Masters of Mayhem: Book Two in The Mad Mick Series by Franklin Horton

Author:Franklin Horton [Horton, Franklin]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2019-01-27T05:00:00+00:00

Bryan woke up feeling well-rested. The feeling was unusual enough in the current state of things that he could not recall the last time he woke up with such a profound feeling of relaxed contentment. He opened his eyes and looked in the direction of the windows. It was daylight. He’s slept through the night.

He experienced a moment of startled comprehension, remembering where he was, and that he was not alone. He whipped his head to the right and found the old woman, apparently the sole resident of the house, still staring at him exactly as she had when he fell asleep nearly twelve hours ago.

He regarded her curiously, uncertain as to why she was still there. He wasn't aware if anyone had seen him come into this house or not. If she had killed him, it was unlikely anyone would even have noticed. She could have easily escaped. Even though she was an older woman and did not have his strength, he had been completely vulnerable in his deep sleep. Just like in the game of Clue, she could have picked up the fireplace poker and bashed his head to pulp.

For some reason, she hadn’t.

Had she sat there and stared at him all night long, just like he was staring back at her now? Had she moved at all? What had she thought about? Had she considered killing him or trying to escape? Perhaps she was too dignified to stoop to murder. Perhaps she was a true Southern gentlewoman, naturally possessing the comportment and dignity to which he strived.

Bryan stood and stretched. The woman watched him like a mouse watching a cat. Her eyes moved down to his waist. Bryan followed her gaze and saw she was staring at his holstered sidearm. He put his hand on it and straightened his belt which had twisted slightly in the night. He looked around and saw his rifle still leaning against the arm of the chair. He picked it up and checked the chamber. Then the safety.

Across the parlor, the elderly woman sat mesmerized by him, her expression a mixture of fear, questioning, and acceptance. Or maybe it was none of those things at all. Maybe the things that passed through her mind, which had likely seen twice as much time on this Earth as his, were things which he was not even capable of pondering.

He leaned over toward her and delicately plucked her cool hand from where it lay on her thigh. She offered no resistance, made no effort to withdraw her hand. It was so lifeless that it might have been a cool fleshy glove or even a dismembered hand he picked up in the street. He held the hand before him.

"Thank you," he said with a curt nod. Then he bent over and kissed the back of her hand.

He met her eyes one more time before lowering the hand and replacing it on her leg. He backed away and retraced steps he barely remembered through the house, to the front door.

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