Dead Men's Dust (10 page)

The woman crinkled her nose at him. “What for?”

“I must look like the dead battery vigilante or something.” Cain laughed. “I just thought I’d come back in and let you know everything’s fine now. Save you the trouble of phoning.”

“It’s not a problem,” she said.

“Yeah, but the owner would’ve been wondering what the heck was going on.”

“I’m sure he wouldn’t have minded,” she said. “In fact, I dare say he’d have told me he’d already been out and turned them off. That would’ve been that, I guess.”

“Yeah, I suppose so.”

“Anyway, thanks again for going to so much trouble.”

“No problem. Just doing my bit.”

“Dead battery vigilante.” The woman smiled at him, crooking a finger in his direction. “Sounds like a superhero.”

“You got it,” Cain said. A flippant gesture of his head and hands fisted on his hips made him more Boy Wonder than Man of Steel.

They both laughed as he walked away the second time. Before he reached the door, she called to him.

“Are you sticking around town for a while?”

Cain looked back at her, feigning disappointment. “No. Just passing through, I’m afraid. On my way to the East Coast. Have to be in Mississippi early next week for a sales convention.”

Now it was the woman’s turn to look dejected. “That’s a shame.”

“It is,” Cain agreed. “But hey, who knows what’s around the corner? I might be back this way in a month or so.”

She gave him a lopsided smile.

“Well, if you’re passing and you notice any lights on, give me a call, will you?”

Cain lifted his fingers as if they were a gun and feigned shooting her. “You got it, lady. If your battery is running down you can count on me.”

Quickly he left the lobby to the sound of laughter.

“Dimwit could do with a couple of thousand volts up her ass,” he assured himself.

Directly across the entry drive ran a walkway that led into the
parking lot. From there he followed the side of the building, past bougainvillea shrubs arranged to add a little privacy to the rooms on the ground floor. At the rear of the hotel the grounds were laid out like an exclusive garden, verdant with golf-course-perfect lawns and bursting with color in the proliferation of flowering plants. The grounds contained a private swimming pool.

There were a couple of female guests sitting out in bathing suits, drinking from glasses smeared with lipstick. Cain sneaked a peek at them. Ordinarily he might have lingered and enjoyed the show. Sadly, neither of them was pretty enough to hold his interest. He paid them no attention, searching instead for the stairway the receptionist had mentioned. He saw it within seconds, a tiled staircase leading up to balconies on the two higher floors. Chancing a stiff neck, he craned upward, seeking door numbers. Then, happy with what he saw, he rapidly moved away, skirting the building and returning to the parking lot.

Time for plan C.

He took the scaling knife from his jacket pocket as he approached the SUV. Kneeling down by the rear tire, he thrust the blade into the rubber seal next to the wheel hub. Pulling the knife out again, he noted that the narrow slash was barely detectable, but the almost inaudible hiss of escaping air was encouraging.

“That’ll hold you for a while,” he whispered. A flat tire would royally piss off someone who couldn’t even be bothered to rub a little dust on the license plate.

He dropped the knife back in his pocket and straightened out his clothes as he returned to his own vehicle. The vintage VW Beetle had gone the way of the dinosaurs. Not that he required the intervention of a planet-destroying meteor; he’d merely dumped it in a dry canal bed, then set it ablaze. It was quick work to replace it with an undistinguished light blue Oldsmobile.

On the rear bumper was a sticker some might think pathetic:
I BRAKE FOR WILDLIFE
. Though he tempted discovery by leaving such a
distinct identifier on the car, he’d allowed it to stay in place. For one, it added to the disguise he’d adopted of a meek-mannered salesperson, plus it was a statement that actually resonated with him. Though he had no qualms whatsoever about butchering those of his own species, he had no desire to harm any other living creature. Faced with running down a rabbit or swerving into a line of children on a Sunday school outing, there would be only one choice in his mind. Sunday school would be missing a number of snot-nosed brats next week.

The temperature inside the Oldsmobile was a lot cooler than anticipated. When he’d driven the car here, the sun had made the heat inside almost intolerable. That’s the drawback when appropriating an older-model car: no climate control. Plus the driver’s window had a fault and he’d been unable to open it with the rotating arm. Oh how he suffered for his art!

When he’d driven into the parking lot, he’d left the car beneath a stand of palm dates to conceal it from the view of traffic on the interstate. His fortuitous choice had also brought him some welcome shade.

Settling in the driver’s seat, he prepared for a long wait. To pass the time, he took one of the film-wrapped packages from his pocket and teased the contents within. Kind of gnarly now, but they’d polish up nice. He imagined that the fingers were those of the rosy-cheeked receptionist. Yes, he could be in for a long wait, but he was happy to do so with his mind thus engaged.

HARVEY HAD DONE A DECENT JOB OF MONITORING THE
movements of Sigmund Petoskey. True to Harvey’s word, as soon as the third-generation immigrant finished his daytime business, he headed out to the derelict building Rink had shown me earlier. He left in an entourage of three vehicles that snaked their way from the opulent business center to the run-down building, driving in a fashion that said he wasn’t concerned about police patrols pulling him over. In our rental car, Rink and I followed at a discrete distance.

When Petoskey ignored a red light, we pulled up; it wasn’t necessary to keep a close tail when we knew where he was headed.

The lights were reflected in Rink’s gaze.

“You up for this, Rink?” I asked.

He sniffed. “Ready.”

“Things could get messy,” I said. “But I can’t think of a better way to shake Petoskey than raiding him in the place where he feels safest.”

“You take guns into a man’s house, things always get messy.” He gave me a melancholy shake of his head.

“Been a while since you done any wet work?” I asked.

“Been a while, yeah. But it never leaves you, Hunter.” Rink looked across at me, and for a moment didn’t have to say more. Only those who have taken another man’s life would know what we were imagining. He was right. It doesn’t matter how hard you try to bury the memories, they never leave you.

The green light saved us further agony.

When we arrived at the old redbrick building, Petoskey’s entourage had lined up in the lot to its right. As well as the original three, they’d been joined by a further two cars and a van.

A couple of bored guards stood to one side, nonchalant as they sucked at cigarettes. They weren’t expecting trouble. They were there for appearance’s sake.

These guards were of no immediate concern. We’d be going in via a different route and would not be seen by them. I was more apprehensive about the number of street people who wandered around the area. We were strangers, and they’d be suspicious of us. None of us knew—Harvey included—if the bums were belligerent to Petoskey or not. It’d ruin our chances of bearding King Siggy in his castle if any of them went running to him. I doubted anyone would do that out of loyalty, but the promise of a reward would be too much of a temptation for some.

Discretion
is
the better part of valor, and don’t let anyone tell you otherwise. Rather than chance early discovery, we parked our vehicle the best part of half a mile from the building, donned shabby clothes we’d purchased from a thrift store, and then wandered in on foot. My SIG Sauer was tucked in the waistband of my trousers, my KA-BAR down my boot. Rink, however, had a shotgun to conceal. Without the luxury of a violin case, he carried his over-under 12-gauge in a large carry-on bag. To further disguise the gun, he raided a nearby Dumpster and pushed in a few old tin cans and a bundle of newspapers and magazines. On cursory inspection, his carry-on would pass for the sum of a bum’s possessions.

The walk in took about ten minutes, but it was just what we needed to shake off the cobwebs of inactivity. Feeling keyed up, we took a position opposite Petoskey’s building. Behind a chain-link fence was another small building. It had also suffered over the years. The roof was gone, no windows remained, and the interior was the domain of rats. Even the graffiti were faded. No discerning street person would take up residence there.

We entered through a hole in the fence, negotiated a weed-choked courtyard, and entered the building through a doorless void. We had to then push our way through heaped rubbish to one of the abandoned offices from which we could watch and wait. The sunset was a raw wound on the horizon.

Without spoiling the decor, Rink emptied the junk from his bag. He checked the shotgun and seemed satisfied. He fed shells into it while peering out the window. Following his gaze, I saw that lights had come on behind the plastic sheeting on the upper floor. Though muted, shadows wove sinuous patterns on the sheeting as people moved through the rooms.

“I’d like to know what the hell’s going on up there,” I said.

“Don’t hear nothing,” Rink replied. “My guess is he’s got a cook shop going.”

It was a likelihood that Petoskey had some kind of lab going up there, producing crack cocaine or methamphetamine. On two counts, we were going to have to take care going in. If indeed it was a crack lab, inside there could be innocents who had been forced into this unwholesome line of work. Plus, the scum guarding the production line would be packing weapons. Scum with weapons plus innocent bystanders were never good mathematics.

“I don’t know, Rink. Could be something else.”

The location wasn’t sitting right with me. Okay, we were in a run-down area of town, but normally crack labs weren’t as public as this. People didn’t turn up in limousines to conduct a quality control
inspection, even if a few of the local cops had been paid to turn a blind eye.

Something I didn’t doubt: whatever was going on, it was something illegal. We’d be in dangerous territory. “Looks like your standard one-two assault,” I said to Rink.

He nodded slowly.

Where only two soldiers are involved in infiltrating an enemy stronghold, we always used a strategy termed a one-two maneuver. Like the name, there’s nothing fancy about it. Advancing single file, the first—or point—man would engage and take out the enemy while the second would move on to the next position. Roles would then reverse, and so on, until the high ground was gained and no enemy was left behind to cause further trouble.

Of course, there are inherent problems with such tactics. It leaves way too much to chance and the ability of the individual soldier to neutralize the opposition. If things go wrong, the mission has to be aborted in rapid fashion. In the past, I’ve had worse experiences gaining exit than I have in the initial assault. Because of this, I prefer the less formal sobriquet of “smash and dash.”

It remained our choice of approach on this occasion simply because it was all we had the numbers for. Maybe I should’ve allowed Harvey Lucas to join us. With three men, it lessens the chance that the enemy can outflank you. But not by much.

“Where do you suggest we start?” Rink asked. His expression was flat, but this was a front. Lights burned behind his eyes, and I knew that he was anxious.

I pointed out the opposite end of the building from where the guards patrolled. “See the fire escape? I’m guessing that there are doors at each floor. We’ll go in through one of them, huh?”

Rink inclined his chin in agreement.

On its lowest floor the doors were most likely locked as tight as a
miser’s billfold. But the myriad broken windows would give us easy access.

It was a waiting game. The sun went down, and shadows moved in like furtive burglars in the night. The lights behind the plastic grew brighter. Like zombies from some B movie, the street people drifted from their daytime hideaways, moving off in search of what they needed to feed their vices. More vehicles arrived. From our position, we couldn’t make out how many people arrived, but from the excited yapping, someone had brought a couple of dogs with them.

“You hear what I’m hearing?” Rink asked.

“Yup. But you didn’t expect this to be easy, did you?”

“
Easy
ain’t a word in our vocabulary, Hunter.”

Maybe the dogs were extra security Siggy employed after dark. I severely doubted that he was conducting doggy obedience classes. Rink and I shared a glance. Dogs, large or small, always made extreme stealth an issue.

We waited another half hour before leaving. Rink went first, shambling out through the gap in the fence. His pace was that of a man addled with drink and with no firm destination in mind. When he was out of sight around the side of the building, it was my turn to follow.

I followed the same route, joining Rink in the deep well of murk at the side of the building. There was an overpowering stench of vomit and urine. Welcome home, Hunter. It doesn’t matter where my work takes me, it’s always the same. I was only pleased that I couldn’t see what I was standing in.

“Ready?” Rink whispered. He had the shotgun out of its bag, ready for action. I pulled out my SIG, held it at my side.

“Ready,” I said.

Mounting the first set of stairs on a rusted fire escape, my mission to discover the whereabouts of my brother was finally under way. Whether or not John was inside the building, I wasn’t sure. Petoskey
was, and he knew something about John’s disappearance. Taking Petoskey was the order of the day.

Gaining the first landing, I laid a hand on the door. The locking bar, like much of the remainder of the building, was an item lost in the past desecration of this place. The door swung open at the slightest tug. Rink immediately stepped past me, sweeping the darkness with his shotgun.

“Clear,” he whispered, and I entered.

We stood still, acclimating ourselves to the ambient light leaking in from outside and listening to the natural sounds of the building. Far above, voices formed a discordant chorus. Someone was laughing. Then there were the dogs. No longer were they yapping, but snarling and barking maniacally.

“Dogfights,” I whispered.

“Son of a bitch,” Rink snarled. In the half-light, I saw his face grow hard. “I’m going to feed the punk his own balls.”

“Yeah,” I agreed. For one instant my mind shifted half a world away and I saw my own dogs, Hector and Paris. The thought of their being forced to fight to the death for the sick pleasure of the likes of Petoskey was enough to sicken even the stone-cold assassin in me.

Shake the anger loose, Hunter,
I cautioned myself. It was bad enough that we were going in outnumbered. Never mind doing it in the wrong frame of mind. Go in in a rage and we’d be dead before we reached the next floor. I reached out in the dark to grab Rink’s forearm.

“Go easy,” I cautioned him.

“I’m cool,” Rink replied. And I knew that he was.

“Okay. You take point.”

“You want I go up or across?” Rink asked.

“Across,” I said. In all likelihood, this stairwell was used exclusively by the dropouts who squatted here during the daylight hours. We had to go up by the route Petoskey would take, to ensure that we took out any possible reinforcements.

The corridor could have been a set from a horror movie. Cobwebs brushed our faces. Dust sifted from above and clung to my lips. From behind closed doors, the specters of this place tittered at our bravado. They beckoned to us;
come and join us in hell, there’s plenty of room for two more
.

The far end of the corridor didn’t come too soon for me.

Rink was waiting in a vestibule area. A door that had once held wire-reinforced glass but was now blocked by a tarpaulin hung on bent nails, barred our progress. The faint buzz of conversation filtered from beyond.

“What do you think?” Rink whispered.

Ever the smart one, I made a quick calculation. Held up three fingers to Rink. Not that he didn’t trust me; Rink placed his face at the edge of the tarpaulin to confirm the estimate. We moved back down the corridor a safe distance.

“Two guys on the stairs. Looks like another one sitting down in a chair to the left of the door, but I could only see his feet.”

“Armed?” I asked Rink.

“Nothing I could see.” Rink shrugged. “Doesn’t mean anything. They could still be packing.”

Armed or not, it didn’t mean a thing. I could chew my lips all day, but it wouldn’t change our options. “We treat them like they’re armed. Okay?”

“Yup,” Rink said, hefting the shotgun so the barrel was skyward.

It’s not what you want—and to be fair, it didn’t lie straight with either of us—because it meant we were going in with what’s known in our trade as extreme prejudice. In layman’s terms: shoot to kill. These weren’t international terrorists or even enemy soldiers, just half-assed gangland hoods. Killing them was extreme. Maybe too extreme under the circumstances. As Rink had reminded me last night, we didn’t have a license to kill anymore.

“No, Rink, we can’t. You happy with defense only?” I suggested.

Talk about weight coming off shoulders. I’d swear we both grew a head taller.

“Okay,” I said. “We only shoot when necessary. Otherwise it’s hand-to-hand.”

“I’m happy with that,” Rink said.

Rink again laid an eye to the edge of the tarpaulin. His raised thumb showed no change to the tableau.

Okay, we’re rolling. Action!

Rink ripped aside the tarpaulin and stepped into the hallway beyond. I was a fraction of a beat behind him.

Confusion is the result of prolonged inactivity dramatically kick-started into life. The three men in the stairwell were caught catching flies, with their hands in the cookie jar, with their trousers down, whatever your choice of metaphor. The sudden intrusion of two armed men in their midst caused shocked silence. But that was only one frame of the action. Time jumped to fast-forward.

To my left a man erupted out of a wicker chair. He had a sawed-off across his lap and was snatching for it. It was an easy decision for me. I snapped my left hand sideways. Put a back fist strike to the bridge of his nose. The man went down into his seat like the world champion of competitive musical chairs. The fact that his hands didn’t reach for his broken nose in reflex meant he was unconscious. The shotgun slipped out of his lap onto the floor and I swiped it away with the edge of my boot.

Giving them their due, the other two had more sense than to challenge Rink’s shotgun. They stood like mute statues until he ordered them to come forward. The one-two was on; I immediately mounted the stairs. From below me, Rink said something. Knowing him, it would be funny, but no one was laughing. The silence was followed by the thump and scuffle of feet, and I guessed my suggestion of hand-to-hand was being followed.

The second landing was devoid of movement. I crept forward,
stepping into dim light that leached from the floor above, bringing up my SIG to sweep the space before me. My darkness-adapted eyes sought the next flight of stairs. Below me, Rink mounted the stairs, and you’d assume that it was safe for me to go on. Bad move. You know what they say about assuming anything; it certainly made an ass out of me.