Cold Blue (40 page)

Who had he become—surely not the man his father had hoped?

My father
.

Thorpe recalled a quote the man had sometimes recited, “Action is the antidote to despair.”

THIRTY MILES SOUTHWEST, ANDREW PHIPPS
lay secreted inside Thorpe’s house with much on his mind, not the least of which was Cornelius Johnson in the next room, his breathing labored. Another was the mystery location of Thorpe’s guard dogs. He had no idea where the beasts were kept; he and Corn had searched the property without success. One thing was certain: if the two shepherds led their master into the home, things were going to get real ugly, real fast.

Both men had been in place since 9 p.m., and the tension was about to boil over, especially for Corn who wasn’t accustomed to combat situations. Remaining static for hours—while anticipating a gun battle that will occur on an unknown schedule—is enough to test any man’s iron. The men had taken up positions where they could cover the front and back doors simultaneously. When Thorpe stepped into his home, his body would be transformed into a sieve.

Watching the front door, Phipps was armed with a Remington 1911 .45 caliber pistol, a very reliable weapon with knockdown power. Even if Thorpe wore a vest, it’d smack the piss out of him until Phipps could get in a headshot. Armed with a 12-gauge shotgun loaded with double-aught buckshot, Corn covered the back door, at least between trips to the bathroom. Because of nerves, Corn had been relieving himself far too frequently. Phipps hoped to hell Thorpe wouldn’t slip in the back door during an ill-timed bladder movement.

After Phipps took care of business here, he planned to kill Corn. The man was a wreck, and every time the idiot pissed in the dark, he probably sprayed DNA evidence all over Thorpe’s bathroom. If left alive, Corn would get caught and give up his accomplices.

After Phipps finished with his old friend, he’d next pay Sergeant McDonald a visit.

It was time to clean house. But first he had to kill Thorpe. Where was that motherfucker?

THORPE WIPED HIS SALTY FACE
with his shirt sleeve and—uncertain how he’d arrived or for how long he’d been there—found himself in the parking lot of Jasmine’s Lounge on the northeast side of town. The establishment was a cheesy strip club and the location of several shootings and stabbings. He wouldn’t admit to himself why he’d come here but knew it wasn’t to ogle the dancers. Thorpe stuffed a small pistol down the front of his pants and approached the bar.

He received a cursory pat-down by the unarmed, long-haired security guard manning the front door. The guy was making a feeble attempt at keeping weapons out of the business but neglected to inspect Thorpe’s genitals, a mistake heterosexual guards tend to make.

Entering the club, Thorpe was relieved to find several patrons of questionable character. Wearing slacks and a button down, he didn’t exactly fit in with the regulars. Thorpe went directly to the men’s room and entered a stall. He removed the Glock 27 from his crotch and placed the weapon in the waistband of his pants. Reconsidering, Thorpe stood on the toilet and hid the pistol in the drop-down ceiling. He hadn’t come here to kill anyone.

Thorpe left the restroom, selected a stool at the bar and ordered a bottle of beer. He wasn’t about to drink from a glass at this shithole; plus bottles make great impromptu weapons. Thorpe scanned the lounge, settling on a table occupied by three white males, each proudly displaying an assortment of prison tats. He kept his eyes focused on the group, knowing full well what the gaze would reap. It didn’t take long for one to notice the unwanted attention.

The man mouthed the words, “What the fuck?” That prompted his two associates to follow their friend’s stare. None of the three men were huge, but all bore prison muscle. Adrenaline seeped into Thorpe’s veins, the sensation a welcome alternative to crushing despair.

“We don’t want any trouble in here, bub.” It was the bartender.

“You won’t have any from me…bub” Thorpe replied, never breaking contact with the six eyes staring back at him.

“Then quit fuckin’ with folks.”

“I’m just sitting here enjoying my adult beverage.”

“Bullshit! Those boys are about to shove your head up your Polo-wearing ass.”

“Claiborne,” Thorpe corrected.

“What?”

“Those boys are about to shove my head up my ‘Claiborne’ wearing ass.”

“You think you’re fucking funny or something?”

“That’s been a matter of contention lately,” Thorpe admitted.

“I hope they kill your funny ass.”

“I hope they do, too.”

The alpha male of the pack, the man in the middle, was the first to rise. He strode smoothly toward Thorpe, relaxed and unconcerned. Thorpe noticed he had a tattoo on his neck that read “Momma Tried.”
Clever
. The other two backed up their buddy. One knocked into a chair on his way over; his muscles were tight, and he moved in nervous jerks. He would be the weakest of the three. Thorpe slid off the barstool, keeping the piece of wood between himself and his new inked-up friends.

“What the fuck you looking at?” Asked the man with the neck tattoo.

“I couldn’t help but notice…”

“You couldn’t help but notice what, a
sshole?
”

“Momma didn’t try hard enough,” Thorpe said with a grin.

Like a good fighter, Momma didn’t run his mouth. Instead he threw a right cross, meant to deliver a fight-ending blow. The barstool prevented Momma from stepping fully into the punch. Thorpe rocked back, avoiding the strike while simultaneously kicking the stool into his attacker’s legs. Momma picked up the stool and cocked it like a baseball bat. As he did, Thorpe stepped in and drove his left elbow into the man’s face. Momma fell back on the dirty carpet as Ink man number two began circling to Thorpe’s right. Thorpe could tell Ink man number three wanted to bail but feared the retribution he’d receive from Momma Tried.

Ink man number three—chickenshit that he was—produced a knife, promoting himself from weakest to greatest threat. Momma had sprouted from the floor and once again entered the fray. Thorpe now had Knife Man on his left, Momma dead ahead, no nickname man on his right, and the bartender on the phone. Thorpe picked up his beer bottle, realizing he might have taken on more than he could handle.

Just then the barstool reentered the picture, crashing down on Knife Man’s head. Unlike in the movies, the heavy stool didn’t shatter into a hundred pieces, but based on the sound, the same couldn’t be said about the man’s skull.

Surprised by the unexpected attack, Momma shifted his focus to the new development—
mistake
. Thorpe shoved the bottle, neck first, into the man’s clenched teeth. The blow sent Momma reeling backward onto the floor in a bloodied heap; he was done. No Nickname Man simply held his hands up, palms forward in a gesture of surrender. He backed into the men’s room.

“John, we need to get the hell out of here! The police are en route,” said the wielder of wooden stools—Ambretta. She’d changed out of her dress and pumps into jeans and tennis shoes. Makeup still perfect, hair a bit tussled, she looked sexier than ever. Thorpe ignored Ambretta’s plea and followed his adversary into the restroom.

“John, let’s go! It’s over!” Ambretta yelled, following on his heels.

When Thorpe entered the bathroom, his former assailant looked like he was going to shit himself.
Appropriate place to do it.

“Get the fuck out of here, I gotta piss,” Thorpe said.

The man actually said “Thank you,” as he slipped past Ambretta and out the door.

“Damn, John, I thought you were going to kill him.”

“I just needed to grab something before we left,” Thorpe replied, as he stood on the toilet to remove his weapon from the ceiling.

When he stepped down and out of the stall, Ambretta grabbed him by the back of the neck, rose up and kissed him deeply. Despite the filthy surroundings, it was the best first kiss he’d ever experienced.

“We have to go,” she said.

The two hurried out of the men’s room and crossed the murky expanse of barroom floor toward the unarmed security guard. The guard, probably unarmed because he was an ex-con, had thus far made no effort to intervene. The man wisely stepped out of the way as they exited.

“Give me your keys,” Ambretta barked, as they trotted toward the truck.

Too embarrassed by his behavior to argue, Thorpe complied. Climbing inside, he was thrust back into the seat as Ambretta fed the thirsty engine.

“I found your tracking device. How’d you follow me?”

“You found the one we wanted you to find.”

“Wanted me to find…why…?”

Ambretta cut him off. “Just shut the fuck up, John. Give me a minute.”

After allowing her ample time to think, Thorpe asked, “What should we do on our second date?”

“Not this.”

“By the way, I had those fuckers just where I wanted ‘em.”

“Bullshit. I saved your ass, and you know it.”

He did know it; at the very least he would have earned a few more lacerations.

“I guess I owe you one. I’ll return the favor after I’m finished serving the sentence you hang on me.”

Ambretta reached over and touched Thorpe lightly on the cheek with the back of her fingers. A look of genuine concern enveloped her face.

“Just give me a chance.”

They rode in silence the rest of the way to Ambretta’s hotel. There, she took his hand and led him up to her room. As the door closed, she turned to his chest, looked up into his eyes and carefully undid his top button. Her deft fingers worked their way downward as they shared their second kiss. The final button freed, she opened his shirt and exposed his muscular but scarred form.

She traced the scars and again looked into his eyes. In hers, he saw questions, but they remained unasked. Instead, she pulled Thorpe to the bed and down on top of her. They made love. It wasn’t as rabid as being with Deborah, but equally as intense—and much more meaningful.

Afterward they lay in one another’s arms, lost in thought, silent, waiting for the darkness to swallow them.

Monday

February 12

Morning

PHIPPS WAS READY TO KILL
someone. Literally. Corn’s whining had grown incessant. They’d been in the house all night, and both were close to their breaking points. Corn wanted to leave, and only one argument had been able to keep him inside.

“What if you run into that Rambo motherfucker when you’re trekking through the woods? Best we wait in here and finish this thing—‘less you wanna be looking over your shoulder the rest of your life.”

Phipps himself was both thirsty and hungry; he’d been avoiding fluids so as not to have to use the bathroom.

And sure as the sun rises every morning, the second he made a move for the refrigerator, that country fuck would walk in the front door.

Speaking of the sun rising, the interior would soon be well lit. Phipps hadn’t figured on being here in the daylight. He was considering his options when he heard someone working the rear doorknob.

Shit
.

Phipps, still manning the front, didn’t trust Corn to cover the back. Torn, Phipps hesitated. It could be a diversion.

The sound of the rear door creaking open was accompanied by Corn uttering a terrified expletive.

Phipps’ tightened his grip on his pistol.

Jesus Christ, he had to do everything
.

Weapon up, he rounded the corner, just in time to see a metal cylinder skid across the tiled floor.

THORPE WOKE A FEW MINUTES
after 6:00 a.m., not quite sure of his surroundings. The warm, smoothness of Ambretta pressed against his abdomen provided a pleasant reminder. He caressed her side, pausing at the waist before gliding his hand up the steep incline of her hips. She responded by thrusting her posterior deeper into Thorpe’s groin. Again, they made love.

After, and though he desperately wanted answers, he refrained from questioning her. He doubted he’d believe anything she said and didn’t want to argue, not right now. She too remained silent, perhaps fearing any talk would potentially light a fuse that couldn’t be extinguished.

He showered, dressed, kissed Ambretta, and walked out the hotel door without either of them saying a word.

He didn’t know what to do anymore. Maybe he should just go to investigators with what little corroborating evidence he had. Maybe he had something to live for again—Ambretta.

Who was he kidding? His future would be composed of steel bars and concrete walls.

Thorpe was tired, tired of the killing and tired of the lying. But mostly he’d grown tired of the visceral tug of war with his rope of a soul.

As Thorpe left the hotel, he fell in behind a young family of three. A man walked with a woman on his arm. A girl of about seven clung to his free hand. Thorpe felt the familiar gnawing in his chest as he witnessed a vision of what he’d been denied. Time to finish this thing, even if it meant marching directly into Phipps’ house under the watchful eye of the FBI.