100 Proof Stud (The Darcy Walker Series) (53 page)

Right then, it all fell into place.

I. Mean. All. Of. It.

“You used your nice mother, Collin,” I whispered. “She works in a post office. You went there, stole people’s credit cards, checks in the mail, anything you suspected had confidential information, and then you stole a person’s identity.” An unease shook my spine as another piece of the puzzle slid together. A piece Finn had delivered. “Bishop Fowler was a computer programmer. And my guess is Bishop had the connection to Evelyn Seacrest. Bishop told you how to do this, and then one of you killed him. I saw the skeleton in his house.” I whipped my head back around to Brantley. “It was you, wasn’t it? You somehow hooked up with him in order to learn…
right, Brantley
?” I asked, emphasizing his name. “Collin’s your brother. I can tell by your sadistic smiles. What happened, Brantley?” I continued. “Did your mom kick you out of the house because you were too hard to get along with? Did Fowler take mercy on you and give you a home? And the drugs at Big Moby’s, I’m guessing are a side job. It’s been my experience that scum can’t keep out of scumbag work.”

Brantley scrunched his demented face up into a crazy grin. “Brilliant,” he said.

Collin didn’t laugh. Instead he acted like he wanted to put a hole in my head the size of the national deficit. “You shouldn’t have fed Tito Westbrook information, Darcy,” he said.

Oh shiz…so they definitely knew what I’d been doing. “Why would you even want to hurt him or those other men anyway?” I asked. “You’ve got everything going for you. Looks, brains, position—”

Collin looked off in the distance, like there was a myriad of reasons to why he did the things he did—reasons he didn’t have time to divulge. “Maybe everything I had going for me just wasn’t enough,” he finally said. “But I didn’t want things to come to this. I liked you, Darcy. You’re funny, and you don’t take life too seriously. But when I heard you were showing around photos of Slapstick, Damon, and Brantley, I knew your mind must be piecing things together. I had Brantley tap into your Twitter account to see if we could throw you off. That didn’t work, and then we took on your father, but he shut us down before the night was out. When Damon said you asked him about The Ghost, I tried to distract you by having Brantley ram Dylan’s car. When that still didn’t deter you, I lowered myself to made-up stories about Dylan and Brynn. I didn’t want to think you’d be so stupid to continue with the behavior, so I even had Madison Flannery yank your chain.”

“I suspected as much about Madison,” I muttered, but God help me, he’d caused me to believe Dylan was a two-timer with his heart.

Collin gave me a shrug, like confessing his actions weren’t a threat. An omen if I’d ever heard one. “Madison does what she’s told, and her artistic fingers came in handy when duplicating signatures.”

Remembering Slapstick and Damon lived with foster parents in the printing business, I asked, “Did Damon or Slapstick bring some printing knowledge to the table? Did they help you manufacture credit cards?” Collin had a brief moment where his face shocked-out. “You truly are smart,” he said which I took as confirmation. “But that’s your problem, Darcy. You just wouldn’t go away. The final straw was when you used my phone to call Tito last time I was in here. All I had to do was hit redial and connect the dots you were still on the trail. Now you leave me no choice but to rid myself of the problem…just like I had to do with Nico Drake.”

My body shook like a drop of water during an earthquake.

Nico’s face flashed in my mind, and I never realized until now he was the creepy teenager with Brantley McCoy when he visited The Double-B a few weeks back. I should’ve recognized the mutual perv in him, but the fact he had an Abe Lincoln beard back then threw me. So either he or Brantley had dropped the credit cards and social security card I’d found. Had he been stabbed for it? Something else? Had he been lured to Bishop Fowler’s and killed by Collin or Brantley?

Collin must’ve read my mind. “Madison told me that Nico had a change of heart. He wanted to warn you. I don’t usually get my hands dirty,” he said icily. “But with Nico, it was a pleasure.”

That meant Brantley had killed the others. I didn’t have an extra breath to process the news. Collin had pretty much delivered my eulogy.

I prayed.

Prayed some more.

Then the lights snuffed out…

Now was my chance, but if I waited for the cavalry to arrive, God only knew how Heaven’s wires got crossed. Right then, a red-flannel-pajama-clad Castro Belinski crashed through the back door like a battering ram. He huffed and puffed, yelling for me specifically as he scratched his bald head, flipping the switch on the lights.

His eyes misted with fear when he put two and two together. He barked out profanity, burped loud, and I swear, covered his privates doing the peepee dance. It might not have been exactly in that order, folks, but it was close. He then yelled, “Run, Walker…run!” while his feet pedaled like he rode a bicycle. Trouble was, it was a stationary bike. The man’s bare feet didn’t do anything more than burn a hole in the carpet.

The place boom-boom-boomed with his weight when he finally moved a couple of feet. By that time, d-bag Damon waved a knife in his face, threatening bodily harm of the permanent variety. Mr. B stopped dead in his tracks, like he teetered over a ledge, no bottom in sight.

Sweet Jesus, we’d all be DOA by morning.

Five minutes later, I sat back-to-back with Mr. B and our hands were duct-taped together, our feet also restrained. Rudi and Chichi were bound the same way.

Collin pitched a bag to Brantley. “Get the cans out man, and make it quick.”

Collin was behind the vandalism locally and of Coach’s car. He might not have punched the valve, but he was definitely in on it.

“So you like your spray cans, don’t you?” I asked. Nothing but air. “Did you paint Nowacki’s when you robbed it? The outside of Belinski’s? Schomberg’s? Coach Wallace’s car?”

“My brother did,” he admitted.

“Why? Did Coach make you angry or something?” His body tensed, but he still didn’t answer. “So is there no legitimate reason for the vandalism, Collin? It’s just something extra when you rob a place?”

Damon snagged a white can Brantley pitched in his direction, gave it a shake, and took a few swipes at the furniture. Brantley followed suit. Infuriated, Slapstick threw up both hands, kicking a nearby chair in frustration. “I’m leaving!” he snapped, gazing wide-eyed at the room. “Damon had told me about this guy called The Ghost, but I had no part or knowledge that it was Collin and these guys. Please believe that, Darcy.” With an odd expression to me, he jumped in front of Collin’s vision and quietly corn-holed his knife across the floor in my direction. It landed silently at my bound hands.

Here’s the thing I’ve learned about situations like this. They can always get worse.

Collin reached underneath his hoodie and produced a 9MM gun, waving it at Slapstick with a threat. “The only way you’re leaving this place is with your hands in the air or lying on a gurney. So chill.”

Slapstick still made a move toward the door. Damon lunged with his knife. Slapstick turned at the exact wrong second, and Damon’s knife sliced into his hoodie, leaving a bloody red gash in his gut at first strike. Slapstick immediately winced, but when Damon came at him again, Slapstick disabled him with a jaw thrust and punch to the gut.

Damon fell.

Brantley took his place.

My breath came out in fervid pants as I fingered the knife, flipped it around, and hoped and prayed I could cut through the tape like butter. Collin took aim, but Brantley and Slapstick were like a moving tornado on the ground. Not able to get a clear shot, Collin dropped the gun and nylon money bag and jumped on Slapstick’s back, punching his head. While Slapstick was double-teamed, I felt a reluctant tear in the tape. With one big tug from Mr. B, my hands were free, and I quickly started slashing through the tape at my feet.

Slapstick roared.

Brantley cursed.

More pounding…more punching.

Tears welled in my eyes when I realized Slapstick would more than likely die tonight. I didn’t feel particularly soothed by the thought I’d probably get away. Nor did I feel particularly soothed by the thought the others would get away. Slapstick was my friend. He might’ve taken a wrong turn in coming here, but he proved to be a friend when the crap hit the fan. Slapstick finally gained the upper hand and body-slammed Brantley to the ground—his head striking a chair. Brantley temporarily went night-night. Collin angrily slid down Slapstick’s back, the exact moment I’d freed my feet. We both dove headfirst for the gun on the floor, but Collin came up with it, aiming the barrel at my head.

The shiz just got real.

“Wait!” I gulped, and let me tell you, people. Anything seemed better than having a semi-automatic gun pointed between your eyes. Collin yanked me to my feet, his eyes locking on mine like we were two hungry scavengers fighting over the remains of a dead animal. He knew what
he
wanted, and I knew what
I
wanted.

Thing was, he had the gun…but I had the mouth.

I morphed from mild-mannered bookseller to a butt-kicking badass with negotiation skills. “Go out the back,” I told him, jerking my head in that direction. “Mr. Belinski’s car is there. Take it and run, Collin.”

It wasn’t there, but if I could get them out the back, I could lock us all in and call the cops.

For a split second, it’s like I stared at Brantley McCoy. He mouthed, “Bang-bang” like Brantley had in the parking lot, this time using a real gun.

With the roar of a lion, Slapstick dove for Collin, sending both of them to the ground in a murderous rage. Slapstick desperately fought for
his and what I think was all of our lives; Collin didn’t care anymore. His face was one of complete and utter giving-over to the dark side. He’d lost his girl; he’d lost his anonymity; and his nice, little life as Student Council President was shot to heck and then some.

Blood droplets rained on the floor. Slapstick’s body had taken a mortal shock. Still he wailed on Collin to the point where I knew there’d be permanent brain damage if I didn’t stop him. “Stop!” I yelled to Slapstick, but Slapstick punched away, striking out at all the things unfair in his life. As the gun jolted free, Brantley (back in the fight) scooped it up in a wince, and I went karate on his butt. Problem was, I flailed like a mofo drunk man. I pulled hair, ears, punched, and pounded. I braceleted my hands around his neck, trying to choke him into unconsciousness. My word, I even told him Collin got all the looks in the family (dumb move, and made me sound even dumber). Nothing worked, but by God, my fear channeled into take-him-down mode, and I refused to be a bystander.

Freed by Mr. B, Chichi dropped to her knees, twisting at Brantley’s legs.

Rudi jumped to her feet, tearing at Brantley’s arms.

With a banshee yell, Brantley dislodged both, and they staggered back into one another and clonked heads, stunned. The gun toppled to the floor…I lunged for it…Mr. B beat me to the punch.

He grabbed the pistol in his pudgy hands and opened fire. A bullet busted a window…a filing cabinet…another sunk into what sounded like splintering wood. Sweet Lord, he was probably drunk because the gun hadn’t hit the intended target one time. The sound of more gunshots ripped through my brain like I was underneath the Liberty Bell when it rang. Momentarily rendered deaf, the ear-splitting pop-pop-pop had my adrenaline pumping around danger zone. I couldn’t tell if I hurt all over or if I’d been shot.

Two more rounds left the gun’s chamber.

Girls screamed.

In a twist of events, Brantley and Collin switched places with Brantley now kicking at Slapstick’s legs. Slapstick dropped to all fours, trying to shield me from the gun Collin had wrestled away from Mr. B and had aimed again at my head. While I waited for death to come, a silver canister the size of a Coke can did a slow-roll up the aisle. After two seconds of blinking, a hard puff of white smoke hissed out its sides like steam. Each person in the room slowly began to cough, struggling to not go Rip Van Winkle. My lungs felt radioactive, my entire body burning and hacking at what I slowly concluded was some kind of knockout gas. Or nerve gas. Holy crap, my skin would probably melt off within seconds.

Slapstick ripped his bloodied hoodie off and shoved it over my mouth, trying his best to keep me from choking.

Mr. B fell first.

Rudi.

Followed by Chichi.

Collin grabbed the loot and stumbled for the front door. With a staggering deep cough, I turned my head to see a hawking body artfully striding toward me, like a warrior on a one-way suicide mission.

It was God—or Jesus—maybe it was Jason freaking Bourne. So immense he spanned the width of the aisle, he sported black fatigues, combat boots, and a faded, black cap so cool I’d steal it if I wasn’t incapacitated. His black hair glowed like the blue of night, and his dark eyes punctuated a face that was Romanesque and noble. I’d guess him to be around forty years old, but he had one of those faces that seemed to defy time, but those eyes—those eyes said they’d seen centuries of pain. My jaw dropped wide…it couldn’t be. But everything in my churning gut told me it was the man from the yellow Dodge Charger.

I needed a minute…

Maybe two…

Thing was, he had no mask. How could you casually walk through sleeping gas without even a yawn? Giving me a nanosecond of his eyes, he moved faster than an X-15 fighter craft. Collin, Brantley, and a groggy Damon didn’t even know what’d hit them. The collision sounded like the release of a cannon. Bodies flew. Grunted. Thumped. Landed in a pile like scrap wood you intended to burn. Even if I’d sketched this thing out, nothing would’ve compared to the reality of what this man was capable of. He’d anticipated their moves before they even executed. My vision blurred when the action was over, nothing registering except Slapstick was out cold, Collin’s leg had twisted awkwardly, Damon was belly-down and unconscious, and Brantley was sunny-side up, his face stuck in a wide-eyed stare.

He was dead. I was sure of it.

Struggling with consciousness, I heard footfalls and felt him kneel beside me. “Are you Jesus?” I choked.

Pushing the hair from my face, my hormones knocked on my hurting head how gorgeous he was. My type: tall, dark, handsome…and so freaking deadly it was a turn-on. He threw his head back and laughed, wiping the tears that escaped my eyes. As much as I tried, I couldn’t focus because brain fog was settling in.

“Can’t say I’ve been compared to Jesus,” he chuckled deeply, “although I’m positive he wouldn’t appreciate the comparison.”

“Jaws?” I whispered through the sweatshirt, eyes still closed.