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Jim s office. She was surprised that there wasn t anyone around.
She sat in front for several minutes, while the anger at what had
happened to Jim built inside her like a carefully stoked fire. By
the time she opened the car door she had begun to form a plan.
Chapter Seven
Dearest Dad,
We buried my boss today. I guess I don t feel like talking much
right now. I just wanted you to know that I m okay. I got a little
burn on my face from when the bomb blew up, but it s healing
nicely. I guess maybe I should take this as a reason to quit, but you
never liked quitters, and neither do I. I ve met with two men from
the FBI about six times in the last week. The FBI took over the
investigation because when a person is killed by a bomb it becomes
a federal crime. ((I thought the ATF handled all bomb stuff, but I
was wrong.)) For some reason, I didn t tell the local cops or the FBI
everything I knew. I didn t show them the video either. Maybe I
should have, but I owe it to Jim to find out who killed him and why.
I don t think the FBI guys care a damn about anything but their
paychecks. The other cops are too busy with routine things to try to
solve it.
The cops went to Jim s office and gathered evidence and then
locked the doors. I got out just before they got there. I suppose I m
obstructing justice or some such rot.
How you say?
Well I called 9-1-1 and waited until they got there. Then I just
drove away, at first I didn t know where I was going or why.
She paused, thought about what she d written, then went on.
That s probably not true. I think from the time I knew Jim was
dead, I also knew that I would get his killer. For the past three days
I have been going over all of Jim s records.
She drank some more of a now-warm cola and went on.
74 DAVE MEAD
I found the three names of ex-cops with whom he keeps in touch.
Strangely, only two of them came to his funeral. The other one, his
name is Spruce, is, or was, Jim s best friend. Jim told me quite a bit
about him. But when I think back on it, he didn t really tell me
much at all. Mostly just what he looked like and that he was the
kind of friend you d want with you if you had to walk down a dark
alley in the wrong part of town. That sort of thing. I don t even
know if Spruce is his first name, last name, or a handle as we in
the business call it. I know that he disappeared some three years
ago, quitting his job as a New York City detective. Jim knew where
he was. Apparently no one else did. So I don t know what
happened to Spruce. Jim s murder and the kidnappings have been
front-page news all week, so he has to have heard about it.
Anyway, back to the now, I ve bought a new laptop that has
enough hard drive space and memory to handle anything I
undertake. So I liberated Jim s backup disks and personal files,
copied everything from his hard drive onto mine, and then wiped
his clean.
Oh, by the way, Jim never carried a gun. I have no idea why.
He did, however, own three nine-millimeter automatics. His estate
now has two (I chose the Glock cause it s lighter and fits me better).
((There weren t any tanks in his storeroom.))
I haven t had time to go through everything yet. Actually I
haven t even gotten started. After I left his office I checked myself
into a hospital. I had to have a reason for leaving the scene. I
played the part of a dumb cripple, and the cops ended up
apologizing for having questioned my actions. Like you always
say, If life gives you lemons; make some bastard eat them.
I don t really know where to begin, but with your help, we can
get the bastard. And Dad, I m going to feed him lemons, and
maybe lead. I love you. Sorry, but for the next while, you can t sit
on your bench. I need help.
By the way, I got a letter from Buzzard, remember, he owns the
store in Chadwick, and is the one who pulled me out of the
wreckage? Anyway he sounds so sweet. When this is all over, do
you think I d be a fool to go back? Yeah, you re probably right.
Crutches, ice, snow, and grizzly bears don t mix, do they?
May God protect your little
Stix
STIX 75
She was past the exhaustion stage and it took her several
hours to relax enough to get to sleep.
Chapter Eight
Stix came to in stages, holding onto the vestiges of sleep as
long as possible. For it was there that she was again whole. As
time permitted, like this morning, she waited as long as possible
before sending the orders down to her legs to swing themselves
out of bed. As usual, she got a little movement out of the right
leg and some spastic toe twitching from the left one.
This morning though, something else was wrong. She realized
that she was smelling coffee, and for an instant thought that her
Dad had slipped into her room with a morning cup of happiness.
Then memory came crashing back to leave her paralyzed with
fear. She rolled her head to look at the bedside table. The phone
was gone. In its place was a cup of coffee, still steaming. She
realized that if whoever was in her apartment had wanted to kill
or rape her he would have already done so. She levered herself
into a sitting position and sent her left hand on a mission of
finding her robe while she watched the bedroom door. As she
tied the robe s belt in a knot she went over her options. The gun
she d taken from Jim s office was in a drawer by her chair. The
only other weapons in her apartment were two kitchen knives.
And what about hair spray? Maybe she could spray it in his eyes.
(She was sure it was a he.) Right. And he was just going to sit
there while she crutched into the bathroom and came back
clutching a crutch and the can of hair spray. And if that worked,
then what? Run for the door. She nearly laughed. It would take
her around two minutes to get the door opened, through it, and
the door shut. Her father always said that a person s two most
formidable weapons were the mind and the ability to show no
fear. She smiled thinking of him, because then he d added,
Unless the other person has a gun, then your mind is mush.
Unless . . . unless. That was as far as he d go. Unless. Unless.
78 DAVE MEAD
Unless she was smarter than whoever had broken into her
apartment.
She pulled herself up and, taking her crutches, worked her way
past the end of her bed and made her way out into the living
room. He glanced up from her computer screen, smiled at her,
and went back to the computer. His hair was long, dirty blond,
covering most of his face.
She tried several times before words came out. Who are you?
And what in hell are you doing in my apartment?
He looked up, his eyes traveling from her face slowly down to
her bare feet and back up. Jim said you were a looker. He didn t
tell me you were also a cripple.
I am not a cripple!
Right. They teach you to say that? He nodded and
answered his own question, Yeah. They did. Part of the
therapy. But did they make you believe it?
She looked at him for several seconds before she asked, Are
you the mysterious Spruce?
Jim told you about me?
Time to lie, she told herself. Yeah. I know more than I care
to about you. You re just another renegade loser.
He grinned. Nice try, Sweetheart.
For some reason, she wasn t scared. A little mad, maybe, but
not scared.
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