Dead Men's Dust (23 page)

“I’m still not with you.”

Walter raised a stubby finger again. Sermon part two. “Well, if you’ve read your Bible you’ll know that there was an old blind guy named Lamech.”

“I must have missed that bit.”

“Lamech had two sons. Jubal and Tubal.”

“Yeah,” I agreed. “I remember now. Jubal and Tubal Cain.”

“Jubal was the inventor of music,” Walter began.

“Tubal was the forger of knives and swords,” I completed. “I see the connection now. If the brother, a musician, is synonymous with Jubal, that makes the Harvestman Tubal Cain.”

“Took a load of FBI profilers to come up with that one.”

“Hence Maxwell’s love of knives?”

“Yup.”

“And the bones?”

“Some of these profilers have got it in mind that he’s set himself some kind of mission, that he’s taking the bones from his victims for some express purpose.”

“What?” I asked. “Other than that he’s demented?”

“Believe it or not, they believe he’s feeling remorse for the killing of his brother, that somehow he’s attempting to make amends.”

“Why his brother? Why not his wife and kids?”

Walter gave a body shrug. “It’s just a theory.”

“It’d make sense, I suppose. If he has this notion that they’re Jubal
and Tubal Cain reborn, it’d only be right that he’d attempt to make amends. You think the killings are symbolic? Y’know, Bible-related?”

“Nothing in the Good Book that extols the virtues of offering up body parts,” Walter said.

I was puzzled. “So what do you think he’s doing?”

“Don’t know. Could be making soup stock for all I know.”

“John said that they had an arrangement, that he would see it through to the end. That he’d sacrifice himself for the old woman. You don’t think he was
literally
talking about sacrifice?”

“Hmm,” Walter said. “Sacrifice
is
something that appears in the Old Testament. Maybe it’s something that would appeal to Maxwell.”

Until now I’d been relaxed enough about going after John. But with this new understanding of Tubal Cain’s intentions, I was off the bed in an instant.

“We can’t stand around here any longer,” I said. “Where’s Rink?”

“Cooling his heels next door,” Walter said. As I started for the door, he said, “Hold it, Hunter.”

“You aren’t in a position to stop me, Walter.”

“I don’t intend stopping you. That’s not why I was brought in. I want to give you my blessing. And to ask you a favor.”

I stirred restlessly. “A favor?”

“A favor. When you kill the son of a bitch, you don’t breathe his name to anyone. Ever.”

I scowled at him. Then nodded slowly.

“Help me, Walter. Give me the resources I need to find the bastard, and I promise you that Marty Maxwell—or Tubal Cain, or whatever the hell his name is—will be buried without a trace.”

“I knew I could count on you.”

BACK ON THE ROAD AGAIN.

I knew then, even as we sped away in a commandeered government SUV, that the outcome was bound to be bloodshed. The only thing that gave me heart was that I wouldn’t be the only man doing the bleeding. By the grim set of Rink’s features, he knew it, too. Cain had made two implacable enemies in us, and I could almost pity the fool. Almost.

Rink drove. I held the Global Positioning Satellite receiver supplied by Walter. On the display screen a red cursor blipped on a map of the Los Angeles area. Periodically the cursor shifted on the map, meaning not only that Cain was still on the move but that he hadn’t yet realized that John was in possession of the cell phone.

It could only be a matter of time before Cain discovered John’s duplicity, or the makeshift tracking device became obsolete when John was buried in a Dumpster or sunk to the bottom of a river.

Going for us was the fact that Cain was using diversionary tactics to shake off pursuit. Guessing that he might be followed by more conventional methods, he was taking surface streets and alleyways to navigate the sprawling city. Though he had more than an hour’s lead on us, we’d
been able to gain back much of that time by following a direct route. Another thing that very quickly became obvious—even though he often backtracked or ran parallel to his intended target—Cain was making for Interstate 10, the main eastward route out of Los Angeles.

Initially picking up the 405, we hurtled north past Redondo Beach toward LAX, struck eastward on the 105, then again headed north on the 110, hoping to cut Cain off where the two major routes converged near the downtown L.A. Convention Center. It was apparent that it wouldn’t be as easy as that when Cain jinked northeastward, skirting the center of the city on its northern border, while we continued east again toward Interstate 5 and became snarled in traffic.

I watched the cursor skip across the map, pick up Interstate 10, and continue past the Rose Bowl as Rink cursed and pressed on the horn, attempting to force our way through the traffic.

After twenty minutes of very little forward progress, the traffic began to open out ahead of us, and Rink pressed the throttle with disregard for the speed limit. Slaloming in and out of lanes, he gained open road and booted the SUV.

Picking up Interstate 5, we made the short trip northward before meeting Interstate 10 again and swinging in pursuit of our quarry, now more than thirty minutes ahead of us.

“We can still make it,” I told Rink. “The prick’s certain he’s in the clear. He doesn’t seem to be traveling much over sixty.” I glanced over at the odometer. Rink was pushing the SUV to 120 miles an hour. “If you can keep this up, we’ll catch him in no time.”

“Darn tootin’ I can keep it up. If all these goddamn Sunday drivers would get the hell outta my way.” To add weight to his promise, Rink laid his hand on the horn, causing vehicles ahead to swerve out of our way.

It was an exhilarating ride. If it weren’t for the fear of arriving too late to save John, I’d have whooped and howled like a kid on a roller coaster. Instead I stayed grimly silent, my gaze on the GPS screen.
I didn’t have to be so observant. Cain was already out of the urban sprawl and headed toward the vast American southwest.

Even at breakneck speed, it was almost an hour before we caught sight of the Dodge hijacked from the house at Long Beach. We were tempted to continue at top speed, attempt to catch and then force the Dodge off the road. Though I didn’t want to believe that John was dead, now, at least, we could stop the Harvestman’s reign. Of course, stopping him here would bring further complications.

Conclusion? It would be more prudent to follow at a safe distance and act when there was no likelihood of an innocent passerby being caught up in the gunfire.

Cain wasn’t a fool. He was a crazy, murderous bastard, but he was also shrewd. Along with that, he’d been trained as a government agent, and it was a given that he was an expert driver, versed in all manner of countersurveillance measures and reactive driving. We fell into line, allowing more than a quarter of a mile, and at least four vehicles, to separate us. Though that was a meaningless exercise.

“He knows we’re here,” Rink said.

I looked across at him. There he was again, reading my thoughts.

“He knows we’re here and he’s taunting us,” Rink embellished.

I nodded. “Probably.”

“Back at the house, it was almost like he was challenging you to find him. Makes me think that’s why he spent so long in the city; to let you catch up.”

When I thought about it, I realized Rink was right. “Yeah, he was taking a big chance driving through the center of L.A. when there could’ve been an APB out for him. He could’ve easily switched vehicles, too. Looks like he wants us to follow him.”

“You want me to get up a little closer? Put a little pressure on the squirmy little punk?”

“No. Just hang back where we are. Let’s see where he wants to take us.”

“My guess is it’s going to be somewhere remote. He’s looking for a showdown. Doesn’t want anyone else getting in the way.”

“If it’s a showdown he wants, it’s what he’s gonna get.”

Rink and I exchanged glances.

“He’s certainly made this personal, ain’t he?” Rink asked.

“He made it personal when he took John prisoner,” I pointed out.

“Maybe so,” Rink said. “But I’m referring to him and you. When he found out who you were, I could see it in his face—it was almost as if he was excited. As if he’d found a worthy adversary, y’know? You think he’s lookin’ to die, Hunter? Some of these sickos like to go out in a blaze of glory. Think he’s lookin’ for you to kill him?”

“Whether he is or he isn’t, that’s what’s going to happen,” I promised.

“Yeah,” Rink grumbled. “But be wary, man. If he has a death wish, he intends to take you with him. If he’s looking to bolster his reputation, who better to have on his dead list than you?” Rink looked across at me again. “Apart from me, of course.”

Even in that moment, Rink could find humor. It made me smile. “Of course.”

“No, man, I’m serious. The psycho’s looking to make himself famous.”

I shook my head. “You really think anyone will ever know the truth about him?”

“Not if it’s left to Walter.”

“The provision he put on us—allowing us to bring the Harvestman down—was that his name never got mentioned again. How likely is it that my name hits the news if the maniac manages to take me out?”

“Not very, I suppose. But then again, what about your folks back home? Don’t you think they’re gonna want answers, that they won’t make a scene if anything happens to you?”

“Diane knows what my line of work is. She’ll receive a call from
Walter’s office. She’ll be told to keep quiet. She wants a quiet life, she’ll comply.”

Rink grunted. “An’ here was me thinkin’ you really understood your ex-wife.”

I squinted across at him and he looked at me as though I was a complete idiot. “Hunter, man. You’re not in that game anymore. How many times do I have to remind you? There’s your mom and dad. Jennifer. An’ you really think for one goddamn minute that Diane ain’t gonna scream to the rafters if anything happens to you? You think she’ll give a shit what line Walter tries to feed her about the Harvestman’s identity being an embarrassment to the U.S. government?”

I exhaled. He was right again. Of course Diane would want—no, demand—answers. Suggesting otherwise was doing her an injustice. I nodded.

“Not only that,” Rink went on. “But don’t you think I won’t raise the subject? I don’t owe Walter a goddamn thing. I never made any promises to hide the identity of his little black sheep.”

“No, Rink. I made the promise for both of us. By coming along, you bought into this.”

Rink’s face twisted, but he was giving in.

We drove for another hour and a quarter and silence reigned over the many miles.

“Look familiar?” Rink suddenly asked.

I glanced toward a rest stop across the highway to our left. There was a diner and rest area, beyond them a cul-de-sac of single-story cabins. I shook my head.

“That’s where the couple was murdered. The man and woman who picked John up in their car.”

“You mean the couple who picked up Martin Maxwell or Tubal Cain or whatever it is he calls himself? It’s obvious now, isn’t it, what really happened?”

“You’re saying that somehow the Harvestman ended up with John’s
car—the one he stole from Petoskey—and it was him, not John, who the witnesses saw being picked up?”

“Yeah. Exactly.”

“So how do you explain John and the Harvestman tying up together again? I mean…it’s a bit of a stretch, ain’t it?”

“Not unless something happened between John and Cain. Something that ensured Cain would hunt him down.”

Rink gave an expansive shrug. “Who knows? They coulda been acting together long before any of this happened.”

“No. I don’t believe that. Chance threw them together. I think John became an unwilling puppet. The evidence is all there. Remember that it was John who saved the old woman, that it was John who gave us the tools to hunt Cain down. It was his decision to take my cell phone. Do you really believe he’d have done that if he was working with Cain?”

“No, I don’t. An’ I don’t think he’d offer himself up as a sacrifice, either. I’m only playing advocate here. I don’t suppose we’ll ever know the true story.”

“Only way we’re gonna find that out is to save John,” I said. “If I have my way, Cain won’t be around to do any explaining.”

Out here on the fringes of the Mojave Desert, there was a surreal cast to the early evening sky. Behind us, hovering above the Pacific Ocean, the sun’s final gasp made the sky a mother-of-pearl banner. Alongside the road, Joshua trees cast elongated shadows like accusing fingers, pointing the way to the showdown ahead.

Four vehicles ahead, Cain flicked on his lights, ensuring that we could follow him as the night began to descend over the desert.

While he drove, Rink drank mineral water courtesy of the government. He offered me some. Pity that the bottle didn’t contain something a little stronger. Nonetheless, I accepted it and chugged down a grateful mouthful.

Really, I should’ve been thirstier than I was, I should’ve felt the
need for food. Neither of us had eaten anything since early that morning. However, the continued release of adrenaline ensured that nothing would pass my lips that required my stomach to hold on to it. Anything more solid than the spring water, I suspected, would end up projected out the window in a couple of miles.

As night came, Rink pushed the SUV on. One of the cars between us turned up a side road and Rink filled the gap it left.

For two more hours Cain led us on a merry dance. Then, as if concerned that we might miss him turning off the main route, he used his turn signal, slowed down dramatically, and crawled to an intersection.

Two of the cars ahead of us overtook him before he reached the turnoff. As Cain swept to the right, the remaining car continued on to the east, and I saw Cain hit the brakes a couple of times, ensuring that we didn’t lose him.

“Considerate son of a bitch,” Rink muttered.

Then Cain was on the overpass, crossing the interstate, heading northward. On the bridge he slowed to a crawl, watched as we swung onto the off ramp. Then he gave the Dodge gas and peeled away.

“I guess we’re getting close now, and he wants time to prepare,” I said.

The GPS tracker had been obsolete for some hours now. Throughout it had traveled cradled in my palms, for no other reason than it stopped me fiddling with my gun. Luck, or maybe foresight, caused me to check the screen. The cursor indicating the latest triangulated location of the cell phone had finally stopped moving. I didn’t even bother to frown. Cain had discovered our deception. Maybe he’d found John was carrying the device as soon as they’d left the house at Long Beach; maybe it was much later. Whatever. When he’d slowed down, it wasn’t to taunt us, it was to throw away the phone.

It was clear that he wanted us nearby. More clear was his need to buy a little time before we arrived at the meeting ground.

“Put your foot down, Rink.”

“I can still see his lights,” Rink said. “I won’t lose him.”

“He won’t let you lose him,” I said. “He’ll make sure we know exactly where he is. But he’ll be prepared for our arrival, and I don’t want to allow him that advantage.”