Heirs of Cain (40 page)

Cardinal.

Cain’s thoughts drifted to his men, magnificent warriors, soldiers who had operated in a dark and bloody world most Americans never knew existed. Men who had done the dirtiest deeds, known the blackest evil. Men who fought a secret war, answering to no one, responsible only to each other.

So many were dead now. Cardinal, Rafe, Deke, Moon, Seneca, Lucas. All history. And Snake. It was only a matter of time before he took his final breath. Cain wanted to cry, to let his tears wash away the blood and grief. But he couldn’t. Pity and tears are for the weak. And weakness leads to failure, failure to the grave.

Michael Collins could cry; he had that luxury. Cain didn’t.

The killing never ends, does it, my boy? It just goes on and on
.

You nailed that one, Lucas
.

Wars continue to flourish, the need for killers ever present. Blood flows like a river, the wounded cry out, the dead number in the thousands, and the innocent are forever caught in the middle. The combatants change with the swiftness of the seasons, but the hate and greed and lust for power never cease. If history’s cruel lessons have taught us anything, it is this: those better angels Lincoln spoke of have long since flown away.

Cain, and those like him, will never lack for employment. Men in power will see to that. From their high places, their dark rooms, they will send out the call:
assassins wanted
.

And men like Cain will emerge from the shadows.

Always.

Cain opened the letter he had taken from Lucas’s desk and read it again. It was, he knew, his father’s confession. Not until this moment, not until he had digested his father’s words, did Cain realize how heavy was the burden of guilt his father carried deep in his soul. Cain saw this not in the many questions his father asked, but rather in the words unwritten. What had been omitted said more than what was on the page. Richard Collins felt trepidation, questioned his son’s “deeds,” even asked if his own flesh and blood was a monster. Those questions, Cain knew, were little more than diversionary tactics. Richard Collins was a soldier; as such, while he may not have understood Cain, he did understand the necessity for Cain’s existence. He could live with his son being an assassin.

What he couldn’t live with, however, and what lay at the heart of his guilt, was his failure to make a greater attempt to bridge the vast chasm between father and son. For Richard Collins, that failure to connect was a far greater sin than any committed by his son. Killing could be forgiven, but distance between father and son could not.

Cain recalled something he overheard during a long-ago conversation between his father and Lucas. “Call him Mickey,” Lucas suggested. “Do it one time, Richard, only once. Who knows? Maybe that’s all it will take to bring the wall crashing down.”

Not once did his father ever call him Mickey.

Cain folded the letter, rose from the bench, and walked back to his house. Kate Marshall sat on the steps, a manila folder in her hands. Her eyes were red and puffy.

“Is it over?” she asked as he sat beside her.

“Yes.”

“Will you tell me what it was about?”

“No.”

“Why?”

Cain was silent.

“Don’t you think I have a right to know, Michael?”

“Let it go, Kate.”

“Just like that?”

“Yes, just like that.”

“Why should I?”

“It’s my world, Kate. You don’t belong in it.”

“Don’t I have a say in that?”

“No.”

“I love you, Michael. Maybe more than I’ve ever loved anybody. And I want a future for us, a life together. But …” She opened the folder and removed the letters and photos. “Please, Michael, tell me the truth. That’s all I ask. Do that, and I’ll deal with wherever it takes me. Wherever it takes us.”

“The truth?”

“Yes, the truth. All of it.”

“The truth can be tricky.”

“It’s a risk I’m willing to take.”

“Leave it alone, Kate. Close that folder; forget about what you’ve read; forget about me—about us.”

Kate began to cry. She laid the folder down, stood, and faced Cain. “Forget?” she said, wiping her eyes. “Why should I forget? And why is it wrong to want to know about you? About your life?”

“Because my life is off-limits.”

“To me?”

“To everyone.”

“Why?”

“Because there are rules.”

“Rules? That’s your answer? Whose rules? Please, Michael, tell me what this was all about?”

“Retribution.”

“What does that mean?”

“Debts were paid. Old markers collected.”

“You aren’t going to be straightforward with me, are you?”

“You wanted the truth—there it is.”

Kate pointed to the folder. “Okay, Michael, answer this. Who is Cain? Simple question. Please answer.”

Silence.

“One last time, Michael. Who is Cain?”

Silence.

Choking back a sob, Kate handed the folder to Cain, turned, walked to her car, and got in. She started the motor, backed out of the driveway, and drove off into the night.

As her car was swallowed up by the darkness, Cain scooped up the folder and stood on the steps. The hint of a smile crossed his lips. Kate’s last words echoed in his head.

“Who is Cain?”

I am
.