The Death of Lorenzo Jones

by Brad Latham

  The left front tire of the Cord exploded inches from Hook’s head. He pulled back farther under the car. Jesus, wherever the bastard was now, he had a good view of the car. Probably using a telescopic sight.

  Bullets slammed everywhere around Lockwood, ripping into his beautiful car, making more holes in her door and hood.

  Bastard, Hook thought. He wanted to destroy the man, run from underneath his wounded Cord and strangle the murderer with his own two hands. But that was just what Wade wanted. He was playing with Lockwood now.

  “Yoo-hoo, Lockwood. Come out, come out. Or must I come and get you?”

  Wade let loose another volley toward the car. There was a loud crash right above Lockwood’s head. The left window of the Cord came loose and fell in the dirt right beside him.

  Gotta keep cool, real cool, Hook said to himself. He’s just trying to force me out for a better shot. He probably can’t see me from where he is right now.

  But that wouldn’t last long. With that rifle and a superscope against Lockwood’s puny .38, the odds weren’t too good. He checked his ammo. Four shots left. His spare box of lead was in the glove compartment. Forget that, he would never get to it.

  He pulled himself to the right side of the car and looked out. Shrubs jutted up about twenty feet away. Then came an open field with not much cover at all. Woods began after about another hundred feet, and they looked thick and safe.

  Bullets continued to zip and whine through the night air, searching for Lockwood. He looked up. The moon, damn it, was bright as a spotlight and seemed to be aimed right at his head. But in about ten seconds, Hook saw, a big puffy cloud was going to cross its path.

  He quickly leaned back under the car, counted to eight, and let off two shots in Wade’s general direction. He waited another second, just long enough for Wade to catch him on his scope and then rolled back. Without stopping his motion, he leaped to his feet and tore toward the group of seven or eight big gnarled-looking shrubs. The moon disappeared suddenly, and it was as if a black blanket had been thrown over the whole scene.

  He heard Wade’s bullets thudding into his car, so the rat still hadn’t seen Hook. Just one more second and he would be safe.

  But Wade suddenly realized something was wrong. The bullets were whizzing like mosquitoes in the air all around Lockwood. He leaped toward the bushes, trying to dive over the top, and barely made it. The bushes were thick and covered with thorns. Lockwood’s stomach and legs were ripped by tiny claws that left long trails of blood. He hit the ground and lay there hugging the earth.

  The moon peeked through again, looking for Lockwood. He wanted to shoot it out of the goddamn sky as it slowly lit up the bushes and the field.

  “Ah, there you are, Lockwood.” A foot to the right a bullet flew by and sliced a thick branch of the bush Lockwood was hiding behind.

  “It’s all over now, Lockwood. You know that, don’t you? I’m sure you do. You’re a smart fellow. You just met someone smarter! Me! That was your big mistake!”

  Wade laughed that creepy, high-pitched almost effeminate laugh again and let off three shots in quick succession.

  Each missed Hook by inches and dug into the dirt around him. Wade was playing with him. These bushes were no protection at all. With the scope, his pursuer could easily see the trace of his body through the tangle of vegetation. He was going to be hunted down like a rabbit.

  CHAPTER

  29

  Another cloud was flying in for a rendezvous with the moon. There was only one thing to do: head toward the woods. Hook was being cut off and channeled in one direction, like one of the deer Wade must have hunted here in the wilds. But he wasn’t going to go down without a fight.

  Again a big cloud draped itself across the bright eye of the moon, darkening the terrain.

  Lockwood took off his jacket, stripped off his white shirt, and put it over some of the thorns that were sticking out, looking to pierce somebody. He spread the arms out and stepped back. Not too bad.

  Lockwood shook the branches hard and the shirt’s arms wiggled violently. He put the jacket on his bare torso. He pushed himself off with a runner’s start and began the dash for his life across the open field.

  The ploy worked for a few seconds. Wade blasted away at the shirt. Lockwood heard the bushes splintering as if a tornado was ripping through them.

  So far, so good. Lockwood could barely see the ground beneath his feet. He jumped and leaped and twisted across the meadow as if he were back at war again.

  He was halfway across it now. His foot caught on a big rock that came out of nowhere, and he fell flat on his face. By the time he had scrambled to his feet, Wade was onto his trick.

  Little clouds of dust popped in the ground around Lockwood as Wade’s bullets searched the field for their target.

  Lockwood jumped to his feet. He was so close to the woods now! He dodged to the right and then just as quickly jumped back to the left. “Move! Turn!” he shouted to himself. “Don’t repeat the same motion twice or you won’t get a third chance!” The words his army sergeant had screamed in his ears a hundred times screamed back at him.

  Almost! Almost there! The trees were just ahead, another twenty feet or so.

  Suddenly, the moon ran from behind the cloud that had been covering it. I hate that goddamn moon, Lockwood thought, as the ground all around him suddenly became illuminated like a movie set.

  He saw every detail of the field around him. Every rock, bush, rabbit hole, and branch, clear as day.

  Rabbit hole! He tried to stop himself from putting his foot in it—the ground rushed up at him—he put his hand out to stop the rock from hitting his head. Everything went black.

  When he came to, Wade was standing in front of him about fifteen feet away with the elephant gun lifted to his shoulder and aimed directly at the investigator.

  “I told you I would win, Lockwood,” Wade said. “You really didn’t seem to understand that. But now it will become clear, clear as the moon shining on your forehead.

  “Oh yes, Lockwood, right now you look rather perturbed. Licking your lips? Nervous, Lockwood?”

  “Not particularly.” Lockwood said.

  Wade ignored the cool reply. He let off another shot right between Hook’s shoes.

  “I could aim higher next time,” Wade yelled. He laughed.

  “You think you’re so tough—but I’m a thousand times tougher than you, Lockwood. I’m one of the wolves of the world, and we prey on the sheep.” He laughed again. “Prey on the stupid, bleating, timid little sheep of the world. It’s our destiny, Lockwood. They need to be ruled by strong men like me who dare to rule.

  “You have ‘wolf in you, Lockwood, but you think like a sheep. You’re tough in your gut, but up top you believe in the sheep. That’s why you’ll die and I’ll survive.

  “There are many like me, Lockwood. Ready to make wolves the leaders of the world.”

  Lockwood stared across the long open space at the madman who grew louder and more fanatical as the house burned behind him.

  “Lockwood, a new day is dawning. A big change is about to come over this world, and I will be in the forefront. These few puny people I have had to eliminate—they were just practice for me.

  “But enough talk. Now it’s time for you to die. Quick or slow, Lockwood? Just do me one favor, and I’ll make it quick. Lockwood, I want you to say, no, yell, ‘Wade is the wolf!’ ”

  Hook looked across the field shining with the light of the moon and the burning house. The man was absolutely mad. Why, he had killed Jones because the man became a financial burden to him. He had taken people’s lives as easily as slapping a mosquito.

  Wade was more than a criminal, he was a force of evil. Somehow, Hook had to stop the slime from spreading his poison.

  “Lockwood, did you hear me? ‘Wade is the wolf!’ Say it, Lockwood, or I’ll start with your balls, one at a time.”

  The bullet banged and creased Hooks’ inner thigh.

  Wade suddenly lowe
red the gun and quickly began pushing shells in. The “wolf” had forgotten to reload!

  Lockwood didn’t waste one precious second. He dropped to one knee, lowered his right hand with his .38 into position on top of his left hand, and sighted.

  Wade glanced up, and a look of horror darted across his face. He slammed the rifle breech shut and raised it up to Lockwood.

  Bam! Bam! Lockwood got off his two remaining shots. The first missed Wade, the second slammed into the butt of Wade’s rifle and knocked it into the air. Wade dove to retrieve it. Hook couldn’t jump him in time.

  Hook ran as fast as his aching legs would carry him to the woods. Suddenly, he was inside their comforting darkness. Jesus, it seemed like it had taken him a lifetime to get from the bushes to these trees.

  He ran in only a few feet, stopped, and turned quickly around. Wade was running now, too, toward the woods. Every few seconds his rifle spouted flame.

  But Hook didn’t feel like running any more. No! Enough. He had had enough of this man and his disease.

  He looked around and found a branch about four feet long. That would do just fine. He pulled off the few small branches that grew out of its sides and swung it in the air. It made a whistling sound, and it was damned heavy.

  Wade was now about thirty feet away from where Hook was crouched. He was going a little slower as he approached the woods.

  Lockwood waited beside a large oak tree. Wade would walk right alongside it if he followed Hook’s path.

  Yes, Wade was slowly walking into the darkness, following Lockwood.

  Lockwood counted to three and jumped from behind the tree, swinging the club with every ounce of strength in his body.

  It caught Wade in the middle of his stomach. He flew back about five feet, crashed into a bush, and kicked and thrashed. He tried to aim the rifle.

  Hook ran the two yards separating them in half a second and again swung the branch. The rifle sprang out of Wade’s hands as if it was alive. Wade reached to his belt and pulled out a large bowie knife. He jumped to his feet and waved the long blade at Lockwood, but there was no more time for games.

  “Enough!” Lockwood screamed at the top of his lungs. With his club he knocked the knife out of the now terrified “wolf’s” hand.

  “Enough!” He smashed the thick club against Wade’s head. The killer fell to the ground screaming, his hand over his left ear, which streamed dark blood.

  “Enough!” He hit Wade in the ribs.

  “Enough! Enough!” Lockwood was out of control. He flailed away at the crawling, groaning lizard who had done so much damage, hitting him in the arms and the legs, striking his back and neck. He wanted to hit back for every wound that had been inflicted on Doc’s burned feet. For every word Stinky had spat out as he lay dying. He wanted to hit at Wade’s poison flesh till there was nothing left.

  The killer was unconscious. He lay on his stomach now, breathing hard, blood slowly seeping through his shirt and pants.

  One final blow to Wade’s exposed neck and it would all be over. Hook raised the branch high over his head.

  Looking down at the wounded man, he held it. And held it. For the longest minute of his life Lockwood stared down while a hundred voices argued inside him.

  At last his hand fell limply to his side, and the stick dropped back to the earth.

  No, it was not up to him. The difference between an animal and a civilized man was in not killing for pleasure or revenge. It was not Lockwood’s right to take this man’s life, even though he deserved to die.

  Society would judge him by its laws, and then it would condemn him to die: not in anger, but coolly, calmly, as one shot a mad dog. Wade would die, but not by Hook’s hand.

  Enough. Lockwood tied Wade’s hands with his tie. He then guided the now conscious remnant of a man back to where their two cars stood in the driveway. The Cord was a shambles. Gray was going to have her fixed or there would be murder, Lockwood thought. His Cord! He patted the front fender tenderly.

  “I promise you, girl, you’ll be good as new.”

  Lockwood stuffed Wade into the back seat of the Packard. Wade was mumbling incoherently.

  I’ve got to get this guy to a hospital, Hook said to himself, so they can patch him up. So they can burn him in the electric chair.

  When Lockwood reached Elmsford Hospital, he refused treatment for himself, but delivered Wade into the Emergency Room and told them to keep him restrained and to call the sheriff or the cops or whomever and keep Wade under guard for a murder indictment.

  It wasn’t over yet. Lockwood was still a fugitive.

  CHAPTER

  30

  Lockwood called Jimbo from a phone at the Sinclair gas station in New Rochelle and told him the whole tale.

  Not that Jimbo entirely believed it. Of course, Amanda had been arrested. He would have her verify this story.

  Jimbo told him to stay in the Sinclair station. In an hour, the lieutenant’s banged-up Plymouth rolled into the space in front of the gas pump. Lockwood walked over to him from where he had been sitting against a pole.

  “Jesus Christ, Hook. Did you get the number of the truck?”

  Lockwood smiled a weak hello, and held out his wrists to Brannigan. He snapped the cuffs on.

  After two days and much talk at the Centre Street Detention Center for Men, Lockwood found himself out on bail, sprung again by the legal eagles of Transatlantic.

  He made his way home in the raincoat Brannigan had loaned him to cover his filthy appearance, and Diego, the angelic bellhop, again administered to him. Lockwood ordered a porterhouse, a bottle of Canadian, a carton of Camels, and a large bottle of aspirin from room service. Diego then went to Brooks Brothers with Lockwood’s torn clothes and got duplicates of everything.

  There were about a half-dozen messages from Robin. And only one from Amanda. She was incarcerated, she said, and she’d added to the note scribbled by the switchboard operator at the Summerfield, “Please forgive me.”

  He tore up all the notes, put on the crisp new clothes, and went out to see Robin.

  She wasn’t in, so Lockwood, dog-tired, sat on the apartment building’s steps and felt his bruised face with his bruised hands. Everything still hurt, but the pains were duller now. Most of the damage was hidden by his new outfit.

  In about an hour, Robin came back. She nearly dropped her packages when she saw him. Lockwood told her to go easy as she threw her arms around his body. She didn’t, and it smarted.

  In her apartment, Lockwood explained where things stood now. He told Robin that Amanda was no longer in his picture. Dames who lied, who did things behind your back, they had no part in his life.

  “And w-what about me, Bill?” Those brilliant green eyes met his.

  “I can’t make plans now, baby, I’m in real hot water with the criminal justice system. I couldn’t begin to tell you how many charges are hanging over my head—escape, withholding evidence, burglary… .”

  She drew him toward the bed. “But all those things will be straightened out, honey. Your company will pay for it. They’ll get lawyers. Everything will be all right. I just know it.”

  It hurt when she lifted his hat off his head. It hurt when she unbuttoned his shirt. It hurt when she undid the buttons on his trousers.

  But then after a while it didn’t hurt at all.

  THE PROMISCUOUS

  PLATINUM BLONDE

  says she’s a small-town saint,

  but she’s been sexually harassed.

  So what’s with the clinging cocktail dress

  and the creamy lips that keep whispering “yes?”

  And what’s with the hard-core evidence

  she keeps leaving at the scene of the crime?

  How much does she really know about

  the death of Lorenzo Jones?

  THE HOOK

  can take care of this.

  He’s Bill Lockwood, ace insurance investigator.

  Credentials: Columbia Law and the wasteland of World W
ar I. He dines at the Stork Club with chorus girls and a Colt .38. Someone with a goon squad wants him D.O.A. at City Morgue.