Matt Hilton - Dead_s men dust

A slow walk took him around to the driver's side. Peering inside he saw no sign of his stolen Bowie knife. It meant one of two things: either the knife was concealed out of sight or the thief had it with him in his hotel room. Considering the third option wasn't pleasant: that the thief might have dumped the knife somewhere along the way.

Finished with the car, he made his way toward the front of the hotel. It was a three-story affair, built on land barely a stone's throw from Route 405. Prime location, except that larger hotels blocked the view of the ocean. The name of the hotel was a marketing lie. Probably wishful thinking. Either that or the name was thirty years out of date.

Inside, overhead fans spun indolent circles in lemon-scented air, the lobby as cool and clean as a spring morning. Cain's rubber-soled shoes made a soft squishing sound on the faux-marble tiles, barely dis turbing the tranquility. On his right was a long reception desk behind which was a small of?ce area. A young woman, a California cutie with straw-colored hair and rosy cheeks, was bent over a computer. Cain smiled at her, but she didn't as much as raise her head. Spreadsheets held more interest for her than a handsome man. Cain walked on past her toward the communal dining area.

The steward wasn't at his station. In fact, no one challenged him. The room was devoid of staff or any of the hotel's clientele. A glance at his wristwatch told Cain that it was too late for lunch and too early for dinner.

He stepped back into the lobby area, thinking about his best option. There were alternatives, but the sensible course of action would be to wait for the thief to show up at the SUV. From there he could take him out and regain what was rightfully his.

"Can I help you, sir?"

The blond woman had exited the of?ce and now stood at the reception desk. She had a sheaf of papers in her hands and a smile on her face. Apparently a handsome man did override the attraction of a spreadsheet.

To miss an opportunity would be tantamount to a crime. Without pause Cain swung toward her, affecting his best humble-and-caringguy face. "Yeah, uhm, I was wondering if someone could help me out. I didn't realize anyone was around when I?rst walked in."

Like many before her who'd come into contact with Tubal Cain, the receptionist was oblivious to his lies. The power of a smile and twinkling green eyes are never to be undervalued in a lunatic's arsenal. She waved the sheaf of papers in the general direction of her of?ce. "Sorry about that, I had my nose buried in some work."

Cain waved off her apology. "It's nothing, really," he said. "I just pulled in and noticed that a car outside has its lights on. Just thought I'd come in and let you know. Wouldn't like anyone to?nd a dead battery. Bit of an inconvenience for them."

The woman swung sideways, pulling a large ledger toward her. "What kind of vehicle is it?"

"Mercedes SUV. Black and silver. Has Nevada plates."

The woman checked the register. Opportunities presented must be grasped with both hands. As calmly as possible, Cain leaned over the counter, watching as she traced down a list of names with a well-manicured?ngernail. In the split second before she looked up, Cain turned his head aside and scanned a poster on the wall at the rear of the reception area as if it had held his interest throughout.

"I'll give the owner a call and let him know. I'm sure he'll be grateful for your help," she said.

"It's nothing," Cain reassured her, "but there's nothing worse than a dead battery. And it's so easily avoided, too. I'd only hope that if I were ever so careless, someone would do the same for me."

"Me, too," said the woman. "I remember one time I was at the mall and I left my lights on. Had to call a tow truck and everything. It was so embarrassing."

"And costly, I bet?"

"Oh, not too bad. It was more the inconvenience," the woman said. She covered the memory of her discom?ture with a hand over her mouth. To some the act would look coy, but to Cain it was reminiscent of a self-conscious halitosis sufferer.

"Pity I wasn't around that time," Cain said. "Could've saved you some trouble."

The woman's amused laughter was the tinkling of Christmas bells. Humble and caring guy strikes again. When she looked at him this time, it was with more interest. "Are you a guest here, sir?"

"No," Cain said. "I was just driving by and my phone rang. I don't have a hands-free kit, so I pulled over. Hope you don't mind me using one of your parking spots for a few minutes? I'd have been gone by now if I hadn't noticed the lights on the car I told you about."

"It's not a problem, sir. In fact, it's good of you to take the time to come in and tell me. Thousands of people wouldn't have even bothered."

"That's true," Cain said in agreement. But then again, he always did suspect that he was unique. "Isn't it sad, though, that people have got to a point where they'll just walk on by without offering a hand?"

"It is." The woman nodded. "Not many people I meet are as nice as you."

Ooh, the nice word. Cain thought she was nice, too. Unfortunately, he had wholly different reasons for his opinion. His estimation was based purely upon the judgment of the ossuary-building artist within him. Clark Kent's X-ray vision was no less penetrating than his scrutiny. She had a pleasing bone structure behind the rosy cheeks. A little plump, perhaps, so that he couldn't easily de?ne the?ne skeletal lines he adored. He glanced from her face to her hands. They were slim and long?ngered, the nails polished to a sheen. Now there were treasures he would cherish. Slowly he traced each digit in turn with his eyes.

She was aware of this examination. She stirred, ever so slightly uncomfortable under his gaze. Cain acted startled, offering her an abashed grin.

"Sorry. You caught me staring," he said. "It's just that… well, uh, you have such beautiful hands."

"My hands?" The woman didn't know how to answer, but she was?attered. Unconsciously she gripped the sheaf of papers tightly in one hand while she held out the other and studied it. Cain leaned toward her.

"I hope you don't think I'm giving you some sort of cheesy come-on," he said. "I'm simply speaking the truth. Your hands are lovely."

"Thanks," she said. "That's really sweet of you to say so."

The catch in her throat gave her an appealing huskiness. She coughed. Eyes darting toward the of?ce as though checking for a disapproving supervisor. The unashamed impression she was portraying was frowned upon by the hotel management, either that or she genu inely was as naive as she appeared. She discretely slipped her hands below the counter. Her rosy cheeks had become twin candy apples.

"Sorry if I'm embarrassing you," Cain said. "I don't mean to."

"No, it's okay. I'm not embarrassed." Despite her words, her cheeks were growing even redder. She dropped her chin toward her chest, swayed in indecision, then laughed.

Cain laughed with her.

"Look," he said. "I have embarrassed you. I'm sorry. Please accept my apologies."

He put out a hand and the woman reached for it re?exively.

They shook hands.

"Apology accepted," said the woman, still laughing.

Cain was slow to release her hand. He allowed his?ngers to trail along her palm, prolonging the sensation for as long as possible. One of his human frailties was a total lack of empathy, but what he lacked in compassion he more than made up for in sensory ability. He did not have the capacity to love a woman, but he did love to touch a woman.

He would lodge the sensation in some far recess of his mind, a memory to summon for later. If he couldn't have her hands, he could have the sensory recall of their touch whenever he desired. And that thought was enough to sustain him for now. The primary need on his agenda was his reckoning with the thief. Afterward, if everything went well-as it most de?nitely would-he could come back at his leisure and take her hands as genuine trophies.