'You driving, Rink?'
'Just setting off. But you can keep on talking; I got a twenty-
minute drive. Just ignore me if my language gets foul, but the I-75's a bitch even at this hour.'
Rink maneuvered his Porsche through the Florida traffic. My runin with Shank and his goons was just another war story to us. The creative use of a seat belt as a noose won me kudos. So did the fact that two major assholes would be walking with crutches for a while.
I got around to the note from John's current girlfriend and the plea made by Jennifer. My promise to help.
'You always were a soft touch, Hunter,' Rink said. 'Never could turn down a damsel in distress.'
'She's also my sister-in-law,' I reminded him.
'Sister nothing. If you'd never met her before, you'd still be coming out here.'
'Now you're starting to sound like Diane,' I said.
'Your lady was right in a lot of respects,' he pointed out.
'Even Diane would understand this time. It is my brother we're talking about.'
'No argument from me, Hunter.'
Even if I didn't crave the kind of action that keeps me alive, I couldn't turn my back on my brother. For all that the last time we spoke, I threatened to punch his face.
'You've missed him, huh?'
'Like a hole in the head.'
It was a good place to lighten the conversation. 'So how's the Sunshine State?'
'A contradiction in terms, my man. Rain's coming down in torrents. Third day in a row. They sure don't show that on no 'Come to sunny Florida' TV ads, do they?'
'I'll pack for the weather, Rink. But can you set me up with the necessaries?' Mentioning a key word— particularly
Rink said, 'Leave it to me. You want I get you a couple of day passes to Universal Studios?'
'Best you do. Hopefully I'll have a little time for sightseeing; I don't want to be wasting time queuing.' More code.
'Sounds like we could be in for some fun, Hunter.'
'Fun isn't the half of it,' I said.
6
tubal cain was in his element. driving a flashy car in the dark with the highway all to himself.
Interstate 10 was one of his all-time favorite places, stretching all the way from Jacksonville, Florida, in the east to Santa Monica, California, in the west. A transcontinental artery with no less than three of the largest cities in the United States straddling its route. Houston, Phoenix, and Los Angeles were all ground he knew. But what appealed to him more than the cities was the transcontinental highway itself. It was a popular backpacking avenue across the states. Throughout its length there wasn't that great an elevation change, and even in winter the daytime temperatures were generally warm. He could almost guarantee a year-long stock of wandering lambs.
George and Mabel—or whatever they were really called—were good examples of what could be achieved by one as enterprising as himself. Okay, he'd only gained a couple of thumbs for his collection, but consolation was his in the form of the scorched motor home he'd left behind.
He'd spent some time in all the major tourist centers along the way, sampling the atmosphere of each before moving on. He'd thor oughly enjoyed the vibrancy of New Orleans, the Cajun flamboyancy of Lafayette, the history of San Antonio, where he'd used his Bowie knife in tribute to Colonel James Bowie, who'd met his death there. He'd sampled the culture, the music, and the southwest flavor of Tucson while hunting students in its universities. Forging westward to Santa Monica, he'd found easy pickings amid the crowds jiggling for elbow space on the world-famous pier.
Then there was Los Angeles itself, his current destination. A city he found best suited his way of life, where he could ply his trade and fear little consequence. What with all the gangs shooting and hacking each other up, his two previous victims gleaned from South Central L.A. had barely raised more than an eyebrow.
His return was overdue. He intended executing a series of atrocities that would force even the jaundiced eyes of the LAPD to take note. If he could achieve that, then he would be cementing the foundations of his notoriety.
But that didn't mean a little fun along the way wasn't allowed.
Arriving in L.A. a few hours later than originally planned was no time at all to quibble over. Not for one whose name was destined to last an eternity.
He flicked on the turn signal, politely showing his intention to pull onto the wide shoulder, even though there was no traffic behind him. Politeness was a virtue Tubal Cain believed he held in abundance. The man waving for assistance by the side of the road would never guess that such a gracious driver could be so dangerous.
'Boy, is this your lucky day,' Cain said. The wing mirror made a fine TV screen for the man jogging up to his SUV. Road Runner kicking up a plume of trail dust as he charged into Wile E. Coyote's trap.
Cain noted the possibility of trouble. Though harassed and worn down by the attempt to resurrect a dead engine, the man appeared moderately young and fit. Might put up a bit of a fight if not taken carefully, he
