The Fall and Rise of Cain. Greg T. Nelson

      

      The Fall and Rise of Cain

      By

      Greg T. Nelson

      Copyright 2017 Greg T. Nelson,

      All rights reserved.

      Published in eBook format by eBookIt.com

       http://www.eBookIt.com

      ISBN-13: 978-1-4566-0075-4

      No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the author. The only exception is by a reviewer, who may quote short excerpts in a review.

      Here’s looking at you, Kid.

      The same dream every time. I’m face down on the asphalt and shaking with fear. Breathing in pain and noise and wincing as shot after shot hammer the car beside me as glass and paint chips rain onto my back. I’m paralyzed with an unreal terror pushing me harder against the hot Texas asphalt. Struggling for clear thought, I reach toward the gun that lays just out of reach when another shot skips off the gravel past my ear and I pull myself into a ball. Then, suddenly, there is a silence, louder than all the shooting had been and I dare to raise my eyes towards the Russians. They’re smiling, amused at my cowering. To my right, a man stands with a big television camera resting casually on his shoulder and bloody gore covering his shirt. He shakes his head sadly at me and speaks, “Don’t look at me pal, I’m dead already.” Anger swells over the fear and I push my palms down into the tarmac to stand and then I hear it, soft like a gull in the distance but pleading, “Richard”. Like a blanket over me, the horror is back, drowning the anger and I turn screaming. “JUDITH! ... And in an instant, the Texas sun is gone and I’m back on the couch drenched in sweat and crying.

      Chapter 1

      "My punishment is more than I can bear.

      Genesis 4:13

      Richard:

      It was July 11, 2006.

      Tuesdays from 10 a.m. to 11 at Barnaby’s Grill had become part of my routine. I nurse a Seagram’s and Diet Coke while scanning the day’s racing form. Barnaby and I are a good fit. For six months I’d come in once a week, sit for one hour and two drinks and leave a ten on the bar without so much as a “How’s the weather?” from him. The best kind of bartender tends his glasses and knows which customers don’t want conversation. I only assumed his name was the same as the sign out front because it said “BARNABY’S” on his shirt. I had grown to like routine, Mondays at the hospital working the leg, Tuesdays at the dog track, Wednesdays back to the Hospital and Thursdays through Sundays in the Bossier City casinos. Monday I get up and start all over again.

      “Get yourself a routine,” the Doctor had said, “If you just sit in front of a television or worse just sit, the depression will get worse and worse till that’s all there is. The amount of trauma you’ve been through does more than just hurt physically, you know. I still think you should try seeing a psychiatrist.” That bit of feeble advice had come when I told the good doctor I was having some trouble sleeping, I didn’t tell him I still had nightmares of a dying partner and laughing Russians. I don’t have anything against Shrinks, but there was no way I could say those dreams out loud. I’d found my own cure, I guess. When I was sweating through the leg exercises or concentrating on a card game or half buzzed on whiskey. It was only then that I couldn’t hear the sounds from the dream. I couldn’t hear Judith dying.

      So there I sat not thinking about anything except greyhounds and keeping my cigar lit when my whole day went sour in a blast of sunlight. The front door was open to Fort Worth in July and a large man stood waiting for his eyes to adjust to the dim bar light. I ignored him and turned back to the racing page of the Star-Telegram but just out of habit I glanced at the mirror behind the bar. I was annoyed to see that the big man was looking directly at me instead of the thirty feet of vacant bar space or Barnaby who had stopped sweeping to wait for the guy to order.

      I kept my head down towards the paper but let my cigar rest in the ashtray and lowered my hand to the Bersa .380 tucked into the little holster in my waistband. Not a real bull stopper of a gun but a lot more comfortable to carry than my usual 40 caliber. I really didn’t think anyone was out to get me but waiting to find out for sure is something dead guys did. It's been a while since anyone actually tried to kill me.

      The bar got dark again as the big man finally loosed the door and my vision took long enough to adjust that he was almost beside me before I got a clear look at him. I had the Bersa halfway out of my belt but still hadn’t looked around. Barnaby approached but the guy spoke before he got close, “Just water please.” As Barnaby moved down to the tap, the stranger spoke to me.

      “You won’t need the gun, Mr. Cain. I’m here to offer you a job.” I believed him, mostly, but instead of returning the gun to its holster I palmed it onto my thigh and reached for my Cojimar with my left hand. Turning slightly, I looked the man up and down as I drew from the cigar. He was a fish out of water. Big black guy, close to sixty but built like a linebacker and stuffed into an expensive suit. He was holding a metal briefcase and I noticed the tail of a tattoo peeking out from under the cuff of his left wrist. I tagged him as either a convict or a mercenary. I’d seen him before, but where? Most of the convicts I know became convicts because of me and the mercs I know are assholes that’ll do anything for money. Not much difference really.

      He was standing about three feet away and facing me square on, feet apart like he was on a parade ground prepared to stand still for hours. As Barnaby put the glass of ice water on a coaster, the man put a dollar bill down and stuck his hand towards me. “My name is Clifford Childs. I work for General Phillip Granger. I believe you know him. He has a job offer for you.” That’s it. I’d seen him at Granger’s house a few times. Back then I pegged him as a flunky, always standing around answering the phone or reminding Granger of some meeting. I couldn’t shake hands without putting down the gun so I just turned back to my paper.

      “Tell Philly I’m retired.”

      Childs sighed like I was telling a joke he’d heard already. “He said to give you this and wait.” Reaching into his coat pocket he retrieved a thick manila envelope and put on top of my racing form, barely missing the ashtray and my drink and then turned and sat three stools down from me. Keeping the gun against my leg I clamped my teeth on the cigar and flipped the packet over where it had neat printing.

      “A thousand for coming to hear me out. Clifford will drive you to the airport, my jet is waiting.” --Granger.

      I flipped it open and saw a stack of hundred dollar bills bound by a bank wrapper.

      I puffed my cigar back to life and glanced sideways at Clifford. “You know what this is about?” I said as I picked up the money and held it in his direction.

      “Yep” was his only reply. And the way he sipped his water told me he would not be answering any questions. I do ok on my pension, no bills to speak of and 48 years old with a limp means I don’t go dancing. I didn’t need the money, but it was time to go back and finish things. It had been time for a while. I was always going back to Houston. But I had put it off, telling myself the leg would get better or the FBI would catch the Russian’s boss for me or I’d stop being so afraid. As I stared at Philly’s note I realized, as I did every day over drinks, the leg was still lousy, the FBI wouldn’t catch the asshole that made it that way and I was still scared shitless. Sometimes I make decisions quickly. Sometimes it takes a couple of years.

      I dropped the envelope back on the bar and slid it down towards Clifford. I spoke around the cigar clenched in my teeth, “Like I said, I’m retired.” For a moment he acted like he hadn’t heard me. He just took another sip of his water and looked at me in the mirror. Then in a fluid motion, he snatched the packet off the bar and stood up with it like he had just walked in. He seemed to think for a half second, then dropped a business card next to my drink and started to speak but caught himself. I thought maybe he was smiling just a little. Then he turned and I watched him leave the way