cain shook Jennifer’s shoulder. ‘Hey, Sleeping Beauty! Wakey wakey!’
Jennifer stirred, her mouth opening wordlessly, a string of sticky saliva glistening on her chin. The anaesthetic was still doing its work, and her vision went unfocused. Cain leaned deeper into the compartment, took her chin between his fingers and directed her gaze to the front.
‘Didn’t I tell you that you’d get treated to five-star accommodation?’ he said. ‘Jeez, first you get to hobnob with TV stars on an executive jet, now you get an all-expenses paid cruise. Hell, I keep treating you like this you won’t want anything to do with your husband any more.’ Cain pushed his thumb against the tip of her nose and Jennifer’s head rolled away from the pressure. ‘But, we can’t have that, can we? We can’t keep all this to ourselves, Jennifer. John has just got to come join us.’
Chapter 34
I was in no doubt that Cain would contact Walter soon. He hadn’t gone to all the trouble of snatching Jennifer to now sit on his thumbs. Pretty soon the demands would start, and I could be in motion again. I hated the feeling of futility while waiting for the deranged bastard to call, but had no choice. Waiting I’m not good at. My need to get going was like an itch I couldn’t scratch and the longer it went on, the more agitated I became. I considered taking Harvey’s advice and heading back to Rene Moulder’s place to check in with Rink, but that meant putting myself out of the loop for the best part of the day. I wanted to be on hand the moment that Walter gave me the nod. That meant staying close to his retreat, and the transportation I’d require.
Harvey left reluctantly, and I knew he wasn’t happy leaving me to deal with Cain alone. Just before setting off he appraised me with his molten chocolate gaze and I knew he was considering the alternatives and didn’t like what he was coming up with. Finally he’d just shaken his head slowly, clambered into his chopper and lifted off. I watched until the helicopter was lost in the cloud haze to the south. I was sorry to see my friend go, but at the same time happy that no one else I cared for was involved in the danger that constantly dogged me.
I tried sleeping; bunking in a back room as far away from where Bryce and the others had died as I could find, but sleep eluded me. Instead, I got up, showered, ate a sandwich and drank some coffee. Then I set to prepping my weapons. The SIG gleamed by the time I was done, and I turned my attention to the shells supplied to me by Walter. Contrary to popular belief, guns don’t jam, ammunition does. I checked each bullet individually before feeding them into three clips. Choosing. 40 S amp;W or. 357 SIG ammo would have given me more stopping power, but the clips held less capacity than the fifteen rounds that 9 mm Parabellums allowed. I had the feeling that I’d need plenty of bullets before I was done and the forty-five I had to hand wouldn’t necessary be overkill. Next I honed my Ka-bar.
My weapons prepared, I turned to honing my natural weapons.
I ran, following the river through the wooded valley, one ear always on my cellphone should Walter call me back in a hurry. When my breathing had settled into a rhythm, and my body was sufficiently warmed and lubricated, I incorporated strengthening exercises into my workout. On a large boulder that jutted over white water, I went through a sequence of attack and defensive movements taken from various martial arts forms. I finished my workout by stretching, then sat on the rock, listening to the sound of the rapids below me. Rink could have lost himself in the hypnotic lull of the rushing water, but I was too edgy for that. I got up and ran back, forcing myself to even greater effort. By the time I arrived at Walter’s cabin I’d killed a couple of hours, but there was still some waiting time ahead of me. But maybe it wouldn’t seem as interminable.
Imogen was standing on the stoop, her chin tucked low into her collar as she watched me jog across the field towards the house. She had her hair under a hat that was as much a disguise as it was to keep off the cold. She looked much as she had when we’d stood over her sister’s headstone back in Maine, only her tears were for something different this time.
Slowing, I walked the last twenty yards or so. Imogen kept her face dipped, but her gaze on mine. When I was still ten paces away, she came to meet me. Maybe I didn’t have th
e right, but I opened my arms and she entered their circle and snaked her hands around my waist.
We just held each other and I could feel her heartbeat against my chest. When we finally stepped apart, Imogen held on, her right hand clasping a handful of my sweatshirt like she’d never let go.
I’d thought that the best thing for her would be if I walked away, but I could see that I’d been wrong. Walking away didn’t change a damn thing. Imogen was inexorably tied to me and she always would be. I could be on the other side of the planet and she’d still be within the sphere of influence that surrounded me, and therefore in peril from those who would do me harm. Better then that I keep her close and that way she’d be much safer. I pulled her into my embrace and she tilted her mouth to mine in silent acknowledgement.
When she stepped back she did let go, but the bond between us was stronger than before.
‘I’m sorry, Imogen…’
Really I had no way of explaining myself, feeling awkward as I attempted to order an apology in my mind.
Imogen placed a finger to my lips.
‘It’s behind us. Let’s leave it there, Joe. Let’s leave everything there.’
Everything.
She wasn’t talking about the recent attempt on her life, or any of the other times she’d been in danger because of her attachment to me. Neither was she talking about the fact I’d walked out on her leaving Hartlaub and Brigham to pull her out of the fire. She was talking about Kate. If I’d thought about it too long, then maybe my answer would have been different, but right then, right there, I had only one way of showing her everything would be OK between us. I took her in my arms and kissed her again.
The cabin was no place to take a lady, so we strolled down by the river, out from under the prying eyes of the CIA men. My clothing was damp from my exertions, but I didn’t feel the cold. Neither of us did as we took up where we’d left off that night in Maine before our rude interruption. Afterwards we sat side by side and watched the water flow by. I found the soothing pull of the river easier to lose myself in that time.
‘Hartlaub and Brigham are going to stay with me until you’re through.’
‘They’re good men,’ I said.
‘They’re killers.’
Yes, they were, but that’s the type of men I needed watching over her. I looked at her studying me. Maybe she was reassessing exactly what I was.
‘Once I’d have found that abhorrent,’ she said. ‘But now…’
Hers was a moral dilemma I’d often struggled with: in a civilised world there should be no need for men like me, or her CIA minders, but civilisation was just a veneer. Despite four thousand years of supposed development we were no more than a rung above our savage forebears. Actually, I’d often thought that we’d taken a step back down the ladder and were worse than the beasts that only killed to survive. There was nothing in nature like Tubal Cain, I was certain. And, as long as something like him lived, it vindicated my existence.
Changing the subject, I asked, ‘Whose idea was it to come here?’
‘Whose do you think?’
I rolled my neck. ‘I thought Walter was behind it.’
‘Walter tried to put me off. He said it wasn’t appropriate. He was wrong. It’s shown me exactly the kind of life you have to… endure.’ She laid a hand on my forearm and her expression was earnest. ‘But I wanted to see. It has helped make my mind up. It doesn’t matter to me where you go… what you have to do… I want to be there for you, Joe.’
‘They showed you what happened inside?’ Even after a clean-up crew had sanitised the room, I hoped that Imogen hadn’t been exposed to the pall of violence that still hung over it.
‘No. But I didn’t need to see that. It’s enough that I can imagine it. You shouldn’t have to deal with things like that alone.’
‘I’m not alone. I have Rink and-’
Imogen cut me off. She put her hand against the side of my head. ‘I’m talking about up here, Joe. I’m talking about you carrying the burden inside your mind. I want to help take some of the pain away.’
I held my palm on the back of her hand. It was soothing, but I doubted anything could take away the guilt I carried. Her offer was generous, though, and not one I wanted to turn down. Finally, I twined my fingers with hers and brought down our clasped hands on to my thigh. ‘Thank you. I want that too. But… well, there’s still things I have to do alone.’
‘I understand. I just want you to know that I’ll be waiting for you when you come back. OK?’
‘OK.’
We leaned in and kissed, gently this time, as if sealing a pact. Then we stood, straightening our clothes. Imogen jammed her hat down over her mussed hair. Now it was no kind of disguise. Anyone who looked at us would guess exactly what had gone on. We smiled like abashed teenagers.
‘Come on,’ I said, leading her by the hand. ‘I don’t know about you, but I think I need a shower.’
Just like last time, it seemed that our lovemaking heralded future dramatic events and that my shower would have to go on the back burner. No sooner had I made the suggestion than my cellphone bleeped. I dug it out of my sweats and looked at the screen. It was Walter. He knew I was out there making amends with Imogen and there could be only one reason for disturbing me. Cain had made contact.
Chapter 35
Tubal Cain studied Jennifer Telfer with detachment. He did not see her as human but as a tool to cut the heart out of her husband’s chest. To him, she was as important as the Recon Tanto or the Bowie knife he carried on his belt.
Because his plan relied on Jennifer being alive and relatively healthy, he couldn’t allow this ill-treatment to go on. Leaving her in squalor, unfed and without proper sanitation, was akin to allowing his blades to tarnish. Cain regularly oiled and sharpened his knives, and this woman should be afforded the same treatment.
He peered through the letterbox-sized slot in the door, noting how Jennifer huddled in the corner for warmth. She was done with crying for now, probably from dehydration, because Cain knew she hadn’t been given water since her arrival. Or maybe she’d finally realised the futility of weeping; it engendered little response from pitiless men. There was a bucket in the corner of her cell, and judging by the smell wafting through the opening she had availed herself of it. It needed emptying. Jennifer required nourishment.
The fat man sitting at the end of the narrow corridor seemed less inclined to leave his porn magazine than see to either task. Cain paced along the corridor, taking a single step in time with each measured exhalation. It was a process to calm himself, so that he could communicate with the dirt-ball without allowing his urges to overwhelm him: he so wanted to slash the pervert’s sweaty face to ribbons. It also helped calm Cain’s stomach, as the floor lifted and fell with each swell that the container ship rode.
Coming to a halt he waited for the fat man to thumb over another page. He was an ‘ass man’ by all accounts, because the big-breasted woman spread over two pages didn’t hold his attention long. He flicked a glance up at Cain, then turned back to another page where a svelte young thing was hiking up the hem of her dress.
‘What would you like to do to her, huh?’ asked the fat man, smoothing his fingers over the woman’s backside.
Exactly what I’d like to do to you, Cain thought. There was nothing erotic in the idea, but he had to concur that hacking away the flesh to find what lay within was very sensual.
‘Feed the woman and give her water.’
‘What the fuck am I? A fuckin’ nursemaid?’ The man went back to his skin mag.
Cain exhaled, and this time it had nothing to do with the nauseating movement of the ship.
The man sneered at another young woman, this one in an even more revealing pose. ‘Fuck, you can see what the bitch had for breakfast!’
‘I told you to feed and water the woman.’
‘You ain’t my boss. Fuck off and leave me in peace.’
Cain stood impassively. ‘You do know who I am?’
‘No, you look like a piece of crap with a cesspit for a mind. It would explain the bile that flows from your mouth.’
The man pushed up out of his chair. Sitting down, his fat had been bagged around his middle. Standing, he tightened himself, spreading his shoulders so that he loomed over Cain like a grizzly bear. He had twice the girth and at least three inches on Cain. He pressed a thick finger smeared with printer’s ink to Cain’s chest. ‘Just who the fuck do you think you’re talking to?’
Cain shook his head sadly. ‘Like I said… cesspit, crap, bile. Take your pick. If you don’t understand any of those words, I’ll gladly explain them in simpler terms.’
The fat man mulled Cain’s reply over in his mind. ‘You’re making a joke, right? Only I’m just not getting it.’
‘So do something useful; go and feed and water the woman.’
‘I’m busy.’ The man reached down to his magazine. He shook the pages under Cain’s nose. ‘I’m making plans for what I’m gonna do to her. Getting what you call inspiration.’
‘You will not touch her.’
‘Says who?’
‘Says me.’
The fat man laughed. He rolled the magazine between his hands, squeezing it into a solid tube, and waved the impromptu phallic symbol towards Jennifer’s cell. ‘I think I’ll start by softening her up with this. Otherwise she will be no good to a man of my size.’
Cain closed his eyes. His lids flickered.