Matt Hilton - Dead Men's Harvest

‘I knew the consequences of going rogue. If I have to, then I’ll pay my dues.’

‘We’re talking murder, son.’

‘Don’t forget I’ve also outstayed my visa,’ I said. ‘I don’t even have a green card. What’re the chances that I’ll be kicked out of the country as an illegal immigrant?’

‘You can joke at a time like this?’

‘I’ve cried all the tears I’m going to, Walt. I’ve none left to shed.’ I hadn’t wanted to believe that Walter would lie to me about my brother’s death. I’d suppressed the doubts, the way I’d suppressed the tears. The only ones I’d allowed were those I’d shared with Jennifer on the boat, and when she’d finally boarded her airplane home.

Walter hung his head, but it wasn’t from genuine shame. ‘I should have come clean about John. I’m sorry.’

‘Sorry doesn’t cut it, Walter. When did it happen?’

‘Three days after Jubal’s Hollow.’

Three days. A long time before I was sent after Luke Richard, before I foiled Carswell Hicks’ and Samuel Gant’s racist plot to detonate a dirty bomb in Manhattan. On both those occasions Walter had used me and I’d gone along with him through loyalty. Well, wasn’t I the misguided fool?

Walter noted the anger building in me. Misreading the signs, he tried to appease me. ‘He didn’t suffer, son. John never regained consciousness and despite the best care he died from complications. I wanted to tell you…’

‘But then you’d have had nothing to hold me on,’ I snapped. ‘I felt indebted to you while I thought you were protecting my little brother. Fuck sake, Walter! Why didn’t you just tell me?’

‘It wasn’t my decision, son. I was ordered to keep his death from you.’

‘Who ordered you, Walt? Your Arrowsake bosses again? Or was it just the CIA this time? There must be a shortage of assassins if you’ve to keep me around like a fucking attack dog.’

‘I’m sorry, son…’

‘Don’t,’ I said.

He blinked up at me, incomprehension plain on his wide face.

‘No father would treat his son like that.’

‘Joe, if there was any way, I’d have changed things.’

‘You’d have saved John over Cain, would you?’

‘You know I would have, goddamnit!’

‘So tell me the truth. What was the real reason for sending Hartlaub this time?’

‘Extra protection for you, help to get Jennifer free, what else?’

‘I think he was there to bring Cain in alive, and that makes me wonder who would have been sacrificed to ensure that. Luckily, Hartlaub proved to be a better man than that.’

‘I can’t believe that you’d even suggest that…’

‘Walter. Hendrickson was dead. Even if he wasn’t, the case against him wasn’t going to go ahead, because you knew all along that your star witness couldn’t testify. If all you wanted was Jennifer safe and Cain dead you could have sent in an entire team of Navy Seals. Instead you chose to send me and one of your own men. Like I said, Hartlaub was sent to protect Cain, not kill him. Hartlaub witnessed first hand what Cain was capable of and realised — in wanting to keep him alive — what kind of monsters he was serving. Thankfully he chose to disobey his orders…’

‘You’re deluded, Joe, but if that’s what you think then there’s nothing I can do about it.’

‘It’s just the way it is,’ I said.

Suddenly, Rink rounded on Walter and I thought I’d have to step between them. But it was Rink himself that was hurting. He was feeling the betrayal as much as I was. ‘That ain’t right, Walter. You can do something… a goddamn apology wouldn’t go amiss.’

‘I’ve said I’m sorry,’ Walter said.

‘No, Walter. You just repeated what you’ve been ordered to say. Just like you always do.’

Walter shook his head sadly. He knew that Rink was right. His face reddened, in itself proof of his guilt. I was too wrung out to push him further but Rink wasn’t finished with him yet.

‘Even if Joe’s wrong about you, you still brought this on everyone. You realise that Cain wouldn’t have needed stopping if you’d admitted that John was already dead. Son of a bitch! Hendrickson wouldn’t have got him outa prison, and all of those people wouldn’t have died as a consequence. Bryce, Hartlaub, Louise… everyone! I hope you’re fucking proud of yourself, Walter?’

The old man looked around the cabin, taking in the plastic sheets and the chemical smell, and that was a more potent lesson than any Rink could fire at him. He sat in his chair, pulled out his cigar and dropped it on the floor. Then he folded at the waist, placed his face in his hands and began to weep.

We left Walter to grieve alone.

This latest episode of my life had begun with me standing over the headstone of a loved one, and it had come full circle. On that first occasion Imogen had been by my side, and she was this time as well. The difference now was that we weren’t in the freezing north but out on the West Coast in a graveyard bathed in warmth and sunlight. It didn’t make the place any less depressing. I stood there, round-shouldered, as I peered down at the forlorn grave marker. Imogen had slipped her hand into mine, and she held on, her pledge that she’d be there to help carry the burden fulfilled. I welcomed her presence, because I’m not sure how I would have handled things if she wasn’t there.

‘I don’t believe this,’ I said.

‘Can’t you have it changed?’

‘I could probably force the issue with Walter, but what good would it do? It would just cause more heartache.’ In my other hand I was carrying a small wreath, but it seemed pointless placing it on this grave.

The headstone was a plain marker devoid of embellishment; there were no other floral tributes, no one had been by to tend the grave and it was now strewn with weeds. A name had been chiselled into the rough granite, but that was all. The name did not match that of the man buried below it, and that’s what hurt the most. When Tubal Cain supposedly died that first time, the CIA needed a body to fill his coffin. They had lied about the identity of the Harvestman, placed all the blame on the illegitimate brother of Martin Maxwell, and marked his grave accordingly. But it wasn’t Robert Swan who was in that grave, it was my little brother.

Imogen squeezed my hand. ‘Have you thought about having him exhumed and given a proper burial back home in England?’

‘No. I wouldn’t like to put my parents or Jenny and the kids through that.’

‘It would offer them a sense of closure,’ Imogen said, ‘and you, Joe. At least you’d have somewhere to go and show your respects. Instead of this… this mockery.’

‘No, Imogen, it’s not going to happen. Arrowsake will never allow the truth to come out.’

‘We could tell everyone, though. Who could stop us?’

‘They could, Imogen. I know now what lengths they’ll go to hide their dirty secrets. We would never be safe. I don’t want you to go through anything like this again. It’s like you said back in the Adirondacks, it’s behind us. Let’s leave it there. Let’s leave everything there.’

‘You’re sure, Joe?’ She looked at me expectantly. ‘Everything?’

‘I’m sure, love,’ I said and pulled her into my embrace.

When we walked away, I was still carrying the wreath.

Two days earlier…

The storm that had hit the North Carolina coast caused little structural damage, but all along the beachfronts of the Barrier Islands, residents were out cleaning the sands of the unsightly aftermath. They picked driftwood and rubbish off the beach, carting away the flotsam and jetsam on trailers and undertaking the minor repairs to windbreaks and fences with the spirit of camaraderie that came from such work. Community spirit was always at its highest following times of travail, and once the work was done, their triumph over the elements would be celebrated with barbecues on the beach. But that would come later.