Mind + Body, Aaron Dunlap [smart books to read TXT] 📗

At least the mystery of Comstock’s death was pretty-much solved.

The man with the gun remained in the shadows, I couldn’t really see his face. As far as I knew, this was the first time I’d stood before someone pointing a gun at me. Unlike in the movies, it’s hard to be curt and dismissive to the person aiming at you. I tried, really I did. Some sarcastic quip or ironic observation. I had nothing. I said nothing, did nothing. Sure, there was the possibility that the switch would flip in my brain and I’d do a back-flip or drop a ninja-style smoke bomb for a stylish escape, but I was nonetheless gripped in an unnatural fear that monopolized my attention.

Someone said my name. The voice came from behind. I turned my head just enough to see that Amy was still standing in the foyer. Great. She was supposed to have cut through the kitchen, grabbed a knife, and thrown it at this guy’s face. Why wouldn’t she instinctively do that? I would have. Maybe.

I looked back at the presumed hitman. Why isn’t he saying anything? Am I supposed to answer his question or was it a rhetorical sort of thing? Or is he just enjoying the panic he’s put me into?

“Dingan tried to kill me,” I managed to say.

“So it’s true?” the man said, finally. I still couldn’t figure out his accent. He spoke lightly, as if whispering.

I said nothing. Just stood there like an idiot, with a cell phone in my right hand.

“I was told he was at fault,” he said, probably talking about the corpse by the door.

“So you killed him for it?” I said, waiting for a plan to float to the surface of my brain like they usually do.

He was silent for a moment, then turned his head slightly and said, “You, away from the door. Come in here.” He was talking to Amy. A few seconds later I felt her standing a few inches to my right.

After another pause, the man asked, “Who are you?” He seemed to choose his words carefully.

I tried to measure the distance between us. It was over six feet. At a distance, the guy with the gun always has the advantage.

“You don’t know?” I said, mildly incredulous, “I thought I was at the core of this.”

“I guess I’m being kept in the dark,” he said. The accent sounded Scottish maybe.

“Hey, I’ve been kept in the dark for a while now. I find the best way to get answers is to threaten people, though I usually don’t get that far,” I said, pointing at Comstock.

The man stepped a bit closer. Maybe five feet away now. “I do as I’m told, I don’t look for answers. I was told to kill the man responsible for Dingan, and I was told that was him.”

Hired to kill the man responsible for Dingan’s death? Who would do that, other than Schumer?

“You’re just a kid,” he continued, “how the hell could Dingan have tried to kill you?”

“I’m scrappy,” I said. He took another step forward. Four feet. I could see the gun in his right hand better; it was a black pistol with a silver suppressor. It wasn’t a Beretta or an H&K, those being the only two guns I’d know by sight. The fact that I couldn’t identify the gun made me wonder if I was only myself at the moment. If I’d had weapons training, shouldn’t I be able to recognize a gun by sight? I thought that whenever I was in danger, the training took over like a second personality. I felt alone in my mind.

I said, “Dingan was an accident. He tried to take me in, I escaped. He tried to kill me, I killed him back. My understanding is that Comstock hired him, but he did so for someone else. If you want revenge, you’ll want to head up the ladder, not down.”

“And you’re down the ladder?” he asked, less careful with his words. The accent was definitely Scottish. Or Irish. Welsh, maybe?

“At the bottom, and off. I’m off the ladder. I’m running around the yard trying to find the ladder.”

“But you’re here,” he said. “I can’t walk away with two witnesses.”

“Not my fault you showed yourself. You had a nice hiding spot going there.”

After a moment, he said, “Toss the phone.”

I frowned and threw the phone in my hand over to the couch.

He took another step forward. Three feet.

Close enough.

My left arm went left, my body went right. I gripped the top of the gun’s slide and pulled it backwards, heard the chambered round tumble from the gun and onto the hardwood floor. My right hand went knuckles-first into the man’s wrist, freeing the gun from his grip. My right elbow flexed into the man’s neck, and I brought my fist down into the back of his head while I turned the gun in my left hand to hold it by the grip.

The flurry of movement took only a second.

I felt it now. That clarity. I was glad it was back.

Leveling the pistol in my hands I stepped backwards to put some distance between us. I felt a tug on my leg for a moment, and before I could process it, I saw that Amy had the knife from my pocket in her hands and open; she lunged forward at the man and threw her shoulder into the man’s chest and plunged the blade into his right thigh. They both howled at the same time, for different reasons. Slightly taken aback, I pulled Amy away from him as he tumbled backwards from the impact. His back hit the stone fireplace mantle and he began to slide down but he stopped himself before he hit the floor.

“What the hell was that?” I asked, moving the gun to my right hand and keeping it pointed at the man.

“Just helping,” Amy said, breathing heavily. I put a hand on her shoulder and walked her to the couch and sat her down.

The man leaned now against the fireplace, keeping his weight off his leg. He grimaced and winced, both hands wrapped around the handle of the knife stuck into his leg. After some panting, he pulled the knife from himself with a quick tug and a low groan. He held the knife in front of himself with both hands.

“Drop it,” I said, leveling the gun again, and holding it with both hands like you’re supposed to, so that somebody can’t just grab it and rip it from your hands.

He pressed the latch on the knife and folded in the blade with one hand, then his fingers went limp and the knife fell to the floor. His hands retracted and he held them both over the wound in his leg.

“Now, while we wait for the police, you can tell me all about who you’re working for,” I said.

The man kept grimacing. I turned to Amy and told her to call 911. She couldn’t find the phone. I turned my head for a moment to look at the couch, and I noticed a slight blur of movement from the corner of my eye. I turned back to the hitman just in time to see a small, black cylinder fall from a strap across his torso and hit the floor with a slight clank.

I tracked my eyes upward to see the man had turned his face toward the wall and covered his exposed ear with one hand, a small shiny ring of metal around his index finger.

I tried to say, “Oh, crap,” but was cut off just after the “oh” by a sharp, blinding white light and a deafening explosion. My senses all vanished, the image of the man holding his face to the wall burned into my brain as I stumbled backwards blindly and tripped over a piece of furniture and fell to the floor. I barely noticed myself hit the hardwood with my back. I existed in a world of sharp ringing and bright white. I was aware of the gun in my hand, but there was nothing I could do with it.

For a second time, I wondered if my eyes were destroyed.

After a few seconds, the photosensitive cells in my retinas wore themselves out and my vision slowly crept back. I could smell ammonia and gunpowder. My ears rang still, a high-pitched whine. It was hard to find my balance, but I pulled myself up to my feet and tried to assess the situation and perhaps verify that I was still alive.

Amy was still on the couch, only now lying down and rubbing her eyes. I discovered the gun in my hand and drew it upwards, scanning the room. There was no sign of the hitman. Still fighting for balance, I stumbled into the kitchen, and then the foyer. Comstock was still there,