Sunday Kind of Love (25 page)

“Is that any way to talk to an old friend?” Jed replied.

“We aren't friends.”

“No, we sure as shit aren't,” he said with a humorless chuckle. “But that don't mean I haven't been thinkin' a lot about you. Lately, seems like everywhere I go, there you are. One day, you're messin' up my baseball game; the next, I find you parked downtown, showin' your face where it don't belong.”

While Jed talked, Hank noticed that his two companions—he faintly remembered that their names were Clint and Sam—were slowly inching off to the sides, as if they were trying to flank him. Clint, the scrawnier one, shook the bat in his hand, testing its weight.

“People don't wanna see you,” Jed continued. “It makes 'em sick.”

“I've got as much right to be there as everyone else.”

“See, that's where you're wrong,” he said, smiling menacingly, coming closer, walking Hank down. “A murderer ain't got no rights.”

Even as he listened to Jed while trying to keep an eye on his flunkies, Hank worried about Gwen. What would happen if she suddenly showed up? She'd have no idea of the danger she was getting herself into. Was Jed sadistic enough to hurt her? Could Hank protect her if the bastard tried?

“So what happened to your old man?” Jed asked. “Word around town is that he had himself an accident. Let me guess,” he added with a smirk, “you tied one on for old times' sake and tried to do him like you did your brother.”

Skip had been right; Jed loved to hear himself talk. But right now, Hank didn't mind. He hoped it would be the man's downfall.

Hank knew he had only one chance to gain the upper hand. While Jed was busy listening to the sound of his own voice, he'd strike, take the most dangerous thug out of the fight, then move on to his cronies before they even knew what had happened. It was risky, but Hank didn't have a choice.

“What were you drinkin'?” Jed asked. “Whiskey? Or was it—”

Before he could finish, Hank closed the distance between them and threw as hard a punch as he could. Things worked just like he'd planned; his fist cracked into Jed's jaw, snapping his head sideways, dropping him to his knees in the gravel.

Hank spun, knowing that his plan rested on taking advantage of the others before they could react. He'd hoped that the suddenness of his attack would catch them off guard, that they wouldn't be ready for what came next.

But he was wrong.

The first blow caught him in the ribs. The second clipped his nose. But he was really done in when the baseball bat knocked him upside the head. Everything went topsy-turvy. One minute, Hank was on his feet, preparing to fight, and the next he was facedown in the rocks. Stars swam before his eyes. He struggled to keep from throwing up.

“Home run!” Clint crowed.

Groggy, Hank saw a blurry version of Jed get back to his feet, wipe blood from the corner of his mouth, and then spit into the yard. “Now why in the hell did you have to go and do that?” he asked, sarcastically offended. “Boys, I think this stupid son of a bitch wants us to make an example outta him.”

Hank heard more than saw Jed walk away, back toward his car. In the man's absence, he tried to clear his head, to get back on his feet, but as soon as he rose to his hands and knees, one of the others kicked him in the ribs.

“Stay down, dummy! You got a surprise comin'.”

Jed returned and knelt beside Hank, who was still holding his aching side. He placed a large metal can on the rocky drive. The smell of gasoline was powerful enough to cut through the fog clouding Hank's head.

“Now,” Jed told him, “you burn.”

T
HE GAS CAN
. Jed's history of causing trouble. The recent fires that had plagued Buckton, including the one Gwen had written about for the newspaper. Even with a muddled head, Hank easily put it all together, though if he hadn't been able, Jed would've been happy to do it for him.

“That's right,” the thug said as he removed the lid from the canister. “I'm the one who's been burnin' places to the ground. I tell you, seein' those flames, feelin' their heat, watchin' from the shadows as folks cry about losin' everythin' they got, it's powerful stuff. Once you get a taste for it, it's hard to let go. Like you and drinkin', I suppose.”

Jed started to splash gasoline on the walls of Hank's shop, sloshing it over his work, his livelihood, spilling what was left onto the floor.

“Up till today, I've been real quiet about it,” he continued, flinging the now-empty can toward his car, apparently not wanting to leave it as evidence. “I like to case a place for a while, figure out when folks are home, when they sit down for dinner, that sort of thing. That's what I was doin' with you,” Jed explained, nudging Hank with his foot. “I figured you'd be at the hospital, visitin' your old man. Because believe it or not, I ain't out to hurt nobody. I just enjoy seein' things burn. I was gonna do the same to your place, but you bein' home, sluggin' me, that done changed things for the worse.”

“Hey, wait a second,” Sam said, starting to see where things were headed, as if a lightbulb had suddenly gone on over his head. “He's seen us. He knows what we've been doin'. He knows!”

“Don't worry about it,” Jed replied. “He ain't gonna tell no one.”

Sam shook his head. “We can't just take him at his word,” he said, a touch of worry in his voice. “Soon as we leave, he'll call the cops!”

Clint chuckled, the smarter of the pair.

Jed walked over, his shoes crunching in the gravel, and knelt beside Hank. “Remember how I said I ain't out to hurt nobody?” he said. “For this piece of shit, I'm gonna make an exception.”

Hank knew exactly what that meant.

They were going to kill him, then throw his body into the fire to try to make it look like an accident.

The slower of the two flunkies was still adding it up, slowly realizing that he was about to have blood on his hands. “You never said nothin' 'bout hurtin' him,” Sam protested. “I ain't sure I wanna do this.”

“Quit bein' such a damned sissy!” Clint snapped, clearly having no reservations about using the baseball bat clutched in his hands.

“Like I said, don't worry about it,” Jed said, sounding surprisingly calm for someone planning to commit murder. “Ain't no one gonna miss him. Hell, if folks knew what we done, they'd throw us a parade down Main Street.”

For emphasis, he kicked Hank in the shoulder, a glancing blow, but enough to put him down on his face.

“What say we get this show on the road?” Jed asked, then pulled a book of matches from his pocket. He scratched one to life and tossed it into a puddle of gasoline, where it instantly caught, sending flames running up the side of the building.

The workshop was on fire.

Gwen drove out of Buckton with the radio playing and a soft summer breeze blowing through the open window. She kept thinking about little Kelly Fiderlein, not even an hour old; what an absolutely beautiful day to be born. She chuckled. As strange as it might seem, Gwen realized that she had something in common with Sandy's baby daughter.

Her life was at a new beginning, too.

The truck's tires passed noisily over the planks of the bridge spanning the Sawyer River. Not long before, Hank had noticed her flailing about in the turbulent water, then had leaped in to save her. From that moment, their lives had become intertwined. What blossomed between them had been as wonderful as it was unexpected.

She had found love,
real love
, for the first time.

Now she just had to make it last.

Gwen had no way of knowing how people would react when they read tomorrow's edition of the
Bulletin
. Many would undoubtedly be shocked, others skeptical, and a few might even be angry to learn they'd been lied to.

But the only reaction that mattered to Gwen was Hank's. Would he be mad at her? Relieved? Whatever it was, she silently prayed that it wouldn't ruin what they had, that he wouldn't walk away from her. Not now. Not when they were just getting started.

As she drove up a steep hill, the truck protested, and Gwen had to force the gears into place. She was less than a mile from Hank's house. The first time she had driven this way, she'd been a bundle of nerves, anxious to talk to her mysterious rescuer. Now, she felt more apprehensive than nervous. Still, Gwen was determined to be honest with him, to tell Hank the truth about what she'd done.

Then the cards would have to fall where they may.

Rounding a gentle bend in the road, Gwen saw something up ahead that made her pulse race. A plume of smoke rose above the treetops, marring an otherwise clear sky. With every frenzied beat of her heart, it seemed to be growing bigger, darker. She couldn't be certain, but it looked to be coming from near Hank's home. Deep in her gut, she knew something was wrong.

Gwen pushed the gas pedal to the floor.

Flames rose up the workshop's walls. They raced across the floor. They leaped onto worktables and began to consume chairs, bookcases, dressers, and even tools, anything and everything they touched. Red, orange, and yellow, the fire was a kaleidoscope of destruction. Heat radiated in waves, soon growing unbearably hot. Dark smoke billowed out of the open doors and rose toward the sky.

And there wasn't a damned thing Hank could do about it.

“We gotta get movin',” Sam said nervously, still unsettled. “Somebody's gonna see the smoke.”

“There's time,” Clint disagreed. “Ain't nobody comes out this way.”

Jed pointed at Hank. “Lift him up.”

Each flunky grabbed an arm and hauled Hank to his feet; Clint never let go of the baseball bat. Slowly but surely, Hank's head continued to clear. He understood that he had to act fast. He was running out of time.

Jed grinned, enjoying the carnage he'd wrought. “I'd tell you to say hi to your brother for me,” he snarled over the crackling fire, “but he ain't gonna be where you're goin'.” With that, Jed punched Hank in the stomach hard enough to lift him from the ground before he fell back into the gravel.

But unbeknownst to Jed, Hank wasn't as hurt as he appeared. He'd known that the bully wouldn't be able to resist inflicting more pain, and so before the blow landed, he'd tightened the muscles of his stomach. The punch stung, but not nearly as much as it could have.

“Finish him,” Jed said.

“My pleasure,” Clint replied, raising the baseball bat.

And that was when Hank struck.

He grabbed a fistful of rocks and hurled them in Jed's face, distracting him. Before the stones had fallen back to the ground, Hank drove his elbow into Clint's groin. The flunky screamed in agony. He dropped the baseball bat as he collapsed into a heap, both hands cradling his smashed privates. Hank snatched up the bat, turned, and swung. Though Sam had shown reluctance to join in the more grisly aspects of Jed's plan, he remained dangerous. Hank couldn't afford to show mercy. The thickest part of the wood barrel hit the man flush in the ribs, breaking at least one, and down he went. Spinning, Hank landed another blow on Clint, strong enough to silence the goon's shouting.

Hank rose on unsteady feet. Now it was just him and Jed.

“Well, looky here,” Jed said, still wiping dirt from his eyes. “Seems you had more stones than I gave you credit for.”

“You're about to see how much fight I've got left,” Hank snarled.

Behind him, the blaze raged out of control. Heat singed his back, burning the exposed skin on his arms and neck. Glass cracked and wood creaked, a symphony of destruction. It wouldn't be much longer before there'd be nothing left to save. But Hank didn't dare look; he couldn't risk taking his eyes off Jed.

As if to demonstrate how true that was, the man pulled a knife from his pocket. When he popped open the blade, it glinted in the sun.

“Show me,” Jed said.

Hank held the bat cocked, ready to swing, watching for the slightest movement. Jed stepped to his side, forcing Hank to do the same, the two men moving in a circle. Occasionally, Jed would feint, coming forward, testing his opponent, but he never fully committed himself. Not yet. Smiling wide, showing plenty of teeth, he looked like he was having fun.

“What're you waitin' for?” Jed asked. “Come get me.”

Rather than respond, Hank readjusted his grip on the bat.

But then, like a flash, Jed went for blood. He jab-stepped to the left, then quickly changed direction, slashing with the knife. The blade cut an arc through the smoky air. The tip pierced the skin of Hank's forearm, leaving a painful, bloody gash several inches long.

“Little slow there,” Jed crowed. “You don't move faster than that, next time, my knife's gonna end up in your heart.”

Little as Hank wanted to admit it, the bastard was right. The bat was a powerful weapon, but he couldn't swing as fast as Jed could strike with the knife. If he was going to survive this, if there was to be any chance to save his workshop, Hank had to be smarter. He had to guess where Jed was going to be before the man even moved. Then he would make him pay.

He'll come straight at me this time…he'll be looking for the kill…

Hank was right. And he was ready.

Jed reversed his strategy from before, lunging forward with his first move and dropping his outside shoulder, making it look like he was going to step away, but he never hesitated, going right at Hank. The bat found him first. Before Jed reached his intended target, the heavy barrel smashed into his hand, sending the knife flying and crushing fragile bones.

“Damn it!” he hollered in pain.

Unfortunately for Jed, Hank wasn't done with him yet. The next blow hammered his shoulder. Another clipped his knee, dropping him to the ground. A final swing slammed into his ribs. In a matter of seconds, the tough had been transformed from a bloodthirsty braggart into a whimpering mess.

But then, as Hank was trying to figure out what to do with his defeated opponent, something in his workshop exploded.

The loud blast sent flames and broken glass shooting out the open doors. Debris rained across the yard. Immediately, Hank knew what had happened. In his work, he used all kinds of paints, stains, and varnishes. Most of them were strong, noxious stuff. The fire must have reached them, and at least one had blown up. There would likely be more.

Jed's two flunkies still lay on the ground, moaning and nursing their injuries. Both men were close enough to the workshop that another explosion could endanger their lives. Hank knew what he had to do.

Shielding his face, he dragged each man away, dumping them farther back in the yard where he thought they'd be safe. Briefly, he wondered whether they would've done the same for him—he supposed Sam's conscience might have gotten the better of him—but in the end he knew it didn't matter.

As Hank wiped plenty of sweat from his brow, something moved out of the corner of his eye. It was Jed. He was crawling across the gravel, heading for his car. At the same time, Hank heard a noise, distinct over the din of the fire. He knew it as well as a child knows his mother's lullaby.

It was his truck's engine.

Gwen was back.

Beyond the windshield, Gwen watched as the cloud of smoke grew larger. A black spire stretched upward; when it was caught by the wind, it smeared across the sky like dark paint on a light canvas. She knew this wasn't a harmless brush fire. This was a blaze raging out of control.

And she was convinced that it was coming from Hank's house.

Fear gripped her, squeezing harder and harder by the second. Was Hank hurt? Had there been an accident? Her mind worked furiously to create an explanation for what she was seeing, but nothing she came up with put her mind at ease.

Though the truck wasn't built for speed, Gwen pushed it as fast as it would go, stepping on the accelerator, forcing the speedometer's needle to climb, making the vehicle shudder from the effort. She couldn't get there fast enough. Gwen was so intent on the billowing smoke that she had to periodically remind herself to keep her eyes on the road.

When Hank's place finally came into sight, it put her heart in her throat. Gwen jammed on the brakes, causing the truck's tires to skid, then turned into the drive, still moving quickly.

The first thing she saw was Hank's workshop. It was a raging inferno. Flames raced up the walls, charring the wood. They had burst out the windows and burned through a corner of the roof, hungry for more, insatiable until there was nothing left to destroy. All Gwen could think about was the exquisite pieces Hank had built by hand, like the one that had made Freddie Holland so happy. They would all be lost.

Gwen was so dumbstruck by what she was seeing that she didn't immediately notice the car parked ahead of her in the drive. She hadn't expected it to be there and had to swerve to avoid hitting it; she failed, clipping its rear bumper with her own, filling the air with the screech of metal against metal.

But there would be no missing the man who suddenly loomed before her.

Gwen screamed as she slammed on the brakes, but it was far too late to stop. With a sickening thud, she sent him flying like a rag doll, arms and legs pinwheeling through the air. One second he was there and the next he'd disappeared from sight. She wasn't even sure who it had been.

Hank! Oh no, oh no, oh no, oh no…