Dead Men's Dust (22 page)

The Harvestman’s brow furrowed.

“John?” I said, grabbing at his collar, but my brother pulled himself loose. He took a faltering step toward the murderer, hands wrapped around his torso in an effort to subdue the pain he felt.

“Let the woman go, Cain. Take me instead.”

The murderer looked beyond John, staring at me. I didn’t move. I hated this guy but had to concede that this arrangement was a way out for him. Complex emotions were churning behind his cool facade.

Taking another step, John said, “We have unfinished business, Cain. We both know that. If you let the woman go, I’ll see it to the end. I’ll sacrifice myself for her.”

“What do you say, Cain?” I asked. “Do we have a deal, or do we start shooting?”

Cain gave me a serpent’s grin. “Bring the briefcase, John.”

Cain removed the gun from the woman and waved me aside with it. “Back off, Hunter. Go over there next to the window with your friend.”

Rink gave me a subtle shake of his head, not for a second taking his aim from Cain. His features were set in bronze. “I think we can take the frog-giggin’ son of a bitch,” he hissed.

“No, Rink. Stand down,” I said. Without lowering my own gun, I crabbed over to the window, blocking Rink’s line of fire.

“What you doin’?” Rink whispered harshly. “I can take the punk.”

“Just let it go, Rink,” I whispered back. “For now.”

Behind me, Rink’s curses were blasphemous, whatever Good Book you follow.

“Hunter?” he pleaded, but I was already refocused on Cain. John had grasped the briefcase to his chest and was nearing him. As he blocked my view of Cain, the woman was unceremoniously shoved to the ground, then Cain had John by the shoulder and was spinning him around. Without pause, Cain used him as a shield as he moved away. At the door, Cain issued a final warning. “Don’t try to follow us too soon. If you do, John dies in more agony than you could ever imagine.”

I stayed put. Rink was as itchy as a flea-bitten dog, and without taking my eyes off Cain I whispered, “Just wait.”

From behind me I heard the answering response, indicating that Rink understood. “I’m waitin’.”

Cain didn’t hear the whispered exchange. He was as nutty as squirrel shit, but he was no fool. He paused in his tracks. “I guess this won’t be the last time I lay eyes on you?”

“Count on it,” I told him.

“Don’t worry, I will,” Cain said. “I look forward to it. It’ll look good to have such a formidable trophy as Joe Hunter on my résumé.”

Cain held my gaze a moment longer; then, in an act I should have expected from one of such a depraved mind, he waved good-bye. It wasn’t his hand he used. It was the bloodless souvenir taken from the old woman’s husband.

Then Cain and John were gone.

Before I could move, the old woman wailed and began scurrying across the floor on her hands and knees to the still form of her husband. She folded over the top of him and her sobs were pitiful.

Grief is a savage torment, especially when so raw as this. It can leave a person insensible to what is happening around them, and totally unaware of consoling hands. My soft words were probably gobbledygook to her.

While she wailed, I gave her the quick once-over. Her injuries were minimal, a little bruising on the throat, a bumped elbow. Searching for any broken bones, I traced the folds of her blouse with my fingertips. Bodily she was intact, but there was a narrow rent in the fabric. I studied the slashed cloth, noting that a patch about the size of two fingers was missing, stripped away, wondering how in hell that had happened.

I shook off the thought as Rink charged into the living room. “They’ve taken the old lady’s car.”

I nodded at him.

“So what’re we doin’ standin’ around? Let’s go after the son of a bitch,” Rink said.

“There’s no rush,” I told him.

Rink inclined his head. “What’s goin’ on?”

“Like I said, we only have to wait.”

Rink wasn’t aware that John was laying down a trail for us.

“When John was holding on to me,” I explained, “he took my cell phone out of my shirt pocket.”

“I can’t see him gettin’ the opportunity to call in his location,” Rink said.

“Doesn’t need to,” I said.

“No. Of course. We can have the phone signal triangulated. It’ll lead us straight to him.”

“I trust you have someone in telecommunications that can do it for us?” I asked.

“I might know a woman who does.”

“Cheryl Barker? It’s okay, Rink, I’ve just had another thought.”

The sirens came.

It was only minutes before Rink and I were kneeling with our hands behind our heads as we were frisked for concealed weapons.

“Get me Walter Conrad,” I told a stern special agent from the FBI’s Hostage Rescue Team. “He’s a sub-division director with the CIA.”

On reflection, I was in no position to make demands, but if anyone had the ability to trace the phone John was carrying it was Walter.

To my surprise, he said, “Don’t worry, Mr. Hunter. Your boss is already on his way.”

YOUR BOSS IS ALREADY ON HIS WAY.

It’s not often that Walter Hayes Conrad IV gets into the field these days. As a handler of undercover agents, most of them up to their elbows in wet work, he has to maintain a degree of anonymity and distance himself from the dirty deeds used by his government in the name of national security. On this occasion, however, it was necessary for him to fly out to this place marginally north of Long Beach. Everyone’s orders were to contain what was rapidly escalating into a massive embarrassment for both him and the security community at large.

He walked into the bedroom where I’d been confined for the last twenty minutes. All that was missing was a fanfare blast of trumpets to announce his arrival.

Walter greeted me with a tight-lipped smile, an unlit cigar clamped between his fingers. Without preamble, he dismissed the two Hostage Rescue Team troopers who’d been my uneasy jailers. Funnily enough, the FBI agents immediately deferred to his authority.

“Walter,” I acknowledged with a nod. I stood up from the bed, smoothing out the rumpled comforter with a tug.

Walter’s cigar went from one hand to the other. Gripping it as though it were a lifeline, he offered his other damp palm. I shook hands with him, regarding him solemnly. He didn’t say anything.

“You must have hotfooted it out here, Walter,” I said, “seeing as it’s less than half an hour since the call went in.”

Walter bunched his prodigious cheeks in what was supposed to be a smile. “Got my very own Lear.”

“You’re telling me,” I said. But he didn’t get the joke. When he didn’t respond, I added, “Even a jet couldn’t have got you all the way across country in that time.”

“It’s a very fast jet,” Walter said, and now the smile was genuine. “Nah, I’ve been in L.A. since early this morning.”

“Can I ask the reason why?”

“Of course not,” he said.

It was a game. His game; one that Walter loved to play.

I offered my deduction, to see what lies he came up with.

“When we talked on the phone I piqued your interest. Got you thinking, huh?”

“Pure speculation.”

“So tell me, Walter, who is the Harvestman?”

“What makes you think I know that?”

“Don’t play with me, Walter. You haven’t flown all the way across the country for nothing. You’re here because you know who he is. You’re on a containment mission.”

Walter jammed the unlit cigar between his teeth. “I gave up smoking eight months ago,” he said. “Still carry a cigar around for moments just like this.”

“So it’s not for celebrations?”

“No, I’m talking about a reminder of how much I’ve fucked up in the past.” For the first time I honestly believed him. “There’s a lot of truth in that concept, Hunter. That your past always catches up with you in the end.”

“Yeah,” I agreed. His words echoed my own feelings precisely. He sat down on the bed I’d recently vacated, fists on his ample thighs.

“The Harvestman knew me,” I told him. “He also knew Rink. Makes me think he has to be a member of the security community.”

Walter nodded but didn’t volunteer anything.

“Is he one of yours, Walter?”

Walter shook his head. “Not CIA.”

“Secret Service?”

He wagged a fat finger, pleased with his top student.

“So how is it you’re involved?” I asked. “Last I heard the CIA and Secret Service were separate entities.”

“Like you said, Hunter. Your call got me thinking, made me tie a few loose strings together. It’s a joint agency decision that I step in as SAC.”

“Special agent in charge? You pulled rank?”

“Of course.” He smiled.

“Figures,” I said. “So what happened? What makes a bodyguard turn into a killer?”

“Is there a difference, Hunter? Isn’t the purpose of a bodyguard to kill or be killed? We’re talking brass tacks here, none of that ethical bullshit you see in the movies.”

“There’s a huge difference, Walter,” I reminded him. “Bodyguards protect the sanctity of life; they don’t take trophies to display on their dining room wall.”

“Not in the classic sense,” he demurred. “But they take trophies nonetheless. You just gotta speak to any long-serving agent and they wear their trophies on their sleeves. Metaphorically speaking.”

I shook off his comment and sat down on the bed next to him.

“So are you going to tell me?” I pressed.

“Situation’s kind of delicate, Hunter,” Walter said. He shifted uncomfortably and the bed creaked in protest.

“Everything you touch is delicate. What’s so different this time?”

“Do you realize the extent of the scandal if it gets out that a former Secret Service agent’s responsible for murdering upward of twenty people?” He turned his large head to me, and I could see the pain behind his slick brow. “Christ, Hunter, it’ll be ten times worse than all the screaming over the Iraq campaign. It’ll lend weight to the naysayers who’re preaching that our government is allowing the murder of innocents in order to justify the invasion. Hell, if they find out the Harvestman has had free rein for over four years, do you think for one moment they’ll believe it wasn’t with the blessing of the government? Next thing you know, the crazies will be swearing that he’s still on our payroll and has been taking out people who knew the truth behind JFK’s assassination.”

“Are you telling me that you’ve been aware of him for four years? That nothing’s been done to catch the crazy son of a bitch? Makes
me
wonder if he’s still on the payroll.”

“He’s only recently come to our notice,” Walter said. “FBI have been investigating a number of random killings spread the length and breadth of the country. It hasn’t been an easy task, simply because most of the bodies have never been found. People were reported missing, presumed dead. Others, well, you know the headlines, they’ve turned up missing body parts. Other than the MO nothing could tie the murders together.”

“What? No forensics? I find that a little hard to believe.” Frustration made me get up and stomp the length of the bedroom. I leaned on a dressing table that wouldn’t have looked anachronistic in the 1970s. Hands on the cabinet, I stared at my reflection in the mirror. It wasn’t a face I recognized. Or liked. “This is all bullshit, Walter!”

Walter eyed me with not a little annoyance. “It’s the truth, Hunter.”

I turned around so I could hold his gaze. “Walter, you wouldn’t know the truth if it sneaked up and bit you on the ass.”

“I’m telling you the truth.”

Returning to the bed, I again sat down next to him. “So what alerted you to the Harvestman’s identity? I mean, considering that you haven’t found any forensics? Did he start sending you taunting letters challenging you to catch him?”

Walter made a noise in his throat. “There’s no need for sarcasm. And anyway, I didn’t say there were no forensics. You said that,” he said.

This time I didn’t bite.

“The thing is, the forensics have only just recently come to
our
notice,” Walter went on. “The FBI didn’t have access to the USSS DNA records. We did. We only became aware of the Harvestman’s identity following the murders of the couple at the motel out in the desert.”

“You mean the murders that my brother’s been blamed for?”

“Exactly.”

“Yeah, but you know it wasn’t John,” I said.

“I know. But it served our purpose to put that story out.”

“Served your damn purpose? Walter, you know I love you, but sometimes you’re a complete asshole!” I was challenging him to disagree with me. In reply, he could only shrug.

“Comes with the job,” he said.

Yes, I suppose it did. “So you tipped the media about John? What for? To draw out the real killer? You thought his ego would get the better of him and he’d show himself in order to take back the glory? Or was it a ploy to conceal the Harvestman’s true identity?”

“A bit of both, I suppose,” Walter said.

“Christ, Walter! Even when you’re being truthful I can’t get a straight answer out of you.”

“Okay, I’ll explain. That way you’ll have everything I have.” With a grunt he rose and walked away from me, fumbling the cigar to his lips. “Are you familiar with the book of Genesis?”

“I’ve read it, don’t necessarily believe it,” I answered.

“It’s not necessary that you believe it, only that you have some idea of its content.”

“I remember there are a lot of people with odd names begetting one another. Everything else I know I learned from Charlton Heston movies.”

Walter shook off my sarcasm. “You’ve heard the story of Cain and Abel?”

“Yes.”

“It’s nothing new for some demented bastard to take on the name of Cain,” Walter said. “In fact, the psyche of a murderer is often referred to as the Cain Complex. Murderers often look up to the great grandpappy of all murderers as to some sort of godhead in his own right. They think they’re carrying out his work on earth and all that bullshit.”

“And your sicko is no exception?” I asked.

“No, no, no. Not
the
Cain.”

“Who then?”

“I’ll come to that in a minute. First a little background on our man,” Walter said. “His name is Martin Maxwell.”

“Doesn’t ring any bells.”

“It won’t. He didn’t use that name when he was on active duty. Called himself Dean Crow. Thought it sounded tougher than Marty Maxwell. More befitting a U.S. Secret Service agent.”

“Sounds like a complete peckerhead,” I offered. “But I must admit I do recall something about him. Some low-level scandal involving a presidential candidate’s wife, wasn’t it?”

“He was relieved of duty after he was found supposedly looting the good lady’s wardrobe for what he called in an interview ‘a token of his skill.’”

“He’s a damn panty sniffer?” I asked.

Walter shook his head. “Nothing so gross. He cut a patch from one of her blouses is all.”

I recalled the missing piece of cloth from the old woman’s blouse after she’d been held hostage next door. I was about to say this when
Walter added, “I say supposedly. The truth is the good lady was wearing her blouse at the time. Marty said he took the token to show her how vulnerable she was, how much she relied on him at all times.”

“Crazy,” I said.

“Yeah. Supremely crazy.”

“So how’d he get through the net? Surely the psych tests should’ve singled him out before he achieved agent status?”

“Some psychos are good at covering their true identities. Up to that point Marty Maxwell was well respected and had seniority. It was a surprise to find that one of their most able men was crazy as a fox.”

I grunted. “And all that happened was that he was discharged from service? Why didn’t anyone keep an eye on him? Surely the signs were there, that he was capable of spiraling out of control?”

“Secret Service kept an eye on him as best they could. Only thing was—crazy or not—he was no fool. He knew that he’d be under surveillance for the foreseeable future. He wasn’t prepared to let that happen.”

“He went underground?”

“More than that. He faked his death. Supposedly, in an act of shame, he killed himself. And the other members of his family. Wife and two kids.”

“Oh, God…”

“Shot them dead in their beds, turned the gun on himself, stuck it under his chin, and blasted off his head. He’d set up an incendiary device to burn the lot of them. Left only charred corpses in the burned-out ruin of their home.” Walter hung his head in shame, but I guessed it wasn’t in memory of Maxwell’s wife and children. “Their identity wasn’t in dispute. That was an end to it. They messed up.”

“You’re telling me. Obviously the DNA wasn’t matched or they’d have known before now that he was still on the loose.”

“I don’t fully understand the science. They were happy it was Marty Maxwell. Considering he’d blown away half his head, they had
no teeth for a dental comparison. His fingerprints had been burned off down to the bone. With the odds-on favorite that it was him, where would you have put your money?”

“Considering the training he’d had, what he’d have known, I’d have looked at the possibility that there was more to his death than met the eye. Who was the fourth body? If not Marty Maxwell? His father? A brother?”

“According to Marty’s file he was a single child. Both parents died years before. Mother died following complications during childbirth, father from congenital heart disease. Let’s not forget that until then, he hadn’t committed any crimes. It was put down as a murder-suicide. They believed Maxwell was dead and that was that. Case closed.”

“But obviously he did have a brother?” I asked.

“Turns out he had a half brother called Robert Swan. Daddy Maxwell had been a naughty boy on his stag night, got an old sweetheart of his pregnant. It was Daddy Maxwell’s best-kept secret. We only found this out afterward. The brother’s mother noticed he was missing when her money stopped coming in. She’s a lush, lives alone in a tenement up in the Bronx; seems like the son was sending her money whenever he could. A good boy. Looked after his ma, like any good boy should.”

“But Maxwell found out about his brother? I thought you said it was a secret.”

Walter grimaced. “Daddy Maxwell must’ve come clean in the end. Maybe he confessed his transgression on his deathbed. His wife was already on the other side; I guess he could’ve been seeking absolution. From what we’ve been able to put together, Maxwell sought out his half brother, but still kept his identity secret from everyone else. Makes you wonder if he had the brother in mind for this very purpose all along, doesn’t it?”

I thought about Walter’s story; wondered what level of insanity it took to not only murder your family but plan it for God knows how long before doing it.

“If Maxwell had had the foresight to kill his brother’s mother, we would probably be sitting here right now wondering how the hell a dead man had risen from the grave,” Walter said.

I asked, “So what has the Cain reference got to do with it? Other than that the psycho likes assumed names?”

“His half brother was a musician,” Walter said as if that would explain everything to me. I looked at him blankly. “Genesis. Like you said, everyone begetting one another.”