Dead Men's Harvest (5 page)

So had I been misled as much as everyone else? On more than one occasion I’d challenged Walter on the explanation for Cain being whisked away on a gurney. That first time, when I’d wanted to ensure the bastard was dead, Walter, in his usual enigmatic style had come back with the rejoinder; ‘We don’t bury the living.’

But that was exactly what he’d done.

‘OK, Hartlaub. The charade’s over. Take me to Walter.’

‘Charade?’ Hartlaub had made a career from lying, could come over as plausible even under the closest of scrutiny. But we weren’t enemies and he allowed the corner of his mouth to turn up. ‘Walter is dead, Hunter.’

‘And so is Martin Maxwell, right? The son of a bitch . . .’

I wasn’t sure who my final words were aimed at, whether Cain or Walter. I suppose that they were for Walter because they’d have been much stronger fired at the man who’d savagely tortured my younger brother, John. Walter had lied to me, sworn that Cain was dead and buried, and now he was adding to the lie by faking his own death.

‘Where is he, Hartlaub? I don’t want any more bullshit. Walter escaped this, didn’t he?’

‘OK, keep it down, Hunter. There are guys within earshot who are under the impression that Walter died alongside his guards.’

Taking in the splashes of gore, I counted where men had fallen. ‘Looks like three men did die here. Walt’s guys were killed, but who was the other unlucky bastard?’

‘You know him, I’m told.’

I had an idea where this was leading. I did know a guy, a friend and fellow fisherman who often accompanied Walter to the cabin.

‘You’re talking about Bryce Lang?’

‘Yes. Poor fucker must’ve been mistaken for Walt.’

I could see how that could have happened. Bryce had also been CIA. He was of an age with Walter, had the same air of the spook about him. Unlike Hartlaub and Brigham, who were active in the field, both of my older friends were the type who directed covert operations from offices at Langley and other institutions. They had the grey pallor and equally grey demeanour of men who spent their days cooped up in hidden places. Someone coming here with the intention of finding Walter Hayes Conrad could have assumed that Bryce was their man. Supposing that they had never met Walter face to face, that is.

If, and I was beginning to believe that I was right, it was Tubal Cain who was responsible for this carnage, he hadn’t seen Walter when we were standing over him in the cavern at Jubal’s Hollow. At the time Cain was so close to death that he must have been searing his optic nerves on the blazing flames of hell. But, if Walter had saved the man for some unknown reason, then there was the possibility that he’d visited with him since. And that begged further questions: what the hell had happened here? Why had Bryce been cut to ribbons? What had his killer been after?

Cain was looking for something.

My brother John.

‘Walter is playing at being dead, that’s it? He wants Cain to believe that he’s dead. And he sent you to bring me in. There’s only one reason I can think why he’d do that.’

‘You’ve had experience with this man before,’ Hartlaub said.

‘So it is Tubal Cain? You’re confirming that?’

‘I ain’t going to lie to you any longer. Cain was being held at Fort Conchar. There should’ve been no way for him to escape . . .’

‘But he did.’

‘Yes. Despite all the odds, he murdered one of his guards, used the uniform as a disguise. Once outside he gave his pursuers the slip – we don’t know how he managed that yet.’

‘Fort Conchar is a super-max facility, yet he managed to walk out in a fuckin’ guard’s uniform! What about the checks and security points? I’d’ve thought that . . . Oh, wait. I get it. We’re talking about Tubal Cain, aren’t we? He took the body parts he required to get past the security.’

‘Fingerprints and retinal scans are no problem to someone like him.’ Hartlaub gave me a gentle shove towards the door where Brigham was waiting. ‘C’mon. We’d best get going.’

‘It’d better be to see Walter or we’re parting company right now.’

‘Let’s move then.’

‘Do you have a phone?’

‘I do, but our orders are to maintain silence until we’ve joined Walter.’

I shook my head. ‘There are other people involved in this. If Tubal Cain is out there, then they could be next on his list.’

‘You’re talking about Jared Rington?’

Rink had been with me when I’d taken Cain down, and was as likely a target of the deranged killer as Walter was. Harvey Lucas, too, though I couldn’t see how Cain would be aware of his involvement.

‘Can save you the trouble,’ Brigham interjected. ‘Walter asked for Rington to be brought in. The team sent to find him has come up blank. Rington’s dropped off the face of the earth.’

Chapter 7

One day earlier . . .

‘My entire resources are open to you. Money, men, weapons. Choose whatever you want to get the job done.’

Kurt Hendrickson was a man of power. He was a significant figure in the criminal underworld of the Eastern Seaboard. He controlled the market in drugs, prostitution, pornography, extortion, and up until recently had been a major player in counterfeiting currency that he traded with terror groups intent on bringing down the mighty dollar. He wielded the kind of influence where he need only click his fingers to make people disappear without trace. However there was a specific man whose disappearance had nothing to do with Hendrickson. This man was under the US Federal Marshals’ witness protection programme and, unusually, this was being overseen by agents of the CIA. Tracing him wasn’t the main issue; killing him without being implicated in the murder was. It was bad enough that he was facing judicial trial; he didn’t need the murder of the key witness laid at his door as well. It served his purpose that Tubal Cain had a vendetta against the same man.

‘All I need from you is his location,’ Cain said.

They were standing in a vault that Hendrickson had installed in the wine cellar of his house. The vault contained row upon row of firearms.

Hendrickson, it appeared, had a fascination with guns.

Tubal Cain wasn’t that interested; his passion was for knives.

That stood to reason, considering his name was derived from the Biblical inventor of cutting instruments. But he was not averse to other weapons of destruction when necessary. He had a Heckler and Koch 9 mm in a shoulder rig. A Beretta 92F, a variation of the famous service weapon of the US armed forces, was in a second holster on his hip.

‘I have a plan in motion. We will have his location within a couple of days.’ Hendrickson picked up an ancient Colt and held it up to admire under the overhead lights.

‘I want to get started now,’ Cain said. ‘I have an idea or two that might put us ahead in the game.’

Hendrickson nodded distractedly, lost in his fascination with the Colt. ‘I killed my first man with this gun.’

Cain sniffed. ‘I find guns so impersonal.’

‘Maybe, but they get the job done. If you only desire a man’s life, then a bullet in the brain will do it every time.’

‘What if you desire more than his life?’ Cain wasn’t being sarcastic or enigmatic. He always liked to take something from his victims – bones in particular – as a reminder of his potency. He wasn’t called the Harvestman for nothing.

‘Death is enough,’ Hendrickson replied. ‘Kill this man for me, Cain. What you do to him afterwards . . . I don’t care. In fact, it’s probably best that you do take your trophy.’

‘Oh, I intend to.’

‘Good, good.’ Hendrickson placed the Colt down, showed Cain the exit. ‘I have men at my disposal. Use them as you will.’

‘I work best alone.’

‘Yes,’ Hendrickson agreed. ‘But there are others who may need dealing with.’

Involuntarily, Cain’s hand moved to the scar on his throat. The lesion had never fully healed, a puncture wound that separated his trachea.

Hendrickson said, ‘Don’t worry. Like I said, I’ve a plan in motion and already have men on their trail.’

‘They’re good,’ Cain pointed out. ‘Send
plenty
of men.’

‘It isn’t so much the number as the quality. Rest assured, I have hired only the best in the business.’

Cain eyed him.

Hendrickson coughed low in his throat. ‘They’re not as skilled as you, but they’re sufficient to kill a couple of out-of-practice soldiers.’

‘Do not kill them,’ Cain said. ‘Take them alive. Once I’m finished with John Telfer, I want to reacquaint myself with Joe Hunter and Jared Rington.’

Chapter 8

Why Hartlaub and Brigham and, more pertinently, Walter, wanted to waste time showing me the horror wrought by Tubal Cain was beyond me. All Walter needed to do was pick up a phone, contact me at Imogen’s house and tell me what had gone down. I’d have answered his call to arms in a heartbeat.

His reticence was possibly because the last time we’d met it had been on shaky ground. Walter had used Rink and me in a scheme spearheaded by our old Arrowsake commanders. We had been forced into a showdown with a group of white supremacists intent on bringing down the government. That sounds like a noble cause, but not when Arrowsake were prodding the group to action in the first place. They had planned to use the threat of domestic terrorism to raise funds and support for the intelligence community they served. It didn’t matter to them that an innocent family were targeted, or that Rink or I might die, only that their ends were met. Coming clean about the entire plot, Walter had felt deep shame. We’d kind of cleared the air, but maybe there was still some residual embarrassment in Walter’s heart. His lying about the eventual fate of Tubal Cain wouldn’t be helping either.

Shit! The man had lied to me about the plot concerning Carswell Hicks and Samuel Gant, but that was because he’d been under orders to do so. Keeping Cain’s survival a secret was his own doing. I’d be justified in telling him to go fuck himself, to deal with the problem on his own, but he knew I wouldn’t turn my back now that I’d seen Cain’s latest atrocity. I’d just lost one old friend in Bryce Lang, and I wasn’t going to lose another.

Rink was more than a brother to me. We had both served Arrowsake, watching each other’s back, and we’d done the same since leaving the forces, not simply through a sense of friendship or duty, but through a loyalty that transcended even the bond of blood. It’s a terrible thing to admit, but his disappearance meant more to me than the danger my real brother faced now that Cain was back on the loose. I didn’t doubt that John was under the protection of some of the best people Walter could field, but Rink was on his own. Rink was as tough as whalebone, and as capable a warrior as any I’d known. But he was also human and, unprepared for a sneak attack from a monster like Tubal Cain, he could be taken down as easily as anyone.

Rink can be a mother hen with me at times; he doesn’t trust me to behave when I’m out from under his calming influence. Even when he knew I was spending a few days with Imogen he couldn’t help checking up on me. I’d last spoken with Rink yesterday and he was his usual self. No concerns, just getting on with the day job. He was working on uncovering a low-key insurance swindle, nothing that would have forced him into deep cover. Unless he was purposely hiding, the CIA team sent to bring him in should have found him.

‘Give me your phone.’

Brigham said, ‘I already told you; they can’t find Rington anywhere.’

‘Maybe he doesn’t want to be found by you.’ My words were hopeful, but a gnawing sensation in my guts said otherwise. Unbeknown to even these guys, Rink and I had secret ways to communicate. Once we’d used the relay system set in place by Walter, but since the recent shady goings-on with Arrowsake, we’d deemed it necessary to have our own structure put in place. Harvey Lucas, our friend out in Little Rock, a wizard with computers, had built our very own network that piggy-backed various communication satellites without leaving a trace. In my haste, I’d thrown my mobile phone in my pack with my clothing and it was outside in the SUV. I held out my hand for Brigham’s phone. The younger agent sought guidance from his superior, but all Hartlaub did was shrug.

I took the phone from Brigham and walked away from them, seeking a place where I wasn’t stepping in blood. I keyed in numbers, listened, but as I feared the phone went unanswered. I pressed more buttons and left an encrypted message at a voicemail box that only Rink could access. Then, on a whim, I decided maybe the most direct route was best and called Rink’s office.

‘Rington Investigations,’ answered a voice with the slightest inflection of his Hispanic inheritance.

‘Velasquez . . . It’s Joe.’

‘Jesus, man, me an’ McTeer have been tryin’ to get hold of you all day. We even called your girl up in Maine, but she told us you’d already gone.’

Velasquez and McTeer were ex-cops. Both men now worked with Rink at his private investigations business. They were hard cases, not the type to be easily ruffled. By the sounds of his voice though, something concerned Velasquez more than my apparently being incommunicado.

‘Do you know where Rink is?’

‘No, man. That’s why we’ve been trying to get
you
.’

‘He was working the insurance scam, right? Where was he headed when last you spoke to him?’