Dead Men's Harvest (4 page)

Despite being inured to the after-effects of slaughter, I couldn’t stop myself from pinching my nose. Beside me Hartlaub stood stoically, but his eyes were watering as much as mine. We moved tentatively into the room, squeezing past Brigham who looked content to remain at the threshold.

Investigators had been and gone, bodies tagged and shrouded and carried away, so only the aftermath bore witness to what had happened here.

It was like a maniacal artist had taken a couple of gallons of red paint to the walls and floor, with splashes and ribbons of blood everywhere. Other pools on the floor made nightmarish Rorschach designs, and there were hunks of skin and hair adhering to the carpet and furniture. Bullet holes stitched patterns in the walls. A chair had been knocked over, a settee thrown down on its back. I didn’t have the expert eye of a detective, but even I could tell that at least three men had died here. Something else: this wasn’t the result of a normal hit. This was the work of someone – or some
thing
– demented.

I turned from the scene of horror and met Hartlaub’s eyes.

‘You told me Walter didn’t suffer.’

Hartlaub shrugged. ‘He didn’t. Most of the blood you see here was from post-mortem dismemberment.’

Chapter 5

Two days earlier . . .

Prisoner 1854 was reborn.

He arrived at his rebirth in a sleek, black limousine, and a flunkey reached down and opened the rear door for him, like he was an honoured guest. Stepping out of the limousine on to a driveway bordered by shrubs and tinkling fountains, he cast his gaze over a building that spoke of opulence rivalling that of movie stars and pop legends. He tipped a genteel nod at the servant who held open the door. The man grunted, then waved him forward with the barrel of a .38. So much for that illusion.

Behind him, two more guards took up position as he was marched unceremoniously towards the entrance of the mansion. Other guards flanked the doors, grim-faced men with hard bodies. Beneath their jackets, they wore automatic handguns in shoulder harnesses. Out in the sculptured gardens other men moved, some craning for a look at him. He returned their looks of disdain with a slight lifting of his chin.

Inside the foyer, a man waited. He was conventionally dressed in grey slacks, white shirt and a deep blue sports jacket, but that was where convention ended. His short dark hair was gelled and spiked, and he was wearing sunglasses that changed colour according to the strength of the light. Right now they were a yellowish green: the colour of decomposing flesh.

He held a semi-automatic pistol loosely by his side.

The prisoner held up his cuffed wrists. ‘Do you think these could come off now? Either that, or you put away your guns?’ His voice sounded like tearing paper.

‘The cuffs stay on for now.’

The prisoner shrugged. ‘Fair enough. But, just so you understand . . . I didn’t trade one cell for another.’

‘That all depends on what the boss decides.’ The gunman, dismissing the others with a jerk of his head, led the prisoner through a sumptuous vestibule and into an equally lavish dining room.

Sitting at the head of a large table was a grey-haired man who watched the prisoner with eyes like slivers of Arctic winter. The prisoner looked back. His own pale eyes were a match for the seated man’s. Killer’s eyes. Well met, he thought.

‘Please,’ the grey-haired man said. ‘Take a seat.’

The table was large enough that, when he sat down, the prisoner remained well out of grasping range of his host.

The man with spiked hair went around to the other side of the table and sat opposite him. He slipped off his sunglasses, hooking them in the top pocket of his jacket. He placed the handgun on the table, alongside cutlery that had been laid out for a meal.

The prisoner noted that his hosts had the best silverware, but on his side was a plastic spork, one of those utensils you get with a pre-packed salad from a delicatessen.

‘You know who I am?’ The grey-hair was a square-faced man, his features a natural swarthy tan, offset by the vividness of his eyes.

The prisoner placed his cuffed wrists on the table. ‘Of course I do. You are my
benefactor
.’

The host smiled. He waved and his maître d’ came forward pushing a trolley. The severe looking man began serving entrées. Around his feverishly working hands, the grey-haired man watched his guest. ‘I admit to being surprised when you contacted me. I didn’t think it would be possible from inside a prison as secure as Fort Conchar.’

‘I had my ways. It’s frightening how easy a prison guard’s greed can be played upon, don’t you think?’

‘You were certain that I would help you escape,’ said the host.

‘You had the finances available. We both share a mutual hatred of a certain individual. It was a done deal in my opinion.’ The prisoner lifted his cuffs. ‘
These
I did not anticipate.’

Giving his pursuers the slip by way of the off-road motorbike, he had made for a pre-arranged rendezvous. He’d expected to be picked up and shuttled eastward to this meeting, but he hadn’t thought that he’d be treated like an animal. There were ten armed men in the party that had confronted him; they’d stripped him of his weapons and then cuffed him. He could have done for some of them at any time, but he wanted this meeting more than he desired to satiate his blood lust. That would come soon enough.

‘You’re a very dangerous man. I need reassurances before freeing you. After all, you murdered the guard I paid to help get you out.’

‘I had to make my escape look genuine.’ The prisoner smiled at his own cunning. ‘We don’t want the authorities realising that I had outside help. The guard would’ve squealed like a pig the first time he was interrogated. That would’ve caused us problems, would it not?’

‘You have a point.’ The host steepled his fingers as he studied the prisoner. ‘All of this would’ve been pointless if I’d been implicated in your escape – or what you do next.’

The prisoner shrugged. ‘So you agree that the guard’s death was necessary?’

‘As long as he’s the last of my people you harm.’

The prisoner didn’t reply. The maître d’ placed a bowl of soup in front of him, unaware of how close he was to a man who could deal death whether his hands were chained or not.

‘Am I expected to eat with these cuffs on?’

The host and his henchman exchanged glances.

The prisoner said, ‘Five-star food with plastic silverware? Maybe you’re afraid I’ll assassinate you with an expertly thrown silver spoon?’ He chortled to himself, a whistling noise that made a bellows of his scarred throat. ‘Have you considered how dangerous a bowl of hot soup can be? Perhaps gazpacho should’ve been on the menu instead?’

The host lifted his glass and sipped the heady wine. He didn’t immediately respond, savouring the prisoner’s humour as much as the rich claret. Placing down the glass, he turned to his henchman. ‘You can release him, Getz.’

Getz stood up slowly. He picked up his handgun. ‘I’m not sure that’s a good idea, sir.’

The host turned to the prisoner. ‘Like I said, I need reassurances. How can I be sure I can trust you?’

‘You helped me escape. In return I swore that I’d help you.’

‘But is that enough? You’re an indiscriminate murderer who has killed some of my employees before.’ His eyes twinkled. ‘What’s to stop you doing so again?’

‘Things were different then. Your men were going to take away someone very important to me. I had no option but stop them.’

‘But you lost him anyway.’

‘I did, and before I was through with him.’ Emotion played across the prisoner’s face. ‘But now you’re offering me the chance to finish what I started. I’m indebted to you.’ He arched an eyebrow, waited. Finally, the host nodded to Getz, and the henchman slowly made his way round the table. The prisoner held up his wrists.

‘This man you seek . . . he is poised to bring me down.’ The host used his glass to indicate the room, the house, his empire. ‘He’s about to give federal evidence in a trial that could take all of this away from me, quite probably my liberty, too. I don’t want that to happen.’

‘Release me, give me the resources we agreed and I’ll guarantee he isn’t around for the trial.’

Getz had arrived at the prisoner’s side. From a pocket of his jacket he took out a key, but still he wavered. ‘Are you positive about this, sir?’

‘Yes, Getz. There’s benefit to us all if we work together on this.’

Holding his semi-automatic close to the prisoner’s head, Getz began unlocking the cuffs. As he did, he whispered, ‘The boss might believe you, but I don’t think you can be trusted. You’re a psycho who should’ve been sent to the gas chamber. Give me the slightest cause and I’ll put a bullet in your head. In fact . . . I’m looking forward to doing just that.’

The prisoner’s grunt of laughter was as humourless as a block of granite. He nodded at the plastic spork. ‘I’m just looking forward to the soup.’

Getz snorted at the bravado, but there was wariness to his movement as he finished unlocking the cuffs.

‘So?’ asked the host. ‘We’ll work together on this? We have a deal?’

The prisoner rubbed the circulation back into his wrists. ‘Of course we do, Mr Hendrickson. We’re friends, OK? You have my word that I won’t harm you.’ The prisoner slowly swung his gaze up towards Getz who was still standing over his right shoulder. ‘But just so we’re all clear . . . I don’t like it when a two-bit punk threatens my life.’

Getz sucked in air.

He should have pulled the trigger instead.

The prisoner’s elbow rammed backwards and found Getz’s groin. Getz folded forward, grimacing in agony. The prisoner snatched at his gun hand, hauling Getz down, so that he sprawled chest first, his right cheek braced against the table. The prisoner stood up, leaning over him, even as he reached for the spork. Then, with the bowl braced against his thumb, he jabbed the rigid handle into Getz’s left eye.

Getz’s reaction was to scream, to pull away in panic, his hands going to his blinded eye. He was unaware that the prisoner now held his gun. The prisoner reminded him by placing two rounds in his chest and Getz sprawled backwards on the carpet.

There was the sound of a mass charge, and Hendrickson’s guards began spilling into the room.

The prisoner looked unaffected by their arrival, choosing instead to study the dead man at his feet. The bullets had pushed chunks of broken bone out of Getz’s chest. He curled a lip in distaste, slinging the gun down beside the corpse. Guns, in his estimation, were for vulgar killers.

Seeing the gun thrown away, Hendrickson waved off his guards. They all began backing out of the room. The maître d’ also had the sense to leave.

‘That was a little unfortunate,’ Hendrickson said. ‘Getz was a good man.’

‘He was an asshole.’

‘I told you I didn’t want any of my men harmed.’

‘And I agree from here on. But if we do this,’ the prisoner said, his ravaged throat pinching the words, ‘we do it as partners. I won’t be anyone’s lap dog and
I won’t take shit
.’

They stared at each other. Both men were under no illusions: if he wanted to, the prisoner could kill Hendrickson before any of the guards could come to his assistance.

‘Deal,’ said Hendrickson, moving forward and putting out a hand.

The prisoner took it, sealing the bargain.

‘So,
partner
?’ asked Hendrickson. ‘You’ve gone by so many names in the past. What do I call you now?’

The prisoner thought for a moment. ‘There’s only one name I want to be known by,’ he finally said. ‘I am Tubal Cain.’

Chapter 6

Standing in the centre of the bloodbath, I tried not to ask the question, but I couldn’t stop it: ‘The bodies were mutilated, but were they whole?’

‘By whole, you mean were all the parts accounted for?’ asked Hartlaub.

I closed my eyes. ‘That’s exactly what I mean. Did the murderer take anything? You know what I’m talking about. Trophies?’

Hartlaub grimaced. It was all the answer I needed, but the last I wanted to hear. ‘They had bones missing,’ I said.

There were times in my soldiering career when I thought I’d seen the worst that humanity could inflict on another person. I’d seen people maimed, blinded, shot, cut, blown apart, but even those vivid images paled when I tried to imagine what Walter and his bodyguards must have endured. These murders hadn’t been driven by simple expedience. Neither had the mutilation been down to punishment, or even plain hatred. Whoever had dismembered these bodies had delighted in the task and there was only one man I’d ever come across who could conceive of such barbarity. The problem was: the Harvestman was as dead as Walter was now.

In a cavern beneath the Mojave Desert I’d rammed a human bone through his throat and watched him bleed to death. I’d watched the light go out of his crazed eyes. Martin Maxwell, once a Secret Service agent, had been buried and the government had covered the shame of one of their own being responsible for his crimes. His headstone bore a different name. As far as the general public knew, it wasn’t Maxwell but his stepbrother Robert Swan who’d masqueraded under the name of Tubal Cain. Outside of the establishment I was one of the few people who knew otherwise.