Dead Men's Dust (20 page)

JOHN TELFER WAS LEAKING BLOOD. ORDINARILY THAT WOULD
have been good. But not under these circumstances. Not when the bleeding got in the way of Cain’s plans. Not when it could alert a nosy observer to Telfer’s plight. Anyone with an ounce of brains would immediately tie a bleeding man to the recent events occurring at the not-too-distant harbor.

“We have to do something about your wound,” Cain said.

Lying flat on the bottom of the dinghy, Telfer grimaced up at him. Cain sat at the rear, guiding the outboard motor with one hand. With his other, he held the now-empty pistol aimed in Telfer’s direction. The waves were choppy, causing the rubber boat to lurch as it breasted each successive wave.

“Feeling nauseous?” Cain asked.

“What do you care?” Telfer grunted.

“I care. Isn’t that enough?”

Telfer twisted his face. “The only thing you care about is getting your hands on the money.”

“Not true. I also care about your well-being.”

“Yeah. Right.”

Cain shrugged. “Think what you will,” he said. He made another scan of the horizon. Off over his right shoulder, distant Catalina Island was wreathed in sea haze. He could see the ferry to the mainland chugging toward the harbor, and there were other boats on the water. There were a couple of yachts, a speedboat, and half a dozen chartered boats hauling groups of men off to favorite fishing sites. Thankfully, none of the boats appeared to be coast guard or LAPD. Equally thankfully, none of them was near enough for anyone to see Telfer lying in the bottom of the dinghy.

“Were you shot?” Cain asked.

Telfer ran a hand up his chest. He was tentative, expecting the worst. Finally, he shook his head. “I think it was more of a ricochet. Luckily whatever hit me didn’t go all the way in, just scored along my flesh. Hurts like a bugger, though.”

Cain nodded solemnly. Inwardly he was relieved. He didn’t want Telfer dying on him before he was ready. Still, he didn’t want Telfer to know that. The last thing he needed was for Telfer to start kicking up a commotion out here on the water. If Cain had to kill him, it could attract unwanted attention. And he didn’t relish attempting to outrun the coast guard in this paltry boat.

“As soon as we make land I’ll take a look at it for you,” Cain offered. “I know it’s only a couple of hours since, but it shouldn’t be bleeding now.”

Telfer rolled his shoulders. “It’ll be okay. I think I just opened the wound crawling into the boat.”

“Maybe so, but it won’t harm you if I take a look.”

Telfer sighed. “Why’re you bothering?”

“Bothering? Because it’s important to me.”

Telfer shook his head. “You don’t give a shit about me. I know you’ve got no intention of upholding our bargain.”

“You can think what you like. Just ask yourself one thing. If I
intended killing you, why would I bother saving you when I could as easily have left you on that yacht back there?”

“That’s easy. You needed me to carry the money.”

“So what about when you were in the water? I could’ve let you drown. It’d have been easier for me to take the briefcase than to haul your sorry ass to safety.”

Telfer thought about that one. In the end, he had no reply. Instead he asked, “So what exactly do you intend doing with me?”

“First things first, eh? First, we get to dry land. We clean you up. Then I’ll decide what happens from there.”

“What about this?” Telfer reached behind him and touched the briefcase he was using as a somewhat uncomfortable pillow.

Cain gave him a smile. “I’ll unburden you of that. You’re injured. It would be unfair of me to expect you to lug it around with you.”

“I’ve still got one good arm. It’ll be no problem, really.”

Cain laughed. “I like your sense of humor, John.”

“I’m not joking.”

“Regardless. You’re still a funny man.”

Telfer smiled at the thought. Even under the circumstances, he felt strangely pleased with himself. “You should see me when I’m happy. I’m the life and soul of the party.”

Cain shook his head, as though at the amusing antics of a toddler. He adjusted the outboard so that they began angling toward land. Here there was a stretch of golden shore, where beach houses on stilts crowned the low horizon. Beyond them loomed mist-shrouded tower blocks where the urban sprawl of South L.A. crept past Redondo Beach toward Long Beach. He selected one of the beach houses at random and headed for a wooden jetty that nosed out into the waves.

Beyond the jetty was a summerhouse; a playground for the not so rich judging by the way the paint flaked from the window frames. There was only one car, a battered Dodge sitting under the porch
that abutted the southern side of the house, and no speedboat at the mooring point. The house had a semidilapidated edge, as though it were used infrequently, and maintained even less. There were no kiddies’ swings or toys strewn along the edge of the beach, and no sign of a family in residence at the stone-built barbecue, which contained only ashes and a lingering scent of burgers gone by. If anyone were home, it would be barely more than one—two at the most.

He deftly steered the dinghy up to the pilings, a lasso action snaring the boat to a stanchion. He used the threat of the gun to motivate Telfer. “Bring the briefcase,” he ordered. “I’ll take it off you when we get inside.”

“What if there’re people home?” Telfer asked.

“Then we impose on their generosity to get you fixed up.”

“That’s all?”

“What else?”

Coming to a painful crouch on the jetty, Telfer studied the empty windows. “You won’t hurt them, will you?”

Cain looked pained. “I thought you were beginning to understand me by now.”

“I am,” Telfer said. Then to himself, “That’s the trouble.”

“I heard that,” Cain said in singsong fashion.

“You were meant to.”

Cain’s features went from night to day in an instant. “I suppose it all comes down to whether or not they’re willing to be of assistance. I don’t care for selfish people. What about you, John?”

“I don’t suppose they have much choice when you’re pushing a gun under their noses.”

Cain shrugged.

“What if there are children?” Telfer continued.

“I haven’t killed a child lately,” Cain said.

Telfer didn’t reply, concentrating on shuffling by his nemesis to
conceal his disgust. Cain allowed him to take the lead. He glanced down at the empty gun, considered its convenience as a tool, and decided that as long as no one suspected it was empty, it was still worth the effort to lug it along with him.

Telfer shuffled the length of the jetty, the briefcase stuffed beneath one armpit. Behind him, Cain grinned to himself. Telfer reminded him of a shambling mummy as he clawed at a railing to help him up the steps to the house. Beyond them the summerhouse presented a skull-like visage, dark empty eye sockets for windows and a grinning jaw of picket-rail teeth. It was an image that appealed to Cain but only added to Telfer’s apparent foreboding. He turned and gave Cain an imploring look.

“On you go, John. You’ve got nothing to worry about.”

Telfer shook his head. He set his shoulders, unresigned to the prospect of further violence. Cain nudged him in the small of his back but he resisted the push.

“You don’t have to kill anyone.”

“No,” Cain agreed. “I don’t have to.”

Telfer still refused to move.

Cain said, “But I might just start here and now if you don’t move your ass.”

A propane blaze of anger flushed Telfer’s face. Slowly he turned and faced his captor. Cain glared back. The tableau held for half a dozen heartbeats. “You know,” Telfer said, “the more you threaten someone, the less those threats mean.”

Cain grunted, but this time in humor. “You should know by now that I don’t make threats idly, John.”

“I’m fully aware of what you’re capable of. All I’m saying is that maybe you should take care who you direct those threats at. Sooner or later you’re going to have to do something about it.”

“Now who’s making threats?”

“No. Not a threat. Call it friendly advice.”

Cain winked. “Okay, John, I get you. Now do me the honor of getting yourself inside on your own two feet before I have to plug you and drag you in by your ears.”

“Another threat?”

Cain shrugged. “Call me Mr. Predictable.”

Telfer loped on ahead, and Cain glanced down and saw a pattern of dark splotches on the wood planks. Telfer was bleeding worse than he’d thought. Probably the reason for the bravado. A last-ditch attempt at showing he had a backbone after all. Following the trail, Cain lifted his gaze once more to Telfer’s shuffling form. Maybe patching him up was a waste of effort; maybe he should just end it now. Dead, he’d no longer be the hindrance he was proving. And he’d be more manageable stuffed in the trunk of the Dodge than up front riding shotgun. But that would mean changing the plans he’d fantasized over these past hours. Killed here with little fuss or later at the designated place with all the pomp and ceremony the occasion demanded? It wasn’t too difficult a choice. He followed on behind, his mind made up.

Although the house looked uncared for, the tiny yard was a different story. Bougainvillea in terra-cotta troughs made a pleasant border for the final approach to the front door. He curled his lip. Kind of spoiled the overall ambience. So, too, did the tinkle of piano music coming from beyond the screen door.

Exhaling at the homeliness of it all, Cain hurried so that he came to the door just as Telfer raised a hand to rap on the door frame. He was about to halt Telfer when the crunch of feet on gravel achieved that for him. Synchronized, they turned and greeted the man rounding the side of the house. Then they both glanced down at the Rottweiler that strained at the leash in his grasp. Telfer’s mouth held the ghost of a smirk as he looked at his captor.

“Help you gentlemen?” the man asked from ten feet away. He ap
peared to be about sixty years old, sunburned and paunchy. An early retiree on a short break. Cain would bet his right testicle that this man prefers to take his holidays in a mobile home. The massive dog continued to tug at the leash, tongue lolling in anticipation of a couple of tasty morsels.

In another sleight of hand, Cain spirited the gun into his waistband and his hand clapped down tight on Telfer’s shoulder to halt any telltale movement. “Hopefully you can, brother,” Cain said, stepping past Telfer. “My friend here is injured. I’d appreciate it if you’d call 911 for us.”

“Need an ambulance?” the man asked, craning to see past Cain as though attempting to ascertain the severity of Telfer’s injuries. Subtly, Cain shifted onto his other foot. The blood on Telfer’s shirt was like a flashing light to the man. Eyes wide he lurched forward, aided by the pull of the heavy dog. “My God,” he spluttered. “You’re bleeding!”

Cain held up a hand. “Don’t worry, brother. It looks worse than it is. But we’d appreciate your help nonetheless.”

“Yes, yes,” the man said, coming forward at a trot. The dog bounced along at his side, no longer tugging at its leash. Cain gave the dog a nanosecond of perusal. He feigned alarm. Stepped away. The man saw the movement, gave a shake of his head. “Oh, don’t be worried about Popeye none. He looks scary, but really he’s a big old softie. More likely he’ll lick you to death than bite you.”

“Phew. That’s a relief,” Cain said. For Telfer’s benefit he raised an eyebrow, gave a lopsided smile. Telfer gave a short cough, but already Cain was dropping to a knee as if to greet the dog.

As the dog brushed past, Cain swiped his hand under its muzzle. An innocent enough looking pat of its broad chest. It took only two further paces before it collapsed. It didn’t even offer a startled yelp before it died. Stunned, the man stared down at his dog. Eyes pools of bewilderment, he looked back at Cain who was rising from his crouch.

“Don’t like dogs,” Cain said.

The man’s gaze traveled the length of Cain’s arm, fixed on the ultimate point. The scaling knife was almost devoid of blood, so quick and easy was its entry and exit.

“They’re competition,” Cain said. “For your bones.”

“Oh,” the man said, his knees buckling at the same time.

THE LAST TIME I WAS ON A MOTOR LAUNCH IT WAS AT NIGHT
and I was being deposited on a deserted beach in the Indian Ocean. I was part of an eight-man team sent to extradite suspected terrorists who’d been holed up there since a predawn attack on a village full of women and children.

On that occasion I didn’t take too much notice of my surroundings. It was an in and out, a smash and grab mission that left no time for sightseeing.

Now, standing on the prow of the launch, I took the time to feel the spray of the ocean on my face, to smell the tang of brine in my nostrils and feel the wind in my hair. The Bailey motorboat was riding high on the ocean, lifting majestically with each swell, dipping down with each trough. I stood with my legs braced against the motion, but neglected to reach for the handrail.

“If you close your eyes and hold out your hands it feels like you’re flying,” Rink said from behind me.

I snickered at the image. “Start singing like Celine Dion and I’ll throw you overboard,” I promised him.

Rink grunted, moving up next to me. He leaned forward and rested his meaty forearms on the guardrail. “What makes you think they’ve headed south?”

“Just a feeling,” I said.

“A feeling? What? Like a sixth sense or something?” Rink wasn’t kidding. Like most soldiers, he knows there’s a force out there that isn’t tangible in the proper sense. Many a soldier’s life has been saved by an enhanced sense that borders on the supernatural. Something that warned him about the concealed tripwire or sniper lying in ambush. Some argue that it’s simply a product of supercharged adrenaline and a keenly trained eye, but I believe there’s more to it than that. It’s more than the creeping-flesh sensation that unseen eyes are watching you. But the feeling I was referring to had nothing to do with that or any other power. It had simply to do with deduction.

“No, a feeling that if I was in their shoes I’d’ve headed south, too.”

“If they survived.”

“There’s no doubt about it, Rink. Whoever this guy is that John’s with, he knows his stuff. Only someone with training goes onto a yacht full of armed men and ends up blowing it and everyone aboard to shit.”

“Unless he’s got the other important ingredients: he’s as crazy as a bag of weasels, has more balls than sense, and he’s the luckiest goddamn son of a bitch on the planet.” Rink raised his shaggy brows, inviting disagreement.

I shrugged, moving to join him at the guardrail. Below us, the bow wave split like blistering phosphorus against the deep aqua of the ocean. “Maybe he has both,” I said. “The training and the other ingredients. He had a get-out plan. You can bet your life on it.”

“So it stands to reason,” Rink acquiesced, “that he heads out to sea to avoid the cordon of blue lights converging on the harbor.”

“Coast guard has their base to the north. It’s what I’d’ve done,” I told him, and Rink nodded in agreement.

“So who is this guy? You think it really is this Harvestman the media’s screaming about?”

“Has to be,” I said. “It’d explain why John’s fingerprints turned up in connection with the killings of that couple at the motel. Somehow, John’s got himself into something way beyond his ability to get out of. Only thing I can’t fathom yet is what part he’s playing in all this. I can’t believe he’d be a willing participant to murder.”

Rink said, “Maybe you don’t know John the way you think you do.”

“You keep saying that. Maybe you’re right, Rink, but until I’m proved wrong, I prefer to give him the benefit of the doubt.”

“Fair enough,” Rink said. “But what if he has turned, Hunter? What if your brother has acquired a taste for blood? What if he’s a goddamn willing participant?”

I didn’t answer for a moment, my gaze fixed on the horizon. Like the point where the sky and ocean met, my reason blurred into a haze of nothingness. Finally, I turned to Rink and saw that he was studying me with an intensity common to him. I blinked slowly, breaking the connection. “If that’s the case, it puts a whole new slant on my purpose for finding him.”

Rink nodded sagely, lifted a hand, and placed it on my shoulder. “Let’s hope it doesn’t have to come to that, huh?”

A shout from behind us broke my melancholy and I turned to squint back at the skipper who was at the wheel of the boat.

He was pointing with excitement toward the shore. A little more than five hundred yards away I saw what he indicated. To me, it was nothing more than one more boat tied to a short pier.

Together, Rink and I made our way back to the skipper’s cabin. He was grinning. “The dinghy over there,” he said with an exaggerated nod of his head. “It’s from the
Morning Star
.”

“The
Morning Star
being one of the yachts moored in the harbor?” I asked.

The skipper snapped his fingers, then pointed a gnarled digit at me. “Got it in one.”

“How can you be sure?” Rink asked.

The skipper’s eyebrows did a little jig. “I’ve been around them boats all my working life. I know what skiffs belong to what and to whom. Not only that, but if you look at the painting on the outboard, you can see that it’s a five-pointed star coming up over the sea, not the sun, as you’d expect.”

I squinted across the waves. I could barely see the outboard motor, never mind the motif on it. I looked back at the skipper, and he grinned again.

“I’ll trust your better eyesight,” I told him. “But couldn’t there be a rational reason why a dinghy from the
Morning Star
would turn up here?”

“None that I can guess at,” the skipper said.

“No, I suppose not.” I looked back at the dinghy. “Can you bring your boat in close to the same berth?”

“Tide’s a bit low for my girl. I’ll get in as close as I can, but you might have to wade to shore.”

“Okay,” I said, turning to Rink. “You ready for this?”

Rink patted the bulge under his armpit. “Ready, willing, and able.”

Returning my attention to the skipper, I indicated the beach house a short way up from the jetty. “Do you know whose place that is?”

He shook his head. “I’m good with boats, haven’t a clue about houses.”

I shrugged. “Okay. Can you get the emergency services on your radio?”

“Yeah. Of course.”

“Yeah,” I agreed. “Once you’ve put us ashore, shout for help. Tell the cops to get to this location as fast as they can.”

The skipper was no naive old fool; he knew we’d chartered his boat for the strict purpose of hunting someone fleeing the scene of
devastation up at Marina del Rey. What he didn’t know was exactly who we were chasing. Or why.

“You expecting trouble, son?” he asked.

“Maybe of the worst kind,” I told him.

“So why don’t you wait till the cops get here before you go ashore?” he asked. For the first time, there was a hint of something less than his ordinary ebullience.

“We could have some kind of hostage crisis. I can’t wait for the cops to get here before any innocents are harmed.” The first was for the old man; my next was directed at Rink. “If the men we’re after have already been and gone, I’ve got a horrible feeling that there’ll be some cleaning up to be done. Best we leave that to the authorities this time.”

Rink nodded in understanding, while it was the skipper’s turn to squint at the rapidly approaching shoreline. He didn’t ask for an explanation and I offered him none. He guided the prow of the Bailey toward the jetty, and as he’d predicted we were more than fifteen feet short of the boardwalk when we felt the judder of sand beneath us. The skipper threw the boat into reverse, edging back until we were in clear water. From the front of the boat, I gave him a thumbs-up and the skipper nodded at me.

“You want me to wait for you?” he called from the cabin.

I shook my head over the sound of the idling engine. Whatever the outcome, I didn’t believe I’d be boarding a boat again anytime soon. “Maybe it’s best you pull back from the shoreline. Could be bullets flying around before long.”

“I appreciate the warning, son, but you don’t have to worry about me. Completed two tours in Vietnam, so the prospect of flying bullets means nothing to me.”

“Fair enough, but I don’t want your death on my conscience.”

The skipper grunted, but then he winked, dipped the peak of his cap. “It’s your mission, son. Keep safe. An’ tell your big buddy to do likewise.”

“Will do,” I said, glancing Rink’s way. He was standing at the prow, scanning the beach for movement. His shoulders twitched, adrenaline searching for release. As I walked toward him, I placed my hand under my armpit and felt the reassuring bulge of the latest SIG Sauer supplied only an hour earlier by Cheryl Barker. It was the older Swiss P230 model, with no manual safety button, so the weapon could be brought into action very rapidly. Brought back memories from my Point Shooting days.

We went over the side of the boat together, splashing waist deep in the foam. Sand immediately invaded my shoes, and my trousers clung to my skin. I forgot my discomfort as we pushed toward the dinghy.

“Blood,” Rink observed even as we approached. It was smeared over the edge nearest the dock as though something limp and lifeless had been dragged onto the walkway. I pressed up to the boat. More frothy blood was pooled in the bottom. Rink and I shared a look. All this blood wasn’t a good sign that we’d find John alive, but it meant my hunch was correct after all. There couldn’t possibly be a more likely explanation for this boat to be here than that it had carried escapees from the carnage at Marina del Rey.

Pulling my SIG out of its holster, I chambered a round. I heard a similar
kachunk!
as Rink followed suit with his Mossberg. We followed the dock on to the beach. Rink fanned off to my left. Before us was a wooden house with a well-tended yard. A dust-streaked Dodge was parked alongside the house. There was no further room in the lot for another vehicle so I guessed that John—if he was still alive—was inside the house. Not good in one sense, it added to my apprehension of a possible hostage situation escalating beyond my power to control.

Rink was twenty yards away now, moving toward the house. I sucked in a deep breath and moved onto a gravel path that led to the door of the house.

I saw spatters of blood on the doorstep. Hearing the sputter and roar of an engine, I saw that the skipper was heeding my warning. I
wondered if he’d already called for backup, and then searched the sky for a helicopter.

Nothing.

Just a single speedboat hurtling along about a quarter of a mile to the north. Even from here, I could tell it was a private boat, so I gave it no further thought. Even if the skipper had immediately called the authorities, they were still many minutes away. Which meant I had no time to waste: if John was inside, especially accompanied by the Harvestman, I had to take decisive action before any innocents were injured.

Given the opportunity, I’d have scoped the place and gained a better understanding of what it was we faced. Rink and I would’ve devised a plan of approach. But like always, Murphy’s Law took precedence here. I could only hope that the chaos rule held us in its favor as it had done innumerable times in the past.

With this in mind, I’d no recourse other than charge the screen door, lift a foot, and crash through, hurtling into whatever hell storm would follow.

Which is exactly what I did.