Free Dead South (A Bryson Wilde Thriller / Read in Any Order) by R.J. Jagger

back to Sudden Dance. Someone doesn’t like the fact that you killed her.” She smiled. “At least we’re getting rich in the process.”
    “We?”
    She nodded.
    “I’m cutting you in, honey, don’t worry. You’re starting to be one of my favorite guys.”
     
    Wilde flicked the butt out the window.
    “In hindsight I should have taken the money in the boxer’s wallet.”
    “How much was there?”
    “Enough.”
    “Enough to make it worthwhile to go back?”
    Wilde wrinkled his forehead and shook his head.
    “I don’t want Blondie connected with that area, not even an ounce worth.”
    “We can take the boxer’s car; the blue crapper.”
    Wilde set a book of matches on fire. The pungent odor of sulfur pierced the air and gray smoke snaked towards the ceiling.
    He lit a smoke from the flames.
    “The only thing worse than someone spotting Blondie in the area is seeing me driving around the dead man’s car.”
    “Let’s just rent something then,” Alabama said. “We’ll stop at the well, I’ll drop you off and then keep driving. Half an hour later I’ll swing back and pick you up.”
    Wilde took a deep drag.
    The money—maybe a grand or more—was worth the time. It translated to three months pay. The issue wasn’t the time; it was the risk. If they went they’d have to be damn sure Johnnie Fingers wasn’t on their tail; Nicholas Dent too.
    “Well?”
    “I’m thinking,” Wilde said.
    “Come on, Wilde,” she said. “Where’s your sense of adventure?”
    “I don’t have that anymore. I replaced it with another kind of sense, the kind called common.”
    Alabama smiled.
    “The money’s just sitting there waiting for someone brave enough to come and get it. Stop thinking about it and let’s just do it,” she said. “Everything will be fine. We can get Honest Joe to let us use one of his cars for a couple of hours.” She ran a finger down his chest. “If you want, we can even move the body. You said you didn’t like it there anyway.”
    That was true.
    That was the worst place for it in hindsight; poetic at the time, but now stupid beyond stupid.
    He nodded.
    “Okay, we’ll do it.”
    “Right now?”
    “No, tonight.”
    “See, you can get to the right answer if someone gives you enough time,” Alabama said. “I know a place to dump the body.”
     
    Out the window Wilde saw something he couldn’t believe. He grabbed the Fedora and ran out the door.
    “Where you going?”
    “I’ll be back!”
    Then he was gone, bounding down the rickety wooden stairs two at a time and busting into eye-blinding sunlight down at street level.

20
    Day Six
    August 8, 1952
    Thursday Morning
     
    Wilde ran to the right towards his target, a woman, an Indian woman, Sudden Dance to be precise, unless his eyes were playing a mean trick on him. She was thirty steps ahead, walking briskly. Long black hair swung in tune with her movement, alive with a demonic beat.
    Wilde picked up the pace.
    The gap closed.
    “Sudden Dance!”
    At the last second the woman turned. It was Sudden Dance. She stared at him for a heartbeat, almost as if in a trance, and then swung a knife at his face with all the speed of a lightning attack.
    Her aim was off, not by much but enough for Wilde to jerk back as the swish of air passed close enough to taste. The movement was so intense and so absolute that his body lost control and pummeled to the sidewalk. The wind shot out of his lungs.
    Sudden Dance’s face contorted.
    Then she lunged at him.
    Wilde kicked his foot into her stomach, landing solid. When she fell back he wrestled her to her back and pinned her down.
    She struggled with every ounce of strength in her body.
    Wilde kept her in place until the fight died.
    Then he got to his feet and pulled her up.
    Several people were stopped, huddled and watching.
    “Go on to where you’re going,” Wilde said. “It’s all over here.”
    The knife was at his feet.
    He kicked it to the side, grabbed the woman by the arm and led