Free The Last Quarry by Max Allan Collins

from his throat.
    “That’s too bad,” I said. “Because I really didn’t want you to.”
    And I ripped the gun out of Rick’s mouth.
    Rick’s hand clutched his face and blood streamed through his fingers in little red ribbons. As I’d intended, the weapon’s gunsight had carved a notch in the roof of his mouth and maybe chipped a tooth.
    He was crying now.
    “Anything you’d care to say to me?” I asked.
    He lowered his hand; his mouth was a bloody mess, his teeth smeared red; one was, in fact, broken.
    Good.
    When he spoke, it was through bubbling blood.
    “I won’t go near her,” he said. “Won’t ever go near her again.”
    I shrugged. “Don’t decide all at once. Sleep on it.”
    I whacked him with the nine millimeter and he went to sleep even before he collapsed in a pile in the brush.
    The nine’s snout had a little blood on it, which I wiped off on the kid’s newer-than-new jeans, giving them a little character, wondering if Rick would know, when he woke up, how very lucky he’d been.
    I put the gun back in my jacket pocket.
    When I came out of the brush and trees, the woman I was here to kill was coming toward me. She was moving steadily, though her expression betrayed an uncertainty about whether she should be afraid or not.
    I came to a stop.
    She did, too, and asked me, “Is...is he all right?”
    “No,” I said. “He’s a sick fuck.”
    “Well...” She smiled just a little. “I know that, of course. But you didn’t....”
    “He’ll be fine tomorrow. And I don’t think he’ll bother you again.”
    “His family....They’re important.”
    I nodded. “Sent him to the best schools, I bet. But he got his most important lesson tonight....I don’tcare if his father is named Bush—he won’t bother you again.”
    The brown eyes were wide with worry. “Why did you do that? You...you shouldn’t have.”
    I sighed. “I know.”
    With no urgency, I took her by the arm and walked her toward the bar.
    Her sideways look indicated worry had given way to curiosity. “What’s your name?”
    “Jack,” I said. “Jack Ryan.”
    “Like in the Tom Clancy novels?”
    “Yeah, only a little more heroic.”
    Her eyebrows lifted. “So I see....”
    We were in front of Sneaky Pete’s now.
    “I’m taking off,” I said. “You need a ride anywhere?”
    “No...thanks. My friend’ll take me home.”
    I frowned and gestured behind me, toward the trees. “Not that friend....”
    “No! No. My friend Connie.”
    She was studying me now, and I felt ill at ease, suddenly. Her face told me what she was thinking—how St. George had just saved her from the dragon, but how strange and even frightening her savior was.
    Then her eyes tightened and she spoke. “Were you at the library today?”
    “Yes,” I said. I gave her a little lame one-finger goodbye salute. “....Good night.”
    I moved hurriedly to my rental vehicle.
    And I could feel her eyes on me, getting in the car and behind the wheel, and even with the window up, I could hear Rick’s voice: “ Unnggh....oh...Jesus! ”
    He had stumbled from the edge of the wooded area, his mouth bloody, looking like he’d fallen down a couple flights of stairs. He sat on the asphalt, on his knees, prayer-like again, shoulders hunkered over, crying.
    I could see Janet thinking about it. She even started toward him, then thought better of it, and yelled, “You deserve it, you dick!”
    And she went into the bar.
    Starting up the car, I smiled, thinking, Good for you.
    Then I caught my reflection in my rearview mirror and frowned.
    I shoved my hand into the steering wheel, furious with myself, muttering, “Fuck you think you’re doing....”
    Soon I was pulling into the Homewood Motor Court, which had last been remodeled about five years after Bonnie and Clyde stayed there. Inside, sitting on the edge of my bed with the nine millimeter in one hand and a photo in the other.
    I was staring at one of the surveillance shots of Janet Wright, a fairly