The Inn - James Patterson Page 0,54

sack of bones, the acrid smell of the men’s cigarettes making him gag. He could hear them now nearby, the small one complaining and the big one barking back at him like a dog.

“If I’d known we was gonna bury this one, we could have come out here earlier, Bonesy. It’s fucking freezing, man! The ground is solid rock.”

“He wants us to be more careful this time,” the one called Bones said. “The Druly woman was fun and games. This is a cop we talkin’ ’bout. Shut up and dig.”

Clay tried to roll onto his back to take the pressure off his ribs, but as he moved, he found his hands were numb, his arms twisted behind him. His own cuffs were on his wrists. His head protested with the movement, pain branching out from the wound at the back of his skull like white-hot fingers running through his hair. He staggered to his knees with difficulty and then got to his feet, wobbling and groaning with the pain.

The men stopped digging and assessed him. He recognized them from Cline’s house. Bones and Simbo, two of the sneering henchmen Cline kept ever at his side. It took a lot to make Sheriff Spears angry, but he felt the dull thump of anger hit him now. It crept up through his chest and neck, an old friend returned.

“Sheriff, you could make this easier on yourself by lying the fuck back down,” the big one said, pointing to the soil. Clay looked around him at the forest. Moonlight streaked through the dense trees. For a moment he thought he might be somewhere near the Inn. Then he remembered the Druly woman’s body in the depths of Dogtown, her headless corpse lying on its side, dumped like trash.

“This is not very nice,” Clay said. The anger was taking over. Mean whispers and vicious sneers were flickering through his mind. The bad Clay inside, usually a solid sleeper, was up and knocking at the door of his heart. “I don’t deserve this.”

The men before him pulled enormous knives from their belts. Clay wondered if the plan was for his head to appear separate from his body, maybe dumped out here somewhere, maybe washed ashore weeks from now, covered in crabs and snails. The thought made his jaw lock with fury.

“You go first,” the small one, Simbo, said to his partner. “Dude’s four times my size.”

“Stop,” Clay said, his warning halfhearted, left over from his training. The good Clay calling back as he fled, leaving the bad Clay at the wheel. “Go now, and I won’t hurt you.”

“You …” The big guy grinned at his partner, laughed with surprise. “You won’t hurt us?”

“You’ve got three seconds,” Clay said. His speech was slurred, his head still foggy from the blow. The two killers in the dark considered their options, then advanced toward him.

CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX

CLAY DIDN’T LET them come. The distance between him and the big one was maybe twenty feet, and for every inch of that distance, Clay ground his feet into the dirt and then hurled himself forward with all his might. He slammed into Bones at full speed, his wide shoulder driving into his gut, not slowing until the man’s back connected with a huge tree. Clay felt the breath leave Bones, felt his ribs crunching and muscles collapsing against his shoulder. Clay backed up a couple of steps, ready to kick the man when he hit the ground. But Bones was unconscious immediately, a shattered insect squashed in the dirt.

The smaller one, Simbo, wasted no time. He raised the knife, and Clay took the adrenaline surging through his system and swung his foot up and across Simbo’s arm, knocking the blade away. The move threw him off balance, left him sprawling on the ground on his back. The small, stocky guy was on him, and Clay clenched every muscle in his body and snapped upward suddenly, aiming his head butt as best he could. It was a glancing blow off Simbo’s mouth, but it was enough to shock him. Clay rolled, got up, stomped on the writhing figure in the dark again and again. He heard more bones crunching. Simbo’s forearm snapped like a branch. Clay kept stomping until the man was still.

The sheriff stood in the dark panting. Muscles and tendons that had been inactive for years were now alive; sweat dripped down his neck into the collar of his torn shirt. The last of his courage burned low, the rest of