Light streamed out of an ajar window to the right side of the front door. Bob craned his ear, the faint sounds of canned sitcom laughter drifting into the night.
He checked the street in both directions, paying close attention to front windows for any movement, any sign of onlookers. Satisfied it was clear, Bob ducked low and moved under the window to listen.
A woman was chuckling, her lilt older, pure country. “…time you come up from the holler with that godawful rat, telling your daddy you wanted to keep it as a pet. And he brung it out back and shot it, and you blubbered like a tap gone off in your head or something.” She laughed at the memory.
“Aw, Mama… I didn’t know no better, you know that. And besides… he shot the dog, too. Weren’t like it was just because it was a rat. Pa just liked taking away things I liked, is all.”
“He was a tough old piece of leather, your father. You want another beer?”
“Surely. I’ll get it. You sit right there.”
The woman was a complication, Bob figured, but also an opportunity. Even a nasty piece of work like Greg Thomas had a mother he loved, evidently.
Leverage? Maybe. You do what you need to do. There would be heightened risk, a chance of the woman being hurt. But Thomas was key to putting Baird down and saving Marcus. You know how it works, Bobby. It’s only a problem if you’re not paying attention.
He followed the dark path down the home’s right side, towards the back yard. At a side door, he climbed a step to the square landing pad, then peeked through the inset half-moon window.
In the kitchen, Thomas was taking items out of the fridge, moving thing aside as if hunting ingredients. A loaf of bread sat nearby on the counter, along with two open beers, a tall wooden pepper mill and an empty plate.
Bob turned the handle slowly, pushing gently on the door to maintain the same pressure at the hasp and prevent a loud click as it popped open. He pulled the door open slowly and gently.
“…got ham and mozzarella slices, if that’s what you feel like.” His target was stooped, his head practically inside the boxy old fridge.
“Anything,” his mother’s voice came from the other room. “My tummy’s sure growling something fierce.”
Opportunity knocks, Bobby.
Bob took two steps closer and tapped Thomas on the shoulder with his left hand, even as his right grasped the fridge door and swung it closed, the hard edge slamming into the top of Thomas’ skull as he turned to look up.
The blow dazed him, and he stumbled two steps sideways. Bob gauged the width of the man’s second step and led his movement with the follow-up punch, his fist catching Thomas on the side of the chin.
His target dropped to one knee but didn’t go down, a hand flashing towards his waistline. Bob lashed out with a straight kick, catching Thomas flush in the chest, knocking him on his back, the pistol flying from his grip before he could raise it and skidding across the tile.
Bob ignored the pain in his ribs and jumped on the younger man, trying to pin his arms with both knees, a ‘ground and pound’ maneuver that left Thomas’s chin unprotected.
He loaded up a right cross, but a tiny, withered hand grabbed him at the wrist, the old lady jumping on his back, her other hand raking at his face and neck. She wailed like a banshee, “AIEEEEE!” her free hand clawing at his eyes.
“Get off!” Bob barked, standing and stepping backwards, trying to throw her.
“You leave my boy alone!’
Bob threw himself backwards out of instinct, coming down full weight on the elderly woman, feeling something under him pop. She bellowed in pain but didn’t let up, trying to scratch and claw at him from every angle. He rolled away… directly into the path of Thomas’s kick, her son recovered and coming to her defense. The sneakered foot caught Bob square in the right side of his ribcage, a lightning bolt of pain shooting through him. He slumped onto one side, bile rising from his stomach.
The pain was so intense he thought he might pass out. His vision blurred for a moment. He was barely able to register Thomas striding over to the corner of the room, stooping to pick something up.
The pistol.
Bob knew he had no strength, his mind cloudy from pain and fatigue.
Thomas pointed it at the top of his head.
I’m done.
After everything… I’m done.
Thomas’s finger curled around the trigger.
Then Thomas slumped forward, his eyes momentarily rolling back and up as he lost consciousness. He collapsed rigidly, thumping to the floor.
Behind him, Sharmila stood holding the wooden pepper mill aloft.
The room sat in stunned silence for five seconds. Then, Thomas’s mother gasped, a free hand coming up to her face in shock. “My boy!” She tried to rise but couldn’t, settling for pulling herself four feet across the tile to his prone body. She practically flung herself atop her son. “Don’t you hurt him!”
Bob rose unsteadily, using the kitchen counter for support. He hobbled over and picked up the gun. Then he looked over at Sharmila. “I thought I told you to stay in the car.”
Her eyes widened. “Are you kidding me?”
He nodded curtly. “Yes, completely. Sorry… the more tired I get, the dryer everything comes out. And I am, excuse my language, fucking exhausted.”
“Now what?”
“Now? Now you’re going to restrain Mrs. Thomas so that she doesn’t get any crazy ideas, and I’m going to do the same to her boy. And then he and I are going to have a little chinwag.”
52
District Attorney Jerald Valenzuela watched through the glass block window as Assistant DA Margaret Swain continued her lengthy interview with Greg Thomas. He was clothed in an orange prison jumpsuit, his wrists manacled to the tabletop via a chain through a large iron loop.
Valenzuela’s expression was grim. “The problem we have, Mr. Richmond, Ms. Singh, is that all we have is his word.”
