Fled (Dovetail Cove, 1973) (Dovetail Cove Series) by Jason McIntyre

Author:Jason McIntyre [McIntyre, Jason]
Language: eng
Format: azw3
Publisher: The Farthest Reaches
Published: 2017-01-16T05:00:00+00:00

9.

The next ten or twenty minutes were a blur.

Nerves of steel frayed to filament-fine strands of hair. Nothing kept Charlie from freaking out now. His need to pee had been replaced by a heaving ache in his guts. His groin burned like an old man’s hernia. Holding it so long was probably doing damage to his insides but he’d pushed the notion of bodily needs out of his mind. His heart raced so fast and so hard he thought he was having a heart attack. Opportunity may have come knocking but Charlie Scobie felt like he was a half-minute from puking on its shoes.

His vision went black at the edges. His armpits, face, and neck grew hot and wet with sweat. His hand holding the Colt waggled.

Charlie had taken nine rounds with a bout of food poisoning as a kid. Ate what the neighbours thought was a bad bit of beef from a local farmer. This felt like that. But he was sure he hadn’t anything in his system to do this to him. And it wasn’t the drink either. He’d only had the two. Strong local taps, but just the two. He should have taken his creditor’s advice. Suds weren’t the answer. He should have gotten his nerves from one or two shots of whiskey to put a glaze over all this.

No. This wasn’t gastro. This was nerves. This was wanting to back out and not knowing how. It was too late, wasn’t it? Ol’ Dennis Munn had seen his face, smelled his sweat, and knew his voice. Ol’ ‘Dirty Denny’ had to go. Fanny knew he could do it.

After coming in and out of blackness a couple more times, he half-expected his greying mark in the driver’s seat to reach up and grab for the pistol.

But the only person in this car more scared than him was Denny Munn.

In a second, Munn stuttered out some words. “W-w-where you taking me?”

They’d headed straight down Beacon and turned east on Main. In a flush, Charlie realized that his mark was taking him closer to where there might be a population. Beacon was dead but, even this late, there might be a soul or two on Main. Who knew? A first-time killer like Charlie Scobie, he’d jumped into this deal with both feet. He didn’t even scope out Munn’s stomping grounds beforehand.

Stupid, he thought, and a new rush of prickly heat hit him as they passed slowly in front of a building with CHIEF OF POLICE painted in formal gold lettering on one window. His groin swelled too, not with excitement but his pressing water, wanting to flow. Needing to.

In a small crest to the side of the POLICE word mark, it bore the initials, DC and some Latin he didn’t know. The windows were black. It was later than any small-town chief would be at his desk. The chief might avoid a lady of the night like Fanny Mae as if she was the plague but he’d likely look twice if one of his citizens cruised down main with a figure in his back seat holding a gun to him.

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