Extreme Justice (38 page)

Ben’s blood chilled as he heard the report of a gun. It was above him, to the left. It seemed Armstrong had returned to the same high perch where this elaborate cat-and-mouse game had begun.

“I told you if you didn’t come alone everyone would die, Kincaid, and I’m a man of my word.”

Ice cold shivers ran down Ben’s spine.

“Don’t worry. He’s not dead yet, though I banged him up pretty good dragging him up those stairs. I like to take my time. You could still help him.”

Ben crawled out into the open. “What do you want?” he shouted.

“You know what I want,” Armstrong answered. “Come to me. Come to me, or I empty my gun in this stupid policeman’s head!”

Ben walked to the bottom of the ladder. He didn’t know what to do. His brain was racing through all the options and potential outcomes. He couldn’t just sit in hiding and let this madman execute Mike, or let Tyrone bleed to death. At the same time, if he did show himself, Armstrong was certain to kill him. And in all likelihood, everyone else. This man had killed so many times, so wantonly—Ben knew he would only keep the others alive as long as he needed them to get the penknife.

It was a no-win situation, however it played out. But he couldn’t run away, couldn’t just leave Mike and Tyrone in this man’s clutches.

Slowly, grimly, he placed his hands on the ladder and began to climb.

A few moments later, he arrived at the top. He crossed the catwalk deliberately, trying to remain alert, ready for anything. He was barely halfway across when he saw Armstrong waiting for him, gun posed directly at Ben’s head.

“Keep walking,” Armstrong growled. His voice was hoarse and his gun hand wavered. Ben sensed that he was dealing with a man who was dangerously close to the end of his rope. The chase had gone on too long and he was tired of it.

But, he also thought, it was possible he could use that to his advantage.

“Step off the catwalk.” Ben did as he was bidden, stopping when he was barely a foot away. The instant he arrived, Armstrong reached forward with his gun hand and clubbed Ben on the side of the face.

Ben tried to roll with it, but it still stung. The hard metal of the gun cut his cheekbone; he could feel blood trickling forth.

“You’ve given me about all the trouble I can stand,” Armstrong growled. “I’m going to enjoy seeing you die.”

Ben scanned the surroundings. He saw Mike lying prone beside them. He appeared to be unconscious, but as far as Ben could tell he wasn’t bleeding or wounded. That gunshot must have been into the air. Just for drama’s sake.

He saw Tyrone, too, still lying in a hideous heap a few feet behind. He looked even worse than before.

“I’ll take the penknife now,” Armstrong said, spitting as he talked. “And no more small change, please.”

Ben cleared his throat and swallowed. “I … don’t have it,” he said.

Armstrong’s eyes narrowed to tiny glowing slits. “You didn’t bring it?”

“Right. And only I know where it is.”

“But you said—”

Ben pursed his lips together. “I bluffed.”

Armstrong’s entire body shook. “But you—you—” He swung his gun hand around again, this time even harder than before. It hit Ben’s face with a crack. Ben cried out; he couldn’t help himself.

Armstrong glanced back at Tyrone, then at Ben. His eyes glowed with rage. “Goddamn you!” The arm swung around again. Ben tried to duck, but he was too late. The metal fist hit him in the jaw, knocking him back onto the catwalk.

“I want the penknife!” Armstrong was spitting, screaming. He seemed to have lost all semblance of sanity. “Do you
hear
me? I want the fucking penknife!”

“I don’t have it,” Ben whispered.

Armstrong began moving wildly about, flinging his arms around. He fired a shot into the air. He grabbed Ben by his shirt, shaking him brutally.

Ben cast a wary eye on either side of him. Here, beneath the railing, it would be a simple thing to fall off the catwalk. And it was a long way to the ground.

“Don’t think this helps you. Don’t think you’ll get away with this. I’m going to kill you and all your friends. And I’m going to enjoy it. And then I’m going to go to your office, tear the place apart, find the knife, and kill everyone there. And anyone else who gets in my way.”

Ben bit down on his lower lip. The gun was in Armstrong’s hand, pressed against Ben’s forehead. He couldn’t allow this to happen, couldn’t let this maniac slaughter all his friends, his coworkers.

Armstrong’s eyes burned down into Ben’s. “And I’m going to start with you!” Before Ben could react, Armstrong lifted him into the air by his shirt collar and tossed him backwards. Ben skittered across the catwalk, coming dangerously close to the edge. He clutched at the guardrail, trying to keep himself from falling.

“What’s the matter, Kincaid? Scared of heights?” Ben saw the shadow before he knew what was happening, then saw the swift boot impact on his stomach. He bent over, spitting blood, clutching his stomach.

“Move your hands,” Armstrong grunted. “Move ’em or lose ’em.” The boot thudded down into Ben’s gut. All of a sudden, the world around Ben seemed to turn a brilliant white. He felt something crack inside—a rib? He couldn’t be sure, but whatever it was, it burned like fire inside him.

Ben tried to scramble away. It was a mistake; he was woozy on his feet, could barely keep any sense of equilibrium. He saw the ground beneath him wobbling, rushing up to him …

“Sayonara, Kincaid.”

In the nanosecond that he saw Armstrong rushing toward him, his brain flashed on a thousand images, a million memories. He saw his father, his mother, his sister. And Ellen. He saw Christina and Mike, telling him he needed to learn to defend himself. He saw Sensai Papadopoulos, trying to teach him the simplest maneuver. Trying to teach him …

Armstrong came at him at full speed, arms extended. Just before impact, Ben ducked and spun around, showing Armstrong his back. Armstrong’s arms flew over his head; Ben grabbed them and flipped with all his might.

And it worked. For once, it actually worked. Armstrong flew over Ben, thrust forward by the speed of his own momentum. He skittered down the catwalk, careening dangerously toward the precipice. He almost spilled over the edge; at the last minute, he dropped his gun and used that hand to grab the guardrail. The gun fell silently down, down, to the ground far below.

Ben saw his opportunity and bolted. He lurched toward the other end of the catwalk, back toward Mike and Tyrone. Every step hurt; now both of his ankles were complaining. He ignored them. He had to keep going. He had to move forward.

He had almost made it to the end of the catwalk when he felt strong hands clamp down on his shoulders. “I don’t need a gun to take care of you.”

Armstrong grabbed Ben by the collar and slung him back against the guardrail. Ben came down hard on his sore ankle and screamed out as the pain rippled through his aching body. He felt himself wobbling, losing his footing.

Armstrong brought his fist around and smacked Ben hard in the face—right on the nose still damaged from their last encounter. Ben knew he was losing consciousness. He knew he was about to pass out, and that as soon as he did, he couldn’t possibly keep himself from tumbling off the catwalk.

Ben saw the fist coming around again. He tried to push away, but he was trapped, pinned against the guardrail with nowhere to go but down. He closed his eyes.

The fist thudded into his face. His head exploded, leaving him all but senseless. He could feel unconsciousness creeping up on him like a dark shroud. He knew the next blow would knock his feet right out from under him. After that, it would only take a gentle push.

“Rest in hell, Kincaid,” Armstrong growled. Ben felt more than saw the fist rearing back, getting into position for the final death blow …

“
Freeze, you bastard!
”

Armstrong’s arm stopped in midflight.

Ben recognized the voice, even if he couldn’t make out the speaker. It was Earl.
Earl!

“I got a gun, sucker!”

Ben felt the impact of heavy footsteps crossing the catwalk. He pried his eyelids open.

Earl crossed the catwalk, a gun aimed directly at Armstrong’s head. “I’ll blow you to kingdom come if you so much as move. Get your hands up! Move away from Ben!”

Armstrong took a step back, obeying.

“Now get off the goddamn catwalk!”

Armstrong walked away, slowly, eyes to the front.

Earl caught up to Ben. “How you doin’, Ben?”

Ben gripped the guardrail. “Tryin’ to hold together,” he gasped. “Tyrone and Mike need help.”

“Looks to me like you could use some yourself. Let’s—”

His voice disappeared. When it returned, it was barely a whisper. “Oh, my God. Oh, Jesus in heaven!”

“What?” Ben saw Earl moving off the catwalk, gun aimed ahead, moving toward Armstrong. “What is it?”

“I just now saw this son of a bitch’s face. Do you know who this is?” He grabbed the man and shook him by the lapel of his coat. “
Do you know who this is?
”

“It’s … Grady Armstrong. Professor Hoodoo’s brother.”

“Brother, my ass. This
is
Professor Hoodoo!” Earl shoved him down to the ground; his head banged against the metallic surface. “He’s
alive!
”

“
What
?” Ben tried to stay conscious long enough to understand.

Earl cocked the gun and pressed it flat against the man’s temple. “Talk, sucker. And you’d better make it good.”

Armstrong smiled bitterly. “I believe I’ll decline.”

“I said talk!”

“Go fuck yourself.”

“I said,
talk
!” Earl pounded his face, once, twice, then again for good measure. “If you want anything to be left of your face come morning, talk! Who died in your apartment? Who burned in the fire?”

The man on the receiving end of the gun licked his swollen, bleeding lips. “That was my brother. The real Grady. We always resembled one another. Certainly enough to fool people after the body was burned. So I fixed things up so it looked like I died and you did it. Added a grisly little touch with my knife, just to make sure you got the maximum sentence, and as a tribute to my goddamn good-for-nothing daddy. And then I went to Grady’s lonely outpost in Montana and became him. It was easy; he went years without seeing anyone. Then I switched jobs, joined Buxley—as Grady Armstrong—and no one was the wiser.”

Earl stared at him, gaping. “But why?”

He shrugged. “Grady and I had a disagreement. The tiny matter of our daddy’s money. Grady got it. I didn’t. Even killing him wouldn’t get me what I wanted. But becoming him would. So that’s what I did.” He paused. “And once I’d decided to become Grady, Professor Hoodoo had to disappear.”

“I don’t care about that.” Earl lifted the man up and shook him, slamming his head back. “Why’d you do this to me? Why’d you do it to
me
?”

A sneer crossed Armstrong’s face. “You were never anything but trash, Earl. Bad gumbo scum-of-the-earth trash. You stole my woman. And worse, you stole my music. Said you were tryin’ to preserve it. Bastardize it was more like it. After Lily, my music was the only thing I had, the only thing that mattered. And you stole it, just like you stole Lily. So I took care of you. I fixed you up even worse than killing you would.”

“Twenty-two years,” Earl whispered. “I did twenty-two years. And you weren’t even dead!”

“During those twenty-two years, I forgot music, hid myself in Grady’s humdrum life. Quit the clubs, the drink, the junk. Tried to become someone I wasn’t, someone I’d never been before. I finally found some peace. I thought I was over hating you—till I heard you’d gotten out, started over, and opened a club—trading on your puny stolen reputation. The hate started boilin’ up inside me all over again. I couldn’t stand the thought of you on the outside, enjoying life. So I began making arrangements to put you back behind bars. Back where you belonged, in a life worse than death.”

“Twenty-two years,” Earl murmured. “Twenty-two years of my life gone—forever. I lost everything—my friends, my career—and my music.
My
music!” His hands shook with rage. “You deserve to die.”

“Earl, don’t!” Ben cried, gathering all the strength he could muster. “Don’t become the murderer he’s tried to make people think you are.”

“He deserves to die,” Earl repeated.

“Don’t do it!” Ben shouted. “You’ll spend the rest of your life in prison!”

“I don’t think so,” Earl said. His voice had a chilling quality. “You explained it to me yourself, Ben. A man can’t be tried twice for the same crime. I’ve already been convicted for the murder of George Armstrong. I’ve done my time. Double jeopardy has … what’s the word?—attached! There ain’t a damn thing they can do to me now.” He cocked the gun.

“Don’t do it!” Ben shouted, but it was too late. The gun fired at pointblank range, and Professor Hoodoo’s head exploded right before Ben’s eyes.

“
No!
” Ben shouted. He tried to push himself to his feet, but the moment he tried, all the pain and dizziness rushed back to the surface. The world began to swim around him, floating in elastic ripples, like a movie shot with a trick focus. He planted his feet, but his weight came down on the sore ankle and suddenly there was nothing between him and the ground. He was a bird, except this bird only flew in one direction: down. He sensed his body leaving the catwalk, tumbling under the guardrail, almost as if he wasn’t inside it anymore. He saw the ground rushing toward him.

It was the last thing he saw before, mercifully, the dark shroud wrapped him in its cold cold embrace.

H
E HEARD SOMEONE
singing:

Quand il me prend dans ses bras,

II me parle tout bas

Je vois la vie en rose …

It was French, so it must be Christina. He might have known.

“Ben, can you hear me? It’s Mike.”

Ben sensed the discomfort in the voice, the tension.

“I don’t know if you’re getting this, Ben, but the doctors said we should talk to you, so here goes. Hoodoo’s dead. George Armstrong. Whatever you want to call him. He’s history. Dust in the wind.”