The Eighth Trumpet (The Jared Kimberlain Novels) Read Free

stockade. A pleasant face that was somehow too soft for the man who owned it, too tailored, too fine. Eyebrows perfectly groomed. Dark, heavy eyelashes reaching outward. Not a single furrow on the brow or sag beneath the eyes. The thick hair showed no signs of receding, which sent pangs of jealousy through Kamanski. And the eyes. Oh, those eyes. Crystal blue and piercing, sharper than any knife. They didn’t fit the face at all, but they were the one feature that fit the man.
    Kimberlain placed the Wayne tape back in his huge video library.
    “I never knew you were such a movie buff,” Kamanski said, moving closer to inspect the titles. The library was surprisingly diverse; from Capra to Hitchcock, from Wayne to Ladd to Eastwood to the Mad Max series. James Bond, too.
    “I need you, Jared,” Kamanski said suddenly, standing so that the Ferryman couldn’t help but notice him.
    “I’ve heard that before,” Kimberlain said emotionlessly. “About three years ago, wasn’t it? Not much more than two years after I left The Caretakers.”
    “There was a murder Sunday night. An industrialist named Jordan Lime.”
    “And here it is Tuesday morning and you haven’t found the killer yet. You must be slipping, Hermes.”
    “Lime was worth billions, Jared,” Kamanski went on. “Hired the best security firm money could buy and wired his mansion with equipment that would amaze even that friend of yours.” He paused. “He was ripped apart, mutilated behind sealed doors and windows. No evidence anybody was even in there. The first man was in the room less than a minute after the first scream and found … We’ve got videotapes. We’ve got recordings. We had over twenty guards on the property. No one could have gotten in or out. What happened was impossible.”
    Kimberlain’s eyes flickered for the first time. “If my literary knowledge serves me right, you should be looking for a gorilla right out of the Rue Morgue.”
    “A gorilla would have been fried by 20,000 volts if he’d tried to get down this chimney, Jared. I’ve had men on this for thirty-six hours straight. The police, too. We’re no further along than we were at the start.”
    “We?”
    “Pro-Tech, the security firm I’m associated with now, was hired to keep Lime alive.”
    “Don’t expect it’s the best time to look for new clients, then. What happened to the Bureau?”
    “I thought it was time to move on.”
    “Imposing three-year tours on yourself now? I’m impressed.”
    “I’m afraid the Bureau agreed with me.”
    “I’m not surprised.”
    “But the money’s better too. Much. And I’m authorized to offer you any sum you name to help us.”
    Ignoring him, Kimberlain moved to another wall of the living room. It was filled with weapons dating back from a hundred to a thousand years. Muskets, flintlocks, six-guns, a collection of knives and swords fit for a museum. Kamanski followed Kimberlain across the room and found himself transfixed.
    “I restore them,” Kimberlain told him. “Helps pass the time.”
    He took a three-hundred-year-old samurai sword from the wall and sat down with the sword in his lap. A good portion of the blade looked shiny and new; the rest was old and scarred. Kimberlain grasped a set of ultrafine polishing stones from a table next to him and set to work on the weathered portion of the blade. His large, callused hands moved as agilely as a surgeon’s back and forth against a section halfway down from the hilt. Such gentleness, Kamanski noted, and yet alongside it a capacity for such—
    “I don’t work for money anymore, David,” the Ferryman said suddenly without looking up. “You should know that.”
    “But you remain available. Your file needs updating constantly. You’re quite a busy man, from what I’ve been able to learn.”
    “Paybacks, Hermes. They’re to make up for all those assignments you delivered to me from Zeus. I’m doing my best to take care of innocent people who’ve been fucked by