The path twisted and turned through the short spruce trees and came out on a quiet road, where Brent Melrose was leaning against a black truck with beefed-up tires. He took a swig from a bottle of beer.
The kid on the bike had stayed behind Webb the entire time he trudged up the path, reporting Webb’s progress on his walkie-talkie every thirty seconds. Webb hadn’t seen any sense in trying to shut him up. What was he going to do, turn and hurt the kid if he didn’t?
Not Webb’s style.
Besides, Webb could see some humor in the situation as the kid kept repeating the same message.
“This is Corey. Come in?” Crackle, crackle, pause. “Yeah, he’s still headed your way. Out.”
“This is Corey. Come in?” Crackle, crackle, pause. “Yeah, he’s still headed your way. Out.”
“This is Corey. Come in?” Crackle, crackle, pause. “Yeah, he’s still headed your way. Out.”
As Webb came to the end of the path, he took his backpack off and leaned it against a tree. He walked toward Brent’s truck. Slowly.
“See what you did to my face?” Brent asked.
“I thought it was all a misunderstanding. You fell into the luggage. Isn’t that what you said at the station?”
“The cop was right. That was crap,” Brent said. When he breathed, a strange whistling sound came from his nose. It looked—and sounded—painful.
He was swaying some, and Webb hoped he wasn’t too drunk to listen to sense. He held up his iPod, switched it to record video and pointed it at Brent.
“Four thirty-five,” Webb said clearly. “Standing here on—” Webb turned to the kid on the bike. “What’s this road?”
“Don’t know. Down at the corner, though, if you turn toward the river, that’s where the school principal lives. Does that help?”
“Standing just down from the principal’s house,” Webb said. “Just for the record, we’ve got full video happening here.”
“Put that away,” Brent said. “Or I’ll rip it out of your hands.”
“Not too interested in that,” Webb answered.
Brent took a lumbering step toward Webb. “I said give it to me. It’s payback time.”
Brent charged.
It didn’t take much effort to step aside. Brent’s momentum took him past Webb like a bull missing a matador. Difference was, Webb wasn’t using a red cape and didn’t have a short stabbing sword to finish Brent off when he got tired.
Webb kept the camera on Brent. He had lots of memory left. Could probably video the next half hour if he had too.
Brent swung around, grunted and charged again, swinging his arms in a futile attempt to wrap them around Webb.
Webb could have tripped him but just let him go past again.
Brent almost fell into his truck but caught his balance in time.
“How about we just call this quits,” Webb said. “You have better things to do. Same with me.”
“And let people talk about how some long-haired-musician type busted my nose and got away with it?”
Brent obviously thought he was clever, charging again as he finished speaking. Like Webb would be so dazzled by his insult, he’d forget to notice. Thing was, Webb had his eyes on the center of Brent’s chest. Anybody can fake moves, but no matter how good the fake, the center of the chest was where the body went. Another thing he had learned the hard way.
Brent blew past Webb and took a few more steps to stop. Already getting tired.
He leaned on his knees, near Webb’s backpack.
“Look at this,” he said. “Somebody left something behind.”
Clever, Webb thought, as Brent hefted the backpack and said, “What a shame we need to see what’s inside.”
Really clever.
Brent lifted the flap and turned the pack upside down, like he was expecting Webb to get mad.
What Brent didn’t expect were rocks. A lot of them, each about the size of a fist.
“Rocks?” Brent was dumbfounded. “Rocks?”
Webb almost laughed. Brent had successfully identified the dull round objects polished smooth by centuries in the river.
“Rocks,” Brent said one more time. “What kind of idiot carries rocks in his backpack?” He grinned and picked one up in his right hand. “But thanks,” he said. “You’re making it too easy.”
He fired the rock at Webb’s head. Webb ducked.
There was a crash as glass shattered. To Webb, it was a very satisfying sound. The rock must have hit the only glass nearby—the side window of Brent’s truck, which was directly behind Webb.
Webb didn’t turn to admire the damage though. Not when Brent had a pile of rocks within reach.
Besides, it wasn’t necessary. The expression on Brent’s face—or what Webb could see beyond the bandages—said it all. Horror and rage. Obviously the sound of broken glass had been a lot less satisfying to Brent than to Webb.
“Arrgghhh!” Brent dropped his head and charged at Webb again.
Webb began to feel cold rage engulf him, the cold rage that sustained him whenever his stepfather had hurt him. It was a horrible feeling, being certain that, if given the chance, he would take Brent’s truck and drive over Brent without any remorse or regrets. Just the way he knew that, if given the chance, he would hurt Elliott in ways far worse than anything Elliott had ever done to him.
As Brent charged, Webb stepped aside again, but this time left his leg in the way. Brent, blinded by alcohol, anger and bandages, tripped and fell forward, his head thunking into the side of the truck’s door.
Webb was surprised that Brent didn’t just drop. Instead, he wheeled in a tight circle, as if one of his feet was nailed to the ground, holding his head with both hands.
The head-shaped dent in Brent’s door was impressive.
“Come in, come in.” Corey spoke into the walkie-talkie. Excited. “Everybody, get here as fast as you can. You have to see this. Brent Melrose is beating the crap out of his own truck.”
Webb grabbed a rock and, filled with rage, was ready to move in on Brent and smash him in the head. He stopped when he noticed Sylvain heading toward them in the police truck with his blue-and-reds flashing.
Webb dropped the rock and concentrated on letting his sanity return.