Free Bone Key by Les Standiford Page A

was on his knees now, pulling Deal up to get a clear shot at his jaw with one of his boulder-sized fists.
    It might have been all over if the deputy had managed to land that punch, but in the next moment Deal saw a pair of skinny arms fold around the deputy’s neck from behind. The deputy reared back, then bellowed in pain as the kid clamped his teeth down on the flesh of his ear.
    The deputy thrashed in pain, swinging with his free hand to try to dislodge the kid on his back without giving up his hold on Deal. One of the deputy’s blind punches finally landed, and the kid went sprawling backward, his hand thrown to his nose.
    For a moment, the deputy was arched backward, his hand clamped over his ear, his hold on Deal loosened enough for Deal to get his knees beneath him, his palms braced against the ground. He glanced backward beneath his arm, saw blood trickling down the side of the deputy’s rage-swollen neck, and saw as well what would be his own target. He was still gasping for breath, and operating at about three-quarters steam, but for what he had in mind the blow would be plenty.
    Deal drove his fist back, hammering it between the deputy’s legs with all the force he could muster. The deputy went rigid, groaning like he’d been stuck with a cattle prod. He lost his grip on Deal’s shirt at last and went over on his side, gasping, clutching at his groin, his face gone pasty white.
    Deal struggled to his feet, ignoring the fire in his ribs and the small of his back. Russell Straight glanced woozily up at him from where he still sat at the shoulder of the road, and Deal stuck out a hand to help him up.
    A few minutes ago, he thought, the two of them had been enjoying a jog alongside a beach in paradise. Now there was a sheriff’s deputy writhing in the gravel at his feet, and, judging by the growing clamor of sirens, plenty more of his kind on the way. Maybe they could simply jog away, pretend that none of this had happened.
    At that same moment, a pair of Monroe County cruisers rounded a curve down the beach road, both locked in a power slide that might have been choreographed for film, their flashers popping, their engines gathering strength as they hurtled down the straightaway toward the scene.
    Russell gazed down at the still-gasping deputy. “Looks like he fell on his nightstick,” he observed, a smile playing at his lips.
    “We are in deep shit,” Deal said, glancing at the onrushing cruisers.
    “Shots fired, officer down, couple of black dudes on the scene, I’d say so,” Russell replied mildly.
    Deal glanced down at the kid, who was pulling himself up by the Pinto’s door handle. The kid glanced at the groaning deputy, then back at Deal, speechless with fright. His face was dust-covered, there was a knot on his forehead, and one of his shirtsleeves was ripped clean at the shoulder. On the other hand, Deal didn’t see any blood.
    Deal glanced at the onrushing squad cars, then back at Russell. “You’re experienced with this sort of thing,” Deal said, calling above the sound of the sirens. “You have any ideas?”
    Russell gave him a silent look, then turned to lean against the Pinto, spreading his legs wide. He glanced at the kid in the Afro. “Assume the position, fuckhead,” he said. When the kid opened his mouth to say something, Russell cut him off. “And shut the fuck up.”
    The kid did as he was told. Russell glanced over his shoulder at Deal, then. “You’re the boss,” he said. “
You
do the talking.”
    And then the wailing cruisers were upon them.

Chapter Five
    “What happened there?” Rusty Malloy asked, pointing at the bruise above Deal’s right eye.
    Deal stared back for a moment. He was alone with the attorney in an interrogation area in the sheriff’s substation, a sterile room with one high, barred window, a battered table fastened firmly to the linoleum-tiled floor by steel L-brackets, and a couple of metal chairs that looked like they could withstand nuclear