Dead Men's Harvest (22 page)

Our room was on the ground floor and we could come and go without having to bypass the checking-in counter. From the window we could see where we’d parked our rental. There was also a second vehicle that Harvey had ordered via a different rental company: just in case our first car had been noticed near to the shooting we’d planned to leave here in the second.

When the investigation got underway, it was probable that any mobile phone usage in the area would be scrutinised, so the mobiles we had would have to be dumped. Nevertheless I knew how the gears of bureaucracy could grind an investigation to a snail’s crawl so thought my phone was good for a while yet. Phoning Walter directly from it was foolish, because the numbers would show on the call log, but not when I went through the relay stations that filtered and encrypted the route. Ensconced in our rooms, I rang the CIA man.

‘You can strike Kurt Hendrickson off the list,’ I said when Walter picked up.

‘He’s dead? Hell, son! The Justice Department isn’t going to be happy when they find his trial won’t be going ahead. They were looking at a real media coup with this one.’

‘Don’t worry. Right now a higher power is judging his crimes. Where he’s heading, it’ll be worse than any hell-hole that the courts could send him to.’

‘I never took you for the religious type,’ Walter said.

‘You know what they say: there’s no atheists in trenches, Walt.’ Though I didn’t pray that regularly, I’d often taken the Lord’s name in vain. Maybe I should’ve got down on my knees and begged for forgiveness otherwise, when it was my time, I might be heading to the same hell-hole as Hendrickson and all the other evil men I’d killed. I told Walter what had gone down at Hendrickson’s house.

‘So you’ve no idea where Cain is,’ he summed up.

‘Drawn a blank,’ I said. ‘So it’s even more important that both John and Imogen are out of harm’s way.’

Anticipating my next question, Walter confirmed, ‘Imogen was collected by Hartlaub and Brigham. She’s out of Cain’s reach. There’s no one left who he can use to get to John, so you needn’t worry.’

‘I’m not sure about that. Walt, I need to speak to my brother.’

Walter’s silence gave me a sense of foreboding.

‘Walt?’

‘Uh, I’m just figuring on how best to arrange that, son.’

‘What’s the problem, Walt, and please . . . none of your usual bullshit.’

Walter coughed into the handset, then must have twisted away because I didn’t catch his next mumbled words.

‘Walter.’

‘I’m here, OK. Look, this won’t be easy to set up. We have him in deep hiding. It’s going to be a bitch getting you to see him without your involvement throwing problems our way.’

‘Seeing as I’m just a fucking crazy vigilante and all?’

‘There is that.’ He tried to temper his words so they sounded like a joke, but he meant them. ‘I’ll see what I can do. In the meantime I suggest you get some rest, recharge your batteries, you’ve been on the go for . . . what? Two days now?’

‘I’m fine,’ I lied. The truth was, now that the thrill of battle had subsided, I could have slept for a month. ‘Just arrange things for me, Walt. I want to speak to John.’

‘Get some sleep. Give me a call back in a few hours, OK.’

Walter hung up and I must have looked at the phone strangely. Harvey, currently sprawled on one of the beds, was watching me. His usually bright eyes were rheumy, like I wasn’t the only one in need of a nap. ‘There a problem, Hunter?’

‘I’m not sure . . .’

Placing the phone on the floor, I crushed it under my heel. Then I disassembled it further, separating the battery, the guts and the SIM card and tossing them into a waste basket.

‘Destroy your phone,’ I told Harvey. ‘Then we’re getting out of here.’

‘I need to sleep, man.’

‘Trust me, Harve, we need to get going.’

While he dismantled his handset, I went to the window that overlooked where our cars were parked. There was nothing unusual out there. So maybe the nasty feeling I’d just felt was wrong; but the niggling thought persisted that Walt was up to something. I crossed the room and opened the door. A narrow corridor led back into the hotel one way and to the car park the other. Going to a window, I peered out across the hotel lot on to the main road. Traffic regulations meant that stopping on the highway wasn’t allowed, but there were plenty of places where they could pull off the road and into one of the hotel courtyards across the way. A hundred yards up, its front end peeking out from behind a stand of trees, I spotted a navy-blue sedan with tinted windows.

Returning to the room, I said, ‘Harvey, we have to go now!’

We fast-walked out of the room, along the corridor and out through a revolving door into the car park. The rifle was still inside the first rental car but we had no time to fetch it. We hurried over to the second car and Harvey bleeped it open. He drove again, with me riding shotgun. We only made it as far as the exit ramp when the first police cruiser screeched up the ramp towards us, its lights flashing balefully.

Chapter 30

Tubal Cain watched a young girl leading a smaller boy by the hand. The boy couldn’t have been much more than five years old, the girl a little older. She had the reddish hair and slightly upturned nose inherited from her mother, but the boy was definitely his father’s son. Cain could even detect a little of his Uncle Joe in the boy. Those bluish-green eyes with a hint of brown at the outer edge of the irises must have been a trait from his grandmother’s side of the family, as Tubal Cain knew that John Telfer and Joe Hunter had different fathers. The boy even had that same straight-backed shoulders-held-high walk as the brothers; maybe that was inherited as well and not a stick-up-the-ass attitude they carried with them.

They were too young to be walking these streets alone, so it was no surprise to find that Jennifer was a few paces behind them, deep in conversation with another young mother whose brats trailed in their wake. Jennifer puffed on a cigarette between sentences. Every so often she glanced up, checking the progress of her offspring. She must have gone out to collect the kids while he was sampling the delights of the tea shop.

Cain watched Jennifer say her goodbyes to her friend, then she hurried the few steps to catch up to her children and ushered them through the entrance to their building. She wasn’t laden down by grocery bags this time, and Cain noticed that she used the stairs, sending the kids off at a gallop ahead of her. In no major hurry to follow, Cain hung back in the alley that had become his surveillance point. While he waited for the Telfer family to settle in he studied the graffiti. Why do all ignorant people have a fascination with genitalia? he wondered. Someone had daubed the legend
manu for the cup
in bright red paint. A different artist, but equally industrious, had scored through the final word and written the word
chop
. Under it in even larger letters they’d added
city rules
! Cain was unfamiliar with soccer, but even he knew that there was a rivalry in this city where wearing the wrong-coloured jersey could get you a whupping.

The floor of the alley was littered with a filthy collection of debris, including broken glass, crushed drinks cans, cardboard and other things he didn’t care to imagine. The carcass of a rat had rotted down to the skeletal bones, but they held no interest for him. Cain looked up to the window of Jennifer’s flat. He could detect movement there. Good. Hands in his coat pockets, he walked out of the alley and on to the road. From his left three figures emerged. They were dressed like the bicycle-riding kids he’d seen this morning, their hoods pulled up, and their sneakers whitened to a gleam. It didn’t matter what colour jersey you wore, these were the kind of youths who were going to kick your ass just for being different. Already he’d noted their posture had changed. There was a lot of hand-flicking going on, gruff expletives exchanged that he couldn’t understand. Cain didn’t have the inclination to waste time with these punks.

They moved close, enclosing him in a three-sided box.

Ordinarily it would have been a fatal error to allow them to shut down his options like that, but Cain didn’t fear them. In fact, if it weren’t for the fact that it might draw unwanted attention he would quite happily butcher them.

‘Hey, mate, you got the time?’ The elected leader postured in front of Cain, bouncing loosely on the balls of his feet. Another of the boys fiddled with a cellphone, as though engrossed, but really readying himself to sucker punch Cain from the side. All he was waiting for was the nod from the leader. The third youth was standing at the leader’s shoulder, ready to leap on board as soon as Cain was hurt.

‘No, but I’ve got some of these.’ Cain drew the Recon Tanto from one pocket, then the box-cutter from the other. The youths took a step back, but they were used to dealing with sharp-edged weapons. Nevertheless some of the cockiness had gone. Now they were trying to decide if this was such a good idea. Cain gave them even more to think about. He slipped the box-cutter away, snaked his hand under the tail of his coat and pulled out his Bowie. ‘Then there’s this motherfucking brute!’

Subtly the distance between them had widened again.

‘And if that’s not enough . . .’ Cain put away the Tanto and pulled out the Walther P99. ‘There’s always this.’

‘Fuck me,’ the leader said.

‘I haven’t
the time
.’ Cain lifted the barrel of the gun so it was aiming directly at the youth’s groin. ‘So I suggest you just get the fuck out of here. All of you.’

‘Fuckin’ psycho!’

‘Yes.’ Cain gave them a death’s-head grin. ‘I am.’

The three spun away and headed off the same way that they’d come. There was little swagger in their mincing steps now. He glanced around himself, checking that the small drama hadn’t earned him any unnecessary attention. The incident had gone unobserved. He slipped the gun away. The trio had made it to the far corner of the street. Feeling brave they offered him the finger, plus the two-fingered salute particular to the UK. Cain mimed an oral sex act, then mouthed, ‘Blow me.’ The youths decided there were less dangerous victims to be had elsewhere and headed off out of sight.

Cain scowled, his anger directed internally. He loathed degrading himself, lowering himself to their base level, but ‘when in Rome’. These young thugs understood only one language. They were sufficiently cowed to stay out of his way, so that was one bonus. He looked up at Jennifer’s flat. It was time to get on with something more productive.

Settling his clothes over his weapons, he walked through the glass doors and into the foyer. Having experienced the foul-smelling stairwell once today, he elected to call the elevator. A dull groan announced it was on its way down. Under his heels Cain could feel the grime adhering to the tiles. Unmoved as he was by gore, the thought of germs gave him the creeps, made him feel unclean. He shivered.

The doors shuddered open and Cain stepped aboard. The doors juddered to, then the lift set off for the designated floor. It was a short ride and he found himself in the hallway along from Jennifer’s flat.

He recalled a conversation with John Telfer in which the thieving asshole had bemoaned the fact he’d let down his wife and children. It was clear from the way in which he’d delivered his words that Jennifer and the kids still meant an awful lot to him: not so much as to stop him going on the lam to the USA, but enough. John was the type who’d come running if he knew they were in danger, and if not John, then Uncle Joe certainly would.

Cain opened his wallet and slipped out a plastic card.

He shook out the last feelings of revulsion, and knocked on the door.

Voices chimed from within; the kids announcing to their mom that they had a visitor. He waited, heard Jennifer tell the kids to go to some other room, then the sound of footsteps. A chain rattled and the door swung inward a couple of inches. Jennifer peered through the gap at him. She didn’t say anything, just stared at him with suspicion.

Cain held up the plastic card identifying him as Special Agent Kenneth Myers of SOCA. The Serious and Organised Crime Agency was something that most Brits were still unfamiliar with, as it had only been in existence a few years. Joe Public knew that it was akin to the FBI in the US, but then they rarely had any idea what the FBI’s remit was. Cain was relying on the fact that the acronym would hold enough authority to get him inside without resistance.

‘What do you want?’ Jennifer wasn’t the type to fold at the first suggestion of officialdom.

Cain feigned a glance back over his shoulder. ‘I’m here on official business, Ms Telfer. It’s not something I’d care to share with your neighbours.’

Jennifer craned her neck, listening. ‘There’s no one else around.’

‘Ms Telfer,’ Cain said in a hushed voice, ‘I’m here with news about John.’

‘What trouble is he in this time?’ Jennifer’s tone was exasperated, but she couldn’t prevent the sudden widening of her pupils at the mention of John’s name. ‘I have no idea where he is.’

‘Like I said, it’s official . . .’ Cain glanced around once more. ‘But also very personal. To you.’

Jennifer turned her attention away from him, possibly checking where the children were, or if they were listening. While she was distracted he could have easily kicked the door in, but that wasn’t his purpose. He waited patiently for her to come back to him. When she did, she was frowning, ‘What’s this all about? You’re an American, aren’t you?’