Dead Men's Dust

    'It'd make sense, I suppose. If he has this notion that they're Jubal

and Tubal Cain reborn, it'd only be right that he'd attempt to make amends. You think the killings are symbolic? Y'know, Bible-related?'

    'Nothing in the Good Book that extols the virtues of offering up body parts,' Walter said.

    I was puzzled. 'So what do you think he's doing?'

    'Don't know. Could be making soup stock for all I know.'

    'John said that they had an arrangement, that he would see it through to the end. That he'd sacrifice himself for the old woman. You don't think he was literally talking about sacrifice?'

    'Hmm,' Walter said. 'Sacrifice is something that appears in the Old Testament. Maybe it's something that would appeal to Maxwell.'

    Until now I'd been relaxed enough about going after John. But with this new understanding of Tubal Cain's intentions, I was off the bed in an instant.

    'We can't stand around here any longer,' I said. 'Where's Rink?'

    'Cooling his heels next door,' Walter said. As I started for the door, he said, 'Hold it, Hunter.'

    'You aren't in a position to stop me, Walter.'

    'I don't intend stopping you. That's not why I was brought in. I want to give you my blessing. And to ask you a favor.'

    I stirred restlessly. 'A favor?'

    'A favor. When you kill the son of a bitch, you don't breathe his name to anyone. Ever.'

    I scowled at him. Then nodded slowly.

    'Help me, Walter. Give me the resources I need to find the bastard, and I promise you that Marty Maxwell—or Tubal Cain, or whatever the hell his name is—will be buried without a trace.' 'I knew I could count on you.'

36

back on the road again.

        I knew then, even as we sped away in a commandeered government SUV, that the outcome was bound to be bloodshed. The only thing that gave me heart was that I wouldn't be the only man doing the bleeding. By the grim set of Rink's features, he knew it, too. Cain had made two implacable enemies in us, and I could almost pity the fool. Almost.

    Rink drove. I held the Global Positioning Satellite receiver supplied by Walter. On the display screen a red cursor blipped on a map of the Los Angeles area. Periodically the cursor shifted on the map, meaning not only that Cain was still on the move but that he hadn't yet realized that John was in possession of the cell phone.

    It could only be a matter of time before Cain discovered John's duplicity, or the makeshift tracking device became obsolete when John was buried in a Dumpster or sunk to the bottom of a river.

    Going for us was the fact that Cain was using diversionary tactics to shake off pursuit. Guessing that he might be followed by more conventional methods, he was taking surface streets and alleyways to navigate the sprawling city. Though he had more than an hour's lead on us, we'd been able to gain back much of that time by following a direct route. Another thing that very quickly became obvious—even though he often backtracked or ran parallel to his intended target—Cain was making for Interstate 10, the main eastward route out of Los Angeles.

    Initially picking up the 405, we hurtled north past Redondo Beach toward LAX, struck eastward on the 105, then again headed north on the 110, hoping to cut Cain off where the two major routes converged near the downtown L.A. Convention Center. It was apparent that it wouldn't be as easy as that when Cain jinked northeastward, skirting the center of the city on its northern border, while we continued east again toward Interstate 5 and became snarled in traffic.

    I watched the cursor skip across the map, pick up Interstate 10, and continue past the Rose Bowl as Rink cursed and pressed on the horn, attempting to force our way through the traffic.

    After twenty minutes of very little forward progress, the traffic began to open out ahead of us, and Rink pressed the throttle with disregard for the speed limit. Slaloming in and out of lanes, he gained open road and booted the SUV.

    Picking up Interstate 5, we made the short trip northward before meeting Interstate 10 again and swinging in pursuit of our quarry, now more than thirty minutes ahead of us.

    'We can still make it,' I told Rink. 'The prick's certain he's in the clear. He doesn't seem to be traveling much over sixty.' I glanced over at the odometer. Rink was pushing the SUV to 120 miles an hour. 'If you can keep this up, we'll catch him in no time.'

    'Darn tootin' I can keep it up. If all these goddamn Sunday drivers would get the hell outta my way.' To add weight to his promise, Rink laid his hand on the horn, causing vehicles ahead to swerve out of our way.

    It was an exhilarating ride. If it weren't for the fear of arriving too late to save John, I'd have whooped and howled like a kid on a roller coaster. Instead I stayed grimly silent, my gaze on the GPS screen. I didn't have to be so observant. Cain was already out of the urban sprawl and headed toward the vast American southwest.

    Even at breakneck speed, it was almost an hour before we caught sight of the Dodge hijacked from the house at Long Beach. We were tempted to continue at top speed, attempt to catch and then force the Dodge off the road. Though I didn't want to believe that John was dead, now, at least, we could stop the Harvestman's reign. Of course, stopping him here would bring further complications.

    Conclusion? It would be more prudent to follow at a safe distance and act when there was no likelihood of an innocent passerby being caught up in the gunfire.

    Cain wasn't a fool. He was a crazy, murderous bastard, but he was also shrewd. Along with that, he'd been trained as a government agent, and it was a given that he was an expert driver, versed in all manner of countersurveillance measures and reactive driving. We fell into line, allowing more than a quarter of a mile, and at least four vehicles, to separate us. Though that was a meaningless exercise.