Calaway Jones (The Harry Starke Novels Book 10) by Blair Howard

Author:Blair Howard [Howard, Blair]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2017-03-18T07:00:00+00:00

Chapter 12

Thursday, July 13, 10pm

I called Benny at five-thirty as arranged; he’d still heard nothing, so I called him again at eight, and yet again ten. Nothing, so I arranged to call him again at nine the next morning. That didn’t go down well, not at all. Benny is a creature of the night and usually sleeps until two in the afternoon, sometimes even later. It took several threats of grievous bodily harm at my own hands before he finally agreed.

I put the burner phone in my pants pocket and damned if my iPhone didn’t ring. Benny, I thought, promising myself that I’d kick his fat ass as soon as I saw him again, but it wasn’t. I looked at the screen. It was Kate. What the…? It was just after ten o’clock.

“Kate…” I know I must have sounded angry, but she ignored me and interrupted.

“Shut up, Harry, and for Christ’s sake listen for once. Ronnie is in Erlanger. He’s been shot. Get your ass down here. Now!” And she disconnected, leaving me staring in horror at the phone.

There’s no way you’ll ever know, no way for me to possibly explain how I felt. Devastated doesn’t even begin to describe it. Horrified? Not hardly. I felt sick. I wanted to puke, needed to puke. I felt like I’d been hit by a two-by-four. Yes, I know. I’m supposed to be one tough son of a bitch, right? Yeah, that’s what everybody thinks. It’s a persona I’d actively cultivated. But you know what? I’m not that guy, not really, not even a little bit, and that night, I have to admit, was probably one of the worst of my life.

I’d known Ronnie for more than sixteen years, since he’d gotten out of school, in fact. He and Bob were my first two hires when I left the CPD and went into business for myself. He was a quiet, self-deprecating man dedicated to his family, especially to his twelve-year-old son, Mikey; Mikey was autistic… Son… of… a… He’s winning. The sleazy bastard son of a bitch is winning.

I jumped up off the sofa and cracked my knee on the edge of the coffee table and almost fell head first over it as I rushed to the bedroom, and told Amanda to get dressed, in anything, and quick.

“What? What is it? What’s wrong?” She had just gotten out of the shower and was wrapped in a towel,

“For Christ’s sake, Amanda, just get dressed. I’ll tell you in the car. Where’s your goddamn phone?”

“Over there,” she pointed, and by now was badly frightened. She dropped the towel and ran to the dresser. It took her only minutes to drag on a pair of panties, a T-shirt, and jeans. While she did, I grabbed her iPhone—I swear to God, I nearly opened the window and threw it, along with my own, down the mountain, but I didn’t. Instead, I held them both close to my lips.

“Okay, you son of a bitch. I know you’re listening. Now you can listen to ME! I got your message.

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