Hair of the Dog by Gordon Carroll (reading strategies book TXT) 📗

“Aurora Police have her. Whether they’ve turned her over to Human Protective Services yet, I don’t know.

“And Jerome Larkin?” asked the Senator.

“From what the cops told me he got away. He may have been wounded; they found blood, but that might be from my partner, Max.” I hitched my head toward the house where Max lay. Max looked at the senator and then at Clyde standing beside him and started licking himself.

“And the gang members that attacked you?”

“I wounded a couple; one’s in the hospital under police guard. The rest got away.”

Marsh pursed his lips as if considering then nodded his head, looking every bit the Speaker of the House in Olympus Has Fallen. “Very well then. This whole thing turned out to be far more violent than I’d imagined. But the girl is safe and that’s all that really matters. I thank you for your service. The money has been wired to your account with a sizable bonus. You came through far more quickly than I thought possible. Your reputation is justified and that is a rare thing these days.”

And just like that, he was back to the nice Morgan Freeman from Dolphin Tale, all smiles and grandfatherly. He put an arm around my shoulder and shook my hand again, and this time it was different, this time it was a real handshake, and right then I might have voted for him myself. He had that kind of charisma.

“Thank you, Mr. Mason. Come visit me sometime, either in Washington or Chicago. I can never repay the favor you have done for me here, but I will do what I can.” He let go my hand and turned for the SUV.

“Oh,” he paused and turned back to me, “I’ll need that Secret Service badge back.” He laughed lightly and it made me feel sort of light and happy. Man this guy was good.

I fished the thin leather wallet out of my back pocket and handed it to him.

“Thanks,” I said. “It came in handy a couple of times.”

He cocked his head as if considering. “Well, if you ever consider coming back to work for the government, you let me know.”

“Thanks,” I said, “but that boat has sailed.”

He nodded with that grandfatherly sincerity that Morgan Freeman can put on display so effortlessly. “I understand. And again, thank you.”

He tipped his head to me; I tipped back and watched as the entire convoy loaded up and drove down my mountain.

I looked at Max. He stared back as if to say I was a shmuck for falling for the senator’s charismatic charm.

“Come on,” I said out loud, “he’s a nice guy.”

Max’s left ear twitched.

“You saw him, you heard him.”

Max just stared.

“Didn’t you see that smile? The way he tipped his head at me?”

The ear twitch thing again.

“You just don’t like Clyde,” I said.

The stare.

“Hey, It’s not like I’d vote for the guy or anything, I’m just saying he’s nice.”

The twitch.

“Classy.” I said.

The stare.

“Trustworthy,” I said.

Max’s eyes narrowed.

I reached into my front pocket and took out the shiny Secret Service badge. I’d traded it with one of my old PI badges.

“Okay,” I said, “maybe not trustworthy.”

Max didn’t grin, he didn’t bark. But his eyes were no longer narrowed and the twitch stopped.

Baby steps.

20

Jerome alternately rang the bell and knocked for a good five minutes before breaking in. The sun still lit the sky overhead, and a giant, bloody black man, too long in front of a house in this neighborhood, was sure to draw attention. He smashed out one of the little side windows next to the front door with the butt of his gun and reached in and undid the two thumb latches. The realtor combination lockbox affixed to the doorknob would hold a key of course, but Jerome knew nothing about defeating a combination lock and so he took the chance on the noise.

The house was nice and clean, staged for sale, and there was always the chance the family might be at church instead of having vacated. But the fridge held only a couple of items and the cabinets were mostly bare, so he thought it might be safe for the time being.

Stripping off his tattered shirt in the master bedroom, he gingerly fingered the torn flesh of his forearms and wrists. Fresh blood seeped and ran into the sink. The dog had really done a number on him, and so fast. His stomach had only sustained a few scrapes, but his arms were in bad shape. He let the water run through the wounds and had to clench his teeth to keep from crying out. Still, tears leaked from his eyes and his whole frame shook and trembled. He ripped up the bed sheets and used them as bandages, a difficult task with his trembling and palsied fingers. He used his teeth to tighten them down, then threw up in the toilet before collapsing on the bed, exhausted and weak.

When he closed his eyes, he saw the white man carrying Clair from the car, Clair crying and screaming for her daddy to save her. And then he did cry, hard and long, and it had nothing to do with the pain from his wounds.

Clair was gone… she was gone. The white man had her. But why and for who? Was he a cop? He wasn’t a Blood, that much Jerome knew. Would he hurt her? If he was a cop, or working for the cops, then he wouldn’t, but if he had anything to do with the Bloods, she was as good as dead. Only the Bloods had tried to kill the white man too, so no, he wasn’t with them.

Jerome wiped at his eyes. That left the cops. The white man had to be a cop, or somehow connected with them, and that meant she was at least safe. That they wouldn’t hurt her, and that maybe he could find her. Get her back.

Thinking, except in fast tactical situations, was hard for Jerome and it made his