Heirs of Cain

by Tom Wallace

  “Those peckerhead cops are not to know anything at all about me. That clear?”

  “Right, perfectly clear.”

  Collins went into the bathroom and opened the medicine cabinet. Except for two loose Tylenol capsules on the bottom shelf, it was empty. He bent over the tub and ran his forefinger around the inside of the nozzle. He unscrewed the showerhead, raised himself up on his tiptoes, and inspected it.

  “If you’ll tell me what it is you’re lookin’ for, maybe I can help you out. Save you some time,” Moss said.

  “I don’t know what it is I’m looking for.”

  “Then how will you know when you find it?”

  Collins laughed. “Good question.”

  “Want me to unpack the boxes downstairs?” Moss asked.

  “No need.”

  “How do you know?” Moss said, adding, “unless you’ve already checked them.”

  Collins smiled.

  “You fox,” Moss said. “You know, I had you figured for bein’ a sharp cookie the very second I laid eyes on you. What else have you done?”

  “Let me ask the questions, Moss.”

  “Fine by me. Only one thing, though.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Did you know three boxes of Taylor’s stuff have already been shipped? To a relative in St. Louis.”

  “They’ve been checked.”

  “I should have guessed.” Moss sat on the bed. “Okay, fire away with your questions.”

  “For starters, I need the name of every person who came to see Cardinal during the last six weeks or so leading up to the time he was killed. Everyone. Visitors, delivery people, maintenance, anyone you can think of.”

  “Wow, that’s a tall order. I don’t know if—”

  “Don’t you keep records at the guard shack? A log of some sort?”

  “Only after six at night. But I can plainly remember the ones who came to see him after dark.”

  “Who?”

  “Well, naturally, there was that dippy trio who found the body. They came here two or three times. I can’t remember exactly, but I’ll look it up for you when I get back to the shack.”

  “Forget them, they’re clean. Anyone else? Think hard; it’s important.”

  “Let’s see. Yeah, I remember a couple of times when Taylor ordered pizza from the Pizza Hut down on the strip. Both times it was the Hendley kid who delivered them. He’s in and out of here all the time. Early last month, Taylor’s air conditioning shut down and old Elvis Chandler had to come and work on it. Other than that, I can’t recall anyone else comin’ to see Taylor after dark. He pretty much stayed to himself. Day and night.”

  “Did he ever have a visitor who was an Indian?”

  “An Indian? You mean like Ghandi?” Moss asked.

  “No. A Native American Indian.”

  “Nah. Nobody like that came to see Taylor.”

  “Who’s the one person living here who knows the most about what goes on around the island? The island gossip, so to speak.”

  “That would have to be …” Moss’s eyes widened. “Hey, wait a minute. I do remember one other person coming to see Taylor at night. He came twice, in fact. How could I have forgotten him?”

  “Who was he?”

  “I don’t know his name, but Taylor must have known him. He called the guard shack to let me know the man was on his way and for me to let him in.”

  “When was this?”

  “First time … about three weeks ago. Second time … maybe four or five days later.”

  “Can you remember anything about him? What he looked like? How he dressed? Anything at all?”

  Moss laughed. “Sure can. He was a black dude.”

  Collins’s eyes darted. “A black guy?”

  “Yep. Big as a mountain, too.”

  “Did you log in his name?”

  “Nah. When Taylor okayed him, I didn’t bother getting a name. Sorry.”

  “Anything else, Moss? Think hard.”

  “Well—”

  “Did he have an L-shaped scar on his left cheek?”

  “Sure did. Hey, how’d you know that?”

  Collins headed out of the bedroom and down the stairs. Moss followed close behind.

  “Did I do something right?” Moss asked as Collins opened the front door.

  “You did good, Moss. Very good. Cardinal would be proud of you.”

  Moss was still beaming when Collins drove away.

  “So, my boy, it looks as though you knew what you were talking about,” Lucas White said. “As usual, of course.”

  Collins pressed the phone against his left ear and covered his right ear with his free hand. “Speak up, Lucas. I can barely hear you.”

  “You and your damn penchant for pay phones,” Lucas said, chuckling. “The rest of the world long ago entered into the era of the cell phone. You should consider joining us.”

  “Old habits are like old friends. Besides, I feel safer doing it this way.”

  “You need not worry. This line is static free. You can take my word on it.” Lucas tapped the bowl of his pipe into the ashtray. “You’re convinced it was Deke?”

  “Yes.”

  “But Deke and Cardinal were close, weren’t they?”

  “At one time, yes. But I’d say they had a falling out of sorts, wouldn’t you?”

  “Looks that way.” Lucas paused to light his pipe. “Where do you figure Seneca fits into this little scenario?”

  “Primary executioner.”

  “And you are convinced he’s involved?” Lucas said, exhaling a puff of smoke.

  “More than ever. Deke would never do something like this on his own. He never could say no to Seneca.”

  “That damn Indian. What the hell could he be up to?”

  “A hit, Lucas, a takeout. And whoever it is must be big. Very big. Seneca and Deke are involved, and obviously they were trying to recruit Cardinal. But Cardinal would never hitch on with those two. So he said no. When he did, his fate was sealed. They had no choice but to eliminate him.”

  “I am truly sorry about Cardinal. I know you were especially fond of the man.”

  That was true. Collins had always cared deeply for Cardinal. Perhaps it was because Cardinal was the oldest and most out-of-place member of that first (and best) group of recruits. Out of place because he, unlike the others, detested killing, hated it to the very fibers of his soul. Seneca thrived on the kill. Deke did it blindly, obediently. It was simply part of the job for him. The same with Snake and Moon and Rafe, the only one to die in combat. Not so with Cardinal. The taking of a human life was abhorrent to him, even in a combat situation. He did it, reluctantly, and he did it for those long-forgotten reasons of duty, honor, and patriotism. Even with that to fall back on, he seldom succeeded in convincing himself the killing was justified. Cardinal was the odd duck in that first group, the one who probably shouldn’t have been there. He was too decent, too humane. Yet, when you got right down to it, he was the one whose reasons for being there were the soundest. If, indeed, there is ever a sound reason for killing.

  “You there, my boy?” Lucas finally asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Where do you go from here? There seems to be precious little to go on.”

  “I have Taylor’s last words. ‘Fallen angels.’ You do remember that, don’t you?”

  “I remember. What was the term you once used to describe it?”

  “Magnificent maybe.”

  “Yes, that’s it. How did you put it? Let’s see, I think you said something very poetic, like ‘Operation Fallen Angels will always go down as a great magnificent maybe.’ That may not be precisely verbatim, but it’s close.”

  “Operation Fallen Angels, had it been given the green light, and had it been successful, which it would have been, would have ended the Vietnam mess three years earlier. Ended it favorably, I might add. You know I’m right, too.”

  “My boy, we’ve debated this a million times. Another debate is useless. I ha
ve always said the payoff would have been great, but the risks were too high. I was never able to convince myself that it could have been done successfully. Maybe I was right, maybe not. It was a judgment call.”

  “Lucas, we could have been in and out of Hanoi before anyone had a whisper of what was happening. You know that. Old man Ho and his bunch would have been history. We could have taken them out. Without them, there would have been total chaos in North Vietnam for months. No way they could have recovered.”

  Lucas sighed out loud. “Perhaps. But we’ll never know.”

  “No, I don’t guess we ever will.”

  Lucas sensed the old fire was gone from Collins’s argument. For that he was thankful. It was a debate that had gone on long enough, a debate that had no final resolution.

  “How do you go about finding Seneca?” he asked.

  “By finding Deke.”

  “Where do you start?”

  “Chicago. Where else? Go to enough blues joints and you’ll eventually run into Deke. He can’t stay away from them.”

  “Keep me posted. If you find out anything concrete, let me know about it. The same applies here. If we learn anything, I’ll get it to you pronto.”

  Collins laughed.

  “Why the jocularity?” Lucas asked.

  “You work in military intelligence, Lucas. You guys never get anything first.”

  Collins stood at his office window and looked out. The threat of rain hung over the campus like a dark blanket. Thunder rattled in the distance. Lightning creased the sky with streaks of gold.

  “Pepsi, Diet Coke, orange juice, or Gatorade. What’s your choice?” He turned and opened the small refrigerator on the floor next to his desk.

  “Doesn’t matter,” Kate said. “Whatever you give me will be fine.”

  “You don’t get off that easily. Life is filled with tough choices. What’ll it be?”

  “Diet Coke.” She took the soft drink from him. “When are you leaving?”

  “Tomorrow.”

  “So soon?” Collins shrugged.

  “When were you planning on sharing this little tidbit with me?” Kate asked, a hint of sarcasm attached to every word. “Or were you just going to sneak out in the night and not say anything?”

  “I’m telling you now.”

  “You’re working for that Army guy, aren’t you? The one I didn’t care for?”

  “Men like him work for me.”

  Kate set her Diet Coke on his desk. “Could I ask you a question?”

  “More questions? You should be a reporter.”

  “Am I being nosy?”

  “Yeah. But ask anyway.”

  “That bucket of gravel behind your desk. What’s that for?”

  “It’s for an exercise that strengthens my hands.”

  “Exercise? What kind of exercise?”

  “You asking for a demonstration?”

  “Yeah. Sure.”

  Collins swiveled in his chair, grabbed the bucket, picked it up, and put it on his desk. He stood, looked down at the gravel, took several long, deep breaths, drew his right arm back, straightened the fingers on his hand, then violently thrust his arm forward. When the tips of his fingers made contact the gravel parted like water.

  Kate watched, fascinated and frightened, as he repeated the action, alternating hands in rapid succession. She looked up into his eyes, and for a split second she could have sworn they were gray.

  He continued, his hands ripping the gravel with increasing intensity. After more than a minute, he stopped. “That’s how it’s done,” he said, wiping his hands on a towel. “No big deal, really.”

  “Don’t the rocks cut your hands?”

  “No.” He bent down, picked up an old fruit jar, and opened it. Almost instantly, a pungent smell filled his office.

  “What’s that?” Kate asked.

  “It’s called dida-jou,” Collins answered. He poured some of the dark liquid onto his hands. “This hardens my hands.”

  “What’s it made of?”

  “I’m not sure. Alcohol and a variety of herbs, I think. Or so I’ve been told.”

  “Where do you get it?”

  “China. I get mine from Chin, the guy I told you and Pete about.”

  “I never realized until now just how large your hands are,” Kate said.

  “All the better to explore every inch of that marvelous body of yours.”

  She reached out and took both of his hands in hers. “I’m afraid to ask what these hands have explored in the past,” she whispered.

  The heat was oppressive, heavy. Simon Buckman removed his coat, tossed it onto the back of a chair, and walked straight to the bar. He scooped up a handful of ice cubes and mashed them against his face. Water dripped from his chin to the floor.

  “Hannah, get in here,” he growled.

  Hannah Buckman descended the steps from the deck into the cabin. Her hair was pulled back and tied in a ponytail, and a blue bandana was tied around her head. She wore a white bikini that contrasted vividly with her sun-baked skin.

  “For God’s sake, Simon, what do you want this time?”

  Simon held up an empty bottle of Jack Daniels. “How many times have I told you? Never let me run out of whiskey. The only damn thing you have to do around here, and you can’t even do that.”

  “There’s plenty in that cabinet,” Hannah said, pointing to a glass door beneath the bar. “You’re just too lazy to look for it; that’s the problem.”

  Simon attempted to bend over, judged the task an impossible one to complete, straightened up. His breathing was heavy and strained. “Would you get it for me, darlin’?” he said.

  “You’d better lose some of that weight or one of these days you’re going to keel over dead from a coronary.” Hannah opened the door, removed the Jack Daniels, and ceremoniously handed it to Simon. “You’ll croak like an old water buffalo.”

  “No doubt that would cause you a great deal of grief.”

  “Yes, it would.”

  Simon grumbled something under his breath, poured a drink, and gulped it down. He refilled his glass two more times and drained the whiskey in a matter of seconds.

  Hannah opened the cabin door and started up the stairs. “And another thing,” she remarked, looking over her shoulder. “You’d better cut down on your drinking. You’re going to become an alcoholic if you’re not careful.”

  “Hell, I already am an alcoholic,” Simon shouted, refilling his glass again. “Charter member of AA and damn proud of it, too. But don’t you worry your pretty little self about it for one minute. It don’t affect you in the least.”

  Hannah left without answering, went to the deck, found her favorite recliner, and spent the next five minutes adjusting the back to a comfortable upright position. She sat down and was about to unbutton her bikini top when she saw the man coming toward the boat. Her heart fluttered with excitement. It was the Indian with the dark, movie star good looks.

  She thought about giving the Indian a good show—let him see her breasts again—but quickly decided that wasn’t such a wise idea. Simon was down below drinking like a fish, and when he got drunk he could become violent and dangerous. The last thing she wanted was to cause trouble for her or the Indian.

  She tapped on the cabin window.

  “What do you want now?” Simon said gruffly.

  “Someone is coming.”

  “Who?”

  “That man who was here before.”

  “You mean that crazy goddamn Indian?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Is that damn big black shadow with him?”

  “No, he’s alone.”

  “Wonder what the hell he wants.”

  “How would I know?” Hannah said, picking up a paperback. “He’s here to see you, not me.”

  “Send him down here.”

  Simon drained the last drops of whiskey from his glass. He opened a drawer, pulled out a Beretta, checked to make sure it was loaded, then tucked it into his back pocket.
He wanted to be ready. Any trouble, even the slightest hint, and he’d blow that crazy bastard Indian’s ass back to the happy hunting ground where it belonged. No sense taking any shit from him again. Simon put his right hand in his pocket and let his fingers touch the cold steel of the gun.

  “Just watch your step this time, Indian,” Simon said aloud. His right foot tapped nervously against the bar rail.

  Hannah watched the Indian jump from the dock to the boat. He moved with the ease and grace of a ballet dancer. And, damn, what a looker. This was a man who was delicious enough to eat.

  “Hello again,” she said, smiling.

  He nodded.

  “Seneca, right?”

  “Ah, beautiful, bright, and with a good memory.” He moved next to the recliner and put his hand on Hannah’s shoulder. “A trifecta.”

  “Thanks for the compliments,” Hannah said. “They’re few and far between around here.”

  “I can believe that.”

  “Guess you’re here to see Simon.”

  The Indian nodded.

  “Too bad,” Hannah teased. “I’d be much more fun.”

  “I can believe that, too.”

  “Maybe later, then?”

  “You never know.”

  “He’s waiting for you in the cabin.” Hannah touched his hand. “Until later.”

  Simon was standing at the end of the bar. His foot tapped the brass rail with increased tempo as he watched the Indian descend the stairs.

  “Well, well, the mighty brave returns.” Simon’s voice barely held, despite his firm grip on the Beretta.

  The Indian was silent, his expression unchanged. Those dark eyes bore into Simon.

  Simon giggled nervously. “Looks to me like that business about letting Karl find you was just a lot of talk. So much hot air. Leads me to believe your reputation’s been padded somewhat.”

  The Indian bent down, picked up a silk nightgown, looked at Simon, and smiled. “Bet the wife looks nice in this. Must drive you crazy to have a fox like that and not be able to do anything about it.”