True Detectives

CHAPTER 38

Skin and bones helped.

But even a flimsy hundred-twenty-pound sack of dehydrated sinew could wrench your arms out of their sockets when you were flat on your belly in the dirt, all scuffed up and scraped from the slide, fighting to hold on.

Gripping the damned thing by its ankles as it dangled toward oblivion, and gravity kept kicking your ass.

Book wasn't resisting.

But he wasn't helping, either.

Idiot just hung there, silent, limp. Deadweight. A weird kind of patience-like he was just waiting for Aaron to let go of his ankles so he could do his thing.

Not so easy, you sick, pathetic, murderous bastard.

Having another set of hands on board would've fixed the situation in seconds. Moe's power-lifter guns…

Aaron said, “Hang… in there, buddy.”

Book giggled.

“'S funny?”

“Hang in there,” said Book, in that easily recognizable, reedy but charming voice. “I'm hanging.”

Every syllable caused the idiot's body to jerk. Each twitch ratcheted up the agony in Aaron's shoulders, the searing strain in his abdomen, back, and hips.

Thank God the fool was a self-starver… Aaron felt his grip loosen, braced his toes in the dirt. Pulled up again on Book.

Again, Book slid up toward him, only to slip back as Aaron's muscles failed to stand up to the increased pressure. This time, the downward jolt nearly caused him to lose his hold. The pain in his shoulders was unbearable.

Sucking in breath, concentrating, focusing, thinking of dead people, a dead baby, how this asshole wasn't going to weasel out so easily, he said, “Press your hands against the side of the mountain, buddy. So that you're not just hanging there loose.”

“It's not a mountain,” said Book. “It's a hill.”

“Whatever.”

Book giggled again. Like this was just another role. Asshole.

“Do it-brace yourself.”

“Why?”

“I…” gritting his teeth, “said so.”

Book didn't respond.

“Do it.” Aaron's jaws clenched tighter. His hands felt ready to detach from his wrists. A few more seconds of this and… “Do it!”

“Okay, okay.” Whining, like the spoiled brat he was.

“Both hands. Press… hard.”

Book obeyed. Aaron's relief was immediate. Sucking in oxygen, he bore down, inhaled again and prayed and released his left hand and shimmied it up Book's scrawny calf. Getting a grip on bone and not much more.

He dug his fingernails into Book's flesh. It had to hurt. Book didn't even murmur.

Aaron let go of his right hand, dug that into Book's other calf.

“I'm going to count to three. On three, push back. Hard.”

“Huh?”

“Like you're trying to flip yourself up.”

“Wh-”

Aaron concentrated on reserving breath. Delivered his rapid speech: “Do it or I'll tell everyone about the baby and the world will find out you were no noble suicide.”

Silence.

“Do it.”

No answer.

“Baby Gabriel. People magazine, Us, the Enquirer-”

“Okay, okay,” said Book, with a catch in his throat.

“On three. You push back.” Shutting out the pain, as he marshaled his strength, Aaron felt his own legs flutter. Muscle strain? No, the damned cell was vibing again.

You've reached Fox Investigations. Mr. Fox is currently out of the office and quite possibly about to screw up royally…

“Ready, Mason?”

“You know my name.”

Imbecile.

“Of course I do. Ready?”

“Yes, sir.”

“On three. Push hard.”

“Yes, sir.”

Here goes: Action. Camera. “One. Two. Three”

Book's push was wimpy and Aaron's grip on the legs slipped, but he managed to pull Book up high enough to claw under the idiot's rib cage, continued yanking, mindlessly groping-tugging the guy upward.

Book's body flopped like that of a fought-out fish, Aaron got hold of Book's long, wild hair, yanked violently.

He dragged the bastard well clear of the cliff, dropped him harder than necessary, flat on his back. Fought for breath.

Mason Book, wearing a beard of grit and blood, looked up at Aaron with what seemed like wonderment.

Aaron stood over him, gasping, feeling his heart in his throat about to rip loose and fly out of his mouth like some bloody bird. His clothes were torn, his body felt as if it had done a full-day shift in a cement mixer. Blood all over his palms, knees, cheeks, elbows. Maybe mixed with Book's. He hoped the bastard wasn't infected with anything.

Book smiled. “I know you.”

“That so.”

“Black Angel.”