night.
Location presented no problem. He’d discovered several spent cartridges earlier in a section of the woods where three giant oak trees stood bent and tortured around a collection of boulders that resembled witches’ hats.
A silent approach wasn’t necessary. The wind raged on—like a huffing, puffing wolf, if he wanted to keep the fairy tale alive a bit longer.
He reached the clearing within fifteen minutes. Playing his flashlight over the tops of the stone hats, he let a wry smile form. Despite the whirling gusts, he clearly caught the sound of a rifle being primed.
Sticking to the shadows, he called, “You want to shoot me, Westor, do it now. I don’t play mind games these days.”
“Like hell.” The reply came from a patch of darkness some fifty feet to McVey’s left. “You’ve been playing with minds in two freaking—and I gotta say freaky—towns for more than a year. I did some sniffing around tonight, old friend. You’ve got these people believing you’re a man of honor, someone who’ll stand up for them should the need arise. But you and me, we know different, don’t we? You’d sell your granny, if you had one, for the gold fillings in her teeth. You’d sell me, if you could, for a whole lot less.”
“Or I could just keep it simple and arrest you for shooting at my landlady’s granddaughter.”
“In that case, I might as well kill her and let the chips fall. A little bird told me she’s got majorly big problems that’ll land her six feet under before long anyway.”
“Raven.” McVey scanned the darkness. “It’s all about big black ravens around here.”
“Ravens and witches is how I heard it.”
“From your little bird?”
Westor Hall gave his rifle another Jake-like pump. “Tell me why I shouldn’t kill you where you stand, McVey. You came to Los Angeles a few months back, and being a cop and a turncoat, decided my sister needed some jail time to straighten her out.”
McVey wove a roundabout path through a crop of evergreens. “Why would I do that after fifteen years of silence?”
“I don’t know.” For the moment Westor sounded uncertain. “I don’t, but it doesn’t matter.” Anger tightened his tone. “Dicks came for her six weeks ago. She rabbited and wound up wrapping her car around a power pole. Took three and a half hours to peel the wreck away so paramedics could pull her out. In the end, they covered her with a sheet and drove her to the morgue.”
McVey hadn’t known that. But he’d known Westor’s sister, and an alcoholic haze had been her answer to most of life’s problems, big and small.
“She was all I had, McVey.” Loss layered over loathing. “It’s not a coincidence. You came to Los Angeles and two days later the cops had a line on my sister.”
“I’m sorry she’s dead, Westor, but I didn’t draw that line. And I sure as hell didn’t cross it.”
“Well, I say you did, and I’ve come all the way here to say it to your face.”
Lowering to a crouch, McVey sized up a tangle of brush that could hide a dozen large men. He considered drawing his gun, but when the leaves separated slightly and he spied the laser light on Westor’s rifle, he opted for hand-to-hand.
“See how you feel when you lose someone who matters.” Westor jerked the rifle sideways. “That tasty lady I saw you with tonight, for example.”
Although his stomach clenched, McVey saw his opportunity and took it.
If Westor spotted the motion, he didn’t swing around fast enough to evade it. McVey’s forearm snaked across his throat, cutting off his oxygen and reducing his protest to a wet gurgle as he tried to shake his attacker off. Finally, with his eyes beginning to roll, Westor gave McVey’s wrist a limp slap.
“Yeah, as if I’m gonna believe that. Kick the rifle away.” McVey tightened his grip when Westor hesitated. “Do it now.”
The hesitation became a gagging cough. “Okay, you win.” The rifle spun off. “It’s gone, and now
Location presented no problem. He’d discovered several spent cartridges earlier in a section of the woods where three giant oak trees stood bent and tortured around a collection of boulders that resembled witches’ hats.
A silent approach wasn’t necessary. The wind raged on—like a huffing, puffing wolf, if he wanted to keep the fairy tale alive a bit longer.
He reached the clearing within fifteen minutes. Playing his flashlight over the tops of the stone hats, he let a wry smile form. Despite the whirling gusts, he clearly caught the sound of a rifle being primed.
Sticking to the shadows, he called, “You want to shoot me, Westor, do it now. I don’t play mind games these days.”
“Like hell.” The reply came from a patch of darkness some fifty feet to McVey’s left. “You’ve been playing with minds in two freaking—and I gotta say freaky—towns for more than a year. I did some sniffing around tonight, old friend. You’ve got these people believing you’re a man of honor, someone who’ll stand up for them should the need arise. But you and me, we know different, don’t we? You’d sell your granny, if you had one, for the gold fillings in her teeth. You’d sell me, if you could, for a whole lot less.”
“Or I could just keep it simple and arrest you for shooting at my landlady’s granddaughter.”
“In that case, I might as well kill her and let the chips fall. A little bird told me she’s got majorly big problems that’ll land her six feet under before long anyway.”
“Raven.” McVey scanned the darkness. “It’s all about big black ravens around here.”
“Ravens and witches is how I heard it.”
“From your little bird?”
Westor Hall gave his rifle another Jake-like pump. “Tell me why I shouldn’t kill you where you stand, McVey. You came to Los Angeles a few months back, and being a cop and a turncoat, decided my sister needed some jail time to straighten her out.”
McVey wove a roundabout path through a crop of evergreens. “Why would I do that after fifteen years of silence?”
“I don’t know.” For the moment Westor sounded uncertain. “I don’t, but it doesn’t matter.” Anger tightened his tone. “Dicks came for her six weeks ago. She rabbited and wound up wrapping her car around a power pole. Took three and a half hours to peel the wreck away so paramedics could pull her out. In the end, they covered her with a sheet and drove her to the morgue.”
McVey hadn’t known that. But he’d known Westor’s sister, and an alcoholic haze had been her answer to most of life’s problems, big and small.
“She was all I had, McVey.” Loss layered over loathing. “It’s not a coincidence. You came to Los Angeles and two days later the cops had a line on my sister.”
“I’m sorry she’s dead, Westor, but I didn’t draw that line. And I sure as hell didn’t cross it.”
“Well, I say you did, and I’ve come all the way here to say it to your face.”
Lowering to a crouch, McVey sized up a tangle of brush that could hide a dozen large men. He considered drawing his gun, but when the leaves separated slightly and he spied the laser light on Westor’s rifle, he opted for hand-to-hand.
“See how you feel when you lose someone who matters.” Westor jerked the rifle sideways. “That tasty lady I saw you with tonight, for example.”
Although his stomach clenched, McVey saw his opportunity and took it.
If Westor spotted the motion, he didn’t swing around fast enough to evade it. McVey’s forearm snaked across his throat, cutting off his oxygen and reducing his protest to a wet gurgle as he tried to shake his attacker off. Finally, with his eyes beginning to roll, Westor gave McVey’s wrist a limp slap.
“Yeah, as if I’m gonna believe that. Kick the rifle away.” McVey tightened his grip when Westor hesitated. “Do it now.”
The hesitation became a gagging cough. “Okay, you win.” The rifle spun off. “It’s gone, and now
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