Matt Hilton - Dead Men's Harvest

As a consolation prize, Cain lifted a steak knife from the silver service galley and went to thank the TV guy for his hospitality. Up close his eyes were a little crossed, and he had accepted Cain’s hand without listening to a goddamn word, but when Cain walked away again he was palming a strip of cloth snagged from the asshole’s necktie. Neither the mogul nor his inept guards realised how close Cain had got to slipping the knife under the man’s sternum and into his heart. Cain returned to his seat, and showed Jennifer his prize. She was decisively underwhelmed, as the TV guy was wont to say. Cain spent the flight rubbing the fabric between his index finger and thumb like it was an executive stress ball.

On arrival at Baltimore/Washington International, Cain had mingled with the noisy group, swaying along with the rest of them, even cackling with everyone else at a girl who went down on her hands and knees on the tarmac. As the giggling TV mogul lent his arm to the stoned girl, Cain supported Jennifer on his elbow and handed over both their passports. Used to dealing with celebrities and dignitaries, the security was lax and the couple were waved through as readily as all others in the entourage. Their fake passports would have passed muster even if Homeland Security had studied them, but the young guard manning the booth at the private entrance had eyes only for the beauties that flanked the haughty celebrity star-maker. The leggy blonde who’d recently taken the tumble was a minor celebrity in her own right, having been a stand-out on a countrywide talent show. Her mediocre singing voice might have ensured she was voted through each week, but the way she was nibbling on the TV boss’s earlobe indicated a more likely explanation.

Cain was pleased to be leaving them all behind and quickly veered away once they were through the first-class arrivals lounge.

Cain had a van waiting outside and helped Jennifer in and strapped her into her seat. For good measure he gave her another shot of anaesthetic to ensure she remained drowsy. Regretfully, he’d dumped his weapons back in the UK, but there was another set waiting for him on the passenger seat. He had been mildly surprised to find that everything was in order for his return, but it seemed that Kurt Hendrickson’s name carried weight even after his death.

News of Hendrickson’s demise had filtered through to him via the gangster’s contacts back in England. Cain hadn’t been upset at the news. Neither was he surprised. He had cautioned Hendrickson that Joe Hunter was remorseless, but his warning hadn’t been taken seriously. He was only amazed that Hunter had allowed Baron to escape when he had him in his sights. That was a big mistake, because the man had taken the loose reins of Hendrickson’s empire and was even now plotting vengeance. That he had organised the pick-up and supply of weapons for Cain meant that Baron intended using him to finish Hunter once and for all. Well, Cain thought, let Baron think he was in command, but he would be used by no one. Especially by someone who’d made so many mistakes that he was becoming a liability.

Following a foolhardy attempt at having Hunter captured by the police, Baron had fled back to the house where Jared Rington had been tortured, and where Sigmund Petoskey subsequently died. Cain had no intention of taking Jennifer there, because it was already on Hunter’s radar. Instead he’d have her held somewhere neutral, a place that he could control. If only Jubal’s Hollow had gone undiscovered… but his ossuary had been dynamited, the ground levelled, and it was now a featureless destination for ghoulish tourists following the serial killer trail.

Climbing in the van, he studied the man who was at his disposal. He liked that choice of word: disposal. He’d been so well behaved on his jaunt to England, maybe he could try out his new knives when the driver was no longer needed. He’d taken bones from Jeffrey Taylor and his bodyguards in Montana, as well as from the CIA man in the Adirondacks, plus a couple treasures from Michael Birch, the cowardly DA’s assistant, but since then his collection of trophies hadn’t grown. From his trip to England he’d only gleaned the tail-end of a waitress’s apron and a strip of a multi-millionaire’s necktie — though they were still valuable trophies. No, wait. He did have one other trophy and it was worth more than any he’d taken since his escape from Fort Conchar. He looked into the back of the van to where Jennifer Telfer slumped in her seat.

Jennifer would bring John Telfer to him.

He wondered if the woman was enough to bait his trap, or if he should have brought the two children along as well. The problem with that scenario was that getting all three of them into the country undetected would have been nigh-on impossible. No, he decided. He recalled his conversation with Ol’ Johnny Boy, and how the man had wished only to do right by his family. He would not want the mother of his children to die: Jennifer still meant an awful lot to him, Cain was sure, and would bring John running to save her.

Of course there’d be one other coming to rescue her, too.

Bring it on!

Almost as much as he wanted his final reckoning with John Telfer, Cain looked forward to reacquainting himself with Joe Hunter.

‘I’ve a bone to pick with you,’ he said.

‘Say what?’

‘Private thoughts,’ he told the driver. ‘Just do what you’re supposed to and drive.’

‘Would if I knew where you wanted to go.’

Cain studied the man, giving him more attention this time. He was a hard-faced punk, fair-haired, with a wispy beard, and spectacles perched on a crooked nose that looked like it had been broken more than once. He had the look of a street fighter, and from the tattoos on his forearms Cain deduced that he’d had a tough upbringing. The coded tats were de rigueur in prison yards for someone who had killed another man. If Cain had followed that practice he’d need a body the size of a house.

‘You don’t know?’

‘I didn’t ask.’

Cain nodded. The driver was to be trusted. By omitting knowledge of a destination, he was showing that he wasn’t leading Cain into a trap. Thoughtful, Cain decided, but unnecessary. The driver was still at his disposal, whether or not he was trustworthy.

‘Take us to the harbour at Baltimore,’ Cain said.

‘You have someone meeting you there?’

‘No. I’m hungry and I hear they have great crab cakes.’

The driver adjusted his spectacles before setting the van rolling. Along the way, he cast sidelong glances at his passenger, generally followed by frowns that marred his rugged complexion with even deeper folds. He had no concept of a man like Cain, but then again, not too many people did. Cain ignored him, choosing instead to lean over the seat and keep an eye on Jennifer. She was sleeping, her head drooping over her chest. She’d have a hell of a stiff neck when she woke up, but Cain could help loosen it with a few expert probes of his knife. He smiled at the thought, and in his mind’s eye began stripping back the outer dermis to display the spine hidden beneath.

Taxis rocketed by, but the driver held the van at a couple miles below the speed limit. He had no intention of giving the local cops a reason to pull them over. The distance to Baltimore was short, and within half an hour they were moving through traffic that had slowed to a crawl as it navigated the routes into the centre of Charm City. Jennifer’s eyelids began to flicker: she was lost in a dream, but as long as it wasn’t a nightmare and she started screaming, she was of no concern for now.

Cain eyed a Gothic building standing alongside more recent skyscrapers. The look of the building conjured years gone by, an anachronistic monument to older, simpler times. Cain grunted when he saw that it was an original Bank of America tower; nothing simplistic about that. Now the tower was a symbol of control and order, the antithesis of everything he stood for. He turned his eyes from it and towards the Inner Harbor directly ahead of them. From their slightly elevated vantage he could see across to the headland where Fort McHenry squatted, but he’d had quite enough of forts in the last year or so. Instead he directed the driver to the left, passing the Spirit of Baltimore that was moored at the wharf, and a twin-level collection of restaurants and boutique shops. Towering over it all was the World Trade Center, an odd construction with five sides, and beyond it a massive indoor aquarium complete with a cascading waterfall tumbling through a faux rainforest. A Hard Rock Cafe, a book store and sports bar dominated a reclaimed power plant and offered lively entertainment. None of those sights held any attraction for him.