Two for Flinching (27 page)

Fletcher gave me a single nod.

“Well,” I said, “let’s get to it.” I left the
Colt in the desk and followed them down the stairs. It was a
beautiful day out, low fifties, only a scattering of morning
clouds. “Last chance.”

“For what?”

“For you to stay out of the hospital.”

Starling laughed again and I snapped a
perfect front kick to the face. Starling merely leaned back and I
missed by six inches. “You gotta do better than that.”

We were about the same height, but he had
fifty pounds on me. Luckily, it was all muscle. Most large men
never have to learn to fight, getting by on size and strength.
Starling, though, looked to have had some training, moving like a
boxer, hands up, light on his feet, chin tucked. I anticipated the
left jab, slipped to his left and landed a jab of my own, followed
by an overhand right. Starling appeared unfazed.

I moved back. He followed.

Another snap kick, this one to his
midsection. The foot landed in front and I was prepared to throw a
combination to the ribs. I was unprepared for the hook that clubbed
my right cheek or the cross that landed on my chin. I moved back
quickly and he quickly followed.

I practically ran backwards, trying to get
enough space to clear my head.
Be quick.
I jumped forward,
surprising him with a one-two-three to the face and darted away. He
held his ground, blood leaking from his split lips. Starling
grinned at me. It was not a pretty sight.

He could fight and he knew it. He could take
a punch and I knew it. If I was going to get out of this with any
teeth I would have to use it against him.

I sagged, allowing my hands to drop. He
couldn’t resist, going for the big punch, a sweeping right. I
ducked under it, staying low, two powerful uppercuts to the
stomach, then a right to the jaw, popping his head back. I could
feel it all the way to my shoulder.

He moved back. I circled.

For the first time, I saw doubt in his eyes.
Always a good point in any fight. I sneaked a peek behind him to
Fletcher. He was still standing where we started on the cracked
parking lot, his hands out. Empty. Starling spat blood.

I cocked my front leg, holding it in the air.
Starling hung back, out of range. Until I hopped twice on my left
leg and side-kicked him in the face.
Always aim for the
nose.
If you miss, you’ll still hit an eye or the mouth. The
heel of my boot slammed into him and his nose exploded. Direct hit.
It was a good kick, yet not a knockout blow. Not for someone who
knew how to fight and could take a punch.

My right leg landed in front. I twisted my
hips, getting my whole body into it, the hips, the torso, the
shoulder, swinging my left elbow into his solar plexus. I had
broken a lot of boards with that elbow strike, the most was four at
a time, an inch and a half thick. When I was a teenager, still a
kid, before the Army and the Rangers and the years at war.

There was a thud and a crack and Starling,
eyes wide in shock and pain, took two steps back and fell.
That
was a knockout blow.

The follow thru left me two feet from
Fletcher. “You go for your piece and I’ll snap your neck.”

Fletcher held his hands up and went around me
to Starling. His face was a bloody mask, nose flattened, gasping
for breath. Fear alive in his eyes, the unique fear of not being
able to breathe.

Mid-fifties, a scattering of clouds. The
world zoomed back in. A beautiful day. Somewhere close a bird
cried. I was betting it wasn’t a starling.

Chapter Forty-Five

“Hello.”

“What are we going to do?”

“Uh…about what?”

“About Stella. About her…body.”

“Well, I expect the authorities won’t release
it for a week or so, pending the findings of the autopsy.”

“What do we do then?”

“Felicia, I don’t understand what you’re
asking me.”

“The funeral. The burial. My people are
buried all over the county and Orrin is from Kentucky. Do you have
a plot somewhere?”

“Actually, I do. Dad’s parents were founding
members of Chickasaw Falls Baptist. They bought a corner of the
cemetery.”

“That will be fine. You never divorced her,
did you?”

“No.”

“Then you’re still her legal spouse. What
kind of services have you planned?”

“I haven’t thought that far ahead.”

“Funerals are expensive. Paul told me Stella
had a three hundred thousand life insurance policy. Did you know
that?”

“No. I didn’t.”

“Did Stella leave a will?”

“Not that I know of. You ask her brother? He
would’ve been in charge of that.”

“Paul didn’t know of one either. You’re the
beneficiary of the life insurance. What are you going to do with
the money?”

“There is no money.”

“Sure there is. Paul said there was.”

“The insurance company won’t pay it out.”

“They have to.”

“No, they don’t. Not under suspicious
circumstance.”

“What?”

“Felicia, somebody murdered Stella. They
won’t pay as long as they can argue I might have been
responsible.”

“They have to pay somebody.”

“Eventually. Maybe. Years down the road.”

“Paul says if you don’t get the money, it
goes to Sarah.”

“Eventually. Maybe.”

“Stella was my only daughter. I am—was—her
mother.”

“Are you going to file a claim? Go after the
money?”

“No. No, no, no. Nothing like that. Only for
Sarah. If they won’t give it to you, maybe they’ll give it to me.
For Sarah.”

“Uh huh.”

***

There was a Lincoln Town Car parked
crookedly on the street, a man on my steps. I pulled into the
garage and unhooked my daughter from her car seat. She followed me
around to the front of the house. The man rose unsteadily to his
feet.

“Uncle Lou!” Sarah grabbed him around the
legs. I was afraid she might knock him over.

“Hello, honey.”

“What are you doing here?”

“I came to see you. And your dad.” He looked
at me. His eyes were red-rimmed. “Hey, Beason.”

“Hey, judge. Let’s get out of the cold.” I
unlocked the front door and we went in, out of the cold. Sarah
dropped her backpack on the floor and charged the couch. A moment
later, I heard the television come on. It sounded like SpongeBob.
“You want some coffee?”

“You got anything a little harder?”

“No.” I went into the kitchen, Judge Drake
trailing behind, and got a pot going.

“Your dad’s not here.”

“No.”

“Think he’ll be by?”

“I don’t know. Probably, when he gets off
work. You need to see him?”

Drake shook his head. Still ramrod straight,
even in his sweats and t-shirt. You never saw him without a
tie—unless he had been drinking. “Just wanted to know how long I
had.”

“What happened to you two?”

“Have to ask him.”

“I did.”

He shrugged.

The coffee maker sputtered.

“What’s up, judge?”

“I came to offer my condolences.”

“Thanks.”

Drake looked towards the den. “Such a lovely
child. She looks so much like her mother.”

When I looked at Sarah, I didn’t see much of
her mother. They shared the same high cheekbones and Sarah was
thin—though a lot of kids that age were. Sarah had dark hair while
Stella was a natural blond. “You think so?” I took a mug from the
cabinet, filled it and handed it to him.

“Definitely.” He sipped from the cup. “I feel
terrible for you, Beason. I understand what you’re going
through.”

“You do?”

“Yeah.” He closed his eyes. “A divorce is a
lot like death, the loss of something you love. The loss of
potential.”

“I guess I can see that.”

“Stella was a lovely young woman.”

“Yes,” I had to admit, “she was.”

“And just as lovely on the inside.”

I usually didn’t drink much coffee after
noon, but it would have been a shame to let the rest of the pot go
to waste. I took out a cup of my own. “I didn’t realize you knew
her that well.”

“I didn’t. Not really. We were on a committee
once with the United Way.”

“Oh yeah.” The judge—purely for political
purposes—had been heavily involved with the United Way. Stella had
joined for a bit, since her boss had been a member and Stella was
looking for a promotion. “I had almost forgotten about that.”

“I wonder how Sarah will do growing up
without her mother.”

I had never seen Luther show concern about my
daughter when we had all assumed Stella had run off. Come to think
of it, I had never seen more than a passing interest from him about
my child. “How much have you had to drink?”

He waved me off. “Skip the lecture, Beason. I
only wanted you to know how sorry I am for your loss.”

I had my own troubles to worry about without
taking on Luther’s drinking. “Okay.”

“She was something else.”

“Yes,” I agreed. “She was.”

***

Sarah had a chicken leg and a scoop of
macaroni casserole on her plate. She liked the chicken well enough,
but wouldn’t touch the casserole—it wasn’t real macaroni. I thought
it was pretty good and it was as close to kid friendly as I had in
the overstocked fridge. Dad claimed when we were little he put the
food on our plate and we could it eat or starve. Two problems with
that: Gus and I, sure, however not his little girl. And; I never
remembered him putting anything on my plate.

I went to the pantry, looking for a suitable
side dish. I knew there was nothing in the fridge. When somebody
dies, you don’t take salad. For a man who had lived pretty much
continuously on MRE’s, it wasn’t easy. If Erin had not been out
with that boy, I could have asked her. Cans of green beans,
black-eyed peas, and corn. I settled on potato chips.

A knock on the door. Blondie’s head snapped
around. She was torn between molesting a newcomer or staying at her
spot beside Sarah’s chair waiting for food to be dropped.
Accidently or otherwise. I went alone to the door.

Dad would not have bothered to knock and
Blondie would have sensed his presence and gone running to greet
him. I pulled back the venetian blinds. An older sedan sat in the
driveway, illuminated by the streetlight. Not a car I recognized.
And not a vehicle likely to be driven by Starling or Fletcher.

I cracked the door, ready to slam it shut if
need be. A vaguely familiar man stood on my stoop, dressed in a
dark suit, lighter shirt, no tie, and a heavy coat. I couldn’t
place him, but he set off no alarm bells. I pulled the door
open.

“Mr. Camp?”

“Yes?”

“I’m Ronald Ignatius, the pastor at First
Baptist.”

“Oh, uh, come on in.” I moved back so he
could enter. “I didn’t recognize you in the dark, you know, without
the pulpit.”

Ignatius’s somber expression melted, breaking
out into a grin. “Maybe I could borrow yours.”

“Sorry, I had to take it in for
cleaning.”

He laughed, a full, hearty, laugh.

“Who is it, daddy?” Sarah peeked around the
corner.

“It’s the preacher, baby.”

“Who?”

Ignatius knelt on his haunches. “Hello,
angel.”

She crept into the dining room/playroom.
Blondie was licking her palms.

“I’ve interrupted your dinner. I’m
sorry.”

“It’s okay,” she said. “It isn’t very
good.”

Another laugh. “Well, you go back and finish.
I just want a minute with your father.”

Sarah gave me puppy dog eyes. “Do I have
to?”

“Yes, honey.”

“Okay.” She made a face and returned back out
of sight.

“I really am sorry, Mr. Camp. I’ve come at a
bad time.”

“Don’t worry about it,” I said. “Would you
like to join us? We have every casserole known to man.”

“No. Thank you. I don’t want to upset the
missus.” Up close, I could tell he was a few years older than me,
mid to late thirties, light brown hair beginning to thin, rimless
glasses. “I just came by to see how you were doing, if you needed
anything.”

“No. Like I said, we’ve got plenty of
food.”

“And how are you doing?”

“Fine.”

“Really?”

“Well, maybe a little less than fine.”

“I can imagine.”

“I doubt it.” As soon as the words left my
mouth, I regretted it. This was a man I didn’t even know who had
put off his own dinner with his family to see how I was doing.
“It’s a complicated situation,” I quickly added.

“You’re right. I can’t imagine.”

“Do you know the story?”

“Uh…no.”
Not the whole story.

“The short version is we all thought my wife
ran off with my partner. Only we found out they were both dead the
entire time.”

“Complicated.” He sadly shook his head. “Have
you got time to talk? I don’t want your supper to get cold.”

“I haven’t heated it yet.”

“I am sorry I haven’t been by earlier to
visit, before…all this.”

“Don’t worry about it. I’ve been to church
twice in the last five years.”

“I understand you are something of a martial
arts expert.”

“I wouldn’t go that far.”

“No? I thought you held black belts in
several different styles.”

“Good at many, expert at none.”

“Really?”

“I guess it depends on your perspective. You
have a master’s in theology?”

“Doctorate,” he said without arrogance.

“You have studied the Bible extensively?”

“Yes.”

“Would you consider yourself an expert?”

“Not even close,” he said. “I see your point.
How did you get into that?”

“I used to like to fight.”

He cocked an eye at my face. “Used to?”

My turn to laugh. Even though I had applied
ice for most of the afternoon, there was still swelling on my
cheek, courtesy of Starling. “Hazards of the job.”