Read Online The Wrong Goodbye by Chris F. Holm - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Chris F. Holm
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it? What exactly had Danny done? I didn't know, but I had an idea how I might find out. So I left the motel in my rearview, and headed out into the night to get some answers.
I eyed the door before me. It was typical for the front door of an apartment – stainless steel, and reinforced, at that. But the jamb was standard pressure-treated lumber, and the building wasn't young, which meant that all that held this tank of a door closed was a latch installed in a plank of aging wood. Not great if subtle's what you're shooting for, but easy enough to pop if you don't mind a little noise.
Right now, I didn't mind a little noise.
I glanced back toward the front of the building where I'd left the Fiesta, but the night was getting on, and there wasn't anyone about. The place itself was nestled in an upscale residential neighborhood, and from the curb, it looked to be yet another in a line of neoclassical homes, all stark white and austere, with a series of four columns flanking its massive, transomed entryway. But the hearse in the large circle drive out front and the tasteful, somber sign beside it indicated otherwise. No, the only living going on around here was in the apartment tucked around back – and that's just where I was headed.
The first kick made a hell of a noise, but the door didn't budge. The second, and the wood began to splinter. If this were some cheesy dime-store novel, I suppose the third time woulda done the trick, but the fact is, I had to kick that fucking door a half a dozen times before it finally gave, swinging inward with a sickening crack and a hail of wooden shards.
I was inside in a flash. Ethan Strickland was cowering behind an upturned kitchen table, a Louisville Slugger in one hand and a cordless phone in the other. He was trying desperately to dial the cops, but his hands were shaking so bad, it was all he could manage not to drop the phone – that, or bean himself with the bat.
I spotted the base of the phone on an end table beside the couch, and I dove for it, wrenching the phone cord from the wall. Ethan stared in horror for a moment, and then leapt at me with a guttural – if not entirely manful – scream, his bat brandished high above his head.
I rolled. He missed. His bat instead met the floor with a crack , and Ethan yelped in pain and surprise as his wispy frame was wracked by the reverberations. He tried to wheel toward me, but I'd already found my feet, and I sidestepped the blow with ease. Then I wrenched the bat from his hands and drew it back to strike. It was instinct, nothing more, and when I saw him cowering on the floor, his hands raised to protect his tear-streaked face, I tossed the bat aside. Then I extended a hand to help him up. But he just lay there, cowering, and regarded my hand as though it were an asp about to strike.
"You OK?" I asked him.
He said nothing. I stooped a bit to bring my hand closer, and he flinched.
"Look, I'm sorry about the entrance, but I had a feeling if I knocked, you weren't going to let me in."
Still nothing – that is, unless you counted the sobbing.
"Damn it, Ethan, I'm not here to hurt you – I'm here because I need your help! Now will you take my hand so I can help you up?"
He blinked at me a moment, and then accepted my offer with one trembling, hesitant hand. I helped him up off the floor. He wiped the tears from his cheeks with his sleeve, gulping air all the while, and cast a sly sidelong glance toward the gaping apartment door.
"I wouldn't," I said, and he deflated slightly.
"P-p-please d-don't…" he stammered as he tried to bring his panicked breathing under control. "Don't tie me up again. I couldn't take it."
"Yeah, I'm sorry about that, but it was for your own good. As for whether I'm going to have to do it again, that's going to depend a lot on you. Besides, you look like you came out of it OK."
"Took me six hours to get out," he said.
I eyed the door before me. It was typical for the front door of an apartment – stainless steel, and reinforced, at that. But the jamb was standard pressure-treated lumber, and the building wasn't young, which meant that all that held this tank of a door closed was a latch installed in a plank of aging wood. Not great if subtle's what you're shooting for, but easy enough to pop if you don't mind a little noise.
Right now, I didn't mind a little noise.
I glanced back toward the front of the building where I'd left the Fiesta, but the night was getting on, and there wasn't anyone about. The place itself was nestled in an upscale residential neighborhood, and from the curb, it looked to be yet another in a line of neoclassical homes, all stark white and austere, with a series of four columns flanking its massive, transomed entryway. But the hearse in the large circle drive out front and the tasteful, somber sign beside it indicated otherwise. No, the only living going on around here was in the apartment tucked around back – and that's just where I was headed.
The first kick made a hell of a noise, but the door didn't budge. The second, and the wood began to splinter. If this were some cheesy dime-store novel, I suppose the third time woulda done the trick, but the fact is, I had to kick that fucking door a half a dozen times before it finally gave, swinging inward with a sickening crack and a hail of wooden shards.
I was inside in a flash. Ethan Strickland was cowering behind an upturned kitchen table, a Louisville Slugger in one hand and a cordless phone in the other. He was trying desperately to dial the cops, but his hands were shaking so bad, it was all he could manage not to drop the phone – that, or bean himself with the bat.
I spotted the base of the phone on an end table beside the couch, and I dove for it, wrenching the phone cord from the wall. Ethan stared in horror for a moment, and then leapt at me with a guttural – if not entirely manful – scream, his bat brandished high above his head.
I rolled. He missed. His bat instead met the floor with a crack , and Ethan yelped in pain and surprise as his wispy frame was wracked by the reverberations. He tried to wheel toward me, but I'd already found my feet, and I sidestepped the blow with ease. Then I wrenched the bat from his hands and drew it back to strike. It was instinct, nothing more, and when I saw him cowering on the floor, his hands raised to protect his tear-streaked face, I tossed the bat aside. Then I extended a hand to help him up. But he just lay there, cowering, and regarded my hand as though it were an asp about to strike.
"You OK?" I asked him.
He said nothing. I stooped a bit to bring my hand closer, and he flinched.
"Look, I'm sorry about the entrance, but I had a feeling if I knocked, you weren't going to let me in."
Still nothing – that is, unless you counted the sobbing.
"Damn it, Ethan, I'm not here to hurt you – I'm here because I need your help! Now will you take my hand so I can help you up?"
He blinked at me a moment, and then accepted my offer with one trembling, hesitant hand. I helped him up off the floor. He wiped the tears from his cheeks with his sleeve, gulping air all the while, and cast a sly sidelong glance toward the gaping apartment door.
"I wouldn't," I said, and he deflated slightly.
"P-p-please d-don't…" he stammered as he tried to bring his panicked breathing under control. "Don't tie me up again. I couldn't take it."
"Yeah, I'm sorry about that, but it was for your own good. As for whether I'm going to have to do it again, that's going to depend a lot on you. Besides, you look like you came out of it OK."
"Took me six hours to get out," he said.
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