Extreme Justice: A Ben Kincaid Novel of Suspense

Chapter 4

WITH HIS LAST bit of strength he managed to propel the rolled-up rug into the back of his van. It landed with a heavy thud, reminding him of its fragile contents.

“Sorry about that,” he gasped as if the corpse might actually hear. “Couldn’t be helped.”

Bracing himself against the van for support, he turned around … and jumped almost a foot into the air.

There was a man standing directly behind him, someone he’d never seen before. He was white, middle-aged, and entirely bald. As soon as they made eye contact, the man plastered a smile on his face so earnest it was almost vomit-inducing.

“Charlie Conrad,” the man said, jabbing his hand forward. “Friends call me Chuck.”

Seeing no escape, he took Chuck’s hand and shook it.

“Just moved into the place next door,” Chuck explained. “Been meanin’ to come say howdy to the neighbors, but hadn’t gotten around to it. Then I saw you out here haulin’ this rug and thought, Well, Chuck, maybe this is the time. Maybe you ought to go do the right neighborly thing and give the man a helpin’ hand.”

So that was it. Of all the damned luck.

Chuck bounced from one foot to the other, filling the awkward emptiness created by the other man’s failure to speak. “So … what kind of work do you do, anyway?”

He cleared his throat. “I’m in … consulting.”

“Consulting. Oh, well. I see.” Chuck continued his annoying bouncing. “Must be interesting work.”

“Yes, it is.” He started to turn away.

Chuck stopped him with another question. “What exactly does that mean—consulting?”

He took a deep breath. “It means other people bring me their problems and … I try to solve them.”

“Oh. I see.” Chuck began to fidget with his hands. “Well, that must be—must be damned interesting work.”

“Yes, it is.”

Chuck pointed toward the interior of the van. “So what’ve you got in there?”

“It’s nothing. Nothing at all.”

“Looks like a rug.” Chuck pressed forward, inching toward the van,

“Yes, that’s what it is.”

“You know, my grandmother had a rug like this.” Chuck reached forward to touch it.

The man slapped his hand away. “Stop!”

Chuck drew back, startled. “But—”

“It s—it s very dirty.”

“Oh.”

He reached for the back van door. “If you’ll excuse me—”

“You’ve got a stain on your rug.”

He turned slowly around to peer into the van, fearing the worst. His fears were not misplaced. A dark black stain was seeping through the bottom of the rug. Blood.

He glanced back at Chuck. His expression had changed. His smile had disappeared.

Slowly, with no great movement, the man slid his hand inside his jacket and touched the long silver serrated knife tucked inside its sheath.

Chuck cleared his throat. “Is that stain what I think it is?”

The man gripped the hilt of the knife. He could have it out in a second, he calculated. He could have it out and slit this fool’s throat before he knew what was happening. “And what do you think it is?”

Chuck shook his head. “Coffee.”

The hand on his knife relaxed. “Coffee?”

“Yeah. Coffee stains are the worst. You just can’t get them out. I suppose that’s why you’re hauling it away.”

The man tried to smile. “That’s it exactly.”

“Do you have more to carry? I could help—”

“No, that’s all there is. But thank you.”

“Oh, not at all. Just bein’ a good neighbor. That’s what it’s all about, right?”

The man watched as Chuck lumbered back to his own domicile. That good neighbor would never know how close he came to being a dead neighbor.

He closed the back of the van, slid into the driver’s seat, turned over the ignition, and switched on the tape deck. Dr. John’s Gris-Gris. It had some moving parts. The good doctor was not bad at all, for a white boy.

He smiled contentedly as he pulled into the street, pounding the steering wheel in time with the pulsating jazz rhythm streaming out of the speakers. Almost showtime!