Free The Violet Hour by Richard Montanari Page B

‘You.’
    ‘Yes,’ the man said, stepping closer.
    ‘What the hell do you want? I-I thought we were through. Years ago. I thought we were even.’ Benjamin Crane tried to see what the man carried. The left hand held something boxy, black. The other hand was turned away, hidden from view.
    ‘Even? Are you serious?’
    ‘That was a hell of a lot of work I did. For free .’
    ‘That was a long time ago,’ the man said. ‘And nothing’s free.’
    ‘But you said—’
    ‘What I said was, your secret was safe with me.’ The man stepped closer, two full steps. ‘I said I’d never go to the police and tell them about your role that night. I haven’t.’
    Elizabeth Crane unzipped her dress, stepped out of it. She wore a short black slip. She sat back down on a dining room chair, facing the window, and began to run her hands over her thighs, her stomach.
    ‘So tell me what happened that night, Dr Crane. Tell me in your own words.’
    Benjamin Crane glanced at the window, back. ‘You were there. Why do you—’
    ‘Who was the pirate?’
    ‘I-I’m not sure,’ Benjamin Crane said. ‘After all these years, I always assumed—’
    ‘Don’t lie to me, Doc,’ the man said. He was inches away now. Then, from his right hand, came a flash of silver. Benjamin Crane glanced down, recognized the scalpel as his own. The man who stood in front of him now had demanded it as a souvenir so many years ago, a badge of his courage. He looked back at the man’s face, his own handiwork now more visible in the moonlight. Crazily, Benjamin Crane thought he had done a hell of a job.
    ‘Johnny Angel’s dead,’ the man said, an expression of mock sadness on his face. ‘Just like you.’
    Benjamin Matthew Crane turned to run, but the man slammed a Taser unit into the side of his neck and instead he slumped to the ground, his limbs flung spastically out to the sides, his brain now a vicious tangle of unfettered impulses. The man fell instantly on top of him, pinning his shoulders to the damp earth. He held a shock of Benjamin Crane’s hair in his left hand, the scalpel in his right.
    The woman in the window unsnapped her bra and let it fall from her shoulders. She moved suggestively to the music for a while before she sat back down, faced away from the window, spread her legs, and began to fondle her breasts.
    A few moments later, as the blade of the scalpel was drawn across his face for the first time, Dr Crane remembered, in agony, a question he’d pondered for years, a question about how it felt .
    The blade returned, again and again.
    Blood steamed the night air.
    And Benjamin Crane had his answer.

14
     
    At the age of sixty-nine, there were three things that Dag Randolph still welcomed over his threshold. One, of course, was his Social Security check. As a retired postal worker, he knew the importance of the godsend check’s timely delivery, and George Sitz, his current mail carrier of five years, did a mighty fine job. Except in the rain. Sometimes George let the magazines get wet.
    Two, the nice young lady from Domino’s Pizza, the one who always flirted with him.
    And three, the one person for whom he would trade the first two in a heartbeat. The one precious person he would trade anything and everything for.
    His granddaughter Madeleine.
    Amelia angled into the driveway at her parents’ house at 1728 Edgefield Road and unbuckled Maddie’s seat belt. Maddie got out of the car and ran up the stone steps to the front door, where Dag Randolph stood: the furious shock of thick white hair, the now de rigeur red flannel shirt, the ever trim figure of a man who spent his life walking. Five days a week Dag Randolph still walked his old route.
    Dag grabbed Maddie’s hand and led her into the living room. Amelia followed, a close but undeniable second. ‘Uh, hi, Dad,’ Amelia said, removing her jacket.
    ‘Hi, honey.’ He planted a cursory kiss on Amelia’s cheek, then sat down on his threadbare La-Z-Boy recliner, the one