Before The Killing Starts (Dixie Killer Blues Book 1) (19 page)

Chapter 39

Earl Munroe sat in his
pickup and picked his nose absently. Country music played softly on the radio.
He listened to Willie Nelson singing
On the Road Again
while he
inspected the contents of his nose on his fingernail and tried to calm down. If
it was up to him, Willie'd be in the White House and the country would be a
better place all round. Hell, he sure couldn't do a worse job than the peanut
farmers and second-rate movie actors and all the rest of them. He wiped a large
booger carefully on his pants and slammed the heel of his hand into the dash.
He thought about what had just happened in the bar. At times like this his
tongue—what was left of it—felt like it was on fire as his teeth gnashed uselessly
against each other inside his cheek.

He knew a gook-loving,
commie faggot when he saw one. Hell, the pussy was even drinking
Coca Cola
.
He wouldn't have been surprised if he'd had one of those bendy straws or maybe
a cocktail umbrella in it. Cocked his pinkie while he
sipped
it too.
Earl wasn't the sharpest knife in the drawer but even he knew it rotted your
teeth. And that wasn't all. They'd thrown him out after just the one beer. He
always
got two free beers before they gave him the bum's rush. Was it his fault they
let a cock-sucking commie faggot into the place? What did they expect him to
do? Pretend the guy wasn't there? Act like there's nothing wrong? Give him a
big kiss?

He twisted his left arm
and pulled the fabric of his sleeve taut so he could look at the latest patch
he'd sewn on. He would have been happier if it had been a little straighter and
more in line with the others, but
hey-ho
. His momma had been much better
at it than he was before she passed away, but then she would be, sewing being a
woman's job an' all. His fingers were way too big and shook too much. They
didn't used to shake. Besides, it wasn't so bad and it was the sentiment that
mattered:
Don't let the gray hair fool you; we can still kick ass.

He settled back in the
seat and let the music wash over him while he waited for the commie faggot and
his faggoty friend to come out. Jesus Christ, you couldn't get away from them
these days. Anyone would think he'd moved to San
Fag
-cisco. Things had
been different when he was young, that was for sure. They knew how to deal with
them back then. On top of which, the guy now owed him a beer. He didn't look
like the kind of guy who paid his dues either.

He leaned across and
opened the glove compartment, checked to make sure his Colt M1911 was still in
there. There was more than one way of paying your dues.

Chapter 40

The young woman with the
long, dark hair paused with her key halfway into the lock of number
twenty-three. At first she ignored the name being called behind her. She was
tall and attractive with the sort of figure that made other women—the ugly, fat
ones mainly—want to spit in her face. She had a good bust with maybe a little
too much meat on her thighs and well-rounded ass, but it was all in proportion
and she was used to men calling out to her in the street. But then she laughed
to herself. Even now she sometimes forgot to respond to her new name—Christ,
she still hadn’t got round to changing all her documents.
Where did the time
go?
She turned round at the sound of the name being called a second time.

'Yes?' she said as a
large brown fist crashed into the side of her jaw.

Her head snapped
sideways and her legs crumpled. Strong hands caught her under her armpits and
held her up. The key was still in the lock. The guy who'd hit her reached
across and opened the door and the one holding her hustled her inside. The
first one followed them in and shut the door behind them.

The guy holding her
dragged her down the hallway to the kitchen. If she hadn't still been dizzy
from the punch she might have thought:
it's always the kitchen.

But it made sense (if
you were a psychopath). Lots of good stuff in there—knives, hot plates, boiling
water, Drano, you name it.

The guy holding her let
go of her and she stood looking at them, gently swaying. She put a hand up to
her jaw.
Ow!
Why do people do that? It hurt when she touched it just
like she knew it would. Her whole face throbbed, her teeth felt like they'd been
knocked loose.

The two guys let her get
herself together for a moment. They both looked Mexican, although neither of
them looked particularly nasty. Not the sort of men to make you cross the
street if you saw them coming towards you on the sidewalk. Appearances could be
deceptive, obviously. She didn't know how they'd managed to creep up on her.
Probably because her mind had been on other things.

'You've got just one
chance here, Rachel,' the guy who'd hit her said, pinching her cheek between
his thumb and forefinger.

She nodded dumbly. She
didn't know what the hell was going on. But she did, deep inside. Ever since
Ellie had asked the
favor
as she called it. If she was honest, she'd
almost been expecting something to happen.

'You've got something
you're holding for your friend Ellie. She probably forgot to tell you, but it
doesn't belong to her.' His voice had a patronizing tone, as if he was talking
to a small child or a puppy. 'It belongs to us and we'd like it back.' He
smiled at her. 'Right NOW,' he screamed into her face, his breath smelling of
eggs.

She jumped backwards and
banged into the kitchen table.

'I don't . . .'

Those weren't the words
he was looking for. No sentence that he wanted to hear started with those
words.

He didn't give her a
chance to finish whatever pathetic denial she was about to come out with. He
raised his arm and backhanded her across the face sending her sprawling to the
floor. She lay on the cold tiles, quietly moaning, not daring to move. The cold
felt good against the hot stinging pain that was burning up the side of her
face, consuming her whole head. He kicked her—only gently really—in the ribs
with the pointy toe of his boot. More to get her attention than hurt her.

Did he think she
might forget he was there?

She gasped and scrambled
into a sitting position, shuffling away from him on her ass, her skirt catching
and riding up over her athletic thighs. He followed her across the room, keeping
his groin inches from her face, a faint smell of stale urine and cigarettes lingering
on his faded jeans.

'Wrong answer,
chula
.'

He crouched down in
front of her; the toe of his boot pressed hard up against the gusset of her
panties, and grabbed her by the throat. He started to squeeze, broken
fingernails sharp on the soft skin. She couldn't breath. She got both her hands
on his wrist and tried to prise his hand away. He dug his fingers deeper into
the side of her neck, shutting off the blood flow.

She tried to say
something but his grip was too tight; it just came out as a strangled cry in
the back of her throat. She tried shaking her head from side to side but he
grabbed a big handful of hair on the top of her head, wound his fingers into it
and held her still.

'You know something,' he
said and laughed. 'I'm a lying son of a bitch. I said you only get one chance,
but I'm gonna give you one more.' He let go her hair and held up his index
finger and wagged it in front of her face. She followed it with her eyes and
wondered idly how he managed to get so much dirt under his fingernails, the
bizarre thought coming from nowhere. 'But this really is the last chance.
Understand?'

She stared at him,
unsure if she was expected to answer. He cocked his head like he wanted one and
when it didn’t happen he grabbed her hair again and nodded her head up and down
for her, each downward push choking her harder against the hand crushing her
neck.

Up, down, choke; up,
down, choke . . .

Behind them she could
hear the other guy going through the kitchen drawers. The choker smiled his
cold smile at her again and prodded the toe of his boot into her, like he was
trying to polish it.

'It sounds like José is
looking for something in there, doesn't it?' He laughed in a way that turned
her stomach more than the feel of his boot did. 'In the drawer I mean, not in
there,
'
he said, working his toe further in between her legs.

'She's got some
expensive knives,' José said with real appreciation in his voice. 'Some of
those Japanese ones they use for Sushi.'

The guy holding her
nodded, his eyes never leaving hers. 'I know the ones you mean. You can do
really thin slices with them.'

'That's the ones. I
think it's called a Yan-something.'

'A Yan-
something
?
Strange name for a knife.'

José shrugged. 'Slopes
are strange,' he said as if that explained it all.

'You know, I don't think
we're going to need them,' the guy holding her said. 'Are we?' He released his
grip very slightly on her throat.

She shook her head
violently from side to side. He seemed satisfied. He let go of her hair and
dropped his hand from her throat. He stood up, his knee joints clicking, and
stepped away. The pair of them waited while she coughed and spluttered as she
drew air back into her screaming lungs. She looked up at them. The one called
José was still holding one of the knives. She recognized it instantly. It was
called a
Yanagiba
, the most popular knife used in Sushi restaurants the
world over. As they'd said—very sharp, very good for thin slices.

'You didn't give me a
chance,' she said, her voice cracking. 'I was going to say
I don't have it
here
.'

The two guys looked at
each other.

'You are so impatient,'
José said and jabbed the other guy in the arm with his finger. He grinned. 'Why
didn't you give the lady a chance to finish? You just wanted to shine your boot
with some of those
lurve
juices, you pervert. Look at all the time
you've wasted.'

The other guy shrugged.
'Shit happens.' He looked down at his boots. 'Didn't even get a good shine,
either.'

They both started
laughing. She looked from one to the other. They were completely insane.

'Okay, enough fooling
around,' the first guy whose name she still didn't know said. 'Where is it?'

'I wasn't happy with it
in the house so I moved it.'

They both nodded to let
her know they were with her so far.

'It's in a storage unit
I've got. I had too much furniture when I moved here but I didn't want to throw
it out . . .'

The first guy held up a
hand to stop her. 'Okay, okay, we get the picture. Just tell us where it is.'

She gave them the
address and José wrote it down on a piece of paper.

'Now all we need is the
key.'

She nodded. 'It's
upstairs. I'll get it.'

The two guys looked at
each other as if to say:
can you believe this joker?

'Nice try,' the first
guy said. 'Go with her José.'

She led the way upstairs
and José followed her. She wasn't even surprised when he goosed her on the way
up. They went into her bedroom. She kept the key in the nightstand drawer.
There was something else in there as well—her Kel-Tec P-32. She'd bought it two
years previously when her neighbor's husband had been shot during a home
invasion. She'd gone to the gun store the next day. The guy had recommended the
P-32 because of its light weight, small grip size and light trigger pull. She'd
spent a few hours at the range and then it had sat in the drawer ever since.
She knew the seven round capacity magazine was full.

She could come clean and
tell him it was in there. Let him open the drawer and take the key and the gun.
That would be the sensible thing to do. It would demonstrate a huge amount of
cooperation and that had to increase the chances that they left her alone and
didn't hurt her. Didn't it? Hurt her any more, that was. Or any more seriously.

But could she trust
them? Were they totally focussed on the money and that was all? Or were they
garden variety psychopaths who wanted to have a bit of fun as well. Fun, as in
torturing her just for the sake of it. The guy right behind her now, the one
whose eyes she could feel on her ass, had seemed very taken with her sushi
knives. Maybe he was a knife aficionado. Perhaps he prepared sushi on a regular
basis and had never been able to afford quality knives. He might want to try
them out—and not just on a piece of raw tuna. She could hear them laughing and
joking:
Hey José, try out that knife on the bearded clam; slice it up nice
and thin so we all get a bite
.

It was a hell of a
gamble. But so was the other alternative. To grab the gun and shoot the guy.
Then what? The guy downstairs was sure to have a gun as well. He certainly had
more experience using one than she did. But he'd have to come up the stairs to
get her and that would give her the advantage. She could phone the police from
the bedroom.

Then there was the
money. Ellie had told her she would pay her for looking after it. How much more
grateful would she be if she stopped the guys she'd stolen it from (it was
obvious that's what had happened) from taking it back? A hundred grand
grateful? Two hundred grand? Call it a round quarter million for all the
aggravation?

She had to make up her
mind in the next couple of seconds. God, how she hated Ellie for putting her
through this. She deserved to lose the money. Psychopaths or not? A quarter of
a million dollars? Her whole head hurt. Really hurt. She couldn't think
straight. Was she even only thinking about it because of the blows to the head?
They hurt, you bastard. And her throat. She was sure he'd crushed something
important, some of the little bones in there. It hurt to swallow. How dare you
attack me?
In my own home
. Bastards.

'It's in the
nightstand,' she said.

Big mistake. Should
have kept your mouth shut.

The guy wasn't stupid.
He probably knew that more than a third of all Americans admit to owning a gun.
Estimates said there were roughly three hundred million guns in the
country—almost one for every man, woman and child. And how many of those were
sitting quietly in bedroom nightstands waiting for nocturnal intruders?
Millions of them. Millions and millions.

She was aware of him
moving up on her fast. She lunged for the drawer handle and yanked the whole
thing out and onto the floor. He was almost on top of her. She dropped to her
knees. It made her exactly level with his crotch. She punched him in the balls,
giving it everything she'd got and grabbed the gun with her left hand.

It wasn't a good punch.
In fact it was a pathetic punch, even for a woman. He grunted, but more in
surprise than in pain. He certainly didn't double over and roll around the
floor moaning. But it gave her time to get hold of the gun. Only in her left
hand though. She was right-handed. She didn't have time to swap hands or even
aim properly. She swung her arm towards him and pulled the trigger blindly. The
noise was deafening in the small room. He let out a sharp cry and looked down
at his left arm. She'd caught him in the fleshy part of his upper arm.

She stared, almost in a
daze, at the blood soaking into his jacket sleeve, not really knowing what to
do next.

Like pull the trigger
again, you dumb bitch
.

It was all the time he
needed. He lashed out with his foot and caught her solidly on the left shoulder.
She gasped and dropped the gun as her arm went numb. The gun bounced once on
the floor and landed by his feet. He bent and picked it up and stepped away as
the other guy appeared in the doorway.