Heirs of Cain (12 page)

“Exercise? What kind of exercise?”

“You asking for a demonstration?”

“Yeah. Sure.”

Collins swiveled in his chair, grabbed the bucket, picked it up, and put it on his desk. He stood, looked down at the gravel, took several long, deep breaths, drew his right arm back, straightened the fingers on his hand, then violently thrust his arm forward. When the tips of his fingers made contact the gravel parted like water.

Kate watched, fascinated and frightened, as he repeated the action, alternating hands in rapid succession. She looked up into his eyes, and for a split second she could have sworn they were gray.

He continued, his hands ripping the gravel with increasing intensity. After more than a minute, he stopped. “That’s how it’s done,” he said, wiping his hands on a towel. “No big deal, really.”

“Don’t the rocks cut your hands?”

“No.” He bent down, picked up an old fruit jar, and opened it. Almost instantly, a pungent smell filled his office.

“What’s that?” Kate asked.

“It’s called
dida-jou
,” Collins answered. He poured some of the dark liquid onto his hands. “This hardens my hands.”

“What’s it made of?”

“I’m not sure. Alcohol and a variety of herbs, I think. Or so I’ve been told.”

“Where do you get it?”

“China. I get mine from Chin, the guy I told you and Pete about.”

“I never realized until now just how large your hands are,” Kate said.

“All the better to explore every inch of that marvelous body of yours.”

She reached out and took both of his hands in hers. “I’m afraid to ask what these hands have explored in the past,” she whispered.

The heat was oppressive, heavy. Simon Buckman removed his coat, tossed it onto the back of a chair, and walked straight to the bar. He scooped up a handful of ice cubes and mashed them against his face. Water dripped from his chin to the floor.

“Hannah, get in here,” he growled.

Hannah Buckman descended the steps from the deck into the cabin. Her hair was pulled back and tied in a ponytail, and a blue bandana was tied around her head. She wore a white bikini that contrasted vividly with her sun-baked skin.

“For God’s sake, Simon, what do you want this time?”

Simon held up an empty bottle of Jack Daniels. “How many times have I told you? Never let me run out of whiskey. The only damn thing you have to do around here, and you can’t even do that.”

“There’s plenty in that cabinet,” Hannah said, pointing to a glass door beneath the bar. “You’re just too lazy to look for it; that’s the problem.”

Simon attempted to bend over, judged the task an impossible one to complete, straightened up. His breathing was heavy and strained. “Would you get it for me, darlin’?” he said.

“You’d better lose some of that weight or one of these days you’re going to keel over dead from a coronary.” Hannah opened the door, removed the Jack Daniels, and ceremoniously handed it to Simon. “You’ll croak like an old water buffalo.”

“No doubt that would cause you a great deal of grief.”

“Yes, it would.”

Simon grumbled something under his breath, poured a drink, and gulped it down. He refilled his glass two more times and drained the whiskey in a matter of seconds.

Hannah opened the cabin door and started up the stairs. “And another thing,” she remarked, looking over her shoulder. “You’d better cut down on your drinking. You’re going to become an alcoholic if you’re not careful.”

“Hell, I already am an alcoholic,” Simon shouted, refilling his glass again. “Charter member of AA and damn proud of it, too. But don’t you worry your pretty little self about it for one minute. It don’t affect you in the least.”

Hannah left without answering, went to the deck, found her favorite recliner, and spent the next five minutes adjusting the back to a comfortable upright position. She sat down and was about to unbutton her bikini top when she saw the man coming toward the boat. Her heart fluttered with excitement. It was the Indian with the dark, movie star good looks.

She thought about giving the Indian a good show—let him see her breasts again—but quickly decided that wasn’t such a wise idea. Simon was down below drinking like a fish, and when he got drunk he could become violent and dangerous. The last thing she wanted was to cause trouble for her or the Indian.

She tapped on the cabin window.

“What do you want now?” Simon said gruffly.

“Someone is coming.”

“Who?”

“That man who was here before.”

“You mean that crazy goddamn Indian?”

“Yeah.”

“Is that damn big black shadow with him?”

“No, he’s alone.”

“Wonder what the hell he wants.”

“How would I know?” Hannah said, picking up a paperback. “He’s here to see you, not me.”

“Send him down here.”

Simon drained the last drops of whiskey from his glass. He opened a drawer, pulled out a Beretta, checked to make sure it was loaded, then tucked it into his back pocket. He wanted to be ready. Any trouble, even the slightest hint, and he’d blow that crazy bastard Indian’s ass back to the happy hunting ground where it belonged. No sense taking any shit from him again. Simon put his right hand in his pocket and let his fingers touch the cold steel of the gun.

“Just watch your step this time, Indian,” Simon said aloud. His right foot tapped nervously against the bar rail.

Hannah watched the Indian jump from the dock to the boat. He moved with the ease and grace of a ballet dancer. And, damn, what a looker. This was a man who was delicious enough to eat.

“Hello again,” she said, smiling.

He nodded.

“Seneca, right?”

“Ah, beautiful, bright, and with a good memory.” He moved next to the recliner and put his hand on Hannah’s shoulder. “A trifecta.”

“Thanks for the compliments,” Hannah said. “They’re few and far between around here.”

“I can believe that.”

“Guess you’re here to see Simon.”

The Indian nodded.

“Too bad,” Hannah teased. “I’d be much more fun.”

“I can believe that, too.”

“Maybe later, then?”

“You never know.”

“He’s waiting for you in the cabin.” Hannah touched his hand. “Until later.”

Simon was standing at the end of the bar. His foot tapped the brass rail with increased tempo as he watched the Indian descend the stairs.

“Well, well, the mighty brave returns.” Simon’s voice barely held, despite his firm grip on the Beretta.

The Indian was silent, his expression unchanged. Those dark eyes bore into Simon.

Simon giggled nervously. “Looks to me like that business about letting Karl find you was just a lot of talk. So much hot air. Leads me to believe your reputation’s been padded somewhat.”

The Indian bent down, picked up a silk nightgown, looked at Simon, and smiled. “Bet the wife looks nice in this. Must drive you crazy to have a fox like that and not be able to do anything about it.”

“Never give it a second thought; that’s how much it bothers me,” Simon grunted. “Know what does bother me, though? You bein’ here. See, I don’t like Indians any better than I like niggers.”

“Where’s Karl?” Seneca demanded, tossing the gown onto the couch.

“You’re shit outta luck, squaw lover. I don’t know where he is, and if I did, I wouldn’t tell you.”

“Oh, you know where he is, fatman. And you’ll tell me.”

“Think so?”

“I’m positive.”

“You’re pretty sure of yourself, aren’t you, redskin?”

“Karl? Where is he? I want an answer now.”

“Check the smoke signals. Maybe they’ll tell you where to find him.”

The Indian moved forward. When he did, Simon took a step back and pulled out the Beretta.

“One more step, Cochise, and you won’t need to know where Karl is.” Simon’s voice was steady, controlled. The gun in hand gave new life to his nerves.

“It’s Seneca, remember?”

“It’s ‘Dead’ if you take another step.”

“I don’t think so, fatman. You see, if you’re going to use that thing, you really ought to take the safety off.”

“The safety is off,” Simon said. His words came fast and strong, but lacked much conviction.

“You trying to convince me or yourself?”

“I don’t need to be convinced of anything—I know I’m right.”

The Indian took two more steps forward, his dark eyes focused on Simon with blazing intensity. “But you’re not real sure, are you?”

Great droplets of sweat fell from Simon’s face. The hand holding the gun began to tremble. “I can take care of that problem,” he said. “It’s as simple as flicking this switch.”

The instant Simon turned the safety upward, the Indian made his move. Stepping forward, he grabbed the gun with his left hand, straightened Simon’s arm and lifted it upward, then hooked his right arm behind the big man’s elbow. It only took a minimum of pressure before Simon let the revolver fall to the floor. The Indian moved behind Simon, taking the big man’s arm with him. He bent the arm at the elbow and applied upward pressure. The hammerlock elicited a loud pig-like squeal from Simon. The Indian took his left hand and covered Simon’s face, plunging his forefinger and middle finger into the groaning man’s eyes. “You fool, who do you think you’re dealing with? Some rag-ass redneck clown?”

“Please, Seneca, don’t kill me,” Simon begged. “I wasn’t going to shoot you. I was scared … just protecting myself. I swear.”

“Where’s Karl?”

“I don’t know.”

“Not good enough,” the Indian said, driving his fingers deeper into Simon’s eyes.

“I swear, I swear I don’t know where he is. But I can find out. Give me two days.”

The Indian exerted more pressure on Simon’s arm. “Tell me where Karl is or I’ll tear your arm off. Then I’ll rip out your eyeballs and feed them to the fish. Think about the pain, fatman; think about the agony I can cause you.”

“Please, Seneca, I’m not lying. I don’t know where he is. I’ve never even met him. Only talked to him on the phone.”

The Indian released his grip and pushed Simon hard against the bar. Simon hit the bar, reeled to his left, and tumbled onto the couch. One of the couch’s legs gave way, causing him to roll onto the floor. He quickly righted himself and began rubbing his eyes.

“Twenty-four hours, fatman; that’s all you’ve got. You don’t find out by then, that pretty little thing upstairs will be a widow this time tomorrow.”

Simon reached for the silk nightgown, brought it to his face, and gently pressed it against his eyes.

“Got it?” The Indian stooped down and picked up the revolver. “Got it?”

“Yeah, yeah, I got it. What do you think—I’m fuckin’ deaf or something?”

“No, I think you’re an idiot.” The Indian pointed the gun at Simon. “The safety was off. You let me talk you into putting it on.”

He ejected the magazine clip, emptied the bullets into his hand, cleared the chamber, and tossed the gun onto the floor. It landed with a loud
clunk
.

“Twenty-four hours, fatman. No more.”

Nearly ten minutes passed before Simon was able to clear the blurriness from his vision and another ten minutes before he was able to stand. On unsteady legs, he went to the bar, picked up the phone, and began dialing. Things had to be done. Without further delay. That damn Indian had to be eliminated. He was too fuckin’ crazy to deal with.

Simon continued to rub his eyes, listened to the phone ring, and waited. After half a dozen rings, he heard the cell phone click on.

“Hello.”

“Karl?”

“Jesus God, did you see that?”

“Yeah, I saw.”

“The look, did you see the look in his eyes?”

“I saw, I saw. The little dink bastard never knew what
was happening
.”

“No, not him, not the dink. The captain. Did you see
his eyes while he was wasting the little motherfucker?”

“No, I wasn
‘
t watching his eyes
. “

“They were cold, like a cobra. Like a wild animal
.
Scary, man. I
‘
m tellin you, it was spooky.”

“Forget his eyes, man, did you see that dink’s head tumble
into the river? It hit the water so hard it bounced
. “