Seven
John crossed the yard separating the two houses
wondering how to explain Joyce to a ten-year-old boy. David waited in the
middle of the kitchen, the expression on his face warning of more pressing
concerns.
"Okay, so what's this about a monster on the slope?"
David opened his mouth to speak. He paused and shook
his head, pale and trembling. "I guess it's nothing."
John brushed a cold sweat from his son's forehead and
decided that it had to be something. "You went checking on that green
light of yours, right?"
David nodded frantically.
"What did you find?"
David looked down at the floor, rigid with tension
and on the verge of panic.
"I guess it's nothing."
"Are you okay?" John said softly.
David forced a reassuring smile. It came out looking
grotesque. "I'm okay."
John decided not to avoid the subject. "Did Joyce
upset you?"
David blinked his big brown eyes. "I thought it was
Mom for a second."
John's smile felt skewed on his face. "It was just
Joyce. She cut her hard."
"Oh."
Even a ten-year-old would guess the cut hand to have
been a pretext for something more. "Joyce is having problems with her
boyfriend," he added.
"Yeah." The reminder brought David to life. "I hear
them fighting sometimes. Are you going to beat up Roy for her?"
John had to laugh. "With one good hand? I'll get my
butt kicked, don't you think?"
"No way." But David's enthusiasm fizzled. He
frowned unhappily. "I thought she was Mom for a second."
"Hardly."
David eyed him reproachfully. "She didn't hardly
have no clothes on."
"She was wearing a bikini. You'll like bikinis when
you get a little older."
David gave a heavy sigh. "I don't want another mom."
"Me neither."
"Really?" David cocked his head suspiciously.
"Joyce is okay, isn't she? Your mother felt sorry
for her."
David nodded reluctant agreement. "She was always
getting beat up and crying to Mom about it."
"She's just a friend, David. Nobody's going to
replace Mom."
"Promise?"
But David was hiding something behind the small
talk. Little if any of his agitation had settled. "What happened on the
slope?" John said. "What sort of monster did you see?"
David gave the question a long moment of thought. "I
saw something funny, is all."
"How funny?"
David shook his head, either confused, or refusing to
specify for his own reasons.
"I think you're mad at me because of Joyce," John
suggested.
David put on a crooked smile of his own. "No, it's
not that." He turned away toward his room.
"Do you want me to go out and take a look around?"
David spun on his heels with a look of panic. "No!"
He forced a bit more composure. "It wasn't anything. Really."
"You feeling okay?"
John sighed when David grew visibly agitated. He
needed to quit asking the question all the time.
"I'm okay, Dad. Really."
Neither one of them were all that okay, although
their crises for the morning had been put on hold. David's nightmare of
the green light had apparently gotten the best of him, and he had survived
with flying colors Joyce's first attempt at seduction. Marlene would have
been proud of them both.
John pried his thoughts away from his naked next door
neighbor. He went downstairs and wandered the basement den, then switched
on the computer in hopes of losing himself in his work. The computer had
belonged to Marlene. Marlene had been the intellectual, the free-lance
journalist, although he had always wanted to try his hand at writing. He
had to give it his best shot now that he had the opportunity. Without a
sense of direction and a purpose to life, he'd drink himself into
oblivion. He couldn't let that happen for David's sake.
He sat down and started typing using five fingers of
his good hand and three partially working fingers of his bad one. The
index finger was rigid and had no feeling, although still useful for
punching the top row of number keys. He had been mulling over a few
article ideas earlier and managed an hour's worth of brainstorming.
Ideas, though, extracted from his untrained imagination as painfully as
teeth.
The phone rang. Thankful for the distraction, he
snatched up the handset and shoved his chair back away from the desk.
"John Hartman here."
The call was from the editor of a small survivalist
publication in Arizona. "I have in my hand one of your submissions, an
article about military survivalist tactics. It's rather well written.
Were you a Marine, Mr. Hartman?"
John tried to place the magazine that Conrad Williams
edited. "That goes a ways back, ten years or so."
"No matter. I'm sure you've kept yourself up to
date. I've been looking for someone to write about the problems our local
paramilitary organizations have been having with the federal government,
the FBI and the ATF in particular. We could use a good public relations
man working on our behalf."
John leaned his head back and closed his eyes, weary
of getting caught up in the crossfire between homemade paramilitary
organizations and the government. "I wouldn't be the man you're looking
for, I'm afraid."
"Why not, may I ask?"
"I don't think your readership would appreciate my
background, Mr. Williams. I consider myself an expert in the field of
self-defense. I believe it prudent to plan ahead in case of natural
disaster, or maybe even an economic crisis, but I don't consider
government to be the enemy of American citizens. I've worked in law
enforcement myself."
"Oh, I see." Conrad William's tone of voice turned
to ice. "Are you with this law enforcement agency at the present time?"
"Not for the past couple of years."
"John Hartman. Now that I think about it, I've heard
of you. I thought that name rang a bell."
John sighed in mounting despair. "Sir, the article I
sent you is general interest defense tactics a housewife or a kid on the
street could use. Why not let it go at that?"
"You're the bounty hunter. Hartman Investigations.
I knew I recognized that name."
Conrad Williams was a bit behind the times. Hartman
Investigations had preceded his three years with the sheriff's
department. Regardless, it would accomplish nothing to defend himself.
He waited in silence for the other shoe to fall.
"You took in Walt McCormick."
His capture of Walter McCormick had made news in
three states. McCormick and his friends had been experimenting with
fuel-air explosions in the deserts of Nevada. McCormick eluded agents
during an ATF raid and detonated a potent explosive in his car when
stopped at a roadblock at a highway junction in the middle of a small town
in southern Oregon. Three young boys playing in a nearby schoolyard had
been killed in the explosion. Protected by a make-shift titanium
shell within the vehicle, McCormick had escaped.
The world had thought McCormick dead as well. John
had thought it another Walter McCormick he had picked up not twenty miles
from Eagle Junction for skipping bond, but it had been the infamous one,
and the capture had made him famous. John made a mental to note to
scratch Williams and his survivalist publication from his meager list of
potential markets.
"Everyone has an interest in politics, Mr. Hartman.
We all have our opinions of what is good for our country and what is
detrimental."
"Yeah, but McCormick killed kids. Nobody makes a
political statement killing kids."
"And you're sure as hell a Zionist spy if you think
I'd publish the writings of a FBI informant and sympathizer in my
publication, Mr. Hartman."
The phone slammed in his ear.
John chuckled as the dial tone kicked in. He hung up
wondering if Conrad Williams had the clout to blacklist him from any
magazines with a decent pay scale.
Or did it matter? Not in the short term. Joyce
Blair's sleek body made it difficult to concentrate on matters of no
immediate importance. It had been the better part of a year since he had
last held a woman in his arms. Joyce wouldn't be his best choice of
partners, even if it was about time to let go of Marlene's memory. Her
death had set him afloat on the random currents of life. Continuing to
tear at himself over the accident accomplished nothing but to undermine
what was left of David's security in life.
He was still thinking about Joyce when David came
down to the basement at dusk. "You won't mess around with her, will you?"
John was startled. "What, are we reading minds now?
"They're fighting again," David said, gesturing with
a nod up the stairs. "You had better come see."
John hurried up after the boy. He could hear Joyce's
shrieks of outrage and pain filtering from the house next door even before
he reached David's bedroom window. He had warned Roy in the past against
carrying on in front of his son. John parted the curtains and could see
the two rushing about the kitchen through the patio curtains.
"She's a nice lady, isn't she, dad?"
"She means no one any harm."
"Can you stop him?"
A long dormant hair-trigger temper began to simmer.
"I might get myself in trouble with Gene for not minding my own business.
It's not good having the county sheriff pissed at me, you know."
"I know, but he never does anything to stop it."
The sheriff had been able to put a stop to it because
Joyce refused to press charges. Still, he couldn't allow David to
witness a steady diet of Roy's brutality. He glanced at the boy,
seriously considering intervening for the first time. "Are you sure you
wouldn't mind? It might get rough."
David shook his head decisively. "Nope, I don't
mind."
"I wouldn't want you to get overly excited. If
things get out of hand, you know how to call for backup."
David grinned mischievously. "I’m not a kid any
more, Dad."
John pulled the shade to the window.
"But I wanna watch!"
"Consider yourself lucky I let you watch your horror
movies and let it go at that."
David sat on the bed and sulked.
John wove his way through the house and went out the
back way. He jogged across the well-tended lawns and passed through the
open patio doors without announcing his presence or attracting the
attention of the two combatants.
Roy Rockingham had Joyce backed against the stove.
He was using her for support even as he bellowed at her incoherently and
punched at her head. Blood streamed from a corner of her mouth.
Roy Rockingham stood a good half foot taller than
John's own five-eleven. John used his shorter height to his advantage
when he stepped in, caught Roy's raised fist in his left hand, and spun
him about. Roy swung with his free hand as expected. John ducked beneath
the swing and kneed the taller man in the groin. When Roy folded at the
waist, John head-butted him in the face and sent him reeling back with
blood gushing from his nose.
One hand had sufficed after all. The two hundred and
fifty pound trucker with an IQ not much higher than his age of forty-seven
opened his mouth to breathe and dropped quietly to his knees. Joyce
sidestepped from both men fearfully.
John dragged Roy to his feet with Roy’s right arm
bent behind his back. He twisted a finger, threatening broken bones and
more pain than a sane man would care to deal with, and then used the hold
to steer his adversary out the back door and across the lawn to his own
kitchen.
Dumping Roy into a chair at the table, he fetched two
beers from the refrigerator, tucked each between his legs and popped both
tabs. He slammed one down on the table in front of Roy and threw a towel
into the man's face as an afterthought.
"We had a talk not too long ago," John said. "You
said you'd keep the noise down a bit."
Roy's head lolled about on his broad shoulders. His
drunken gaze had trouble focusing. Blood leaked between fingers splayed
across his mouth and nose. "You're the one to talk, you bastard."
John reached over and cracked the man against the
side of the face with his fist. "Don't get smart with me."
Roy flailed about and won the battle to stay seated
in his chair. "I'll get you for this..."
John rose ominously to his feet. Roy's eyes
widened. He turned his head aside and squeezed his eyes closed. "Okay, I
give."
John sat back down and sipped his cold beer. "I
don't mean to stick my nose where it don't belong, but I don't want David
to have to listen to it. The excitement isn’t good for him. I explained
that to you."
Roy sobered quickly. He nodded, muttered respectful
acquiescence, and took a slug of his own beer. "You bastard, you busted
one of my teeth."
"We both drink too much," John said in an even
quieter tone of voice.
Roy eyed him and fought the temptation to use
Marlene's death as a stab where it would hurt the most. The hard look in
John's eye warned against it.
"So, what if you punch too hard one of these nights?"
John said. "What if you kill her? We'd be in the same boat, you and I.
It's not a place you want to be. You'd be smart to take my word for it."
Roy gave in with a sigh. He threw back his head and
guzzled his beer.
"I don't want to have to do this again," John said.
"We'll pay a visit to Packerson and one of his nine-by-twelve suites the
next time I have to drag you off that woman."
Roy flashed raw anger. "Your not a cop no more,
Hartman."
"No, but it pays to know the law. I don't have to be
a cop to make a citizen's arrest."
"You stay the hell away from Joyce," the man
murmured.
John shook his head regretfully. "Too late,
neighbor. She's history. Make a clean break before you both get hurt."
Roy banged his hands on the table and launched
himself to his feet. He paused when John gazed up at him without
flinching.
"You can't beat on a woman like that," John said in a
level tone of voice. "No matter how scared you think they are, sooner or
later they crack. Keep it up and you're going to wake up some morning
with your dick in your hand and your hand nowhere near your crotch. Do
you catch my drift?"
Roy blanched at the thought. He turned away and beat
a hasty retreat, rebounding off the door jamb on the way through and all
but ripping the iron railing from its concrete mounting. He paused to
steady himself, sneezed a spray of blood over his protruding gut, and
meandered with as much dignity as he could muster back across the
properties.
"Wow," David murmured from the shadows of the doorway
to the living room. "You kicked his butt."
John looked around in surprise. "I thought I told
you to stay in your room."
"One hand tied behind your back," the ten-year-old
said with a prideful grin. "I wish I could punch Tony Doran and Steven
Farley like that."
"It's not the best way to go in life, son." John
shook his head in dismay. He'd never convince the boy. "I've never been
a good influence. Your mother was right about that."
"Nobody picks on you," David said petulantly.
John wanted to compare himself to the gunfighters of
the old west, most of whom died with a gunshot wound to the back. Maybe
some other time he'd give the analogy a try. "So," he said instead.
"Have we had enough of green flying saucers and drunken truck drivers?"
David failed to crack a smile. With a worried
expression, he turned away and returned to his room.
Joyce Blair appeared at his back door a few minutes
later. Livid red bruises had superimposed themselves over the older blue
ones. Her split lip continued to bleed profusely. She looked dazed, but she had traded
her earlier bikini for a blouse and slacks, both items of clothing torn and
stained with blood. She stank of Roy's alcohol and her own vomit.
"Did he pass out?" John said.
She shrugged. "Maybe somewhere between here and the
bars. He phoned for a buddy to pick him up along the way and just started
walking. He'll stay in town tonight, I think."
John rose to his feet. "I'll drive you to the
hospital."
She took a worried step back. "I'm not hurt that
bad. Roy won't pay the bill."
"You need a stitch or two in that lip. Do you want a
scar?"
She stared at him, helpless and brimming with
despair.
"You're that afraid of him?"
"John, he'll get me if I have him arrested. Even in
Portland. He'll have his friends do it for him."
John had no answer for her dilemma. "I can take care
of the lip, if you think you can sit still for it. I've got a med kit or
two sitting around."
She gave a distracted nod of acceptance. John
fetched a surplus military medical kit from the basement and guided her on
unsteady feet to the bathroom. Before he could stop her, she stripped off
her bloodied clothing and tossed it aside disdainfully, not as an act of
seduction, but as access to her injuries. She turned to him
trembling from head to foot like an injured child, lost in a fog of pain
and shock.
None of the bruises and
scratches on her body needed more than a dab of antiseptic. He handed her a bottle of mouthwash. "Gargle."
She did so and spit blood into the sink.
John sat on the toilet stool and pulled her down onto
his lap. Joyce stared straight ahead as he put the curved needle in the
cloth of his pants and threaded it. He dabbed at the wound with a
tissue and doused the needle in the mouthwash. She flinched once and
then held steady as he put one and then a second quick stitch to the cut
running down the outside of the corner of her lip. Tears fell as he
adroitly tied the knot with one hand and clipped the excess with skill
born of long battlefield experience.
John was surprised. "I didn't think you'd sit still
for that. Those will have to come out in a few days. Clip them with
scissors and use tweezers, one quick tug.”
He started the shower, then guided her into the
stall, holding her steady until the warm flow of water flushed away the
sheen of blood and sweat from her pale body. "Keep one thing in mind," he
told her when she stood dripping in front of the sink mirror, staring in
misery at her bruised and swollen face. "What happens tonight doesn't
constitute a bond between us. You need that safe house in Portland."
She nodded, but she turned and leaned her forehead
against his chest. Relenting to the need to console a genuine hurt, he
embraced her. Slowly, her trembling went away. "She loved you more than
anything," Joyce murmured through swollen lips. "She told me that a
hundred times. I was so jealous of her. Why can't I ever meet anyone
nice like you?"
John stared off into space immolated in the unseen
fire of his own personal hell.
