Heirs of Cain by Tom Wallace Page A

when there is absolutely no more time for procrastination.
    Some of Taylor’s belongings were shipped three days after the incident occurred; the rest had been boxed. All that remained was for Moss to make a couple, maybe three trips to the post office. He should have borrowed the Pinewood Estates van and taken care of the matter in a single trip. But he hadn’t and it was no big deal. These days, when many residents were back up north for the summer, he had plenty of free time on his hands.
    A white BMW drove past Taylor’s driveway. The driver offered a friendly wave and an ear-to-ear smile. Moss liked the young man, Brad McGregor. What he didn’t like was the idea of Brad and Kelli living together outside of marriage. Of all the broken traditions, that one bothered him the most. If two people love each other and want to live together, it should be as husband and wife. Whatever happened to the term “living in sin” anyway?
    Moss sighed. What the hell difference did it make in the long run? The world’s going to hell in a hand basket. Terrorism, hunger, pollution, drugs, kids killing kids in schools all across the country, disrespect, politicians banging young interns … Let us count the ways. Look what happened to a nice guy like Taylor. Living alone, minding his own business, harming no one, then—murdered. Further proof that the world is heading down the toilet. With so many real troubles, what could possibly be wrong with a couple of fairly decent kids living together? Nothing. Yet, for whatever reason, however old-fashioned or outdated, Moss was bothered by it.
    He opened the door, put on his L.A. Lakers baseball cap, got out of the car, and walked down the brick path leading to bungalow nine.
    The bungalow was dark and smelled of musk, so Moss opened the curtains in the living room, then went into the kitchen and opened the blinds covering the window that looked out over the inlet. After getting a drink of water, he went into the living room and counted the boxes stacked in the corner. Six, plus two small ones still upstairs. Definitely three trips, he figured. The old Pontiac might be roomy—Taylor once called it an ark—but it wasn’t nearly roomy enough to get the job done in two trips.
    Moss decided to get the two boxes in the upstairs bedroom first. When he reached the top of the stairs, he waited a few seconds to catch his breath, adjusted his Lakers cap, then took one last look in the hall closet. Satisfied none of Taylor’s belongings had been overlooked, he went into the bedroom.
    And froze.
    He wasn’t alone. A man was standing by the large window that opened to the balcony.
    Moss surveyed the intruder. Tall, lean, handsome; dressed in Levis, a T-shirt, and white Nikes. Brown hair on the longish side, bluish-gray eyes.
    And perfectly calm. He smiled, nodded as though he anticipated Moss’s arrival, and continued what he was doing.
    Moss didn’t react so nonchalantly. He took a step back, looked to his right, spied a brass candleholder on the dresser, picked it up, and clutched it tightly in both hands.
    “Who are you?” he stammered. “And how the hell did you get in here?”
    “Relax, Moss. I’m—”
    “How’d you know my name?” Moss interrupted.
    “It’s my business to know things.” Striding across the room, the man put out his hand. “I’m Mickey Collins. And you can put down that weapon. You won’t need it.”
    Moss looked at the man’s large hands, still unsure of what exactly was happening and even less sure of how he should deal with it.
Cautious
was the first word that came to mind.
Danger
was the second. After all, one man had already been murdered in this bungalow. He had no intention of becoming victim number two. Not if he had anything to say about it.
    He took another step backward. “Okay, so your name is Mickey Collins. You still ain’t told me why you’re up here and how you got in.”
    “I’m here to look around. As for getting in, I picked the back door