Matt Hilton - Dead_s men dust

"According to Marty's?le he was a single child. Both parents died years before. Mother died following complications during childbirth, father from congenital heart disease. Let's not forget that until then, he hadn't committed any crimes. It was put down as a murder-suicide. They believed Maxwell was dead and that was that. Case closed."

"But obviously he did have a brother?" I asked.

"Turns out he had a half brother called Robert Swan. Daddy Maxwell had been a naughty boy on his stag night, got an old sweetheart of his pregnant. It was Daddy Maxwell's best-kept secret. We only found this out afterward. The brother's mother noticed he was missing when her money stopped coming in. She's a lush, lives alone in a tenement up in the Bronx; seems like the son was sending her money whenever he could. A good boy. Looked after his ma, like any good boy should."

"But Maxwell found out about his brother? I thought you said it was a secret."

Walter grimaced. "Daddy Maxwell must've come clean in the end. Maybe he confessed his transgression on his deathbed. His wife was already on the other side; I guess he could've been seeking absolution. From what we've been able to put together, Maxwell sought out his half brother, but still kept his identity secret from everyone else. Makes you wonder if he had the brother in mind for this very purpose all along, doesn't it?"

I thought about Walter's story; wondered what level of insanity it took to not only murder your family but plan it for God knows how long before doing it.

"If Maxwell had had the foresight to kill his brother's mother, we would probably be sitting here right now wondering how the hell a dead man had risen from the grave," Walter said.

I asked, "So what has the Cain reference got to do with it? Other than that the psycho likes assumed names?"

"His half brother was a musician," Walter said as if that would explain everything to me. I looked at him blankly. "Genesis. Like you said, everyone begetting one another."

"I'm still not with you."

Walter raised a stubby?nger again. Sermon part two. "Well, if you've read your Bible you'll know that there was an old blind guy named Lamech."

"I must have missed that bit."

"Lamech had two sons. Jubal and Tubal."

"Yeah," I agreed. "I remember now. Jubal and Tubal Cain."

"Jubal was the inventor of music," Walter began.

"Tubal was the forger of knives and swords," I completed. "I see the connection now. If the brother, a musician, is synonymous with Jubal, that makes the Harvestman Tubal Cain."

"Took a load of FBI pro?lers to come up with that one."

"Hence Maxwell's love of knives?"

"Yup."

"And the bones?"

"Some of these pro?lers have got it in mind that he's set himself some kind of mission, that he's taking the bones from his victims for some express purpose."

"What?" I asked. "Other than that he's demented?"

"Believe it or not, they believe he's feeling remorse for the killing of his brother, that somehow he's attempting to make amends."

"Why his brother? Why not his wife and kids?"

Walter gave a body shrug. "It's just a theory."

"It'd make sense, I suppose. If he has this notion that they're Jubal and Tubal Cain reborn, it'd only be right that he'd attempt to make amends. You think the killings are symbolic? Y'know, Bible-related?" "Nothing in the Good Book that extols the virtues of offering up body parts," Walter said.

I was puzzled. "So what do you think he's doing?"

"Don't know. Could be making soup stock for all I know."

"John said that they had an arrangement, that he would see it through to the end. That he'd sacri?ce himself for the old woman. You don't think he was literally talking about sacri?ce?"

"Hmm," Walter said. "Sacri?ce is something that appears in the Old Testament. Maybe it's something that would appeal to Maxwell."

Until now I'd been relaxed enough about going after John. But with this new understanding of Tubal Cain's intentions, I was off the bed in an instant.

"We can't stand around here any longer," I said. "Where's Rink?"

"Cooling his heels next door," Walter said. As I started for the door, he said, "Hold it, Hunter." "You aren't in a position to stop me, Walter." "I don't intend stopping you. That's not why I was brought in. I want to give you my blessing. And to ask you a favor."

I stirred restlessly. "A favor?"

"A favor. When you kill the son of a bitch, you don't breathe his name to anyone. Ever." I scowled at him. Then nodded slowly. "Help me, Walter. Give me the resources I need to?nd the bas tard, and I promise you that Marty Maxwell-or Tubal Cain, or whatever the hell his name is-will be buried without a trace." "I knew I could count on you."

36 back on the road again.

I knew then, even as we sped away in a commandeered government SUV, that the outcome was bound to be bloodshed. The only thing that gave me heart was that I wouldn't be the only man doing the bleeding. By the grim set of Rink's features, he knew it, too. Cain had made two implacable enemies in us, and I could almost pity the fool. Almost.

Rink drove. I held the Global Positioning Satellite receiver supplied by Walter. On the display screen a red cursor blipped on a map of the Los Angeles area. Periodically the cursor shifted on the map, meaning not only that Cain was still on the move but that he hadn't yet realized that John was in possession of the cell phone.

It could only be a matter of time before Cain discovered John's duplicity, or the makeshift tracking device became obsolete when John was buried in a Dumpster or sunk to the bottom of a river.

Going for us was the fact that Cain was using diversionary tactics to shake off pursuit. Guessing that he might be followed by more conventional methods, he was taking surface streets and alleyways to navigate the sprawling city. Though he had more than an hour's lead on us, we'd been able to gain back much of that time by following a direct route. Another thing that very quickly became obvious-even though he often backtracked or ran parallel to his intended target-Cain was making for Interstate 10, the main eastward route out of Los Angeles.

Initially picking up the 405, we hurtled north past Redondo Beach toward LAX, struck eastward on the 105, then again headed north on the 110, hoping to cut Cain off where the two major routes converged near the downtown L.A. Convention Center. It was apparent that it wouldn't be as easy as that when Cain jinked northeastward, skirting the center of the city on its northern border, while we continued east again toward Interstate 5 and became snarled in traf?c.

I watched the cursor skip across the map, pick up Interstate 10, and continue past the Rose Bowl as Rink cursed and pressed on the horn, attempting to force our way through the traf?c.

After twenty minutes of very little forward progress, the traf?c began to open out ahead of us, and Rink pressed the throttle with disregard for the speed limit. Slaloming in and out of lanes, he gained open road and booted the SUV.

Picking up Interstate 5, we made the short trip northward before meeting Interstate 10 again and swinging in pursuit of our quarry, now more than thirty minutes ahead of us.

"We can still make it," I told Rink. "The prick's certain he's in the clear. He doesn't seem to be traveling much over sixty." I glanced over at the odometer. Rink was pushing the SUV to 120 miles an hour. "If you can keep this up, we'll catch him in no time."

"Darn tootin' I can keep it up. If all these goddamn Sunday drivers would get the hell outta my way." To add weight to his promise, Rink laid his hand on the horn, causing vehicles ahead to swerve out of our way.

It was an exhilarating ride. If it weren't for the fear of arriving too late to save John, I'd have whooped and howled like a kid on a roller coaster. Instead I stayed grimly silent, my gaze on the GPS screen.