The Bleeding Edge by William W. Johnstone Page B

house.”
    â€œA home invasion?”
    â€œSomething like that, I expect.” Stark didn’t want to spread word of Antonio’s connection to the trouble until he knew what was going on. “I heard the commotion and stepped out to see what the trouble was.”
    â€œI already called 911, and I imagine plenty of other people did, too, when they heard that shooting. The deputies ought to be here pretty soon.”
    â€œWe’ll be glad to talk to them, but we don’t know much,” Fred said. “All I’m sure of is that those guys probably would have gotten in my house if John Howard hadn’t showed up to run them off.”
    Alton nodded and said, “I’m glad it wasn’t any worse than that. You want me to hang around and keep an eye out?”
    â€œNo, they took off in a hurry,” Stark said. “They won’t be back any time soon.”
    â€œI hope not.” Alton scrubbed a hand over his face. “It used to be so peaceful around here, and then suddenly it’s like . . .”
    â€œA war zone?” Stark suggested as Alton’s voice trailed off.
    â€œYeah. I didn’t want to say it, but . . . yeah.”
    Stark understood the feeling. He hoped he was wrong, but he had a hunch things were going to get worse before they got better.
    For the time being, though, he wanted some answers. Maybe Fred’s troubles weren’t any of his business, but he’d just been shot at, so he figured that gave him a few rights.
    â€œOkay,” Alton went on. “If you need my help, just give me a holler.”
    â€œSure,” Fred said. “Thanks.”
    He waited until Alton was gone, then continued, “Antonio’s not going to like it if I bring a stranger into this.”
    â€œAntonio and I aren’t strangers. We’ve met before.”
    â€œYeah, but he doesn’t really know you. And you’re white. I’m afraid my son and his wife, God rest their souls, raised him to be suspicious of anybody who isn’t Latino. I don’t know if he’ll open up with you around.”
    â€œLet’s give it a try,” Stark said.
    â€œAll right. Come on.” Fred smiled faintly. “After what you did, the least I can do to repay you is offer you a beer.”
    â€œAnd I’ll take it,” Stark told him with a smile of his own.
    They went up the steps and into the mobile home. Aurelia stood with her hands resting on the kitchen counter, looking scared.
    â€œAre they gone?” she asked.
    â€œLong gone,” Fred told her.
    â€œWhen you went charging out there with that gun like . . . like the Lone Ranger, I didn’t think I’d ever see you alive again.”
    â€œYou know better than that. Anyway, it was more like I was the Cisco Kid.”
    â€œDon’t joke!” Aurelia said. “This is serious business.”
    â€œIt is,” Fred agreed, growing solemn. “Where’s Antonio?”
    â€œHe’s in his old room. He wanted to go out the back door and run, but I begged him to stay and tell us what’s wrong.”
    â€œI hope he didn’t climb out the window,” Fred muttered as he led Stark along the hall toward the bedrooms. “When somebody gets scared enough, they don’t think straight. They do just the opposite of what they ought to.”
    Stark knew that was right. He hoped Antonio hadn’t fled into the night, too. They couldn’t help him if he had.
    Antonio was still there, standing in the darkened room. Enough light came in from the hallway that Stark could see the knife clutched in the young man’s hand.
    â€œIt’s just me, Antonio,” Fred said. “It’s all right. Those men are gone.”
    â€œThey’ll come back,” Antonio said, his voice drawn tight with strain. “Who’s that with you?”
    â€œIt’s John Howard Stark, Antonio,” Stark said. He kept the shotgun pointed at the floor.