Stunner (17 page)

“She’s paying him off to keep him away from the girl, Frankie. Or Francesca, to use her formal name.” I say. “Sounds like blackmail to me.”

“You never know. It could be more than that. Often something looks one way on the surface, but when you find out the back story… Hey, nothing surprises me anymore.” Will sips his beer. “Ronnie, won’t you let me get you a beer?”

“Thanks, but I’ll pass.” My throbbing head couldn’t handle a beer at the moment. Is it my imagination or is the decibel-level of these screaming fans higher than it was fifteen minutes ago?

I shift my gaze from Bobby to the ring as the Assassinator jabs at the Bulldozer but misses. The Bulldozer responds with a strong left hook and connects. Then he follows it with a liver punch, and the Assassinator folds over in pain and staggers back.

“Will, if I were out there, I would have thrown up after that last punch—” Before I can finish my thought, the Assassinator, who has regained his balance, moves in quickly and tries for another jab, but he’s slow. The Bulldozer moves to the side and kicks out the legs of his opponent, who goes down with a crash. The crowd jumps up and goes wild. They want blood.

I make a face showing my disgust. “Will, this is so not like Aikido.”

“Yeah. It’s a different world from the dojo, Ronnie.”

I remember how I had wanted to study a martial art for the longest time. As I researched which one to study, I learned that Aikido techniques are especially effective for women, who in most cases don’t have the same brute strength as men.

I had also read that Aikido is considered by many practitioners to be one of the most spiritual martial arts, sometimes called a
moving Zen
. Finally, at age forty-eight, I signed up for classes, and here I am seven years later, a newly minted black belt. But I wouldn’t dream of going up against one of these mixed martial arts fighters, that’s for sure.

Will nudges me again. “Looks like Bobby’s stepping up to do his job.”

A crazed, swerving fan tries to push his way over to the cage and yells, slurring his words, “Bulldosjher! Busht his head! Kill the Ashashin!” Bobby does his best to hold the gigantic guy back as reinforcements rush up to help. Three guys are needed to escort the screaming, tipsy—OK, drunk—fan from the warehouse.

Will grabs my arm and guides me down the steps of the bleachers. We exit through a different door and watch from a distance while they let the guy go. All the security guards go back inside, except for Bobby, who stays. Once he’s sure they’re all gone, he turns around and slugs the fan in his gut.

“Ugh!” The man doubles over and staggers. He appears to be drunk, which renders him unable to fight back despite his size. Bobby lands another blow, this time under the chin, and the man goes down. Then Bobby straddles the guy and strikes him over and over, the man’s head whipping from side to side with each blow and slamming against the concrete surface of the parking lot.

Horrified, I can’t stand it another second. “Stop!” I yell. Running with Will toward Bobby, I pull out my phone and snap some pictures. “I’m calling the police,” I threaten.

Bobby looks up. “Mind your own business, bitch.” He stands and moves toward me. I cringe, remembering the creep in the motel alley choking me not long ago.

“Hey, man,” Will yells at Bobby and places himself in front of me. “That’s enough.”

The doors swing open and two other security guards come out. They quickly survey the scene, especially the beaten-up fan-man sprawled on the ground barely conscious and then notice Bobby’s bloodied fists.

“You better get inside fast, before the boss sees this,” one of them says. That guard guides Bobby Taylor by the arm, who continues hissing obscenities at me.

Then right before he goes through the door, Bobby takes his parting shot, staring straight at me. “Hey, bitch,” he sneers. “You, I won’t forget. I’m coming for you.” I continue snapping photos with my phone. Bobby and the guard hurry inside.

The other security guard calls 911 and reports what he believes to have been a probable drunken brawl. He tells the operator that the guy needs immediate medical attention. The only witnesses to dispute his story are Will and me.

The security guard looks at us the entire time he speaks on the phone and walks in our direction as I continue taking pictures. He then surprises me and makes a sudden grab for my phone, but it falls to the ground.

Will steps in. Again. “Buddy, back off,” he says in the guard’s face. I pick up my phone and quickly move out of the way. The guy retreats and rushes inside.

“Let’s get out of here, Will. I’ve seen enough mixed martial arts for a lifetime and enough Bobby Taylor until I decide my next move.”

“Decide your next move? Ronnie, you need to watch your step,” Will says as we hurry to our car.

“What do you mean, Will?” I ask. “We’re fine.”

“This rushing into the middle of things without thinking first is dangerous,” he chides as he beeps open the car locks.

I’m indignant. “Bobby Taylor is a scumbag bully. You saw how he was slamming that guy’s head against the concrete.” I get into my side of the car and slam the door shut. “Someone had to do something.” I glare at Will as he gets into the driver’s side.

“OK, Ronnie. Look, we know that Bobby Taylor is one mean dude. And we know help is on the way for that drunk slob he beat up. So, calm down.” He slams his door shut and glares back at me. “At the moment, that guy doesn’t concern me. You do. The red marks on your neck the other day concern me—”

“The marks went away in a few hours,” I interrupt. “See? No black and blues.” I lift up my hair to show him my unmarked neck.

“The point is you came close to disaster
again
just a few minutes ago.” Will slams his palm hard on the steering wheel, and I sit up fast.

“What is it with you?” he snaps at me. “You’re like the proverbial bull in a china shop.” Will goes on, his tone turning cautionary, “One of these days, you’ll end up seriously injured if you continue acting first and thinking second.”

Will and I stop for supper on the way back, even though we’re giving each other the silent treatment. At the restaurant, things start out a bit tense as we order. But for some unexplained reason, Will and I don’t hurry the rest of the evening along, and that turns out to be a good thing in terms of my getting to know him better.

Before I realize it, what we had thought would be a quick bite morphs into a leisurely two-and-a-half-hour meal. Mr. Hunky Third-Degree Black Belt Private Eye happens to be one very interesting man, and he and I talk about all sorts of things, none of them having to do with my investigation. Why am I surprised to discover that Will Benson is excellent company?

Once we’re back in New Jersey, Will drops me off at my car, and I head home. As I drive through the EZ-Pass lane on the highway, the sign flashes
You Have Paid
, and my cell phone rings. My niece’s voice shrieks through the earpiece.

“Aunt Ronnie. Hurry!” She breaks down sobbing and struggles to catch her breath. “R-R-Ronnie, please come!”

I shiver in alarm. “Laura. Easy. Calm down. Are you hurt?” I flip off the air conditioning in the car, which suddenly feels too cold.

“It’s not me.” She’s crying. “I’m fine.”

“Laura, what’s happened?” I grip the steering wheel with fear. “Is it your dad? Please tell me.” I push against the wheel, bracing for the worst.

“Please come,” she sobs.

“Where?”

“To the hospital.” I hear her blow her nose to clear out the stuffiness and tears. “It’s Daddy. The ambulance brought him to the ER.” She starts crying again. “Come, Aunt Ronnie, as fast as you can,” she says through her tears. “I saw the whole thing.”

“What do you mean, saw the whole—”
Click
. The phone connection goes dead.

~~~~~

I park and run to the entrance of the ER. Laura is waiting for me, and she’s calmed down since our phone conversation. As we walk through the huge glass doors, she says her father is stable, much to my relief, and begins her story back at Meadow Farm.

“I was upstairs listening to my music and getting organized for some tutoring lesson for tomorrow. Dad was downstairs with Juliana in the kitchen, fixing supper.” While she’s telling me this, Laura and I walk down a hall, take a left turn, and head toward a bank of elevators. A nurse pushes a gurney past us.

“All of a sudden, I heard a loud crash and the sound of glass breaking. I ran to my window in time to see Daddy going out the front door to find out what was going on.” She starts sniffling as we get to the elevator bank and hits the
Up
knob.

“As Daddy walked down the steps onto the gravel, this guy jumped out from behind one of our cars—” Laura breaks down crying again. “And I, and I, and I saw him hit Daddy over the head with a rock.” She grabs me and buries her face in my shoulder.

“Oh, Laura!” I stroke her hair, and she quickly gets hold of herself as the elevator opens. It’s empty, thank goodness. We step in and she hits a floor button. “Go on,” I say.

“Daddy dropped to the ground unconscious. The guy—I couldn’t see his face because he had his back to the house—he was yelling at Dad, something like,
That
‘
ll teach ya, that
‘
ll teach ya
.”

“Laura, did you see anything that might help the police identify him?” I ask.

“Nothing when it comes to his face, Aunt Ronnie. But he was wearing a long-sleeved shirt with the cuffs open, and it looked as if he had a lot of tats all around his wrists.” Wait a minute, that sounds like Bobby Taylor, with those crazy tattooed arms. But I just saw him at the fights in Pennsylvania. How did he get here so fast? Well, Will and I did take our time at supper, so I guess it’s possible the creep beat me back to Willowbrook.

Is Bobby Taylor hunting me down the way he threatened earlier in the evening? No way. Plus I’m pretty sure he doesn’t know I’m connected to Juliana through my brother. This attack had to be about her and my brother.

We get to the seventh floor and another gurney rolls onto the elevator, this time with a patient. We go up one more floor and exit left down a long hallway. “What happened next, Laura?” I take her arm.

“He moved his foot back, as if he planned to kick Daddy, and I yelled out the window that I’d called the police,” she says. “The guy stopped mid-kick and hightailed it out of there. The weird thing was he never looked up at me after I screamed at him. And he had gloves on. In the middle of summer.”

“No fingerprints,” I offer.

We pass a sign pointing toward radiology, where Laura slows me down. “They want to check Daddy for a concussion. Let’s wait here a moment.” We sit on a couch.

“So what happened to the guy with the tattoos?” I ask.

“Well, he ran over to a green SUV, and when he started it, he stepped on the gas so hard the car spit gravel. Then he went so fast, he fishtailed down our road trying to make all the turns. He slid all over the place! And you know the old apple tree at that sharp turn?” I nod yes, wondering where Bobby Taylor got this green SUV. “The car almost hit it,” Laura says. “The guy missed it by a fraction and scraped the entire passenger side of his car. I bet he even left green paint on the tree.”

I squeeze my niece’s shoulders. “Where was Juliana during all of this?”

“I called 911 for real this time as I race down the stairs to go outside, and that’s when Juliana showed up. Something about being in the bathroom and hearing a loud noise? She saw Daddy on the ground unconscious and totally flipped out.” Laura takes a deep breath.

“I felt Daddy’s pulse, and it was strong,” she says. “But Juliana kept on crying and wailing. I yelled at her to quiet down and not move Daddy and that the ambulance would be there soon. He came to while we both sat with him, but he was pretty groggy.”

I just don’t know what to think, not really. “It sounds as though you did a good job, calming Juliana and making sure your father was OK.” I pat her hand supportively. Although outwardly I appear composed for my niece’s sake, inwardly I want to scream and cry.

“Oh, Aunt Ronnie, it all happened so fast. Anyway, the ambulance arrived, and Juliana rode with Daddy to the hospital.”

“And you followed in your car?” I ask.

She nods yes. “But first I talked to the police. They drove in right behind the ambulance. They looked at the rock that the guy used to hit Daddy over the head. You know, took pictures of it for the police report. Then we went inside and found the other rock. Well, that one looked more like a mini-boulder, and it had flown through one of the living room windows. That guy must be really strong. Anyway, it sat there on the carpet, and wait till you hear this, Aunt Ronnie—”

“What?”

Laura takes a deep breath before she tells me. “The word revenge was painted in black on this boulder. Only it was misspelled r-A-v-e-n-g-e, like
ravenge
.” She pronounces the first syllable
rah
.

If not Bobby, then surely some old chum of Teresa’s. “That’s really weird, Laura. Either it has some other meaning, or this idiot can’t spell or use a dictionary.”

Despite the seriousness of all this, she laughs a little. “No kidding. And you may be right about the gloves,” she says. “They were having trouble finding any fingerprints on the two rocks by the time I left.”

At that moment, Juliana appears from a door further down the hall. With the revenge theme in this attack against my brother, I really have to wonder if she has a more sinister connection to Bobby Taylor than merely protecting Francesca. Laura and I get up from the couch, and meet Juliana halfway down the hall.

“What’s the latest?” I ask.

“The CAT scan looks good, which means an excellent chance he doesn’t have a concussion, thank god,” she says, sounding quite relieved. “But the doctor wants to keep him overnight for observation anyway. They’ll be moving him to a room in a moment.”

Before we know it, we’re on our way to the sixth floor and a room not far beyond the nurses station, where we sit by my brother’s bedside for a short visit. He holds Juliana’s hand tightly and gazes at her constantly.