True Detectives

Screaming bullet. Hoping his voice would freeze the idiot.

Just the opposite.

Book turned, saw Aaron. Smiled.

Bent his legs again and took off in flight.

CHAPTER 38

Skin and bones helped.

But even a flimsy hundred-twenty-pound sack of dehydrated sinew could wrench your arms out of their sockets when you were flat on your belly in the dirt, all scuffed up and scraped from the slide, fighting to hold on.

Gripping the damned thing by its ankles as it dangled toward oblivion, and gravity kept kicking your ass.

Book wasn't resisting.

But he wasn't helping, either.

Idiot just hung there, silent, limp. Deadweight. A weird kind of patience-like he was just waiting for Aaron to let go of his ankles so he could do his thing.

Not so easy, you sick, pathetic, murderous bastard.

Having another set of hands on board would've fixed the situation in seconds. Moe's power-lifter guns…

Aaron said, “Hang… in there, buddy.”

Book giggled.

“'S fu

“Hang in there,” said Book, in that easily recognizable, reedy but charming voice. “I'm hanging.”

Every syllable caused the idiot's body to jerk. Each twitch ratcheted up the agony in Aaron's shoulders, the searing strain in his abdomen, back, and hips.

Thank God the fool was a self-starver… Aaron felt his grip loosen, braced his toes in the dirt. Pulled up again on Book.

Again, Book slid up toward him, only to slip back as Aaron's muscles failed to stand up to the increased pressure. This time, the downward jolt nearly caused him to lose his hold. The pain in his shoulders was unbearable.

Sucking in breath, concentrating, focusing, thinking of dead people, a dead baby, how this asshole wasn't going to weasel out so easily, he said, “Press your hands against the side of the mountain, buddy. So that you're not just hanging there loose.”

“It's not a mountain,” said Book. “It's a hill.”

“Whatever.”

Book giggled again. Like this was just another role. Asshole.

“Do it-brace yourself.”

“Why?”

“I…” gritting his teeth, “said so.”

Book didn't respond.

“Do it.” Aaron's jaws clenched tighter. His hands felt ready to detach from his wrists. A few more seconds of this and… “Do it!”

“Okay, okay.” Whining, like the spoiled brat he was.

“Both hands. Press… hard.”

Book obeyed. Aaron's relief was immediate. Sucking in oxygen, he bore down, inhaled again and prayed and released his left hand and shimmied it up Book's scrawny calf. Getting a grip on bone and not much more.

He dug his fingernails into Book's flesh. It had to hurt. Book didn't even murmur.

Aaron let go of his right hand, dug that into Book's other calf.

“I'm going to count to three. On three, push back. Hard.”

“Huh?”

“Like you're trying to flip yourself up.”

“Wh-”

Aaron concentrated on reserving breath. Delivered his rapid speech: “Do it or I'll tell everyone about the baby and the world will find out you were no noble suicide.”

Silence.

“Do it.”

No answer.

“Baby Gabriel. People magazine, Us, the Enquirer-”

“Okay, okay,” said Book, with a catch in his throat.

“On three. You push back.” Shutting out the pain, as he marshaled his strength, Aaron felt his own legs flutter. Muscle strain? No, the damned cell was vibing again.

You've reached Fox Investigations. Mr. Fox is currently out of the office and quite possibly about to screw up royally…

“Ready, Mason?”

“You know my name.”

Imbecile.

“Of course I do. Ready?”

“Yes, sir.”

“On three. Push hard.”

“Yes, sir.”

Here goes: Action. Camera. “One. Two. Three”

Book's push was wimpy and Aaron's grip on the legs slipped, but he managed to pull Book up high enough to claw under the idiot's rib cage, continued yanking, mindlessly groping-tugging the guy upward.

Book's body flopped like that of a fought-out fish, Aaron got hold of Book's long, wild hair, yanked violently.

He dragged the bastard well clear of the cliff, dropped him harder than necessary, flat on his back. Fought for breath.

Mason Book, wearing a beard of grit and blood, looked up at Aaron with what seemed like wonderment.

Aaron stood over him, gasping, feeling his heart in his throat about to rip loose and fly out of his mouth like some bloody bird. His clothes were torn, his body felt as if it had done a full-day shift in a cement mixer. Blood all over his palms, knees, cheeks, elbows. Maybe mixed with Book's. He hoped the bastard wasn't infected with anything.

Book smiled. “I know you.”

“That so.”

“Black Angel.”

CHAPTER 39

When Liana's third text to Aaron went unanswered, she was comfortable switching her cell off and retiring to bed with Steve.

If Mr. Fox is free to party, I'm off shift.

The chest-hair washcloth was back in place, she was wearing one of Steve's T-shirts, he was in p.j. bottoms, and both of them were trying to sleep.

The towel bounced as Steve made a Huh-huh sound that rumbled through torso and terry cloth.

“Are you laughing, young man?”

“Uh-uh.”

“What's fu

“Imagining.”

“What?”

“Not important.”

“Hey, big guy, it's all about communication.”

“It's kind of juvenile.”

“Always happy to get in touch with my i

“Okay, okay.” Now he sounded fully awake. “I was thinking about detective work. One thing I'm not bad at is research. Give me a topic, I burrow like a mole. I was imagining you and me-like Nick and Nora Charles. Some fantasy, huh?”

My aspirations, sir, are more along the line of this thing we have going, whatever it is, lasting long enough for me to find out if you're really as sweet and kind and understanding as you seem to be. If you are, I can do some expert patchwork on your self-esteem, which is really the only thing missing from the picture-and who knows, maybe you wouldn't be as nice if you got too puffed up. So I'd need to be careful about not overdoing it, turning you into the typical arrogant man. But I'll bet I could do it just right. Then I could remodel this place-meet your parents and convince them it's in everyone's best interests, believe me, honey, I could get them to like me, show them I'm the perfect girl for their boy, look how much you smile nowadays. As opposed to when that grasping bitch was on the scene. My fantasy, Steve-o, involves you and me living up here on the Wilshire Corridor, both our cars in the garage, the doormen greeting me by name, carrying my packages. Getting you to chill more, take some fun vacations, I'll show you how to live. Including that. Lots ofthat. Between RAND and my voice-overs, we'd do just fine in the money department. I'd sell my condo, add to the kitty, I'm talking a full loving partnership, not some kept-woman situation. And your parents would like me so much, they'd kick in some dough for the…

Steve whispered, “You asleep, Liana?”

She said, “You're right. That's some fantasy.”