Dead Men's Dust by Matt Hilton Read Free Book Online Page A

his souvenirs through their plastic casing without fear of getting her filth on his hands.
    In his other pocket was a similar package. Fingers taken from the woman’s boyfriend, who had kindly given Cain the fresh set of clothes and the keys to his VW Beetle. The boyfriend himself was in the shower, no more alive than the girlfriend was. Locked in the cubicle away from prying eyes, he would stay undiscovered for as long as the girl did.
    Finally, Cain raised himself up. Bedsprings squealed in protest at the redistribution of weight. A creaking eulogy for the woman as she settled deeper into the mattress.
    “I’d love to stay and chat a little longer,” he said. The woman remained unresponsive beneath the bedsheets. “I’m not normally the type who just has his way with a girl, then makes off with hardly a thanks. It’s just that I’ve got something that needs doing and time’s a-wasting.”
    He sat on the edge of the bed amid further creaks and groans and pulled on a thick pair of hiking socks. He had some intense blisters on the balls of both feet, but the good-quality woolen socks alleviated some of the discomfort. Socks in place, he tucked the hems of his jeans into them before tugging on sturdy lace-up boots. Then he retrieved the lightweight anorak containing his souvenirs and pulled it over his checked shirt. A black baseball cap emblazoned with an American eagle completed the ensemble.
    He paused to admire himself in the full-length mirror on the bathroom door. His fair hair and pale green eyes gave him a boyish air that he knew endeared him to the ladies. “Well, hello there.” He smiled at his reflection. “Who is that ruggedly handsome guy?”
    He’d entered this room the epitome of Joe College. He now looked like a seasoned hiker, exactly like thousands of others who passed along this highway day in and day out.
    Before leaving the room, he wiped down all the surfaces he’d touched, as well as all those he couldn’t remember touching. He usedthe cloth to wipe the door handle, then draped the cloth over it to prevent depositing fresh fingerprints when he finally left the room. “Pays to be extra careful,” he told the woman.
    Best that he didn’t leave any incriminating friction ridges for a CSI person to find. That would really stir things up. He scanned the room for the minutiae he might have missed, but decided he’d been as thorough as ever. He wasn’t concerned about hair or saliva, or even semen. His DNA wasn’t on any police record. His fingerprints were another story. Twice in towns out east he had been caught with prostitutes in his car. Luckily, the cops had dirty minds; otherwise, they might have guessed his true motive for hunting the red-light districts, and he wouldn’t have gotten off so lightly, with a fine and his prints taken—the old-fashioned way, thankfully, ink on cards.
    A return to the bed allowed a straightening and tucking in of the comforter. A soft pat of his hand on the woman’s head. “Now don’t you worry. As long as I don’t leave any prints, I’ll remain anonymous. By the time the police get around to checking out a sample of DNA taken under warrant, I’ll already be one of two things: famous or dead. Probably both. And by then it won’t matter, will it?”
    His old set of clothing was packed into the dead man’s backpack, along with other articles that could come in handy. His utility belt for one. He slung the backpack over his shoulder, took one last look at the woman on the bed, winked at her, then slipped out of the room.
    The early morning cool washed over him. Within hours this same place would be oven-hot, the air shimmering before his eyes. But now everything was calm, and he could see way off across the sand-blasted wastelands to an orange haze on the horizon. Not the dawning sun—it was on the wrong horizon. The light he could detect was artificial, half a billion streetlights tainting the skyline with their putrid glow. Toward those lights