Blood and Bone (24 page)

Hannibal was shoving Wally ahead of himself as he rounded the corner of the house. They almost walked into Sloan Lerner, on his way to the front of the house. Sloan's hands were covered with grease, and he shone with sweat from working in a full set of coveralls. And he was even bigger than Hannibal remembered him.

“Hey!” Sloan shouted as he realized the situation. His right fist swept up, missing his brother by inches, and thwacked into Hannibal's jaw. For Hannibal the world went black for a moment. He staggered back three or four steps before dropping onto his back. The hard ground sent the impact of his landing throughout his frame. He lifted an arm and one leg in a ground defensive posture.

It was unnecessary. Sloan was easing Wally into a seated position. “You leave my brother alone,” he shouted at Hannibal.

Hannibal rolled a little farther away and got to his feet. His tailbone hurt from his landing. Still his anger drove him to continue. “That's okay, Slo,” he said, raising his fists. “It's you I want anyway.”

Sloan grinned, the way a man does when he first realizes the girl he is with is about to say yes. He drew to his full height and rubbed his greasy hands together before putting up his own fists. His massive shoulders rolled forward as he loosened up, and his feet shifted into a strong fighting stance. Hannibal shuffled forward and snapped off a couple of jabs which smacked solidly into Sloan's forearms with no apparent effect. Sloan tossed a few punches which Hannibal easily avoided, despite the bigger man's reach advantage. Frustrated, Sloan took a couple of charging steps forward and got in a left which scraped across Hannibal's left ear.

“See, I spent some time in the ring,” Sloan said. “I knocked out more fighters than you've met in your life.”

Hannibal's ears were ringing and his head had settled into a dull ache. His knuckles pulsed too, reminding him how he hated to do this without gloves on. Still, he was not going to be intimidated by this guy's size. Instead, he put more energy into his footwork, dancing out of reach.

“You've probably done this with a lot of boxers,” Hannibal said from behind his raised fists. Then he planted a stamp kick into Sloan's belly. “But how many kickboxers?”

Sloan drove forward again, and Hannibal met him with two left jabs, a right cross and a right crescent
kick to the ribs. “I learned kickboxing as a teenager in Germany,” he said. “I was in a lot of fights in school before that, but after a few kick boxing lessons, I stopped losing all the time. Now I don't lose at all.”

“Yeah, well I got tired of the kids laughing at me,” Sloan said. “That's why I stopped losing fights.” He stomped forward again, ignoring Hannibal's stiff left to his mouth, brushing past a kick to his right thigh, and sank his right fist deep into Hannibal's gut. Hannibal doubled over, but quickly unwound, his fist sweeping up and back around, across Sloan's jaw.

He could not let this fight become a close battle. Trading punches with Sloan was a losing proposition. Nor could it become a long battle. Each time he got hit, Hannibal's body reminded him of all the abuse it had taken earlier, including the beating that put him in the hospital. His ribs ached and hot knives slid invisibly into his stomach muscles. He needed to end the fight now.

Hannibal took a deep breath, watching Sloan stand easy, waiting for the next attack. Fine. Hannibal slid forward, ducked, bobbed, and brought an uppercut up through Sloan's guard, snapping his head back. Then Hannibal tried a combination: left jab, right hook, right kick to the outer thigh. Sloan grunted so Hannibal tried it again, this time moving the kick up to the big man's ribs. A trained boxer, Sloan had no defense for the kicks.

Panting against his own pain, Hannibal repeated the pattern. Left, right, kick. Left, right, kick. When Sloan tried to attack, Hannibal slipped past his punch and repeated the combination. After the fifth time, Sloan's left knee buckled. Hannibal snapped his left foot up into Sloan's stomach. The air went out of Sloan in a rush, and with it, his will. His hands
dropped and Hannibal dived forward with a right cross that bloodied his nose.

The streak of red on the ground in front of him was a victory flag for Hannibal. He grabbed the front of Sloan's shirt with his left. Sloan wrapped his huge left hand around Hannibal's arm, giving Hannibal a clear field of fire. He smashed his right fist down across Sloan's face. The bigger man made no sound, which for some reason infuriated Hannibal. Instead, it was Hannibal who grunted with each blow. Like a piston, his fist pumped down that same path again, and again, and again. Each time Sloan's face snapped away, then slowly turned back toward him, only to be smashed away again.

“Stop it!” Wally Lerner stood six feet behind his brother, too scared to physically interfere, trembling with his own helplessness. “Please,” he said. “Please, please, please stop hitting my brother. Please.”

Hannibal realized Sloan probably protected Wally all his life. Wally's loyalty to his brother, so resented by his wife, was very strong. He probably protected Sloan from the world when he could, but he had no idea how to defend him from a physical assault.

Then Hannibal shifted his gaze to Sloan. He was defeated, on his knees, staring dumbly up. Blood covered his face from his nose down. It was on his neck, too, and his shirt and, Hannibal noticed belatedly, on his own fists.

And Sloan's eyes were clear. There was no rage there, no shame of being beaten, not even sadness. Just a puzzled expression which had been hidden from Hannibal by his own anger. His own anger. He must learn to control that. Now, looking past his anger he could see the obvious.

“You really are slow, aren't you?” Hannibal asked, suddenly ashamed of his actions. He let go of Sloan's shirt, but neither of them moved, except for their heaving chests trying to bring in enough air to flush out the adrenaline of battle. Wally took one step forward and opened his mouth to speak.

“All right, stop it right now!” Cindy's voice. Hannibal turned to find her walking toward him, his Colt Mustang automatic held forward with both hands. A mere twelve and a half ounces of weight, the little gun holding six rounds of .380 ACP fit her hand perfectly. When he ran upstairs to grab Wally, she must have searched through his luggage for his gun. Maybe she knew Wally and Sloan had guns and she wanted to even things up a bit. Or maybe she simply wanted to control the situation. In any case, his pistol was now irrelevant. The fight was over.

Hannibal put a hand on Sloan's shoulder, giving them both balance to stay upright, and thought about Pat Louis' execution. One bullet, neatly placed in the back of his head. He saw no evidence of this man being capable of such precision. He pulled his sunglasses off, making eye contact with Sloan, realizing for the first time how little depth he encountered there.

“You didn't kill Pat Louis, did you?”

Sloan shook his head. “I didn't kill nobody mister.”

“But you went there that day,” Hannibal said. “To Nieswand's house.”

Sloan nodded. “Sure. I went to get the money. Zack sent me to get the money.” Then he smiled. His swollen, bloody face was forgotten. He seemed pleased Hannibal was listening to him, giving him a chance to explain. Hannibal glanced back at Cindy who now stood close behind him, his gun hanging in
her small hand at her side, pointing toward the ground.

“To get the money Pat owed Zack from years ago,” Hannibal said.

Sloan closed his eyes and shook his head. His open hands shook beside his face, as if he was trying to erase something in the air. “No, no, no, no. Not Pat. I didn't even know Pat was there. It was Abby.”

“Abby? Abby Nieswand?” Cindy asked, placing a hand on Hannibal's shoulder.

“Oh my God,” Hannibal muttered, helping Sloan to his feet. This case, so confusing to him up to this point, was beginning to streamline. He had forgotten his own advice about never trusting coincidences, and now his mind was tying loose ends together. “Jewel said she met Abby in Jersey last year.”

“Wait a minute,” Wally stepped forward now, talking to his brother, ignoring the others. “This the same Abby that Pat was boffing in Atlantic City a year ago? They both borrowed money from Zack. I think she gave hers to Pat. But then they just disappeared. Zack couldn't find Pat, but I guess he found her.”

Cindy produced a handkerchief and started to clean off Sloan's face. He stood like a child and let her rub blood off his face, although Hannibal knew it must hurt. Not wanting to watch that, he started pacing around the others. “So Pat Louis owed Zack King money too,” he said. “When he saw his old pal Sloan, he must have thought he was after him.”

Sloan's eyes widened, and he gently pushed Cindy's hand away. “I get it. That's why he pulled a knife on me. He thought I was after him.”

“And he cut you,” Hannibal said. “I saw the blood on your arm when I found you in the car. Just before you bashed my head into the car roof.”

“I'm sorry about that,” Sloan said. “I had to get away. I figured Pat was shacking at a pretty classy place. Whoever's house that was, they'd be the type that calls the cops on account of I knocked Pat out cold. But then the rain got real bad and I kind of lost it.”

“And put my car in a ditch,” Wally snapped. “Meanwhile they find Pat dead. How hard you hit him, anyway?”

“No, that doesn't fit,” Cindy said. “The police said they found the man we now know as Patrick Louis face down on the Nieswand's garage floor, with a single twenty-two caliber bullet hole in the back of his head.”

“Come on, lady,” Wally said. “Look at my brother, would you? He ain't no hit man. Do you really think this dimwit could pull off a neat, tidy mob style killing? Whoever smoked old Pat had it together a whole lot better than Slo.”

Hannibal looked at the backs of his hands and suddenly felt very dirty. “I think you're right. I believe Sloan's story. It makes too much sense not to be true. And I'm sorry I jumped to the wrong conclusions. And since he's innocent, you guys need to come back with me and tell the police what you know.”

“No way, brother,” Wally said. “Cops ain't good listeners, and they still got Slo figured for the hitter. They can't touch us down here.”

“Sorry fellows,” Hannibal said, “but I made a deal with a detective to bring you in if I found you.”

“Look, you can kick both our asses all day, but we ain't going back to the States. There's still cops in Maryland that remember me and Slo from the old days. They're looking for a chance to lock us up and throw away the key.”

“We'll do this in Virginia, where the murder took place, not Maryland,” Cindy said. The men looked at her, and she glanced down at the apparently forgotten gun. Hannibal held his hand out and she quickly handed the pistol to him. “If you're telling the truth, you've got nothing to fear.”

“Right,” Wally said, “I've heard that one before.”

“Maybe,” Cindy went on, “but you've never had me as an attorney. Believe me, I don't let innocent clients go to jail.”

“You're a lawyer?” Wally's surprise was echoed on Sloan's face.

Hannibal's eyes flared and his jaw literally dropped. He shoved his glasses into his shirt pocket, grabbed Cindy's arm roughly and pulled her to the side. “You think this is a good idea?”

“I already do most of the firm's pro bono work,” she said. “Besides, this case can be good publicity for the firm. They'll like that.”

“Even when it comes out where your boss' alcoholic wife was hiding out when she ran off last year?” Hannibal asked. “Even if all the evidence points to a very young con artist that one of his clients is crazy about? Think about this.”

“Mister Nieswand is one of the finest attorneys I know,” Cindy answered. “His first loyalty is to the truth, no matter what. Besides, you would have told them all about it anyway. We can't let Angela get away with defrauding the Mortimers. And the way things look, she might be getting away with murder, too.” She must have sensed Hannibal was weakening, because she pointed to Sloan for her closing argument. “Besides, look at him. He'll never get a fair shake unless I do this.”

Hannibal and Cindy turned toward the brothers, which Wally clearly took as an invitation to join them. “You really one of them high class Washington lawyers?”

“Yes I am,” Cindy said. “So what do you think? Will you come with us?”

Wally turned to face his brother, skeptical and encouraging at the same time. “It's your ass, Slo. They ain't after me this time. But you're getting kind of old for doing federal time.”

Sloan nodded. He was working hard at thinking, but managed to keep the concepts pretty simple. “You and Zack took good care of me most of the time, Wally. But I can't keep running forever. And I don't want to stay down here. I miss home, Wally. And…” there seemed to be more, something important. For some reason, he had a hard time getting it out but when he did, Hannibal understood entirely. It made his decision crystal clear.

“It's just, I didn't do it this time.”

Wally turned and nodded. Cindy smiled and squeezed Hannibal's hand, and Hannibal considered what a long flight he was in for.

Hannibal could see it was not easy, but Rissik stood up, held out his hand, looked Hannibal squarely in the face and said “Thanks. I owe you one.”

That unpleasant duty out of the way, Rissik offered Cindy his guest chair, and asked a uniformed officer to bring another into the office. Hannibal was more comfortable now, in suit, gloves and dark glasses. Rissik looked happy to start his day in Hannibal's company, his dangerous blue eyes softened a bit. He did not even seem unhappy about working late the night before, which made sense considering what it allowed him to tell his bosses Monday morning.

“I know it's not over,” Hannibal said as his chair arrived, “but at least you can say you've got the fugitive your men were chasing. At the very least, he's a material witness.”