The Jury Master

by Robert Dugoni

  Jenkins scrambled to his feet and raised an arm to deflect the anticipated blow. Too slow. The poker smashed into his ribs, sending an electric shock pulsing through his body and driving him to one knee. He heard the whoosh of air as the man swung the iron overhead and brought it down like a lumberjack swinging an ax into a log. With no chance to stop it, Jenkins sprang forward, underneath the arc, absorbing the blow across his back as he drove his shoulders into the man’s midsection, bull-rushing him backward into the flame-engulfed paneled wall. He brought his arms up inside the man’s forearms and jarred the poker loose. The man shoved him back and pulled a six-inch blade from a sheath tied to his thigh, advancing, stabbing at the air. Jenkins circled and retreated, dodging the blade. He couldn’t raise his right arm, and the warm and bitter taste of blood filled his mouth and nostrils, stifling his breathing. He felt his strength waning.

  The man wiped at blood that flowed from a gash on his forehead, painting his face in a hideous red streak. “Your dogs,” he said, the knife slashing and darting, “will make good fertilizer.”

  The pain and rage bled into one, rising from Jenkins’s chest cavity and exploding in a guttural, primitive howl of blind anger. As the man stabbed, Jenkins leaped forward, grabbed his wrist, and struck the back of the man’s elbow, hearing it snap like a chicken bone. The man cried out in agony. Still holding the wrist, Jenkins leaped and spun, his right cowboy boot whipping across the man’s jaw. Then he spun again, whirling, the left leg following the right, each finding its target, driving the man backward until he stood listing on unsteady legs, a silhouette in the storm-darkened room. Jenkins gathered himself and rose again. He drove the heel of the boot into the man’s chest, his leg unfurling like a loaded spring. The force of the kick propelled the man backward; the plate-glass door exploded with a percussive blast, and the man hurtled over the railing and was gone.

  Jenkins dropped to his knees. “So will you,” he whispered.

  70

  TOM MOLIA WATCHED the dark-haired man drop to his knees and pitch face-forward into the brush.

  “That’s for Coop,” he said.

  He stood from beneath the pile of leaves and scrambled forward, taking the gun from the man’s hand and shoving it into the waistband of his pants. He swore he’d never again complain about the humidity. The storm had been a blessing. The lightning gave him the illumination he needed to see, and the thunder covered the sound of his shots to keep from giving away his location. Molia could shoot a flea off the ass of a white-tailed deer with a rifle, but a handgun was not nearly as accurate. He had aimed for the center of the chest but thought he’d missed his mark when the man barely flinched. On the next streak of lightning he had counted a beat and fired his second shot with the clap of thunder. This time there was no mistake—he hit the man directly between the eyes.

  It was time to find Sloane.

  He started for the creek, moving quickly. When he reached it he dropped to one knee and slid down the muddied embankment into the water, searching the woods but not seeing Sloane or the redhead. Streams of water cascaded down the bank, swelling the creek. Molia waded downstream several hundred yards, then climbed back up the side, searching as he backtracked, hoping to find Sloane, hoping to get behind his red-haired pursuer. He continued from tree to tree until he had reached his point of origin, and his gut told him everything he needed to know.

  If the man was not in front of him, he, too, had doubled back.

  Molia turned.

  Red stood ten feet behind him, the barrel of the shotgun lowered and ready to fire.

  71

  WHAT STRENGTH JENKINS’S anger summoned had dissipated, leaving him without resources, beaten and battered. Facedown, he slipped in and out of consciousness, struggling to stay alert, hallucinating. Around him the fires burned pockets of intense heat, sucking the oxygen from the room, the flames creeping closer, licking at his face, tasting his flesh, waiting for him to die, ready to devour him.

  Charles Jenkins’s mind urged him to move, to get up, to get out. His body would not listen. His head would not rise. His legs no longer pushed. His fingers no longer pawed, dragging his weight inches at a time.

  So this was how he was to die. How it was to end.

  He had wondered how it would happen, never truly believing he would make it to old age, to a peaceful life sitting in a rocking chair on a porch with a beautiful wife, grandchildren playing at his feet. That was not a life for him. They had taken that from him. He would not close his eyes with loved ones surrounding his bedside, watching him exhale his last gasp of air. He would die as he had lived, alone, with no one to miss him, no one to wonder about him, no one to care. They had taken that, too. He would vanish, the world unmarked by his presence—a cruel fate for having kept silent so many years.

  He closed his eyes, feeling his will trickle from him like water down a bathtub drain.

  Alex.

  He wanted something beautiful as his last recollection.

  Alex.

  Her name teased his lips, and he envisioned her standing in the doorway of the caretaker’s shack on Camano Island, her hair caressing her unblemished face, settling along her neck and shoulders, more beautiful than any silk shawl. He saw her magnificent blue eyes—her father’s Scottish eyes, sparkling like diamonds. God had never created anything so beautiful.

  He would have loved her. He would have loved her each moment of each day of what life he had left. He had wasted so many years brooding about the past, doing nothing about the future. He had stood on pride and principle, staying true to his own moral fabric. But in the end he had punished no one but himself.

  He had lost. They had beaten him.

  The room burned, awash in the colors of a distant sun: reds, oranges, and bursts of yellow. The flames inched closer, surrounding him, patiently waiting. He drifted off again, deeper into the darkness, and saw them come—angels descending from above, lifting him, carrying him, he hoped, to heaven.

  72

  THROW THE GUN away, Detective.”

  Molia tossed the Sig onto the ground and raised his hands shoulder high. He had the automatic tucked in the small of his back, which wasn’t much help at the moment, since he was staring down the barrel of a gun that could cut him in half before he ever reached it, but it was at least hope. Then hope went out the window.

  “Take off your coat. Let it drop.” Molia complied. “Turn slowly. Throw it on the ground.”

  The detective reached behind him and let the automatic fall into the dirt and leaves with his jacket. He braced for the burst of buckshot to hit him in the back.

  “Turn around.”

  Why Red did not just shoot him when he had the chance, Molia did not know, but whatever the reason, every second was an opportunity to stay alive. And Tom Molia intended to stay alive.

  “Who are you?” he asked.

  “Does it matter?”

  They shouted above the wind and rain, like deckhands on a boat in a storm.

  “I’ll need your name when I book you.”

  Red seemed to find that amusing. “I’ll give it to you then.” He looked about, wary, water pouring from his hair and beard, matting them like the coat of a stray dog. “Where’s your friend, Detective?”

  Sloane. That was why the man had not just shot him in the back. They wanted Sloane, or, more likely, the file Sloane had spoken of.

  “Alerting the cavalry. This place will be swarming with a lot of people real soon, and they aren’t going to like a cop killer too much. If I were you, I’d be leaving.”

  “Good advice. I intend to.”

  “You’ll be going alone.”

  It was a stupid thing to say, but at the moment it gave Molia a perverse sense of satisfaction while he continued to consider his limited options. Could he jump into the stream? The burst of pellets would pick him off like a clay pigeon before he hit the water.

  The man shrugged. “Casualties of war, Detective.”

  “Really? And here I thought decl
aring war was Congress’s job. I’ll have to brush up on my Constitution. Whose war are you fighting, soldier?”

  “I could tell you, Detective, but then I’d have to kill you. Ironic, isn’t it?”

  “You can do better than that. That’s a throwaway line from a bad movie. Tell me this. Give me some peace of mind to take to my grave. Are you the assholes who killed Cooperman?”

  If he fell to the ground and rolled, he might be able to get to the gun, but he’d also have to get off an accurate shot, and that was not likely. If he was going to die, he preferred to do so standing, not writhing on the ground like a snake while Red stood over him, emptying a magazine.

  “If you mean the police officer, yes.”

  “Then the score is at least even.” He pushed away thoughts of Maggie and the children. He would not die. He would not allow it. Turn your body. Don’t give him a full-frontal target. It didn’t matter; the shotgun would still inflict mortal wounds.

  “I don’t keep score, Detective. This isn’t personal. I take no pride in killing an officer of the law. I generally respect law enforcement personnel; you have a difficult job.”

  “I can’t tell you how that warms my heart.”

  “The officer was an unexpected complication. We were left with little choice.”

  “I’ll be sure to tell his wife and child when I see them.”

  “I’m afraid not,” he said, and raised the Benelli.

  THE WOODS thinned, leaving worn paths that led him to the edge of a small clearing—an outdoor amphitheater amid the dense trees and brush. Whether it had been cleared by man or nature, Sloane did not know, but its emptiness made them easier to detect, despite his blurred vision and the rain cascading from the leaves overhead. The problem was the distance. It wasn’t likely he could hit his target with a pistol even under perfect conditions; trying to do so with his vision blurred by the migraine and the water made it a million-to-one shot. And that was all he had, one shot. He pressed his back against the trunk of a tree, his mind racing, no clear answer becoming readily apparent. He looked again.

  At least a shot would draw both men’s attention. That just might give the detective the time he needed. He took a deep breath and reached for the Colt in his waistband.

  It wasn’t there.

  73

  THE PAIN WAS an intense burning. Charles Jenkins’s bones ached. His muscles throbbed. His head felt as if it were about to explode. If his jaw didn’t hurt so much, he would smile. He assumed dead men didn’t feel pain, and what he felt at the moment was pure, unadulterated hurt.

  A thin sheet draped him, but it weighed on his aching bones like a slab of lead. His mouth and tongue tingled as if coated with hair, and the air crackled with a strange static charge, like wool socks being pulled from the dryer. Each blink brought a stabbing pain behind his eyes. The last thing he remembered was the floor in Robert Hart’s home, and the hazy recollection of floating above it, angels carrying him down a darkened tunnel toward an intense light—to what he assumed was the other side.

  He lifted his head, the images undulating: a desk and chair, a television console, flowered wallpaper. If this was heaven, he was bitterly disappointed.

  He fell back against the pillows and drifted again, unable to stay alert, wanting only to sleep, time passing in fuzzy, uncertain minutes.

  “How do you feel?”

  The voice reverberated, departed, then came back as a hollow ringing.

  “Charlie?”

  He turned his head. She stood in the doorway. Alex. Maybe this was heaven after all.

  She approached the side of the bed. “How do you feel?”

  “How—” He winced at the pain.

  She helped him sit up and propped a pillow behind his back, then held out pills and a glass of water.

  “No,” he said, squinting at the light from a desk lamp.

  “It’s Motrin. Sorry I couldn’t find any beer. You’ll have to drink water.”

  He smiled and immediately regretted it. “Don’t make me laugh. Hurts too much.” He sounded like a villain in a cartoon.

  She sat down on the edge of the bed, poured two capsules into the palm of his hand, and held the rim of the glass to his lips. It felt as if he were swallowing golf balls. He caught his reflection in a mirror above the desk and wished he hadn’t. An ugly shade of purple encircled his eyes, giving him the appearance of a raccoon. The bridge of his nose was flattened like that of a boxer, the tip shooting off at a right angle.

  “Is there any part of me that isn’t supposed to hurt?”

  “Well, let’s see: bruised and broken ribs, possible broken collarbone, broken nose, a lot of bruises, a few cuts. You had glass embedded in your forearms and scalp. Oh, and a likely concussion, which is why we keep waking you.” She leaned down and drew near his ear. “And you’re still the best thing I’ve ever seen.”

  He felt the warmth of her hand cup his own, genuine and real. “You need to meet more guys,” he said.

  She sat back, smiling. “Tell me about it. I let you stay at my father’s house, and you nearly burn it to the ground.”

  Now he smiled. “Call it even. Take it off the sales price?”

  It brought them to the ultimate question. Alex was strong, but it was unlikely that she had reached her father’s house that fast and had managed to drag his 240 pounds of deadweight up a staircase and out the door. “How did you get me out?”

  She sat back and turned toward the doorway. A well-coiffed man in a blue pin-striped suit stood watching them.

  74

  THUNDER NEARLY MASKED the sound—a twig snapping.

  Red looked up instinctively and turned toward the sound. The shadow had leaped from the darkness like an animal on unsuspecting prey. Well timed, it hit him under the arm, knocking him backward and forcing the barrel of the Benelli up, discharging the round into the trees. Red flipped heels over head, landing in a crouch like a catcher behind home plate, the barrel again locked on Tom Molia.

  The detective watched the barrel lower slowly, as if the man’s strength to hold it were waning. Then the man teetered forward to his knees, eyes rolling to their whites in a death mask, and fell face-forward into the leaves.

  Molia knelt on one knee, the Sig clasped in both hands, prepared to fire again. It would not be necessary. He stood, slid forward, and kicked the Benelli away. Then he reached and held the man’s wrist, though that also was not necessary.

  Molia holstered the Sig and walked to where Sloane lay in the leaves. After hitting Red, Sloane had continued over the top, his momentum propelling him just out of Tom Molia’s line of fire. It was either an incredibly brave or stupid act. Either way, Molia knew, it was the only reason he was still alive, and he wasn’t about to quibble with the result.

  “Are you all right?” he asked, helping Sloane to his feet.

  “Yeah. You’re a blur. I can’t see. It’s a migraine.”

  “Is that why you didn’t shoot?”

  “Lost my gun. Charged what I thought to be the shotgun barrel. It was a guess.”

  “I’m glad you’re telling me that now.”

  “Do me a favor—roll up his sleeve.”

  Molia bent down and pulled up the coat sleeve on the man’s left arm.

  “An eagle?” Sloane asked.

  “Yeah,” Tom Molia said. “An eagle.”

  THE STORM PASSED, leaving the sky streaked with a canvas of colors from pink to midnight blue. The air smelled like a cool stream. Birds, frogs, and insects came alive in a symphonic resonance to mix with the harsh crackle of police radios and the voices of a cavalry of state police stepping around muddy puddles as if they were land mines. Sloane watched the two ambulances leave the lot without sirens or flashing lights. There was no rush. The passengers were dead. Like the janitor, the two men would provide no answers.

  The pain medication had dulled his migraine. His vision had cleared.

  “You should get that x-rayed.” The EMT attending to him had finished wrapping Sloan
e’s ankle and helped him put his boot back on.

  Sloane laced the final eyelets and pulled the strings snug, then hobbled to the cluster of unmarked patrol cars where Molia stood. At the moment the detective was taking a tongue-lashing from a petite man with wire-rimmed glasses, thinning hair, and a voice like a carnival barker.

  “That must have been a miracle cure, Mole. An hour ago Banto tells me you’re on your deathbed, and I find you running through the forest dodging bullets.”

  “I can explain it, Rayburn.” Molia sounded tired and uninterested.

  “Oh, you’ll explain it—in writing. I want it on paper. Every detail. And I want it yesterday. I want to know what’s going on, Mole. Gumbo? Is that some new flu remedy I’m not aware of?”

  Sloane stepped forward. “Maybe I can explain.”

  The man looked up at him, one eye squinting as if holding a monocle in place. “Who the hell are you?”

  “Earvin Johnson.” Sloane held out his hand, but the man ignored it.

  “J. Rayburn Franklin, Charles Town chief of police,” Molia said, introducing Sloane.

  “I’m afraid this is my fault, Chief Franklin.”

  Franklin arched an eyebrow. “Your fault?”

  “I’m a friend of Tom’s from California. I talked him into getting some of the gumbo he’s been bragging about all these years. When we got here we found the place closed, got caught in that thunderstorm, and decided to wait it out. That was when those two men showed up, I assume to rob the restaurant. They came out, guns blazing. If it weren’t for Tom’s quick thinking, pushing me into the woods, I’d likely be dead right now. I owe him my life. He’s a hero. Is everyone in West Virginia this crazy?”