The Seven File

Four

Hank Farrel glanced past his brother, and nodded to the powerfully built man who was moving slowly toward them with a hand buried deep in his pocket, and no expression at all on his broad, pale face. This would be Eddie Grant, he thought. Duke had written that he wanted to bring Grant and his family up for a week or so. Grant and Duke were going into business together, and they needed to thrash out all the details in peace and quiet. Fine, Hank thought. Grant looked as if he could stand a little peace and quiet.

And then, as his brother closed the door behind him, Hank became aware of the tension in the room. It hit him so abruptly that he felt the smile tighten awkwardly on his lips. Gram and his brother were staring at each other like fighters waiting for the gong to sound.

“You told me he was going fishing,” Grant said in a hard, bitter voice.

Duke smiled carelessly. “Maybe I got it mixed up,” he said. “No harm done, eh, Eddie?”

Hank felt the edge of warning in his brother’s voice. And then he saw that Grant was holding a gun in his pocket; the muzzle made a round, unmistakable bulge against the cloth of the jacket.

Hank’s arms moved out from his body, an instinctive preparation for trouble. Grant glanced at him, and Hank realized he was behaving foolishly; this trouble didn’t concern him. It was between Duke and Grant. Maybe he’d walked in on an argument.

Hank took out his cigarettes and moved between the two men, trying to ignore the tension in the room. But this wasn’t easy; the gun in Grant’s hand was now pointed squarely at his own stomach. “The plane we chartered developed engine trouble,” he said. “We had to postpone our trip, so I thought I’d drive over and say hello.”

“Postponed your trip?” Grant’s eyes were hard and cold. “For how long?”

“Just a few hours,” Hank said. He offered his cigarettes to Grant, making an effort to reduce the curious strain with this commonplace gesture. But Grant shook his head, and continued to study him suspiciously. What are they afraid of? Hank thought. And with that came a fear he hadn’t felt for a long, long time: what was his brother mixed up in now? “You found the rum, I hope,” he said, glancing at Duke.

“Sure, we found it,” Duke said heartily; his manner was suddenly effusive and cordial. “Eddie and I started working on it, too, don’t worry.” Laughing he put his hands on Hank’s shoulders, and looked him up and down, grinning in what seemed to be pleased and genuine astonishment. “Kid, this is great. It calls for a drink all around. How the hell long has it been? Five years, eh?”

“Almost eight,” Hank said.

“Ye gods! That long! Eddie, I haven’t seen this kid brother of mine for eight years.”

The tension in the room had eased, Hank saw; Grant’s hand had come out of his pocket, and Duke had switched over to a favorite role, the boisterous, high-spirited, life-of-the-party.

Grant put out his big square hand, and said, “It’s nice to meet you, Hank.” He was smiling, but the effort did nothing but tighten the network of wrinkles around his curiously pale eyes. “It was nice of you to let us use your place for our confab.”

Duke put an arm around Hank’s shoulder and hugged him roughly. “Did you think he’d tell me to get lost when I needed a favor?” He grinned at Grant. “We Farrels stick together. Right, kid?”

“Sure,” Hank said shortly. He didn’t like the feel of his brother’s arm on his shoulders. And he didn’t like the unctuous good humor they were exuding now; in its way this was more ominous than the fear and tension of a moment ago. What were they covering up?

Duke let his hands drop to his sides, and Hank saw the change in his smile, the hardening around his eyes and mouth. Duke had sensed his coldness, he knew. This was a gift of his brother’s, a shrewd, intuitive awareness of what people were feeling and thinking. Particularly if they were trying to hide anything; he had an instinctive flair for fear and guilt. Smiling at Grant, Duke said, “Hank and I had our troubles, but we kept them in the family. Sometimes I had to teach him a little respect for his big brother.” He rapped his knuckles lightly against Hank’s stomach. “You remember those little lessons, eh, kid?”

“I learned a lot from you,” Hank said slowly.

“And now you’re all grown up,” Duke said. Studying his brother, Duke’s smile was tentative, faintly challenging. “Let’s see, you’re twenty-eight, eh? And you’ve been off to the wars. I read that you got some kind of a decoration. It was in the home-town paper, right on the front page with a picture of you and everything. That was something, having you turn out to be a hero.”

He sighed and slapped his bad leg. “The doctors just told me to go home and buy war bonds.”

Hank realized with relief that Duke’s self-pity didn’t touch him at all; in fact it struck him as slightly comical. “How many did you buy?” he said casually.

For an instant Duke looked startled. Then he recovered and punched Hank on the arm. “Hey, they turned you into a humorist.”

Hank smiled at him, savoring the awareness of his own freedom. The old slavery was over and done with. He knew that now. He could face Duke without fear or shame, without the guilty sense of responsibility that had oppressed him all his life. The eight years on his own had cut the bonds that held him to his brother. He had been sure it would be this way: he had felt free of Duke. But he’d been compelled to put it to the test. That was why he had driven back here tonight...

Duke was a stranger to him now, he thought, studying the bold, heavy features, the cold eyes recessed under a jutting ridge of forehead. A guy who’d thrown away his chances, who had drank or fought his way out of every job he’d had, and who blamed the world for all his troubles. He doesn’t mean a thing to me any more. Even the bad leg meant nothing. I ruined that leg, and it doesn’t bother me at all, he thought. Hank realized that he had never seen Duke clearly until this instant. The image of his brother had always been distorted by fear and guilt. But now the picture was sharply and vividly in focus. A bully, a liar... Was this what I feared? he thought, with a touch of bitterness.

He was surprised at his lack of feeling. There was no pity left in him, no mercy, nothing. It was all gone, paid out in blackmail to Duke over the years. In hourly installments...

“Well, let’s have that drink,” Grant said, directing the impatience in his voice at Duke. “Your brother’s got to be on his way, I guess.”

Hank glanced at his watch as Duke limped into the kitchen. “Yes, I don’t have much time,” he said, moving toward the fireplace. Why were they so anxious to get rid of him? “This feels pretty good,” he said, stripping off his jacket and holding out his hands to the welcome heat. And why was Grant carrying a gun?

“It’s getting colder, I think,” Grant said. There wasn’t much resemblance between the brothers, he thought. Hank was light-colored and quick, with short sandy hair, and slim, rangy body. A deceptive kind of build. So smooth and easy that you didn’t figure it for anything else. But he saw the power in Hank’s big bony wrists, and the suggestion of speed in the way he moved and handled himself. He was taller than his big brother, but Duke had forty pounds on him, all of it in his massive shoulders and arms. The kid, that’s what Duke called him. But Grant wondered. This didn’t look like a kid to him. Not with that jaw, and the hard, serious face. There was a thin white scar across his forehead, and this added to his grave, businesslike appearance; the scar drew a permanent frown above his eyes. He didn’t have Duke’s wildness or violence, but he’d be harder to handle than he looked, Grant knew. But he wasn’t worried about a physical showdown.

What worried him was that the kid seemed sharp and alert, nobody’s fool. He’d seen the gun. Grant was sure of that. So what would he do? Have a drink with them, wave a big good-by — and then head for the cops? Could they let him go?

Grant drifted across the room toward the fireplace. “You got a fine spot here,” he said, his eyes going toward the ceiling. Everything was quiet up there. Maybe this would work out. Maybe they could send him off thinking nothing was wrong. “You know, you gave me a real jolt when you knocked,” he said. His laugh was a good effort, solid and cheerful, but just a bit embarrassed. “I’m a city boy, and too much peace and quiet gets on my nerves. Duke said nobody ever came by here, and when you banged on the door—” He laughed and shook his head. “I damn near went out of my skin. Look!” He took the revolver from his pocket and showed it to Hank. “That’s how nervous I was. I don’t know what I expected. A gang of drunken Indians maybe.”

“I’m sorry I startled you,” Hank said, smiling easily. “But this is pretty peaceful country. We haven’t had an Indian raid up here for weeks.”

Grant laughed and dropped the gun into his pocket. “But I didn’t know that,” he said.

“You might get in some target practice on the river,” Hank said. He was still smiling, playing out the farce. “But don’t waste time looking for Indians.”

A footstep sounded above them, and Hank glanced at the ceiling. Grant cleared his throat and said, “My wife will be sorry she missed you. She was pretty tired after the drive.”

“Maybe another time,” Hank said.

“Sure.”

Duke came into the room carrying a tray of hot rum drinks, his manner charged with a jovial bustle. “Here we are,” he said, “the old pain-killer.” The pungent smell of the liquor was sharp in the warm room. Firelight blazed on the satin-smooth pine floor, and sun glinted brightly on the clean windowpanes. A cute picture, Hank thought, taking a glass from Duke. Add a gun though, and it didn’t look so cute.

“Well, I hit the jackpot this time, kid,” Duke said, grinning at him. “Eddie and I can’t miss.”

“Let’s drink to that,” Hank said. Duke had written vaguely about his connection with Grant: a mail-order business, no overhead, vast profits and so forth. Hank had heard this sort of thing before. Duke was always just one step away from the pot of gold. Then something went wrong. Never through his fault, of course.

“You’ll have to get used to me being a big shot,” Duke said. He winked at Grant. “The kid was always after me to make something out of myself. Be a credit to the family. Like he was.” Duke’s voice was good-humored, but there was a needle in his manner.

Hank found the old mockery faintly tiresome. And this pleased him. Another bond broken...

Grant put his empty glass on the mantel and glanced at his watch. “That was a rough drive,” he said, covering a yawn with his hand. “I hate to be a killjoy, but I’m going to turn in.”

As Hank put his glass down, footsteps sounded above them, moving with a sense of determination and urgency. Looking up, he caught the sharp, warning glance that flicked between Grant and his brother. Then a woman’s voice, high with anger and desperation, cut through the silence.

“You can’t keep a baby in this icebox. She’ll die up here!”

“Now, now, don’t shout so!” It was another voice, soothing but stem, speaking as an adult might speak to a difficult child.

“Stay here, Duke,” Grant said. He stared at Hank, then turned and started up the stairs, his thick legs driving like pistons beneath his heavy, powerful body.

Duke closed the door behind him and looked at his brother with a lazy little smile. “You can always trust dames to provide some fireworks,” he said. “Don’t worry though, it doesn’t sound serious.”

“It doesn’t sound exactly cheerful,” Hank said. He heard Grant’s voice then, sharp and angry, and above it the note of desperation in the girl’s protest.

“Family squabbles usually sound like four-alarm fires,” Duke said. Leaning against the door he seemed completely at ease; he was like a fighter facing an opponent he had no reason to take seriously. “Just forget it, kid,” he said.

“Who’s the girl?” Hank said. “And who’s the baby she’s worried about?”

Duke glanced toward the sound of the argument upstairs, and then sighed and shrugged — gestures that suggested good-natured capitulation. “I guess you got a right to know,” he said. “It’s your house. The girl is Grant’s daughter. And the baby belongs to her. It’s a real cute little baby. But Grant’s daughter just doesn’t happen to have any real cute little husband.” Duke smiled whimsically. “You know how it is. People make mistakes.”

An ominous little chill went through Hank as he realized that Duke was lying to him. “That’s a shame,” he said casually. The instinct for survival had made him an authority on his brother’s poses; Duke’s shifting and deceptive masks had been an anxious preoccupation of his for years. And now he knew that Duke was lying. The lazy smile, the air of worldly compassion — they were both false. Underneath that indolent façade Duke’s muscles were tightening for trouble.

“It’s a shame, all right,” Duke said, sighing heavily. “And it’s a load on Grant. That’s why he acts so damn jumpy. Maybe you noticed it. His daughter is a hot-tempered kid, and they aren’t hitting it off so well. He was hoping they could patch things up if they had a little peace and quiet.”

“This is the place for it,” Hank said. Would they let him go? he wondered. Would they risk it?

The argument above them reached a climax. Grant shouted something, a door slammed with a crash and the echo of the two sounds trembled through the house, fading slowly into silence.

Duke sighed and took out his cigarettes. “Old Eddie’s got his troubles,” he said. “We were in our share of scrapes, but we never handed the old man that particular kind of headache. Eh, kid?” He smiled and offered the cigarettes to Hank. “Want one of these?”

“Thanks.” Hank accepted a cigarette and tapped it against the back of his hand, playing along with Duke’s mood of casual indifference. But he knew that Duke was watching him closely; over the flame of the match his brother’s eyes were sharp with speculation.

Would they let him go now? Hank wondered, as he heard Grant coming down the stairs. A little earlier they had been eager to get rid of him. But there was something wrong here. And they might wonder what he thought, what he suspected...

“Well, I’ve got to be on my way,” he said, as Grant stepped into the room. Turning, he strolled over to the chair where he had left his jacket. He didn’t want to look at either of them just now. Something in his face might give him away. While his back was turned they would make their decision about him...

“It was fine seeing you again, Duke,” he said, picking up his jacket. “And you, too, Eddie. I’m just sorry I couldn’t stay longer.”

“Sure, kid,” Duke said. “Let’s don’t put off the next reunion quite so long, eh?”

“Of course not,” Hank said. He laughed. “Eight more years and we’ll be old men.”

They were settling the issue now, with a glance, a gesture...

Hank turned slowly, frowning at his wrist watch. This was the appropriate gesture for the charade he was acting out — concern over time. “I’ll have to hurry,” he said, glancing up at Grant.

And then he saw they didn’t intend to let him go.

Grant was standing six feet from him, big hands hanging limply at his sides. There was no expression at all in his broad, strangely old face; even his eyes were blank and unrevealing. Duke stood with his elbow resting on the mantel, his teeth flashing in a smile against his healthy brown skin.

It was the smile that gave them away. Hank knew that smile; as a boy he had learned to watch for it with dread. It was a special smile, mettlesome and reckless, and it meant that trouble was on the way. Trouble for someone else...

Grant cleared his throat, and the sound was hard and significant in the waiting silence. “How long out to the airport?”

“About a half an hour,” Hank said, as casually as he could manage it. He moved closer to Grant. They weren’t expecting trouble, he realized; they didn’t rate him that high. “Well, it was pleasant meeting you, Eddie,” he said. “I hope you and Duke make a mint.”

“We kind of expect to,” Grant said, without smiling. There was an edge of sarcasm to his voice. “Next time maybe you can stay longer, kid.”

“Sure thing,” Hank said, still smiling. Grant’s hand was moving slowly toward his coat pocket and Hank thought, now — Deliberately, almost casually, he flipped his bulky woolen jacket into Duke’s face and then he slugged Grant in the stomach with his right hand, putting every bit of strength and weight behind the blow. The move was so fast and unexpected that both men were caught completely off guard; Duke stumbled toward the mantel, and Grant went for his gun in a desperate reflex, just as Hank’s fist sank into his stomach and smashed the air from his body.

Grant shouted hoarsely as the pain doubled him up, and the sounds came out of his straining throat in convulsive gasps. The gun was almost clear of his pocket but his fingers were too weak to hold it; Hank tore it away from him, and swung the butt down heavily against the back of his head. As Grant went to the floor, his body sprawling in a slack, clumsy heap, Hank stepped back quickly and twisted the gun up to cover his brother.

Duke had recovered his balance, and was staring at him in what seemed to be complete bewilderment. “What’s got into you, kid?” he said, in a high, shocked voice.

“Don’t move,” Hank said.

“Have you gone crazy? Is that what they taught you in the army? To slug people for no reason at all?” Duke took a limping step toward his brother. “Eddie’s a friend of mine,” he said angrily. “He may be dying, you crazy fool.”

“I told you to stay put,” Hank said.

Duke stopped, his eyes flicking to the gun. “You’re acting damn strange,” he said slowly. “You’re in bad trouble, kid. There are laws about breaking people’s skulls open.” Shrugging, he moved toward Hank. “But maybe we can square this. I’m your brother, remember.”

“Don’t take any bets on brotherly love,” Hank said. The gun in his hand was steady on Duke’s stomach. “I want to know what’s going on here.”

“You sure grew up,” Duke said thoughtfully. His manner had changed; he seemed relaxed and at ease, and there was an approving little smile on his lips. “I couldn’t have handled Grant any better myself. They taught you that in the army, eh?” He stood indolently, lazily, a sleepy glaze altering the look in his eyes.

But Hank wasn’t fooled; he knew how fast Duke could move from any position.

“You’re real tough,” Duke said, grinning. “But that gun is on safe.”

“You heard that one in the movies,” Hank said. “Just stand nice and quiet.” Stepping over Grant’s body he put a hand on the knob of the upstairs door.

“Wait!” Duke said.

“There’s nothing to wait for.”

“Wait, for God’s sake,” Duke cried, and Hank stopped short, arrested by the desperation and fear in his brother’s voice and eyes. Watch yourself now, he thought, as Duke rubbed a hand over his forehead with a despairing gesture.

“You’ve got to help me, kid,” Duke said. “I got nobody else. You’ve got to help me.”

“What kind of trouble are you in?”

“I tried to keep you out of this,” Duke said, rubbing his hands on the sides of his trousers. “I wanted you to go, to get out of here. You know that, don’t you?”

“What are you mixed up in?” Hank said coldly; he knew Duke too well to pity him.

“Grant lied to me,” Duke said, his voice rising sharply. “You’ve got to believe that. Grant said it was a stick-up. I was broke, kid. I went along with it, because I was broke. I was supposed to drive, that’s all. I didn’t know about the baby. I’ll swear to that on my knees.”

A chill went through Hank. “What in God’s name are you talking about?”

“It’s a kidnaping, a snatch,” Duke said in a rough, trembling voice. He turned away from his brother and rubbed his hand across his lips. “Grant suckered me into it. But I tried to get you away from here, kid. You know I did.”

Hank stared at his brother, feeling the straining silence beating at his ears. He was conscious of his pounding heart, the sound of his breathing, the cold butt of the gun in the palm of his hand. “You crazy fool,” he said, barely whispering the words.

“It wasn’t my fault.” Duke stared down at Grant, his big chest rising and falling rapidly. “He lied to me, the bastard. You think I’d touch a kidnaping with my eyes open?”

“Who’s the girl upstairs?”

“The baby’s nurse. We had to take her along.” Duke wet his lips. “What are you going to do, kid?”

“I’m calling the police. Now.”

“It’ll be the end of me. Think of that, for God’s sake.”

“If the cops believe your story you may get a break.”

“They won’t believe me,” Duke said harshly. “I’ve done time. That’s all a cop cares about. I’m wrong to start with. It’s a form bet. That’s the way their minds work. No, they’ll burn me.” He raised his hands desperately, imploringly. “You got to help me, kid.”

“No,” Hank said.

“Listen to me for a second. That’s all I’m asking.”

“No.” Stepping around Grant he moved carefully toward the phone, holding the gun on his brother. He was aware of his danger now. There was a woman upstairs with the nurse. She might be armed.

Duke moved sideways with him, edging slowly toward the telephone. “Give me a break, kid,” he said hoarsely. “Just till tomorrow morning. The baby goes home then. Grant’s taking her back. It will be all done, finished. In just ten or twelve hours. Give me that much of a break.”

“Not a chance.”

“Listen, kid! If the cops bust in here that baby’s going to get hurt. Grant will use her to cover himself. Let’s get her out of here before the fireworks start. Isn’t that smarter? Or don’t you give a damn?” Duke’s voice rose angrily. “You want to be the big hero, is that it? Call the cops, get your name in the paper. But supposing the baby is killed. Will that make you happy?”

Hank said gently, “The baby isn’t going to be killed. I’ll shoot you and Grant first. You’d better believe that.”

“Don’t talk that way,” Duke said, shaking his head quickly. “This is Duke, remember. Your brother, kid.” His lips were trembling, and his limp was very pronounced as he dragged himself across the floor. “We can make a deal, kid. Let Grant take the baby home. Then I’ll go with you to the cops. They’d believe me then. We’d turn Grant in.” He wet his lips. “Just a few hours. That’s all I’m asking. I don’t want to die, kid.”

Unconsciously, Hank hesitated. He wanted to believe him; that had always been his trouble. Even now, listening to his wheedling lies, he wanted to believe him. The story about Grant — it could have happened that way, he thought.

And Duke, six feet from the phone now, watched him with narrowing eyes. “What do you say, kid? Just a few hours?” With what seemed an immense effort, he shifted himself closer to the phone. “You can’t blame me for wanting to stay alive. It’s not much fun with one leg, but it’s better than nothing, I guess. How about it?”

“No,” Hank said sharply. Duke’s words were beginning to work on him. “No deals, no stalls.”

“Go ahead and shoot then!” Duke leaped sideways for the phone, his big body moving with the speed and precision of a pouncing cat. “Shoot me, hero,” he said, bringing his hand down with a crash on the receiver. “Kill me. That’s what you want.” The slackness was gone from his body; he was like an animal ready to charge; his muscles were drawn up tight, his weight was balanced on the springs of his legs. Crouching low, an arm swinging wide, he laughed bitterly, and said, “Go ahead, pull the trigger. They taught you about guns, didn’t they? What are you afraid of?”

“Get away from that phone,” Hank said softly. “I don’t want to shoot you, Duke.”

“You don’t want to shoot!” Duke said, in a hard, mocking voice. “Have you sold yourself that lie? You always hated me. You want to blow me to hell. So here’s your chance. Haven’t you got the guts?”

“You’re raving,” Hank said. “Get away from that phone.”

“Raving?” Duke brought his hand down against the thigh of his bad leg, and the sound was like a piston shot in the silence. “You did that, remember. You tried to kill me when you were a kid. Now you want the cops to finish the job for you.”

“You’ve got a lot of mileage out of that accident,” Hank said, and his voice was as bitter as his brother’s. “You’ve been whining about it for twenty years. Don’t you think that’s enough?”

“Sure it’s boring,” Duke said. “You try limping through life and see if it’s boring or not. We called it an accident, didn’t we? Everybody covered up for little Hank, the boy with the matches and the yen for homicide.”

“Shut up,” Hank said.

“Don’t want to talk about it, eh?” Duke laughed as he saw the tense frown tightening on his brother’s forehead. “Of course you don’t, kid. It’s no fun to talk about your mistakes. And you made a big one. Because you didn’t kill me. But you tried, by God. Doesn’t that make you feel better? You set the fire, and walked away from it. You knew I was sleeping upstairs. And you didn’t think I’d wake up. But I did. And I jumped. I stayed alive.”

“Get away from that phone.” Hank rubbed the scar on his forehead, and then dropped his hand guiltily to his side; it was a gesture of confusion and anxiety that he hadn’t used for years. And he realized with a sudden sickening fear that Duke could still hurt him.

“Am I boring you now?” Duke said, in a low, passionate voice. He took a step toward Hank, staring at him with sullen, furious eyes. “That jump put an end to football and track for me. You can’t run with a stiff knee, kid. Paste that away with your collection of interesting, but little-known facts. I was All-State in my sophomore year, the first time that ever happened in Wisconsin. Lots of things ended with that jump, kid.” Watching the frown deepen on his brother’s face, he laughed bitterly. “And lots of things started. Limping around like a crab. Taking side streets to school because I didn’t like dragging myself down Charles Avenue for everybody to stare at. Watching other guys play football, and running on the beach. That all started it for me. And ducking away from girls who wanted to tell me they didn’t mind that I walked like a crane with a broken leg.” Duke laughed again, but his eyes were alive with scorn and anger. “You never knew about this, I guess. You got all the sympathy. ‘Mustn’t let little Hank know he tried to bum his brother up like a pig on a spit. That might give him nightmares!’ Sure, that’s what they said. Poor Hank!”

“A spark from the fireplace set the rug on fire,” Hank said in a low, savage voice. “When I woke the room was full of smoke. I couldn’t get up the stairs to wake you.”

Staring at the fury in his brother’s face, he knew he was fighting for his freedom, for his very life. Duke’s words had stormed against him, scattering his resolution into splintered fragments. He’d been a fool to underestimate him, to think he had earned his freedom without striking a blow.

“An accident,” he said again, gathering all his strength for what he must say next; this had been in his mind for years, evolving from his tortuous examination and reassessment of his relationship with Duke. Now he said coldly, “You loved being a martyr. It gave you an excuse to be any kind of a heel you wanted. You always had an out. A cripple could get away with a murder — if he was a phony to start with. You used that stiff knee to blackmail people for pity and sympathy and forgiveness — and anything else you could squeeze out of them.”

“I told you were full of hate,” Duke said softly. “Can’t you hear it in your voice?”

“No,” Hank said. He was breathing hard, his chest rising and falling quickly. “Get away from that phone.”

“Why did you hate me?” Duke went on. “You had a good life, didn’t you? You went off to the wars while I limped around with the women and children. You loved that, didn’t you? Being the hero at last, picture in the paper for shooting some Korean slobs in the back. You pushed me aside all right — it’s easy to do with a guy who has only one leg. But you’re still not satisfied,” Duke said, taking a half-step toward him. “You want to hand me over to the cops. You want them to bum me. But they won’t do your dirty work. You’ll have to shoot me yourself. Go ahead, you crawling little bastard. Go ahead and shoot.”

Hank tried to squeeze the trigger, but his fingers were numb and helpless. “I don’t want to kill you,” he said, wetting his lips. Without realizing it his free hand had moved to touch the thin, white scar on his forehead.

Duke grinned suddenly. “You aren’t going to kill anybody at all, kid.” His eyes shifted past Hank’s shoulder. “Is he, Eddie?”

Hank spun around, a cold shock of fear streaking through his body. He saw Grant lying on the floor, limp and motionless, and he knew that he’d been tricked, that he’d lost everything...

His reactions were anticlimactic; spinning around, he tried to bring the gun back on Duke, but it was far too late for that. The edge of Duke’s hand struck his wrist and sent the gun spinning halfway across the room. And before he could raise his hands, Duke’s first blow snapped his head back and the second caught him alongside the jaw and knocked him reeling against the wall.

Duke came after him quickly, his eyes measuring him for destruction. He was grinning now, and his teeth flashed against his dark skin. “You poor fool,” he said, beginning to laugh.

Hank couldn’t get his hands up; they felt as if weights were riveted to his wrists. He had forgotten the power in Duke’s fists. He had forgotten so much...

Duke hit him with clinical precision, once in the stomach, once along the jaw, his arms swinging with the finality of an executioner’s stroke. He was laughing as he hit, and that was what Hank heard as he fell toward the spreading blackness at his feet...