The Man Who Fought Alone

by Donaldson, Stephen R.

  Boy, do we like sheep.

  Finally I murmured, “Ask me something I can do. Moy needs to know. Now, tonight. He has to trace Hardshorn. Get his real name, find out where he lives, where he works, who his friends are, anything.” Otherwise the link to Bernie’s killer would vanish forever. “That means he needs to question people right away.”

  Behind us, car doors slammed. Guided by flashlights, three men headed into the alley. They didn’t appear to be hurrying.

  “I saved your life,” Sternway insisted.

  What the fuck are you doing?

  I nodded at the gloom. “And I owe you. But I need Moy. I can’t handle all this alone.”

  Despite the groaning protests of my ribs and arms, I braced myself to interfere if he tried to leave. I knew I couldn’t stop him, but I intended to make an issue out of it nonetheless.

  Fortunately he didn’t move.

  A minute later, the flashlights came around the end of the Dumpster. Edgar Moy and a couple of CPD uniforms incarnated themselves out of the shadows. The street cops weren’t familiar to me, but Moy seemed unchanged, trench coat and all. Languidly he held his flashlight so that we could see his face, with its pencil-stroke mustache, nerveless cheeks, and sour eyes. The grey in his hair made him look like he’d just emerged from a dustbin.

  “Axbrewder.” He sounded too far away to do me any good. “Mr. Sternway.” Then he aimed his flashlight at the pavement. “Who’s the corpse?”

  I told him. Gradually the ringing in my ears lost its weird resemblance to music. Now it sounded more like a drill bit running too hot.

  I missed the sheep.

  “Isn’t that a coincidence,” he observed rhetorically. “Two days ago he kills a security guard at The Luxury, and already you’ve tracked him down.” His skepticism had all the subtlety of an interrogation with a rubber hose. “Even though it’s none of your business.

  “Which one of you heroes whacked him?”

  Sternway donned his regalia, in a manner of speaking—HRH complete with pomp and circumstance. “It wasn’t like that, Sergeant,” he answered stiffly. “Axbrewder recognized him inside.” He indicated the door to the club. “We didn’t want to lose him, so we followed him when he left. He attacked Axbrewder suddenly. Axbrewder fell, and I joined the struggle. While we fought, I struck him in the throat. His larynx was crushed.

  “I didn’t expect that. I’ve seen him fight before. I had no idea of beating him. I simply hoped to stay alive until help arrived.”

  With imperial ease, he made his explanation sound like a complaint against the cops, as if Hardshorn might somehow still be alive if Moy had done his job properly.

  The uniforms put on a show of inspecting the body— probably just staying out of Moy’s way. Then one of them wandered back to the cruiser to call in the lab boys and photogs. The other studied the nooks and corners of the alley for no apparent reason.

  Moy turned his head toward me at a quizzical angle. “That right, Axbrewder?”

  I nodded. “Justifiable manslaughter.” I tried not to sound bitter. “I couldn’t handle him. I’d be dead now if Mr. Sternway hadn’t jumped in.”

  “Fascinating.” He didn’t sounded fascinated. “Where’s your weapon? I thought all you private investigators carried guns. You looked half-naked without one on Saturday.”

  “I left it in my car.” He’d started to piss me off. And the whine at the edge of my hearing didn’t help. I wanted to straighten my back so that I could tower over him, but my ribs rejected the idea. The dead parts of my chest refused to flex.

  “So by pure chance,” Moy went on, “you and Mr. Sternway were out together when you spotted the alleged killer of a hotel security guard. Compounding the coincidence, he’s a man Mr. Sternway has seen fight before, a man he knows well enough to identify by name, but didn’t see at the tournament. And now he’s dead.

  “Do I have it right so far?”

  He didn’t expect an answer. Without conviction, he added, “Give me one more providential fluke, and I’m a happy man. I can hardly wait to find out what law-abiding citizens like yourselves do when you’re out together. If I hear you were trolling for suspects, I’ll expire with bliss.”

  His sarcasm laid too many of my nerves bare. “So far,” I put in harshly. “Almost. The ‘alleged’ part is right, anyway.”

  Then I waited for him to pay some actual attention.

  “Go on,” he prompted incuriously.

  “That”—I pointed a rigid finger at Hardshorn’s body—“is the drop I spotted working the tournament. I don’t make that kind of mistake,” although God knows I’d already made a shitload of others. “But he didn’t kill Bernie.”

  “‘Bernie’?” Moy seemed momentarily amused. “Are you referring to Bernard Appelwait, The Luxury security guard? I didn’t get the impression you knew him that well.”

  I couldn’t match his tone, but I managed to let some of the drill bit into my voice.

  “I like to be on a first-name basis with people who end up dead because I didn’t do my job well enough. I knew Hardshorn was dangerous as soon as I saw him. And Bernie was an old man. He shouldn’t have gone after Hardshorn alone—and he sure as hell should not have gone into that restroom alone. If I’d been faster,” or clearer, or maybe just smarter, “he wouldn’t have.”

  Moy shrugged. “And now you’re taking it personally.” My appetite for chagrin didn’t pique him. “You’ve already made that obvious.” A reference to Marshal’s phone calls. “But you haven’t quite mentioned what you and Mr. Sternway were doing here in the first place. And you still haven’t told me why you think this limp sucker didn’t kill Mr. Appelwait.” His tone smiled. “Unless I’ve missed something.”

  Gritting my teeth, I dragged myself a bit more upright. The deadness in my chest resisted every movement, and at least half a dozen ribs squalled objections. Maybe some of them were broken—I couldn’t tell yet.

  “I left something out on Saturday.” The drill bit whined hotter. “The murder weapon. The missing flik.” If Moy hadn’t recognized the marks on the stall, or the slash across Bernie’s throat, he deserved a demotion. “It was Bernie’s.”

  At least now I had Moy’s attention.

  “Wisman asked me not to tell you. The Luxury doesn’t allow weapons, but Bernie wasn’t the only guard carrying one anyway. Wisman thought there would be trouble with the hotel.

  “At the time, I didn’t see any harm in it. Now—” I lifted my shoulders painfully. “Now I’ve had a chance to think.”

  “Fascinating,” Moy remarked again. He sounded like he wanted to add, All this and Heaven, too. Take me now, O Lord. But I didn’t give him a chance.

  “I asked myself what kind of petty thief kills a security guard with his own weapon and then takes it. I couldn’t come up with an answer.

  “And there was someone missing. The spot. Any good team has a spot. Someone to watch for trouble. Someone who warned Hardshorn to get out of the hall.

  “So I asked myself, what if Hardshorn wasn’t alone in the restroom? What if his spot was there, too, when Bernie came in?” Maybe they’d met to hand off the evidence, make it harder to track. “Then it almost makes sense. The spot knew I’d identified Hardshorn, but the only threat he faced himself was Bernie.

  “Which wasn’t necessarily a big deal,” a danger worth killing to avoid. “They didn’t have to slaughter him. As long as they got away, it didn’t much matter if they left him alive. You weren’t likely to catch them.”

  If the cops—any cops—were good at catching that kind of crook, the whole world would be a different place.

  I couldn’t see Sternway’s face, but his shape in the shadows conveyed concentration, intensity, as if he took all this more seriously than Moy did.

  “Unless—?” Moy offered helpfully.

  I tried to pull a deep breath past my ribs. They didn’t approve.

  “Unless,” I sighed thinly, “the spot was someone Bernie knew. Someone who wouldn’t ha
ve a prayer if Bernie identified him. Someone who couldn’t hide from it, or bluff it out, or confuse the issue. Then it makes sense. Even taking the flik makes sense”—well, almost—“because it confuses what happened.”

  Moy waited for me to go on, but I was finished. Probably I wouldn’t be able to stay on my feet much longer. The whine in my ears had finally started to recede, but some of the dead patches on my chest continued oozing larger. If they spread much farther, I wouldn’t be able to breathe.

  After a moment the detective nodded. “All right, Axbrewder. That’s withholding information and obstructing a police investigation. Do you have any other secrets you’d like to come clean about before I go into my Outraged Officer of the Law dog-and-pony show?”

  Judging by his tone, he wasn’t pissed off. I would’ve taken that as good news, if I’d had the energy.

  Briefly I considered telling him that I’d been to Bernie’s apartment. But then I decided it was none of his damn business. It was between me and Alyse.

  What the fuck are you doing?

  For some reason, Hardshorn’s last words ran on and on in my head, repeating themselves like a mantra. They could’ve meant anything.

  I shook my head. “Don’t you have enough on me already?”

  By then the second uniform had returned from the cruiser. He and his partner had finished an inspection of the alley, and were waiting for Moy at the door to the club.

  “Warner,” he told them, “Hanson, I’m officially furious at this low-rent private fuckup. I’ve just nailed his ears to the side of that Dumpster. You both heard me. We wouldn’t want the lieutenant to think I’m getting soft.”

  They chuckled dutifully, but their hearts weren’t in it.

  The detective turned back to me. “Did you understand me, Axbrewder? You’ve just been napalmed. If you don’t keep your nose clean, I’ll come back and scatter the ashes.”

  If his black skin hadn’t hidden his face in the dark, I might’ve seen humor glint from his eyes.

  There was nothing I could say, but he clearly didn’t expect a response. Pointing at the door, he asked Sternway, “Is that the only way in?”

  Apparently Sternway had reconciled himself to the possibility that he might lose his hobby. Maybe his victory over Hardshorn consoled him. “That’s the back,” he answered expressionlessly. “I’ll show you around to the front.”

  Moy paused him with one hand. “Backup?” he asked Warner or Hanson.

  One of them replied, “They’re sending a couple of units. Should be here any time.”

  “Good.

  “You’ve got this door,” Moy instructed them. “No one leaves until we’re done. I’ll wait at the front.”

  Then he beckoned for Sternway to lead the way.

  As the IAMA director started past the Dumpster, Moy took hold of my arm, tugged me into a slow walk. I didn’t have the heart to shrug him off.

  “Are you all right?” he inquired privately.

  That wasn’t a question I could answer simply, so I avoided it. “I’ve had worse beatings,” I told him. “I’ll heal.”

  I could tell by his grip on my arm that he wanted to pry. Just what I needed right then, a cop with good instincts. Marshal had warned me that Moy’s boredom, his air of indifference, was just camouflage. After a moment, however, he seemed to let his curiosity about me go. His hand slid off my arm.

  Still keeping his voice low, he shifted his ground. “What am I going to find in there?”

  Beyond the Dumpster, the light improved. Now I could see the street at the end of the alley. Sternway strode on ahead, leading us out of darkness like a prophet.

  I opened my hands instead of trying another shrug. “It’s a fight club. Sternway seems to like no-rules sparring.

  “Those chops,” I explained, “the antiques at the tournament. They’ve been moved to Martial America. The developer, Alex Lacone, hired me to keep them safe. Sternway is a consultant to Martial America. He gave me the tour this afternoon. While we were talking, he invited me here. He wanted me to see for myself why martial artists treat him like the Second Coming of Bruce Lee.”

  As far as I was concerned, my encounter with Turf Hardshorn was coincidental entirely.

  Moy considered this while we rounded the front of the building and headed for the alley where Sternway and I had parked. Or maybe he just wondered how much sleep he’d get tonight. In the distance ahead, I saw a couple of cruisers come briskly down the street, no lights or sirens. They may’ve thought they were incognito. As Moy and I followed our guide toward the cul-de-sac parking lot, he changed the subject again.

  “You’re done here, Axbrewder. Go to an emergency room. Get Sternway to drive you. I owe your buddy Viviter more than a couple of favors. If you collapse from internal bleeding, I’ll feel like I’ve let him down.” A moment later he added sardonically, “I love your theory about Appelwait’s killer. But it’s just a theory. You’re supposed to be an investigator. Show me some evidence.”

  For a mercy, the parts of my chest that felt slain had stopped spreading. Unfortunately this seemed to aggravate my bruises. Or were they torn muscles? Cracked ribs? They sent out small licking tendrils of pain like flame on splashed gasoline.

  On the plus side, I could hear almost normally.

  If the lab ever tested those fibers from Bernie’s throat, Moy would get all the evidence he needed.

  Despite my chest, I would’ve preferred crawling home to a ride with HRH. “You might need Sternway,” I said speciously. He’d saved my life, hadn’t he? “When I get to my car, I can sit down. That’ll help. And I have a phone. I can call someone.”

  Moy grunted noncommittally. As if the question related to needing Sternway, he asked, “What should we look for in there?”

  Navy blazers? Not likely.

  “You figure it out,” I sighed between tongues of fire. He knew the drill as well as I did. “I’m too tired.”

  By then we’d reached the hidden parking lot. I leaned against the Plymouth for a minute, mustering my strength. Sternway waited for us a few yards closer to the club’s front door.

  Before he left me there, Moy suggested, “Be a good boy, Axbrewder.” He may’ve smiled. “Keep your nose clean. If you’re lucky, some day you’ll make a nice pet for an older woman who doesn’t know any better.”

  Sure thing, Sergeant, I muttered in silence as he moved off. That’s sounds great. I can hardly wait.

  I put off getting into the van because I didn’t actually want to go. I couldn’t stay on my feet well enough to help interrogate the club’s patrons, that was obvious. Nevertheless I wanted to be there. I wanted to hear everything Moy dug up. Otherwise I might never know what it was. I’d already drawn on Marshal’s favors pretty hard. They wouldn’t stretch to cover releasing the results of an official interrogation. Presumably-innocent bystanders had rights that mere cadavers like Bernie lacked.

  But Moy had already granted me more leeway than the law allowed. And I was in no shape to push my luck. If sitting down didn’t clear my head, I might not be able to drive. I sure as hell didn’t have what it would take to pay attention while the detective and his uniforms did their jobs.

  Bowing to the inevitable, as they say, I groped out my keys and contrived to climb into the van. Once I’d turned the ignition, and the Plymouth sputtered to life, I let myself sag onto the steering wheel and rest for a while. Then I hit the lights, mostly to let Moy know that I was being a good boy, and considered the puzzle of getting a vehicle this size back out to the street.

  Behind me, four more uniforms followed their flashlights into the alley. I let them catch up with Moy and Sternway before I began to inch the Plymouth tortuously around so that I wouldn’t have to escape the cul-de-sac in reverse.

  By the time I’d completed that inelegant maneuver, Moy had flashed his badge at the shutter in the metal door, and he and his men had taken Sternway inside.

  Oh, well. So much for Indomitable Mick Axbrewder, the Private Investigator Who
Never Says Die. I actually murmured “die” to myself for a couple of minutes, “die die die,” like a chant, while I swayed along the alley to the street. Obviously losing my mind. But after that I tried to concentrate on the road. I didn’t want to drive like a drunk as I strove to triangulate on my apartment.

  The thought of an emergency room didn’t hold much appeal. As I left the vicinity of the fight club, some disgruntled pugilist was probably saying, Turf Hardshorn? Shit, yes, I know him. But I wasn’t there to hear it. An emergency room would immobilize my chest and even give me drugs, but that wouldn’t make me feel any better.

  What the fuck are you doing?

  Anson Sternway had saved my life.

  If there’d been a nice warm womb handy, I would’ve squeezed into it somehow.

  Naturally I wanted a drink. But I knew better. Booze didn’t soften the slings and arrows of outrageous and so on. It just validated self-pity.

  More by Divine Intervention than Inspiration, I eventually found my way into a part of Carner I recognized, where the streets and buildings were so brightly lit that they looked like bleached neoprene, and all-night “sports emporiums” offered their wares on every third corner. After that, it was only a matter of time until I located the apartment.

  A glow in the window announced that Ginny had left a light on for me. Or she was still up.

  I couldn’t imagine how I felt about that.

  By stages, I parked the van, locked it, and carried myself to the door of our apartment.

  It wasn’t locked. She hadn’t gone to bed yet.

  For all I knew, she wasn’t alone.

  To my own surprise, I found that I didn’t actually care. Bracing one arm on the frame, I opened the door and let myself in.

  She sat in the armchair by the phone, with a magazine she hadn’t opened on the end table beside her. Her gunmetal gaze, as direct and uncomplicated as pistol fire, caught me before I’d crossed the threshold. Without appearing to move at all, she gained her feet and came forward. But when she reached me, she didn’t say anything, or offer to help. Instead she simply closed the door after me while I moved to the couch and tried to sit down without wincing. Then she went back to her chair. Her eyes never left my face.