Death by the Book

~17~

She wore all the right gear for a morning gallop: tight black boots, biscuit-brown jodhpurs, a thick high-necked white jumper and a powder-red raincoat. A belt hung loosely around the buttoned waist. She carried a black riding helmet in her right hand, a stiff black riding crop in the other. Her hair was tied back, her cheeks flushed, her nose a little pinched and shiny. Country morning fresh. The stable boys must have fallen over themselves to help her into the saddle.

Jack watched her face: if she was surprised to see him, only she knew about it. There was a slight hesitation in her stride as she looked up at the house and scanned the windows, but she kept on coming. Then she was standing in front of him, keeping the one step up into the alcove between them.

“Nice ride?” asked Jack.

“What are you doing here?”

“Working. You?”

She looked over his shoulder into the house. “It’s not how it looks.”

“You haven’t seen the view from here.”

“We brought Louisa down to stay. Our house is under siege from reporters. She doesn’t need the drama.”

Jack nodded, smoked. He flicked ash from the cigarette. “These country millionaires come in handy sometimes.”

“Don’t be like that. My father isn’t back yet and we … I …”

“It must be great for your daughter to see her parents cooperating so well. Putting her first. I mean, with the divorce and everything.”

Annabelle turned away.

Jack looked at the side of her face, taking in every detail. All he could confirm was that she was beautiful. “Comfortable night?” he asked.

“Shall I show you where I slept?”

“It’s still early. No need to disturb anyone.”

“You’re a prick.”

“When I’m in the mood.”

Annabelle stepped up into the alcove and went to walk past him.

Jack grabbed her by the arm and pulled her close. “You want to tell me what the fuck’s going on?”

“I just told you.” She tried to shake her arm free. “Let go of me!”

He released her. Her eyes were hard and unfriendly and Jack had the feeling that everything between them had just evaporated. Maybe there had been nothing to begin with.

He turned away and threw his cigarette to the ground. He looked out over the smooth billiard-felt lawns and into the tall wet trees along the stone-walled boundary, and up the slope at the smoky horizon. Maybe what he needed to do was go for a long walk. Clear his head. A hundred miles ought to do it.

“Jack.” Annabelle was still standing behind him. “Please.” Her voice was softer now, a tone of helplessness at its edges. “You have to understand. Louisa is having a rough time and now all this has happened, too. My father’s away and I’m in the house alone. I don’t have that many options.”

“I’d say you had more than one.” Jack kept his back to her, waited. Nobody moved, nobody spoke.

“Jesus, you think I want to be here?”

Jack turned around, slowly. “You telling me you can’t afford a hotel?” he said, feeling heat rise up his back. “Or a quick trip to New York, Hong Kong, London, Paris, wherever the fuck you want?”

She gave him a look of contempt. “It’s not that simple.”

“Yeah, right. All that bank balance but not five cents’ worth of imagination.” He shook his head. “It’s bullshit.”

“Oh, if only you were rich, if only you had money!” Annabelle sneered. “There’d be nothing to worry about, would there? No problems, no dramas, everything would be perfect all the time. God, you’d be so fucking good at it, wouldn’t you, Jack?”

“That’s not what I’m talking about.”

“Yeah, right.” Annabelle lowered her voice. “Everything I’ve got can be taken away from me. Do you understand? Louisa. Money. My whole future. You think it’s easy for me?”

“Must be terrible. Did the horse ride help?”

“Fuck you! What the hell do you know about any of it?”

“I know a load of crap when I hear it.”

Annabelle threw her helmet at him.

Jack moved to his left and caught it. He grinned, turned the helmet over in his hands a few times and then put it on his head. It was a couple of sizes too small. “What about the whip?”

Annabelle came up and pushed him hard in the chest. The helmet fell off and rolled down the step, out onto the driveway gravel.

“You think you know everything, don’t you?” she said, holding the whip down by her leg like a knife. “I’m just the sad, little rich girl with too much money and time and nothing to do?” She moved in closer and hissed at him. “Nothing to do but fuck good-looking bastards like you?”

“Thanks for the compliment.”

She pushed him again.

“Hey, I’m just after a straight answer,” he said, frowning. “All you keep giving me is right angles.”

“Straight answer to what? I’m stuck between a bad mistake that won’t go away and a twisted old bastard that happens to be my father. Neither of them gives a shit about me and both of them can take it all away. Straight enough for you?”

“So what do you want from me?” said Jack. “Pick you up and ride you out to my castle?”

“Your castle?” Annabelle Kasprowicz laughed. A hard, nasty laugh. Jack flushed a hot shade. Women always knew where to aim the high heel.

He grabbed her wrist. It was soft and thin and the thought flashed through his mind that he could snap it like a matchstick. He eased his grip. Annabelle let her shoulders sag and Jack sensed her body relinquishing. He brought his other hand up and took hold of her chin. He pushed her head back a little and turned it to the side, like he was inspecting it for flaws. She let him. She was flawless. A tear slipped down over her perfect cheekbone. Jack watched it reach his finger.

He had not heard the approaching footsteps.

“Get the fuck away from my wife.”

Annabelle made a noise but swallowed it. Jack let go of her and looked up. Durst had come through the front door, holding a shotgun. He held it with a certain professional nonchalance, like a butler might hold a towel on his arm for the Duke of Gloucester. The butt was tucked under his elbow and the smooth black, under-and-over barrels stretched out across his forearm, open.

Durst snapped the gun shut. Jack had not had time to notice if it was loaded. The two dark cylinders pointed at his kneecaps. Suddenly they looked about a mile long.

“You’re a son of a bitch,” said Durst. He lifted the shotgun a little higher and pointed it precisely at Jack’s balls.

Clifford Harris walked out of the house and stood beside Durst, a double-barrel resting over his forearm, too. It looked more of an antique, the barrels side-by-side old style and engraved with Spanish-looking motifs, as was the stock and grip. He had been smiling as he walked out but when he saw Jack and Annabelle and then Durst, he stopped.

“What’s going on?”

Durst and Harris wore identical, shiny brown leather vests with red and black cartridges slipped into ammunition sleeves cut into them — two sets of five over the chest, two more sets of five directly below. Between them they had enough to make a mess of a small family of woolly mammoths. Jack wondered if he should call out for MacAllister.

“That’s the second gun I’ve seen you with in three days,” he said to Durst. “You compensating for something?”

Annabelle moved towards him. “Jack, don’t.”

“Get the fuck inside,” snarled Durst at her. “Go find your daughter.”

“Don’t talk to me like that!” She spun around and advanced on Durst. The riding crop went up into the air. Durst grabbed her by the arm and pulled her aside. She stumbled and hit the alcove wall with her shoulder. Jack took a step forwards. Durst lifted the shotgun higher.

“Easy, lover boy.”

“You fuck!” cried Annabelle.

Clifford Harris put a hand on Durst’s shoulder. “Settle down. I think it’s best if we just ask Mr Susko to be on his way.”

Durst’s shotgun had moved slightly when he grabbed his ex-wife. Jack’s balls were safe again. He took a quick step forward and swung a right at Durst’s head: chin, cheek, eye, neck, anywhere was just fine. He connected mostly with ear, and a little with the area in front, where the jaw attaches to the skull. Fairy floss would be on the good doctor’s menu until Christmas. Durst stumbled backwards. Jack moved with him; a second later his left came round at the end of a tight, right-angled jab and caught Durst square on the chin. It looked good, much prettier than the first punch. Durst’s head snapped back again. The shotgun fell from his hands onto the flagstones. Annabelle yelled something and Harris moved at the edges of Jack’s vision, but Jack only had eyes for Durst. He grabbed a handful of leather vest and pulled Durst forward, away from the wall and into some space. He let go with another right, straight into the guts: the money shot, the one Jack had been saving up since the first time they met. All the air in Durst’s lungs blew out with a loud ooohff, like a gym mat being thrown to the floor. He went down and stayed down, curling up around his stomach and grimacing with pain.

Now they were even, with a little extra left over in the bank for Jack.

Somebody grabbed him from behind and pulled him backwards. They tried to pin his arms. Jack straightened up and threw his head back, hard as he could. He hit something bony and then heard a groan. His arms were no longer pinned. He turned around and saw MacAllister with his hands on his face.

“Jesus!” cried the big man as he doubled over. “Fuck!”

Harris froze and stared at MacAllister. Jack moved quickly and snatched the shotgun out of his hands. Harris hardly seemed to notice.

“What’d you do that for?” said MacAllister, wincing. “You’ve busted my fucking nose!” He stood up again and then looked at his hands. They were covered in blood. His nose was raw and swollen. He spat on the ground. “Jesus!”

Annabelle went over to Jack and grabbed his arm. “You should go.” She glanced down at Durst, still curled up on the flagstones, and then nodded at MacAllister. “Go on, just go. Help him to your car.”

Jack leaned the shotgun on the wall behind him. His arms were very heavy. He could feel his heartbeat pound in his fists. He guided MacAllister to the Volvo and helped him into the passenger side. Then he got into the driver’s seat. Annabelle waved him away and turned to Harris. They started to argue. Jack glanced up at Kininmonth and saw Annabelle’s daughter, Louisa, staring down from one of the windows. He turned away and started the Volvo’s engine. He tried to tell himself it was not always the bad guys that got driven out of town.