Matt Hilton: Dead_s men dust

"Don't say I'm not grateful for your help," the man called down. Then he turned to go. "Wait!" Cain shouted.

"What?"

"I'll do you a trade."

"There's nothing you have that I want."

"You sure?"

"Positive."

"How's about the keys to my car?"

That got his attention.

"Throw them up here."

"No."

"Throw them up here or I'll shoot you."

"No. Like I said, I'll do you a trade."

"Just throw the damn things here or I'll put a bullet in you."

"You do that and you won't?nd the keys. While you were off gallivanting, I hid them. Fair enough, they're not too far away, but it'll take you a while to?nd them. Are you sure you want to waste precious time looking for them for the sake of one little request? You know, you could kill me, but what if someone was to come along while you were still searching for the keys? Are you prepared to kill them as well? Could even be a cop."

The man swore impolitely.

Cain grunted in amusement. "One little request," he repeated.

"All right, but you give me the keys?rst."

"No. You get something from my car?rst."

More profanity. Then, "So what the hell's so important?"

"Look under the front passenger seat. You'll?nd a utility belt. Bring it to me, please."

"Okay, but then you give me the keys. And no messing around."

"Deal." Cain lifted one hand off his head and gave the driver a thumbs-up.

What could the man do but acquiesce?

"Don't move. I'll go and get your utility belt. But if I come back and you've moved as much as an inch I'm going to kill you."

"Deal." This time he put up two thumbs.

He knelt in the gravel, ignoring the sharp edges of rocks against his knees like a monk in penance. He attained Zen tranquility through the mantra of "Mack the Knife" hummed to himself.

"You liar." The man's voice broke the trance. "The keys were in the car all along."

Without looking around Cain shrugged.

"I've got a good mind not to give you your bloody bag for that," the man said. "It's no good to you," Cain pointed out. "You may as well leave it." "I took a look in your bag, mister. Hope you don't mind, but I wanted to check there wasn't a gun inside. Didn't want you chasing me up the road taking potshots at me." "Well, now you know there's no gun. Just leave it there for me, please."

"What's with all the knives?"

"Just a passion of mine."

"They don't look expensive. Not the kind of thing anyone would collect." "I use them in my work, that's all. And you're right, they're not expensive. So it'd be pointless stealing them." "What the hell's so important about them if they aren't expensive? You were prepared to risk a bullet for the sake of a few old knives?"

"Just call it sentimental value. I've had them a long time. They hold a lot of memories." Cain turned and peered over his shoulder. He held the gaze of the driver. "Indulge me, will you?"

The man dropped the utility belt on the ground, kicked it down into the arroyo. "Don't climb up from there until you hear me driving away. I'll be watching."

A wink. "Understood."

"Good."

As he was commanded, Cain waited until he heard the SUV grum ble to life, then recede into the distance. What would be the good of rushing? A footrace with a 4x4 wouldn't offer good odds.

First, he retrieved the bottle of water. It felt tepid against his palm. Then he picked up his belt. He didn't need to make an inventory of its contents. He could tell merely by its weight that something was missing.

"You thieving asshole!" He tore open the pouch. His Bowie knife was gone.

This changed everything. He practically hurled himself up the arroyo wall. Reaching the top on his elbows and knees, he lurched up, took half a dozen running steps toward the road. The taillights of the SUV were mere pinpricks in the distance.

"I'll see you again, thief." His promise was as righteous as his fury. "I'll see you again. And when I do there's gonna be hell to pay."

So there you have it. why I hotfooted it to the U.S.

I took an evening?ight to Miami. On the?rst leg out of the U.K., I slept for hours. I dreamed of people screaming. After transferring planes in New York, the nightmare was with me still. I couldn't sleep, so sat staring out the window. Surreal cloud formations were a mild distraction. They piled all the way down the East Coast. Rink hadn't been exaggerating; storms were raging across Florida.

The air-conditioned terminal tricked me. I stepped out into rain, which I was used to, but the cloying humidity slapped my face like a hot rag.

Damp with the rain and wringing wet with sweat beneath my clothes, I walked toward Jared Rington's Porsche Boxster with a grimace of greeting for the big guy. Christ, I hadn't seen the brute in two years. Rink pressed a button and dropped the passenger-side window.

"What's with all the bags, Hunter?" he asked, nodding at the two I carried. "Figuring on staying a month?"

"As long as it takes."

"Fine by me."

I nodded at him. "Are you gonna invite me in or do I stand out here all night getting even wetter?"

"S'long as you don't get any stains on the upholstery," Rink said.

I checked out the Porsche, then looked down at my sodden clothing. "Maybe I'd best take a taxi," I said.

"The hell you will. Jump in. Toss your bags on the back shelf… if they'll?t. Otherwise you're gonna have to keep them on your knee. That's the problem with these beauties-no trunk space."

"Not much room for anything."

"I didn't buy a Porsche for its capacious luggage-handling qualities," Rink said.

"You got it to impress the young ladies, huh?" I clambered in, clutching one bag to my chest.

"Yup. But to be honest, I don't score as often as I used to in my old pickup truck."

Previously clean-shaven, he now sported what looked like a hairy caterpillar on his top lip. He caught me staring at it. He checked himself out in the rearview mirror. "What's wrong with my mustache?"

"Makes you look like a porn star," I said.

Rink grinned unabashedly. "Yeah, so I've been told. But then again," he puffed out his chest, "I've also got the goods of a porn star."

"Dream on, Casanova," I said. "Don't forget, I've seen you in the showers."

"Yeah," Rink agreed. "But you're forgettin' what battle stress does to a man. Sometimes adrenaline makes you shrink up like that."

"Never seemed to affect me," I told him as he was pulling away from the curb.

"Trouble is," Rink said, his tone losing its bantering edge, "nothing ever seemed to affect you the way it did us mere mortals. I sometimes used to wonder if you know what fear is."

"Oh, don't you worry," I said. "There were plenty of times I was scared to death."

"It didn't show."

"It was there, Rink. I just didn't let it show."

We joined a freeway headed west. "I made a coupla calls," Rink said as our journey took us toward Tampa. "Spoke to an old friend out in Little Rock. You don't know him. Harvey Lucas. Ex-military. A good man. I worked alongside him during Desert Storm. Met him again by chance a few years back an' kept in touch since. He's done some diggin' around for me."

"So what's he come up with?"

"Not much. First day on the job."

"Anything's a help."

"He went to see this Louise woman."

"And?"

"She wasn't exactly friendly. Said she'd speak to nobody but you."

I nodded. Her reluctance made sense. "In her letter, she said that John had been acting strange, afraid of something. She could also be scared. I suppose she's not going to say too much to a stranger asking about John's whereabouts."

"Even after he mentioned your name, she wouldn't give Harvey diddlysquat," Rink said. "But he was able to set up a meeting with her. Tomorrow afternoon, three o'clock, after she gets off work. Another thing he found out: seems your brother liked to gamble."