Heirs of Cain (10 page)

“She can stay if she wants,” Seneca said.

“It goes against my beliefs to talk business in front of a woman.”

“Maybe you need some new beliefs.” The Indian looked at Hannah. “Have a seat.”

“I don’t think that’s such a good idea,” Simon grunted.

“Simon is right,” Hannah said. “I do need a shower, but thank you for offering to let me stay. A lady always likes to feel wanted.”

The three men were quiet until she left. Simon followed, locked the cabin door behind her, then turned back toward his visitors. “Dumbest broad on God’s green earth. But you can’t argue with a body like that. Makes up for a lot of those missing IQ points.”

“You ought to treat her better,” the Indian said. “If you don’t, she might not be around much longer.”

“She’ll be with me when they’re kickin’ dirt on my coffin,” Simon growled. “She’s not that dumb. She’s read my will.”

Simon opened a drawer and pulled out a bottle of Tennessee whiskey. “I understand everything went well in Arlington.” He took a drink straight from the bottle. “That true?”

The Indian slid past Deke and sat on the couch. “Karl. When do we meet him?”

“You don’t. Not yet, anyway.”

“Why?”

“He has another assignment for you. Another run-through to make sure everything is hunky-dory.”

The Indian stood. “Doesn’t work that way, fatman. I don’t audition for anyone, including Karl. Tell him that. And while you’re at it, tell him I said he can fuck off.”

“You’re making a big mistake, my Indian friend. Karl won’t take kindly to attitude.”

The Indian walked to the door and unlocked it. “Tough shit. Tell Karl the next time he wants me, he’ll have to come looking.”

Simon laughed. “What makes you think there’ll be a next time?”

Seneca reached up and grabbed Simon by the throat. “Because what he wants done is big. Big enough that he knows I’m the only one who can do it.”

He released his grip and pinched Simon’s sweating cheek. “See, when you’re the best at something, fatman, there’s always a next time. But being the best isn’t something you’d know much about, is it?”

Lucas had been right. There was nothing in the file on Seneca that Collins didn’t already know. Nothing he couldn’t recite from memory. He leaned back on the couch and tossed the folder onto the table. An 8×10 black and white photo slipped out and fell to the floor. He bent down, picked it up, and held it in front of him.

Dwight David Rainwater. Full-blooded Cherokee Indian, born on a reservation in Oklahoma, son of a chief, descendent of warriors.

Code name: Seneca.

Profession: hired assassin.

Weapon of choice: knife.

Those were the only bits of information that counted. The rest of the data was insignificant.

Collins leaned the picture against the crystal decanter. Even now, even in a photo, Seneca’s dark eyes radiated hatred. Hate and power.

It has often been said that the eyes are the windows to the soul. There was no doubting that Seneca’s eyes surely revealed the truth about the man within. They always had. No mysteries there, nothing hidden. But in this case, the philosophers and poets were only half right. Seneca’s eyes were windows not only to the soul; they were also a portal to some dark, forbidden place. To look into his eyes was to glimpse hell.

No one understood this better than Collins. Seneca was a killer, pure and simple. And in his twisted mind, killing had nothing to do with duty or survival or right and wrong. He killed because he loved the act itself, the slaughter, the bloodletting. For him, politics never figured into the equation. For him, there was nothing more satisfying than the taking of a human life. There were no conventional enemies, only a world filled with potential victims waiting to be eliminated, swiftly, brutally.

For Seneca, there was an unquenchable thirst that could never be fully satisfied, no matter how much blood was shed.

And that made him the most dangerous opponent possible.

Collins dug deeper into the folder. He couldn’t remember the year Seneca came to him at the Shop—he thought maybe it was summer 1968, but he suddenly wanted to know for certain. He found the record sheet and ran his forefinger down the page until he found what he was looking for. Close. Seneca came to him in February 1968. Valentine’s Day, to be exact.

The notation jogged Collins’s memory. How could he have forgotten? A snowstorm had shut down all transportation, delaying the arrival of new recruits for at least twenty-four hours. Bored, he’d gone to the officers’ lounge and shot some pool before retiring to the barracks. On his way back, he heard footsteps crunching the snow behind him. Instinctively, without thought or hesitation, he turned, moved his body slightly to the left, and reacted to the arm he saw stretching toward him. Grabbing it at the elbow, he lifted it skyward, moved his right leg behind the man’s right hip, and using the leverage he’d created, sent the man sprawling into the powdery snow. Standing above his attacker, his breath coming out in dying clouds, killing hands drawn back with fingers extended, he stared down at the stunned man lying on the ground.

“Wait, Major, I’m one of your recruits,” the man said, breathless but strangely unaffected by what had just happened. “My name is Rainwater. Sergeant David Rainwater. From Fort Campbell, Kentucky.”

Collins helped the man to his feet. “How did you get here? I was told all transportation was down.”

“Hitchhiked,” the man said without adding the required
sir
.

The man brushed the snow off. When he looked up, his face was illuminated by a light coming from a barracks window. It was the first time Collins looked into the face of Dwight David Rainwater.

Into those dark and penetrating eyes.

The same dark and penetrating eyes now staring back at him from an old 8×10 black and white photograph sitting on the table.

He reached out, picked up the photo and brought it close to his face. He could almost smell the stench of death, hear the laughter, that ancient and primal sound of a predator announcing another kill.

And now this predator was on the prowl again. Doing what he did best.

Killing.

Collins dropped the photo onto the table, leaned back, and rubbed his eyes.

Yes, Lucas, Seneca will be a problem
.

Moss shut off the Pontiac’s engine, took a final drag on his cigarette, then ground the butt into the ashtray. He rested both arms on top of the steering wheel and stared straight ahead. Only after a few seconds did he finally turn to look at Bungalow nine. Taylor’s bungalow. He wasn’t anxious to get started, but he could no longer put it off. The remainder of Taylor’s belongings had to be shipped to a cousin in St. Louis. Moss should have taken care of this task two weeks ago, but it was one of those dreaded chores that only get done when there is absolutely no more time for procrastination.

Some of Taylor’s belongings were shipped three days after the incident occurred; the rest had been boxed. All that remained was for Moss to make a couple, maybe three trips to the post office. He should have borrowed the Pinewood Estates van and taken care of the matter in a single trip. But he hadn’t and it was no big deal. These days, when many residents were back up north for the summer, he had plenty of free time on his hands.

A white BMW drove past Taylor’s driveway. The driver offered a friendly wave and an ear-to-ear smile. Moss liked the young man, Brad McGregor. What he didn’t like was the idea of Brad and Kelli living together outside of marriage. Of all the broken traditions, that one bothered him the most. If two people love each other and want to live together, it should be as husband and wife. Whatever happened to the term “living in sin” anyway?

Moss sighed. What the hell difference did it make in the long run? The world’s going to hell in a hand basket. Terrorism, hunger, pollution, drugs, kids killing kids in schools all across the country, disrespect, politicians banging young interns … Let us count the ways. Look what happened to a nice guy like Taylor. Living alone, minding his own business, harming no one, then—murdered. Further proof that the world is heading down the toilet. With so many real troubles, what could possibly be wrong with a couple of fairly decent kids living together? Nothing. Yet, for whatever reason, however old-fashioned or outdated, Moss was bothered by it.

He opened the door, put on his L.A. Lakers baseball cap, got out of the car, and walked down the brick path leading to bungalow nine.

The bungalow was dark and smelled of musk, so Moss opened the curtains in the living room, then went into the kitchen and opened the blinds covering the window that looked out over the inlet. After getting a drink of water, he went into the living room and counted the boxes stacked in the corner. Six, plus two small ones still upstairs. Definitely three trips, he figured. The old Pontiac might be roomy—Taylor once called it an ark—but it wasn’t nearly roomy enough to get the job done in two trips.

Moss decided to get the two boxes in the upstairs bedroom first. When he reached the top of the stairs, he waited a few seconds to catch his breath, adjusted his Lakers cap, then took one last look in the hall closet. Satisfied none of Taylor’s belongings had been overlooked, he went into the bedroom.

And froze.

He wasn’t alone. A man was standing by the large window that opened to the balcony.

Moss surveyed the intruder. Tall, lean, handsome; dressed in Levis, a T-shirt, and white Nikes. Brown hair on the longish side, bluish-gray eyes.

And perfectly calm. He smiled, nodded as though he anticipated Moss’s arrival, and continued what he was doing.

Moss didn’t react so nonchalantly. He took a step back, looked to his right, spied a brass candleholder on the dresser, picked it up, and clutched it tightly in both hands.

“Who are you?” he stammered. “And how the hell did you get in here?”

“Relax, Moss. I’m—”

“How’d you know my name?” Moss interrupted.

“It’s my business to know things.” Striding across the room, the man put out his hand. “I’m Mickey Collins. And you can put down that weapon. You won’t need it.”

Moss looked at the man’s large hands, still unsure of what exactly was happening and even less sure of how he should deal with it.
Cautious
was the first word that came to mind.
Danger
was the second. After all, one man had already been murdered in this bungalow. He had no intention of becoming victim number two. Not if he had anything to say about it.

He took another step backward. “Okay, so your name is Mickey Collins. You still ain’t told me why you’re up here and how you got in.”

“I’m here to look around. As for getting in, I picked the back door lock.”

“That’s known as breaking and entering. People go to the hoosegow for doing that.” Moss stared at Collins’s hands. “Just what is it you’re lookin’ for, anyway? And why?”

“Cardinal was a friend of mine.”

“Who was a friend of yours?” Moss asked.

“Cardinal.” Collins saw the confused look on Moss’s face. “Taylor. Taylor was a friend of mine.”

“Then how come I’ve never seen you here before?”

“Because I’ve never been here. I haven’t seen Cardinal for many years.”

“Why do you keep calling him Cardinal?”

“Cardinal was Taylor’s code name.”

“Code name? What was he, some kind of James Bond spy?”

“No.”

“What about you? You got a code name?”

“Cain.”

“Cain? Like in the Bible?”

“Yes.”

“He murdered his brother, didn’t he?”

“So the story goes.”

“Well, how can I be sure you ain’t a murderer?”

“Because I’m not.”

Moss thought about it for a few seconds, then said, “Listen, mister, I’m not sayin’ you’re lyin’ to me or anything like that, but I’m in charge of security around here. So I gotta check you out.”

“No need to bother. I’m kosher.”

“Look, man, even if I did believe you, I’d still need some proof. I could lose my job if you don’t check out A-OK. This job don’t pay much, but it’s all I got.”

“You won’t lose your job, Moss. Promise.”

Moss cut his eyes downward. “From the look of those hands of yours, maybe I ought to be worried about more than losin’ my job.”