Matt Hilton - Dead_s men dust

Jubal's hollow.

Sounds nice, doesn't it? Like one of those gentle Appalachian towns with timber-framed houses and split-rail fences. Where life takes a leisurely pace: where people actually sit on their sun-dappled porches beside a pitcher of homemade lemonade with beads of condensation. Can you almost hear the rustle of branches overhanging slow-moving rivers, the shuf?e of wildlife in the long grass?

Nice, huh?

The vision couldn't be further from the truth.

Try this instead.

Nothing but scrub, sand, and more sand. Blistering midday sun, unbearable cold at night. Harsh rock formations surrounded by a blasted earthscape. Nothing lives here.

Death is the only resident. Ever present. Waiting, waiting.

Look closely. Bones litter the sand, some the petri?ed remains of creatures that lived in the mud of prehistoric swamps, but some are more recent. There are the bones of birds and small animals that limped here searching for nonexistent water.

Occasionally the sand will cast up bones recognizably human.

Supposedly, a troop of Confederate soldiers?ed here to the western desert when they were split from the forces of Jubal Anderson Early as he fought the Yankees at Waynesboro, Georgia. Rumor is that it's their bones that are occasionally stripped bare, left exposed by the wind.

There's another myth behind the hollow's name. In the Old Testament, blind-eyed Lamech had a son by the name of Jubal Cain, father of all who handle the harp and pipe. Jubal was said to be the?rst musician. This is a?tting place to carry his legacy.

Jubal's Hollow, a natural amphitheater, is noted for its strange acoustics. Wind can make it moan like a dirge of funeral pipes. It is a preternatural music of the dead.

But it is not the only connection to Jubal.

Jubal had a brother named Tubal, and if legend is true, he was the?rst metalworker. It was he who forged the?rst knife. But today it is another Tubal Cain who?lls this place with the bones of men.

Pain and fear transcend everything, and know no boundaries

It doesn't matter where you are. You could be in any metropolis in the world-New York, London, Paris, Moscow- and the parallels would remain consistent. There are differences in culture, in law, in language, but at their most basic level, civilizations share one undeniable truth: the scream of a victim sounds the same the world over. Stepping off an airplane into the sticky heat following a Florida thunderstorm, the screams of my past were ringing in my ears. Somehow I knew that the hunt for John Telfer would add further memories of pain and anguish to my already full heart. My quest had begun two days previously and an ocean's breadth away in England. There were screams then, too. It was just like the old days. I was back doing what I was good at. Where I crouched, broken glass and rubbish littered the?oor. Nearby, a train rattled past and last week's front-page news?uttered in the service alley. It wasn't all that stirred; the stench was terrible, a mix of urine and?lth. It chilled me.

Jennifer Telfer's curtains twitched inside her apartment.

She was scared. And that was to be expected. She knew why I was there, on the street, watching her place.

It wasn't me she was afraid of.

Some people call me a vigilante. That's their prerogative. I prefer to think of myself as a problem-?xer. When you're a single mother whose children have been threatened by violent men, you send for Joe Hunter.

A black BMW slowed at the end of the street.

"Here we go."

It halted in front of the apartment building. There were three men inside: the harsh and aggressive men I'd been expecting.

First to step out was a large bald-headed man, busy pulling on leather gloves. From the back came a man equally tall. Unlike the?rst, his frame was lanky and thin. Together, they moved toward Jennifer's place.

The idling engine covered my approach. So did the blaring radio. The?rst the driver knew of my presence was when I tugged open the door.

"What the-" was all he got out before I hit him.

I aimed for the carotid sinus and struck the bull's-eye. Such a blow could prove fatal. Call me compassionate-I chopped him just hard enough to knock him out.

Leaning over him, I grabbed at the seat belt. It made a good noose. The remainder of the belt looped around the headrest and jammed into the door frame made it even better.

I caught up with the other two before they'd reached the apartments.

With a bent back, a cap pulled down over my hair, I moved toward them. I might as well have been invisible.

I straightened up and thrust the V of my thumb and index?nger into the bald man's windpipe. As his hands went to his damaged throat, I slammed my clenched?st into his solar plexus and he folded over my arm. Breath exploded from his lungs as he performed a slow dive, meeting my lifted knee midway. He hit the?oor hard, but it didn't matter: he was already oblivious.

There was no time for taking satisfaction from my work: Skinny was already going for something inside his jacket. Could be a gun.

Grasping his wrist and tugging his hand out of his jacket, I saw that he held a knife.

"Now isn't that just typical of you, Shank?" I?exed his wrist, hearing bone grating on bone. Made it easy to pluck the knife from his?ngers.

His name was Peter Ramsey, an idiot who began his criminal career stealing lunch money from the other kids at school. But-like all third-rate gangsters-he loved his nickname. He favored a knife when threatening desperate mothers. Shank should be a scary handle for someone wielding a blade. I thought it was pathetic.

I took a?stful of Shank's hair and pressed my knuckles against his skull.

"Listen closely," I growled. "One thing, and one thing only." I snatched his head forward, meeting him eye to eye. "Jennifer Telfer is off your books. Permanently. You hear that?"

"Jennifer Telfer? Who the-"

I slapped him hard.

"You know who I mean."

Wagging the knife at him, I said, "Tell me you weren't thinking of cutting her." I lifted the blade. Sharp edge beneath his nose. His breath misted the steel. "You know something, Shank? Just thinking of that makes my blood run cold."

"I wasn't gonna cut anybody," Shank said.

"Good. You won't be wanting this back then." I dropped the knife into my coat pocket. "If I see you around here again, I'll hurt you bad."

"What have I ever done to you?" "Messed with the wrong person," I told him. "That's what." To punctuate the point I backhanded him across the face. "When you walk out of here, you keep on going. If you as much as look back,

I'll be all over you like a bad case of hives. You got that?" "Yeah, man, I get you." "See you, then." "Not if I see you?rst," he said, turning quickly away. "Psycho!" "Believe me," I said, "if there is a next time, you won't see me coming."

"Come in, Joe. quick."

Jack and Beatrice huddled in front of a television. A cartoon vied for their attention and they barely gave me a glance. In a hurry, Jennifer shut the door. Behind me came the clink of a security chain, the ratchet of a dead bolt. "You won't need as many locks in the future, Jenny." I pulled off the hat and jacket. "Shank won't be paying you any more visits." Jennifer hugged herself. Barely above a whisper, she said, "There's worse out there than Shank to worry about." Fourteen years working as a counterterrorism agent had already convinced me of that. If I required reminding, all I had to do was look at the kids. Only six and four years old, they already had the look of the in?nitely wise about them. "Hi, kids, what're you watching? Cartoons?" "SpongeBob," Jack said matter-of-factly. "He's got square pants," Beatrice added. "Interesting," I said. I gave her a lifted eyebrow. She was too young to know who The Rock was, but she appreciated the effort. Her giggle was like soft music. A baby again. The resilience of children never fails to amaze the cynic in me.