Heirs of Cain (18 page)

Cain left Cam Ranh Bay by chopper and was dropped off in a clearing three kilometers from Da Lat. He worked his way through the jungle, eventually reaching the edge of the village an hour before sunset. There, back against the big tree, he waited until darkness fell. Until he was merely one more shadow in the night.

His two targets weren’t alone. A third man, armed with a machine gun, stood watch outside the back entrance. Cain was not surprised at seeing an extra body at the site; his faith in the accuracy of Army intel had long ago given way to doubt and skepticism. That led to Cain’s first Golden Rule: never put your fate in the hands of others.

The sentry leaned his weapon against the building, took out a pack of cigarettes, extracted one, and put it in his mouth. As he reached into his shirt pocket to take out a box of matches, Cain closed in quickly from behind. He delivered a sharp blow to the man’s throat, then a second blow to the neck. The man grunted, stumbled, and dropped to one knee. He was dead by the time his second knee touched the ground, his neck broken by a savage snap of the head.

Cain rolled the man’s body behind a large barrel, laid the machine gun in a flower bed, then slowly opened a screen door. As he moved down the narrow hallway, he could hear the sound of laughter coming from a small room to his left. He eased forward until he could see the two men. They were sitting at a table, each with a large paper cup in hand. An almost-empty bottle of Jim Beam rested on the table between them.

Perhaps it was the shock of seeing a black-face intruder coming at them like a crazed panther, or maybe it was the alcohol fog that denied movement, but neither man rose from his chair when Cain entered the room. The man dressed in military clothing fumbled his cup while reaching for his pistol. Cain went for him first, hitting him across the bridge of his nose with a judo chop. Blood spurted from the damaged nose, spraying the table and the Jim Beam. Cain moved behind the captain and snapped his head violently to the right, instantly ending his life.

The mayor sat frozen, immobilized by fear, eyes wide. He seemed incapable of moving, even as Cain reached out and grabbed him by the throat. His mouth moved, but no sounds came out.

Cain’s large right hand increased the pressure on the mayor’s throat, cutting off his air passage. Next, Cain pinched the mayor’s nostrils, eliminated the breathing process entirely. The panicked mayor began to violently thrash his lower body, kicking the table and knocking over the bottle of Jim Beam.

Cain looked the mayor squarely in the eyes and smiled. As the man continued his futile struggle to free himself, Cain tightened his grip. After several seconds, he removed his fingers from the mayor’s nose.

“I have one question for you,” Cain whispered. “Answer it and I’ll let you live. Answer by nodding or shaking your head. Got it?”

The mayor, gasping for air, his eyes wide and filled with tears, quickly nodded.

“Someone has been giving you top secret intelligence. Is that someone CIA?”

The mayor shook his head.

“Army?”

A quick nod.

“Out of Saigon?”

Another nod.

“Dooley?”

Shake.

“Maddox?”

A nod.

“You’re an honest man for a politician. I like that,” Cain said as he snapped the man’s neck. “But I’m not.”

Two days later, Cain met with Lucas and Westmoreland in Saigon. Neither man was surprised when Cain told them what he had learned.

“We have suspected it for some time now,” General Westmoreland said. “This simply confirms those suspicions.”

“Colonel Maddox has always valued money over duty,” Lucas added. “He’s not the first, and he won’t be the last.”

“This war is unlike any we’ve engaged in before,” Westmoreland said. “It’s certainly far different from the ones I have fought in—World War Two and Korea. The enemy here is strange and complex, but that’s only part of it. I have been here four years now, yet I have no concrete answer. And certainly no concrete solution.”

“The opportunity for corruption is the biggest difference I see,” Lucas said. “Hell, there are more two-legged snakes walking around in this country than there are snakes crawling on the ground. On both sides. I doubt God could tell the saints from the sinners in this country. Colonel Maddox is one bandit among many, and a small one at that.”

Westmoreland sighed. “I’m afraid you’re right, Lucas. This war, this country—it’s a breeding ground for criminal behavior.”

After Westmoreland departed, Lucas filled a glass with Chivas Regal and took a long drink. He moved to the window, stood there silently for several seconds, then turned back toward Cain.

“I know what you are thinking, and the answer to your question is no,” he said. “Maddox will be handled properly, in a military manner. I say that with some reluctance because my instinct is to let you have him. He’s committed treason, been a traitor, and for that he should pay the ultimate price. But … in this instance, that would not be the prudent action to take.”

Lucas set his glass down and moved next to Cain. “Are you okay with your new role? Are you at peace with it?”

“I’m a soldier, Lucas. Killing goes with the territory.”

“Yes … but—”

“Relax, Lucas. It’s blood time, and blood time is my time.”

Collins needed but two stops before finding a link to Deke’s whereabouts—a place called The Blues Cave on Chicago’s Southside. The owner, a rotund white man with large saucer eyes and a hideous hairpiece, was the chatty type, only too willing to provide information.

“Listen. Ask anybody about Big Lonnie. They’ll tell you I don’t want trouble with no one. But the big son of a bitch is just plain bad news. Has been ever since I’ve known him, and that’s been more years than I care to remember. I tried to get along with him, keep the peace, but not anymore. Now I don’t give a shit about him, so long as he stays out of my way.”

Collins ordered a ginger ale.

“Stayin’ away from the hard stuff?” Big Lonnie asked.

“Starting today,” Collins answered.

“Know what you mean. I gave it up years ago. Right before it got the best of me.”

Collins took a drink and looked the place over. Only two other customers were at the bar: a man sitting three stools to his left and a woman at the far end. The jukebox was on, Miles Davis playing soft and sweet and true.

“When was the last time you ran into Jefferson?” Collins said.

Big Lonnie scratched his head, careful not to disturb the hairpiece. “Couple of months ago, I guess. Let me think. Yeah, around the first of March. He was in here lookin’ for Trish.”

“Who’s Trish?”

“His old lady.”

“Wife?”

“I don’t know about that. Who gets married these days? All I know is they’ve been together off and on for about fifteen years. That’s who you need to talk to. She can tell you where he is.”

“How do I find her?”

“Place around the corner, up two blocks. Mariah’s. She’ll be there. Tell her Big Lonnie sent you. Me and her, we’re real close.”

Collins emptied his glass and placed two dollars on the bar. “Thanks.”

“Hey, man, you go easy on Trish. She’s one fine lady.”

Mariah’s Tavern was a small, intimate bar badly misplaced in what was otherwise a gaudy, blues-oriented district. It had an almost genteel ‘50s feel, more Tony Bennett’s kind of place than John Lee Hooker’s. The slightly elevated stage, which was bare except for a Baldwin piano, might have been awaiting the arrival of Frankie Laine or the young Ray Charles. Nostalgia was thicker than the cigarette smoke hugging the ceiling.

Collins walked to the end of the bar, where he was greeted by a tall, elderly woman with white hair, a still-beautiful face, and an aristocratic manner. Like the place she owned, Mariah also seemed to belong to another era.

“Hello,” the woman said, smiling broadly. She offered Collins her hand. “Name’s Mariah.”

“Pleased to meet you,” Collins said, accepting the hand.

“What’ll you have?”

“Actually, I’m looking for someone and I was told she might be here.”

“Oh, yeah? Who told you that?”

“Big Lonnie.”

“Big Lonnie tends to talk too much.”

“He’s definitely not the shy type.”

“So … who’s the mystery lady you’re trying to find?”

“Trish.”

Her smile gave way to a look of concern. “You the law?”

“No.”

She scrutinized his face with narrow, intense eyes. “What business do you have with Trish?”

“I need her help; that’s all. I’m not here to hassle her. A couple of questions and I’m gone.”

Her face relaxed. “That’s her at the table in the corner. Make it brief. Her next set begins in five minutes.”

The woman sitting alone in the dark was a petite brunette, mid-forties, dressed in blue slacks and a white blouse. A blue silk scarf was tied neatly around her neck, and a large diamond-shaped earring dangled from each ear. The passing years had not been particularly kind to her, yet they hadn’t been so unkind as to erase completely the evidence of a face that had once been truly beautiful.

Looking at her, Collins was struck by two things: the deep sadness etched on her face, and the color of her skin. Trish Underwood was white. He had never known Derek Jefferson to be particularly interested in white women.

She looked up, sensing his approach. Her brown eyes, swimming in sorrow, met his.

“Trish?”

She nodded but didn’t speak.

“My name is Mickey Collins. I need your help. Mind if I sit?”

She pointed to a chair across from her. He sat, then leaned forward, elbows on the table.

“What kind of help?” she asked.

“I need to locate Derek Jefferson. Big Lonnie said you might be able to help me.”

“How do you know Derek?” she inquired. Her voice was deep and strong.

“The Army. I was his commanding officer.”

“He told me about the Army. About Vietnam and the things that went on over there.” She breathed deeply. “Truth is, I suspect that’s the cause of most of his problems.”

She unfolded her hands and placed them palm down on the table. They were young-looking hands with unusually long fingers. Her fingernails were painted a deep red.

“Collins,” she said. “I don’t recall Derek ever mentioning anyone by that name.”

“What we did was highly confidential. We were trained to keep secrets.”

She stared straight at Collins. Once again he was struck by the deep sadness written on her face. This was a woman who had been through a lot in life, most of which hadn’t been pleasant.

“You know, some people are beyond help, no matter how hard you try,” she said. “Derek is one of those people. I tried to help him. Believe me, I tried. But he couldn’t—or wouldn’t—change.”

Tears welled in her eyes.

“Do you know where he is?” Collins asked.

“Around. He’s always around.”

“When was the last time you saw him?”

“About a week ago. He came by to let me know he was back from Florida.”

“Did he say why he went down there?”

“No.”

“Did he mention the names of anyone he knew in Florida?”

“Not that I remember.”

“Think hard, Trish. It’s important.”

“He didn’t say much at all about Florida. About anything, really.”

“What about South Carolina? Did you ever hear him talking about a man named Anthony Taylor?”

“No.”

“Cardinal. That mean anything to you?”

“No. Listen, we don’t see each other like in the old days. Things have changed.”

“You aren’t together anymore?”

That sad smile again. “Not for several years now. I wanted to make a go of it, make it work, and God knows I tried. But … how much is someone supposed to take? The race thing—we overcame that pretty good. But the violence, the beatings. I couldn’t take it anymore. So I left him.”

She looked at her watch. “I only have a minute or two.” She tilted her head toward the piano. “Gotta sing for my supper.”

“Do you have any idea where I might find him?”

“Butterfield’s most likely. He sometimes works there as a bouncer.”

“Thanks,” Collins said, standing. “If you happen to see him, don’t mention I was here.”

“Still keeping secrets?”

Collins nodded.

“Don’t worry,” Trish said. “Keeping secrets is something I’ve been doing most of my life. I’m very good at it.”

He turned to leave.

“Derek isn’t a bad guy. He just …” Her words faded into silence.

She rose from the table, climbed onto the stage, and settled in behind the piano. Her sad eyes found his.

“He’s a violent man,” she said, her voice softer than a whisper. “And he’ll die a violent death. I only pray that …”

As he walked away, the sweet melody of “Stardust” began to fill the room.