by Paul Bishop
“Out of the way!” Colby yelled. He waved his gun, to no effect.
“Yoo don be comin' inoo my house, Mr. Man, an thin yoo can kick stuff aron an get away wit it. Mr. Cordell's a decent man. Yoo got no cause to be messin' wit…”
Colby sunk his fist into the fat woman's stomach. The whiskey fumes almost blew him off his feet as air belched out of Etta's mouth.
Etta whooped for oxygen, but didn't move.
Colby hit her again, but she smiled viciously before smacking him backward with a swipe of a fleshy arm. Colby went ass over teakettle and crumpled on the stairs.
Fey saw the start of the confrontation, but had left Colby to it. There wasn't room enough on the stairway for three of them. Meanwhile, Cordell was getting away.
She quickly turned and ran to the door of the next room. It was unlocked, and she entered on the run, gun up and ready.
The stale smell of sweat and marijuana was an overpowering physical force. A thin body was flopped on a camp bed, oblivious to the commotion. Fey spared the body a quick glance before moving to the rear window. It was painted shut.
The Rover, back in its belt holder, crackled with Hatch's agitated voice. “He got by me. Running southbound. I’m cut by falling glass…need an ambulance.”
Fey swore. The body on the bed didn't move. Incongruously, Fey wondered if they had another dead body on their hands. Pulling the Rover from her belt, she keyed the mike. “Monk!” she said, trying to make her voice calm and in command. “Get a broadcast out and get to Hatch. Do it now!”
She didn't wait for a reply. Instead, she threw a disgusting pile of clothing off a metal folding chair in a corner of the room. She swung the chair into the window shattering glass. She realized she was raining more glass down on Hatch, but it couldn’t be helped.
Clearing glass shards from the window frame, she internally gathered her nerve. If Cordell could survive the jump, so could she. Without thinking further, Fey put one foot on the windowsill and launched into air.
The ten-foot drop came to a jarring halt, which sent spasms through her knees she would feel for weeks. Using momentum, Fey rolled onto her right shoulder and came up into a limping run.
Her .38 was in her hand and fire in her heart.
A quick glance revealed Hatch on the ground under Cordell's window. He was holding a bloody arm. There was a gash down his face pouring blood.
“Looks worse than it is,” Hatch said. He could tell Fey didn't believe him, and changed tacks. “I'll survive,” he said grimly. “Get the bastard!” With a bloody finger, he pointed in the direction Cordell had gone. “Be careful. He's a big mutha.”
“Screw careful!” Fey said, moving into a shambling run.
After a hundred yards, her breath was rasping and her legs felt like jelly. She rode her horses three or four times a week, but it didn’t keep her in the physical shape demanded by a foot pursuit.
The alleyway behind the boardinghouse was a rabbit warren of carports, apartment back entrances, and cross-alleys. A dog barked hysterically somewhere to Fey's left. She cut between two buildings in the direction of the noise.
Trash and rotting garbage were strewn everywhere. Above her, the buildings folded in as if ravaged by some kind of internal cancer. The daylight diminished and the world rapidly became a strange gray color. Several black children stared as she ran past. Their mothers, sensing danger from the white man's world, yelled at the children to get inside.
A cat screeched and flew out of nowhere to skitter across Fey’s path and disappear. Fey almost capped off a round, her hearty leaping.
As she ran, adrenaline pumped through her body, sharpening her brain, slowing down the world around her, putting her into the zone - a natural danger high more addictive than any drug. The only sound she could hear was the pounding of her own biological pulses.
Breath wheezed in and out of her lungs as if she were an ancient crone with a four-pack-a-day habit. But, her gun was up and ready, and her peripheral vision was working at maximum.
She caught movement to her left.
A garbage can crashing toward her.
Throwing up her gun hand, she deflected the blow. The impact still drove her to her knees and numbed her arm. Her gun exploded from her grasp like a startled hawk taking flight.
She rolled to her right, but wasn't quick enough to escape a kick smashing into her ribs. She grunted, kept rolling, eventually coming to her knees with her arms held out defensively.
“You're a woman. They sent a woman after me.”
Fey shook her head, trying to focus on the speaker.
Isaac Cordell.
He was bigger than his mug photos indicated. His naked chest rippled with smuggled steroid and jail-built muscles above a pair of jeans on slim hips. His feet were bare. A wide belt looped around the jeans, a large buckle cinched at the center.
Cordell stopped his advance, giving Fey time to stagger to her feet.
“They sent a woman after me,” Cordell said again.
Fey ignored his outrage. “Give it up, Cordell,” she said, shakily. “Turn around and put your hands behind your back.”
Cordell laughed. “I'm not letting a woman take me in.”
He lashed out an apelike arm, connecting solidly with the side of Fey's head.
Her body dropped to the ground, her head feeling it had been turned around on her neck. What happened to the mama's boy Card MacGregor had described? Cordell was a maniac.
Sluggishly, she scrambled for her gun, yelling out abuse lost in the drone from the police helicopter doing a low pass overhead.
She felt herself punched in the back and dropped flat on her stomach again. Cordell started to work her over with his feet. If he had been wearing boots or shoes, he probably would have killed her.
Forgetting the gun, Fey went into survival mode. If she could hold on, help would arrive quickly.
Quickly, however, might not be quick enough to save her life.
Fey rolled away from the kicks and kept rolling until she slammed into the wall of a surrounding building. Calling on every nuance of strength she had left, she pushed herself upright and turned to face Cordell with the building wall behind her.
“Come on, you mother,” she said, tasting blood at the back of her throat.
“Feisty, ain't you?” Cordell said, an evil smile turning up the corners of his mouth. He was advancing toward her, a hulking mass of brawn on the move. His short, red brush cut capped a melon face full of malice and prison carbohydrates. The body of an ape God had decided to turn into a man at the last moment.
Fey noticed the police helicopter had moved away. It was still circling, but it had moved away from the air space directly above.
Cordell had noticed as well.
“Stupid halfwits don't know where you are.” he said. His voice was calm, tinged with amusement.
Fey felt for the rover on her belt. Pulling it out, she saw the battery pack on the bottom had twisted off during one of her violent meetings with the ground. The thing was useless. Less than useless as she couldn't even think of a way to use it as a weapon.
She thought of bluffing, key the mike and request help as though the rover still worked. The idea, though, was abandoned while only half-formed. It was clear from Cordell's expression and laughter he knew the score.
Fey also realized Cordell was no longer running away. His demeanor had changed from flight to fight. Somehow, her being a woman had triggered a violent response in Cordell.
“I thought you cops ran in packs,” Cordell said, still not advancing toward her.
Fey was breathing heavily and didn't bother to respond. She watched Cordell cock his head sideways to look at her as if he were a curious cocker spaniel. “Yet here you are, all on your little lonesome.”
Fey knew she'd been stupid to run after Cordell alone, but she'd thought Colby would soon be on her trail. Etta must have proved more of an obstacle than anticipated.
“Screw you,” Fey said. She tried to move along
the wall, but stopped as Cordell moved to shadow her.
The big man's face clouded over. “Watch your mouth. I'm not going to take crap from yo, or anybody. Cops railroaded me. Now, I'm going to maim as many cops as I can. If you're lucky, I may let you live.”
Fey kept trying to think of ways to stall. If she could keep Cordell talking help would arrive. She listened for the police helicopter, but it seemed even further away.
“If you don't give it up, Cordell, you're going to make things much worse.”
“Things can't get any worse,” Cordell said. He took a step toward Fey. “Boo!” he said, flinging his arms at her without making contact. She flinched backward.
Cordell laughed. “I'm through listening to women. Women have screwed me over my whole life—my mother, my wife, my parole agent, all of 'em. It's time I screwed back.”
“What about your lawyer? The one who got you paroled?”
“Screw her too!” Cordell yelled.
He charged at Fey. She tried to sidestep, but her legs and feet wouldn't coordinate. Cordell slammed his shoulder into her and drove her back into the wall of the building. Consciousness started to fade as Fey slipped down to her knees.
From far away she heard Cordell talking to her. “The perfect pose, like the love canal boys in prison. I’m going to start with your pretty mouth. Then I'm going to break you open like a shotgun and do to you what they did to me in prison—only there was seven of them for my initiation.”
Fey felt a huge hand take the top of her head in a solid grip. She heard the sound of a zipper being pulled down and opened her eyes to see the length of Cordell's erect penis in front of her face. It bobbed up and down.
She looked up, suddenly feeling she was ten years old again. Through the fog in her brain she saw her father's face transposed over Cordell's features.
She clearly heard her father's voice. “You're a bad, filthy little girl. You're making Daddy punish you again. You'll do what I tell you and like it. And if you tell anyone, I'll cut your little brother's privates off. You wouldn't want that to happen, would you?” The harsh voice would then gradually soften. “Come on. Show Daddy you're his favorite little girl.”
The male stench of Cordell's unwashed crotch swept into Fey's nostrils. She felt sick to her stomach.
“You're going to do what I tell you and like it.” The words were her father's, but the voice was Cordell's.
Rage overflowed from deep in the primeval recesses of Fey's soul. Anger exploded through her veins as if it had burst through a dam.
Fear…Frustration…Confusion…Pain…Hatred.
Fey remembered the vow she'd said every time her father had violated her—never again, never again.
She'd been too small and helpless to keep her vow when she was ten. But the years had made her stronger. She had survived and, eventually, her determination to never again be abused, debased, or shamed became an unbreakable vow.
Never again. Never again. The words filled her being as Cordell pushed his penis toward her face again.
“Open your mouth or I'll kill you right now!”
With a power born of sheer determination, Fey stiffened the thumb of her left hand, took a deep breath, and drove its sharpened nail deep into the base of Cordell's scrotum. The big man's scream matched the decibel count of Fey's own explosion of sound as she brought forth a scream from the center of her childhood pain.
As Cordell doubled over, Fey smashed the palm of her other hand into the center of his face. His nose splattered flat and blood spewed in a long arc across the ground. The attacker had suddenly become the attacked. Cordell had no idea how to get away from the helpless rabbit turned wildcat.
Coming to her feet, Fey viciously kicked the side of Cordell's left knee. Ligaments tore and the knee buckled like a tree snapped in a hurricane.
Giving no respite, Fey slammed a palm into Cordell's shoulder and spun him around. Knowing her next action would be considered deadly force, she didn’t hesitated before wrapping her right elbow under Cordell's chin and then locking up the carotid choke hold by placing her left arm behind Cordell's neck. As she squeezed her arms together, the carotid artery on the side of Cordell’s neck was shut down, stopping the flow of blood to his brain. Within seconds, the big man was flopping around like a dying fish. His bowels evacuated as his eyes rolled up in his head and consciousness fled.
When she was sure Cordell was out, Fey released the hold, rolled her prisoner over on his stomach, pulled the handcuffs from the back of her belt, and used them to secure his hands in the small of his back. When she finished, her strength deserted her and she slumped onto her knees beside Cordell.
Where the hell was Colby? Where the hell was anybody in a blue uniform?
She swore a bitterly, but inside her soul a little ten-year-old girl was smiling.
Her vow remained unbroken. Never again. Never again.
Chapter 15
Colby came running full pelt around the corner of the building nearest to Fey. His gun is in his hand, his face pale except for an ugly welt over one eye. His usually immaculate hair is mussed, his sartorial elegance a thing of the past. The sole of one Italian loafer flaps up and down as he runs like something borrowed from a circus clown.
He slows as soon as he see Fey. Finally stopping next to her, he bends over at the waist to put his hands on his knees and catch his breath.
“You look like hell,” he said. His voice casual.
“You don’t look much better.” Fey's tone held the same casual note as Colby's, but there was no underlying malice in their exchange.
Colby took a closer look at Fey, seeing the extent of her condition. “You okay?” he asked.
Fey tried to stand up and grunted before staying slumped down on top of Cordell. “I don't know,” she said. “More of me hurts than doesn't.”
Colby pulled the Rover off his belt and spoke rapidly into it. Almost immediately, the sound of the police helicopter increased as it pinpointed Fey's position.
Colby continued talking into the rover until a black-and-white unit arrived on the scene, followed rapidly by an ambulance. The uniformed officers took custody of Cordell, throwing him none too easily in the back of the patrol car. The ambulance attendants took custody of Fey.
A detective car pulled up containing Monk Lawson and Patty Kline. They both exited the vehicle and walked to where Fey was being attended by a paramedic.
“How’s Hatch?” Fey asked.
“Fine,” Monk said. “They took him to the hospital for stitches, but the ambulance crew think he'll be okay.”
“Great…Ouch! Watch it,” Fey said to the paramedic who was poking her in the ribs. “Who trained you? Quasimodo?”
“Yeah, but I could never get used to wearing a hump,” the paramedic replied, continuing to probe.
“Just what I need,” Fey said, “a comedian.”
The paramedic finished taking her vital signs and pulled the stethoscope out of his ears. “We're going to put you on a stretcher and take you to the hospital,” he said, waving his partner over.
“Like hell,” Fey said. “I hate hospitals.”
“Don't be stupid. You may have internal injuries and a couple of ribs are cracked or broken.”
Fey grunted. “Tape me up. I'll survive. I'm not going to the hospital.”
“Fey…” Colby started in to change her mind.
He was sorry Fey had been hurt, if only because someone might question why he hadn't been around to back her up, but he figured she deserved what she got. She was the one who took off by herself, trying to do a man's job. And if she was made to stay in the hospital, it would certainly get her out of his hair.
“Shut up, Colby,” Fey cut him off. “I don't need a wet nurse. I caught him, and I’ll clean him.” Fey could already hear the gears turning in Colby's mind. If she was in the hospital, he'd quickly find a way to make everyone think he'd made the arrest.
“Come on, partner,” Colby said, consciously not using his favorite F
rog Lady tag. “Nobody is going to look down on you for going to the hospital.”
“Would you go?” Fey asked him. She was having trouble keeping the pain and anger out of her voice.
Colby opened his mouth and then closed it. He didn't have a comeback. Fey was staring at him, so he answered her with a shrug.
“Case closed,” Fey said. She turned back to the paramedic “Tape me up. If things get too rough, I promise I'll check myself into the hospital.”
The paramedic surprised Fey by sticking a needle in her arm.
“Ouch!” she said again. Seconds later, she was out cold.
“Another bad case of macho cured,” the paramedic said calmly.
Colby shook his head. “She is going to be pissed when she wakes up.”
“At least she'll wake up,” the paramedic said. “She’s in a lot of pain. She needs X rays, and I want a doctor to confirm she isn't in any danger. Cops always think they're immortal.”
“Being immortal is a prerequisite to get on the department,” Colby said. The way he felt, he wished he was on the stretcher.
The following morning Fey was in the office when Monk and Hatch arrived. Even with her ribs taped up, she felt sore and agitated. A yellow bruise ran down the left side of her face, emphasized by a purple shiner.
“What are you doing here?' Hatch asked. “You look like you've been dragged through a hedge backward.”
“Don't give me a bad time,” Fey said. “You look as bad as me, and you're here.”
Fey had winced when she looked at Hatch. There was a large white plaster on his right cheek and his right sleeve was rolled up, exposing the long line of stiches on his arm.
“How many stitches in your cheek?” she asked.
“Eighteen,” Hatch said. The plaster made his mouth move awkwardly when he talked.
“You going to need plastic surgery?”
“Nah.” Hatch shrugged. “Lorraine says scars are sexy. She's always wanted to be married to a pirate.”
Lorraine was Hatch's third wife. Ten years younger than him and a sexual dynamo. Rumor was, she left him wrung out—but happy—six nights a week. Sundays, apparently, were a day of rest. Nobody thought the union would last, but the honeymoon had been going on for three years with no cracks in sight.