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

he must travel. For it was there he’d find fame.
    Not to mention the thief who stole his knife.
    The motel was your typical low-slung timber structure. A seriesof cabins set out in two parallel rows behind the booking office. The office was in darkness, as were the other cabins. Not too many patrons had stayed the night. Drawn up in the parking lot were only four vehicles, one of which was his recently acquired VW Beetle. True to his sense of destiny, the VW was an orangey yellow color. Just like the one driven by the man born Theodore Robert Cowell on November 24, 1946. Cowell would later adopt his stepfather’s surname and be known as Theodore Bundy. Ted Bundy, the talented serial killer who was soon to be eclipsed by the exploits of one Tubal Cain.
    A quick reconnoiter of the area satisfied him that no other guest was out of bed. He walked toward the VW, jangling the keys in his hand. The aged car was more stubborn wreck than it was vintage model. A little temperamental to start, if memory served. Hopefully the chugging of the engine wouldn’t alert anyone nosy enough to see him depart. But then again, why should that matter? By the time the bodies were discovered, he’d have arrived in one of the cities and acquired alternative transport. The Beetle would be a burned-out shell in some vacant lot.
    Opening the door of the car, he slung the backpack onto the backseat. Surprisingly, the car started on his first attempt, and he disengaged the emergency brake and drove off without a look back. He drove without hurry, but with purpose. From his shirt pocket, he teased out a slip of paper, on it a handwritten telephone number. Beneath it, he’d written the address of the hotel.
    “Stupid, stupid thief.” His laughter was as bitter as sucking on unripe lemons. “If you want to get into my kind of game, you have to learn the basic rules. First rule: Cover your tracks.”
    The amateur who’d hijacked him, taking his SUV and beloved Bowie knife, obviously hadn’t thought of the consequences of wadding up the slip of paper and dropping it on the floor of his car. It had been a simple matter for Cain to ring the number and listen as a nasal girl had announced the name of the hotel in Santa Monica. The calldidn’t give him the thief’s name, but that was academic. Cain knew where the thief planned to stay. A quick visit to the hotel itself would establish everything else he needed to know.
    “Santa Monica, here I come,” he said, laughing again. This time his laughter wasn’t so bitter, the lemon rind sweetened with sugar. As he drove he shredded the slip of paper, depositing a tiny portion of it out the window every so often along the way.
    A couple of hours would see him on the West Coast. Maybe he’d grab a little breakfast, see to the disposal of the VW, then go scout out the hotel. He’d locate the thief, then by tonight he’d be ready to move. He didn’t care about regaining the SUV. It had served its purpose and would most likely have gone the way he was planning for the VW. But he did want his knife back.
    Not to be sentimental about it, but the Bowie held a great number of satisfying memories. Some he liked to play back in his mind while holding the knife in his hand. He could soon buy or appropriate a replacement, but it wouldn’t be the same. And besides, when he finally allowed the world to know his name, he wanted his arsenal right there beside him. The police should have the capacity to match the blade with each corpse it had been used on. He wanted the genuine knife to be kept as a museum piece documenting his infamy, not some second-rate, virgin chunk of metal.
    Westward he drove. And despite appearances, the VW was a steady if plodding workhorse. He had only two complaints. First, the air-conditioning system was archaic, achieved by winding down the windows to promote a cross draft. Second, the facility for music was as outmoded as the AC unit.
    He searched through the glove compartment, pulling out