Diabolical (3 page)

Problem was, at the moment, passing out seemed like the only thing he could do.

Hatcher forced himself to relax, to let his muscles go loose. He pushed his right leg back, felt himself swing a bit, pushed it back farther. Then he brought it forward in an arcing kick, jerking it with his whole body.

The instep of his foot found its target. A square shot right between the legs.

Sherman barely flinched. Hatcher felt the clamp of fingers tighten around his neck.

“Ever since that little number the state did on me, that whole chemical-castration thing, it's just not the same, ya know? Shot to the nuts now is kind of like getting frogged. All it does is piss me off.”

As if to put an exclamation point on it, Sherman lifted Hatcher higher and slammed him down onto the roof. Tiny shards of gravel stabbed into the back of Hatcher's head and shoulders, though the sting of them seemed unimportant compared to the desperate need to breathe.

Fighting off a panic reflex, Hatcher mustered enough strength to punch at Sherman's elbow, brought down a hard chop to his forearm. He struck again and again, riding a last gasp of adrenaline, trying to find a pressure point, to weaken the man's grip. It was like hitting padded granite.

“Been on a kick-ass 'roid regimen, new stuff someone turned me on to. Comes in through Mexico. That, and daily doses of HGH. Been pumping twice a day, harder than ever. The whole time, looking forward to this.”

He slapped a palm over Hatcher's mouth and nose, pressing hard, leaning his massive frame forward to put all of his weight into his arms, pinning Hatcher down. The other hand kept squeezing Hatcher's throat.

Deprived of all air and lacking blood flow, Hatcher's vision began to fade, collapsing into a shrinking tunnel. Ambient noise grew muffled, the sound of his own pulse filled his ears.

Sherman was simply too strong, stronger than he had been, and bigger, too. Way stronger, way bigger. Hatcher felt himself start to flail, arms and legs moving frantically, without focus. His hands clawed fiercely at Sherman's skin, raking strips of it, to no avail. Only the pain in his upper back and scalp, the scores of sharp points of gravel digging into the skin like talons, enabled him to cling to consciousness. But not for much longer.

The pain. A thought flickered, sparked by the stabbing pricks in his back.

He threw his arm out, slamming his hand against the rocky roof. Bits of gravel bit into his flesh as he clawed through them. His fingers finally settled on one the size of a stick of gum. It had a thin edge. It would have to do.

Barely cognizant of his actions, Hatcher whipped his hand back toward the hand clenched around his throat. He pressed the edge of the rock hard against the inside of Sherman's wrist, just beneath the meat of his palm. Then he slashed upward.

Everything finally went dark. For a moment, darkness was all there was, all it seemed there would ever be. But then Hatcher heard something echo through the liquid-stuffiness of his ears, something like a screaming string of cuss words.

Blood surged into his head, filling it, overwhelming him with vertigo. He realized he could breathe again about the same time he realized he was no longer being choked. His skull felt engorged. His limbs felt numb and useless. He gasped for air as he tried to roll over and vomit.

Hatcher finished retching and blinked several times. He looked over to see Sherman holding his forearm out in front his body, cradling it in his other hand, wide-eyed. His flesh was split from just below his wrist to roughly a few inches short of the crook of his elbow. Blood was streaming out and spilling onto the roof.

“You little . . .
son of a
. . . you cut me! Look at this!
You cut me!
”

Still struggling for air, Hatcher crawled on all fours toward the nearest edge of the roof, coughing. He collapsed when he reached it. It took some effort to prop his shoulders against the wall. The concrete was hard and unforgiving against the back of his head. Gravel shards dug into his lower back, dozens of slivers stuck to his palms. Their sharp tips scratched at his throat as he tried to rub it. He was still having trouble getting enough air. He felt ready to vomit again any moment.

Sherman was looking down at his wound. The lower half of his forearm was drenched in blood. Thick crimson sheets of it rolled off like paint. He flexed his fist several times, causing more red to flow.

“This is gonna scar bad,” he said, tilting his head to glare at Hatcher before his expression gave way to a menacing smile. “That's another one. Ya know, before I was just gonna choke you out. Now I'm gonna rip that sorry pimple of a head of yours off while you're still breathing. Then I think I'll shove it up your ass.”

One chance, Hatcher told himself. That was all he was going to get.

“What'd you say?” Sherman asked.

Hatcher tried to clear his throat, swallowing painfully, the muscles in his neck bruised and raw.

“I said, did you get that voice in prison? Must've been a popular guy, from the sound of it.”

Sherman's smile widened. He wiped his hand on his jeans, then took off his shirt and wrapped it tight around his lower arm, tying it off.

“I'll give you this, ass-wipe. You got balls.”

“Too bad you don't, Princess.”

The smile remained on the big man's face, but the eyes were narrower now, hate and rage streaming through the slits the way water blasts through a pressure hose. Hatcher let his body settle lower, wishing he had a better plan, but thinking, times like these, you gotta take what the other guy gives you.

He took a breath, still trying to work through the pain in his throat. He forced himself to focus.
He doesn't protect his groin.

Sherman crossed the roof toward him, flexing that hand several more times. The shirt was already saturated with blood.

Even in his dazed state, Hatcher couldn't help but notice that Sherman's chest was just plain enormous, two giant peachy slabs of polished marble, squared off at the edges, the abs below them rippling like large stones implanted beneath the skin. Sherman was more than three hundred pounds, easy, and not an ounce of visible fat anywhere on him.

One chance,
Hatcher reminded himself.

Sherman bent forward as he came to a stop, straddling Hatcher's body, thrusting his arms down to snag Hatcher's throat. Hatcher slid down along the gravel as he did, his hips almost directly below Sherman's, his body between the man's ankles. He waited for Sherman's knees to bend, feeling those viselike hands wrap themselves around his neck again. The pain was immediate and excruciating.

Just . . .

A . . .

Little . . .

Lower . . .

In one continuous motion, Hatcher pulled his knees in toward his chest, curling his back, and planted his heels firmly into Sherman's crotch. Then he exploded his quadriceps into a full extension.

And prayed he had enough strength left.

Hatcher's legs buckled, but he continued to press hard and Sherman unsteadily rose into the air. For a fraction of a second, Sherman hung there, balanced, and Hatcher thought he was going to come crashing down on top of him. But then he let go of Hatcher's throat, throwing his hands onto the wall to catch himself before he slammed into it, and Hatcher was able to complete the move by rolling back, pressing against the gravel with his elbows, using inertia, extending his body and legs as far as he could. Sherman's body started to flip and he pressed himself up, a gymnast on a pommel horse, almost managing to break the momentum, until one arm slipped forward and he toppled over the edge.

Hatcher heard a thump a second later, the sharp crack of bone hitting pavement mixed in.

Massaging his throat, Hatcher lay there for a count of twenty, waiting for his airways to loosen, allowing his lungs to fill with air and his heart rate to settle. When he was certain the stars he was seeing were all in the sky, he pulled himself up and leaned over the parapet.

Sherman's body was laid out like a crime scene reenactment. The side of his head was red and pulpy. One arm was resting on its elbow, hand in the air, sort of floating in a seesaw movement back and forth. His head lolled vaguely to one side.

Crouched next to him was the guy from the bar. The look on his face struck Hatcher as one of professional intrigue, a biggame hunter examining a felled beast not his own, his eyes fixed in detached interest as he took in the size and majesty of the exotic creature stretched out before him. He gave a slight shake to his head, and what looked like a bemused chuckle, before looking up at Hatcher and pulling his cheeks into a smile.

“Nice work,” he said. He jutted his chin, gesturing with it. “Check your six. Third of a click.”

Hatcher twisted to peer over his shoulder. Beyond the roof of the building to his rear, across Pacific Street, two people stood on a motel balcony, a man and a woman, watching from a third-floor railing that overlooked the street. The man was wearing a suit, tan, expensive-looking. He was trim, with short, silvery hair. The woman was younger, blonde, wearing a gray skirt and dark blouse. They were too far away for Hatcher to make out any other details about them, except that they had clearly been there for a while.

But he was pretty sure he recognized the woman.

The man in the suit seemed to nod in his direction, then turned to walk away. The woman lingered a moment before following. They disappeared into a nearby room.

Hatcher looked back down to the walkway. Sherman was still there. So was the other guy.

“You're wondering who I am,” the guy said. “Friend or foe.”

Hatcher coughed, his throat still sore. He didn't think he had another fight in him, and certainly not if it was against someone skilled. Or armed. Or both. “Now that you mention it.”

“You can just call me Mr. E.”

Hearing it aloud gave the moniker new meaning. Hatcher's gaze drifted over to the Harley. He could see the license plate. MRE HD.

“Cute.”

“I thought so. So, do you want me to finish him off for you?”

Before Hatcher had a chance to process the question, Mr. E snapped his arm straight, pointing it out and down at an angle. The move triggered a mechanism up his sleeve that released a large dual-bladed knife into his hand, a smooth handle in the middle. The man twirled the blade baton-style, weaving it through his fingers back and forth. Then he spun it in the air like a pinwheel, loosely centered against his palm, and dropped suddenly to a knee, catching the blade so that the tip of one end was poised directly over Sherman's chest, maybe a centimeter above it. Maybe less. It didn't look to Hatcher like the guy he knew as Mr. E had even broken eye contact during the move.

“Well?”

Not on the same team as Sherman after all, Hatcher realized. Unless this Mr. E switched sides easily and often. He had to admit the proposition was an attractive one. Sherman was a homicidal psycho freak, a threat to pretty much everyone and anyone. There was no reason to think he wouldn't keep gunning to settle things with Hatcher until one of them was dead anyway. Knife boy was offering him a gift. Killing a murderous sociopath like that was a no-brainer.

Too much of one.

“No,” Hatcher said.

Mr. E shrugged, spun the blade with a flourish again, and then somehow made it disappear up the sleeve of his outstretched arm.

“Why don't you get down from there. There's someone I'm supposed to take you to see.”

I know a fellow's been looking for you.
“And who would that be?”

“William Bartlett.”

Hatcher chewed on the name for a moment. “
General
William Bartlett?”

“The one and only. Know him?”

“I've heard of him.”

“Well, it's mutual. He's waiting. And he's with someone else, someone you definitely do know.”

The sea breeze picked up, gusting in, mussing up the guy's hair, the howl forcing him to pause until it died down.

“Gal by the name of Vivian. Used to be married to God.”

The one who called himself Mr. E smiled, mocking lips on a face brimming with unspoken knowledge. “That is, until you had a hand in her divorce.”

“HOW MUCH FARTHER?”

The kid sitting next to him was in his early twenties, at the most. Maybe even his teens. He offered him a reassuring smile, noticed the kid was staring at the digital clock readout above the radio: 12:17. He'd picked the boy up just after midnight. The strip was good for that.

“Not much,” Perry said.

The Mercedes followed the twin beams of light as they cut a swath atop the winding asphalt. The road snaked in ascending curves through the hills, a slack of ribbon unspooling ahead of them. A barrier of trees to each side gave the route a mazelike quality.

“When we get there, I was thinking I might open this nice bottle of cab I have. A '97 Diamond Creek.” Perry shifted his frame behind the wheel, twisting to face the younger man. “Do you know much about wine, Daryl?”

His passenger thought for a moment, eyes roaming the dashboard. “Darin. I'm pretty sure I told you my name was Darin.”

“Sorry,” Perry said, rebuking himself. The traffic had been loud, so it was excusable. And the odds of that being his real name were practically zilch anyway. But still. “Are you a wine drinker, Darin? The '97 is excellent.”

Darin started to say something, then angled away. He stared out the side window, his body quiet.

“What was that?”

“Nothing,” Darin said.