Smoke in Mirrors(55)
Author: Jayne Ann Krentz

Closing the distance.

Don’t look back. Something may be gaining on you.

The thuds were coming very swiftly now. The runner was really sucking air, preparing for an even greater burst of speed. Working himself up for a major push. This guy sounded as if he was calling on all of his resources to make it past an invisible finish line.

The runner was almost upon him.

The hell with it. The only thing worse than looking nervous was looking like a victim.

Thomas stopped, turned and stepped back toward the rail, giving the runner plenty of room. He kept his right hand in the pocket of his jacket. His fingers tightened around the handle of the wrench.

A dark shadow exploded out of the fog. There was something wrong with his posture. Both arms were raised in an unnatural manner. He clutched a long object.

The runner grunted, an incoherent cry, and swung the object downward the way a butcher swings a cleaver.

Thomas yanked the wrench out of his pocket. He raised it, simultaneously shifting sideways along the railing.

The runner’s club struck the wrench instead of Thomas’s head. The jarring impact sent shudders through the wooden span beneath Thomas’s feet.

The runner, propelled by his own momentum, kept going for a few paces before pulling up abruptly. He spun around, sucked in more air and started back toward his target at full speed.

The broad head at the end of the long object in the man’s hand glinted briefly in the low light.

A golf club.

Even as he identified the assault weapon, Thomas threw himself forward, wrench raised again to block the club. The move was reflexive. He did not have much choice in the matter of tactics. Ducking back out of the way was not on his list of available options. He would end up trapped against the guardrail.

Wrench and club shaft collided a second time. More shock waves jolted through Thomas and the footbridge. The attacker howled and reeled back against the rail.

The club flew from his hand and spun away into the darkness below the bridge.

Thomas grabbed the opportunity and moved in fast. He drove one shoulder into the other man’s midsection, taking both of them down. They hit the wooden planks and rolled, coming up hard against a post. Thomas lost his grip on the wrench. It clattered on the boards.

He wasted no time trying to find his tool. He was too busy dealing with the man beneath him. His assailant had gone from murderous rage to what seemed to be sheer panic.

The runner punched and thrashed wildly, screaming in fear.

“Let me go. No. No. Don’t touch me. Let me go.”

His fist connected with the side of Thomas’s face, then slammed into his ribs. The blows were frantic and wild.

Cold fury flashed through Thomas, adding more raw chemicals to the potent brew swirling through his bloodstream.

He struck back, his hand chopping into the soft flesh of an abdomen. He heard the runner’s gasp of pain.

“Don’t hurt me. Don’t hurt me.”

The runner flailed, but he was clearly weakening rapidly.

“Please, please, please. Don’t hurt me. Don’t hurt me.”

The runner put his hands up, as if to shield his head.

Thomas realized the guy was sobbing hysterically.

“Please, don’t hurt me.”

Thomas got warily to his feet and reached for his cell phone.

He was in luck. It was still in his pocket and it had survived the fight. A tribute to modern technology.

He stood with Ed Stovall in the lobby of the Wing Cove Community Hospital. Ed was in full uniform, crisp and pressed. You’d never know he’d been awakened from a sound sleep to answer the 911 call.

“Juiced up and high as a bird on some kind of crap.” Ed snapped his notebook shut and stuck it into his pocket. “Probably that new hallucinogen. S and M. The doc in the E.R. said the kid’s on one very bad drug trip. Seeing things that aren’t there. Keeps screaming about the monster on the footbridge.”

“That would be me,” Thomas said.

“Apparently he decided you were a fiend in human form. He was convinced that he had to destroy you. Guess the idea was to toss you over the rail into the cove.”

“Might have worked. Especially if that golf club had connected with my head first.”

“The medics said I probably won’t be able to get any more out of him until tomorrow at the earliest. Assuming he even remembers what happened.”

“Got an ID?”

“His name’s Brett Conway. He’s a junior at Eubanks. He went out drinking with some friends earlier this evening. They ended up at a private party. He left on his own. Told his buddies that he was going to walk back to his apartment. That’s the last anyone saw of him until he decided to go after you.”

“What about the golf club?” Thomas said.

“Eubanks fields a golf team. Brett Conway is on it.”

“What happens now?” Thomas asked.

Ed looked grim. “Now I get to call Conway’s parents and tell them their boy has gotten into trouble with drugs.”

“Don’t envy you,” Thomas said.

“Yeah, I really hate this part of the job.”

Someone was leaning on her doorbell. She glanced blearily at the clock. Three A.M. Not good.

A chill went through Leonora. It was her own fault that she was here alone. Thomas had made it clear earlier that he would have been quite happy to spend the night. But she had not invited him to do so. She had told herself that she needed to maintain some emotional distance in this relationship. Things were precarious enough as it was.

She pushed aside the covers and groped for her glasses on the nightstand. She found them, got them on and then rose and pulled on her robe.

She went down the hall and looked across the darkened living room to the door.

The bell continued to chime relentlessly.

She tied the bathrobe more securely around her waist, picked up her cell phone so that she could dial 911 instantly if necessary, and made her way through the shadow-drenched living room to the door.

She flipped on the porch light and peered through the peephole. Relief swept through her when she saw Thomas on the doorstep.

Then she saw the dark stains on his shirt.

“Oh, my God.” She wrenched open the door. “Thomas. Is that blood on your shirt?”

He looked down, face twisting with irritation. “Bastard. Cut my lip. This was a new shirt.”

“What happened? Are you all right?” Stupid question. He was very clearly not all right.

“Accident on the footbridge.” He took his finger off the bell button. “Can I come in and clean up?”