The Eighth Trumpet (The Jared Kimberlain Novels) (2 page)

“Good morning, Private,” he said to the man seated on the single cot.

“Since you’re not in uniform, I don’t know how to address you,” the man replied in a voice as chilling as his steel-blue eyes.

Kamanski looked him over and knew his instincts had been correct. The man was big and strong enough to rip another apart with his bare hands—that much was certain. But there was more. Beneath the surface, Kamanski discerned a suppressed tension and an undercurrent of violence coupled with the will to use it. This man was almost too dangerous.

“I don’t wear a uniform, but I can get you out of here just the same.” Kamanski gazed about the cell’s narrow confines. “Not much of a place to spend the next twenty years.”

“You’ve got my attention.”

“Then I’ll come right to the point. You have skills that are perfectly suited for a special group I represent.”

“What group?”

“You’ve never heard of us. Very few have. We’re called The Caretakers. Capital T, capital C. No fancy initials for the boys on Capitol Hill.”

“And what exactly do you do?”

“We take care,” said Kamanski. “Of the country. And I mean that quite literally… .”

He went on to explain that the group had been formed to safeguard the U.S. at any cost. That task, once ably performed by more traditional groups such as the FBI and CIA, could no longer be entrusted to them because of restraints affected by recent scrutiny of the intelligence community. The government had suddenly found itself more concerned with the Qaddaffis and Khomeinis of the world than with the Soviets and Chinese. A single hydrogen bomb in the hands of a fanatic could start a chain reaction of untold damage. And beyond this there were resources to be protected. Oil had been most important for a while, more recently it had been food, and down the road almost certainly water and maybe even air would be in danger. In all cases national safety and prosperity depended on the continued maintenance of all precious resources and the elimination of potential threats to them. In this respect, the world was composed of an incredibly small number of individuals whose actions determined the fate of the rest. Thus, these actions needed to be monitored, kept in check, and altered or redirected when necessary. Through any and all means available.

The Caretakers, Kamanski had explained that day, was an idea whose time had come. All field operatives were limited to a single three-year term to avoid burnout. There was no rank, no pecking order to ascend. There were just field operatives and conduits, and the latter were merely the glorified delivery boys of whom Kamanski was in charge. If a man survived the three years, he would be financially set for life.

Kimberlain had gone for the proposal with little thought, not quite enthusiastically but not reluctantly either. He really had no choice, and Kamanski had walked out of the stockade prepared to report to the shadowy blind leader of The Caretakers that he had found the man destined to become the best of them all.

“I’m willing to die trying to keep ’em. Question is, are you willing to die trying to take ’em?”
John Wayne challenged the townfolk who were gathered on the other side of the stream. With that, he vanished, and the living room of the cabin returned to normal.

“It’s called multidimensional television,” a familiar voice announced. “A friend of mine rigged it up for me. Nothing like it will be on the market for years.”

“Jared?”

“Over here, Hermes.”

Hermes … Kamanski hadn’t been called by his Greek anonym in years. Jared Kimberlain, on the other hand, had never been able to shed his, the Ferryman, after Charon, the Greek boatman who delivered the dead to their final resting place across the River Styx. Kimberlain himself had done plenty of delivering—more than any man Kamanski had ever known.

Kamanski turned toward his voice: he could have sworn it came from the corner but he found the corner empty. He located Kimberlain finally on the opposite side of the room, and as he approached the dark, hulking shape he made sure the Ferryman could see his outstretched hand.

“Been a long time, Jared.”

“Not long enough.”

Kimberlain took the hand cursorily and squeezed just hard enough to let Kamanski sample his strength.

“Hell of a place you got here, Jared.”

“You should have let your driver join you.”

“I was afraid you’d kill him.”

“I tied him up instead. Don’t worry, he’s comfortable.”

Kamanski’s mouth dropped open.

“That same friend of mine rigged up a high performance defense system. I was waiting in the bushes when you pulled over. You’re getting old, Hermes.”

“I was never a field man.”

“But you used to keep better company. That kid in the car might have a college degree and a forty-dollar haircut, but I wouldn’t want him watching my back.”

“Times have changed.”

“If that were true, David, you wouldn’t be here.”

Kimberlain stepped further out of the shadows toward the oddly shaped holographic video machine and pressed the eject button. Some stray light through the partially open cabin shutters caught his face. It was the same face as the last time they had met, Kamanski reckoned, no different even from the first time he had laid eyes on Kimberlain in the 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 bastards like you. Take care, no capital t or c.”

“Taking vengeance is another way of putting it. It’s against the law so far as I know, but I don’t want to quibble.”

Kimberlain looked up coldly from his work. The polishing stones squeaked against the blade. “Are you threatening me, David?”

“I’m not that brave.”

“But you’re still smart; I can see that. Probably smart enough to turn around right now and walk out of here so I can finish watching my movie.”

“What I’ve got might be a challenge for you.”

“That’s what you said about Peet—when was it, a little over three years ago, right?”

Kamanski tried very hard not to react.

“Come now, David, you remember Winston Peet, don’t you? Giant, about seven feet tall, a bald head. He killed seventeen people in as many states. Ripped their heads clean off their bodies after he strangled them. Papers called him the worst serial murderer in modern history. Back when you were with the Bureau. You boys were getting nowhere so you begged me to track down your killer for you, and I came up with Peet. Wanna see the scars? Only you bastards couldn’t get him executed, couldn’t even get him imprisoned.”

“We put him where he’ll never hurt anyone again.”

“In that nuthouse? Bullshit. Someday he’ll get out. Just watch. He writes me letters and tells me so.”

“This time it’s different,” Kamanski said.

“No it isn’t, not to me. See, after the Peet thing, while I was lying there in the hospital damn near dead, I realized I had three choices: I could die, I could become like you, or I could change the course you set my life on. That’s when the paybacks started.”

“But they’ve never stopped, have they?” Kamanski wondered whether the Ferryman would spring on him now. “They come from everywhere, I’m told. You have no phone, no listed address, but still they find you. It’s out of control, can’t you see that?”

“You’re wrong, Hermes,” Kimberlain said quite calmly. “The paybacks reduce the world to something manageably small: just somebody who got fucked, the person that fucked them, and me. The last resort. They’re willing to do whatever it takes to find me, because they’ve got nowhere else to turn. And each one I help brings me a little closer to making up for my actions with The Caretakers.”

“You would have rotted in that stockade, Jared. You owe me for that much. Call
this
a payback.”

“You used that same argument three years ago when you came to me about Peet. My payback to you is finished.”

Kimberlain went back to his sword. Kamanski figured it was time to toss him the bait.

“Jordan Lime wasn’t the first. There were two other successful industrialists murdered before him. Three incredible, impossible murders. All the victims were among the best-protected men in the country.”

Kimberlain tried to keep on with the polishing, but clearly his mind was starting to drift.

“Come on, Jared, do I have to spell it out for you? Somewhere out there is a serial killer operating on a supersophisticated level. Think about future targets for this nutcase. Maybe the President will be next. You think the country could handle that right now?”

“You’re asking me to become a Caretaker again.”

“I’m asking you to go after a madman who may soon be in a position to hold the entire country hostage. You’re the only one who can do it, Jared. This is your game.”

The Ferryman inspected the progress he had made on the ancient sword. It was slow work, but it was gratifying to see the past come back to life in his hands.

“I’ll think about it,” he said, without looking up. “I’ll let you know.”

“When?”

“Get out of here, David, and let me finish this side.”

Chapter 3

“YOU MENTIONED THERE WERE
two other murders,” Kimberlain said to Kamanski an hour later in the backseat of the car. The driver kept one hand on the wheel; with the other he massaged a shoulder sore from the pressure of his arms being laced together.

“Two that we know of,” Kamanski said. “There could be more. Law-enforcement agencies aren’t admitting there’s a pattern yet.” They were still two hours from the airfield, and he wouldn’t feel sure the Ferryman was with him until their plane took off for Connecticut.

“Tell me about those two.”

“Not as puzzling as the murder of Jordan Lime but just as effective,” Kamanski said. “The first was Benjamin Turan.”

“Experimental metals. Steel with the weight and texture of plastic and all the resiliency of iron.”

“I thought you were out of touch.”

“Not entirely.”

“Turan did plenty of traveling abroad. Brought the importance of security home with him. He employed round-the-clock guards and even had a dummy car.”

“So what happened?”

“Grabbed the latch to open the rear door of one of his limos one morning and got fried by fifteen thousand volts.”

“Interesting. Chauffeur around?”

“In the front seat. Got fried too. That kind of voltage doesn’t discriminate.”

“Okay, how was it done?”

“A separate battery was installed in the trunk to supply the power source, and the car was wired with superconductive fusing. The killer didn’t waste an inch, either. The only terminal we found was the one plugged into the latch Turan grabbed for. Thing was, the car was locked in the garage all the time. And the dummy limo wasn’t wired, just the one Turan planned to use that morning.”