CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

Griffin and Charon hadn’t been home half an hour when Griffin’s cell phone buzzed. He didn’t recognize the number, but he took the call.

“Guess who this is,” the caller said.

“Someone who doesn’t know I don’t like to play guess who.”

“That’s no way to be, Hoss. It’s your old pal Fry, calling to do you a favor.”

Griffin checked to see that Charon was out of earshot. “What do you want?”

“I just told you. I want to help you out.”

“And why would you want to do that?”

“I’m blowing town, Hoss. Things have gotten too hot for me now that the Reverend has brought in his deacon buddies. That’s what he calls those bad boy vampires. Deacons. I think old Fry is starting to look a mite tasty to some of them. So I’m going to rabbit before things get worse.”

“Why tell me?”

“Well now, before I go I thought you might like to know where the Reverend sleeps in the daytime. You still got plenty of hours of day left, Griffin. You could end this before it really gets started.”

“Fry, you tried to kill my friend Carl yesterday. Why would you decide to help us now?”

“Well it ain’t out of the goodness of my heart, old buddy. See, I need a little traveling fund. I figure a fellow like you, a merc like myself, would have some cash stashed away. If you were to give me, oh say, twenty grand, I’d sing you a song like Muddy Waters himself. Tell you where you could find all those vampires so you could get the jump on them.”

“You would, eh?”

“I surely would. Now here’s the deal. I’m parked behind that burned-out Shell station about three miles from your place. You know the one?”

“Yeah, near where all the construction is going on.”

“That’s the spot. Now you bring me the cash in half an hour and I’ll give you those bloodsuckers on a plate. What do you say?”

Griffin didn’t believe anything Fry was saying but he wondered about the man’s motivations. Cotton wanted revenge on Griffin and Carl, and Griffin was pretty sure he wanted to witness their demises up on the bluff. Why would he send Fry to try and draw Griffin into a trap? Didn’t make much sense.

On the other hand, were Griffin to meet with Fry, he might be able to apprehend Fry and get him to tell him the very things Fry was holding out as bait.

Griffin said, “I’ll be there. Be out of your car and standing in plain sight when I get there.”

“You don’t trust me? I’m hurt, Hoss. Don’t worry though. I’ll do just what you said.”

Griffin turned off the phone. He stepped into the kitchen where Charon was cutting up several cloves of garlic. “I have to step out for about an hour. Think I may have a lead that could help Carl and me tonight.”

“Oh? What would that be?”

“Just got to talk to a guy.”

“A guy, eh? I get the feeling you’re holding out on me, buster.”

“Maybe a little. But don’t worry. I’ll be right back.”

“You’d better be. I don’t want to miss out on the naked garlic smearing.”

Her tone was light, but Griffin could see concern in her dark eyes. He smiled in what he hoped was a reassuring way and then headed for his truck.

* * *

“You didn’t bring the money, did you?” Fry said. The lanky man was leaning on an old-model Corvette. He wore loose jeans and a t-shirt. Griffin could hear the twangy sounds of an old Robert Johnson song coming from the Corvette’s stereo. Appropriately it was Hellhound on My Trail. He had chosen his location well. Behind the husk of the old service station no one could see them from the road.

Griffin had gotten out of his truck with his .357 in his hand. He held the gun down by one leg. Not pointing it, but being sure Fry could see it. He said, “I didn’t bring the money because we both know your story is bullshit.”

“It is, but it got you out here.”

“I see any of your vampire pals and I’ll be sure and shoot you first.”

Fry pushed off the car. “No vampires, Hoss. Just me and you.”

“And what do you want?”

Fry grinned. “Want a piece of you, Griffin. You’ve been a pain in my ass since you showed up at the church. You and your Sheriff buddy have made me look pretty bad.”

“You want to fight me?”

“I want to beat the shit out of you. I’ve heard you’re hell on wheels in a fight, but I been all over this here world and I ain’t met anyone I couldn’t give a good stomping.”

So that was it. Fry had been wondering since they had met if he could take Griffin. Griffin had known other mercs like that. Guys who had to be the alpha wolf and couldn’t stand the idea that there might be someone tougher or better. Add that to Fry’s obviously unstable mental state and you got a seriously messed up situation like this one.

“Fry, I’m holding a gun and you’re not. How about I just shoot you in both knees and get you to tell me where Cotton is?”

Fry shook his head. “You know that won’t work, Hoss. We’re enough alike. I don’t think you got the stones to try and torture it out of me, and if you did, I can just about guarantee I’d die before I’d tell you shit.”

“And if I just get back in my truck and drive away?”

“I got a LAWS Rocket in the ’vette, Griffin. You leave and I’ll put it through your front door, blow the hell out of you and that pretty little girl of yours. And you know I’d do it.”

The threat to Charon started a cold fire in the center of Griffin’s chest. For a moment he considered just shooting the son of a bitch and getting it over with. But he was trying not to do things that way. Besides, he still might get some information out of Fry if he got the chance. Some men did have amazingly high thresholds for pain, but Griffin knew a thing or three about interrogation.

“All right,” Griffin said. “We do this your way.” He popped open the cylinder of the .357 and let the bullets fall into his hand, then pocketed them and placed the gun on the hood of his truck.

Fry grinned and started toward Griffin, his shambling gait gone, replaced by a loose-limbed sort of readiness. He rolled his shoulders. Flexed his hands. He said, “When this is done, I might just stop by and see your girl anyway. Sure is a pretty thing.”

He was trying to make Griffin angry. It was working, but not in the way Fry hoped. Griffin had long since learned to hold his rage. To channel it rather than let it control him.

The man was fast. Griffin barely saw the swift, straight kick that Fry aimed at his groin. But he did see it and he slapped it aside, causing Fry to overbalance. Griffin threw an elbow strike at Fry’s head but the lanky man twisted away with snake-like quickness.

“Damn,” Fry said. “You’re a fast bastard.”

Griffin didn’t answer. If Fry wanted to waste his breath talking, he could do a monologue. But Fry, apparently seeing that his jibes weren’t having the desired effect, got down to business. He went into a crouch and shuffled in, snapping a high roundhouse kick at Griffin’s head. It was a feint, of course. No one of Fry’s experience would expect to land a high kick in this sort of fight. He expected Griffin to lean away from it which would open Griffin up to a more serious attack.

Griffin did the opposite. He moved into the kick, taking the impact on his shoulder and allowing him to get close enough to deliver a straight punch to Fry’s solar plexus. Fry stumbled back, with the wind knocked out of him. Griffin moved forward, but Fry aimed a vicious kick at Griffin’s forward knee that Griffin just managed to dodge.

Fry waded back in, launching a combination of punches. Griffin blocked and parried but one punch got through, striking a glancing blow on the side of Griffin’s skull. Griffin shook it off and landed a hammer blow with the bottom of his fist on Fry’s jaw. Griffin had long since learned not to use his knuckles on an opponent’s head. Compared to the heavy bone of the skull, the smaller bones of the fingers and knuckles were too easily broken.

Fry was starting to breathe hard, grunting with each punch he threw. He snarled in frustration at being unable to get past Griffin’s guard and bulled in, trying to grapple. Griffin faked an attempt at a hip throw and when Fry resisted, Griffin caught the back of Fry’s head with one hand and pulled it down while snapping his knee up, catching Fry full in the face.

Fry fell backwards and slammed into the side of the Corvette. Before he could recover Griffin kicked him in the stomach and then whipped his elbow across Fry’s temple. Fry slid down the side of the car and slumped on the asphalt.

Griffin stepped back, just in case Fry was pretending to be hurt worse than he was, but then the red-haired man spit a tooth out and glared up at Griffin.

“Guess those stories about you were true,” Fry said. “Nobody ever gave me an ass whipping like that before.”

“Happens to everyone sooner or later,” Griffin said.

Fry spat again. “Won’t do you no good, Hoss. Reverend Cotton will take care of you tonight.”

“Maybe. But you won’t be there to see it.”

“Going to call your sheriff pal and have me arrested? Don’t matter. I’ll get some time for assault, but I’ll be back out before you know it and you’ll still be dead.”

“Why don’t you tell me where Cotton sleeps in the daytime, Fry?”

“No can do, Compadre. Nothing you can do to me will be worse than what the Reverend will do if I sell him out. Hell, he ain’t going to be happy about me doing this.”

“Then I guess I’ll call the sheriff.”

“You do that. Like I said, I’ll be out in no time. You’ll be dead and that sweet little girl of yours will be all alone.”

Griffin shook his head. Fry was right. If Cotton managed to kill him, Fry would still be around. Even Griffin’s sniper pal couldn’t watch Charon all the time. Griffin blew out a long breath, then took a sudden step forward and kicked Fry in the face, knocking the back of Fry’s head against the Corvette. This time Fry was out cold.

Griffin opened the door of the Corvette and looked inside. Fry hadn’t been kidding. There was a LAWS rocket in the back seat. Griffin pulled the anti-tank weapon out and set it on the ground. There was also an army green canvas bag in the back. Griffin opened this and found six Thermite incendiary grenades. Good. That would make things easier. He took the LAWS and the bag and put them in his truck. He removed one of the grenades and went back to the Corvette.

Griffin got Fry off the ground and shoved him inside the car. He closed the door, popped the pin on the grenade and dropped it through the open window. Then he moved away fast. Incendiaries weren’t meant to be thrown, so they had shorter fuses than other types of grenades. Griffin felt a wave of heat at his back as the grenade raised the temperature inside the ’Vette to 3,992 degrees. The windows were blown out but the grenade was more about heat than concussive force. It would burn hot but fast and that would be that. No body for Carl or anyone else to worry about and not enough of the car left to identify.

Griffin got into his truck and headed for home. He was trying hard to be a better man, but sometimes the old ways were best.