Blood Brothers (31 page)

That, however, would not be Mike’s crowning
achievement in this confrontation. He ascended a step, bringing him
back onto the landing. Blood poured from his nose and tears blurred
his eyes, but still he held fast to Craig’s shirt.

Then he released his grip. With perfect
timing, Michael crashed his right elbow into the poet’s nose and
delivered a stout left into the side of his neck.

Now, the football player really was down for
the count.

Michael turned and continued on down the
stairs.

At the foot of the stairs Jerry stood,
Beverly with her hands around her man’s waist, but her eyes were on
Mike.

Jerry nodded his head to the side and Michael
looked in that direction.

Veronica was standing beside Jerry with a wad
of paper towels and quickly brought them to his nose. Despite the
pain that the pressure brought, Michael was happy. On her face,
Michael saw genuine concern.

Tonight, Michael had slain the Giant. And
everyone had seen it.

And things were just going to get better.

Now

He was driving a bit too fast. Okay, okay, he
was driving way too fast. He didn’t even realize he was breaking
the speed limit until he saw the flashing lights in his rearview.
Looking down at the speedometer, he saw the needle was pegged.
Slowing, Michael pulled the Porsche over and killed the engine.

The Benedict PD patrol car pulled in behind
him and the door opened. Slowly, the cop came into view. A rap
sounded on the Porsche’s window and Michael quickly let it
down.

“Mr. Cole?” the cop asked.

Michael looked at the officer, trying to
place the man’s face. He was a young man, probably early twenties
with dirty blonde hair, a square chin, and a generally cherubic
look about him. It was Timmy or Jimmy something or other.

“Yes.”

“In a big hurry today, sir?”

“A little bit, officer…”

“Kuhlmeir, sir. Tim Kuhlmeir.”

“That’s right. Your folks run the Western
Auto.”

“That’s right,” Kuhlmeir beamed. The family
business must have been a point of pride for the young man. “That’s
right, Mr. Cole. I still work there part-time to help out.”

“That’s wonderful, son. I’m sorry about the
speeding. Just give me a ticket and I’ll be on my way.”

“Yes, sir. By the way, sorry to hear about
what happened today.”

That caught Michael off-guard. What was the
kid talking about? How could he know, already? “What?”

“At…your office…the woman. Very sad.”

“Yes, yes it was. A tragedy.”

“You know, Carrie was quite a woman.”

“Did you know her?”

“You could say that, Mr. Cole. You could say
that.”

Something was starting to feel really wrong
about all this. Glancing away from the police officer, Michael
looked straight down the road. He saw that he was a good half mile
from the Benedict city limits. It wasn’t all that unheard of for
the city boys to patrol outside of town, helped keep the boredom at
bay. But right now, Michael felt like it was more than a mere
coincidence.

The kid was saying something. “Huh?” Michael
asked.

“Mr. Cole could you step out of the car for a
minute?”

“What’s the problem, Tim?”

“Just step out, sir. I need to check
something.” Michael saw the kid’s hand ease back to his gun. His
mind screamed for him to run, to go! This time he listened.

Firing the car up, he peeled off the shoulder
just as Tim pulled the service revolver from his holster. A bullet
took out the back glass, and the sound of the shattering glass
and—

The knock sounded at the door and Michael
jerked his head up. A cop stood there, waiting. Taking a moment to
shake off his confusion, Michael let down the window.

“Excuse me, sir. Do you have any idea how
fast you were going?” Michael was stunned. Either this was one bad
case of déjà vu or the last few moments had all been a
hallucination. Was he stressed that badly?

“Uh…” The police officer bent down. It was a
deputy, Michael could tell from the color of the uniform. “No, sir,
I don’t know how fast I was going. Was I speeding?” Michael’s mouth
seemed to be on autopilot.

“Cole, Michael Cole, is that you?” Michael
looked at the officer. This officer was not Tim Kuhlmeir but an
older officer. A man just about Cole’s age. Cliff Echols. Another
face from the past. One he hadn’t thought of in a very long
time.

“Cliff Echols?”

“That’s right, Mike…I…uh…mean Mr. Cole. Been
a while, hasn’t it?”

“Yes. I suppose it has. I’d forgotten you
worked for the county.”

“Well, you know how it is, eh. Working for a
retirement.”

“Yeah.” Despite this man from his past, the
memory of Policeman Timmy gunning at him wasn’t easy to
dislodge.

“Hey, I heard about what happened, down at
your office. Man, that had to be rough.”

“It was,” Michael said simply.

“If I knew it was you in this…wow…in this
beautiful car, I never would have pulled you over. Especially after
that girl…well…you know…”

“Don’t worry about it. If I was speeding,
which I’m sure I was, I’ll take the ticket, no problem.”

“No sir, no way. And tell you what, keep it
under seventy and I won’t ever pull you over.”

“Thanks, but I understand you’ve got a job to
do.” What Michael really wanted to say is “Give me the ticket, so I
can get a few more miles away from a freaking murder scene,” but he
didn’t.

“Not when it comes to friends,”

“Well thanks.” Michael said and started to
draw the window closed.

“Hey, what’s that?” the deputy asked.

“Huh?”

“On your shirt, you been eating ketchup?”
Michael’s eyes darted to the rearview mirror. Blood, dried and
dark, stained his shirt in a slash-like fashion. His heartbeat was
like a raging bird within a cage, his mouth went dry and he
couldn’t breathe. This was it. This was it right here.

And the way Cliff—who used to be the class
clown but was now nothing more than an overweight deputy sheriff
who was going bald and probably had at least one bad marriage and a
stack of unpaid bills to show for his life—was leaning down to look
at him, at the stain of his crime on his perfectly-starched and
creased—at least it had been this morning—$200 shirt made
everything that much worse.

“What?” he asked, the surprise riding high.
Quickly, he made a show of looking at the mirror, to his shirt, and
back again. “Oh, that. Stopped for doughnuts this morning. Must
have gone a little crazy with the—”

“Oh, yeah. The jelly-filled ones,” Cliff
said, standing back up. “I pick up a dozen or so myself, for the
family you know, on Sundays down at Hudson’s.”

“Yeah, they sure are tasty.”

“That they are.” Cliff made a show of tugging
on his belt. A belt that until now had been cleverly concealed by
two large rolls of fat. “That they are.”

Michael breathed a sigh of relief.

“You know I was going to ask if that was
blood?” It was amazing how relief can come and go so swiftly.

“Blood? I don’t understand?”

“You know,” Cliff started, “the girl in
your…office.”

“Oh, yes, of course,” Michael answered. “No,
thank heavens no.”

“Okay, then. I’ll let you be on your
way.”

“Thanks, deputy.”

“That’s Cliff to you, Michael. Just call me
Cliff.”

“Alright, Cliff. I thank you.”

“Have a nice one,” the deputy said. Walking
back to his cruiser he ran a hand down the finish of the Porsche,
no doubt admiring it. Probably the closest he’d ever come to a car
like this, Michael thought.

“They sure are tasty?” Michael said to
himself. Is that the best I could do?

Apparently it was.

Michael keyed the ignition and the finely
tuned engine roared to life. Checking for oncoming traffic and
finding none, he eased out onto the road heading toward the
Benedict city limits.

He’d have to stop for a shirt. He couldn’t
very well go see the mayor with blood on himself, now could he?

***

Christal was glad to see Mrs. Wylder’s car
still parked at the corner of Cass and Fillmore where they’d left
it. She really didn’t think it would be gone, but some things you
can never be sure of. She was doing well carrying a majority of the
day’s purchases, leaving Mrs. Wylder with only a few to tote. Which
was only fair, since almost everything they carried was for
Christal.

Oh, she’d picked out a scarf for Mom to wear
this winter. And for her father, a nice tie that looked like the
one Harry Potter wore to school. Her father had a lot of ties, and
her mother a lot of scarves, but they pretty much had a lot of
everything. They were really hard to buy for, she reckoned, but she
never bought herself anything without getting something for her
family. She’d even picked out something for Mrs. Wylder: a
beautiful pottery bowl formed from mud from the Mississippi River.
Mrs. Wylder said she wouldn’t have Christal buying something for
her unless it was her birthday or Christmas or some other special
occasion, so she’d purchased it herself. Christal wasn’t sure if
she’d bought it to please Christal or if the housekeeper really
liked it. Christal hoped she liked it. She wanted Mrs. Wylder to be
happy. She wanted everyone to be happy, as a matter of fact. All
the time. Well, maybe everybody except Cindy and Bethany. Christal
didn’t really care if they were happy or not. She knew that wasn’t
right. You should want everybody to be happy. You shouldn’t want
bad things to happen. Not ever. That’s what Mrs. Wylder said.
That’s what Mrs. Howell, her Sunday school teacher said too, and
that’s what Christal believed. But, some things you just couldn’t
help.

Christal wondered if God would be angry about
her not liking Cindy and Bethany. After all, weren’t they God’s
people, too? Mrs. Howell said every human on the planet that ever
was or will be was one of God’s own. Mrs. Howell certainly should
know, she’d been teaching Sunday school since before Christal could
remember.

“Whew,” Annie Wylder said as they finally
reached the car. Using the key fob from her purse, she popped the
trunk. “I didn’t think we were ever going to make it back.” She
placed her bags down and wiped her brow with the back of her
hand.

“I’m tired, too.”

“Aww,” Mrs. Wylder said, turning to her.
“That’s sweet for you to say. But I bet you could walk another
twenty miles without complaint.” Mrs. Wylder’s voice was sweet like
syrup, and twice as nice.

“Only if we got more ice cream.” Mrs. Wylder
was so much fun. Christal wished her classmates were all this nice
to her.

“Enough of that. We’ve still to stop at the
market and find something for supper. What would you prefer,
chicken and rice or fettuccini Alfredo?”

“Hmm, how about we make a pizza? With extra
cheese.” Since Christal had learned that you could make a pizza at
home instead of having it delivered in cardboard boxes, she’d been
thrilled. Truth be told, she enjoyed making it—flopping on
pepperoni, sausage, shredded cheese and anything else she wanted—as
much as she liked eating it.

“Sounds like a good idea to me.”

“Excuse me.” It was a man’s voice, coming
from behind Christal.

“May we help you?” Mrs. Wylder asked.

The man stepped up so Christal could see him.
He was very tall, very wide and had hair as black as any crow
Christal had ever seen. She didn’t get a good look at his face, but
she was pretty sure she’d never seen him before.

“As a matter of fact, yes.” Before Mrs.
Wylder could ask the man how she could help him, he grabbed
Christal. She shrieked in surprise, but that was all she could
manage before he wrapped his arm around her neck. She suddenly
couldn’t breath right. She was so scared she thought she might
pee-pee in her pants.

“You! You let go of her this instant!” Mrs.
Wylder’s eyes were big and she raised her purse as if she were
about to bash the mean man with it, but then she stopped. And took
a small step backward.

It didn’t take Christal very long at all to
understand why. She felt something cold and hard press into her
cheek. She didn’t know how, but she knew it was a knife.

“Mrs. Wylder,” she tried to say, but nothing
but a little air came out.

“Get in the car. And do it now. Before I have
to slice this little princess up like cheap beef.”

“If you harm one single hair on her head…”
Mrs. Wylder started. Christal had never seen her nanny like this.
Apparently, her stoic rebellion didn’t faze the man too much. The
pressure on her cheek increased and then something burned. A thin
warm trail slid down her soft, tender cheek.

“That’ll heal, but if I have to tell you to
get into the car again she’ll have more than a scar to worry
about.”

Christal watched Mrs. Wylder go stiff like a
dead stick. She was thinking about something, and thinking hard.
Christal was so scared. She was shaking, and she really had to go
to the little girl’s room. All of a sudden, pee-peeing in her pants
did not seem like the worst thing that could happen. Where was her
daddy? Yeah, she wanted her mother, of course she did. But she
needed her daddy. She needed him to come save her. He could handle
this awful man and his threats and his sharp knife. He could beat
him up and make him real sorry for what he had done to her face,
and for the way he was talking to Mrs. Wylder. Yeah, he sure
would.

Only Daddy wasn’t here.

No one was coming to help them. There were
people everywhere, but no one seemed to notice. She wished Mrs.
Wylder would just scream, yell for help. But Christal knew why she
didn’t. All it would take is a second for the mean man to cut her,
bad. And then all the screaming in the world wouldn’t help Christal
Cole.