Free Dead on the Island by Bill Crider Page A

than me and decide that he'd like to hit
me with his bicycle chain. I wasn't up to it.
    I headed on over to the car. I was reaching
for the door handle when three guys came around from the darkness
on the other side.
    I have no idea how the three of them managed
to hide there. I wouldn't have thought the car was big enough to
conceal them. They looked like the down linemen for the Chicago
Bears.
    One thing I have to give them credit for:
they didn't mess around. No fancy words of warning, no
shilly-shallying.
    The one in the lead popped me in the stomach
with a short right. He didn't have on a boxing glove, but his fist
felt about the size of one.
    I sort of folded up, and the other two each
grabbed an arm, which was more than just a considerate gesture to
make sure I didn't fall down.
    The first guy hit me again, in the solar
plexus this time.
    I was sucking for air when he hit me the
third time, in the stomach again. There was no way I could tighten
up. I just took it. The two guys on either side of me held me
upright.
    That was their first mistake. Another
mistake was in not doing me in right at the beginning. They should
have cold-cocked me. I'm just crazy enough to fight back as long as
I'm conscious.
    So I kicked the guy in front of me in the
balls.
    He was surprised as hell. His eyes bugged
out of his head and suddenly he was the one sucking wind. I guess
he thought more of his punching than I did. Maybe he thought he had cold-cocked me.
    He doubled over, clutching at himself and
gagging. I jerked both arms, hard, trying to get free from the
other two tough boys.
    It didn't work. Kicking their buddy had been my mistake. I'd made them mad. Their hands were like iron
bands on my arms and wrists.
    They gave me a little swing forward; then
suddenly the one on the right let go and chopped down at my right
knee with his fist. It probably wasn't exceeding the speed of sound
when it hit.
    He hit just the right spot. It was like
someone had poked a hot iron rod into my knee, right under the
kneecap. I gave a strangled, screaming shout. Anyone inside hearing
it would think I was auditioning for Amyl Nitrate and the
Whippets.
    The guy on my left held me up until the one
on my right could grab my arm again. The one on the left then
grabbed the nape of my neck, forced my head down, and then they ran
me--or dragged me--right into the side of my own car with all the
force they had.
    They had plenty.
    This time they both let me go, and I sort of
slid down the side of the car to the hard-packed dirt and gravel of
the parking lot. They left me there and went to their buddy, who
was only a step or two away.
    I reached a hand up, trying to find
something to hang onto and pull myself off the ground. One of them
came over and clubbed me in the side of the neck. I went back down,
and this time I didn't even think about trying to get up.
    All three of them were standing over me. One
of them was still having a little trouble breathing, which was a
small comfort to me. A very small comfort. One of the others took
any pleasure I had in the small comfort away by kicking me three or
four times in the ribs. He was wearing boots, and the pointed toes
struck me sharply, like a blunt knife blade.
    Then they patted me down. I thought they
were looking for my billfold, but I was wrong. They stopped with
the picture of Sharon Matthews. They looked at it, and then one of
them tore in into tiny pieces. I wouldn't have thought he could
tear it so many times. It was pretty thick at the end. But then he
was pretty strong. He dropped all the pieces and they sifted down
on my chest. It was like watching them fall in a slow-motion
movie.
    During all of this, no one said a word. But
no one had to. I was getting the message.
    I thought they might start kicking me again,
but just then a car turned into the lot, sweeping its headlights
over them. They faded back into the darkness, and I could hear them
moving away. I guess it hadn't been their Ford in my