Dead Men's Dust jh-1

by Matt Hilton

  "Sure you don't mind?" I asked.

  "Go ahead." He rolled his neck, then turned to his computer screen and studied it with way too much intensity.

  "When you finish up, I got a call to make, too," Rink said. He was standing behind Harvey, and I saw him reach out and grip his friend's shoulder. Rink's never patronizing; his gesture was more one of reassurance. "Can you look me up the number for the Arkansas Humane Society, Harve? Gotta drop 'em a tip concerning illegal dog fighting on their turf."

  Harvey nodded, then bent to the task.

  "If you'd prefer I didn't use your phone, I'll go find a public phone," I said.

  Harvey returned his gaze to mine.

  "Go ahead and use it, Hunter. If the CIA is involved, you can bet your ass they're already aware of my involvement." He rocked back in his seat, resigned. Nerves made him more effusive than usual. "Makes no difference if you conduct your business from here or anywhere else, they'll have you hooked up in less time than it takes you to dial the number. If you've got anything to say that you don't want them to hear, I suggest you forget about phone calls altogether."

  "Yeah," I agreed. But I wasn't concerned. Truth is, it didn't matter what the CIA overheard, considering that it was one of their controllers I was about to call.

  A number I hadn't used in over four years leaped straight from my memory to my fingertips. From the handset, I heard the beeping of a long-distance connection as it bounced via service providers and satellites throughout the world. A phone finally rang in a nondescript office in Langley, Virginia.

  The call was picked up by an electronic answering machine, which gave me options and asked me to key in a twelve-digit number. Again from long-term memory I typed in the sequence. The line went dead for a split second. In that unfathomably short space of time recording devices kicked in. It didn't matter. Then came a purr as the connection was made. The phone was picked up after only three beeps.

  "This better be good," grunted a man's voice.

  "That'll depend on your perspective," I grunted right back.

  "My perspective is always from the bottom of a deep dark place, you should know that by now."

  My laughter was humorless. "You should get out more. Get a little sunshine on your face. You spend too much time in your little cubbyhole."

  "Tell me about it," the man said. Over the line came a minuscule shift in the white noise as buttons were flicked. "You can speak now, Hunter. Line's secure."

  "I've got a favor to ask," I told him.

  "So much for the pleasantries, huh? Straight down to business. Even after all this time."

  "No time for pleasantries, I'm afraid. It could be that we're sitting on opposite sides of the fence on this one."

  I heard the creak of leather: Walter Hayes Conrad IV shifting uneasily in his chair. By that subtle shift of his body, I knew I'd struck an uneasy chord with him.

  "Opposite sides of the fence? I thought you were no longer in the game, Hunter?"

  "I'm not in your game."

  "So you're still retired?"

  "Retired, yeah, but not out to pasture yet."

  "I take it this is a private job we're talking about, then?"

  "It was private until I heard some of your boys might be involved."

  "Oh?" Walter shifted again, and I could visualize him reaching for the on switch for the recorder.

  "Just give me a minute before you make our conversation public," I said.

  "Like I said, Hunter, the line's secure."

  "Yeah, so let's keep it that way for now?"

  "You know I can't promise you that, Hunter. If this concerns one of our operations, I can't let it go off the record."

  I sniffed. "All I'm asking is that you confirm if the CIA is involved."

  "That'll depend."

  "I appreciate that. I'm not asking for specifics. A simple yes or no will do."

  "Then the answer's no."

  "Is that what you term plausible denial?"

  "Nah, there's nothing plausible about it."

  "You're right there," I said. "Considering I haven't even told you what job I'm involved in."

  "There's no need. I haven't heard your name mentioned, Hunter."

  "Well, there's a surprise," I said.

  "We did wonder what you were doing on our home soil," Walter said. Walter doesn't offer information for nothing.

  "So you knew I was in the country?"

  "Of course. What kind of intelligence community doesn't track foreign agents flying in?"

  "I'm not a foreign agent, Walt. I'm retired. Remember?"

  "Same difference."

  It wasn't overly surprising that my presence in the USA had rung warning bells. Neither would it surprise me if Walter had already made calls to my old commanders at Arrowsake to check that I wasn't back on the payroll of the British government. Or—worse case scenario— that I was on someone else's payroll.

  "You needn't worry, Walter. I haven't turned to the dark side."

  Walter laughed as if he were choking on a bitter pill.

  "So what's the deal? I know you hooked up with Jared Rington. Believe me, Hunter, we dropped it there. Not interested."

  "Rink's with me now," I said. "He says hi."

  "I'm sure he does," Walter said scornfully. All part of the act.

  "I find it hard to believe that you aren't wondering what I'm up to," I said.

  "To be honest, we ain't the least bit interested. Far as we're concerned you're here visiting your old buddy. We're prepared to leave it at that. So long as nothing else comes to our attention."

  "Appreciate it, Walt. But now that I have come to your attention, how are you going to play it?"

  Walter sucked air through his teeth. Not the nicest sound in your ear. "Depends on the job you're about to describe."

  "The one you've already told me you're not involved in?"

  "One and the same."

  "Figures," I said, paraphrasing Rink. "I take it that what you're not telling me is that you've no one in Little Rock, Arkansas."

  "I don't doubt we've got agents there, Hunter, but not on anything you're involved in."

  "You're sure about that?"

  "How can you doubt me? I don't have anyone on your case. Okay?"

  "Okay, that's good enough for me." I paused, considering my next words. It was a gamble mentioning anything about the job I was involved in, but it was probably too late for that now. By calling Walter, I'd guaranteed that the CIA would indeed be watching me from now on. "What about my brother, John Telfer?"

  Up in his office at Langley, Walter Hayes Conrad IV went silent.

  "I take it by your silence that his name means something to you?"

  Walter breathed into the mouthpiece. Was that remorse?

  "It does, Hunter, but not for the reason you're thinking."

  "I'm thinking you've got guys on him."

  "Nope. It's not that at all."

  Judging by the ache between my eyebrows, my face was fertile ground begging for a frown. I was afraid to ask. "What is it then?"

  "I take it you haven't looked at the TV lately?"

  "No time for TV."

  "Make time. If you're interested in John Telfer, you'd better get yourself acquainted with CNN. Telfer's currently their number one news slot."

  I turned from the phone. "You got a TV, Harve?"

  "Got one at home. Why?"

  "What about your computer? Can you get CNN?"

  "The news channel? Sure."

  "Do me a favor and log on, will you?"

  Harvey's eyebrows danced toward his shaved head. Rink was watching me expectantly. A shrug was all I offered before turning my attention back to Walter. "I'm just about to take a look now."

  "Might explain a thing or two."

  "So what's the deal?" I asked him.

  "Take a look and make up your own mind."

  "Fair enough," I said. "But you're telling me this isn't anything to do with you?"

  "No matter how many ways I te
ll you no, you're still going to have reservations, Hunter."

  "Old habits die hard," I told him.

  "You doubt my honesty, but that's okay, I don't bear any grudges. If I were in your shoes, I'd be the same. For the record, I'll say it again. Then it's up to you . . ." His breath came slow and steady. The pause was not for his benefit. Bad news was coming. "The CIA is not on your case. We're not on your brother's case. But then again, I can't speak for the rest of the civilized world. Or the FBI, in particular."

  "The FBI?"

  "Just watch the news. You'll see what I mean."

  "Okay, Walt. I appreciate your help."

  "No problem," he said. "Good speaking to you again, Hunter."

  "Likewise." I paused, considering. Then, "Walt, seeing as you've been so open with me, there's something I have to tell you."

  "Go on."

  "I was involved in a job an hour or so ago. Guy I was up against said he'd been visited by some of your boys asking about John."

  "Wasn't us."

  "I appreciate that. But I think you might want to look into who's going round posing as government agents. Might cause a stink for you if something goes wrong."

  "I get it now. That's why you wanted to check in with me?"

  "Yeah. Just in case I have to defend myself."

  "They're not mine, Hunter. So . . . stay safe."

  Stay safe. This from a sub-division director of black ops. In other words, Walter had just given official sanction to retaliate with lethal force if that situation should arise. What's known in the trade as an executive decision.

  "Thanks, Walt."

  Walter isn't big on pleasantries. I was left holding a handset issuing the soft purr of a dead line.

  Something popped up on Harvey's computer screen. I set the phone back in its cradle. All I could think of to say was "Shit."

  With equal lack of verbosity, Rink cursed loudly. After a beat, Harvey joined in.

  On the screen of Harvey's computer were headlines I could barely comprehend.

  FBI CLOSES IN ON MASS KILLER THE HARVESTMAN FINALLY NAMED

  Beneath the headlines was a photograph of my little brother.

  21

  cain knocked again. Louder this time. Again there was no answer. Frowning beneath his impromptu hood, he stepped to the side of the door. By pressing close to the glass, he could make out any movement from within. Or in this case, lack of movement.

  No one home? How unbelievable is that?

  Letting out a sigh, he pulled the hood free and stuffed it into his trouser pocket. His palms were sweating inside the plastic bags, but he didn't take them off yet.

  "Where the hell are you?" he wondered aloud. There was a possibility that the thief had given him the slip, but he didn't give it much credence. He'd been parked in a position where he could watch the major exits from the hotel, and unless the thief had come down the back stairs and scaled the nine-foot perimeter fence, he was still here.

  What are the chances of that happening? Slim to zero.

  There was a chance he'd gone down to the restaurant for an evening meal, but again it was highly unlikely. From the furtive way the thief acted when he was in the parking lot, he was hiding from some one. He wouldn't eat in plain sight in the restaurant, not when he could order food to be delivered to his room.

  That left two or three possibilities. The thief was asleep and hadn't heard him knock. Or he was in the bathroom, and had again missed the knock. Or he'd slipped out while Cain had made his way around the back of the hotel and was even now in the parking lot looking for another vehicle to appropriate. Maybe an Oldsmobile.

  Vacillation danced a quickstep through his mind. He could run back out to check on the state of play, or he could gain admittance to the hotel suite and check out his other theories. In the end, he chose the latter.

  As quietly as possible, he tested the door handle. The door didn't open. Not a problem. He inserted the tip of his scaling knife between door lock and frame and twisted. The lock snicked open with barely any pressure.

  The door swung open to reveal a short vestibule with two closed doors on one side. At the far end a door was open, and he could see part of a combined sitting room/bedroom apartment. Next to a recliner was a pair of running shoes, and a denim jacket was slung over the arm of a chair. Looked like the thief hadn't packed to leave.

  Inside the vestibule, Cain listened. He could discern neither running water nor snoring. He took another step, the plastic bags making a faint sucking noise on the tiled floor. Watching the open room at the end, he pushed the front door closed, then turned to the first door to his right. Slowly he pushed down on the handle, allowing the door to swing open.

  He sneaked a look into the room. It was a tiny kitchen. A couple of buzzing flies bashed themselves against a window in an effort to escape the stifling heat. There were a few dirty dishes piled in the sink and a ring-stained coffee cup on the drain board. He reached out and touched a kettle. Through his plastic shrouding, he could feel that the kettle still bore the heat of being boiled. Proof of recent or current occupancy, Cain decided.

  Leaving the kitchen, he moved along the vestibule. He held his breath, anticipation building. If his assumption proved true, the next door would open into a bathroom, the most likely place to find the thief. Cain smiled to himself, imagining opening the door and finding the thief sitting on the toilet with his trousers around his ankles, a shocked look on his face. How ignoble!

  He pressed an ear to the door, listening for the telltale sounds of an industrious man at work. Nothing. No soft grunts, no delicate splashes, no sighs of relief or rustle of newspaper. Neither was there the sound of a shower or faucet trickling, but that didn't mean the thief wasn't prone in a tub and taking a moment of silent reflection.

  By habit, Cain always bolted the door to his bathroom, even when he knew he was alone. But the door swung open as easily as had the kitchen door. Cain stepped into the cooler confines of the bathroom, a delicate breath of lavender invading his senses. The lid on the toilet was up. The bath was empty. Unfortunately, the shower curtain was pulled to one side, so there was no chance of a Hitchcock moment.

  He fought down the impulse to swear. That is for the uncultured killer; he of the chainsaw or machete and lampshades made from human hide. Turning back to the vestibule, he walked with the stealth of a ninja assassin. His blade led the way, lifted like that of a matador poised for the coup de grâce.

  The open room remained constant. He attempted to tune himself to the still air, to feel the subtle drafts and eddies of the atmosphere around him. Feeling for restrained hints that human life stirred in the space out of his sight but not beyond the reach of his other senses.

  At the threshold, he once more tugged the hood from his pocket and pulled it over his head. The shock of a hooded man stepping into the room would have the desired effect and halt the thief in his tracks. All he required was a second or so of addled wits in order to take charge. He drew a deep breath and stepped into the room.

  "Damn it!"

  The room was sterile.

  Sighing now, Cain looked back over his shoulder.

  "Perhaps I should've checked the parking lot first." He sighed. There was nothing he could do about that now. Might as well search the room. The thief could have left his precious Bowie knife behind in his need to move on.

  Cain checked the layout of the room. The recliner was off to his right, but all that remained there were the denim jacket and the running shoes. On a coffee table there was a yachting magazine with photos of an exclusive club over at Marina del Rey.

  Cain moved over to a bed and chest of drawers that took up the far wall. The bed was unmade. A pair of boxer shorts lay crumpled on the floor at its foot. Cain walked over and kicked the boxers until he could read the label inside. They confirmed the thief's nationality. Definitely an Englishman. The label read St Michael, the brand name of Marks & Spencer, the source of many a conservative Englishman's underwear.

  He next tr
ied the drawers in the chest. T-shirts were pushed into the top drawer along with more underwear and wadded socks. The next drawer down held a pair of folded sweatpants but nothing else. The final drawer held nothing belonging to the thief, just a stack of well-fingered brochures and menus from local businesses. As well as the obligatory welcome message from the hotel manager that no one ever reads.