option but stop them.’
‘But you lost him anyway.’
‘I did, and before I was through with him.’ Emotion played across the prisoner’s face. ‘But now you’re offering me the chance to finish what I started. I’m indebted to you.’ He arched an eyebrow, waited. Finally, the host nodded to Getz, and the henchman slowly made his way round the table. The prisoner held up his wrists.
‘This man you seek… he is poised to bring me down.’ The host used his glass to indicate the room, the house, his empire. ‘He’s about to give federal evidence in a trial that could take all of this away from me, quite probably my liberty, too. I don’t want that to happen.’
‘Release me, give me the resources we agreed and I’ll guarantee he isn’t around for the trial.’
Getz had arrived at the prisoner’s side. From a pocket of his jacket he took out a key, but still he wavered. ‘Are you positive about this, sir?’
‘Yes, Getz. There’s benefit to us all if we work together on this.’
Holding his semi-automatic close to the prisoner’s head, Getz began unlocking the cuffs. As he did, he whispered, ‘The boss might believe you, but I don’t think you can be trusted. You’re a psycho who should’ve been sent to the gas chamber. Give me the slightest cause and I’ll put a bullet in your head. In fact… I’m looking forward to doing just that.’
The prisoner’s grunt of laughter was as humourless as a block of granite. He nodded at the plastic spork. ‘I’m just looking forward to the soup.’
Getz snorted at the bravado, but there was wariness to his movement as he finished unlocking the cuffs.
‘So?’ asked the host. ‘We’ll work together on this? We have a deal?’
The prisoner rubbed the circulation back into his wrists. ‘Of course we do, Mr Hendrickson. We’re friends, OK? You have my word that I won’t harm you.’ The prisoner slowly swung his gaze up towards Getz who was still standing over his right shoulder. ‘But just so we’re all clear… I don’t like it when a two-bit punk threatens my life.’
Getz sucked in air.
He should have pulled the trigger instead.
The prisoner’s elbow rammed backwards and found Getz’s groin. Getz folded forward, grimacing in agony. The prisoner snatched at his gun hand, hauling Getz down, so that he sprawled chest first, his right cheek braced against the table. The prisoner stood up, leaning over him, even as he reached for the spork. Then, with the bowl braced against his thumb, he jabbed the rigid handle into Getz’s left eye.
Getz’s reaction was to scream, to pull away in panic, his hands going to his blinded eye. He was unaware that the prisoner now held his gun. The prisoner reminded him by placing two rounds in his chest and Getz sprawled backwards on the carpet.
There was the sound of a mass charge, and Hendrickson’s guards began spilling into the room.
The prisoner looked unaffected by their arrival, choosing instead to study the dead man at his feet. The bullets had pushed chunks of broken bone out of Getz’s chest. He curled a lip in distaste, slinging the gun down beside the corpse. Guns, in his estimation, were for vulgar killers.
Seeing the gun thrown away, Hendrickson waved off his guards. They all began backing out of the room. The maitre d’ also had the sense to leave.
‘That was a little unfortunate,’ Hendrickson said. ‘Getz was a good man.’
‘He was an asshole.’
‘I told you I didn’t want any of my men harmed.’
‘And I agree from here on. But if we do this,’ the prisoner said, his ravaged throat pinching the words, ‘we do it as partners. I won’t be anyone’s lap dog and I won’t take shit.’
They stared at each other. Both men were under no illusions: if he wanted to, the prisoner could kill Hendrickson before any of the guards could come to his assistance.
‘Deal,’ said Hendrickson, moving forward and putting out a hand.
The prisoner took it, sealing the bargain.
‘So, partner?’ asked Hendrickson. ‘You’ve gone by so many names in the past. What do I call you now?’
The prisoner thought for a moment. ‘There’s only one name I want to be known by,’ he finally said. ‘I am Tubal Cain.’
Chapter 6
Standing in the centre of the bloodbath, I tried not to ask the question, but I couldn’t stop it: ‘The bodies were mutilated, but were they whole?’
‘By whole, you mean were all the parts accounted for?’ asked Hartlaub.
I closed my eyes. ‘That’s exactly what I mean. Did the murderer take anything? You know what I’m talking about. Trophies?’
Hartlaub grimaced. It was all the answer I needed, but the last I wanted to hear. ‘They had bones missing,’ I said.
There were times in my soldiering career when I thought I’d seen the worst that humanity could inflict on another person. I’d seen people maimed, blinded, shot, cut, blown apart, but even those vivid images paled when I tried to imagine what Walter and his bodyguards must have endured. These murders hadn’t been driven by simple expedience. Neither had the mutilation been down to punishment, or even plain hatred. Whoever had dismembered these bodies had delighted in the task and there was only one man I’d ever come across who could conceive of such barbarity. The problem was: the Harvestman was as dead as Walter was now.
In a cavern beneath the Mojave Desert I’d rammed a human bone through his throat and watched him bleed to death. I’d watched the light go out of his crazed eyes. Martin Maxwell, once a Secret Service agent, had been buried and the government had covered the shame of one of their own being responsible for his crimes. His headstone bore a different name. As far as the general public knew, it wasn’t Maxwell but his stepbrother Robert Swan who’d masqueraded under the name of Tubal Cain. Outside of the establishment I was one of the few people who knew otherwise.
So had I been misled as much as everyone else? On more than one occasion I’d challenged Walter on the explanation for Cain being whisked away on a gurney. That first time, when I’d wanted to ensure the bastard was dead, Walter, in his usual enigmatic style had come back with the rejoinder; ‘We don’t bury the living.’
But that was exactly what he’d done.
‘OK, Hartlaub. The charade’s over. Take me to Walter.’
‘Charade?’ Hartlaub had made a career from lying, could come over as plausible even under the closest of scrutiny. But we weren’t enemies and he allowed the corner of his mouth to turn up. ‘Walter is dead, Hunter.’
‘And so is Martin Maxwell, right? The son of a bitch…’
I wasn’t sure who my final words were aimed at, whether Cain or Walter. I suppose that they were for Walter because they’d have been much stronger fired at the man who’d savagely tortured my younger brother, John. Walter had lied to me, sworn that Cain was dead and buried, and now he was adding to the lie by faking his own death.
‘Where is he, Hartlaub? I don’t want any more bullshit. Walter escaped this, didn’t he?’
‘OK, keep it down, Hunter. There are guys within earshot who are under the impression that Walter died alongside his guards.’
Taking in the splashes of gore, I counted where men had fallen. ‘Looks like three men did die here. Walt’s guys were killed, but who was the other unlucky bastard?’
‘You know him, I’m told.’
I had an idea where this was leading. I did know a guy, a friend and fellow fisherman who often accompanied Walter to the cabin.
‘You’re talking about Bryce Lang?’
‘Yes. Poor fucker must’ve been mistaken for Walt.’
I could see how that could have happened. Bryce had also been CIA. He was of an age with Walter, had the
