by Hank Edwards
“Norbie? Oh, Norbie! Thank God!” Russell flopped onto his back, spread-eagle and spent as if he’d been committing different crimes of passion all morning rather than murder and assault.
Sucking in a gasp, Norbert slowly raked his gaze up and down Russell’s nude body. The intense lust in Norbert’s expression made Michael shiver.
Michael didn’t know which of the two men was creepier.
“They attacked me,” Russell said, his voice weak as he gestured at Jazz. “Jasper busted in here and just attacked me. Said if he can’t have me, no one will.”
“You fucking bastard!” Norbert clutched Russell’s hand and seethed as he turned hate-filled eyes on Jazz.
“That’s a lie,” Michael said.
“Shut your filthy mouth, mortician,” Norbert snapped. “This is no concern of yours.”
“Norbert, he’s lying,” Jazz said, voice calm. “He killed Dylan, and we caught him in the act of killing another man just now. The body’s in the tub. Go see for yourself.” He still had the poker in his hand and he pointed to the hallway with it. “We were just going to check and see if he’s alive.”
“More lies!” Norbert hissed so dramatically and with such venom, Michael could all but imagine Norbert calling them “filthy hobbitsez.”
Norbert pushed to his feet and jabbed an accusatory finger at Jazz. “You’re holding a weapon. How dare you spread so many false accusations? I’m calling the sheriff right now.”
“Good!” Jazz cried. “Call him right now!”
Feeling like they should get off the floor and restrain Russell before Norbert could try anything, or at the very least cover up Russell’s wrinkly sac and tiny penis—mine is waaaay bigger—Michael looked over at Jazz beside him. “Think you can secure Russell while I check on the man in the tub?”
He huffed a laugh. “As soon as I catch my breath.”
“I’m calling the police!” Norbert shrieked again, stomping over to his messenger bag, which lay on the kitchen floor in a puddle of coffee.
Right on cue, there was a knock on the back door, and Musgrave’s gravelly voice called out, “Someone say they need the police? This is the sheriff’s department. Everything okay in there?”
“Come in!” Norbert and Jazz shouted together, then glared at each other.
Musgrave stepped into the kitchen. His hand rested on the butt of his holstered gun as he took in the scene before him: Norbert standing in a puddle of coffee, Russell lying spread out and naked, and Jazz with a poker sitting on the floor beside Michael.
“What in the hell kinda kinky thing did I just walk into?” Musgrave’s gaze swept the room several more times, then settled on the two of them. His expression tightened into a pinched look of irritation. “What the ever-loving hell is going on here?”
“They attacked Russell!” Norbert shouted. He stomped his foot and coffee splattered Musgrave’s pant leg.
“Watch it!”
“We did not!” Jazz countered, pushing to his feet, knees popping. He extended a hand, which Michael gratefully accepted. “He was murdering someone in the bathtub and attacked us when we caught him.”
“I need an ambulance,” Russell called from the floor. “I feel weak. It’s been a trying day.”
“A trying day?” Jazz repeated incredulously. “Seriously, Russell? That’s what you’d call this?”
“Oh, Jasper dear, you know this is all a misunderstanding.”
Michael caught Norbert’s pained expression when Russell called Jazz “dear.”
Musgrave waved them all into silence. “Let’s take it from the beginning.” He snapped his fingers at Norbert as he started to speak. “Not from you.”
Jazz gave him a triumphant look. “Ha!”
“You either, Dilworth.” Musgrave slowly edged up to Jazz and took the poker from his hand. He set it aside and nodded to Michael. “Talk to me, Fleishman. What happened?”
“That’s not fair! He’s just going to lie and slander Russell!” Norbert stomped one of his clunky boots. This time his foot slipped in the coffee, and he slid a bit before he regained his balance.
When he started to move to dryer ground near Russell, Musgrave pointed at him. “Don’t move. And shut that trap of yours right now, or go outside and sit in the back seat of my patrol car. Is that clear?”
Norbert huffed and crossed his arms tight over his chest.
“Good.” Musgrave turned back to Michael. “Go ahead.”
“We thought it would be nice for Russell to hear that Dylan’s killers had been caught.”
“What?” Norbert and Russell said together. Michael noticed Russell lifted his head off the floor and looked at him, seeming much less injured than he had a few seconds before.
“Quiet,” Musgrave growled at them, then looked back at Michael. “Go on.”
“So we drove out here after we left the station. It started raining when we arrived and we were getting soaked. The back door was unlocked so we let ourselves in.”
“They admitted to trespassing, Officer,” Russell said, airily waving his hand above his prone body.
“Dammit, Russell,” Norbert said. “I’ve warned you about leaving that door unlocked. Did you never read Misery?”
“Shut. Your. Damn. Mouth.” Musgrave glared Norbert into silence, then turned back to Michael. “Continue.”
“We heard sounds from the master bathroom. Water running, quiet thumps, and someone trying to scream. When we entered the bathroom, we found Russell naked and kneeling beside the tub, holding an unconscious man’s face under the running water. He had shower curtains strung up everywhere and a paper cutter that could easily remove a victim’s hands postmortem. The crime scene is, well? It’s mostly undisturbed. He wasn’t exactly happy when we discovered him.”
“Premeditated, eh?”
“I need to see if the man is still alive.” Michael gestured toward the hallway. “May I?”
Musgrave chewed his lip and looked between the four of them. He nodded at Michael. “Go check on the vic, Fleishman.” Then he produced his handcuffs and approached Russell, still lying on the floor.
“What are you doing?” Russell and Norbert said together.
“Cuffing a murder suspect before I check out the crime scene,” Musgrave said, and crouched down beside Russell. Russell let out a squeak.
“Stop at once,” Norbert demanded, halting Michael in his tracks.
“Why aren’t you handcuffing those two?” Norbert went on in a huff. “They attacked Russell! He wouldn’t hurt a fly.”
“Not a fly, but maybe a man or two,” Michael said.
“Lies! Lies!” Norbert cried.
Musgrave grabbed Russell’s arm, and he didn’t struggle. “Fleishman might be a lot of things, but he ain’t a liar.” The quiet snick of the cuffs sounded.
Russell’s free arm moved fast.
He yanked the gun from the sheriff’s holster and jabbed it into Musgrave’s gut.
“Back off.”
Russell’s voice was as cold and hard as his gaze.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
“FUCK,” MUSGRAVE cursed. He rose to his feet and lifted his hands as he took two steps back.
Michael realized Musgrave had positioned himself in front of him and Jazz. Dumbass dick that he was, Musgrave was a lawman first, and he protected the citizens under his watch.
“Don’t be stupid, Withingham,” Musgrave warned.
Russell was on his feet, gun steady in his grip and leveled at the sheriff. The cuffs dangled from his other wrist. He looked like some naked freak in a cheap porn.
“Russell?” Norbert’s voice was quiet and stunned.
“Not now, Norbie.” Russell gestured with the gun. “Join the others, please.” He pointed it at Michael, standing by the hallway. “You too.”
Michael obeyed but Norbert held his ground.
“But, Russell—”
“Now!”
The sharp edge in Russell’s tone made Michael jump. Norbert moved to sta
nd behind the sheriff.
“This isn’t like you,” Jazz said, pleading. “Come on, Russell. Put the gun down.”
Russell tsked. “You never truly knew me, even when you thought you did, dear Jasper. Always such a bad judge of character.” He took a step toward them. He waved the gun slightly, gesturing for them all to step aside.
They moved as a single, cohesive group. Musgrave stayed in front of the rest of them, and Michael felt a new appreciation for the man.
“You were the closest of all my lovers, but not quite on the mark, I’m afraid.” Russell moved to the other side of the living room, his back to the hallway leading to the bedroom. “I’m going to have to shoot each of you and then myself to make it look like we were all attacked. I, unfortunately, will be the sole survivor. I don’t want to shoot myself in the leg, but alas, the story demands what the story demands. I must give the readers what they want. Not a single plot hole can be missed.”
There was a wistful note in his voice that reminded Michael of the man, his literary hero, who he’d met only a few days ago.
“But, Russell, not me too….” Norbert’s voice faded out, and Michael almost felt sorry for him. Almost. “I’ll help you, Russell,” Norbert said, voice a little stronger, eyes desperate. “You don’t have to kill me.”
“My apologies, Norbie. You’re a sweet man, but you’re a terribly shitty PR man.” Russell raised the gun. “First the good sheriff. Then the rest.”
Jazz grabbed Michael by the hand.
Michael’s heart pounded. Blood whooshed in his ears. His mouth was dry. Was this the end?
Oddly, he wondered who would work on his body. Would Russell shoot them in the hearts or the heads? Would Ezra be able to salvage anything for their funerals? Who would take care of Mr. Pickles?
The storm had passed, for the most part. But as Russell steadied the gun on Musgrave, a weak flicker of lightning revealed a shape in the entrance to the hallway behind him.
“Russell, behind you!” Norbert shouted.
Jazz muttered, “Fucking asshole,” under his breath as his grip tightened on Michael’s hand.
“Oh, come on, Norbie. That’s pathetic, even for you.”
Moving with slow, staggering steps, the shape advanced on Russell. More lightning pulsed, weaker still.
Michael caught his breath.
It was the man from the tub.
And it was also the man with the wild eyebrows who had been arguing with Russell. The fan supposedly disgruntled over the death of Brock’s secretary.
The man tottered forward and wrapped his arms around Russell from behind.
A gunshot exploded as the two tumbled to the rug, but the bullet went wild.
Musgrave jumped toward them. “Everybody down!”
Of course no one listened.
“Let go of Russell!” Norbert shrieked. Loyal to the end.
Jazz released Michael’s hand, and they both rushed in to help.
“Lemme go,” Russell cried.
The man from the tub was wet, and Russell’s skin was slick with sweat. There was a lot of shouting and fumbling hands. Then the man pinned Russell beneath him. With a gasp and squawk from Russell, the man from the tub started choking him.
Russell flailed beneath his assailant, but the man was bigger.
“I’ll kill you,” the man said through clenched teeth. They were both naked, Russell lying facedown with the mystery man on top, straddling Russell’s hips.
“Where’s my gun, dammit,” Musgrave shouted, scrambling on his hands and knees, obviously not worried if their murderer was killed. “Everybody get back!”
“He’s killing him!” Norbert shrieked.
“Don’t kill him. We need answers,” Michael cried. And then he and Jazz dove for the man from the tub and tried to pull his wet body off Russell, the irony of trying to save the life of their would-be murderer not lost on Michael.
Just like a Brock Hammer novel.
“Let him go,” Norbert shrilled, hurrying toward Russell.
Russell threw out his arm, and the loose end of the handcuff caught Jazz’s temple.
“Shit!” Jazz reeled back, pushing into Michael so he lost his grip on the wet stranger.
Michael stumbled to the side, and his fingers landed on something metal with hard edges.
The gun.
He yanked back, hard, pulling the gun from Russell’s wet and slippery fingers. Michael fell onto his ass and scurried backward from the others. He held the gun in both hands, clutched to his chest. “I have the gun!”
Musgrave rose to his feet and held out his hand. “Give me the gun, Fleishman.”
Michael handed it over, glad to be rid of its weight and the cold slick feel of the metal.
Aiming his gun at the man from the tub still choking Russell, Musgrave shouted, “Stand down! Stand down or I shoot!”
When the man didn’t listen immediately, rather than shoot him, Musgrave kicked him in the ribs with one big boot, then shoved him off Russell’s back. The man groaned and looked up at Musgrave, eyes wide when he saw the gun and the uniform.
“Hands up!”
The man complied.
“If you move another inch, I will shoot. Is that clear?”
The man nodded.
Satisfied he had control, Musgrave holstered his sidearm and grabbed Russell’s cuffed wrist and wrenched his arm up his back. Though he was hacking for breath, Russell managed a scream, and when he tried to wriggle away from the pain Musgrave put in his shoulder, his movements flipped him onto his side. Musgrave used his great size to his advantage and put a knee in Russell’s back, and then cuffed both hands behind him. Then he stood and surveyed the room.
Everyone was breathing heavily and looking at each other. Russell was gasping and wheezing, and Norbert stood back near the window, eyes wide and face drawn even more than usual.
That’s when Michael noticed Jazz held his hand to the side of his head, blood trickling from his fingers.
“Jazz….”
Their eyes met, and Jazz gave him a weak smile.
“You okay?” Michael crawled to Jazz and pulled him close.
“I don’t know,” Jazz said. “I think I’m in shock.”
“This is all a misunderstanding,” Russell sobbed and coughed where he lay on his stomach, hands cuffed behind him, face turned away.
“My left nut it is,” Musgrave snapped, unclipping his radio. “Fleishman!”
“Yes!”
“Call for paramedics and backup. Line two.”
He tossed his radio in the air, and miraculously Michael caught it and immediately did as he was asked.
Norbert had dropped to a sitting position on the floor and pulled his knees to his chest, rocking in the corner. Treacherous little weasel, Michael thought as he spoke to the dispatcher.
The man from the tub started to stand, startling a squeak out of Michael.
Musgrave pointed at the stranger. “Don’t make any sudden moves. I’d rather not kill the man who helped save our lives.”
“Just wanna sit on the couch,” he said and pushed himself up and flopped back on the couch, exhausted.
Musgrave shook his head at the man’s spread legs. “And would somebody put a towel over this guy’s lap or something? I’ve seen enough dicks flapping around today to last a lifetime.”
Jazz picked up a throw pillow that had landed on the floor during the chaos and tossed it at the man, their savior. The man gratefully covered himself.
“Now, can you tell me your name and what happened?”
The man let out a deep, wet cough, and water dribbled down his chin. “Wilson Roberts.”
“Roberts?” Musgrave glanced back to Michael, who shrugged. “Any relation to Dylan Roberts?”
“I’m his uncle.”
“He’s the one we saw, with the bushy eyebrows,” Jazz said.
Wilson furrowed his bushy brows, and Jazz shrugged apologetically.
“Mr. Withingham claims you’re a pissed-o
ff fan stalking him. Is that what this is all about? Books?” Musgrave spat the word with such incredulity Michael wondered if the man had ever read one.
“I’m not a fan or a stalker.” Wilson scoffed. “But it is about books.”
A voice crackled from the radio. Officers were close. But Michael was caught up in the scene, a real life mystery novel playing out. The misdirection about an upset fan was all but torn from the pages of a Brock Hammer novel.
“How so?” Musgrave demanded.
Wilson gestured to Russell. “That motherfucker stole my nephew’s book, published it, and then murdered him.”
“What?” Jazz cried. Michael noted Norbert didn’t seem as surprised as the rest of them—rather he squirmed guiltily.
“Dylan wrote The Bitter Winds of Death?” Michael clarified, though the very different writing style seemed so obvious now.
“Dylan,” Russell moaned, rocking onto his side, offering more flapping dick for Musgrave’s viewing displeasure. “Sweet, beautiful Dylan. Oh my dear boy.”
“Well, shit,” Musgrave muttered. “What about the heroin?”
Russell stopped moaning and rocking immediately. “What heroin?”
“Your paramour had rubbers of heroin shoved up his poop chute,” Jazz interjected. Then he let out a crazy bark of laughter.
Eyes wide in believable surprise, Russell shot a look at Jazz, then back to the sheriff. “Is this true?”
“Yup, wanna explain it to me, Withingham?” Musgrave loomed over him, his expression pinched. Doubtless, he would hold a grudge against Russell for a long time for turning his own sidearm on him.
Russell looked like a deer in headlights, lying naked on his side.
Then he startled everyone when he let out a breathy laugh.
“Oh, my sweet, clever Dylan. Foiling my plans from beyond the grave,” he said wistfully. “He never did let me get away with anything. I couldn’t have written this ending better myself.”
“What are you yammering about?” Musgrave demanded. “What plans? Were you running drugs through my town?”
“The drugs never had anything to do with it, did they, Russell?” Michael surprised himself by asking.