Dead Men's Dust Read Free Page B

Daddy!”
    “Yes.”
    He stooped down, pulled her from beneath the counter. She slid out as boneless as an oyster from the shell. Cain didn’t like oysters. Didn’t like anything boneless.
    He rapped a knuckle on her head. Just to be sure. The clunk was only partway reassuring.
    “How old are you, Mabel? Seventy? Eighty?”
    Her turquoise-framed spectacles lent an extra dimension to her incredulous blink. Confusion reigned, terror tamped down by befuddlement. Her mouth drooped. At least she’d stopped screaming.
    “I wouldn’t ask, but it is pertinent,” Cain said.
    “Eighty-three.” Saliva popped at the back of her throat.
    “Hmmm. Quite elderly.” Cain gripped her shoulder. He kneaded with a masseur’s skill. “Frail under all that padding. I bet you suffer from arthritis, eh?”
    She showed him her misshapen knuckles.
    “Thought that might be the case.” His sigh sounded genuinely remorseful. “What about osteoporosis?”
    He was offering hope, and she wasn’t so distraught that she didn’t recognize it. Even after such a long life, when faced with dismemberment, an octogenarian can still desire further years. “I’m riddled with it. I only have to sneeze and I can break a rib.”
    “Doesn’t bode well.”
    “What do you want from us?”
    “Nothing.”
    “You cut off Daddy’s thumbs…”
    “I did, Mabel. I have a purpose for them. But you needn’t fear. You have nothing that I want.”
    “Thank the good Lord!” Mabel sobbed.
    “But only for small mercies,” Cain concluded as he slipped the knife back in his pocket. He didn’t require a knife when dealing with an invertebrate. The heel of his shoe would be all he’d need.
    Ten minutes later he was back on the road.
    The Mercedes SUV he drove made a fine chariot. Interstate 10 stretched out before him, an umbilical cord drawing him ever westward, toward the fertile stalking-grounds of Los Angeles.
    Billy Joel was cranked high on the SUV’s CD player. A window open so that the warm breeze ruffled Cain’s fair hair. He was a happy man. Beside him on the passenger seat were the tools of his trade, flagrantly displayed in total disregard of law or common sense. If someone saw them, well, so what? A cop died as easy as any man did.
    With that thought in mind, he reached over and lifted the flap of the pouch. Inside was an array of knives, scalpels, and other cutting utensils. Tap , tap , tap . He danced a finger over the dozen or so hilts. Tap . Rested momentarily on the sturdy hilt of a Bowie knife.
    “Ah, sweet baby,” he said. Such fond memories.
    A would-be knife fighter back east in Jacksonville had bestowed the knife upon him. What unashamed southern generosity. Such a polite man, too.
    “You’re going to have to take it from me first, sir,” he’d offered.
    “Gladly,” Tubal Cain had agreed.
    The blade was broad and easily a foot long. Whenever it was thrust into flesh, it made a satisfying thunk! A firm favorite for instilling fear in the hearts of his victims. Sadly, it lacked finesse. If carnage was your only desire, then fine. Ever the artist, he preferred a little more delicacy to his cutting.
    Now this was more to his liking. Black plastic hilt, slim and unadorned. Grasping it lightly, he teased out the cutting edge. Muted moonbeams played on a curved, very utilitarian blade backed by saw-toothed serrations. Beautiful in its simplicity. It was a fish-scaling knife acquired during a northern foray to Nova Scotia. The blade had seen employment on a number of occasions since, but never on anything so mundane as trout or salmon.
    Happy with his choice, he pulled the scaling knife free and held it up for closer inspection. With a thumb, he tested its keenness. “As keen as I am, eh?”
    The knife went into an inside pocket of his sports jacket.
    Billy Joel was winding down, Christie Brinkley demanding his full attention. The CDs spread over the passenger seat beckoned. Cain selected a Robbie Williams disc: Stoke-on-Trent’s