The Fall and Rise of Cain

By Greg T. Nelson

In the tradition of Sam Spade, Phillip Marlow and Travis Magee The Fall and Rise of Cain is a modern day Mystery Thriller. Retired in disgrace, Houston Police Detective, Richard Cain, left the Department when a brutal ambush crippled him and killed his partner. Two years after the gunfight that broke his body and spirit he is called back to the town that turned it's back on him. He must know who was responsible for his shattered life and lost friend. Seeking the help of his ex-wife and former comrades Cain rekindles love for her and seeks to solve the complex mystery that took everything from him.

• Language: English
• Publisher: eBookIt.com
• Release date: Apr 26, 2017
• ISBN: 9781456600754

Book preview

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 he had come in. I waited for about a minute before dropping the cigar in the ashtray and holstered the Bursa. Grabbing my cane from the stool to my left and laying a ten-dollar bill on the bar I eased myself off the stool. I read the card before putting it in my back pocket,

GRANGER INDUSTRIES

Clifford Childs Loss Prevention Manager

713-555-9022

I turned and walked out. I could feel my heart pounding as I reached the front door and almost went back for another drink, but it was time to go.

My Impala was already oven hot inside so I rolled down all four windows as I pulled away from the curb and drove east towards my apartment. I still didn’t think of it as home, just a place to mark time between physical therapy and the crap tables. I pulled through the open gate that was supposed to always be closed and parked in my assigned space. I had paid extra for a ground floor furnished place, away from the pool but close to the parking lot. Worth a few dollars for shorter walks and no stairs.

As I unlocked and entered the front door, I noticed for the thousandth time how dreary the place was. Furnished for an extra forty dollars a month, the place consists of cheap carpet over a small living area, a bedroom and a kitchen all used by me and me alone. The only other person who had been in was the maintenance guy to spray for bugs and he did that when I was gone. I had a phone but I just used it to pay bills or place bets, there was no one I had wanted to talk to for a long time. The kitchen had a coffee pot and an ice bucket. I lived on Pizza and Chinese food.

I had planned this trip the day I moved in and a hundred times since, so getting ready was easy. Pulling a soft duffle bag from the hall closet, I packed quickly. Some jeans, shirts, underwear and a shaving kit. I threw the .380 under the jeans and put my Beretta .40 cal on a right hip holster and covered it with a lightweight denim jacket. Adding six full clips to the bag, I was ready to go.

I hesitated at the bathroom then reached into a drawer for the bottle of Vicodin. It had been a year since the surgery and I’d been trying to cut back on the pills but Houston was a long way and better safe than miserable. I’m pretty sure I take them for the pain and not the peaceful haze and sounder sleep. I sat on the couch and made the calls I needed too. One to tell Peggy at the Hospital I wouldn’t be in for therapy this week or until I called back, then another to the apartment office so they could get my mail. I was still holding the phone trying to decide if I should drive or book a flight. Flying meant checking the guns through luggage but driving meant five hours without stretching. That’s hard on the leg. I was about to call Ed and ask him to pick me up at the airport when the knock came at the door. I yelled a reflex Who is it and had started to stand when the door exploded.

I was on the floor with the Beretta in hand trying to take stock. Lots of smoke, wood chips still drifting down and my ears were ringing, no pain but that didn’t mean I wasn’t hit, no time to check now. Must have been a shotgun aimed at where my chest would have been if I had made it over there. I held the pistol at arm’s length and risked a peek around the sofa. The door was still closed but there was a head-sized hole in the center of it. Hoping the shooter would look through the hole I held my aim there for a moment, trying to keep my breathing quiet. The hole stayed empty and my mind raced. Going out the door after him or them was no option. I’m too slow and there were too many unknown factors like how many and how good were they. The windows, they were barred against burglary, I couldn’t get out but someone might shoot through one of them. No back door. I had to wait for them to come in or help to arrive. I tried to estimate and finally decided, it had been ten seconds since the shot. The ringing in my ears faded to a dull hum and I heard a slight tap as the barrel of a shotgun pushed the door open. As it swung back, I took aim at a spot on the wall to the left of the gun barrel and fired two shots into the plaster. In the movies, bullets bounce endlessly off brick walls but here in real life, most brick is just cheap decoration and the forty caliber steel balls punched through in a cloud of cement dust. A second later, a beat up 12 gauge fell across the doorway, then a second later a man. He landed on his shoulder, both hands holding his throat and bright red blood pumping between his fingers. Our eyes met briefly before a cloud settled over his and as the crimson slowed to a steady flow I heard myself sarcastically mumble, Hello Jimmy. A few seconds later I heard sirens.

I couldn’t be sure the dead man was alone but I could be sure that if a young beat cop saw him dead and me with a gun I could get just as dead. I waited until I saw a uniformed officer pass the window and then tossed the Beretta about half the distance to the doorway as I rolled over on my stomach and put my hands on the back of my head. I wasn’t surprised when they came in and handcuffed me.

I was searched and then moved to the bedroom where my driver’s license and gun permit were taken and my story heard. Then a polite Sergeant removed the cuffs and stationed a rookie to keep me company, casually leaving my cane against the doorjamb, out of reach. I sat on the edge of the bed for an hour watching down the short hallway as a well-practiced team measured, photographed and discussed my apartment. It was all familiar, the chatter and the careful collection of evidence.

I’ve seen maybe a hundred homicide scenes as a cop, maybe half of those as the guy in charge. This was different. I was just a spectator as the CSI team found and picked up the spent brass casings from the Beretta. I watched with interest as one of them pushed a long sharp thermometer through Jimmy’s stomach and into his liver and made careful note of the reading that would tell within a few minutes what time his heart had stopped. I found I was staring into Jimmy’s dead eyes and asking myself the same questions over and over. I was jarred back to myself when two men with a rolling stretcher were heaving Jimmy into a black vinyl bag and another of the team pushed a laser pointer into one of the bullet holes in my wall. A red dot fell on the carpet within an inch of where I’d fired from and more pictures were taken. As the team finished their assigned task and began packing gear, a rumpled man of about sixty wearing slacks and a white cotton shirt came in the front door and was shown around by the Sergeant who told him my tale in hushed tones and gestures as the Detective made notes in a small book. Then he nodded, asked a few questions as he leaned over and looked at Jimmy with a practiced eye before letting the two men zip up the bag and roll the corpse away. Speaking to the Sergeant one last time he looked carefully at the pool of Jimmy’s blood. As the team of uniforms filed out the door, the rumpled Detective moved towards me and the rookie