32

 

 

After Adam left, I sat alone for a while, finishing a second cup of Americano. A little bit of guilt seeped into my conscience. Adam didn’t know about Cole and Matsuda interviewing me yet, but he would undoubtedly hear about it at some point. And it would end up being one more thing to pile onto the stack of reasons why staying friends with me was more trouble than it was worth. I wondered how much longer I could count on Adam to stick, even if it was his nature.

Speaking of nature, I wondered how good a friend I really was. Asking the guy for information put him in a lousy place. Sure, he compensated for it by making everything theoretical, but that was a thin disguise for what was really happening. What kind of friend uses his friends like that?

When my Americano was gone, I felt just shitty enough to decide I needed to walk it off. I started off down First Avenue, heading toward the downtown core. I set an easy pace, just slow enough to avoid having to limp. Even so, my knee twinged with every step, seeming to still be suffering from when I went barreling past the blue Taurus and up the street to my car.

I slowed down a little more, but kept walking.

If Adam’s calculations were even close, there was little doubt Henry Brassart had been murdered. I never really gave a lot of consideration to the possibility of an accidental death anyway, but it was good to know what Harrity would be up against if he took the case. I’m sure the official investigation narrowed the speed down more precisely, since the investigators were privy to all the smaller details Adam mentioned. But I didn’t think the end result would be too far astray from what Adam came up with.

I thought about what it took to purposefully drive a car into a person. Was it easier than pointing a gun and squeezing the trigger? You wouldn’t have to look the person in the face, at least not in Brassart’s case. But I tried to imagine what a sickening sound the collision would make, and found I didn’t like what my imagination told me.

At an alley entrance, I saw a flash of movement. Too late, I raised my hands in defense. Someone grabbed me by the jacket and hurled me toward the alley. I stumbled forward, trying to stay on my feet, but my knee gave way and I hit the pavement. A moment later, a pair of hands hauled me up to my feet, again by my jacket.

“Wait,” I started to say, but he didn’t.

Instead, he flung me against the brick wall. My left shoulder struck first, bearing most of the brunt, followed by the side of my face. Pain zinged through my shoulder, old injuries crying out to new ones. I wondered crazily how fast I’d been going on impact, and if there were mathematical calculations for that.

I pushed away and to the side in time to see a large pair of hands reaching for me again. He got a good grip on the front of my jacket and slammed me against the wall again. My shoulders sang out in a sharp pain and the back of my head whiplashed into the brick a moment later. My eyes unfocused. A moment or two later, they refocused, and I got my first look at my attacker. The acne-scarred face and short military haircut looked vaguely familiar, but I couldn’t immediately place him.

He held me off-balance, up on my tippy-toes.

“You’re a smart little fuck, aren’t you?” he growled.

I didn’t reply. What do you say to that?

“Let me tell you what you’re going to do, pal. Are you listening?”

I bobbed my head, trying to collect my senses. He didn’t seem to have a weapon. Both of his hands were tied up holding my jacket. He was big, though, as wide as a truck.

“Good,” he continued. “It’s really simple. You’re going to go home. That’s all. Go home and stop meddling around in shit you don’t understand. Get it?”

I nodded again.

“See? Smart.” He leaned in closer, baring his teeth in a snarl. “Make sure you do it, pal. Otherwise—”

I made my move, driving my knee sharply upward into his groin. I watched his eyes bug out in surprise and pain as I landed the blow. His grasp on my jacket loosened. Without pause, I raised my hands high and dropped both elbows into the crook of his arms. His hands fell away from me.

“You…” he grunted.

My left arm dropped to my side, mostly useless. The collision with the brick wall and the technique I just threw were too much for that bad shoulder. So I struck him hard in the solar plexus with the palm heel of my right hand. It was like hitting a refrigerator. My palm bounced back and pain flared in my wrist, but he let out another grunt.

I curled my hand into a fist and threw an uppercut, catching him on the point of the chin. His jaw slammed shut, and he staggered back. Blood spilled out of his mouth and his eyes lost their focus.

Your turn, I thought. How’s it feel?

I thought about pushing my advantage, and I thought about running. Twenty feet away was the relative safety of First Avenue and witnesses. No cop would continue this fight in front of witnesses.

That thought stopped me cold. What kind of cop pulls someone into an alley to warn him off a case with a beating? Maybe in New York, or New Orleans, but here in River City?

His eyes came back into focus, and just like that, my advantage was gone. I tried to raise my left arm in defense, grimacing as pain shot through my shoulder again.

He launched his fist at my head. I tucked my chin and raised my arm even higher, making it tremble with the effort. The punch crashed into my forearm, and I staggered backward into the wall again.

“Fucker!” he growled, flecks of blood flying out at me. His words were thick and the ‘r’ had no definition to it. He pulled his arm back for another blow.

I waited until he threw the punch, then slipped to my right. His first blasted into the wall where my head had been. He howled in pain, pulling his hand back and shaking it.

Without a pause, I stepped away from him, then launched a low kick aimed at the back of his thigh. But my knee buckled, and the kick slapped weakly against him as I toppled to the ground. I pushed myself up, leaning heavily on my good leg. As I made it to my feet, his left hand shot out and grabbed me by the throat.

His grip was fierce, his arm like an iron rod. I struck at his forearm with my right hand but it bounced off without effect. His eyes gleamed with the malevolence of a predator as he pushed me backward and pressed me to the brick wall for a third time.

“I should kill you,” he said, his voice low and hoarse, his words slightly muddled.

White spots began dancing in my vision. I knew I didn’t have long before I passed out. I flailed at him with my arms, but my blows were weak and ineffective.

He ignored my efforts, and turned and spat. A thick wad of red flew from his mouth.

I tried to kick him but could barely raise my leg.

He turned back to me. “You mind your own fucking business,” he growled, his bitten tongue making him sound like a deaf person. “Or next time I will kill you...”

He kept squeezing, staring at me all the while.

I wished for a gun.

I thought of Clell.

My grandmother.

Anna.

His savage grin faded into darkness.