Chapter Thirty-Nine

Saturday, early afternoon

  

In the bathroom mirror, the man had lowered his pants and underwear and found a dark bruise on his right butt cheek. He still could not believe how he’d fooled everyone—Mick Crome, Blu Carraway, Patricia Voyels, Brack Pelton, Darcy Pelton, and Tess Ray—only to be outsmarted by a horse.

One that he hoped he’d never have to see again. The animal, he was now convinced, was possessed. Not many people, much less animals, could have come up with and executed a plan like that. What kind of creatures were these?

In fact, why were they attacking him? He’d spent his life fighting for them. And this was how they repaid him?

He shuddered at the thought of what could have happened—namely that the animals could have trampled him to death—and held an ice pack to his bruise, walking around his house half naked to the kitchen.

Up to this point, the only animals he disliked were dogs. One had bit him at an early age and he’d hated them ever since. Now it appeared he’d have to add horses to the list.

If he couldn’t get into Carraway’s house, then he had to make the P.I. think that this had to do with something else, derail him until it was time to reveal it all to him just before he and Crome died.

The drive back from Carraway’s house had given him time to think. He’d settled on two options. Both were dangerous and could blow up in his face. But if he succeeded, Carraway would have to go down another rabbit hole.

  

Saturday, early afternoon

  

Crome memorized the serial number of the forty-four before Powers bagged and took it. Even the detective couldn’t believe the story about Murder the horse. It was definitely one for the books.

He had someone of his own who could look up the serial number. Ten years ago, on a job, Crome had run into a couple of agents in the F.B.I. and not the garden variety kind. Crome’s job was to stop a husband from violating the restraining order his wife had against him. The man was connected and had foot soldiers who would not mind taking someone like Crome off the board if he got in their way.

The man, unfortunately for him, was also on the F.B.I. watch list. The agents Crome had run across initially did not like him getting in their way. After a talk with the agents, with Crome giving them his intel on the man’s gambling habit and who his bookie was, something only a few people knew about, they figured Crome knew what he was doing.

Since their job was only surveillance while Crome’s could best be described as discouragement, they agreed to work together. Crome knew their motive in letting him in was to rattle the target and maybe get him to slip up.

It worked out well initially. Crome beat up the three henchmen closest to the target and had a discussion with the man that may or may not have included a few broken fingers. But instead of listening to reason as explained to him by Crome, he elected to send more men after him. The agents, having the man’s place wired in, got evidence of him placing the hit on Crome. Conspiracy to commit murder was more than enough to send him away for a long time. Of course, a man like that could not do hard time. So he turned snitch and the agents got the whole ring, five other bosses. Crome’s client got her peace because the feds relocated the man to the other side of the country.

Those same feds were still working cases. Crome hadn’t contacted them in a while, but the last time he did they’d been helpful. He decided to give them a shot.

From memory, Crome dialed a number that went to voicemail. He gave his name and phone number and hung up.

An hour later, his phone buzzed.

He answered with, “Yo.”

“Is this Mick Crome?”

“Who’s asking?”

“What do you want?”

No pleasantries, but these men were not into that. They were into nailing criminals.

Crome said, “Can you run the serial number of a forty-four Magnum for me?”

“What is it?”

He rattled off the number, again from memory. One thing Crome had was a mind for information retention.

“Give me a few hours,” the man said.

“Thanks.”

The call ended.