about?”
“How
the hell do I know this ain’t exactly the break you’re looking for? Maybe
you’ve grown tired of life with the ol’ ball and chain, and you see this here
scenario as the perfect opportunity to kill two birds with one stone. So to
speak.”
“No,”
Luke protested weakly. “I love my wife; I’d never do anything to put her in
danger.”
“You
mean like letting her enter a sealed room with a man who just murdered a friend
of yours? Like that?”
Luke’s
face flushed red and he balled his hands into fists. He cocked his arm and
froze as the stranger lifted his Colt and placed the barrel between Luke’s
eyes.
“That’ll
be enough of that,” the man whispered. “Anyway, like I said: I think you won’t do anything stupid, but
I need to know you won’t do anything
stupid.”
“How
can I prove it to you?” Luke asked beseechingly.
The
stranger smiled. “Luckily for you, you don’t have to.” He pulled the gun away
from Luke’s face, drawing his arm out to the side. Then he pivoted his wrist
and whipped his hand forward, clubbing the butt of the .38 against Luke’s head,
just behind his ear.
Luke
heard a sound like a thunderclap and a bright light exploded behind his
eyeballs. Then everything went dark.
8
Jackson Healy was an expert at
inflicting deadly violence. Killing the deliveryman who had been foolish enough
to try sneaking up on him outside the Paskagankee Tavern was only the latest in
a long line of murders he had committed, a string that had begun when he was
just twelve years old on the Texas prairie.
But
inflicting non -lethal violence was a
different story. It turned out that injuring someone without putting him six
feet under was complicated. He had succeeded in hitting the tavern owner hard
enough to knock him out, as evidenced by the man dropping to the floor like an
empty whiskey bottle.
The
question was, had he killed him? Jackson hoped not, because he needed the guy
alive and at least functioning well enough to open the hidden basement door
after the Krupp brothers had given up looking for him and moved on.
From
the darkness of the corridor behind him, he heard a gasp of shock from the
man’s wife as her husband hit the floor. She rushed forward to tend to his
injuries, and Jackson pivoted and thrust his weapon in the woman’s direction,
not planning to shoot her, but assuming the sight of the Colt would be enough
to frighten her into reconsidering her actions.
It was.
The woman skidded to a stop. “Please,” she said, “please let me make sure he’s
alright.”
“I’ll
just handle that for you,” he said politely. “I’d hate to be considered
ungentlemanly, especially considering how kindly I’ve been treated by the two
of you.” Before he turned, he added, “And don’t even consider trying anything
stupid, or the first person I shoot will be your husband. He ain’t conscious,
so I’m not likely to miss.”
The
woman moaned, the sound high-pitched and squeaky, like what might come out of a
dying mouse. “You understand me?” Jackson said, and she nodded weakly.
He
turned and knelt next to the unmoving man. The side of the tavern owner’s head
had begun swelling and blood oozed out of an ugly gash. It flowed out from
under his hairline and dripped in roughly equal proportion under the collar of
his shirt and onto the floor.
Jackson
didn’t care about blood or where it was falling. His only concern was that he
hadn’t accidentally killed the man. He took a quick look into the passageway to
make sure the little woman wasn’t considering doing something
foolhardy—she wasn’t, luckily for her—and then he eased his head
down onto the unconscious man’s chest and listened for a heartbeat.
It was
strong and steady.
Then he
felt for a pulse.
Strong
as well.
The man
would be fine. His brains had been scrambled a bit, but he would awaken in a
little while, and when he did, he would find he was suffering from one hell
“How
the hell do I know this ain’t exactly the break you’re looking for? Maybe
you’ve grown tired of life with the ol’ ball and chain, and you see this here
scenario as the perfect opportunity to kill two birds with one stone. So to
speak.”
“No,”
Luke protested weakly. “I love my wife; I’d never do anything to put her in
danger.”
“You
mean like letting her enter a sealed room with a man who just murdered a friend
of yours? Like that?”
Luke’s
face flushed red and he balled his hands into fists. He cocked his arm and
froze as the stranger lifted his Colt and placed the barrel between Luke’s
eyes.
“That’ll
be enough of that,” the man whispered. “Anyway, like I said: I think you won’t do anything stupid, but
I need to know you won’t do anything
stupid.”
“How
can I prove it to you?” Luke asked beseechingly.
The
stranger smiled. “Luckily for you, you don’t have to.” He pulled the gun away
from Luke’s face, drawing his arm out to the side. Then he pivoted his wrist
and whipped his hand forward, clubbing the butt of the .38 against Luke’s head,
just behind his ear.
Luke
heard a sound like a thunderclap and a bright light exploded behind his
eyeballs. Then everything went dark.
8
Jackson Healy was an expert at
inflicting deadly violence. Killing the deliveryman who had been foolish enough
to try sneaking up on him outside the Paskagankee Tavern was only the latest in
a long line of murders he had committed, a string that had begun when he was
just twelve years old on the Texas prairie.
But
inflicting non -lethal violence was a
different story. It turned out that injuring someone without putting him six
feet under was complicated. He had succeeded in hitting the tavern owner hard
enough to knock him out, as evidenced by the man dropping to the floor like an
empty whiskey bottle.
The
question was, had he killed him? Jackson hoped not, because he needed the guy
alive and at least functioning well enough to open the hidden basement door
after the Krupp brothers had given up looking for him and moved on.
From
the darkness of the corridor behind him, he heard a gasp of shock from the
man’s wife as her husband hit the floor. She rushed forward to tend to his
injuries, and Jackson pivoted and thrust his weapon in the woman’s direction,
not planning to shoot her, but assuming the sight of the Colt would be enough
to frighten her into reconsidering her actions.
It was.
The woman skidded to a stop. “Please,” she said, “please let me make sure he’s
alright.”
“I’ll
just handle that for you,” he said politely. “I’d hate to be considered
ungentlemanly, especially considering how kindly I’ve been treated by the two
of you.” Before he turned, he added, “And don’t even consider trying anything
stupid, or the first person I shoot will be your husband. He ain’t conscious,
so I’m not likely to miss.”
The
woman moaned, the sound high-pitched and squeaky, like what might come out of a
dying mouse. “You understand me?” Jackson said, and she nodded weakly.
He
turned and knelt next to the unmoving man. The side of the tavern owner’s head
had begun swelling and blood oozed out of an ugly gash. It flowed out from
under his hairline and dripped in roughly equal proportion under the collar of
his shirt and onto the floor.
Jackson
didn’t care about blood or where it was falling. His only concern was that he
hadn’t accidentally killed the man. He took a quick look into the passageway to
make sure the little woman wasn’t considering doing something
foolhardy—she wasn’t, luckily for her—and then he eased his head
down onto the unconscious man’s chest and listened for a heartbeat.
It was
strong and steady.
Then he
felt for a pulse.
Strong
as well.
The man
would be fine. His brains had been scrambled a bit, but he would awaken in a
little while, and when he did, he would find he was suffering from one hell
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