DEAD MEN'S DUST
M a t t H i l t o n
This book is dedicated in sad memory
to my beautiful girl, Megan Rose Hilton
(1989–2006). My first and foremost fan
and critic. I miss you dearly, Megs. Your
energy, I know, goes on. When the time
is right, I will see you again.
Prologue
Jubal's hollow.
Sounds nice, doesn't it? Like one of those gentle Appalachian towns with timber-framed houses and split- rail fences. Where life takes a leisurely pace: where people actually sit on their sun-dappled porches beside a pitcher of homemade lemonade with beads of condensation. Can you almost hear the rustle of branches overhanging slow-moving rivers, the shuffle of wildlife in the long grass?
Nice, huh?
The vision couldn't be further from the truth.
Try this instead.
Nothing but scrub, sand, and more sand. Blistering midday sun, unbearable cold at night. Harsh rock formations surrounded by a blasted earthscape. Nothing lives here.
Death is the only resident. Ever present. Waiting, waiting.
Look closely. Bones litter the sand, some the petrified remains of creatures that lived in the mud of prehistoric swamps, but some are more recent. There are the bones of birds and small animals that limped here searching for nonexistent water.
Occasionally the sand will cast up bones recognizably human.
Supposedly, a troop of Confederate soldiers fled here to the western desert when they were split from the forces of Jubal Anderson Early as he fought the Yankees at Waynesboro, Georgia. Rumor is that it's their bones that are occasionally stripped bare, left exposed by the wind.
There's another myth behind the hollow's name. In the Old Testament, blind-eyed Lamech had a son by the name of Jubal Cain, father of all who handle the harp and pipe. Jubal was said to be the first musician. This is a fitting place to carry his legacy.
Jubal's Hollow, a natural amphitheater, is noted for its strange acoustics. Wind can make it moan like a dirge of funeral pipes. It is a preternatural music of the dead.
But it is not the only connection to Jubal.
Jubal had a brother named Tubal, and if legend is true, he was the first metalworker. It was he who forged the first knife. But today it is another Tubal Cain who fills this place with the bones of men.
1
pain and fear transcend everything, and know no boundaries. It doesn't matter where you are. You could be in any metropolis in the world—New York, London, Paris, Moscow— and the parallels would remain consistent. There are differences in culture, in law, in language, but at their most basic level, civilizations share one undeniable truth: the scream of a victim sounds the same the world over.
Stepping off an airplane into the sticky heat following a Florida thunderstorm, the screams of my past were ringing in my ears. Somehow I knew that the hunt for John Telfer would add further memories of pain and anguish to my already full heart.
My quest had begun two days previously and an ocean's breadth away in England. There were screams then, too.
It was just like the old days. I was back doing what I was good at. Where I crouched, broken glass and rubbish littered the floor. Nearby, a train rattled past and last week's front-page news fluttered in the service alley. It wasn't all that stirred; the stench was terrible, a mix of urine and filth.
It chilled me.
Jennifer Telfer's curtains twitched inside her apartment.
She was scared. And that was to be expected. She knew why I was there, on the street, watching her place.
It wasn't me she was afraid of.
Some people call me a vigilante. That's their prerogative. I prefer to think of myself as a problem-fixer. When you're a single mother whose children have been threatened by violent men, you send for Joe Hunter.
A black BMW slowed at the end of the street.
'Here we go.'
It halted in front of the apartment building. There were three men inside: the harsh and aggressive men I'd been expecting.
First to step out was a large bald-headed man, busy pulling on leather gloves. From the back came a man equally tall. Unlike the first, his frame was lanky and thin. Together, they moved toward Jennifer's place.
The idling engine covered my approach. So did the blaring radio. The first the driver knew of my presence was when I tugged open the door.
