Heirs of Cain (28 page)

Ask any athlete which he would rather have, luck or talent, and he is likely to say either will do in any given situation. Ask an assassin the same question, and he’ll tell you talent is everything. Nothing beats skill in the killing business. But that same assassin will add this proviso: if talent has somehow been neutralized or rendered ineffective, luck is better than nothing.

Cain had always been as lucky as he was talented.

Simon Buckman’s name and address were in the Sarasota phone book. Cain jotted down the number, then asked a cabby for directions to Jack’s Marina.

“Twenty minutes from the airport,” the cabby said. “A straight shot down Tamiami Trail, on the right, you can’t miss it.”

Cain found his rental, hopped in, and headed south.

After taking one look at the fleet of boats and yachts ringing Sarasota Bay, Cain didn’t like his odds of finding Simon’s anytime soon. With this many boats, and without directions or the name of the yacht, it could take hours. Hours he didn’t have.

He parked near the main building, a combination restaurant-office, got out of the car, and went straight to the marina office. A sign on the door said, “Closed: Back in an Hour.” A waitress in the restaurant informed him that “something terrible has happened” and that Kevin, the marina manager, was “over there with the cops.”

Cain walked back out to his car. Straight ahead, across from the yacht
Rebel Rouser
, sat three police cruisers and an ambulance. The lights on the middle cruiser were flashing, and the back doors of the ambulance were open. Onlookers began to crowd, necks craning, heads bobbing like a flock of curious geese.

Cain knew it was Simon’s boat. He also knew this particular hustler wouldn’t be brokering any more deals.

After winding his way through the geese, Cain quickly climbed onto the yacht. A female police officer rushed toward him, holding both hands high, signaling for him to stop.

“I’m sorry, sir, but I cannot allow you on this boat.”

“Are you in charge here?”

“No. But that makes no difference. There’s a police investigation being conducted, and no one who isn’t part of the investigation will be allowed on board.”

“Who is in charge?”

“Captain Finley is heading the investigation.”

Cain glanced at her name tag. “Officer Melendez, it’s urgent that I speak with Captain Finley.”

“Regarding the investigation?”

“Yes.”

“Are you a newspaper reporter?”

“No.”

“Do you have information pertaining to what took place here?”

“Quite possibly.”

“Well, I guess …” She paused, an anxious look on her face. “Just a moment while I confer with Captain Finley.”

A few seconds later she reappeared, followed by a man Cain presumed to be Finley. The man was stocky and well-muscled, with the ruddy, tanned skin of a native Floridian. The dark tan stood in sharp contrast to his white hair, which was thick but cut short. He was dressed casually in checkered slacks, white cotton shirt, loafers, no socks. More a golfer’s look than a homicide detective’s. An insurance salesman with a six handicap.

“You have something for me?” he barked, his voice scratchy and gruff.

“We need to speak in private,” Cain said. His tone, more order than request, seemed to throw Finley off stride. Sensing his control, Cain took Finley by the elbow and led him to the railing.

“Captain, you don’t know me, but you’re going to have to trust me.”

“Trust you? In what way?”

“By letting me search this boat.”

“You with the FBI?”

Cain shook his head. “Are they involved?”

“Sure are. Agent Williams just called. He should be here any minute now. I’m not sure Simon Buckman is worth all this trouble, but the Feds apparently do.”

“That makes it all the more essential that I begin my search ASAP,” Cain said.

Finley stepped back and held up both hands. “Put the brakes on for a second, okay? Exactly who are you, what agency are you with, and what’s your relationship with Simon Buckman?”

“My name is Cain. I’m with Army intelligence.”

“Are you tellin’ me Simon Buckman is—was—being investigated by Army intelligence?”

“Yes.”

“That’s rather hard to believe.”

“Believe it.”

“You got any ID that might prove who you are? A phone number, maybe?”

“I can give you a hundred phone numbers, Captain. But I don’t have the time to wait while you’re checking me out.”

“I dunno. I think I’d best get some proof before I let you go sniffin’ around a crime scene. Especially with the Feds involved. They’ll hang my ass if I screw up. They’re a bunch of hard-core pricks.”

“Simon Buckman is dead, right?” Cain said.

“Colder than a frozen popsicle.”

“Killed by a knife. Single entry wound directly below the sternum. The blade penetrated his heart. He died instantly. Am I right?”

“You’re so right you just became my number one suspect,” Finley said. “How’d you know all that?”

“Time, Captain Finley. I’m running short on time. I’ll gladly answer any question you have, but not until we’re inside.”

“Let’s go,” Finley said without hesitation.

“Is Simon’s body still down below?” Cain asked.

“Nah. The big bastard was killed up top. Lucky for us, too. Be a bitch tryin’ to haul that lard ass up those steps.”

“Let me see the body first.”

Simon’s body, guarded by two local cops, had already been bagged and tagged. Cain knelt beside the body and unzipped the bag. One of the cops started to protest but went silent when Finley raised his arm.

Cain looked up at Finley. “What items were found on the body?”

“Everything we found is right there.” Finley pointed to a small bag next to the body. Cain opened it and inspected the contents. A wallet, two diamond rings, a buckeye, and a silver flask.

“You’re positive this is everything?” Cain asked.

One of the uniformed officers nodded. “That’s all we found, sir.”

Cain stood without closing the bag. “Let’s go below,” he said to Finley.

“You know who did this joker in, don’t you?” Finley asked, trailing Cain down the steps.

“Yeah.”

“Who?”

“An Indian.”

“Why the hell would an Indian, or a cowboy, or a French queer, or an Eskimo, or anybody for that matter, punch Simon’s ticket?” Finley asked.

“Because he’s an assassin.”

“But … Simon Buckman? Why him?”

“He was a danger to someone. A liability. He had to be done away with.”

“What the hell is this all about?”

Cain’s eyes scanned the cabin, finally coming to rest on a framed photograph behind the bar. An 8×10 color of a woman, early twenties, movie star beautiful, standing next to a red Jaguar. Cain went behind the bar, took the photograph, and showed it to Finley.

“Simon’s daughter?” he asked.

“Wife.”

“Where is she?”

“Dunno. We’re still trying to locate her.”

Cain set the picture down. “I wouldn’t count on finding her alive.”

“Why? She on this Indian assassin’s hit list, too?”

“No. He just has a thing for beautiful young women.”

Finley snickered. “Hell, don’t we all?”

Cain’s ten-minute search yielded nothing of importance. No names, dates, places—nothing providing anything more than what he already knew. Cain had to give the big man his due. Whatever else Simon might have been, he was secretive and careful.

The female officer, Melendez, entered the cabin. “Sir, we just got word that Hannah Buckman was found dead in a motel across town. They say she was sliced up pretty bad.”

Finley stared at Cain. “Looks like you called another one right on the money.” He shifted his attention to Melendez. “Tell them I’ll be there in half an hour. And tell them they’d better not destroy my crime scene.”

“Yes, sir,” she said.

Finley said, “Now, Mr. Cain, I’m caught on the horns of a terrible dilemma. Should I hold you for further questioning? Maybe even let the Feds have a go at you? Let’s face it. You do seem to be in possession of considerable information. Or should I just let you walk out of here?”

Cain smiled. “I think you know the answer, Captain.”

Cain left the yacht and walked to his car. He watched to his right as Melendez helped three attendants load Simon’s body into the ambulance. She saw him and waved. He motioned for her.

“Officer Melendez,” he said, scribbling his name and phone number on a scrap of paper. “This is a number where I can be reached. If you find anything that might be important—anything at all—please give me a call. It’s terribly urgent.”

She looked at the card. “Yes, sir, Mr. Collins. You can count on me.”

All in all, the Indian concluded, it had been a good day.

Three kills in twelve hours. Simon Buckman, beautiful Hannah, and a young college student who just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time.

The Indian sat at a booth in an all-night diner, a half-empty bowl of cold soup in front of him. He thought about the day’s events, arranging them, as he always did, in reverse order of importance. Seneca always saved the best for last.

Victim number three was the unfortunate college student he met in a restaurant outside of Bradenton. The young man lived in Boston and was on his way to visit friends in Miami. He had a great gift for gab and an intense interest in a “real Native American.” He also had something the Indian needed—an ugly yellow ‘81 Nova. The perfect vehicle for the next leg of his journey.

Seneca cut the young man’s throat, wrapped the body in an old rug, put it in a large dumpster behind a local high school, and covered it with wide strips of roofing he found lying on the ground. After closing the dumpster lid, he checked the surrounding area thoroughly, made certain he left nothing incriminating, then got into the Nova and drove away.

His thoughts shifted to Sarasota and his second victim.

Simon Buckman’s death had deserved no more thought than the killing of a cockroach. His only regret: he hadn’t made the fat bastard suffer enough. Simon should have experienced the same terror, felt the same pain, as—

Beautiful, sexy, delicious Hannah.

In the final moments of her life, she had come face to face with absolute horror. She experienced a level of terror few would ever know. Or could imagine.

The scenes flashed in his mind, clear, vivid, detailed. Hannah on the bed, covered with perspiration, her breasts heaving, nipples erect. Hannah with her mouth on his blood-engorged penis. Hannah on top of him, her tongue exploring his mouth, moaning softly as the first waves of orgasm closed in. Hannah whispering in his ear, urging him to join her in a tidal wave of pleasure, feeling him explode inside her, his semen pouring deep into her. Hannah lying on her back, tucking a pillow beneath her, legs ensnaring him, pulling him close, inviting him to enter her again.

Then another series of scenes flashed into his head. The dark ones, the ones he remembered even more vividly. Hannah registering confusion when he rolled her onto her stomach and bound her hands and feet. Hannah’s soft tears falling onto his hands when he tied the scarf around her mouth. Hannah paralyzed by fear when she saw the knife. Hannah’s muffled cry when he extended her nipple, then severed it with one quick swing of the knife. Hannah recoiling when the blade touched her throat. Hannah trying to comprehend what was happening when the knife raked across her throat, then was driven deep into her chest, her belly, her pubic area. Hannah’s eyes going blank.

Hannah dead, fear forever frozen on her face.

The Indian smiled. Three kills in less than twelve hours. All in all, a pretty good day.

Then his mind flashed on Karl’s message. On the time, date, and place. His smiled widened. Those kills would make for a great day, perhaps his greatest ever. He didn’t know who the intended victims were, but that didn’t matter. The place said it all.

Camp David.

General David Nichols couldn’t believe it when an aide informed him of the call. “From someone named Cain. Said it was confidential, that you would want to take it in private.”

Nichols shook with excitement.
Cain. Holy Jesus! Cain!
Nichols was in a fourth-floor briefing room, a full two minutes away from his office. He made it back to his desk in thirty seconds. Hand trembling, he picked up the phone. A call from Cain was enough to make anyone tremble.