by L C Hayden
From the far distance he heard a familiar sound, the ringing of a cell. Carol? I love you. Little Carol? There’s so much I have to tell you. His other daughter, Donna? The grandkids? He wanted to see them all again.
As the cell continued to ring, he felt a slight release of the garrote’s grasp. His eyes snapped open. Adrenaline rushed through his veins. He thrust both elbows back, striking his attacker’s body. At the same time, he raised his right leg and thrust it down, hoping to break his attacker’s foot.
Carrier yelped and lost his grip on the garrote, which fell limply to the floor. Bronson spun around and threw a fist, aiming for Carrier’s chest, but by then Carrier had moved and Bronson only struck the air. He stood, panting, listening to the night noises.
Movement came from his right. Carrier had opened the door and stepped out. Bronson stood in the kitchen, feeling like a quarterback who had been sacked and dazed. He was slightly disoriented but very much ready for the next play. He followed Carrier outside.
He stood halfway in, halfway outdoors, his gaze searching the shadows. He reached for his gun.
Carrier rammed him from the left. Bronson landed with a loud thud. Carrier grabbed a steel bar that lay among a pile of pipes on the patio. He brought the bar down hard.
Bronson rolled and the bar struck the cement, sending a clanging sound rippling through the air. Bronson hurt like hell from Carrier’s tackle, but bounced to his feet despite the pain. They circled each other like a pair of wolves. Carrier swung the bar each time, closing the gap between them. Bronson reached for his gun, but time was against him. He saw Carrier’s lips spread in sharkish anticipation as he advanced, like a caged animal that had just been released. Carrier brought the bar down toward Bronson, who ducked away .
As Carrier moved to regain his balance, Bronson made a fist and swung it full force into Carrier’s stomach. Carrier doubled over and dropped the steel bar. Bronson cupped his hands and brought them down on the back of Carrier’s head, while bringing his knee up to connect with Carrier’s chin. The impact jarred him. Carrier stood in a dazed crouch, not falling, but also not standing.
Bronson paused to catch his breath. Carrier made a right forearm hammer, thumb down, and smashed Bronson on the inside of his right forearm. Bronson heaved like a weightlifter.
Triumph glowed on Carrier’s face as he moved in for the final blows.
Bronson braced himself, waiting for the right moment. When it came, he raised his wide-open hand and aimed for Carrier’s face. He caught Carrier with the heel of his hand under his nose.
Carrier shrieked and put both hands to his face. Bronson drove an elbow into Carrier’s Adam’s apple. Carrier dropped slowly to the floor, gurgling like bath water leaving the tub.
When he hit the ground, he looked at the steel bar, but then grasped at his pocket. Bronson whipped out his gun and shot Carrier in the chest.
With his revolver cocked and pointed, he approached, reached into Carrier’s pocket and grabbed the man’s gun. He located a pulse, weak but present. Bronson flopped down, weak and dazed.
Headlights blinded him. He raised the gun.
“Put it down. It’s Marshall.”
“Captain.” The fight had taken its toll on Bronson. Twenty years ago, he could have done this. Not today, not anymore. He uncocked the revolver and stuck it in his belt.
Carrier’s phone went off. Bronson took it out of Carrier’s shirt pocket and looked at the caller I.D. He didn’t recognize the number and the name Freddie didn’t ring any bells with him. “Yes?” He lowered his tone, hoping to sound like Carrier.
“We’re about ten minutes away from Two Forks,” the voice at the other end said. “Did you get my call?”
Bronson remembered hearing the cell ring while the garrote sliced into him. “Haven’t checked messages.”
“No problem. I have Paul with me and we’re real close to Two Forks. What do you want me to do?”
Bronson wondered how this Freddie character fit in the picture. He drew a blank. “What model car you drivin’?”
“What?”
“So I can recognize it.”
“Oh. It’s a Chevy Impala, older model, pale blue. So where do we meet?”
We? Did he also have Eric and Linda? “How many of you came?”
“Just me. I can handle Paul. He doesn’t even suspect.”
Bronson searched his mind for a location. Somewhere out in the open where he could spot them, but also somewhere he could hide. “There’s a huge park here in town.”
“I know it.”
“Meet me there, first bench as you approach the park. It may take me a while to get there, but wait for me.”
“I can do that.”
“And I don’t want Paul harmed.” Bronson thought of other innocent bystanders who might be visiting the park. “Or anybody else. The less people get hurt, the easier we get away. Is that clear?”
“I understand, Mr. Carrier. You can rely on me. How will I recognize you?”
“I’ll know you.” Bronson shut the phone and looked at the captain. Marshall had squatted beside Carrier’s body, examining his wounds. “He’s not going to make it,” Marshall said.
“That breaks my heart.”
“I bet.” He pointed to Carrier’s cell. “What was that about?”
“Carrier’s holding one of my friends from the police department hostage. I arranged to meet them at the city park.” Bronson found it hard to talk even though his breathing had started to come at more regular intervals.
“Fill me in.”
Bronson took a deep breath. “I don’t know much. All I know is that some guy named Freddie, no last name, has Paul McKenzie, a lab technician for the Dallas Police Department, and he’s bringing him to Carrier. Paul is going along with it because he doesn’t know what Freddie is really planning to do. Freddie called Carrier for further delivery instructions. I sent them to the park and told them to wait for me—he assumed I was Carrier.”
“I’ll get my men on it.” Marshall headed back toward his car.
“They’re about fifteen minutes away, driving an old blue Impala.”
Marshall nodded an acknowledgment as he walked away.
The silver bolts of pain Bronson had been experiencing began to recede. He stood up and almost fell to the ground, but managed to regain his balance.
Marshall approached him. “Where’s Clark?”
“I left him in the dining room. The lights all went out.”
Marshall walked to the side of the house and flipped the switches. The area flooded with lights. Bronson stared at Marshall.
“Clark had a New Year’s Party here. At midnight, he had this huge fireworks display. I was in charge of killing the house lights so everybody could see the works better,” Marshall said. “Let’s go find Clark.”
They found him sitting where Bronson had left him. Clark smiled when he saw Marshall. He nodded a hello.
Bronson squinted, focusing on Clark, but addressing Marshall. “If it’s okay, I’d like to be there at the park to rescue Paul.”
“I’m afraid, that’ll be impossible.”
Bronson pivoted.
Marshall’s gaze met his over the barrel of the captain’s gun. “Very carefully set your weapon down on the table and walk away.”
Bronson suspended his gun from the handle using his thumb and index finger. He set it down and stepped away. “Clark will vouch for me. Carrier’s the one behind all these deaths.”
Marshall leaned back against the kitchen counter and kept his gun aimed at Bronson. “Is he, now? Too bad he killed you before you had a chance to proclaim your innocence.”
Bronson’s eyes widened.
forty
Paul felt the gun in his pocket. Freddie had to know he was carrying, but he hadn’t asked. That alone had suggested, at least at first, that Freddie was on the level. He’d driven Paul to Two Forks because he wanted to help, or because it earned him an easy buck. That didn’t bother Paul. In fact, he’d welc
omed Freddie’s offer to come along.
But now he wasn’t so sure. Twice, Freddie had stopped to use the phone. Ever since then, he’d had betrayal written all over him. Paul could read it in his shifty eyes. He felt sure Freddie planned to hand him to Carrier, but that wasn’t about to happen.
Paul leaned back in the car seat and closed his eyes, his mind busy devising plans. He could overpower Freddie, catch him by surprise. Problem was, Paul had no idea how to pull off something like that. Freddie was a professional. He wasn’t.
That didn’t matter.
One way or the other, Paul would make sure they never reached the park.
* * * * *
Bronson cast Marshall a disapproving stare. “I don’t know who’s the bigger scum of the earth, a serial killer or a dirty cop.”
Marshall’s lips curved upward, but the smile heavy and thick like motor oil after being used thousands of miles lacked humor. “Look, we all do what we have to do. Don’t be so quick to judge. Just remember who’s holding the gun.”
Bronson’s gaze held Marshall’s stony gray eyes for several seconds. They reminded him of a graveyard. He glanced away from Marshall, past a window, then briefly back again.
Mike waved at him.
Bronson’s thoughts strayed to the door. Had Marshall locked it behind him? “My friend Paul needs help. There’s no reason why you can’t send some unmarked cars to that park.” Bronson noted Marshall’s cold, hard look. No way Bronson could hope to check the door. He didn’t dare move and give Marshall a reason to shoot.
Marshall smirked. “I wouldn’t be so concerned about your friend. I’d be more worried about me.”
Bronson assessed his situation. He had to unlock the door if Marshall had locked it. Maybe if he took one step at a time. He inched toward the door.
Marshall raised the gun further, his features firm, his determination clear.
Bronson froze.
“I didn’t say you could move. What the hell do you think you’re doing?”
Bronson’s hope vanished like a puff of smoke swallowed by air. “I’m tired. Sorry I moved. It was unintentional.”
He heard a door open somewhere upstairs. Then the servants appeared by the staircase, huddled together. “Go back to your rooms,” he ordered.
Marshall threw Clark an accusatory stare. “You didn’t tell me they were here.”
Clark shrugged.
The back door flew open as Mike crashed in, throwing his body against the floor, his gun aimed at Marshall.
Bronson rushed Marshall, throwing his full body weight against him. Marshall landed on the floor. His gun skittered across the room. Bronson straddled him and punched him hard just below the breastbone. Next, just to be on the safe side, he landed another one on Marshall’s face.
Marshall whooshed as his breath shot out of his lungs. Blood streamed down his nose.
Bronson straightened up, grabbed him by the lapels, and shoved him into a dinette chair. He bent down to reach for Marshall’s gun just as Mike stood up, his own gun still in his hand.
Bronson felt cold metal against the back of his head.
“Back off,” Clark said. Bronson froze. “You.” Clark indicated Mike. “Drop your weapon.” The coldness and toughness in his voice sent Bronson a warning signal.
Mike set the gun down on the floor and raised his hands.
“Shiiit!” Bronson said.
forty-one
Paul pulled out his gun and pointed it at Freddie. “There’s been a change of plans.”
Freddie’s head swiveled as he gaped at Paul. “What are you doing, man? I’m just trying to help you.”
“I think not.” The gun shook in his hands. Paul had never pointed a gun at anyone. “You made arrangements with Carrier to meet me at the park, didn’t you?”
“Well, yeah. I thought you wanted me to hand you Carrier.”
“You had it planned the other way around.”
Freddie looked at the road in front of him and then checked the mirrors. He steered sharply to the right, then the other way. The car swerved. Paul reached for the door, trying to maintain his balance.
Freddie continued to drive in sharp S-curves. He reached over and gave Paul a karate chop on his wrist. The gun dropped to the floor and slid under the seat. Paul leaned forward to reach for it.
Freddie slammed on the brakes and Paul hit his face on the dash. When he looked up, he saw Freddie’s gun pointed at him. “Don’t move.” Freddie’s foot felt for and located the lost gun. He scooted it toward himself, leaned down, and grabbed it. “Get out of the car.”
Paul glared at him.
“Now.”
Paul got out. A fresh gust of cool air hit his face, stinging his wounds.
Freddie got out and headed toward Paul, gun in hand. The two men stared at each other. “Turn around,” Freddie said.
Paul gasped. Suddenly, nothing mattered. He would embrace death. At least then he’d be with his beloved Angie. He turned around, giving Freddie his back.
* * * * *
Enough’s enough, Bronson thought as he threw his body weight backward, knocking Clark off balance. He pivoted toward Clark and smashed him in the face. The blow sent Clark stumbling to the floor.
Bronson raised his fists, ready for a fight.
Clark stood up, covered his face, and whimpered.
Bronson lowered his fists.
Mike removed Marshall’s belt, grabbed the cop’s arms, and pulled them behind him. He tightened the belt around Marshall’s hands. “Good job, buddy.”
Bronson pocketed Clark’s discarded gun, and smiled the first genuine smile in a heck of a long time, even though his body screamed with pain. “We still make a good team, don’t we?”
“The best.”
Bronson massaged his shoulders. “Think I can go back to work for the Dallas Police Department?”
“I doubt it.”
“I thought so, too.”
The maids and butler had worked their way down the stairs. Bronson’s gaze sought them out. “Are we going to have any trouble from any of you?”
They shook their heads.
“Good. I know you all feel loyalty to Clark, but somewhere along the way, you’ve got to choose between right and wrong. What’s it going to be?”
The servant who had originally taken control stepped forward. “What do you want us to do?”
“A friend of ours, an employee from the Dallas Police Department, is in grave danger. We’ve got to rescue him. Call the police, but be careful. Marshall here is dirty. We don’t know how many more cops are. You may want to call the newspapers first. Have them send lots of reporters, lots of photographers. Then have them snap a lot of pictures of you handing Marshall over to the police.”
“Easy enough,” the man said. “By the way, my name’s Joe.”
Bronson nodded and pointed at Mike. “My partner, Mike Hoover.” It felt good to say that again.
Mike and Joe shook hands. Then Joe pointed to Clark. “What about him?”
Bronson and Mike exchanged looks. “He’ll come with us,” Bronson said.
Mike nodded.
“We still need to find Linda and Eric, and Clark will lead the way.”
“Fat chance,” Clark said.
Mike relieved Marshall of his handcuffs. “Where are the keys?”
“In my pocket.” Marshall’s face had swollen and it was hard for him to speak.
Mike reached in and found the keys. “Have a good life, Marshall. May you rot in jail.” He took the manacles, spun Clark around, and cuffed his hands behind him.
“Ready?” Bronson asked.
“Not just yet. Some of those cuts, especially that one around your neck, need to be looked at.”
“Paul’s waiting.”
“Ellen is out in the car. She’s probably scared half to death. I’ll bring her in. If I remember right, she was a real good nurse.” Mike looked at the help. “One of you please bring some alcohol and bandages.”
“
Right away, sir.” The youngest of the servants ran out of the room.
Mike stepped out and brought Ellen in. When she saw Bronson, she said, “My God, Harry. Look at you. Carol is going to kill you when she sees what you’ve done to yourself.”
“Yes, it’s good to see you, too,” Bronson said.
The young lady returned, bringing a large first-aid kit. Ellen got busy cleaning Bronson’s wounds.
forty-two
Ellen pivoted to look at Bronson, who sat in the back seat next to Clark. Clark’s hands remained cuffed behind his back. “Bronson, are you sure you’re up to this? You look like hell.”
“Thank you, Ellen. I have always appreciated your truthfulness.” Truth was, he felt like hell.
She smiled. “You’re welcome.”
“While you still have me as a captive audience, anything you’d like to ask me for your report?”
Ellen met his eyes. “There won’t be one.”
“Oh, I’m sorry.”
She stuck her tongue out at him. “I bet you are.”
They fell silent for a couple of blocks. Then Mike broke that silence. “Bronson, buddy, I can do this by myself. You stay in the car. Keep an eye on Ellen and Clark.”
“Not on your life. No offense, Ellen.” Bronson wanted to be there to rescue Paul so he could punch him in the face for pulling such a dumb stunt.
“No offense taken,” Ellen said in a sing-song voice.
Bronson flashed her a forced smile. He retrieved a pocket flashlight, turned it on, and read his notes. He paused on the page labeled Pete. “Listen, you two. Somethin’ is botherin’ me. Supposedly, Pete called me on my cell and told me to meet him at Mensa Enterprises. But instead of Pete, Carrier showed up. I was sure Pete had set me up, but Pete swore it wasn’t him even though my cell said the call came from his. He never did explain how Carrier made that call using his cell. According to Pete, Carrier never borrowed his phone. Any ideas?”
Mike shook his head. “Seems to me like Pete told you a lie to cover his ass.”
