Matt Hilton: Dead Men's Harvest

Ordinarily Walter travelled with a small retinue of bodyguards. I’d regularly been in the same room as his two most loyal protectors and it struck me that I’d never learned their names. I wondered if I’d do so now, on the roll-call of the deceased. If Walter had been murdered, then those two guys would surely have died alongside him.

Brigham led the way towards the back porch. A stern-faced duo watched our approach, men in dark suits and shades, ridiculous attire for this weather. Hartlaub mirrored my pace as we followed.

‘It’s not pretty inside,’ the CIA man said.

‘He’s still here?’ I was surprised. Walter deserved more dignity than to be left so long where he’d fallen.

‘Walter has been moved, but… well, wait and you’ll see what I mean.’

Brigham spoke to the two gorillas in suits and then waved us forward. One of the door guards stared at me through the lenses of his shades. Muscles bunched in his jaw as I stepped up on to the porch, and he averted his gaze. His action, waving me through the door, was a little rushed as though he didn’t want to be under my scrutiny for too long. I went by, studying him in profile. He snapped his face away, staring ahead like the sentry he portrayed. I let it go at that and followed Hartlaub and Brigham inside.

The other times I’d been in Walter’s cabin, I’d always entered via the front. I had never been in this rear section of the house. There was a kitchen, no frippery, no knick-knacks, just utilitarian equipment. There was also a bedroom, the door standing open to show a room as masculine as the kitchen. A bed, a dresser and a wardrobe was all the furniture Walter possessed, and there wasn’t even a carpet on the floor. The rooms reminded me of a monk’s quarters and made me wonder if Walter’s reason for coming here was penance of a sort.

A short passage led to the large open space of the living area. The door was shut, but even so I could smell the stench from the room beyond. Hartlaub and Brigham had said that Walter had been killed earlier that day, so the stink wasn’t that of decomposition. It was the kind of smell that lingers in a slaughter house: the sickly sweet fumes released from gutted carcasses. Hartlaub’s warning rung in my ears.

Brigham pulled a small jar from a pocket and offered it around. It was a vapour rub, but not for anyone’s aching muscles. When neither Hartlaub nor I accepted his offering he uncapped the jar and smeared some of the menthol gel under his nose. Cop trick, to keep the stench at bay. It seemed that, like me, Hartlaub had been around enough dead bodies for it no longer to affect him.

Brigham opened the door and the warm rush of wind almost took my breath away. The overriding odour was the coppery tang of spilled blood. But worse than that was the gag-inducing putridity of voided bowels and spilled stomach contents.

Despite being inured to the after-effects of slaughter, I couldn’t stop myself from pinching my nose. Beside me Hartlaub stood stoically, but his eyes were watering as much as mine. We moved tentatively into the room, squeezing past Brigham who looked content to remain at the threshold.

Investigators had been and gone, bodies tagged and shrouded and carried away, so only the aftermath bore witness to what had happened here.

It was like a maniacal artist had taken a couple of gallons of red paint to the walls and floor, with splashes and ribbons of blood everywhere. Other pools on the floor made nightmarish Rorschach designs, and there were hunks of skin and hair adhering to the carpet and furniture. Bullet holes stitched patterns in the walls. A chair had been knocked over, a settee thrown down on its back. I didn’t have the expert eye of a detective, but even I could tell that at least three men had died here. Something else: this wasn’t the result of a normal hit. This was the work of someone — or some thing — demented.

I turned from the scene of horror and met Hartlaub’s eyes.

‘You told me Walter didn’t suffer.’

Hartlaub shrugged. ‘He didn’t. Most of the blood you see here was from post-mortem dismemberment.’

Two days earlier…

Prisoner 1854 was reborn.

He arrived at his rebirth in a sleek, black limousine, and a flunkey reached down and opened the rear door for him, like he was an honoured guest. Stepping out of the limousine on to a driveway bordered by shrubs and tinkling fountains, he cast his gaze over a building that spoke of opulence rivalling that of movie stars and pop legends. He tipped a genteel nod at the servant who held open the door. The

man grunted, then waved him forward with the barrel of a. 38. So much for that illusion.

Behind him, two more guards took up position as he was marched unceremoniously towards the entrance of the mansion. Other guards flanked the doors, grim-faced men with hard bodies. Beneath their jackets, they wore automatic handguns in shoulder harnesses. Out in the sculptured gardens other men moved, some craning for a look at him. He returned their looks of disdain with a slight lifting of his chin.

Inside the foyer, a man waited. He was conventionally dressed in grey slacks, white shirt and a deep blue sports jacket, but that was where convention ended. His short dark hair was gelled and spiked, and he was wearing sunglasses that changed colour according to the strength of the light. Right now they were a yellowish green: the colour of decomposing flesh.

He held a semi-automatic pistol loosely by his side.

The prisoner held up his cuffed wrists. ‘Do you think these could come off now? Either that, or you put away your guns?’ His voice sounded like tearing paper.

‘The cuffs stay on for now.’

The prisoner shrugged. ‘Fair enough. But, just so you understand.. I didn’t trade one cell for another.’

‘That all depends on what the boss decides.’ The gunman, dismissing the others with a jerk of his head, led the prisoner through a sumptuous vestibule and into an equally lavish dining room.

Sitting at the head of a large table was a grey-haired man who watched the prisoner with eyes like slivers of Arctic winter. The prisoner looked back. His own pale eyes were a match for the seated man’s. Killer’s eyes. Well met, he thought.

‘Please,’ the grey-haired man said. ‘Take a seat.’

The table was large enough that, when he sat down, the prisoner remained well out of grasping range of his host.

The man with spiked hair went around to the other side of the table and sat opposite him. He slipped off his sunglasses, hooking them in the top pocket of his jacket. He placed the handgun on the table, alongside cutlery that had been laid out for a meal.

The prisoner noted that his hosts had the best silverware, but on his side was a plastic spork, one of those utensils you get with a pre-packed salad from a delicatessen.

‘You know who I am?’ The grey-hair was a square-faced man, his features a natural swarthy tan, offset by the vividness of his eyes.

The prisoner placed his cuffed wrists on the table. ‘Of course I do. You are my benefactor.’

The host smiled. He waved and his maitre d’ came forward pushing a trolley. The severe looking man began serving entrees. Around his feverishly working hands, the grey-haired man watched his guest. ‘I admit to being surprised when you contacted me. I didn’t think it would be possible from inside a prison as secure as Fort Conchar.’

‘I had my ways. It’s frightening how easy a prison guard’s greed can be played upon, don’t you think?’

‘You were certain that I would help you escape,’ said the host.

‘You had the finances available. We both share a mutual hatred of a certain individual. It was a done deal in my opinion.’ The prisoner lifted his cuffs. ‘ These I did not anticipate.’