get your cell phone so we can talk. I got the number off the display.” Harry placed the cell down on the patio table well out of reach.
“Talk?” Broker almost choked on the word.
“Yeah—you and John Eisenhower’ll never catch the Saint in a million fuckin’ years.”
“Harry—I don’t know a lot about this stuff, but you could go into alcohol shock and die. You should get some help.”
“No thanks, I still ain’t got over the last time you helped me.”
Broker, who had struggled so mightily not to show fear, completely submitted to anger. Red-faced, smashing the handcuff against the unyielding redwood strut, he shouted, “Harry, you wacko, think what you’re doing!”
Harry gave a fitful misfiring laugh and said, “Save your strength and, ah, don’t go away.” He left the porch, and Broker strained to hear him moving inside the house. He heard him go down the basement stairs, then after a few minutes trudge back up and go out the front door. The door on Broker’s truck opened, then slammed shut. The front door to the house opened and closed. More sounds inside, up and down the hall.
Then Harry came back out on the deck and said, “Okay, what it is—I’m leaving the hammer so you can knock the rail apart and get out. And I saw the clipboard in the truck, with Mouse’s handwriting on it. Don’t tell Mouse what’s going on between us here, ’cause then I won’t help you.”
Broker decided to give another push. “You’re just loaded, running your mouth. You don’t know shit.”
Harry raised his hand and tapped his forehead. “Ah, psychology.Sorry.” He held up the handcuff key. “Look—I’ll leave this in the mailbox. I’ll call you tomorrow. Meanwhile, you find out if the dead priest deserved it.”
“Deserved it?”
“Yeah, like Dolman. He deserved it.” Harry walked to the patio door, turned, and hefted the hammer. “See, if the Saint’s doing God’s work, as it were, I don’t see any reason to interfere.”
Harry extended the hammer. “This is between you and me, right?”
“You and me,” Broker said.
Harry tossed the hammer. Broker snatched it cleanly with his right hand.
Then Harry said, “Course if the priest is clean and the Saint ain’t doing God’s work, then we’ll . . . see. I ain’t really decided yet.” He reached in his front pocket, eased something out and held it in his fist, and said, “On the other hand . . .” Harry raised his closed hand palm down and opened his fingers.
The bullet clinked on the deck between Broker’s shoes. It was about the length and diameter of his ring finger. Harry turned and disappeared through the patio door.
Broker listened to Harry leave the house, get in the truck, start it, and drive away. His knuckles tightened around the slick hammer haft, dripping sweat. He drew a bead on the piece of wood that held him prisoner and swung.
It took a minute to smash the stout redwood strut from the deck rail. Broker slipped the cuff off the shattered wood, snatched up the bullet, got to his feet, went in the house and down the basement stairs.
Harry had left the second gun safe open. Broker looked in the safe to confirm what he already knew: Harry’s favorite long black rifle was missing.
Chapter Twelve
Broker got out of the cab and paid the driver. Then he took a moment to compose himself, run his hand down his sweat-soaked shirt, tuck in the anger and humiliation. He rubbed the red raw marks on his left wrist, tested the lump behind his ear for blood and found none.
He glanced around. The world looked deceptively unchanged. Except now Harry was seriously out there in it. Broker knew the stories about drunks who blacked out and continued to function like sleepwalkers for days, operating on pure reflexes.
Broker squeezed the thick .338 round in his pocket. Harry had some pretty advanced reflexes. As he walked toward the law enforcement compound, LEC, for short, he considered the unique potential for havoc in
“Talk?” Broker almost choked on the word.
“Yeah—you and John Eisenhower’ll never catch the Saint in a million fuckin’ years.”
“Harry—I don’t know a lot about this stuff, but you could go into alcohol shock and die. You should get some help.”
“No thanks, I still ain’t got over the last time you helped me.”
Broker, who had struggled so mightily not to show fear, completely submitted to anger. Red-faced, smashing the handcuff against the unyielding redwood strut, he shouted, “Harry, you wacko, think what you’re doing!”
Harry gave a fitful misfiring laugh and said, “Save your strength and, ah, don’t go away.” He left the porch, and Broker strained to hear him moving inside the house. He heard him go down the basement stairs, then after a few minutes trudge back up and go out the front door. The door on Broker’s truck opened, then slammed shut. The front door to the house opened and closed. More sounds inside, up and down the hall.
Then Harry came back out on the deck and said, “Okay, what it is—I’m leaving the hammer so you can knock the rail apart and get out. And I saw the clipboard in the truck, with Mouse’s handwriting on it. Don’t tell Mouse what’s going on between us here, ’cause then I won’t help you.”
Broker decided to give another push. “You’re just loaded, running your mouth. You don’t know shit.”
Harry raised his hand and tapped his forehead. “Ah, psychology.Sorry.” He held up the handcuff key. “Look—I’ll leave this in the mailbox. I’ll call you tomorrow. Meanwhile, you find out if the dead priest deserved it.”
“Deserved it?”
“Yeah, like Dolman. He deserved it.” Harry walked to the patio door, turned, and hefted the hammer. “See, if the Saint’s doing God’s work, as it were, I don’t see any reason to interfere.”
Harry extended the hammer. “This is between you and me, right?”
“You and me,” Broker said.
Harry tossed the hammer. Broker snatched it cleanly with his right hand.
Then Harry said, “Course if the priest is clean and the Saint ain’t doing God’s work, then we’ll . . . see. I ain’t really decided yet.” He reached in his front pocket, eased something out and held it in his fist, and said, “On the other hand . . .” Harry raised his closed hand palm down and opened his fingers.
The bullet clinked on the deck between Broker’s shoes. It was about the length and diameter of his ring finger. Harry turned and disappeared through the patio door.
Broker listened to Harry leave the house, get in the truck, start it, and drive away. His knuckles tightened around the slick hammer haft, dripping sweat. He drew a bead on the piece of wood that held him prisoner and swung.
It took a minute to smash the stout redwood strut from the deck rail. Broker slipped the cuff off the shattered wood, snatched up the bullet, got to his feet, went in the house and down the basement stairs.
Harry had left the second gun safe open. Broker looked in the safe to confirm what he already knew: Harry’s favorite long black rifle was missing.
Chapter Twelve
Broker got out of the cab and paid the driver. Then he took a moment to compose himself, run his hand down his sweat-soaked shirt, tuck in the anger and humiliation. He rubbed the red raw marks on his left wrist, tested the lump behind his ear for blood and found none.
He glanced around. The world looked deceptively unchanged. Except now Harry was seriously out there in it. Broker knew the stories about drunks who blacked out and continued to function like sleepwalkers for days, operating on pure reflexes.
Broker squeezed the thick .338 round in his pocket. Harry had some pretty advanced reflexes. As he walked toward the law enforcement compound, LEC, for short, he considered the unique potential for havoc in
Similar Books
