A Visible Darkness - By Jonathon King Page 0,79

out the words.

Three long, careful steps more and the cinder block was cool against my hands. The window was around the corner on the wall to my right, the door around the one on my left.

I moved to the door and crouched for several seconds, listening, and heard him mutter, “She’ll come back.” I stayed low when I breached the doorway and looked high, thinking of his size. He saw me first from his position down on the mattress but in the dim light his face seemed to hold more disappointment than surprise.

Then he scrambled, digging his heels into the mattress and pushing his way up the wall to gain his feet.

“Easy, Eddie. Easy,” I said, standing up with my hands out, palms showing but ready to clinch. “I’m a cop, Eddie. I’m a cop. Nobody’s here to hurt you, big man.”

He rocked his back against the wall and the dull light from the window next to him glistened on the stain covering his side.

“I knows lots of police,” he said in a low mumble, and I could hear a bubbling deep in his throat.

“I know you do, Eddie. I know. You know Dr. Marshack, right? He works with the police.”

I could read the recognition in his face, but his eyes quickly covered it.

“I do not know,” he said and shifted his left foot forward.

I took a balanced stance. I’d sparred with big men, knew the dip they often took before lunging or throwing a punch, and I watched for it.

“Sure you do, Eddie,” I said. “Dr. Harold Marshack, the one who helped you in jail, the one who gives you the money and the names of the old women.”

Again his eyes changed and he seemed to start to say something when I saw the dip to the right. I shot out a jab, snapping it into his hand as he reached out to grab me. I pivoted away. He stood his ground.

It was not a boxing ring and far too cramped to dance away. He was not a slow man, despite his size and the bullet wound. When I’d hit his hand hard with my fist it felt like hitting a thick bag of rolled coins, and he hadn’t flinched. I couldn’t let him get a hold of me. I knew what his hands had already done.

“Come on, Eddie,” I tried again. “Why don’t we just settle down here and we’ll go talk with Dr. Marshack. You trust him, don’t you?”

“I do not know,” he repeated.

I was trying to get him to think of something besides crushing me, but I saw him dip again. This time he charged, and I ducked and sidestepped to my right and felt his thick fingers drag across the left side of my neck. He crashed hard against the wall, but then spun.

Now I was in the corner, away from the door and any chance of escape. Jesus, I thought, how smart is this guy? Now I had my fists up, in a boxer’s stance. The questioning was over.

He took another, slower swipe with his open left hand and again I punched at it, feeling my fist snap a bone in one of his fingers. He shuffled, but never winced. He was testing me. Watching. Learning.

I took a step to the right, toward the window, and he moved that way, too. I saw him dip and I reacted by sliding to my left, but he had faked me and when my foot lost purchase on a pile of greasy paper he charged. I tried to spin away but he snatched my left forearm in his grip and pulled me to him as his back slammed into the wall. I felt the muscle in my arm flatten and roll under the pressure of his fingers and an electric pain shot up into my shoulder as he tightened the grip and my vision started to spark.

“It was their time,” he bellowed and slung me into the opposite wall. “It was their time. Mr. Harold said it was their time.” He hesitated with the words, his eyes seeming to blink at their meaning like he’d made a mistake, and it was enough for me to gain my balance. I set my right foot and pounded my free fist into the big man’s bloodied side with as much leverage as I could find. This time he winced and a stench of breath popped from his mouth and I landed another blow, and another, and now my eyes were