The Mark of Cain

by William J. Coughlin

  Cain reached up carefully and touched the ear. His fingertips found the wetness of blood, and he gently examined the wound. A bullet had shaved away just a small part of the lower tip of the earlobe. He had been lucky.

  The screaming had lost intensity, diminished now to a sobbing moan.

  “Hey, you down there,” a voice called from above.

  “Yes?” Cain shouted back.

  “We’ve got one of your friends up here.”

  Cain glanced over at Soldier. The big man shrugged.

  “Throw out your guns and come out where we can see you,” the voice commanded.

  “You go to hell,” Cain laughed. “As a matter of fact you had better give up or we’ll sprinkle you with another grenade shower.” He winked at Soldier.

  The big man grinned. They could bluff too.

  “Okay, but you’ll be sorry,” the voice said.

  Cain sensed from the note of triumph in the man’s voice that he proposed something more than a bluff. He had the sound of a man who could not lose.

  They waited, their senses sharp and alert. Cain detected movement at the far end of the walkway. A pair of feet began to descend over the edge.

  Soldier sighted the machine gun at the movement.

  They heard an outcry, but the sense of it was lost in the howl of the storm.

  The feet were tied together with rope. The figure was being lowered, and they could see almost to the waist. Cain realized the figure was suspended directly over the open mouth of the metal furnace. The descent was slow.

  Again there was a cry, and Cain thought he detected something familiar in the sound, although he could not be sure.

  They could now see that the man’s hands had been tied behind his back. He was suspended by a thick wire which had been looped around his chest and under his arms.

  “Mr. Johnson!” The plaintive cry rose above the scream of the wind, matching the terror of the storm’s sound. Eddy’s tearful face came into view. His eyes were wide with fear. “Help me, Mr. Johnson, help me,” he pleaded.

  Eddy’s feet were only a short distance above the fiery pot. Sparks flew into the air, almost touching the bottom of his feet. His wet trousers reflected the red glare from below.

  The youth sobbed. “Mr. Johnson, oh please!”

  Cain leaned out over the boxes, keeping far enough back for safety but in position to see how Eddy was suspended. The wire holding him ran through a large pulley suspended from one of the large wooden beams far up on the ceiling. Cain guessed it had been used to lower heavy metal pieces into the melting fire below. The wire disappeared above the walkway, and Cain presumed that someone was using a wheel to lower Eddy’s weight.

  Eddy’s sobbing blended with the wind and the moans of the dying man above. Cain remembered how Eddy had saved all of them aboard the boat. He knew they owed him something for that.

  Cain tried to think of a solution. Even if he ducked out into the open and shot the man lowering Eddy, the boy would plunge into the molten liquid below and die a terrible death.

  Johnson awoke, subconsciously responding to Eddy’s pleas.

  “Throw out your guns, or I’ll cook your little friend,” the voice called.

  Cain grabbed Johnson as the boatman tried to struggle by him.

  “Where the hell are you going?” Cain rasped. “You can’t help him.”

  “Let me go, Cain.”

  Cain sighed. “Listen to me,” he said firmly. “If we did what he asked—surrender to them—they would put poor little Eddy in the fire just for laughs, and then they would kill us. Remember who the hell these people are: they feed children to sharks!” He gauged the frantic helplessness in the other man’s eyes. “If I was able to shoot the people up there, they’d let go and that would drop Eddy into the fire. There’s no way we could get near enough to grab his legs—that fire’s too hot.”

  Tears of fear and rage began to run down Johnson’s cheeks.

  “Pull the boy up, and I’ll let you live,” Cain shouted to the man above.

  “Keep watching,” the voice answered. Eddy began to descend even closer to the fire.

  “Oh my God,” Johnson whispered beside Cain.

  Eddy was kicking awkwardly with his bound feet, trying to evade the heat. “Help me,” he called, his throat constricted with fear. His eyes seemed glazed as they looked at the horror below him.

  He owed the boy his life. They all did. Cain sighted carefully. The hollow-pointed bullet exploded inside Eddy’s head. He died instantly, feeling no pain. His lifeless body swung to and fro, propelled by the force of the big slug.

  Suddenly the wire went slack, and the body disappeared into the furnace, the sizzle heard even above the noise of the storm. A black cloud of smoke poured from the furnace top, filling the place with an evil stink.

  FIFTEEN

  Cain heard the sound of Johnson retching, but he paid no notice. Cain had prided himself that emotions played no part in his decisions, no part in his life. Logic was the only guide, his one sure standard. But suddenly it all changed, and even his veins seemed filled with white-hot hate. Perhaps it had always been there, this hate, beginning when he had first heard about the pirates. It surfaced now, driving him, controlling his actions.

  He stepped out from behind the barricade. Cain knew he was the best pistol shot in the world, a natural gift born within him but also perfected by years of practice. He was determined to use his special skills now. He stepped along beneath the walkway until he came to the metal stairs ascending up to an opening above. The long-barreled pistol held in front of him, he slowly climbed up. When he approached the top he waited a moment, then charged up the last few steps.

  There were three of them. The first man turned to fire a pistol, but he never got the shot off. He was a corpse with only half a head as he toppled over the railing of the walkway. The machine gunner died bent over like a jackknife, his heart and lungs erupted by one of Cain’s slugs. The other man, with faster reflexes, ducked back into the protection of the last cave.

  Cain stalked along the walkway, casually stepping over a body, moving like a killer cougar prowling for a kill.

  It was foolish. The man in the cave would be in darkness and Cain would be silhouetted against the light. Yet Cain felt compelled to go after him, to finish it one way or the other.

  “Hey.” The voice came from within the cave. “Hey, I give up. Look, cops, or whatever you are, I give up. Don’t shoot, eh? See, here’s my gun.”

  A pistol came flying out from the cave’s mouth.

  “Here I come, don’t shoot,” the voice said. A tall man in seaman’s clothes stepped out, his hands raised high over his head. His colorless face was circled by a scrawny red beard. “I give up,” he said.

  Cain had the big pistol lowered, its muzzle on a level with the man’s abdomen. The trigger was already half depressed. He had recognized the voice; it was the voice of the man who had lowered Eddy into the furnace. Cain was filled with conflict. He wanted to kill the man—it was an overpowering feeling, like having to scratch an itch. Yet, Cain wanted facts too, information, something to justify all the deaths and the suffering.

  “Turn around.” Cain searched him quickly and found no weapons. Out of the corner of his eye he could see that Soldier stood in the work area, his gun also covering the red-bearded man.

  “Did you have any prisoners here?” Cain asked, afraid of the answer.

  “No.” Cain hoped that his response was true. If not, they had killed prisoners along with the pirates.

  “Where do you keep your records?”

  The man turned and looked at Cain. “What records?”

  “When you take these boats, you must keep some records of when and why. If there aren’t records of the boats, there has to be records of the narcotics shipments. Those are the records I’m interested in.”

  The man shook his head. “If there are any records, they would be back on San Bonaparte; that’s where they do all the bookkeeping. We just use this pl
ace to alter the boats and change the cargoes, that’s all.”

  “Where is this bookkeeping done on San Bonaparte?” Cain moved the muzzle of the gun so that it pointed directly at the man’s left eye, a movement not lost on the red-bearded man.

  “At our headquarters there,” he said quickly.

  “The casino?”

  “No, all of that is done at Van Pelt’s place. Up at his villa.”

  “Is that where the heroin shipment is kept?”

  A slow grin flickered across the man’s face, replacing the fear. “So that’s what you’re after—the horse.” He laughed softly, as if a great truth had just been revealed to him. “You know, I couldn’t figure what you guys were up to. I knew you weren’t cops, because cops don’t kill the way you do.” His eyes narrowed with new interest. “We don’t keep any stuff here. This place is just for doctoring up the boats.”

  “Where is it then?”

  He paused before answering, his features suddenly intense and crafty, mirroring his thoughts. “I’ll tell you if you let me in for part of the action.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Hey, I like the way you people do business, real professional, you know. I’d like to throw in with you. You are looking to hijack a shipment of heroin and you’ve got the troops and guns to pull it off. I know where it is. Like businessmen, we should merge for our mutual profit.”

  “How do we know you wouldn’t be setting us up, just laying a trap?”

  The man’s smile was full now, exhibiting several gold teeth and several empty spaces also, his eyes intent on making a sale. “Hey, man, I’ll be right there with you. That’s your insurance, you know. I’ll be right there.”

  Cain seemed to be pondering the offer. He gestured at the cruiser below with his pistol. “How many boats have you taken?”

  The man thought for a moment. “Thirty, maybe forty, quite a few anyway. You lose count, you know. We’ve been at it for over six months now. It’s been a neat little operation.”

  “Van Pelt runs it?”

  “Yeah. It’s a cool setup. We take the yachts, refit them a bit, use them to get the horse into the States, and then sail them back here and sink them. No trace, never use the same boat twice. It works like a charm.”

  “Van Pelt’s idea?”

  “I guess. He put the thing together anyway. The casino is owned by the mob, and they appointed him to manage the place, but his real work is running this smuggling business.”

  “Then he must have the heroin.”

  “Look, pal, if you want to know where the stuff is, you’ll have to cut me in.”

  “There is an easier way,” Cain said.

  The man’s eyes narrowed. “What easier way?”

  Cain shot him in the ankle, the large bullet almost blowing away his entire ankle joint. The man screamed as he fell, his eyes wide with pain and surprise.

  “Now, where do they keep the stuff?”

  The man’s teeth were exposed and clamped together as he grimaced with pain. “I ain’t …”

  This time the bullet entered just below his knee. He recoiled from the impact as if he had been hit with a club.

  “You had better tell me.” Cain’s voice was calm and even, audible above the noise of the storm.

  “You’ll kill me.”

  Cain’s gray eyes seemed to smolder. “There are a lot worse things than death, my friend. We are caught here by this hurricane. We have no plans to go anywhere, and we have nothing but time. As I say, death isn’t the worst thing that can happen to you.” He aimed the pistol at the other leg.

  “Jesus, no!” the man screamed. “I’ll tell you,” he sobbed. “I’ll tell you anything you want to know.”

  Cain lowered the weapon. “Where is the heroin?”

  The man clutched at his leg. Blood poured from the gaping wounds. He spoke between clenched teeth. “This is a two-step operation. We capture a boat and send it to South America. We work out of several ports. They load it up with the white stuff, and it returns here. We go out and get another boat, alter the appearance and transfer the cargo. Then we sail it around to Florida or across the Gulf to Texas.”

  “Where is the stuff now? Is there a shipment going through?”

  The man’s skin was chalky. Clammy sweat trickled down his face. Cain recognized the symptoms. The man was going into shock.

  His breathing was becoming fast and shallow. “It’s in that boat.” He nodded toward the boat riding in the enclosed well. “We were going to transfer it to the motor sailer.”

  “What happened to that family?”

  “Huh?”

  “The people on the motor sailer.”

  His ferretlike eyes looked up at Cain. The man could read his own fate in Cain’s angry gray eyes. “They are dead,” he said, almost in a whisper.

  “Where was the load to be delivered?”

  “We didn’t know. Van Pelt takes care of those arrangements. He usually tells us a day or two before the trip, but this damned storm came up …” The man’s voice trailed off.

  The red-bearded man’s hands lost their grip on his bloody leg, and he fell back slowly. He no longer looked at Cain, his eyes fixed sightlessly on the roof above. The blood spurted freely from his leg.

  “I’m dying,” he said, his voice barely audible.

  “That’s right,” Cain said. He watched until the gray-faced man lost consciousness.

  The place had the look and smell of a slaughterhouse. Cain climbed down the stairs after searching the caves above. He had found nothing useful—many bodies but nothing that would answer positively the question mark left by the disappearance of the old man’s great-grandson.

  Johnson sat on the ground, his head cradled in his arms. Cain guessed that he was not asleep. The sights and sounds of the last hour would be enough to cost Johnson sleep for a long time to come.

  Soldier was busy going through the pockets of the dead, looking for information.

  At first Cain thought it might be his imagination. The noise outside seemed to be lessening. He thought he noticed it while up on the walkway, but now it seemed very definite. The structure that had earlier threatened to collapse around them because of wild vibrations was now quiet. The doors remained jammed open with fallen bodies, and he could see that the darkness outside was lifting.

  “Is it over, Johnson?” Cain asked.

  Johnson looked up. His eyes were red and swollen, his face drawn and gaunt. He stared at Cain.

  “I asked if the storm is over.”

  Johnson seemed like a man awakening from a dream. His eyes slowly became alert, and his body lost its looseness. He looked over at the doorway. “It’s the eye,” he said, a note of surprise in his voice. “Hell, we must be in the eye of the hurricane.”

  He pushed himself up awkwardly. Johnson moved like an old man. Cain knew that he would recover physically and regain the springy step of youth, but he wondered if the boatman might have become an old man inside. He knew how the sight of a terrible scene could affect some men, leaving them haunted forever.

  He followed Johnson to the doorway. The sky was becoming light, and they could see patches of blue above them. Even the rain had almost stopped.

  “Yeah, that’s what it has to be,” Johnson muttered. “It’s the eye. Depending on the size of the storm, the eye is the dead center of the hurricane. Like a hole in a doughnut. It’s usually twenty to twenty-five miles across. If the storm is moving at twenty or twenty-five miles per hour, it will hit us again in an hour, hour and a half, something like that. Of course that’s if we are in the center of the eye.”

  Cain stepped out and looked around. The island had been wrecked. All of the camouflage, including the harbor gate, had been torn away. The little harbor was a green mass of floating jetsam. It looked more like swamp water than the clear Caribbean. The beached boat was still lying on the far shore although it looked like it might easily slide back into the water and join the other two boats on the harbor bottom.

 
Leaving Johnson, Cain walked along the shoreline toward the beached boat. The shore was covered with mud and slime kicked up by the storm which made it extremely slippery. Cain reached the big hull. It looked much larger out of the water than in, and nothing much seemed to be holding it back from slipping into the harbor.

  “Slick!” Cain’s voice sounded odd in the new silence surrounding the island. “Slick!” There was no reponse. “Hey, Slick, it’s Cain. Are you alive?” It was improbable that the black man had been able to survive. Chained by the roughly splinted leg, Slick would have had little chance to escape drowning.

  Cain looked past the boat to the far horizon. The huge dark wall of the storm was on its way to San Bonaparte. The sun came out, warming his shoulders with its rays. The sea was still turbulent, a testament to the past violence of the wind. Behind them a purple line extended across the horizon. Cain guessed that it was the leading edge of the rest of the storm, the other half of the doughnut, coming at them.

  Then he heard a noise in the boat. He turned, instinctively drawing and aiming his pistol at the source of the sound.

  He looked up at Slick’s two eyes peering at him just over the level of the boat’s stern railing.

  “Cain,” Slick’s voice sounded raspy. “Cain, I need help.” The eyes slid out of sight, and Cain scrambled up the slippery embankment to find a way into the boat.

  *

  The hot sun baked down upon them, and Cain found it hard to accept the truth that they would be soon again assaulted by the demon winds of the hurricane. The sky was clear and beautiful. Only the dark line on the distant horizon hinted at what was soon to come.

  They had retrieved Slick and the medical supplies. Slick now had had enough morphine to fell an elephant, but he was alert enough to see the bodies lying around the structure and its work area.

  “Busy little bees,” he mumbled in a half laugh, the narcotic making all carnage amusing to him. He continued to chuckle as if he alone knew a very humorous joke. But the ashen cast to his dark skin showed the physical abuse he had endured.

  “Johnson, check out that boat.” Cain nodded toward the cruiser in the boat well. “See how much fuel she has.”