The Mark of Cain

by William J. Coughlin

  Gripping the knife, he took a deep breath and stepped silently out of the door. The man was a few strides ahead and had not heard anything. Cain half trotted behind him, coming up fast. Then he leaped upon the man’s broad back, swinging his arm around the man’s neck and raising the knife. But even as he slid his arm around the man’s throat he could feel him responding.

  Cain’s knife plunged somewhere into the man’s lower stomach as he felt himself flipped off and somersaulting through the air. He landed on his back on the thick hallway carpet. He tried to twist around and get to his feet when the hard bottom of the naked man’s foot caught him alongside his cheek, sending him crashing into a wall. Cain fought for consciousness. He was lying on his gun, and he couldn’t find a way to get at it. The man moved quickly, despite the blood trickling through the fingers held against his abdomen. His thick face was a mask of rage as he drew his powerful leg for another kick.

  But the kick never came. Soldier smashed the rifle butt into the man’s back, and he fell to his knees, his eyes still fixed on Cain, but his anger replaced by surprise. Soldier finished him off with another blow from the rifle.

  Cain stumbled to his feet, still woozy from the efforts of the kick. Soldier gripped the dead man’s hair and pulled the body into one of the bedrooms. Blood from the stomach wound soiled the carpeting, leaving a large dark spot and a trail leading to the bedroom. It was a stain very easily noticed.

  “I think I had better do this kind of work from now on, Cain,” Soldier said, picking the knife off the carpet. “You stick to guns.” His grin was without humor, but it softened the rebuke.

  They both stopped short as a frightened scream drifted up from below, followed by a chorus of raucous laughter.

  EIGHTEEN

  The piano notes drifted away, and coarse shouts drifted up. They could hear the faint sound of a feminine voice, not loud enough to discern the words she was speaking but loud enough to recognize the terror in her tone.

  Soldier grunted. “Sounds like those maids knew what they were talking about when they said they heard screams.”

  Cain nodded. He stepped to the room they had occupied and retrieved the machine gun, which he handed to Soldier. “You better use this. I’ll stick with the pistol.” He flipped open the cylinder, insuring that the weapon was fully loaded. “Well, let’s go down and see what’s going on.”

  Soldier shook his head. “It would be better, Cain, if we stayed right here and picked them off one by one. We don’t know what we might be facing down there. It’s a fool’s game.”

  The piano started again. A scream sounded, starting in terror and ending in pain.

  “There’s no choice, Soldier. We can’t afford to wait.”

  Soldier’s eyes were fixed on him, a quizzical expression playing on his battered features. “Still the police officer, no matter what, eh, Cain?” The words held no rebuke, only sympathy—the kind of sympathy given alcoholics and other addicts who were powerless to help themselves.

  “Let’s go,” Cain said, ignoring the comment.

  The staircase was circular, winding around a solid steel column that extended up into the rock ceiling. Cain took out his flashlight and pointed its beam above them. Two large black vented boxes had been attached to the rock ceiling, electric wires running into them.

  “Fans,” Cain whispered. “There must be two air shafts leading to the top of the hill.” He swung the beam, following the wires down to a large metal cabinet at the bottom of the stairway. “Air conditioner,” he said to Soldier. “They have all the comforts of home here when the electricity is working.” He could feel sweat running down his chest, soaking his already damp garments. Without the fans and the air conditioners the posh living quarters were no more than sticky humid caves. Trickles of water fell from the fans as evidence of the storm above them.

  The stairway trembled slightly under their weight as they slowly descended. Flickering light poured from a doorway cut into the rock at the base of the staircase.

  Cain put away the flashlight and drew his pistol as they neared the bottom. He signaled Soldier to stop. He gripped the steel beam and let himself down, feeling the blood rush to his head. His head throbbed, and he wondered if he could have suffered a concussion from the kick he had received. He eased downward despite the discomfort.

  From his angle everything looked upside down, and he took a moment to allow his eyes to adjust. He looked past the doorframe into a very large room, perhaps fifty feet long and almost the same size in width. At the far end of the room another archway led to yet another part of the hewn-out cavern. The room was fully carpeted and filled with serviceable tweed-covered furniture. It was a place that would appeal to men, with a sturdy masculine look about it.

  Several low-slung couches were placed around a piano at the far end of the room. The far wall had been covered from ceiling to floor with a large mirror, giving the place an illusion of even greater depth.

  A small blue mist had collected over the people gathered around the piano. Since there were no air currents in the room, their cigarette smoke floated up and collected with the smoke of the others forming a misty cloud. Beneath that cloud was a scene that looked like a cheap photographer’s idea of an ancient Roman orgy.

  A tall thin naked man sat at the large grand piano, a brown cigarette hanging from his loose lips. He concentrated on the keys before him, slowly picking out a melody.

  Although the fat man’s back was to him, Cain could see Van Pelt in the mirror. He was sitting on one of the sofas, his short stout legs thrust out before him and a drink balanced on his grossly fleshed stomach. A tawny woman, also naked, was curled up next to him, a long cigarette holder dangling from her slender fingers.

  They resembled a royal couple viewing a command performance staged for their exclusive amusement. Three men were struggling with a woman who was trying madly to thrash away from an instrument one of the men was trying to insert into her. She screamed and the sound echoed around the large stone room.

  Near them, on a low wide ledge, a man as fat as Van Pelt was attempting to have intercourse with a young woman. Even at a distance Cain could see the empty look in her eyes. Spittle ran from one side of her mouth. Her bare body was marred by large purple bruises. She was alive, but her face was the blank face of a witless puppet, unaware of where she was or what was happening to her.

  Cain surveyed the room again to insure that no other person was concealed from his eye. Then he pulled himself up.

  Cain whispered to Soldier. “Get ready. There’s an orgy going on in there. There is one guy at a piano at the end of the room and four others trying to screw two women. Van Pelt is sitting down there with another woman, watching the whole show.” He paused, noting that the German’s expression had not changed. He was a workman, and whether it was a barricade or orgy made no difference to him; he wanted a clear picture of what he had to face. “There is another door down at the far end of the room, so there might be others beyond that point. You cover that door and let me handle the rest.”

  Soldier nodded.

  Van Pelt was the first one of the group to see Cain’s reflection in the mirror. At first he merely looked curious and then he stiffened, pulling away from the woman, his hand darting down toward the base of the couch he sat on.

  “Hold it, Van Pelt,” Cain shouted, “or I’ll put one right through the back of your head.”

  Van Pelt straightened and sat back, his eyes on Cain’s reflection.

  “The rest of you stand up, your hands on the back of your heads. Quickly!”

  Cain watched the three men as they released the woman. They stood up, facing him, their eyes darting about, seeking some way they could safely attack the intruder. The fat man shoved the blank-eyed girl aside roughly and stood up. He made a show of raising his hands dramatically. He placed them behind his head as if he were familiar with the position, smiling nervously as if silently asking for Cain’s approval of his stance.

  The naked piano player rose
languidly. Taking the cigarette from his mouth, he slowly reached over to put it out.

  Cain studied the face of the blank-eyed girl. There was something familiar about her.

  The piano player pulled a revolver from somewhere and fired as he dived behind the piano. The bullet whined by Cain, and he heard Soldier grunt behind him. Cain fired in return, his slug ripping through the piano, sending wires flying. The thin man stood up, his eyes on that part of his body where blood flowed like a bubbling well. Cain’s second shot finished him and he spun into the mirror, splattering its glass surface with blood. He slumped silently into the thick carpeting.

  Cain kept his eyes fixed on the others as he stepped back and stumbled against Soldier. He stepped over his partner’s form and squatted down, his pistol still pointed at the people standing near the mirror. He glanced down at Soldier. The big man’s eyes were half closed, his face white with pain. A patch of dark blood surrounded the small hole in his shirt. It was bad, Cain could see. It was in the upper left chest, and although the slug had not hit Soldier’s heart, it had come close. Soldier sighed and closed his eyes. Cain stood up, the present danger eliminating any emotion over the plight of his friend. He again looked at the girl, lying where she had been left, her eyes dully staring up at the rock ceiling. He knew her, he had her picture in his pocket. She was the little girl who had married Stewart Hamilton, and she was a long way from Chicago and the life she had known there.

  Van Pelt and the other four men still stood with their hands locked behind their heads. The dark woman stood next to Van Pelt, her eyes wide and bright, an amused smile on her wide lips. Cain recognized the signs; she was on a drug-induced high.

  The third woman lay where the men had dropped her, making no move to stand up. Like the girl she too was covered with bruises and welts. She was hidden behind the damp hair that fell over her face.

  Van Pelt and the other fat man looked ludicrous in their nakedness. The other three men were in far better physical condition. Their hard eyes seemed to burn with hate, waiting for Cain to make a mistake. Cain knew they had counted the shots he had used on the piano player. He had fired twice, which left only four rounds in the pistol.

  The tawny woman next to Van Pelt seemed amused by the whole episode. She giggled, causing her large breasts to shake provocatively. She knew the usual effect such a sight had upon men. However, Cain’s entire attention was directed to preserving his own life, and she meant no more to him at that moment than a potentially dangerous hunk of meat.

  “Mr. Cain,” Van Pelt’s voice was even and unafraid. “I think you will pay very dearly for this intrusion.” The fact there was no sound of fear in his voice worried Cain. Something was inspiring the fat man’s coolness in the face of danger.

  “Move back against the mirror,” Cain said, swinging his pistol barrel in a short motion, covering all of them. “Move!” he snarled.

  Van Pelt turned and waited until the woman preceded him, as polite as if the two of them were at a formal dance. The other four men shuffled up to the mirror, then turned to face Cain. The fat man looked embarrassed after seeing his reflection.

  Van Pelt spoke up again. “Cain, you have made a nuisance of yourself. However, if you put that gun down, I promise I shall not hold it against you. But if you persist in acting like some pimply faced burglar, I shall have to take the strongest measures.”

  Something was wrong. Cain had seen many men in dangerous situations. He had heard bluffs before. But it was real confidence that he detected in Van Pelt’s voice. Because of the mirror Cain could see behind him. It was unlikely that anyone followed them down the staircase. They had made a complete search of the upper house. He decided that the only possibility of danger could come from the dark doorway at the side of the mirror.

  “We took care of your operation at Ring Key,” Cain said to Van Pelt. “It’s gone. We exploded the caves and the hurricane has taken care of the rest. If you expect any help from those people, you are greatly mistaken.”

  Van Pelt’s fleshy face colored quickly, anger flowing into his tissues. But he seemed to exert control before speaking. “Cain, despite the dent you may have put into my organization, I think I could still use a man like you. From what I’ve heard about you, I believe you would make a valuable addition to my staff. We can always restore Ring Key, but good men, as they say, are hard to find.” Van Pelt was obviously trying to hold Cain’s attention.

  Cain pretended to listen, his eyes on Van Pelt, but he was alert for any sign of movement in the darkened doorway.

  The woman sitting on the carpet moved, her eyes peering at him through her hair. The eyes were wide and tormented as if she were insane. She moaned. “Shoot me,” she whispered.

  “You’ll be all right now,” Cain said, his attention still fixed on the doorway.

  “Mr. Cain,” she said startling him by the mention of his name, “please, for the love of God, shoot me.” Her voice was raspy, but it was nevertheless familiar. “They killed my husband and my babies,” she whispered. “And I saw it all. They’ve done terrible things to me.” She breathed deeply, fighting to keep from sobbing. The woman brushed the hair away from her face and Cain gasped. Her face was puffed to double normal size, her eyes were almost swollen shut, her lips bruised and cut. “I’m Cathy Drake,” she whispered. “If you have any compassion left in you, shoot me.” The last words were almost a scream.

  Cain thought he saw movement in the darkness beyond the door as she stood up, but she placed herself between him and the doorway. Two shots rang out. She twitched slightly, her eyes widened, and then turned to him lovingly. “Thank you, Mr. Cain,” she said as she started to pitch forward.

  Cain fired as her body fell, exposing the gunman standing in the doorway. The slug caught the man in the head, and he slumped down, his face awash with blood. Two of the men at the mirror leaped toward Cain, and he snapped off two more quick shots, killing both. They fell where they were hit.

  The pungent odor of gun smoke filled the airless room. No one else moved. Even Van Pelt’s eyes were now wide with fear. Cain was painfully aware that he had only one shot left. The other fat man seemed as frightened as Van Pelt, but Cain could almost read the mind of the remaining strong-arm man. He was waiting, like a lion watching a deer, just waiting for the right moment.

  “Cain, I can make you rich.” This time Van Pelt’s voice cracked with emotion. “I control the world’s heroin supply, Cain. Every bit of narcotics that comes into the United States comes through me. I can make you rich, as rich as any man has ever been.”

  “Shut up, Van Pelt,” Cain said, feeling suddenly dizzy. The haunted face of Cathy Drake danced in his memory. Suddenly he felt a wave of nausea pass through him. “I want you people to lay down on your stomachs, your hands stretched out in front of you,” he commanded.

  The fat man and the remaining muscleman carried out Cain’s instructions as Van Pelt continued talking, the words spilling from him. “You don’t fully realize what you have stumbled across,” he said. “There is no more European heroin anymore, it all comes out of South America, Cain, every last bit of it. We supply it all. These are riches that even King Solomon couldn’t imagine. You can buy whatever you want, whatever turns you on.” He turned to the full-bodied woman next to him. “You can have women, Cain, all kinds, whatever you like. Women like the princess here.” His voice was rising, like a pitchman selling something at a carnival. “Look at her, Cain. She is the real thing, a real princess.” His fleshy face split into a sweaty leer. “She will do anything I tell her to do, Cain, anything.” He emphasized the last word, as he turned to look at her. “Anything,” he repeated, almost to himself. He turned again to Cain. “Do you know why, Cain? Because of money, my dear fellow, just because of money. Money is the most powerful thing in the world.”

  “Lie down,” Cain snapped, alarmed at his increasing dizziness.

  “What is the matter with you, Cain?” Van Pelt’s voice was almost hysterical. “Can’t you see what I’m
offering you? You will be one of the richest men in the world!”

  “Lie down!”

  Van Pelt’s face twitched. His eyes darted around the room as if seeking someone to back up his arguments. Finally he gasped with frustration and joined the princess on the floor.

  Cain looked at the gunman who had his eyes fixed on him. “Keep your face down,” he snarled. “Bury it right into that rug.”

  The others also put their faces into the deep carpeting.

  Satisfied that they could not see him, Cain reached into his pocket and drew out a handful of bullets. As silently as he could, he released the catch on the side of the pistol and eased the cylinder out. There was a faint “snap,” and the gunman on the floor reacted to the noise. He jumped forward, sliding across the carpeting, his hand clutching at a fallen pistol on the rug. Cain did not have time to reload. He snapped the cylinder back into place not knowing which compartment held the one remaining shell. Cain’s finger tightened against the trigger as the man on the carpet brought his pistol up, its muzzle swinging toward Cain. As if in slow motion, Cain’s mind told him he would only have time to get off one shot and if he was lucky enough to hit the live round, he would kill the other man and live. If not, he would die. He pulled the trigger and heard the hammer click against an empty compartment. Cain knew that if the man was any kind of marksman, he would never live to get off the second shot, but he was in the act of squeezing the trigger again when the rattle of a machine gun sounded from behind him. It was only a short burst, but the slugs hit the gunman in the throat and his head fell forward and the gun toppled from his hand. The other bullets struck the fat man and the princess in the head, killing both of them instantly. Van Pelt remained unhurt.

  Cain turned. Soldier lay on his stomach, the machine gun held awkwardly in one hand. His face was the color of ashes. “Couldn’t help it. The others, I mean.” He laid his head down, muttering something in German, and then he was silent.