Heirs of Cain (26 page)

“Read it,” Seneca repeated, his voice harsh, cold.

Simon’s trembling fingers uncurled from the gun. Now was not the right time. That would come later, when the Indian was ready to leave. That’s when the situation would be most favorable. He’d put a bullet in his brain, take the yacht out in the Bay, weigh the body down, and dump it overboard. No one would have to know, not even Karl.

Seneca stepped forward, grabbed Simon by the throat. “I’m tired of waiting,” he hissed. “Read the message.”

Simon brought the paper up into the light and read the message, enunciating every word clearly and precisely. Karl would have been pleased.

Seneca nodded, like a satisfied elementary school teacher. He released his grip on Simon’s throat, stepped to the rail, and looked out at the sea.

“Very good, fatman.” Seneca continued to stare at the calm Gulf waters for nearly a minute, then abruptly turned and started to walk away.

“There’s more,” Simon said, his right hand again dropping into his pocket.

Seneca turned back around. “Read it.”

“Tuez le messager
.” Simon wadded the paper into a ball and clutched it in his fist. “I hope you know what that mumbo-jumbo means, because Karl didn’t clue me in.”

Seneca moved forward, that quicksilver smile on his face. “Just keep your eyes on me,” he whispered into Simon’s ear, “and I’ll show you what it means.”

Seneca took Simon’s arm, lifted it up, and removed the Beretta from his hand. He stared at Simon, shook his head, and laughed softly.

“There are dreamers, and there are men of action,” Seneca said, tossing the gun overboard. “You, fatman, are a dreamer.”

Anger and hatred rose like white-hot lava within Simon. His lips curled back like an angry pit bull’s. He silently cursed himself for not taking out the Indian earlier, for ignoring his basic instincts. It was too late now. He’d missed his chance. All he could do now was wait for another time, another opportunity. And there would be another time. He’d make sure of that.

“You have your message,” Simon said. “So, unless you want to tell me what those words mean, why don’t you scat?”

“I said I would show you.”

“Okay, so fuckin’ show me.”

The Indian delivered a hard kick to Simon’s groin, an on-target blow that sent the big man crashing to the deck. Simon groaned loudly, rolling from side to side, his meaty hands covering his injured genitals.

Seneca knelt beside him, held up the knife, and smiled. The moonlight danced along the side of the blade. Simon’s wide eyes, filled with fear, followed the knife until it came to rest directly below his sternum.

“No, Seneca, please! Dear God, why?”

“Just following orders,” Seneca answered.

“Karl’s? Let me talk to him. I can work things out.”

“Not Karl’s. Yours.”

“Mine?” Simon said.

“Tuez le messager
. Know what that means?”

“What?”

“Kill the messenger. And you, fatman, are the messenger.”

Simon began to whimper. “I’m begging you, Seneca, have some mercy.”

“Don’t worry; you won’t feel any pain.”

Seneca placed the tip of the blade right under Simon’s sternum, angled the knife downward slightly, then drove it upward with a fierce thrust. The strike was made with surgical precision, narrowly bypassing the rib cage and puncturing the heart.

Simon died instantly. As promised, he felt no pain.

Midnight.

Cain lay on the bed, eyes closed, listening to the mixture of Manhattan sounds—car horns blaring, a Hispanic man exchanging obscenities with a black woman, police sirens, jazz from a club across the street. The sounds drifted in and out like a movie soundtrack being played for a blind man.

He was dressed in Levis, a white Polo shirt, and Nikes. Sleep edged into the picture, but he quickly shunted it aside. He had to stay awake, be alert. He thought of phoning Lucas, dismissed the idea as dumb. Then he thought of checking in with Kate but quickly assessed that notion as being even dumber. His only play: do nothing until hearing from Andy Waltz.

At 12:30, the phone rang. He reached for it, cleared his throat, and said, “Houdini?”

“I have an ad
dress for you,” Waltz told him. “Five fifteen Fifth Avenue, suite ten.”

“Lush territory.”

“Very pricey. You won’t find much riff-raff around there. Apparently our friend has done well for himself.”

“Or for others,” Cain said. “Does he live alone?”

“I can’t know everything, pal. Sorry.”

“I forgive you. Will I have any trouble getting in?”

“No. Just so happens I have a good friend who lives there. Suite seven. You buzz her, tell her who you are. She’s expecting you.”

“You’re still a magician, Houdini.”

“The best, Cain. Just like you.”

The woman, her voice husky but warm, answered the buzzer immediately, made an off-color remark about Waltz, then opened the door to the building. An unsmiling security guard lowered
The Racing Form
and shot Cain a nasty look. Cain walked briskly past the guard, who lit a cigar, then returned to his handicapping.

As always, Cain rejected the elevator in favor of the steps. Elevators were death traps; too confining, no means of escape. An upright coffin. A smart assassin avoided them if possible.

Suite ten was on the third floor, so Cain walked up to the fourth floor, waited five minutes, then walked down one flight. Seneca’s suite was at the end of the hallway, on the left.

Standing outside the door, Cain closed his eyes and visualized what he was about to do. This was blood time at its most dangerous. This was Seneca, a worthy, deadly, vicious opponent. The most lethal opponent he would ever go up against.

This was no time for mistakes.

But Cain immediately sensed something was off. The scene had a bad smell, a too-easy feel to it. What he might expect from a lesser foe. For one thing, the door wasn’t locked. Seneca would never leave himself that vulnerable. Also, the music coming from inside was too loud. No way Seneca, or anybody else inside, could possibly hear an intruder. Seneca would never be that careless.

Slowly, Cain turned the knob and nudged the door open. He dropped into a crouch and eased inside. In front of him Seneca sat on the sofa, locked in a tight embrace with a dark-haired woman. Their backs were to him, so he crept closer, his mind racing, his thoughts telling him that this was too easy, that a novice could successfully execute this take out. Mixed in was a feeling of disappointment. This wasn’t how it was supposed to play out, not when two giants collided. This wouldn’t be a kill worthy of a legend.

He carefully circled behind the sofa, stopping at the position that gave him his best angle from which to launch his attack. Seneca would go first, quickly, a judo chop to the Adam’s apple, followed by a savage blow to the bridge of his nose. In three seconds, his deadliest rival would be history.

The girl? He would have to kill her as well. She was an innocent victim, a loose end, and loose ends can’t be left dangling. Eliminating her was ugly, but necessary. He would do it swiftly, humanely.

In a move that took less than a heartbeat Cain grabbed Seneca by the neck, rolled him onto the floor, and prepared to deliver a blow to the throat. He drew back his right hand, fingers extended, ready to inflict the fatal blow.

Only, it wasn’t Seneca.

The face staring up at him, though registering total fear, was an almost-identical version of Seneca—twenty-five years ago. Identical down to the most minute detail. The black eyes, square jaw, high cheekbones, dark skin, movie star looks. A remarkable resemblance in every critical detail. With the exception of the age difference, this was Seneca.

Cain stood, looked at the terrified woman, then helped the young man to his feet.

“Please,” the Seneca clone said, shaking with fear, “I have no money, but whatever else you want, you can have. Just don’t hurt us.”

“Who are you?”

“Joey … Joey Rainwater.”

Cain motioned toward the woman. “Who’s she?”

“Emily. My girlfriend.”

“Where’s Seneca?”

“Who?”

“David Rainwater.”

“Florida, I think. At least, that’s where he said he was going.” Joey looked at Emily, then at Cain. “You’re not going to hurt her, are you?”

Cain tilted his head toward the sofa. “Have a seat and relax,” he instructed, softly. Emily, terror still etched on her face, followed his command. “What’s your connection to David Rainwater?” he asked Joey.

“He’s my brother. Half-brother, actually.”

“I didn’t know he had a brother.”

“That’s not surprising. You see, David’s mom died and his father married my mother. My mom was only eighteen or nineteen at the time, much younger than my father. When I came along, David was already in his mid-twenties and in the Army. So we haven’t been close like typical brothers. Fact is, I hardly even know him.”

Cain scoped the suite. “Who picks up the tab for this place? You?”

“Are you kidding? I’m studying film at NYU. I couldn’t afford a room at the YMCA, much less this place. Nothing in here is mine except for some clothes and the video equipment. No, my brother pays.”

“Place like this … David must be doing okay.”

“Yeah, I guess so.”

“What’s his line of work these days?”

“He’s a consultant for some big oil companies. Halliburton, Exxon, companies like that. Works overseas, mostly. I think he does, anyway. Me, I don’t ask too many questions.” Joey looked at Emily, forced a smile, whispered, “I love you,” then looked at Cain. “How do you know my brother?”

“Army.”

“A friend from the old days, huh?”

“Something like that.”

“Throwing someone to the floor is a strange way to greet a friend,” Joey said.

“We play rough.” Cain shifted his gaze to Emily. “Still scared?”

“Yes.”

“Don’t be. You’re in no danger.”

She smiled weakly. Joey moved around and sat down next to her. He leaned over and kissed her on the cheek. After a long silence he turned to Cain and said, “Why are you looking for my brother?”

“What makes you think I’m looking for him?”

“I don’t buy the story that you’re some long-lost Army pal who just happened to drop by for a visit.”

“You’re a smart kid, Joey. No, you’re right. That story’s bullshit. Truth is, I need to give him something. It’s extremely important. That’s why I need you to help me find him.”

Joey put his arm around Emily and pulled her closer. “I don’t know how I can help.”

“Did your brother say where in Florida he was going?”

“No, he didn’t.”

“Ever hear him mention the name Simon Buckman?”

Joey shook his head. “Not that I recall.”

“What about a phone number, an address? How do you reach him in case of an emergency?”

“I couldn’t, unless he just happened to call here. He never gave me a number where I can contact him. Like I told you, my brother is seldom here, and when he is, he never talks about his business or his travels. Sorry.”

“When was the last time you did see him?”

“About a week ago. He came by to pick up some stuff. Stayed about thirty minutes, then booked.”

“Any idea when he might be coming back?”

“No.”

Cain walked to the door. “Sorry about the rough stuff, but you do bear a striking resemblance to your brother.”

“Physical resemblance is about the only thing we have in common,” Joey said. “From what my father tells me, David and I are as different as good and evil.”

“I’d say your father is absolutely right.”