Two for Flinching (31 page)

Stella had left twelve hundred and four
dollars in our checking account.

Steven Noble hand an ironclad alibi for the
time Amber went in the lake. The timing didn’t work—even if it had
not been for the stopped watch. My neighbor was drunk, his hand was
broken, and Amber wouldn’t have gone anywhere with him anyway.
Clarence Starling and Derik Fletcher were in Mississippi. I didn’t
know where Little Bird had been on the night of the murder, but
even I had to admit his involvement in her murder was thin. Big
Bird and Providence had shown up at my office in an attempt to
intimidate me. If the brother had been in town, he would’ve been
there. Unless he had already gone, planning on never returning.

I chewed on that for a little while. It was
all I had.

My friend and mentor had been involved in an
affair with my wife.
Was Luther Drake capable of killing?
He
was a martial arts expert, a sixth degree black belt in Tae Kwan
Do, had done his hitch in the military. Yet in all the time he had
spent training me, he always tried to teach honor and
respect—especially to women.
You never hit a woman, Bees,
he
had told me on more than one occasion.
You can never use what
you learn from me for that.
Luther was distraught now—not four
years ago. He was upset over Stella’s death. I was so wrapped up in
my own problems, I couldn’t recall Luther’s state of mind when
Stella had gone missing, but it was obvious he was in mourning. Of
course, mourning and guilt could look a lot alike.

I chewed on that for a little while.

Nero:
You might need to open your search a
little wider.

Maybe.

My address was twelve oh two Hunters
Glen.

Randall Rogers:
Helluva
coincidence.

It hit me like a bolt of lightning.

I wasn’t the only one who had a wife and
lover found in the bottom of the same lake.

***

“Hello.”

“It was Steven.”

“Beason? What are you talking about?”

“Steven killed your sister and he killed my
wife.”

“Slow down. You’re not making sense. You
saying Steven killed Amber
and
Stella?”

“Yeah. He killed Amber for the insurance
money. He was sleeping with Stella and killed her when she dumped
him.”

“How do you—why do you think that?”

“The journal. Stella kept a journal to keep
track of all her lovers. It’s all in there. He is going down.”

“Don’t do anything rash. Please, Beason, tell
me you’re not going to do anything stupid.”

“No. I wish I could, but I can’t. I have a
daughter to think about. I can’t take the chance.”

“Good. Let the authorities handle it. Have
you given the journal to the police yet?”

“No. It’s in my office. First thing in the
morning, I’m handing it over.”

Chapter Fifty-Four

I was driving Erin’s Volkswagen, early the
next morning. Sleep had been a stranger to me. I had tossed and
turned on the single mattress all night, my mind unwilling to
relax, what I knew for sure and what I believed.

Fact: Steven had killed Stella for breaking
it off and it looked to me that he had used the money from her and
Adrian to save his restaurant from financial ruin.
How had he
forced both Stella and Adrian to empty their accounts before
putting them in her car and to the bottom of the lake?
Adrian
was a cop, and whatever I might have felt about him, he was most
unlikely to walk quietly to his own death. I hadn’t figured that
part out.

Fact: Steven had killed for Amber having an
affair with me and for the insurance money.
How had he done
it?
He certainly had appeared drunk when he confronted me that
night. He had to have been faking it, had been sober enough to
changer the time on her watch before putting her in the car.

Erin had asked me to swap vehicles. She’d
pulled out Sarah’s car seat the day before because she’d had to
haul something to school. When the fuel light came on, I had my
doubts. My niece had been a blessing to me, the way she moved in
and helped me with Sarah. I provided her with room and board and
slipped her some cash now and then, but we both knew I was getting
the better end of the deal. I had no idea what I would do once she
graduated and moved on with her life.

There was enough gas to get me to the sock
factory and back. I pulled over anyway and topped it off (as I’m
sure Erin knew I would.) In my profession, with everything going
on, I might have to leave in a hurry and wouldn’t have time to
stop. Plus, I didn’t mind doing a good turn for my niece who had
done so much for me.

The morning was still and cold, the sun
barely cresting the eastern sky, frost encasing the grass and the
parked cars unfortunate enough not to spend the night in a garage.
The streets were mostly deserted, the few people out moving quickly
and with purpose. I racked the pump, screwed on the cap and got
back in the still running car. The heater had finally warmed
up.

Ice crystals glittered on the parking lot. I
climbed the metal stairs, eager to get inside and get the coffee
going. The heavy door had been swung closed, but not completely
shut, the frame shattered, probably by a crow bar. Or a three
hundred and fifty pound man.

The smart thing to do was to back down the
stairs, call the police and wait for the prowl car. I pulled out
the .45 and thumbed off the safety, pushing silently through the
ruined door. The door to the office hung in the same fashion as the
one outside. Cracked and splintered wood. Clarence Starling stood
over my desk. A sawed off pump shotgun sat on the desktop.
Fletcher? Where is Fletcher?

Starling sensed my presence and looked up. He
moved slowly, stiffly. He smiled.

“Looking for something?”

He reached for the twelve gauge.

“Don’t.”

A flash of movement to my left and I dropped
like a rock, straight to the ground. Gunfire came from the corner
of the office. I rolled twice in that direction, not away from it.
The shotgun roared, the door disintegrated. Still prone, gun in
hand, I shot Fletcher twice in the chest, center mass, then once in
the head. The back of his skull sprayed across my couch.

The shotgun fired again, high and behind me,
the
chunk-chunk
of the slide chambering another round. I
twisted on my side, fired three quick shots at Starling. The first
hit him in the shoulder, spinning him around, the second missed
completely, shattering the window behind him. The third punched a
hole in his throat.

Starling tumbled back, knocking out what
remained of the glass and fell heavily to the floor. He did not
move.

I took a deep breath, fighting to calm the
sudden dump of adrenaline, listening. Starling and Fletcher lay
still. They were both dead. I didn’t know where Little Bird was. I
waited, my ears straining.

I scrambled to my feet, checking Fletcher.
His eyes were wide, a not so small hole high in his forehead.
Starling was on his side, his face frozen forever in shock that it
could end like this. That death could come so suddenly.

Another deep breath. I looked out the window.
That full sized van was parked next to the Toyota.

I yanked back the bottom drawer of my desk,
pulled out a fresh clip and slammed it into the Colt. I wasn’t
about to run out of ammunition, not with Goliath out there waiting
on me. I didn’t think a bag of smooth stones would be enough.

I went to the door, poked my head out and
back quickly. The stairs were empty, nobody in sight. I crept down,
as silently as possible. The van’s motor ticked, as if someone sat
in it, waiting to pick up Starling and Fletcher. I trained my
pistol on it, hugging the wall and slowly eased towards it. I came
to the corner. My breath was visible. Nothing. I took another
step.

And suddenly my right hand was trapped in a
vice grip, Reggie Starling emerging from where he had been hidden
on the other side of the wall. The gun clattered to the ground.
Starling grinned.

I grabbed my right hand with my left and
pulled as hard as I could. To no effect.

“Gotta do better than that.”

I launched myself at him, driving my elbow
into that grin, grabbed my hand again and broke the hold. I backed
up.

Little Bird followed, a hole now in his
smile, bright red blood flowing over his dirty beard. “I’ve been
waiting for this.”

“So have I.” I side-kicked him hard in the
leg. The leg with a .45 hole in it. I backed up. He followed.

I kicked him again in the same spot. He
advanced, dragging his injured right leg behind him. I kicked him
in the left leg, in the hip socket. His advance slowed.

If you watch an MMA match, you always see
them going for the legs—especially in the early rounds. Same thing
in a boxing match, except they go for the body. It’s not because
they’re looking for a knockout, but to wear the other guy down, to
set him up for later.

There was nothing to stop me from turning and
simply running down the street. Starling could never catch me, not
even on two legs. Get some distance, stop and call the police. I
continued to step back and shrugged out of my jacket. I
round-kicked his back leg. A red stain had begun to seep into his
blue jeans.

I continued to retreat into the parking lot,
avoiding the van. He continued to follow and I continued to kick
his legs. His arms dropped and I moved in for three quick shots,
jab, cross, hook to the head, sure to get in and get out.
Move
like a butterfly.
His hands came up and I kicked him in the
ribs. We reached the end of the lot and I circled around him and we
started back toward the sock factory. Kicks to the legs, quick
strikes to the head, an occasional body shot.

Starling was taking a hell of a beating,
blood running down his face, his right shoe bright with it. His
breathing was labored, his movements increasingly slower. I avoided
the half-hearted swings and easily eluded the feeble attempts to
grab me. Yet he continued to follow, continued to take the
pounding. I admired his courage, the way a hunter might admire the
lion, almost pitied him. Almost, because I knew if he got those ham
sized hands on me, he wouldn’t hesitate to break me in half.

“Give it up, Starling.” My breathing was
easy, a light sweat breaking out on my forehead. A left-right and
back.
Quick, quick, keep it quick.
“You don’t have a
chance.”

He didn’t answer, plodding into the
punishment. I kicked him in the back leg. “No shame in it. You were
hurt before we even started.” Jab, cross,
move!

The other edge of the lot, closest to the
factory. It was obvious he was trying to trap me. I shuffled back,
then ran around him, keeping my distance. He advanced. I kicked him
in the leg. Ducks in a barrel.

“It’s over.”

He finally let his hands fall to his sides.
“Yep.”

A whistling noise, then the sound of metal
hitting something hard, bright lights and the cracked pavement
rushing to meet me.

Chapter Fifty-Five

I was at the bottom of a lake. I’m not sure
how I knew since I was in utter darkness, but I knew. I felt as if
I was floating, that eerie weightless sensation. Weird, because I
was also completely dry.

Stella materialized next to me. She was all
I could see, my entire world. Still beautiful, her long blond hair
hung all around her. Her face was intense, full lips moving
urgently, yet I could hear nothing.

I said, “I’m sorry.”

A murmur. “W—r—p!”

“
I should have known. If I had known, I
would have done something. I would have kept you safe. If only I
had known. I should have known.”

“
W—k—r—p!”

“
You wouldn’t have had to stay. I wouldn’t
have made you stay. You could have left. I still would have taken
care of Sarah. She would have known her mother.”

“
W—k—r—s—p!”

I held out my hand for her, yet she remained
out of reach. “I am so sorry.”

“
Wake your ass up!”

Chapter Fifty-Six

“What took you so long?”

“I couldn’t let him see me, could I?”

I kept my eyes closed as I slowly struggled
to full consciousness. I was sitting, my arms were held in place at
my sides. There was a ringing in my ears, a pounding in my
head.

“He killed Clarence.”

“Fletcher, too.”

“Who gives a fuck about Fletcher?”

“Right.”

Evidently, the only person in the room who
cared if Fletcher lived or died was the one who shot him.

“This never should have happened.”

“How was I supposed to know he would drive
the girl’s car?”

“We’re lucky I saw her let that damn dog
out.”

“This doesn’t look lucky to me.”

“This is one tough bastard. Hate to get him
in the cage.”

My legs were free.

“I tried to tell you.”

I opened my eyes. Steven Noble sat across
from me in my other client chair, the steel pipe in one hand, a
revolver in the other. No brace or sling. Reggie hulked next to
him, armed with only what God had given him. It was plenty.

“The last Starling brother.”

“Tada.” Steven gave a mock bow. “Half
brother, actually.”

“The one who went straight.”

“More or less.” Steven tapped the floor with
the pipe. “We need to know what you know. Quick and easy or long
and painful. It’s up to you.”

I could have held out. The Rangers had been
kind enough to train me to withstand torture at the hands of
al-Qaeda. Whatever these boys could dish out wouldn’t hold a candle
to that.