it.
Perhaps that was what motivated him to ask the next question.
“Do you really feel you did something wrong? Do you repent?”
The old man’s eyes blazed with conviction. “I killed the best man who ever lived. I deserve whatever you have in store for me.”
This was not acting, Cade knew. This was the truth.
He poured the old man another drink.
“You were right, actually,” Cade said. “I wasn’t the first here. Another man entered your room. The whiskey you’ve been drinking has been laced with cyanide.”
The man considered this. “I thought it tasted a little bitter. But when you get to my age, you can’t be too choosy with your spirits.”
“It wouldn’t have killed you. Not before I did,” Cade said. “It certainly would have been less painful.”
“My hard luck, then. Do what you must.”
Cade pushed the glass toward the man’s hand.
“One last drink,” he said. “You have time.”
The man tipped his head in thanks. He drained the glass in a single gulp.
Almost immediately, it fell from his hand. His breathing grew shallow. As Cade had figured, the last glass had been enough for a lethal dose. Within minutes, Cade heard his heart slow, then stop.
He didn’t know why he let the assassin of President Lincoln die quietly, without the pain and fear Cade usually inflicted on his enemies.
Perhaps it was the last bit of that great man’s blood, still flowing in him somewhere.
Perhaps that’s where he found a drop of genuine mercy.
EIGHT
1928—Providence, Rhode Island—A series of “vampire murders” reported. Later, local authorities intercept a bootlegger’s truck that contains the stolen corpse of Benjamin Franklin. Cade sent to investigate. Results inconclusive. Possibly related to the Innsmouth incident.
—BRIEFING BOOK: CODE NAME: NIGHTMARE PET
(EYES ONLY/CLASSIFIED/ABOVE TOP SECRET),
Partial Chronology, Unknown “Events” and Operations
EYL, PUNTLAND REGION OF SOMALIA
B usiness in the little coastal town was booming. Piracy had turned what was once a sleepy fishing village into a third-world amusement park: Pirateland. When the pirates came in from the sea, the village doubled or tripled in size, and dollars were dumped in piles amid the bone-grinding poverty. Restaurants on the coastline catered to the pirates and their prisoners as well. They offered menus, daily specials and delivery by boat. Rolls-Royces and Bentleys parked in the mud next to pens of livestock. Modern designer homes overlooked the gulf, paid for with ransoms and stolen goods. Pirated Internet cables were strung through the air, delivering wi-fi to the accountants who tallied the loot on their laptops.
Cade and Graves walked through the carnival smells and polyglot shouts unmolested, but not unnoticed. It was unusual for two white men to be here, but not unheard of. It was possible they were negotiators, or buyers. For some reason, no one wanted to approach Cade to find out.
“This is a waste of time,” Cade said.
“It’s all we have,” Graves replied.
Graves had changed into a tropical-weight outfit while on the plane—linen suit and shirt, khaki tie. He kept his shades on, even though it was now full dark. He looked like colonialism’s ghost on a tour of its old home. The only concessions he made to the setting were the waffle-stomper boots on his feet and the heavy N-frame, 8-shot Smith & Wesson .357 Magnum holstered in plain view on his belt.
They’d arrived at an airstrip—basically a long, flat section of dirt—about ninety miles east of Eyl. Over the intercom, the pilot said landing would be impossible; “a jet-fuel cremation,” was how he put it. Graves stepped into the cockpit, and a moment later, they came in for a landing that felt like going over class IV rapids.
The pilots stayed at the plane, trying to figure out how to turn the Gulfstream for takeoff, as Graves and Cade transferred into a black Range Rover. They left behind a couple of Archies with full-body
Perhaps that was what motivated him to ask the next question.
“Do you really feel you did something wrong? Do you repent?”
The old man’s eyes blazed with conviction. “I killed the best man who ever lived. I deserve whatever you have in store for me.”
This was not acting, Cade knew. This was the truth.
He poured the old man another drink.
“You were right, actually,” Cade said. “I wasn’t the first here. Another man entered your room. The whiskey you’ve been drinking has been laced with cyanide.”
The man considered this. “I thought it tasted a little bitter. But when you get to my age, you can’t be too choosy with your spirits.”
“It wouldn’t have killed you. Not before I did,” Cade said. “It certainly would have been less painful.”
“My hard luck, then. Do what you must.”
Cade pushed the glass toward the man’s hand.
“One last drink,” he said. “You have time.”
The man tipped his head in thanks. He drained the glass in a single gulp.
Almost immediately, it fell from his hand. His breathing grew shallow. As Cade had figured, the last glass had been enough for a lethal dose. Within minutes, Cade heard his heart slow, then stop.
He didn’t know why he let the assassin of President Lincoln die quietly, without the pain and fear Cade usually inflicted on his enemies.
Perhaps it was the last bit of that great man’s blood, still flowing in him somewhere.
Perhaps that’s where he found a drop of genuine mercy.
EIGHT
1928—Providence, Rhode Island—A series of “vampire murders” reported. Later, local authorities intercept a bootlegger’s truck that contains the stolen corpse of Benjamin Franklin. Cade sent to investigate. Results inconclusive. Possibly related to the Innsmouth incident.
—BRIEFING BOOK: CODE NAME: NIGHTMARE PET
(EYES ONLY/CLASSIFIED/ABOVE TOP SECRET),
Partial Chronology, Unknown “Events” and Operations
EYL, PUNTLAND REGION OF SOMALIA
B usiness in the little coastal town was booming. Piracy had turned what was once a sleepy fishing village into a third-world amusement park: Pirateland. When the pirates came in from the sea, the village doubled or tripled in size, and dollars were dumped in piles amid the bone-grinding poverty. Restaurants on the coastline catered to the pirates and their prisoners as well. They offered menus, daily specials and delivery by boat. Rolls-Royces and Bentleys parked in the mud next to pens of livestock. Modern designer homes overlooked the gulf, paid for with ransoms and stolen goods. Pirated Internet cables were strung through the air, delivering wi-fi to the accountants who tallied the loot on their laptops.
Cade and Graves walked through the carnival smells and polyglot shouts unmolested, but not unnoticed. It was unusual for two white men to be here, but not unheard of. It was possible they were negotiators, or buyers. For some reason, no one wanted to approach Cade to find out.
“This is a waste of time,” Cade said.
“It’s all we have,” Graves replied.
Graves had changed into a tropical-weight outfit while on the plane—linen suit and shirt, khaki tie. He kept his shades on, even though it was now full dark. He looked like colonialism’s ghost on a tour of its old home. The only concessions he made to the setting were the waffle-stomper boots on his feet and the heavy N-frame, 8-shot Smith & Wesson .357 Magnum holstered in plain view on his belt.
They’d arrived at an airstrip—basically a long, flat section of dirt—about ninety miles east of Eyl. Over the intercom, the pilot said landing would be impossible; “a jet-fuel cremation,” was how he put it. Graves stepped into the cockpit, and a moment later, they came in for a landing that felt like going over class IV rapids.
The pilots stayed at the plane, trying to figure out how to turn the Gulfstream for takeoff, as Graves and Cade transferred into a black Range Rover. They left behind a couple of Archies with full-body
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