Heirs of Cain by Tom Wallace

often been said that the eyes are the windows to the soul. There was no doubting that Seneca’s eyes surely revealed the truth about the man within. They always had. No mysteries there, nothing hidden. But in this case, the philosophers and poets were only half right. Seneca’s eyes were windows not only to the soul; they were also a portal to some dark, forbidden place. To look into his eyes was to glimpse hell.
    No one understood this better than Collins. Seneca was a killer, pure and simple. And in his twisted mind, killing had nothing to do with duty or survival or right and wrong. He killed because he loved the act itself, the slaughter, the bloodletting. For him, politics never figured into the equation. For him, there was nothing more satisfying than the taking of a human life. There were no conventional enemies, only a world filled with potential victims waiting to be eliminated, swiftly, brutally.
    For Seneca, there was an unquenchable thirst that could never be fully satisfied, no matter how much blood was shed.
    And that made him the most dangerous opponent possible.
    Collins dug deeper into the folder. He couldn’t remember the year Seneca came to him at the Shop—he thought maybe it was summer 1968, but he suddenly wanted to know for certain. He found the record sheet and ran his forefinger down the page until he found what he was looking for. Close. Seneca came to him in February 1968. Valentine’s Day, to be exact.
    The notation jogged Collins’s memory. How could he have forgotten? A snowstorm had shut down all transportation, delaying the arrival of new recruits for at least twenty-four hours. Bored, he’d gone to the officers’ lounge and shot some pool before retiring to the barracks. On his way back, he heard footsteps crunching the snow behind him. Instinctively, without thought or hesitation, he turned, moved his body slightly to the left, and reacted to the arm he saw stretching toward him. Grabbing it at the elbow, he lifted it skyward, moved his right leg behind the man’s right hip, and using the leverage he’d created, sent the man sprawling into the powdery snow. Standing above his attacker, his breath coming out in dying clouds, killing hands drawn back with fingers extended, he stared down at the stunned man lying on the ground.
    “Wait, Major, I’m one of your recruits,” the man said, breathless but strangely unaffected by what had just happened. “My name is Rainwater. Sergeant David Rainwater. From Fort Campbell, Kentucky.”
    Collins helped the man to his feet. “How did you get here? I was told all transportation was down.”
    “Hitchhiked,” the man said without adding the required
sir
.
    The man brushed the snow off. When he looked up, his face was illuminated by a light coming from a barracks window. It was the first time Collins looked into the face of Dwight David Rainwater.
    Into those dark and penetrating eyes.
    The same dark and penetrating eyes now staring back at him from an old 8×10 black and white photograph sitting on the table.
    He reached out, picked up the photo and brought it close to his face. He could almost smell the stench of death, hear the laughter, that ancient and primal sound of a predator announcing another kill.
    And now this predator was on the prowl again. Doing what he did best.
    Killing.
    Collins dropped the photo onto the table, leaned back, and rubbed his eyes.
    Yes, Lucas, Seneca will be a problem
.

Moss shut off the Pontiac’s engine, took a final drag on his cigarette, then ground the butt into the ashtray. He rested both arms on top of the steering wheel and stared straight ahead. Only after a few seconds did he finally turn to look at Bungalow nine. Taylor’s bungalow. He wasn’t anxious to get started, but he could no longer put it off. The remainder of Taylor’s belongings had to be shipped to a cousin in St. Louis. Moss should have taken care of this task two weeks ago, but it was one of those dreaded chores that only get done