Lying in Judgment, page 2
The driver’s side of the red Camaro filled his view, with no time to react. Metal crunched. Glass cracked. Peter’s head slammed onto the back of his hand gripping the steering wheel. The cab of the truck spun around him, blurry. Air bags slammed him back into his seat. Something clattered like machine gun fire against the undercarriage. Rocks, maybe. Or gravel.
The air bags deflated and his vision cleared. His calf spasmed—his foot still jammed the accelerator to the floor. He smashed it onto the brake. A wall of red careened away from his windshield—the Camaro, half-rolling, half-sliding backwards across the gravel. The back end disappeared and the front end tipped skyward, wheels still spinning like crazed dervishes. Steam sprayed from the Camaro’s front hood.
Peter closed his eyes to stop the world from whirling around him. He leaned back in his seat, resting his head against the cushion. By feel, he turned off the ignition. The effort shot pain up his arms. He turned his head left to right, checking for soreness in his neck or back, but found none. Good—at least he hadn’t gotten whiplash. Maybe.
Footsteps crunched in gravel. He blinked open his eyes. The driver of the Camaro appeared through the windshield, carrying something in his right hand—a rod or bar of some kind. The man’s face contorted into a snarl, his thick eyebrows arched inwards, nose flared. He raised the bar over his head and swung downward—crack!—onto the hood of Peter’s truck.
“What the–?” Peter unbuckled his seat belt. A second crack! sounded on the hood, followed by the tinkling of broken glass. “Hey!” Peter yelled. “You son of a bitch. Did you just bust my–”
Crack! Another dent in the hood. The man’s face transformed into a grim smile. He drew his arm back again.
Peter reached behind his truck seat and yanked the tire iron from the kit secured in its compartment. He kicked open the driver’s side door and jumped out. After an unsteady moment, he righted himself.
A shiny metallic object arched toward his face. He swung the tire iron upward, and metal clanged metal. Peter’s hand stung and he nearly dropped the black bar. The stranger attacked again. Peter blocked the savage blow with another quick reaction, then jabbed the chiseled end of his tire iron into the other man’s startled face. Blood poured out of the man’s nose and onto his lips. Still the man charged again, the black rod racing for purchase on Peter’s skull.
This time Peter aimed a more strategic defensive blow, a quick slap of his bar across the invading forearm. The attacker’s tire iron rattled to the ground and the man howled in obvious pain. But a moment later he bent over and reached with his good hand for the weapon.
Peter’s foot shot upward into the man’s face, knocking him backward. The man screamed, rolled on the ground, then scampered back toward his car.
Peter followed him. The punk had slept with his wife, smashed his truck, then attacked him with a god damned tire iron. Now he’d pay. He caught up to him at the edge of the ditch and kicked him karate-style across the back. The man landed on the Camaro’s windshield. Peter swung at him with the tire iron, just missing his head by an inch. Cracks spiderwebbed across the glass. The man rolled across the car’s hood and dove inside the open passenger side door, pulling it shut behind him.
Peter’s breath grew ragged. He lifted the bar above his head and let fly with another blow to the windshield.
Then, blackness.
Chapter 3
Peter sat in his Ford, parked on the side of US 26, a divided highway lit mostly by the occasional neon sign from small businesses scattered along the route. A pale green light flickered in his peripheral vision. His breath came in irregular bursts, echoing his heartbeat. The smell of blood filled his flared nostrils, sending his stomach into a sickening churn. His hands trembled on the steering wheel.
He had no idea how he’d gotten there. Nor why blood covered his shirt and slacks. His hands hurt, but nothing else. Weird.
His phone buzzed in the cup holder. He’d set it to vibrate while waiting outside Florentino’s. He checked caller ID, then answered it. “Hey, Frankie. Precisely the man I need to talk to.”
“We can talk as soon as you get here,” Frankie said. “You’re late, man. The darts tourney started ten minutes ago.”
Peter slapped his forehead. Half-dried blood smeared his palm. “Sorry, sorry, I forgot. Can you get a fill-in?”
“No way. We need you, Ace. We had to forfeit round one, but it’s best of three. We can still win it if you get to the pub by ten.”
He wiped the blood off his hand onto his shirt. “I can’t. I –”
“Can’t? Whaddaya mean, ya can’t?” Frankie said. “Where are you, anyway? Should I come get you?”
“No! I’m, uh... never mind. I can’t. I just can’t.”
“Bullshit. Get your ass down here and throw me some bulls-eyes. I even ordered you a beer already. Porter—the good kind you like. And a shot of Jack. Now come on.”
Oh, sure. Just show up at the Brass Rail Tavern covered in blood and carry on as if nothing had happened. Ridiculous! In spite of himself, he laughed.
“What’s so funny?”
Everything. “Nothing. Just give me a minute.”
“We ain’t got a minute,” Frankie said. “You miss the next round and we forfeit the whole thing. That’s a hundred bucks we should be winning right now. So get your ass moving.”
“Would you shut up for ten seconds?” He took a deep breath. He smelled like blood, and looked worse. He couldn’t go anywhere in this condition. He scared even himself.
The wind whistled through the passenger-side window, open a crack. A dry-cleaning receipt rustled on the passenger-side floor. A quick glance to the back of the cab revealed a thin plastic bag protecting fresh, clean clothes.
“Come on, Pete.”
Someone exited a gas station washroom a few hundred feet away. He could clean up there, change clothes, toss his bloody shirt in the dumpster, and be at the pub in no time.
And maybe figure out what the hell had just happened.
“Frankie,” he said, “I’ll see you in twenty minutes.”
He made it in fifteen and parked the Ranger in an unlit, half-legal spot in back of the tavern. He opened the door into a pile of empty kegs. The rank odor of urine and stale beer assaulted his sinuses. He squeezed out of the truck and checked his cleanup attempt. Pistachio nuts littered the passenger side floor, but he found no blood spots in the dim luminescence of the truck’s dome light. Satisfied, he shut and locked the door.
Six feet from the pickup, he whirled to face it again. If someone noticed the dented hood and bumper, they’d ask questions—questions he couldn’t answer. But the angle of his tight parking job and the darkness of the night hid the damage.
He turned back toward the bar, his gaze focused on the pavement ahead of his slow-moving feet. A slight drizzle chilled his hands and face. For the tenth time, he checked his shirt: no blood, of course. Clean and pressed. Ditto the slacks. He lifted his trouser legs to inspect his socks. Clean. Well, clean enough. They were black and could hide a spot or two in the smoky bar. Anyway, no one would notice his socks.
He stopped outside the bar’s back door and ran a clammy hand through his hair, flattened against his head by cold sweat. He reached for the doorknob as the headlights of a familiar-looking vehicle swept across him.
A charcoal Ford Explorer. Marcia! She must have followed him. He wanted to run, but his legs were rooted in place like an old-growth redwood.
The body of the Explorer slowed to a stop next to him. He peered inside. The driver returned his stare –
His lungs deflated as a large African-American male grinned and waved. Gregg, his boss at Stark’s Building Supply, bought an identical Explorer a few months after Marcia, largely based on Peter’s enthusiastic recommendation.
Gregg powered down the window. The car, and his breath, smelled of cigarettes. “About time you got here. Where’ve you been?”
Peter cleared his throat to shove the shakiness out of his voice. “I forgot about the tourney. You coming in to cheer us on?”
“Just leaving, actually.” Gregg squinted. “Hey, you bleeding? No, not on your nose—next to your ear. No, the other one.”
His fingertips returned dried crimson crumbles from his earlobe. More freaking blood. “Ah, I think I may’ve picked a zit.” He rubbed the rest of the dried blood off his ear.
“Ew. Too much information, buddy. Well, you’d better get in there.”
He pushed his way inside. Loud 80’s music and heavy smoke assaulted his entry. Neon Budweiser and Coors signs struggled to brighten the dark fir floors and poster-covered walls. Cheers erupted from a dartboard to his left.
“Peter! Just in time.” Frankie appeared on his right, handed him a pint glass full of inky liquid topped with tan foam, and guided him to their table. “Have you had dinner? Here, have some peanuts. Round Two starts in ten minutes.”
“Get me that whiskey you promised,” Peter said. “I’m gonna need it.”
“Right away, buddy.” Frankie took a step, then turned back to him. “You okay?”
“F-fine. Just a bit of nasty driving tonight.”
“I hear ya,” Frankie said. “Driving in this town can be murder sometimes. Christ! Why are you so jumpy?”
“Ah... sorry. Hard night.”
Frankie stepped closer and spoke in a low voice. “Did you find out... what you were looking into?”
He grimaced and cleared his throat. “I think so.”
“I’m sorry, man.” Frankie clapped his large mitt on Peter’s shoulder. “Well, think of it as an opportunity. See that blonde there, with the big hooters? She’s bored with that college kid hitting on her. Hell, I think she’d do you right now.”
Peter swatted Frankie’s arm away. “Christ sakes. Marcia may be a cheater, but I’m not.”
Frankie backed up a step. “Sorry, dude. Tell you what. After we win this tourney, we’ll go stalk Marcia’s douchebag and when he’s not looking, we take him out. Whattaya say?”
Peter choked on a mouthful of beer and nearly spit it all over his friend.
“Dude, what’s the matter?” Frankie asked. “You look like you’ve just seen a ghost.”
He took another sip of beer and popped an unshelled peanut into his mouth. “Nah,” he said with a nervous smile. “Let’s get another round of beers. I’ll buy.”
“Now you’re talking!” Frankie waved to the waiter.
He grabbed his wallet, then slid it back into his pocket. Time to pay would come soon enough.
PETER’S TRADEMARK FOCUS and accuracy at the chalk line abandoned him, and to Frankie’s dismay, “Stark’s Marks” dropped the second and decisive game to their arch rivals, the “Home Despots,” before their beers ran dry.
“What the hell’s wrong with you tonight, man?” Frankie clasped a meaty hand on Peter’s shoulder and dragged him toward a dark booth far away from the dartboards. “Your mind’s off somewhere in la-la land.”
Peter cupped both hands around his pint glass. “Not a good night.”
“I’ll say. You sucked.” Frankie signaled for another round.
“No more for me.” Peter waved at the waiter, pointed to himself, and shook his head. “Once I finish this one, I’m out of here.”
“The hell you are.” Frankie glared at him. “Something’s on your mind, and I want to hear it.” Peter lifted a hand to protest but Frankie shook his head. “No, man. I’m serious. I’ve known you a hundred years. Something’s bugging you and you won’t be right until you tell me.”
Peter’s gaze fixed on an aged scar scratched into the tabletop. “I... followed her tonight.”
“Marcia? Uh-oh.” Frankie swallowed the last of his pale ale and thanked the waiter for his refill. “You saw her? With the boyfriend?”
Peter finished off his own beer and nodded.
Frankie dropped his voice a register. “Did you confront them?”
“Him. Not her, yet.”
Frankie let out a low whistle. “How’d it go?”
Peter shook his head. “Not good.”
Frankie’s eyes narrowed and he leaned back. “He didn’t belt you or anything? You look okay.”
“No. Well, I mean, he tried, but...”
Peter scanned the room. The college guy that had struck out with the blonde at the bar stared at him. He looked familiar, but Peter couldn’t place him. He leaned closer to Frankie and spoke in a low voice. “Can we get out of here? I don’t want to talk about this around... people.”
Frankie’s brow furrowed. “Yeah, sure. Uh, help me finish this.” He gulped the beer, slid the glass across to Peter and slapped some cash on the table. Moments later they huddled outside in the chilly mist of the parking lot.
“So what happened?” Frankie stomped his feet and blew warm breath into his hands.
“I’m not entirely sure.” Peter scratched the toe of his running shoe at the pavement. “I saw them in the restaurant, all flirty and kissy-faced. When they left, I followed the guy way out into east county, and all of a sudden the son of a bitch collides with me. He gets out of his car all pissed off, holding a tire iron. I grab my own and manage to get a few good licks in before he lands any on me, and then... hell. I don’t know.”
“What do you mean, you don’t know?”
Peter turned away, hands shoved into his coat pockets. “I mean I can’t remember, Frankie. It’s like I blacked out, or something.”
“Well, my man.” Frankie stepped closer and lowered his voice. “What do you remember?”
Peter turned back to Frankie and shrugged. “I hit him a couple of times with the bar. He starts yelling and runs back to his car. Red Camaro piece of shit.”
“Hey, I like Camaros.” Frankie grinned.
“Stuff it, will you? Anyway, I smash his car a few times, because I knew it’d piss him off. Then... wait a second. I remember something else. He comes right over the top of the car at me, like a damned cat. I clocked him on the head...” Peter blew air between his teeth.
“Then what?” Frankie scanned the parking lot, as if scoping for spies.
“The next thing I know, I’m sitting in my truck, and you’re calling me on the phone.”
Frankie grabbed Peter by the shoulders and pressed his face close. The aroma of whiskey and beer overwhelmed the rotting stench of the nearby dumpsters. Frankie enunciated every syllable: “What happened to the guy? Is he alive, or ... what?”
Peter broke free from his friend’s grasp, rocked his head back, and spread his hands wide. His voice dropped to a whisper. “I don’t know.”
“You don’t know?” Frankie’s whisper shrieked in an excited falsetto. “Peter! You think you might have freakin’ killed him?”
A sad shake of Peter’s head. “I just... I don’t know.”
Frankie stared at him for several seconds. “Jeez, man. You wanna go back and look?”
Peter’s vision blurred and the top half of his body grew heavy. He reached out to steady himself against his truck and choked back whatever hot, vile substance climbed up his throat and wiped sweat off his face. “No. I never want to see that place again.”
“So... what are you gonna do? Marcia’s gonna wonder what happened to the guy, and... I mean, Christ, Peter. I hope to hell he ain’t dead.”
“Frankie! Not so loud!” Peter’s voice hissed across the parking lot. A man and a woman, crossing to their car, glanced over their shoulders at him. “If he’s dead, then... aw, man.”
“If he ain’t, she’ll know anyway.”
“That’s not what I mean.” Peter leaned over, head between his outstretched arms, his hands supporting his weight against the truck. Footsteps crunched in the gravel. He looked up in time to see the college guy again, crossing the parking lot. He waited until the guy drove off, then turned back to his friend. “I think maybe I should go turn myself in.”
“Turn your—no way!” Frankie grabbed his arm. “Dude, you can’t do that. They’ll hang your ass so high you’ll need a telescope to see your toenails.”
“But it was self-defense. He attacked me.”
“After you followed him—a jealous husband chasing him out to God knows where? No way a jury’s buying that. Hell, I know you’d never pick a fight with anybody, but try convincing those yahoos in a court room. You might as well strap your own butt in the electric chair and hand them the switch. No way am I letting my best friend go down like that.”
Peter rested his forehead against the truck. Turning himself in seemed like the right choice—to take responsibility for his actions. But Frankie made a good point. No one would ever believe him. “I guess you’re right,” he said. “I really screwed up, didn’t I?”
“We’ll figure something out,” Frankie said. “I bet the guy’s fine. You probably barely scratched him. Hell, you never could throw a decent punch.”
“Hey!” Peter straightened, then matched his friend’s grin. “Yeah, you’re probably right. The guy’s fine. And tomorrow he’ll come over and kick my ass.”
“The hell he will!” Frankie made a fist. “He comes around, he’ll have two of us to contend with.”
Peter clapped Frankie’s back. “You’re all right sometimes, you know that?” He pulled keys out of his pocket. “Guess I better go face the music at home.”
Frankie’s grin faded. “I don’t envy you that conversation.”
Peter winced. As bad as it had been to face her lover, facing Marcia could only be worse.
PETER PARKED IN FRONT of his 1920’s bungalow a few minutes before eleven, surprised to see Marcia’s Explorer parked in the driveway instead of the garage. Lights flickered off in the eyebrow dormer windows of their upstairs bedroom. Ah. She was going to bed, then.
He hesitated on the sidewalk. The house’s pale blue wood-shake siding reflected an eerie glow from the sputtering streetlight. Overgrown daphne and heavenly bamboo shrubs cast yawning shadows on the front steps and seemed to say: stay away, stranger.
He drew a long, shaky breath. Piney smoke spewed from the next-door neighbor’s chimney—they hadn’t let the wood dry enough. Their border collie announced his arrival from her backyard prison of chain-link fence, concrete pads and dirt. “Quiet, Gypsy,” he said, but the dog’s incessant yapping drowned his complaint.
