Matt Hilton - Dead_s men dust

"Considerate son of a bitch," Rink muttered.

Then Cain was on the overpass, crossing the interstate, heading northward. On the bridge he slowed to a crawl, watched as we swung onto the off ramp. Then he gave the Dodge gas and peeled away.

"I guess we're getting close now, and he wants time to prepare," I said.

The GPS tracker had been obsolete for some hours now. Throughout it had traveled cradled in my palms, for no other reason than it stopped me?ddling with my gun. Luck, or maybe foresight, caused me to check the screen. The cursor indicating the latest triangulated location of the cell phone had?nally stopped moving. I didn't even bother to frown. Cain had discovered our deception. Maybe he'd found John was carrying the device as soon as they'd left the house at Long Beach; maybe it was much later. Whatever. When he'd slowed down, it wasn't to taunt us, it was to throw away the phone.

It was clear that he wanted us nearby. More clear was his need to buy a little time before we arrived at the meeting ground.

"Put your foot down, Rink."

"I can still see his lights," Rink said. "I won't lose him."

"He won't let you lose him," I said. "He'll make sure we know exactly where he is. But he'll be prepared for our arrival, and I don't want to allow him that advantage."

"You don't look so good."

Cain studied his passenger.

His words, he decided, were an understatement.

John was spread across the backseat of the Dodge like yesterday's fast-food wrappers; cold, soiled, and greasy. Blood from his wound caked his clothing all down his side. His hands were also reddish-brown and he had smears on his forehead. Perspiration oozed from him like water from a half-dead boiler.

"I said that you don't look so good, John," Cain said, watching John's eyelids?utter in the rearview mirror.

"Turn off the light, willya?" John mumbled incoherently.

"I need to check that you're okay," Cain said, but he reached up and?icked off the interior lights.

"Why? You're gonna kill me," John said, his voice coming out like marbles over a tin sheet. "Or have you forgotten?"

"You keep saying that. I might have a change of mind."

"Yeah, right." John forced himself to sit upright.

"Lay back down."

"I'm?ne."

"The road gets kinda rough up ahead. It would be better if you were lying down. Less chance you'll open up your wound again."

"My wound's?ne."

Cain gave a humorless laugh. "Suit yourself."

"Better than suiting you," John said with little conviction.

Cain drummed his?ngers on the steering wheel. "You know, I'm not sure this old heap will get us where we're going. Not in any shape, at least." "Won't matter," John told him. "You won't need it for the return trip. You'll be getting a lift in the coroner's car."

"Ha!"

"I mean it. You mess with my brother, you're buying your own body bag." "Keep thinking that way, John. Optimism will keep you alive." "I'm not gonna get outta this alive. I know that. I've known it all along. My only hope is that I see you die?rst."

"If anyone ends up dead, it'll be your high and mighty brother. Chances are I'll have to do Jared Rington, too." "You actually believe that?" "Are you saying that con?dence in my abilities is a bad thing? Shame on you, trying to tarnish my self-esteem."

"Nothing I say would make you think badly of yourself. You're a fuckin' psychopath." "Sticks and stones, John. Sticks and stones." "Stop being so damn patronizing. Why don't you come clean and tell the truth? You've intended killing me all along, haven't you? I can't believe you saved me from drowning so that you could murder me. That's so twisted, nobody would believe it."

"The truth is, you're here now. Makes no difference whether you believe me or not." John snapped, "You're gonna get your head handed to you on a plate. My brother isn't like me; Joe will kill you."

"Nah, I don't see things turning out that way."

John gave a disgusted cough, squirmed down in the seat. Either his strength was failing him or he'd decided that it was pointless talking. Not that it made a difference; if Cain wanted to talk, he would talk. "Now, then, where is the big bold Joe Hunter?"

Cain squinted into the mirror, adjusting it. Some distance back he could see the headlights of the pursuing SUV. In response, he turned off the Dodge's lights. "Don't want to make things too easy, now, do we?"

"I thought you wanted him to follow you?"

"I do, just not too closely."

"You might as well give up. Joe isn't gonna be reading you your rights. He's gonna put a bullet right between your eyes."

"Then I'll just have to make certain he doesn't see me, won't I?"

Cain grinned into the darkness.

The road had become a dirt trail, with ruts on either side and sagebrush along its center where the desert sand gathered. The moon hanging low over the horizon offered a little light, so Cain could make out the road ahead. Not that he needed to concentrate; he knew this trail as well as he knew his own dark heart's desires. Despite his misgivings about the worthiness of the Dodge, he pushed it to greater speed, smiling at each jounce and the wince of pain it elicited from his passenger.

"I bet you wish you hadn't pulled that stunt with the cell phone," he said. John didn't answer. "Right now you're thinking that-not only have you signed your own death warrant-but your brother's as well. Deep down, some errant grain of honor is festering like a malignant cancer, eating away at your insides. You're thinking, I should've paid my dues and spared the others. Now I've put my brother in terrible danger."

"No," John said. "I'm thinking you're so full of crap I can't stand the stench any longer. I'm outta here, you maniac!"

Then John grabbed the door handle and thrust the door open. The rush of wind banged it back against him.

Cain would never admit to panic, but realizing John's insane plan, he let slip a shout of denial. He immediately stomped on the brakes. John's body was thrown forward, and his forehead slammed the back of Cain's neck. The shock of the collision knocked Cain's hands off the steering wheel, and momentarily he had to?ght both the movement of the vehicle and the wave of agony washing over him. In those few seconds, John threw his weight against the partly open door and fell away into billowing dust.

"Son of a bitch!" Cain screamed, stomping on the brake pedal a second time. The Dodge?shtailed, sending up plumes of dirt, ending up crossways in the road. He threw open the door and lurched out, eyes scanning the road for John. Not on the road. He began running. In the distance were the telltale lights of Hunter's car.

Forty or so paces along the road he found John sprawled at the base of a gnarly cactus. Momentarily he feared that John was dead, but then he saw the?re in the man's eyes as he squirmed around to face him.

"You stupid, stupid idiot," Cain snarled.

"Screw you," John grunted.

Cain stepped forward as John attempted to rise up against him. Cain's foot pushed him down again, pressing savagely against the wound in his chest. John screamed. Cain pressed harder. And the screaming stopped as John passed out at last.

Cain grabbed him, thrust his arms around John's chest in a bear hug, and began backpedaling. Dragging the groaning man, Cain looked up. Hunter's lights were some distance away, but looming nearer. "I should just leave you here to die, you goddamn ass. Leave you in the road so your freakin' brother rides right over you."

It was a hollow threat because he still had a plan for John Telfer.

The enigma that was tubal cain kept nagging at me.

How does a psycho like Martin Maxwell bluff his way through the rigorous selection processes employed by the Secret Service? How does he manage to conceal his true self-a depraved stalker and murderer-and pass himself off as normal?