Matt Hilton - Dead_s men dust

"So it stands to reason," Rink acquiesced, "that he heads out to sea to avoid the cordon of blue lights converging on the harbor." "Coast guard has their base to the north. It's what I'd've done," I told him, and Rink nodded in agreement.

"So who is this guy? You think it really is this Harvestman the media's screaming about?"

"Has to be," I said. "It'd explain why John's?ngerprints turned up in connection with the killings of that couple at the motel. Somehow, John's got himself into something way beyond his ability to get out of. Only thing I can't fathom yet is what part he's playing in all this. I can't believe he'd be a willing participant to murder."

Rink said, "Maybe you don't know John the way you think you do."

"You keep saying that. Maybe you're right, Rink, but until I'm proved wrong, I prefer to give him the bene?t of the doubt."

"Fair enough," Rink said. "But what if he has turned, Hunter? What if your brother has acquired a taste for blood? What if he's a god-damn willing participant?"

I didn't answer for a moment, my gaze?xed on the horizon. Like the point where the sky and ocean met, my reason blurred into a haze of nothingness. Finally, I turned to Rink and saw that he was studying me with an intensity common to him. I blinked slowly, breaking the connection. "If that's the case, it puts a whole new slant on my purpose for?nding him."

Rink nodded sagely, lifted a hand, and placed it on my shoulder. "Let's hope it doesn't have to come to that, huh?"

A shout from behind us broke my melancholy and I turned to squint back at the skipper who was at the wheel of the boat.

He was pointing with excitement toward the shore. A little more than?ve hundred yards away I saw what he indicated. To me, it was nothing more than one more boat tied to a short pier.

Together, Rink and I made our way back to the skipper's cabin. He was grinning. "The dinghy over there," he said with an exaggerated nod of his head. "It's from the Morning Star."

"The Morning Star being one of the yachts moored in the harbor?" I asked.

The skipper snapped his?ngers, then pointed a gnarled digit at me. "Got it in one."

"How can you be sure?" Rink asked.

The skipper's eyebrows did a little jig. "I've been around them boats all my working life. I know what skiffs belong to what and to whom. Not only that, but if you look at the painting on the outboard, you can see that it's a?ve-pointed star coming up over the sea, not the sun, as you'd expect."

I squinted across the waves. I could barely see the outboard motor, never mind the motif on it. I looked back at the skipper, and he grinned again.

"I'll trust your better eyesight," I told him. "But couldn't there be a rational reason why a dinghy from the Morning Star would turn up here?"

"None that I can guess at," the skipper said. "No, I suppose not." I looked back at the dinghy. "Can you bring your boat in close to the same berth?" "Tide's a bit low for my girl. I'll get in as close as I can, but you might have to wade to shore."

"Okay," I said, turning to Rink. "You ready for this?"

Rink patted the bulge under his armpit. "Ready, willing, and able."

Returning my attention to the skipper, I indicated the beach house a short way up from the jetty. "Do you know whose place that is?" He shook his head. "I'm good with boats, haven't a clue about houses." I shrugged. "Okay. Can you get the emergency services on your radio?"

"Yeah. Of course."

"Yeah," I agreed. "Once you've put us ashore, shout for help. Tell the cops to get to this location as fast as they can." The skipper was no naive old fool; he knew we'd chartered his boat for the strict purpose of hunting someone?eeing the scene of devastation up at Marina del Rey. What he didn't know was exactly who we were chasing. Or why.

"You expecting trouble, son?" he asked.

"Maybe of the worst kind," I told him.

"So why don't you wait till the cops get here before you go ashore?" he asked. For the?rst time, there was a hint of something less than his ordinary ebullience.

"We could have some kind of hostage crisis. I can't wait for the cops to get here before any innocents are harmed." The?rst was for the old man; my next was directed at Rink. "If the men we're after have already been and gone, I've got a horrible feeling that there'll be some cleaning up to be done. Best we leave that to the authorities this time."

Rink nodded in understanding, while it was the skipper's turn to squint at the rapidly approaching shoreline. He didn't ask for an explanation and I offered him none. He guided the prow of the Bailey toward the jetty, and as he'd predicted we were more than?fteen feet short of the boardwalk when we felt the judder of sand beneath us. The skipper threw the boat into reverse, edging back until we were in clear water. From the front of the boat, I gave him a thumbs-up and the skipper nodded at me.

"You want me to wait for you?" he called from the cabin.

I shook my head over the sound of the idling engine. Whatever the outcome, I didn't believe I'd be boarding a boat again anytime soon. "Maybe it's best you pull back from the shoreline. Could be bullets?ying around before long."

"I appreciate the warning, son, but you don't have to worry about me. Completed two tours in Vietnam, so the prospect of?ying bullets means nothing to me."

"Fair enough, but I don't want your death on my conscience."

The skipper grunted, but then he winked, dipped the peak of his cap. "It's your mission, son. Keep safe. An' tell your big buddy to do likewise."

"Will do," I said, glancing Rink's way. He was standing at the prow, scanning the beach for movement. His shoulders twitched, adrenaline searching for release. As I walked toward him, I placed my hand under my armpit and felt the reassuring bulge of the latest SIG Sauer supplied only an hour earlier by Cheryl Barker. It was the older Swiss P230 model, with no manual safety button, so the weapon could be brought into action very rapidly. Brought back memories from my Point Shooting days.

We went over the side of the boat together, splashing waist deep in the foam. Sand immediately invaded my shoes, and my trousers clung to my skin. I forgot my discomfort as we pushed toward the dinghy.

"Blood," Rink observed even as we approached. It was smeared over the edge nearest the dock as though something limp and lifeless had been dragged onto the walkway. I pressed up to the boat. More frothy blood was pooled in the bottom. Rink and I shared a look. All this blood wasn't a good sign that we'd?nd John alive, but it meant my hunch was correct after all. There couldn't possibly be a more likely explanation for this boat to be here than that it had carried escapees from the carnage at Marina del Rey.

Pulling my SIG out of its holster, I chambered a round. I heard a similar kachunk! as Rink followed suit with his Mossberg. We followed the dock on to the beach. Rink fanned off to my left. Before us was a wooden house with a well-tended yard. A dust-streaked Dodge was parked alongside the house. There was no further room in the lot for another vehicle so I guessed that John-if he was still alive-was inside the house. Not good in one sense, it added to my apprehension of a possible hostage situation escalating beyond my power to control.

Rink was twenty yards away now, moving toward the house. I sucked in a deep breath and moved onto a gravel path that led to the door of the house.

I saw spatters of blood on the doorstep. Hearing the sputter and roar of an engine, I saw that the skipper was heeding my warning. I wondered if he'd already called for backup, and then searched the sky for a helicopter.

Nothing.

Just a single speedboat hurtling along about a quarter of a mile to the north. Even from here, I could tell it was a private boat, so I gave it no further thought. Even if the skipper had immediately called the authorities, they were still many minutes away. Which meant I had no time to waste: if John was inside, especially accompanied by the Harvestman, I had to take decisive action before any innocents were injured.