The Fall and Rise of Cain. Greg T. Nelson

I didn’t say anything he continued. “According to Chief Howell you are ill mannered, ungrateful and kinda mean but not once did he say Lucky. In fact, I do believe he also mentioned you beat him at shooting competitions five years running.” He stopped talking long enough to floor the accelerator and move around a city bus. He pulled out the micro recorder and handed it to me, “put that in the glove box, will ya.” I noted it was off and apparently had been since we left my place and did as he asked. “No, it looked to me like you saw where that gun barrel was, made a pretty good guess where ol’ Jimmy was standing and put two shots less than an inch apart right through his neck. That about how it went, Rich?”

      It was my turn to smile, “Yeah John, except I was hoping for a headshot.”

      The rest of the ride was pretty quiet. John Hershaw and I had come to an understanding of sorts. As long as I wasn’t a criminal, he was satisfied to let me go my own way and I wouldn’t insult his intelligence with any more bullshit.

      As we pulled to the curb in front of Barnaby’s I looked at my watch, two fifteen. Just under four hours since I’d left, it seemed longer. As I got out and retrieved my bag, Hershaw rolled down the passenger window, “Hey you got a cell phone number just in case the DA has any questions?”

      I smiled again, “Nope, haven’t had one since I left the job but if you need me, call Ed Forney at the Houston Police Academy, he’ll know where to find me.”

      Hershaw wrote down the name and then leaned over to look me straight in the eye. “One more thing Rich, do any of your plans for the next few days involve Fort Worth?”

      There was no trace of the smile now and I chose my words carefully. “No John, everyone I need to see is in Houston.”

      He held the gaze a moment longer then straightened up in the seat. “Well then, you enjoy your visit. Give me a call when you get back and I’ll see about returning your gun to ‘ya. He gunned the car with a backhand wave and I waited until he turned the corner then walked across the street to Main Street Pawn.

      I’d been there once before when the track had been closed and I’d gone in to kill time. What I needed was still there in the showcase, a brand new Beretta model 96, just like the one Sergeant Bailey had taken to the Fort Worth Police evidence room. It was priced at six hundred, about a hundred more than I would have paid if I had time to shop. A lot of cops are lovers of fine guns, I never was. I’d only owned two guns my whole life, the Beretta, and the Bursa. I had only bought the Bursa when HPD began requiring off-duty officers to carry a gun. This didn’t seem like the time to learn my way around a new pistol. While the store owner was checking my permit and filling out a form, I fished out Clifford Child’s card and used the phone on the counter to make the call.

      He answered the phone with a monotone, “Childs.”

      I answered in kind, “This is Cain, are you still in Fort Worth?”

      There was a pause, then, “Yes, I’m about to leave, why?”

      “Because I’ve changed my mind, pick me up at Barnaby’s” and without waiting for an answer, I hung up. The paperwork was completed and I took my purchase and went back across the street to the bar. I ordered a Whisky and went to the men’s room where I switched out holsters again and loaded the new Beretta from the extra clips. Then I went to the bar and nursed my drink. I had time to think while I waited. I thought about Houston and my last day on the job and I thought about Judith. Things changed so fast that day. Then I thought, with some self-pity, that today’s conversation with Lieutenant John Hershaw had been the most I’ve talked to another person in over a year. I found myself thinking my way down a long list of crappy things and had just settled on remembering the day Katy left me when Childs appeared beside me and again dropped the envelope on the bar. This time I took out the money, stuffed it into my bag and leaving a five for Barnaby, I followed Childs to the front door.

      There was a blue Lincoln at the curb and when Childs reached for the driver’s door, I walked around and got in, putting my bag on the floor between my feet. I noticed my heart was racing a little. Fear, I guess. There were too many unknowns. Who would or could get Jimmy to try and kill me and why Philly Granger would want me back in his corner of Texas? Most importantly, why on the same day? Granger had hinted to me the day I headed north that I would likely live longer if I stayed away from him. Could be he even arranged for Jimmy to pay me a visit. But if so, why send Childs with cash?

      I spent some of the ride evaluating Clifford. Stoic would be an understatement. He even drove at attention. Hands at 10 and 2 and seat set in the upright position. I revised my earlier evaluation. This was no convict. I tested my guess, “How long since you left The Company?” His eyes popped right just enough to let me know I was right. My chauffeur was a for real retired spook. The only unanswered question was the nature of his retirement. Secret Service, C.I.A, NIS all the best spy machines our great land has to offer, they don’t hire many quitters but they do sometimes fire people. Clifford had the darting animal eyes of a Special Forces man, always checking, always aware. Philly Granger had gotten himself a killer.

      Finally, Clifford replied to my question, “The General said to bring you to Houston, he didn’t say we had to talk.” He whipped the car onto hanger row at Meacham Field and pulled to within thirty feet of a Lear 60 that was parked, door open and engines rumbling on the ramp. He left the car running and without waiting, got out and walked straight up the stairs onto the plane. I noticed again that for a big man he moved easy, like an athlete. I also noticed as the jet wash blew his jacket back he was packing an old fashioned locked and cocked Smith & Wesson .45 under his left arm. The modern spy’s idea of nostalgia.

      Chapter 2

      The pilot took my canvas bag and stood patiently as I used my cane to lever myself up the narrow stairs one at a time. I ducked into the cabin to see an already seated Clifford Childs on a cell phone. I turned my back on him and took the seat nearest the door. I didn’t particularly like having him behind me but this was closer to the bar. I heard him speak over the roar of the twin engines. “We’re taking off now sir, should be at the house by noon.”

      I don’t like to fly. I dated a dancer slash psych student once who said I had control issues stemming from a persecution complex developed in childhood. Her name was Carmen something and I never liked that analytical side of her. Her other sides were ok, though. As I helped myself to a shot of Canadian whiskey and the pilots began flipping switches and going down their checklist, I tried not to talk myself into getting off and taking a cab back to Barnaby’s. Instead, I gazed out at the now passing cement and thought back to Philly Granger and his last words to me at the cemetery three years ago. “I know it wasn’t your fault really Cain. But you’re the only one left to blame so just stay away from me, ok?” I didn’t like Philly but I had promised others I’d leave Houston anyway. So I just nodded and drove away. As the Lear climbed towards the Texas sky I thought of Judith and my last day on the job.

      I think Judith Granger had been a cop just to aggravate her famous father at first but she got to be pretty good at it. I was twenty years a Detective when she made the grade and became my partner on the Violent Offender’s Task Force of the Houston Police Department. Being the daughter of a retired General had given Judith a hard edge that was offset by a perfect 5’2 inch frame and a set of killer brown eyes. I never laid a hand on her, worse I sort of adopted her. Taught her some shortcuts, how to work a case and how to not give a shit what other cops thought of her. Yeah, I loved her and I understood why Philly could hate me for getting her killed. I felt the same way.

      Did I mention I hate to fly? Never is a man more helpless than sitting in a modern miracle of engineering going 500 mph with nothing between him and 40,000 feet of air, except technology. It doesn’t matter how smart I am, tough I am or how good a shot, if the jet, the mechanic or the pilot screws up I’m screwed. Stupid way to travel.

      Thirty minutes into the flight I realized with stifled dread that it was only half over and I had already had two drinks. One more and I’d be too sloshed to deal with Philly.

      General Phillip T. Granger, U.S. Air force, retired in 2001. The legendary hero of three