Dead Men's Dust (3 page)

TUBAL CAIN WAS IN HIS ELEMENT. DRIVING A FLASHY CAR IN
the dark with the highway all to himself.

Interstate 10 was one of his all-time favorite places, stretching all the way from Jacksonville, Florida, in the east to Santa Monica, California, in the west. A transcontinental artery with no less than three of the largest cities in the United States straddling its route. Houston, Phoenix, and Los Angeles were all ground he knew. But what appealed to him more than the cities was the transcontinental highway itself. It was a popular backpacking avenue across the states. Throughout its length there wasn’t that great an elevation change, and even in winter the daytime temperatures were generally warm. He could almost guarantee a year-long stock of wandering lambs.

George and Mabel—or whatever they were really called—were good examples of what could be achieved by one as enterprising as himself. Okay, he’d only gained a couple of thumbs for his collection, but consolation was his in the form of the scorched motor home he’d left behind.

He’d spent some time in all the major tourist centers along the way, sampling the atmosphere of each before moving on. He’d thor
oughly enjoyed the vibrancy of New Orleans, the Cajun flamboyancy of Lafayette, the history of San Antonio, where he’d used his Bowie knife in tribute to Colonel James Bowie, who’d met his death there. He’d sampled the culture, the music, and the southwest flavor of Tucson while hunting students in its universities. Forging westward to Santa Monica, he’d found easy pickings amid the crowds jiggling for elbow space on the world-famous pier.

Then there was Los Angeles itself, his current destination. A city he found best suited his way of life, where he could ply his trade and fear little consequence. What with all the gangs shooting and hacking each other up, his two previous victims gleaned from South Central L.A. had barely raised more than an eyebrow.

His return was overdue. He intended executing a series of atrocities that would force even the jaundiced eyes of the LAPD to take note. If he could achieve that, then he would be cementing the foundations of his notoriety.

But that didn’t mean a little fun along the way wasn’t allowed.

Arriving in L.A. a few hours later than originally planned was no time at all to quibble over. Not for one whose name was destined to last an eternity.

He flicked on the turn signal, politely showing his intention to pull onto the wide shoulder, even though there was no traffic behind him. Politeness was a virtue Tubal Cain believed he held in abundance. The man waving for assistance by the side of the road would never guess that such a gracious driver could be so dangerous.

“Boy, is this your lucky day,” Cain said. The wing mirror made a fine TV screen for the man jogging up to his SUV. Road Runner kicking up a plume of trail dust as he charged into Wile E. Coyote’s trap.

Cain noted the possibility of trouble. Though harassed and worn down by the attempt to resurrect a dead engine, the man appeared moderately young and fit. Might put up a bit of a fight if not taken carefully, he concluded. Best not to give the game away. Quickly he
concealed his knives under the passenger seat. He stepped out, tasting the silicone tang of the desert.

Cain wasn’t the only one acting here. Conscious that few people would even stop to pick up hitchhikers, the man was careful to show that he was harmless. His gait was amiable, boyish, friendly. As fake as Tubal Cain’s smile.

“Having a little trouble, mister?” Cain asked.

“Yeah, car’s broken down and I can’t get it going again.” Pushing an oil-smeared palm down a trouser leg gave him the look of a bumbler, but to Cain the act seemed premeditated. His offer of a hand was no more believable.

“You’re not from around here, are you?” said Cain. “Here on vacation?”

The stranded driver shook his head. “It’s been no vacation, believe me.”

Cain studied the man’s eyes. Beyond deliberate innocence, a certain amount of deceit shone through. He was hiding something, but that was all right. Everyone had something to hide.

“Not the best of places to break down,” Cain noted. The Mojave nightscape demanded their attention. “Pretty barren.”

Nothing much more than sand and gravel and sparse vegetation, offering neither shade nor protection from the extremes of the weather, surrounded them.

Concealment of a crime could be difficult here.

“No place is a good place to break down, mister,” the man said, “but you’re right about this desert. I’m only happy that it’s nighttime and I’m not stranded in a hundred degrees plus.”

“Yeah, things do get warm around here when the sun’s up. It’s a bitch having to walk any distance, believe me.”

“Oh, I believe you,” the driver said. He nodded toward the SUV. “I bet that beauty’s reliable.”

“Has been for as long as I’ve had it,” Cain agreed. That he’d only
had it for eighteen hours was academic. “You want me to take a look at your car for you? I know a thing or two about engines.”

A shake of the head toward his abandoned vehicle. With its hood raised to the star-filled heavens, it looked like a lizard attempting to swallow the distant moon. “It’s done. Blown a cylinder, I think.”

“Let’s take a look.” Cain brushed past. Shoulders touched briefly. There was strength hidden beneath the man’s denim shirt. Reasonably young, fit, and
apparently
strong. Could be trouble. Cain slipped his hand inside his sports jacket, caressing the hilt of the scaling knife.

“There’s really no need,” the man said. “A lift out of here’ll be fine.”

Cain turned around slowly. Was that a demand? Am I supposed to be obliged? “Let me take a look at the car first. If I can’t get it going, then fine, I’ll give you a ride.”

“You’re wasting your time.” The man shifted his hands to his hips, inclined his chin at the broken-down vehicle. “Piece of crap won’t be going anywhere.”

“Let me take a look,” Cain said again.

“Suit yourself…but it won’t go,” the driver said. Subtle words concealing an equally subtle action. His scratch at an itch on his side wasn’t as mechanical as it seemed.

“I insist,” said Cain.

Practice makes perfect. Cain had practiced this maneuver a thousand times. He pulled the blade free of his pocket, held it braced along his wrist, took a quick step forward…

And met the barrel of a semiautomatic pistol aimed directly at his face.

A short laugh broke unbidden from his throat. It was neither shock nor fear. His laughter was self-deprecating. Looked like a little more practice could be in order. Not least, the resheathing of his knife. Hidden from the man’s view, he slipped the blade into an outer pocket of his jacket.

“No,” the man said. “I insist.”

Cain shook his head sadly. “You know, I can’t believe you’ve gone and pulled a gun on me, when all I want to do is help.”

“I appreciate your concern, mister, but I don’t need your help. All I need is your car.” A jerk of the gun was an invitation for a walk in the desert.

Casting his eye over the terrain, Cain saw a deep arroyo. It was steep-sided, the bottom choked with rocks and stunted sagebrush. A good place to hide a crime after all.

“So…you’re going to shoot me?”

The driver sucked air through his teeth.

“You’re going to put me down in that hole for the coyotes to find?” Cain shrugged his shoulders. It wasn’t as if he hadn’t done the very same thing to many others.

“I’ll only shoot you if I have to,” said the driver.

Was that so? BIG MISTAKE. Rule one: Never show weakness to your enemy.

“You’re no killer.”

“I will be a killer if I have to be,” the man said. The new edge to his voice held a tremor. Fear or anticipation—either could cause a nervous man to pull the trigger. “Climb down in that ditch and kneel down. I’m warning you, mister, if you don’t do as I say, I will use this gun.”

Cain lifted his hands in supplication.

“Come on, man. You can’t do this to a Good Samaritan.”

“I can and I will.” The man jerked the gun again. “Get moving. Down in the ditch.”

“I’m not dressed for climbing.”

“Well, jump.”

Cain started toward the arroyo. “You think you could let me get something from my car? You’re going to leave me out here in the middle of nowhere; at least let me get a bottle of water.”

“In the ditch.”

“It’s called an arroyo.”

“Well, get in the damn
arroyo
. If you don’t, I’ll put a bullet in your head and then throw you the hell in.”

Cain shook his head again. No urgency to his tread. “Easy now, I’m going.”

The man watched him clamber down the embankment. Cain turned and peered up at him. His face was a spectral gray in the starlight. A blob of silver that would prove an easy target for a gunman. “Turn around and face away from me, kneel down, and put your hands on your head.”

“Why the amateur dramatics?” Cain asked. “You’re going to take my car. There’s no way I can climb out and stop you, so why do you want me to kneel down?”

“Because I said so,” the man answered.

“It’s going to ruin a perfectly good pair of slacks,” Cain said in a singsong voice, choirboy sweet. He turned and knelt in the gravel as though at a pew.

“Okay, stay right there,” the man said.

The scuff of shoes through sand marked the man’s progress. Fetching something from his own abandoned vehicle, Cain surmised. The unmistakable thud of a hood being slammed. Then the sound of footsteps returning to the brim of the arroyo. Glancing over his shoulder, he saw the man outlined against the stars. In his hand he carried a backpack. He delved in the bag, pulled something out, and cast it down.

Cain’s assumption was justified. Definitely not a killer. A plastic bottle three-quarters full of water settled against a boulder ten feet in front of him.

“Don’t say I’m not grateful for your help,” the man called down. Then he turned to go.

“Wait!” Cain shouted.

“What?”

“I’ll do you a trade.”

“There’s nothing you have that I want.”

“You sure?”

“Positive.”

“How’s about the keys to my car?”

That got his attention.

“Throw them up here.”

“No.”

“Throw them up here or I’ll shoot you.”

“No. Like I said, I’ll do you a trade.”

“Just throw the damn things here or I’ll put a bullet in you.”

“You do that and you won’t find the keys. While you were off gallivanting, I hid them. Fair enough, they’re not too far away, but it’ll take you a while to find them. Are you sure you want to waste precious time looking for them for the sake of one little request? You know, you could kill me, but what if someone was to come along while you were still searching for the keys? Are you prepared to kill them as well? Could even be a cop.”

The man swore impolitely.

Cain grunted in amusement. “One little request,” he repeated.

“All right, but you give me the keys first.”

“No. You get something from my car first.”

More profanity. Then, “So what the hell’s so important?”

“Look under the front passenger seat. You’ll find a utility belt. Bring it to me, please.”

“Okay, but then you give me the keys. And no messing around.”

“Deal.” Cain lifted one hand off his head and gave the driver a thumbs-up.

What could the man do but acquiesce?

“Don’t move. I’ll go and get your utility belt. But if I come back and you’ve moved as much as an inch I’m going to kill you.”

“Deal.” This time he put up two thumbs.

He knelt in the gravel, ignoring the sharp edges of rocks against his knees like a monk in penance. He attained Zen tranquility through the mantra of “Mack the Knife” hummed to himself.

“You liar.” The man’s voice broke the trance. “The keys were in the car all along.”

Without looking around Cain shrugged.

“I’ve got a good mind not to give you your bloody bag for that,” the man said.

“It’s no good to you,” Cain pointed out. “You may as well leave it.”

“I took a look in your bag, mister. Hope you don’t mind, but I wanted to check there wasn’t a gun inside. Didn’t want you chasing me up the road taking potshots at me.”

“Well, now you know there’s no gun. Just leave it there for me, please.”

“What’s with all the knives?”

“Just a passion of mine.”

“They don’t look expensive. Not the kind of thing anyone would collect.”

“I use them in my work, that’s all. And you’re right, they’re not expensive. So it’d be pointless stealing them.”

“What the hell’s so important about them if they aren’t expensive? You were prepared to risk a bullet for the sake of a few old knives?”

“Just call it sentimental value. I’ve had them a long time. They hold a lot of memories.” Cain turned and peered over his shoulder. He held the gaze of the driver. “Indulge me, will you?”

The man dropped the utility belt on the ground, kicked it down into the arroyo. “Don’t climb up from there until you hear me driving away. I’ll be watching.”

A wink. “Understood.”

“Good.”

As he was commanded, Cain waited until he heard the SUV grum
ble to life, then recede into the distance. What would be the good of rushing? A footrace with a 4x4 wouldn’t offer good odds.

First, he retrieved the bottle of water. It felt tepid against his palm. Then he picked up his belt. He didn’t need to make an inventory of its contents. He could tell merely by its weight that something was missing.

“You thieving asshole!” He tore open the pouch. His Bowie knife was gone.

This changed everything. He practically hurled himself up the arroyo wall. Reaching the top on his elbows and knees, he lurched up, took half a dozen running steps toward the road. The taillights of the SUV were mere pinpricks in the distance.

“I’ll see you again,
thief
.” His promise was as righteous as his fury. “I’ll see you again. And when I do there’s gonna be hell to pay.”

SO THERE YOU HAVE IT. WHY I HOTFOOTED IT TO THE U.S.

I took an evening flight to Miami. On the first leg out of the U.K., I slept for hours. I dreamed of people screaming. After transferring planes in New York, the nightmare was with me still. I couldn’t sleep, so sat staring out the window. Surreal cloud formations were a mild distraction. They piled all the way down the East Coast. Rink hadn’t been exaggerating; storms were raging across Florida.

The air-conditioned terminal tricked me. I stepped out into rain, which I was used to, but the cloying humidity slapped my face like a hot rag.

Damp with the rain and wringing wet with sweat beneath my clothes, I walked toward Jared Rington’s Porsche Boxster with a grimace of greeting for the big guy. Christ, I hadn’t seen the brute in two years. Rink pressed a button and dropped the passenger-side window.

“What’s with all the bags, Hunter?” he asked, nodding at the two I carried. “Figuring on staying a month?”

“As long as it takes.”

“Fine by me.”

I nodded at him. “Are you gonna invite me in or do I stand out here all night getting even wetter?”

“S’long as you don’t get any stains on the upholstery,” Rink said.

I checked out the Porsche, then looked down at my sodden clothing. “Maybe I’d best take a taxi,” I said.

“The hell you will. Jump in. Toss your bags on the back shelf…if they’ll fit. Otherwise you’re gonna have to keep them on your knee. That’s the problem with these beauties—no trunk space.”

“Not much room for anything.”

“I didn’t buy a Porsche for its capacious luggage-handling qualities,” Rink said.

“You got it to impress the young ladies, huh?” I clambered in, clutching one bag to my chest.

“Yup. But to be honest, I don’t score as often as I used to in my old pickup truck.”

Previously clean-shaven, he now sported what looked like a hairy caterpillar on his top lip. He caught me staring at it. He checked himself out in the rearview mirror. “What’s wrong with my mustache?”

“Makes you look like a porn star,” I said.

Rink grinned unabashedly. “Yeah, so I’ve been told. But then again,” he puffed out his chest, “I’ve also got the
goods
of a porn star.”

“Dream on, Casanova,” I said. “Don’t forget, I’ve seen you in the showers.”

“Yeah,” Rink agreed. “But you’re forgettin’ what battle stress does to a man. Sometimes adrenaline makes you shrink up like that.”

“Never seemed to affect me,” I told him as he was pulling away from the curb.

“Trouble is,” Rink said, his tone losing its bantering edge, “
nothing
ever seemed to affect you the way it did us mere mortals. I sometimes used to wonder if you know what fear is.”

“Oh, don’t you worry,” I said. “There were plenty of times I was scared to death.”

“It didn’t show.”

“It was there, Rink. I just didn’t
let
it show.”

We joined a freeway headed west. “I made a coupla calls,” Rink said as our journey took us toward Tampa. “Spoke to an old friend out in Little Rock. You don’t know him. Harvey Lucas. Ex-military. A good man. I worked alongside him during Desert Storm. Met him again by chance a few years back an’ kept in touch since. He’s done some diggin’ around for me.”

“So what’s he come up with?”

“Not much. First day on the job.”

“Anything’s a help.”

“He went to see this Louise woman.”

“And?”

“She wasn’t exactly friendly. Said she’d speak to nobody but you.”

I nodded. Her reluctance made sense. “In her letter, she said that John had been acting strange, afraid of something. She could also be scared. I suppose she’s not going to say too much to a stranger asking about John’s whereabouts.”

“Even after he mentioned your name, she wouldn’t give Harvey diddlysquat,” Rink said. “But he was able to set up a meeting with her. Tomorrow afternoon, three o’clock, after she gets off work. Another thing he found out: seems your brother liked to gamble.”

Yeah? That was quite an understatement. “You think it’s because of the gambling he’s gone missing?”

“Could be. By all accounts he’s left a large IOU with a local shark called Sigmund Petoskey. Petoskey’s not the most forgiving of people. Could be a good starting-off point to see what he’s got to say for himself.”

“As good a point as any,” I agreed.

“I remember Petoskey from years ago,” Rink said. “A no-good
punk with delusions of grandeur. Siggy likes to think of himself as some kinda new world Godfather type. He’s gathered a gang of scum around him to do his head bashing when the punters are a little slow to pay up. Maybe John’s simply had the good sense to get out with all his limbs intact.”

“What’s Petoskey into?”

“He’s into all sorts. Got hisself a good cover as a businessperson. Real estate. Used-car dealerships. Those kinda things. But he makes most of his money from the gambling and corruption.”

“Corruption?” I asked.

“Yup. Has a few names in local government by the balls. Certain cops won’t touch him, either.”

“What’s he like?”

“A punk of the highest order,” Rink said. “But I suppose with a gang behind him he’s dangerous enough. To someone who’s easily frightened, that is.”

“Yeah, just like every other asshole we ever went up against,” I noted.

Rink often seems to know what I’m thinking. “I’ve got the guns and stuff back at the condo,” he said. “Petoskey won’t give us squat unless we show him we mean business.”

I nodded at his foresight. We both knew that when you went up against someone like Petoskey or Shank you had to show them that you weren’t about to take any shit from them. Shank could be intimidated by a nasty promise, but in a land where every other blue-rinsed grandma toted a sidearm, you had to bring something even nastier to the negotiating table.

“Does Harvey know where Petoskey is?”

“I’ve got him on it. By the time we arrive in Arkansas, he’ll be able to tell you where Petoskey squats down to take a dump…and at what time.”

I said, “All I need to know is where he’ll be this time tomorrow.”

“Leave it with me. I’ll give Harvey another call as soon as we get back to my place.”

“Sure,” I said.

Business sorted, Rink turned to me. A smile lit up his features. “It’s good you’re here, Hunter.”

“Good to be here.”