The Mark of Cain Read online

  THE

  MARK OF CAIN

  William Coughlin

  Copyright © William J. Coughlin 1980

  William J. Coughlin has asserted his rights under the Copyright, Design and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as the author of this work. All rights reserved.

  First published in 1980 by Dell Publishing Co. under the pseudonym Sean A. Key.

  This edition published in 2020 by Lume Books.

  Table of Contents

  ONE

  TWO

  THREE

  FOUR

  FIVE

  SIX

  SEVEN

  EIGHT

  NINE

  TEN

  ELEVEN

  TWELVE

  THIRTEEN

  FOURTEEN

  FIFTEEN

  SIXTEEN

  SEVENTEEN

  EIGHTEEN

  NINETEEN

  ONE

  “Pull!” The command echoed over the empty fields. He heard the soft click of the triggering device behind him. He waited.

  Thung! At the sound of the spring a clay pigeon sailed out of the trap spinning away from him. He sighted and pulled the trigger. The roar of his weapon rolled across the landscape.

  The clay disk sailed on unharmed, crashing onto the ground beyond.

  He took a deep breath, spread his feet a bit more, and adjusted his grip. “Pull!” he called.

  The order was followed by the triggering sound. He felt ready. This time a clay pigeon arched a bit higher as it whirled away from the trap.

  He squeezed the trigger, and the disk disappeared into a thousand smoky particles. The two men seated on the wooden bench behind him said nothing.

  “Pull!”

  Again a clay pigeon shot out, skimming low along the ground this time. He fired, and it too blew apart.

  He turned to the men behind him. “Want to try it?”

  The thick-necked man, the one they called Soldier, shook his head. “Not with a pistol. No one can do that, Cain, but you.”

  “Use the shotgun then. You’ll lose your shooting eye if you don’t practice.”

  “Don’t you worry, I won’t lose my eye.” The thick-necked man scowled. “But if we don’t get some kind of work soon, I may lose my mind.”

  Cain said nothing. He watched a hawk, very far off, circling slowly in the darkening sky. Taking off his cap, he shook his blond hair free. “How about you, Slick? Want to take a shot?” He looked at the thin black man. “Might even help you get rid of that hangover.”

  Two white eyes peered up at him from the ebony face. “That’s just what I need, a nice loud explosion in my ear.” He spat on the ground. “Yes, sir, that’ll take good care of this nasty old headache.”

  Cain nodded toward the two encased shotguns. “We should do something to earn our pay.”

  Slick, suddenly alert, looked away without replying. His head was cocked slightly as if he were listening to some faraway sound. “I think we have company,” he said softly.

  The three men watched the dirt road leading up to the shooting area. The growl of a powerful motor penetrated through the forest trees. A Land-Rover appeared, its rear wheels spinning up a spray of sand behind it as it hit low areas in the road. The vehicle pulled up alongside the three men.

  The driver studied them for a moment, his eyes hidden behind sunglasses, his face shaded by the side brim of his tilted campaign hat. The sunglasses and hats were part of the security force’s standard uniform. “Cain.”

  “Yes.”

  “The old man wants to see you,” he said. “Down at the main house.”

  Slick’s even white teeth were exposed by a humorless smile. “Well, maybe they found some work for us after all.”

  “Colonel Morgan says you are to come down right away.” The uniformed driver used Morgan’s name as if it were a substitute title for God. “Get in,” he commanded.

  “We’ll walk, thanks just the same,” Cain said quietly.

  “The colonel said right away,” the driver protested.

  “We’ll walk,” Cain repeated.

  “Now look …”

  “Get your ass out of here,” Soldier snapped, his voice crackling with sudden anger. “You heard Cain: we’ll walk.” The big German, his large meaty hands curling into fists, began to walk slowly toward the car.

  The young driver stared at the rugged face of the German. Soldier’s face gave mute testimony of a multitude of fights, from the broken twisted nose to the slashes of scar tissue about the cheeks and eyebrows. Below the awesome face massive neck muscles bulged out of the open neckline of his jacket.

  “Suit yourself,” the driver mumbled as Soldier approached, slamming the Rover into gear and spinning off the way he had come.

  “You scared the little man,” Slick laughed.

  “Bunch of pansies, trying to play cop,” Soldier growled. “I should have kicked his ass.” His hard eyes followed the Rover until it disappeared into the trees.

  “You two might just as well start walking,” Cain said. “I’ll pick up the spent casings and catch up.”

  Slick replaced the top of the trap firing device and handed one of the encased shotguns to Soldier. “I hope to hell we can get a little action. I’m so sick of these damned north woods that I wouldn’t even mind if we were going back to Istanbul.”

  Soldier snorted. “Ha, you wouldn’t dare go back there. You’d beg to stay in these woods for the rest of your life before you let them send you back there.” Only when he made a rare attempt at humor was there even the faintest trace of accent in Soldier’s speech.

  Slick grinned as he shouldered the other shotgun. “Maybe you’re right at that. Come on, let’s get the hell out of here.”

  “I’ll catch up,” Cain said.

  The two men trudged off, following the sandy road. Cain began to pick up the brass casings hidden in the patchy grass around the shooting area. He was not overly neat, but from long habit he could not leave spent shells behind. They were too much like evidence.

  Satisfied that he had recovered all the shells, he pocketed them and followed his two companions down the winding dirt road. He watched them. They were an improbable combination, the former German soldier and the street-hard Chicago-born black man. Yet they worked well together, each contributing his own highly developed abilities, each complementing the strength of the other with his own powerful talents. They worked together like two interlocking gears in a fine machine. Cain often wondered about his relationship with them. He decided he neither liked nor disliked them. They were part of the business, and that was all. Not friends—even though they had shared danger—just business associates. He felt comfortable that way, and he suspected they did too. It was not wise in their line of work to become too attached to anyone.

  He walked faster to catch up to them. Both were graceful, each in his own way. Soldier was a massive man, heavily muscled, with thick strong legs that propelled him along easily with the smoothness of a trained athlete. Slick, tall and lean, he moved like a dancer, his long hands swinging free, his long body moving with leopardlike agility.

  Cain hoped that the old man’s summons meant an assignment. At first he had welcomed the peace of the northern forest, but now it seemed more like a prison. He needed action.

  He noticed the heavy clouds: they were low and dirty gray. It was too soon for a heavy snow, but there was a chill in the air, and the clouds seemed about to burst. He hurried a bit faster.

  *

  It was always the same, and he felt the usual irritation. He was the only one allowed in to see the old man. Although Soldier and Slick had risked their lives for him, they had never even been allowed to meet their employer. Cain suspected that Colonel Morgan was the source o
f that rule and not the old man, and that irritated him even more.

  He passed by the security guards and was admitted into the main house. The old man spent most of the year here at his northern estate. Only during the bitter cold months did he move his operation to his place in Georgia.

  Mr. Saramian, the old man’s secretary, greeted him and escorted him to the study. Saramian looked more like a sly rug merchant than the personal secretary to one of the world’s richest men. But despite his half-hooded eyes and spy like manner Cain liked him. Saramian had never lied to him, a trait that Cain found rare in the Zinner organization, and he had once been instrumental in saving Cain’s life—a fact that had been noted and appreciated.

  Not a thing had been changed in that study for over forty years. If something wore out, it was replaced by an identical item. A multitude of trophies—a zoo of dead animal heads—hung out from the wall as testimony to the old man’s hunting ability when he was a younger man, a much younger man.

  As always old man Zinner sat behind the long desk. Colonel Morgan, his legs apart and his hands clasped behind his back, military style, stood by his side. Morgan was the head of security, and Cain knew he resented not only Cain but his associates as well. Morgan considered them dangerous, even though they all served the old man and were all on the same payroll.

  “Hello, Cain.” The old man’s voice sounded even more reedy than the last time they had met. He was old, very old. Cain wondered if it were just his imagination, but he thought he detected an odor, a scent he associated with very old people—there was a hint of the grave in it.

  “Sit down, Cain,” the old man’s voice cracked as he spoke. “You can go, Morgan.”

  Colonel Morgan scowled. “Sir, if this concerns security, I think I should attend. After all, Cain and his people work for me.”

  “Only on paper,” Saramian said softly.

  “Well, all right, only on paper. But if any questions ever come up, they are technically under my command, and I should know about their activities. You see …”

  “You can go, Morgan,” the old man said, his voice barely audible. His hard little eyes glared at Morgan.

  Colonel Morgan snorted, turned on his heel, and stalked from the room. Saramian followed him and closed the door before returning to the desk.

  “How have you been, Cain?” the old man asked.

  “Not bad.”

  “Has that wound healed up?”

  Cain was surprised that the old man had remembered. “Yes, it’s all repaired quite nicely.”

  “Good.” His tone indicated that he wished to hear no more on that subject. “Cain, I have a little job for you and your friends.”

  “That will be nice.”

  The old man’s eyes seemed like two little black marbles glowing out of his parchmentlike skin. “Nice, eh? I suppose that is the way you look at it.” He paused for a moment. “You really like danger, don’t you? Not many men would do what you do to make a living, you know.”

  Cain shrugged. “You seem to think I am good at it. I’m selling the only commodity that I have: I will do dangerous jobs.”

  A tinny cackle erupted from the old man’s throat. “That’s right, I do think you are good. Very good. Of course, Cain, that’s just me. While I live, I run everything, but the minute I die, you and your people are out of a job, or worse. Morgan hates you.”

  “I can live with the burden.”

  “Well, I hope you can. You will have very few friends in the company when I die.”

  Cain said nothing.

  The little marblelike eyes seemed to burn into him. “Well, that’s your lookout, isn’t it. None of my affair. Well, now to business. This time I have a little personal job that I want you to handle.”

  “Personal?” Cain asked.

  “Yes, personal. Oh, it isn’t murder or anything like that, Cain, if that worries you.”

  “I’m not worried.”

  “I would guess not; not you.” The old man’s cackle again filled the room.

  Cain glanced at Saramian. The swarthy secretary’s face was a bland mask that showed no thought, emotion, or opinion.

  “It’s a damned family matter,” the old man said. “You know my granddaughter, Sandra Hamilton?”

  “No.”

  “She is my son Harry’s girl. Not a damned brain in her head. She isn’t even good breeding stock. She looks it, but she has only dropped one foal, my great-grandson, Stewart.” He paused, his thin face reflecting disgust. “Stewart Hamilton the Third; isn’t that a name to make you sick to your stomach?”

  “What’s Stewart’s problem?” Cain asked.

  “He is a jackass, just like his mother and father, that’s his problem. But there is nothing you, me, or God can do about that.” He snorted. “The young man recently got himself married. Eighteen years old and he takes a bride. Hell, I didn’t get married until I was past thirty, and by that time I had a million dollars. He doesn’t have a pot to … oh hell, he’s just a birdbrain, that’s all.”

  “So?”

  “So for his wedding present his mother gave him a cruise in the Caribbean. The kid was supposed to know how to sail, so she rented a cruising sailboat for him and his bride so they could spend a month’s bliss upon the sea.” He grimaced disgustedly. “Anyway, Cain, the happy couple drifted off into the sunset and haven’t been seen again. In other words they are missing.”

  Cain said nothing.

  “I can see by the expression on your face that you’re wondering what the hell all this has to do with you.”

  “You certainly don’t want us to go looking for Stewart the Third?”

  “The hell I don’t. Christ, my daffy granddaughter has driven the Coast Guard and the Navy half nuts—not only ours, but the Mexican ones too. They haven’t come up with anything, so I want you to take a whack at finding them.”

  “What does the Coast Guard say?”

  The old man’s Adam’s apple jiggled in his thin throat before the words struggled out. “They think they either drowned accidentally or that some narcotics smugglers took their boat and killed them.”

  “I can see the drowning part, but the rest sounds like a line of bull,” Cain snorted.

  Saramian cleared his throat. “Oh, it’s true enough, Mr. Cain,” he said quietly. “Over thirty pleasure boats have disappeared in that area of the Caribbean over the last year or so. No trace of the owners or any of their crews has ever been found. The theory is that the crafts are taken, the people killed, and then the boats are used to bring narcotics into the United States. Anyway that’s what the Coast Guard believes.”

  Cain frowned. “Look, if the Navy and the Coast Guard couldn’t find them, I don’t see how we can possibly stand a chance.”

  “Maybe not,” the old man said, his voice sounding tired. “But my granddaughter is driving me nuts. She believes that my money can work miracles.” He paused for a moment. “It usually can, but I’m not so sure this time.” The marble eyes locked on Cain. “Just to keep her off my back, I have to make an effort of some kind. That’s why I’m sending you.”

  “What do we use for money?”

  “The company’s full resources will be at your disposal, Mr. Cain.” Saramian smiled. “A company jet will fly you and your people to the Caribbean. We will see you have whatever you need to accomplish your task.”

  “What happens if I can’t find them?”

  “Give it your best effort,” the old man said. “It would be a major miracle if you did find them. Just make an honest effort.”

  “If I find them, do I bring them back?”

  “Yes.”

  “Suppose they don’t want to come?” Cain asked.

  “Bring them back anyway.”

  “That’s kidnapping.”

  The old man’s eyes brightened. “You’ve done it before.”

  “Not with any members of your family.”

  “No difference. My orders; don’t worry about it.”

  Cain nodded. “Suppose
we find out that they’ve been killed?”

  “Well, I don’t want the world thinking I’m an easy mark. Go after the people who did it and kill them.”

  “Just like that?”

  “Of course.”

  “When do we leave?”

  Saramian smiled. “There is an airplane waiting on the landing strip now. It will take you to Albany. One of our bigger jets will be waiting there to take you the rest of the way. As always, Mr. Cain, I have tried to arrange things so they will go as smoothly as possible.”

  Cain nodded. He looked again at the old man. The little eyes were open, but they seemed to have lost their fire.

  “He is tired,” Saramian said softly. “Come with me.”

  “You had better stop and see my granddaughter before you go,” the old man’s voice followed them. “She lives in the Keys. Saramian will give you the address.” His voice trailed off at the last words.

  “His mind is as sharp as ever,” Saramian whispered, “but his body is wearing out.”

  A low cackle erupted from the old man. “My ears are still pretty good, Saramian.”

  The secretary blushed and hurried Cain out of the study.

  TWO

  Cain guided the rented Ford through the entranceway and drove along the palm-lined driveway until he reached the apartment house entrance. He found a small parking lot at the side of the low-slung and expensive-looking building. He parked and stepped out of the car.

  The warm air startled him. The car’s air conditioning had almost caused him to forget he was in Florida and the salt-edged air was moist and warm. He flipped his sports jacket over his shoulder and walked up the steps to the entrance. A tall middle-aged man, dressed in a uniform shirt and trousers, looked him over.

  “Who did you wish to see, sir?” The inquiry was pleasant, but there was a no-nonsense firmness in the tone. Cain recognized the technique: he guessed the man was a retired cop.