Ill Will by J.M. Redmann

answered.
    “Micky, I’m glad I caught you,” Cordelia said. “You don’t need to look for Reginald Banks. He’s—”
    “I know,” I cut her off. “In the hospital.” I hoped he was there and not the morgue.
    “How did you—you found him.” Cordelia knew me well enough to answer her question.
    “I’m on my way home. We can talk about it then.” I didn’t mean to cut her off, but I didn’t want to start the story on the phone only to start it again when I got home.
    “Okay,” she said slowly, as if trying to gauge my mood. “Should I start dinner?”
    “No, not yet. I’m not really hungry.” Then I added, “I’m okay, it just hasn’t been a great day in the PI world.”
    “I’ll see you soon, then.”
    I quickly locked up. The distance I had tried to get from Reginald Banks was gone, my vision clouded with his emaciated arms shoving pill bottles to the floor in the hopes that someone would hear them.
    I could talk to Cordelia about it and she would understand. I hurried down the stairs.
    “Damn it,” I cursed under my breath as I tried to lock the outer door, the key not cooperating.
    A rough hand grabbed my shoulder, spun me around, and slammed me against the building.
    My bad day was about to get worse.

Chapter Eight
     
    I was looking up at a tall—very tall—man with bulked-up shoulders and arms. His neck alone was about the size of my waist.
    “I’m sorry,” I said, “You seem to have mistaken me for someone else.”
    “Not possible,” he said, his voice so low it sounded more like a rumble in his chest than a clear tone. “You’re Michele Knight, a little girl private dick who’s poking about where she shouldn’t. This is a message to you in person, in a way to make sure you’ll remember.”
    He had one big burly hand on my shoulder, using his weight and strength to pin me against the building. My unhappy guess was that he was keeping his other arm free to make the message memorable.
    I wiggled against his grasp. I wasn’t trying to get away, but he would expect me to resist and I needed to have some idea of what it would take to break free when I really tried.
    A miracle was my conclusion.
    “Trust me, I’ll remember this message. I’m off the case and—”
    “You fucking called the police.” His hand tightened his grasp, his fingers painfully digging into my flesh.
    “No, they called me.” That was true, although I suspected that facts were of little use here. “I want nothing more to do with this. If they call again, I’m hanging up.” Needless to say, I did not add I’d be going there in person as soon as I got away from him, fervently hoping that would indeed be possible.
    “You need to go on a long vacation. Get out of the city for a while. We don’t want to see your face. Someplace with no phones, no Internet, none of that shit.” Then he grinned. It wasn’t a happy face, his graying teeth a sign of meth mouth. “Like a coma.” The grin got bigger as he cocked his fist.
    I was about to get the shit pounded out of me unless I managed somehow to hit him hard enough to immobilize him. He had me pinned tightly, but my arms and legs were still free. I no longer trained, but had studied karate long enough to get a brown belt. I would have one chance to hit him one time. Yeah, a gym giant amped up on meth. Another six months he’d lose the muscle, but that didn’t do me much good now.
    I squirmed under his barbell-sized fist, as if I could manage nothing more than a pathetic wiggle against his might. It only made him grin more. Add sadist to the list of adjectives.
    He had my right shoulder pinned. I could move my right arm, but not more than to reach his elbow, not exactly a vulnerable location.
    That meant my one perfect blow had to be left-handed. Did I mention I’m right-handed? I could kick, but he was so tall I’d have to bring my foot to my chest level to hit anything useful, leaving me off balance and making it too easy for him to grab my foot.