Harry Bronson Box Set

by L C Hayden

  “Yeah.”

  “Sorry, buddy, it’s a dead end. Those who are rich, influential, or repeat customers get the special treatment. Creams delivered the same day they’re ordered.”

  “I thought it’d be something like that, but I had to make sure.”

  “I hear ya. Here’s Ellen.”

  Bronson rattled off the instructions and disconnected. He floored the gas pedal and reached Clark’s mansion in record time. As he ran up the walkway, he considered breaking and entering, but decided to do it the old-fashioned way. He rang the doorbell and waited. Seconds dragged by. He leaned on the doorbell.

  The house came alive with lights and Bronson heard the faint murmur of voices. A maid opened the door barely wide enough to speak to him. “Yes? What is it?”

  “I need to talk to Clark.”

  “It’s the middle of the night. Come back tomorrow.” The door started to close.

  “No, now.” Bronson pushed the door open, making the woman stumble backward. He stepped into the foyer, a large entryway that opened to the kitchen area and living room. Off to his left was a large staircase. Bronson turned to the maid. “Are you okay?”

  She shrunk back, eyes wide with fear. Three other servants, all in matching white robes, huddled together a few feet away. Another, a man in his late thirties, opened a kitchen drawer.

  Bronson pulled out his gun and pointed it at him. “I wouldn’t do that if I were you. Put your hands up.”

  The man gasped and shot his arms up in the air. A carving knife clattered to the floor.

  “Join your buddies,” Bronson ordered.

  The man wet his lips and obeyed.

  “Put your arms down, for Pete’s sake. I’m not going to hurt you.” He must look like a bully. He sure felt like one.

  The woman behind him whimpered. He looked at her and she cringed. “I’m sorry about this,” he said. Sometimes innocent bystanders ended up getting hurt. Bronson hated that. He always tried to avoid it, but sometimes, like today, it couldn’t be done. He looked up toward the staircase. Clark stood halfway down it.

  Clark’s eyes bored into him. “Bronson, what the hell are you doing here at this time of night frightening my help?”

  Bronson pointed his gun at Clark. “You know damn well what I’m doing here.”

  The air seemed to seep out of Clark, like a deflated balloon. “You don’t understand. My niece has cancer. She’s all I have. The medical bills are eating me up. I had to do something.”

  Bronson looked at the chandelier dangling in the entryway. He eyed the designer curtains, the original paintings, the expensive furniture, and finally he looked at the servants who stood clustered together, mesmerized by the events unfolding before them. “Yeah, I can tell. I feel sorry for you.” He signaled for Clark to join his hired help.

  Clark descended a couple of steps and stopped.

  “Come on. All the way down.” As Clark joined them, Bronson turned to the woman he had pushed. “Anyone else here?”

  She shook her head.

  “Good. Let’s all mosey into the kitchen.” He pointed to the dinette table. “Sit.” All but Clark sat down. He stood by a chair, arms folded in front of him, glaring at Bronson.

  “Tell me about Eric and Linda.” Bronson directed his comment at Clark, but kept a watchful eye on the servants. They might be fiercely loyal to their employer.

  “Who?”

  “Don’t play cute games with me. I know you’ve got them.”

  A small whoosh of air escaped Clark. “I never meant for anyone to get hurt.”

  “Tell me where they are.”

  “You’ve got to understand. My niece. She’s all I’ve got.” He reached for the chair and flopped down in it.

  “For her sake, tell me where they are. Is Paul with them?”

  Clark’s eyebrows knit slightly in puzzlement. He lowered his head and looked down.

  “That’s three innocent people,” Bronson said. “You can save them. Don’t let their blood be on your hands too.”

  The maid Bronson had pushed gasped. The others held as still as if suspended in time.

  “Do any of you know where these people are?” Bronson asked them.

  They shook their heads.

  Bronson looked back at Clark. “I’ve had a rotten day and an even worse night. The kind that makes you boilin’ mad. You don’t want to see me mad.”

  Clark sighed and seemed to shrink, a defeated man. “Before I say anything, can you guarantee that you’ll tell the police I fully cooperated? That’ll get me reduced charges, won’t it?”

  “I can’t predict what the police will do, but I promise to speak on your behalf.”

  Clark stared straight ahead, his face a mask of despair. “I told you I need money for my niece, and about Mitch worrying over having enough money once he retired.”

  Bronson nodded.

  “Although we’re being paid very well at McGory and Stein, it’s the company that’ll make billions of dollars, not us. After all our hard work, all we’ll see is maybe a couple million each. So Mitch and I planned to sell the formula to the highest bidder. Our setback, of course, was that the formula wasn’t complete. We were this close to finding the answer.” Clark put his index finger and thumb together. “Every single cream that’s out there on the shelves can only reach the epidermis, the outer skin. But it’s the layer underneath, the dermis, where the wrinkles form. No matter how hard we tried, we couldn’t get past the epidermis. Then Mitch locked himself in the lab, day and night. A week later on a Sunday, he called me, his voice filled with excitement. He’d done it, he said. Ours would be the first cream to reach the dermis where the damage occurs. I told him I’d be right over, and his entire attitude changed.”

  “How’s that?”

  “He seemed hesitant, as if he regretted calling.”

  “Why would he regret that?”

  “I guess at first he was so excited, he had to share the news with someone. I was a logical choice. Then, after talking to me, he realized he could make more money if I wasn’t in the picture. I feared he was up to something, so I rushed to the lab, but by the time I got there, he and all the research notes were gone. You can imagine, I was very upset.”

  “Gone? What do you mean gone?” Bronson asked.

  “That son-of-a-bitch destroyed all our notes and hid the formula in a computer game that only he or Linda could successfully play.”

  “Ella,” Bronson said.

  Clark’s eyes widened. “You knew this.”

  Bronson nodded. “But what I don’t know is where Linda, Eric, and Paul are.”

  “In due time.” Clark waved him off. “I need to tell the story my way.” He took a deep breath. “The next day when I went to work, I contacted the Chief.”

  “Who?”

  “The guy we were going to sell the formula to.”

  “Does he have a name?”

  Clark frowned. “Of course. We’ll get to that.” He paused and Bronson wished he could put Clark on fast forward.

  He retrieved his notebook and pen and jotted down the important information, then looked at Clark.

  “Naturally, the Chief was furious,” Clark continued. “He hired a man who’s despicable but always gets the job done.”

  “Carrier.”

  Clark clapped. “Bravo, Mr. Bronson. Your knowledge impresses me.” He paused before continuing. “Carrier tried reasoning with Mitch, but Mitch wouldn’t listen. Figuring he would frighten Mitch into cooperating, Carrier killed Linda’s parents, whom Mitch was close to. But that didn’t change Mitch’s determination. He figured he was safe because they needed him to play that game. He didn’t count on Carrier knowing Linda could just as easily play it, and Linda, of course, would be easier to handle. So Carrier killed Mitch.”

  “All very interestin’, but it’s not leading me to Paul or to Linda and Eric. Tell me where they are before I lose my patience.”

  “I can do one better. I can show you. There’s a map in that drawer.�
�� Clark indicated a cabinet with a nod of his head. He stood up.

  “Uh-uh.” Bronson pointed to the chair. “Sit. I’ll get it.” He walked to the cabinet. “This drawer?”

  Clark nodded.

  Bronson opened the drawer and peeked in. It was full of papers. He moved them around but didn’t find a map. He grabbed a handful of papers, set them down in front of Clark, and froze.

  Clark wore a grin from ear to ear.

  Bronson wondered why.

  * * * * *

  Clark couldn’t help it. He continued to grin. While Bronson was busy looking for the map, Clark had reached into his pocket for his cell, found the number four button by touch, and pushed it, sending Carrier a warning signal. Carrier would soon arrive and take care of things.

  Bronson was a dead man.

  Clark smiled wider.

  thirty-seven

  Carrier rolled down his window. The cool night breeze invigorated him. The car’s digital display read 1:06. That meant by now Bronson was dead.

  Too bad. Carrier had wanted to be the one to snuff the life out of him, but since Carrier had considered hiring Pete for odd jobs, he needed to see where Pete’s capabilities lay.

  The light turned red and Carrier stopped. Even if the streets were deserted, he always followed traffic laws. He’d never take a chance on being arrested for violating a simple rule.

  When the light changed to green, he accelerated through the intersection. With luck, he’d be home in fifteen to twenty minutes. First thing, he’d reassure himself of Bronson’s death. What was that expression? Seeing is believing?

  Then he’d teach Pete how to properly dispose of a body, especially one with a high profile like Bronson’s. Carrier had high hopes for Pete, but if he messed up, Carrier would kill him. No big thing. Someone else would replace him.

  An approaching siren pierced the night. Carrier looked at his rearview mirror and saw a vehicle several blocks away. He couldn’t tell if the siren belonged to a cruiser, an ambulance, or what. He slowed down and pulled to his right, clearing the lane for the emergency vehicle. He took the gun and put it next to his seat.

  An ambulance zoomed past him. Carrier relaxed, hid the gun, and drove off. Ten minutes later, he neared his street. He turned the steering wheel, guiding the car to make a left. Then he saw, three blocks down, his house lit up with flashing lights. He straightened the car and continued heading up the road.

  Sudden naked rage overwhelmed him. Pete had let him down. Carrier should have known better than to trust him. If Pete wasn’t dead, he would soon be.

  Carrier slammed a fist against the steering wheel. On top of everything, the police would soon put two and two together and realize that address belonged to him. He had lost the use of his rental home.

  Down the block, he turned left, and executed another left at the end of that block. He parked the car and walked the rest of the way. He knew the police wouldn’t be looking for him, at least not yet. He felt safe, but still he used the night’s shadows to conceal him.

  From behind some bushes, he watched as two officers strung yellow crime-scene tape between sawhorses. Light bars pulsed, piercing the night with yellow and red flashing lights. The paramedics loaded a stretcher into the ambulance.

  Carrier couldn’t tell whether the body on the stretcher was Bronson or Pete. Either one meant bad news. He focused on the people hanging around the crime scene, but spotted neither Bronson nor Pete.

  His cell phone went off. He reached into his pocket for it, looked at the digital display, returned it to its place, and headed back to his car.

  Bronson was alive.

  Damn.

  thirty-eight

  Bronson waited for Clark to sort through the pile of papers. “You don’t have to show me where they are, just tell me. I’ll find them.”

  Clark pushed the papers away. “Might as well. I can’t find the map anyway.”

  One of the servants, the young upstairs maid, leaned forward as if eagerly following the conversation. All eyes focused on her. She shrank back.

  “You were about tell me where they are,” Bronson said.

  Clark leaned back, crossed his arms, and stared at Bronson.

  Two could play that game. “Tell me about Ella. Where is it?” Bronson thrust the gun closer to Clark’s face.

  “I don’t know.”

  Bronson flashed him a hard look.

  “I really don’t know. All I know is that the game consists of a couple who have to make all sorts of decisions. They make the right ones, they survive. They choose the wrong ones, they die. The only way to know which paths to follow is to use all the details that only Mitch and Linda know about their personal lives. If the character dies at any time, the game self-destructs.”

  “Very ingenious, but why bother? Wouldn’t it be a lot easier to recreate the formula?” Bronson took a step backward, away from Clark’s reach. One-handed, he retrieved his notebook and pen and made a couple of notations.

  “Mitch—and Mitch alone—had found a way to penetrate the epidermis. The notes I have—had—are no good without his information. And without my notes, I have to start from scratch. That’s not an easy thing to do. I know what I used, but I don’t remember the exact quantities—or even the order I put them in.”

  “But you have Stein and McGory to back you.”

  Clark leaned back and smiled.

  Dread clutched at Bronson’s heart. Clark was holding back, stalling. He knew something and he wasn’t telling. Before heading down the stairs, had he called Carrier? If he had, Bronson had to get the servants out before they too became Carrier’s victims. Forcing his voice to remain neutral, he said, “You know, I don’t like all these people here. This should be a private conversation between you and me.”

  He heard a couple of groans and complaints. The help watched him closely with eyes that missed little and revealed less. “Send them upstairs.”

  “Why? So you can torture me into telling you what you want to know?”

  “I’m a police officer. I wouldn’t torture you. Look, if it makes you feel any better, have them call Captain Marshall and tell him I’m here. He can come and listen to your confession. You tell us where Paul and Linda and Eric are, and we’ll go easy on you. We’ll make sure your lawyer knows you fully cooperated. What about it? It’s your only way out.” Bronson signaled for the servants to leave.

  They stood up. Clark didn’t complain.

  “You want us to call Captain Marshall, sir?” the man who had opened the knife drawer asked.

  Clark looked at him for a long time before nodding. “Make sure you talk to the captain directly.”

  “Yes, sir.” He began to herd the others out of the kitchen and up the stairs. “Will you be all right, sir?”

  “I will be if you can get the captain here to protect me from Bronson.”

  “I’ll make that call right away, sir.” He turned and went to join the others who were already at the top of the stairs. Halfway up, he paused and turned. “You want me, sir, to stay with you until the captain arrives?”

  “Thank you, but no. That won’t be necessary.”

  “Very well, sir.” He joined the rest and they went down the hall.

  Bronson’s interest in them ceased. The captain and his crew would arrive soon. He hoped that meant Carrier would be nowhere near Clark’s house. He turned his attention back to Clark.

  “I’m good to them,” Clark said. “I pay them well and I treat them right. In return, they’re faithful to me even after finding out that I involuntarily got involved in some wrongdoing.”

  Bronson didn’t quite agree with the involuntarily part. “You were going to tell me where I can find Paul and Eric and Linda.”

  Clark raised his eyebrows and tilted his head. “No reason for you not to know. There’s a good-sized basement—”

  The house went dark. Bronson felt a garrote around his neck, choking him, cutting him, sucking his life away.

  thirty-nine

 
Freddie imagined they were maybe half an hour away from Two Forks. Paul sat next to him chatting all the way from Custer. He was either stupid or very trusting. Possibly both. People like him needed to learn a lesson about real life. Freddie was glad he’d notified Carrier, which reminded him. It was time to call him. He pulled off to the side.

  Paul sat up straighter and looked around. “Something wrong with the car?”

  Freddie’s lips formed a small, twisted smile. “Car’s fine. I’m getting sleepy. Thought I’d pull over and catch a bit of fresh air.”

  “I’ll drive.”

  “Not necessary. I’m fine. I just need a five-minute break, that’s all.” He stepped out of the car and walked away.

  Paul got out too, leaned against the hood of the car, folded his arms, and watched Freddie.

  When he figured he was out of listening range, Freddie called Carrier. He heard the phone ring, but no answer. When the voice message came on, Freddie said, “It’s Freddie Young. I’ve got your merchandise, which I’ll deliver in half an hour or so. I’ll call back in about fifteen minutes if I don’t hear from you.” He replaced the phone in his pocket and headed back to the car. “You ready?”

  Paul stared at him.

  * * * * *

  Bronson felt a trickle of blood ooze out of his neck. For the first time in his life, he felt helpless. At first he had tried reaching for the wire, to force it away from his neck. He wanted to breathe, he wanted it to stop hurting. He quickly realized that the more he struggled, the deeper the wire cut. If his assailant had wanted him dead, he’d be dead by now. Instead, he would live a bit longer, knowing that any minute could be his last. Bronson decided to play the game, hoping against hope that the police arrived in time.

  Mustering every ounce of courage and self-discipline he had, Bronson stopped struggling and stood still. His hands hung beside him like broken tree limbs. Blackness wrapped its tentacles around him, smothering him.