Dead Men's Dust Read Online Free PDF Page A

spent some time in all the major tourist centers along the way, sampling the atmosphere of each before moving on. He’d thoroughly enjoyed the vibrancy of New Orleans, the Cajun flamboyancy of Lafayette, the history of San Antonio, where he’d used his Bowie knife in tribute to Colonel James Bowie, who’d met his death there. He’d sampled the culture, the music, and the southwest flavor of Tucson while hunting students in its universities. Forging westward to Santa Monica, he’d found easy pickings amid the crowds jiggling for elbow space on the world-famous pier.
    Then there was Los Angeles itself, his current destination. A city he found best suited his way of life, where he could ply his trade and fear little consequence. What with all the gangs shooting and hacking each other up, his two previous victims gleaned from South Central L.A. had barely raised more than an eyebrow.
    His return was overdue. He intended executing a series of atrocities that would force even the jaundiced eyes of the LAPD to take note. If he could achieve that, then he would be cementing the foundations of his notoriety.
    But that didn’t mean a little fun along the way wasn’t allowed.
    Arriving in L.A. a few hours later than originally planned was no time at all to quibble over. Not for one whose name was destined to last an eternity.
    He flicked on the turn signal, politely showing his intention to pull onto the wide shoulder, even though there was no traffic behind him. Politeness was a virtue Tubal Cain believed he held in abundance. The man waving for assistance by the side of the road would never guess that such a gracious driver could be so dangerous.
    “Boy, is this your lucky day,” Cain said. The wing mirror made a fine TV screen for the man jogging up to his SUV. Road Runner kicking up a plume of trail dust as he charged into Wile E. Coyote’s trap.
    Cain noted the possibility of trouble. Though harassed and worn down by the attempt to resurrect a dead engine, the man appeared moderately young and fit. Might put up a bit of a fight if not taken carefully, he concluded. Best not to give the game away. Quickly heconcealed his knives under the passenger seat. He stepped out, tasting the silicone tang of the desert.
    Cain wasn’t the only one acting here. Conscious that few people would even stop to pick up hitchhikers, the man was careful to show that he was harmless. His gait was amiable, boyish, friendly. As fake as Tubal Cain’s smile.
    “Having a little trouble, mister?” Cain asked.
    “Yeah, car’s broken down and I can’t get it going again.” Pushing an oil-smeared palm down a trouser leg gave him the look of a bumbler, but to Cain the act seemed premeditated. His offer of a hand was no more believable.
    “You’re not from around here, are you?” said Cain. “Here on vacation?”
    The stranded driver shook his head. “It’s been no vacation, believe me.”
    Cain studied the man’s eyes. Beyond deliberate innocence, a certain amount of deceit shone through. He was hiding something, but that was all right. Everyone had something to hide.
    “Not the best of places to break down,” Cain noted. The Mojave nightscape demanded their attention. “Pretty barren.”
    Nothing much more than sand and gravel and sparse vegetation, offering neither shade nor protection from the extremes of the weather, surrounded them.
    Concealment of a crime could be difficult here.
    “No place is a good place to break down, mister,” the man said, “but you’re right about this desert. I’m only happy that it’s nighttime and I’m not stranded in a hundred degrees plus.”
    “Yeah, things do get warm around here when the sun’s up. It’s a bitch having to walk any distance, believe me.”
    “Oh, I believe you,” the driver said. He nodded toward the SUV. “I bet that beauty’s reliable.”
    “Has been for as long as I’ve had it,” Cain agreed. That he’d onlyhad it for eighteen hours was academic. “You want me to