Lawyer Trap by R. J. Jagger Page B

lived. Draven wasn’t sure yet whether he’d kill them, screw them up, or just leave them alone.
    Maybe he’d let Gretchen decide.
    â€œDo you want them dead or just messed up?” he asked.
    She pondered it.
    â€œDead,” she said. “I’ve pictured it in my mind a hundred times. I don’t know if that’s such a good idea, though.”
    Draven considered the pros and cons both ways.
    â€œIt probably isn’t,” he said. “At least not right off the bat. But if we don’t kill them, they can’t know you’re involved.”
    She exhaled and fidgeted in the seat.
    â€œI’m not afraid of them,” she said.
    â€œWell, you should be. Which one do you hate the most?”
    She answered immediately.
    â€œTwo Bits,” she said. “The guy you flushed.”
    â€œFine. We’ll start with him.”
    They parked down the street from Two-Bits’ crappy little rental house and drank Jack Daniels from Draven’s flask in the dark as they waited for the asshole to return home.
    Lightning crackled in the distance and then it rained.
    Gretchen ran her finger down the scar on Draven’s face.
    â€œSo how’d you get this?” she asked.
    He shrugged.
    â€œHell if I know,” he said.
    She kissed it.
    â€œI like it,” she said.
    He smiled.
    â€œGood, because I don’t think it’s going to wash off or anything.” He played with her hair. “What about you? You got any scars?”
    â€œI’m not telling,” she said. “You have to check for yourself.”
    â€œCareful,” he said. “I will.”
    She unbuttoned her blouse.
    â€œDo it then.”
    He laughed.
    â€œIt’s too dark,” he said. “I can’t see anything.”
    She took his hand and put it on her breast.
    â€œJust feel for them, then.”
    Not more than ten seconds later a headlight came down the street, jiggling and bobbing, unmistakably a motorcycle. Then the deep roar of the engine cut through the rain.
    â€œCompany,” Draven said.
    Draven waited until the asshole killed the engine and stepped off the bike. Then he walked out of the shadows and cut the jerk off before he reached the front door.
    â€œYou pissed all over my carpet,” Draven said. “That wasn’t very nice.”
    The biker tried to focus.
    Too drunk to place him.
    Then the confusion dropped off his face and he charged.
    Even in the rain he smelled like alcohol and smoke.
    Draven punched him in the face repeatedly until he fell to the ground. Then he straddled him and punched him another ten times, until his knuckles bled. The man withered under him, hardly able to even moan.
    â€œThis is your only warning,” Draven said. “Tell your friends too.”
    He was standing up when a figure appeared.
    Gretchen.
    Carrying a rock in her right hand, the size of a softball.
    She brought it down on the biker’s head as hard as she could.
    The guy’s skull cracked.
    Then he gurgled and stopped moving.
    â€œShit!” Draven said. “What are you doing?”
    Gretchen just stood there, frozen.
    He looked around.
    Then grabbed her by the arm and pulled her towards the car.
    â€œCome on!” he said.
    She dropped the rock.
    He stopped long enough to pick it up.
    Ten miles away, out in the sticks, he threw it out the window.

19
    DAY FOUR–SEPTEMBER 8
    THURSDAY MORNING
    T effinger got up at his usual time, before dawn, even though he had been up half the night at Marilyn Black’s bedside and the other half of the night fishing a head out of the gravesite down by the railroad spur.
    Coffee.
    He needed coffee.
    Lots and lots of coffee.
    He also needed a jog in the worst way but was too tired. So instead he showered, popped in his contacts, and ate a bowl of cereal in the Tundra as he drove to work. Being the first one there, as usual, he fired up the coffee machine and then headed over to his desk to see what