Heirs of Cain (19 page)

Two men stepped out into the Chicago night, walked several paces, then disappeared into an alley. The smaller man led the way, walking briskly and purposefully, as though he were late for an important engagement. The larger man trailed behind by a few feet, his eyes darting from side to side. Together, they were a peculiar-looking duo. The smaller man, thin and wiry, resembled a bird. A very nervous bird. He constantly shifted on the balls of his feet, giving the appearance that he was engaged in some type of exercise. The bigger man was black, and moved slowly, cautiously, with a grace belying his enormous size.

Upon reaching the end of the alley, the two men stood several feet apart. Neither spoke. A light from above shone down on them, casting their silhouettes against the side of a building. The smaller man lit a cigarette, took a deep drag, then tossed the match onto the concrete.

“Look, Derek, I’ll have the money for you by Friday. You have my word on it.” He blew a cloud of smoke into the night. “You have to give me until Friday.”

“I don’t have to do anything,” the black man said. “The man wants his money now. I aim to see he gets it.”

“He’ll get it. He always has, hasn’t he? It’s just that I’m a little thin at the moment.”

“You’re always a little thin.”

The little man fidgeted with the cigarette, flicking ashes with his thumb. “Look, I know you’ve got a job to do. I understand that. But you’ve got to give me a break. Square it with the man for me. You can do that. Tell him I’ll have the money by Friday. At noon. No later. The full ten grand. You have my word.”

Deke turned slightly, lifted his eyes, and stared into the light. The look on his face was calm, serene, like that of an overgrown black child praying in an Alabama church. He looked blissful, as though God were speaking directly to him. But it wasn’t God’s voice he was hearing; it was the other voice, the one preaching anger and violence.

In less than a flash he wheeled, slamming his huge fist deep into the little man’s stomach. The force of the punch doubled the little man over, sending him reeling hard against the building. He groaned, coughed, spit up blood.

“Friday, by noon,” the black man said, looming over his stricken companion like a dark cloud. “If you don’t have it—all of it—you’re dead meat. You get my drift?”

The little man struggled desperately to refill his lungs with oxygen. “You’ll have it,” he moaned. “The full ten large. I swear.”

“Good. Then that’s settled.”

Just as suddenly, the calm, serene look returned to the black man’s face. With the gentle fingers of a loving father he smoothed the little man’s tie, straightened his collar, then asked, “Now, what was it you wanted to tell me?”

The little man’s trembling hands lit another cigarette. He took a quick puff, exhaled. “Some guy was looking for you earlier tonight. Over at the Cave.”

“You sure he was looking for me?”

“I’m positive. A friend of mine heard him ask Big Lonnie about you.”

“Did your friend happen to catch a name?”

“No. But Big Lonnie sent the guy to Trish. Maybe she can tell you.”

“Trish, huh? And that’s all you can tell me?”

“That’s all I know.”

“Guess I’ll see Trish, then.”

Butterfield’s rated as the number one blues joint in Chicago, perhaps in all of North America. The best professional singers and musicians—individuals and groups—counted this as one of the must venues on their regular schedule. So did any young artist who harbored aspirations of making it to the big time. A gig at Butterfield’s, like an appearance with Leno or Letterman, could provide that desperately needed shot in the arm for up-and-comers.

Collins sat at a table directly across from the front door. Three hours of waiting had left him numbed by the noise and convinced Jefferson wasn’t going to show. The bartender had said Jefferson left on an errand and should have been back by eleven. It was now a quarter till one. Collins debated calling it a night, decided to give it another hour, then leaned back in his chair just as the band finished its set.

The bartender, carrying a tray filled with shot glasses, worked his way in Collins’s direction.

“Have one. It’s on the house,” he said.

“What is it?”

“I call it The Blues Bomber. A little concoction of my own.”

“What’s in it?”

“That’s top-secret information.”

“I’d better pass. It’s too late for surprises.”

“You don’t know what you’re missing.” The bartender looked around. “Derek hasn’t showed yet?”

“Haven’t seen him if he has.”

“Hell, you can’t miss that big galoot.” The bartender shrugged his shoulders. “He should’ve been back by now. It’s not like him to stay away this long.”

“Must’ve gotten tied up.”

“Shouldn’t have. All he had to do was talk to a guy for me. That shouldn’t have taken more than a few minutes.”

“Could he be at another place?”

“Nah. This is Derek’s joint. I can’t imagine what’s keeping him.”

A pretty woman, late twenties, walked past, smiling at him. Collins kept his eyes on her until she disappeared from his view.

“That’s Jamie,” the bartender said. “She’s a regular. Want an introduction? She’d be better company than Jefferson; that I can guarantee you.”

“Better pass,” Collins said, grinning. “Like I said, it’s too late for surprises.” He stood, feeling the blood flow again in his legs. “Maybe I’ll catch up with Jefferson tomorrow.”

“Oh, yeah, he’ll be here. Saturday nights he helps me out. Keeps the rowdies in line.”

Collins walked outside, thankful to leave the noise and smoke behind. His ears were ringing, his eyes burned, his throat felt like parched bark. He took several slow, deep breaths. The cool, clear Chicago air felt good.

He pondered Jefferson’s failure to show. That was troubling. Unexplained absence usually meant something was wrong. Most likely, Jefferson got wind that someone was asking about him. Perhaps Trish wasn’t so good at keeping secrets. Or maybe Jefferson forced the information out of her.

But the violence …

Walking toward the parking lot, past a crowd heading into Butterfield’s, Collins was dogged by an uneasiness clutching at his insides like a steel claw. He felt observed, the watcher being watched. Eyes trailed his every step. He could feel it, like some special sixth sense working in overdrive. Someone was watching him at this very instant.

His survival instincts, especially his hearing, went to Code Red.

That had always been the case, even back in Nam. When danger threatened, when warning signals flashed, he could detect even the smallest, most insignificant sounds from two hundred yards away. Not only detect them, but identify them instantly as either threatening or non-threatening, then react accordingly.

The sound that saved his life came from fifty feet away—a click barely audible to the average person but louder than a cannon blast to him. It came from behind his left shoulder and was immediately classified as menacing.

He dove to the ground a split-second before the bullet shattered the windshield of a BMW. As he scrambled to the other side of the car, a second bullet blew out the left front tire. A third bullet hit the pavement and ricocheted beneath the car.

Collins worked his way down a row of cars until he was in a direct line with his would-be assailant. He felt safe enough to stand; the assassin had had his chance and failed. There wouldn’t be a second opportunity, now or ever. Collins’s eyes, now gray, continued to study the darkness, searching for the shooter. Off to his right, he saw a silhouette moving between buildings and then vanishing into the night. For an instant he thought of giving chase, but quickly decided against it. There was no need to rush. He would have his revenge.

On his terms.

By this time, several bystanders had begun shouting for someone to call the police. Patrons from at least four nearby clubs, drawn to the excitement like passers-by to a bloody accident, flooded out onto the street, oblivious to the potential danger. One man screamed, “Firecracker!” Another said it was gunfire.

Within five minutes two police cars, a Cook County Sheriff’s car and an emergency medical unit, arrived, lights flashing, horns screaming, giving the scene a carnival-like atmosphere. Several men pointed in the direction of the gunfire, while others pointed toward the parking lot. As spotlights scanned both directions, policemen, weapons drawn, began to fan out over the area. Several gawkers tried to follow but were quickly—and forcefully—herded back into the bar.

Collins was far enough away to avoid being hit by the lights. Remaining in the shadows, he worked his way back toward the crowd, quietly slipping in among the curious. No one noticed—or seemed to care—about his sudden appearance. That was fine with him. The last thing he wanted was to be questioned by the police.

“You’re positive it was Jefferson?” Lucas asked, concern registering in his voice.

“Had to be. I’m in Chicago, and this is his turf.”

“You’re very lucky, my boy.”

Collins looked out his hotel window. “Not really. Deke has become careless. His choice of location was terrible. So was that loud-ass weapon he used. I taught him better than that.”

“I’m thankful he was careless. Otherwise, you might be on a slab right now.” Lucas waited several beats before continuing. “What precautions have you taken to ensure this doesn’t happen again? Have you changed hotel rooms?”

“That’s not necessary.”

“You needn’t take any chances. Next time he might not be so sloppy.”

“There won’t be a next time, Lucas.”

“I understand. Do you think Seneca knows about you yet?”

“Hard to say. Deke will undoubtedly make contact with Seneca as soon as possible. So if Seneca doesn’t know about me, it’s only a matter of time until he does.”

“Which only adds a sense of urgency to locating him.”

“And eliminating him.”

“Who would have thought it would come to this—brother against brother?”

“Ever read the first chapter of Genesis, Lucas?”

“I’m familiar with that story. I’m also familiar with the outcome. Cain survives, if I’m correct.”

Lucas waited another beat. “Be wary, my boy. Study the shadows closely.”

“The shadows, Lucas? They’re my sanctuary.”

Kate Marshall entered Collins’s office, slung her shoulder bag onto his desk, opened it, removed two books, and returned them to the bookshelf. Now came the difficult part: finding an old, tattered paperback copy of
The Brothers Karamazov
buried somewhere amid all the clutter. She searched through a multitude of books, on the floor and the shelves, only to come up empty. Next, she plowed through the desk drawers. Still, the famous Russian brothers remained hidden. It wasn’t until she brushed a package off the top of the refrigerator that Dostoyevsky’s classic tale of family trials and tribulations presented itself.

Kate slammed the book into her bag, silently cursing Ivan and his brood for causing her such consternation. Were a bunch of dysfunctional Russians worth all this trouble, anyway? Probably not, although she damn sure couldn’t tell that to her lit class.

Without thinking, she opened the white package that had fallen onto the desk. Inside was a brown folder containing several pieces of correspondence. There were letters, photos, memos, all held together by a single paper clip. Frowning, she studied the bundle and wondered what in the world it could be. None of it looked related in any way to an English or literature class. Or to the college, for that matter. It was some strange-looking stuff, whatever it was.