The Bleeding Edge (5 page)

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Authors: William W. Johnstone

BOOK: The Bleeding Edge
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C
HAPTER
E
IGHT
The uproar lasted the whole morning, but by afternoon all the official vehicles were gone. Dorothy Hewitt's lot had been staked and marked off with yellow crime scene tape, though, so nobody was going to forget the grim discovery that had been made there.
Nobody who had seen those heads was liable to forget them any time soon, anyway.
Fred Gomez knew he wouldn't, that was for sure. He hadn't gotten as close a look at them as Dorothy, John Howard Stark, and Hallie Duncan had, but he had seen enough to know that the grisly image was liable to haunt his dreams for some time to come. He was glad Aurelia had stayed back.
That evening she found him cleaning his gun. It was a Colt .45 automatic like the one he had carried in the Army, and as far as he was concerned it was the best handgun ever manufactured.
“What are you doing with that?” Aurelia asked.
“What does it look like I'm doing?” Fred said, then glanced up at her. “Sorry. I didn't mean for it to sound that way.”
“You think you're going to need that gun?”
“It doesn't make you nervous, knowing that somebody put those . . . things . . . in Mrs. Hewitt's garden?”
“You said yourself that we can't stand up to the cartels. You think one gun is going to make any difference to them?”
Fred sighed.
“No, it won't,” he admitted. “But I'm a man, Aurelia. I have to do
something
. I have to protect my home and family, or at least try to.”
“You won't protect anything by getting yourself killed.”
He knew she was right, but she just didn't understand. John Howard would, and so would Alton Duncan. Both of them would know why he felt this way.
He wouldn't be surprised if they were cleaning some guns tonight, too.
“I'll feel better if you put that away,” Aurelia went on.
“As soon as I'm finished,” Fred told her. “But I'm going to keep it handy.”
“So you can have a shootout with some drug gang?”
“I'm hoping it won't come to that,” Fred said.
He tensed suddenly as a knock sounded on the front door. Aurelia's head jerked toward the door. Her eyes widened in fright. Fred had removed the clip from the gun earlier, along with the round that was in the chamber. He slid the clip back in now and worked the slide as he stood up.
“Go into the bedroom,” he told his wife.
She looked like she wanted to go a lot farther than that, but she shook her head stubbornly and asked, “What are you going to do?”
“I'm going to answer the door,” Fred said.
“I'm not going to leave you in here by yourself.”
He knew better than to argue with her. It would be a waste of time. His hand tightened on the .45's grip. He wouldn't let anything happen to her, he told himself.
“Go stand in the kitchen, anyway,” he said, and to his relief Aurelia did so. The counter between kitchen and living room wouldn't offer much protection, but it was better than nothing.
Whoever was outside had knocked only a couple of times. Maybe they had gone away, Fred thought as he moved closer to the door.
Even though the door was fairly sturdy, he knew it wouldn't stop a projectile from a high-powered weapon. It wouldn't even slow a bullet down very much. It was all he had, though. He leaned closer and listened intently, trying to tell if whoever had knocked was still out there.
The sharp rapping sounded again, this time only inches from his face. Fred jumped back. He couldn't help it.
“Who is it?” he called. He was glad his voice didn't sound as shaky as he felt. At least he hoped it didn't.
“Antonio.”
That reply changed things immediately. Fred closed his eyes and heaved a sigh of relief as he recognized the voice of his grandson.
Aurelia heard it, too, and hurried out from behind the kitchen counter.
“Don't just stand there,” she told her husband. “Let the boy in.”
Fred lowered the Colt and undid the dead bolt and the chain with his other hand. He opened the door and said, “Antonio, what—”
That was all he got out before Antonio rushed past him, took hold of the door, and closed it quickly behind him.
Fred tensed again. Antonio was acting like trouble was right behind him.
And knowing the boy the way he did, Fred realized there was a good chance that was true.
He hated to think that about his own grandson, but he had to face facts. During the past few years, ever since Fred and Aurelia's son, Michael, and Michael's wife, Donna, had been killed in a tragic car accident, Antonio had fallen in with a bad bunch of people.
After the wreck, Antonio had come from San Antonio and lived here in this very mobile home with his grandparents for six months, since he wasn't of legal age yet, but as soon as he turned eighteen, he'd moved out to be on his own.
Fred hadn't thought that was a good idea and neither had Aurelia, but they hadn't been able to talk any sense into the boy's head. They had offered to help pay for Antonio to go to college, but he got a job in the automotive department of the local MegaMart instead and moved into an apartment of his own.
Most of the defiance Antonio had shown could be traced back to the way his father had felt about Fred and Aurelia. Michael had decided somewhere along the way that he was ashamed of his parents because they “weren't Hispanic enough,” as he put it. They had spoken English at home nearly all the time Michael was growing up, and what sort of name was Fred for a proud Hispanic man, after all? That white guy on
I Love Lucy
was named Fred, for God's sake!
Their reasoning for making sure that Michael was equally fluent in both English and Spanish was so that he would never be held back in life by an inability to speak both languages. Fred had told Michael that, and Michael had seemed to understand at the time, but later he'd decided that was a betrayal of their native culture. He had listened to too many troublemakers who were more interested in being Mexican-American rather than just plain American. Michael had wound up marrying a girl who felt the same way, and they had raised their son like that. So naturally Antonio felt some resentment toward his grandparents, but they had always tried to do their best for him anyway.
They still would, Fred thought, regardless of what sort of trouble Antonio was in.
Antonio's face was drawn tight and haggard with strain. He looked older than his years tonight. The jeans and T-shirt he wore were dirty and torn, like he'd been crawling through brush. He said, “Has anybody been here looking for me?”
“No, not that I know of,” Fred replied, shaking his head. He was baffled by what was going on here. “What's wrong, Antonio? Is somebody after you?”
Antonio laughed, but there wasn't a trace of humor in the sound.
“I need a place to rest for a little while, maybe something to eat,” he said. “And in the morning I gotta catch a bus and get out of here.”
Aurelia came over and took his arm.
“Sit down,” she told him. “I'll bring you some food. And if there's a problem you'll stay right here. We'll help you.”
Antonio shook his head.
“You can't help me. It'll just cause trouble for you if you try. I've got to get out of this part of the country. I need to go as far away as I can, as quick as I can.”
“That's crazy!” Fred said. “Running away isn't going to solve anything.”
“What are you gonna do, Grandfather?” Antonio demanded. “Fight?” He gestured at the .45 in Fred's hand. “With that old relic?”
Sudden anger coursed through Fred. He grabbed Antonio's arm and said, “Listen to me, boy. This gun may be a relic, but I am, too. That doesn't mean we can't still fight! We'll call the law. The sheriff was just out here today—”
Fred stopped short as a horrible thought blossomed in his mind. He couldn't even hardly conceive of it, but he couldn't banish the idea, no matter how much he wanted to. He had to ask in a husky half-whisper, “Antonio . . . did you have anything to do with . . . with those heads in Mrs. Hewitt's garden?”
Antonio frowned and looked genuinely confused, so much so that he didn't try to jerk his arm out of Fred's grip.
“Heads?” he repeated. “I don't know what you're talking—”
Before he could continue, tires screeched on the street outside. Antonio's head jerked up, and sheer terror flooded into his brown eyes.
C
HAPTER
N
INE
Even though the doors and windows of the mobile home were closed, the air conditioner was humming softly, and the TV was on, playing a DVD of one of his favorite John Wayne movies,
Rio Bravo
, Stark heard the tires wailing on pavement, followed by the squeal of brakes.
Sounds like that were seldom, if ever, followed by anything good.
He pushed the stop button on the remote and got out of his chair. Another button push turned the TV off, killing the light that came from it. Stark reached over and twisted the knob on the lamp beside his recliner, turning it off as well. Except for the faint glow of a night-light coming through the open bathroom door, the mobile home was dark.
Stark went to the front window. He didn't have to be able to see to move around inside the mobile home. He'd always had the knack of knowing his surroundings. That had led some of the men he'd served with in Vietnam to claim that he could see in the dark, like a cat.
Stark used his right hand to flick aside the curtain so he could look out. His left reached down to close around the barrel of the shotgun he had leaned against the wall next to the door. He didn't have to be able to see to do that, either. He instinctively knew where his weapons were.
He didn't normally keep his shotgun by the door like that. Since moving here to Shady Hills he hadn't seen the need for it, although there was a loaded pistol in the nightstand drawer next to his bed. He knew that if he ever found himself in need of a gun, he probably wouldn't have time to rustle around and hunt one up, then load it.
After the gruesome business of the heads being left in Dorothy Hewitt's garden, though, Stark had decided it might be wise to take more precautions. Chances were that the murderous varmints who'd left the heads there wouldn't ever come back to the retirement park, but that possibility couldn't be ruled out entirely.
Somebody was here who wasn't supposed to be, that was for sure, Stark thought as he moved the curtain aside. Nobody who lived in the park would be driving like that.
Headlights set on bright blazed out from the car that had come to a stop in front of the Gomez house next door. In the reflected glow of those lights, Stark saw three figures crossing the yard toward the mobile home. Two of them were slender, almost whippet-thin. The third was taller and bulkier, hulking like a bear. As far as Stark could tell they weren't armed, but he knew better than to believe that. The loose shirts they wore probably concealed pistols and knives.
Stark was willing to bet that the three men didn't have any business coming to the home of Fred and Aurelia Gomez. Their grandson, Antonio, was about the same age as these visitors, but Stark had met Antonio a few times and was sure he wasn't one of this trio.
Antonio might still have something to do with this, Stark thought. Fred had confided to Stark that he was worried about the sort of people the youngster spent his time with. These three certainly looked like bad news.
Fred and Aurelia might need his help, Stark decided. But if he went out the front door, he'd probably attract the attention of the three strangers.
Taking the shotgun with him, he went out the back door instead, moving with the sort of quiet intensity that had kept him alive on numerous occasions in the jungles of Southeast Asia.
He cut across the yard between the two mobile homes and crouched behind some shrubs. One of the strangers pounded on the door. Stark heard Fred's voice come from inside in response, but he couldn't make out the words.
“We're looking for Antonio,” the stranger said.
This time Stark understood as Fred said, “He's not here.”
“We know better, old man. Let us in. Antonio's our amigo. We just want to talk to him.”
Stark didn't believe that for a second, and he figured Fred was smart enough not to believe it, either.
“You'd better leave now!” Fred shouted. “I told you Antonio's not here. I've already called the sheriff!”
“The sheriff?” The one who appeared to be the ringleader of the trio laughed. “What have we done, old man? We just asked if our friend was here, that's all.”
“I've got a gun!” Fred's voice shook a little with fear, but it had determination in it, too.
That threat brought wheezing laughter from the biggest member of the trio. He asked, “You want me to kick the door down, Nacho?”
“No, the crazy old hombre might really have a gun. No point in any of us taking a chance on getting hurt.” The one called Nacho paused, evidently to think over the situation. “Go around back and bust in that way, Chuckie. They won't be expecting you.”
“Then what?”
“Then we take Antonio with us and teach him he can't run out on us, the—” Nacho added some vile curses in Spanish.
With the heavy footsteps of a big, clumsy man, Chuckie came down the steps from the Gomez porch and started around the mobile home. Stark drew back deeper in the shrubs, completely hidden in the thick shadows. Chuckie rounded the corner and started toward him.
Stark let the big man move past him. Then Stark stepped out, lifted the shotgun, and drove the butt stock against the back of Chuckie's head. He hoped Chuckie had a thick skull. Whether he did or not, the son of a gun was just too big to take any chances with.
The thud was loud enough to be heard out front, but the one called Nacho was talking again, probably to distract Fred and whoever else was inside from Chuckie's attempt to break in. That effort was going to backfire, because Chuckie had fallen to his knees and now pitched forward onto his face without making a sound.
Stark rested the shotgun barrel against the back of Chuckie's neck and reached down with his other hand to search for a pulse. He found one. Chuckie was out cold but still alive.
Stark straightened and glided to the corner of the mobile home. On the porch, Nacho called, “We're gettin' tired of waiting, old man. Open up and send Antonio out here now. Nobody gets hurt.”
Stark stepped out into the open, brought the shotgun to his shoulder, and leveled it at the intruders.
“That's right,” he said. “Nobody gets hurt as long as you leave now.”
The third man, the one who hadn't said anything so far, turned toward Stark and his hand started toward his waist. He stopped short when he saw the shotgun pointing at them.
“Jalisco!” Nacho said.
“Not good,” the one called Jalisco said. “He's too close. He can blow us both apart with one shot.”
“That's right,” Stark said. “I won't lose any sleep over doing it, either.”
“Where's my brother?” Nacho demanded.
“Chuckie? He's sleeping. You'll need to come get him and haul him back to your car.” Stark's voice hardened. “Then you need to haul ass out of here while you still can.”
“You don't know what you're doin',
viejo
,” Nacho said softly. “You don't know what you're gettin' in here.”
“Maybe not, but I do know exactly how much pressure it takes on the trigger of this gun to make it go off . . . and it's not far from it.” Without lowering the shotgun, Stark moved to the side, closer to the street. “Come get your friend. Now.”
Enough light spilled over the yard from the headlights for Stark to see that Nacho was seething with rage at being defied this way. Jalisco was colder, more calculating, and therefore probably more dangerous, Stark thought. He watched both of them very closely.
Finally, Nacho said, “We'll go. But we'll be back.”
“Don't bother,” Stark told him. “There's nothing here for you.”
“That's where you're wrong, old man.” Nacho jerked his head at his companion. “Let's get Chuckie.” He blustered at Stark, “He better be all right. He's my brother.”
The two of them came down the steps. Stark tracked them with the shotgun's barrel as they went to the side of the mobile home, bent down to take hold of Chuckie's legs, and then dragged him across the yard to the car parked at the curb. With grunts of effort, they lifted the big, senseless form and let Chuckie tumble through the open door into the backseat. Stark kept them covered the whole time.
Jalisco slid behind the wheel. Nacho went around to the passenger door. He opened it and yelled across the top of the car, “This ain't over, old man! It ain't anywhere close to over!”
Then he jerked a revolver from the sagging waistband of his trousers and opened fire.

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