As we rounded the corner, he gave me a final hard shove, sending me stumbling into the side of a dumpster. Free of his grasp, I wheeled around to face him, rage continuing to surge through me.
“Take your coat off,” he ordered as he stripped out of his own and tossed it into a heap against the building.
“You’re kidding,” I snipped. “You’re not happy with just fucking my wife over. Now you want to kick my ass too?”
“Take your coat off,” he repeated, ignoring my question.
“What for?” I demanded.
“‘Cause, dumbass, you can swing harder if ya’ haven’t got your goddamn coat on, now take it off.”
I reluctantly shrugged off my coat and tossed it against the building as he had done with his. Why I bothered I really didn’t know. Whether I had the coat on or not, it wasn’t going to make any difference. He had height, weight, training, and even more importantly, first hand experience over me. There was no way I could come out of this without broken bones and blood loss at the minimum. At least it was cold outside, so I guessed when I folded, I could use the parking lot as an interim full-body ice pack until the ambulance arrived.
It’s not that I wasn’t going to defend myself, mind you, but I also wasn’t stupid. A no win situation is just that. Somebody isn’t going to win. And, I knew with absolute certainty that it was me who was in the “no” column when it came to a “win” in this instance.
I stood there, staring back at Ben, building as much hatred as I could in hopes that I would at least get in a shot or two before he clocked me and total darkness fell upon my world. Once again, I could feel my heart hammering in my chest as the glare locked between us.
Contrary to his instructions, not everyone had stayed inside, and there was now a small gathering of uniformed and plainclothes officers alike forming behind Ben. He didn’t seem to have a problem with it, and truth is, he probably expected the audience. Train wrecks always attract spectators, and that was pretty much what was about to happen.
I couldn’t say for sure because I wasn’t paying very close attention to them, but something told me wagers were being made within the group. I didn’t imagine they were giving me very good odds.
“Well, what the hell are ya’ waitin’ for?” Ben finally said. “Come on. Let’s have it!”
“Have what?!” I snapped.
“Come on! Take your shot!”
“What?” I snarled. “You really expect me to throw the first punch right here in front of a bunch of cops?”
“Everybody heard me say this is personal, right?” he called over his shoulder.
A disjointed chorus of “yeah’s” and “whatever’s” issued from the handful of onlookers.
“So then I guess you want me to swing first just so you’ll have a clear conscience when you beat the shit out of me?”
“Wake up, Rowan. I’ve got no intention of hittin’ you, ya’ fuckin’ idiot! You’re the one that’s got the issues here! Now come on! You been wantin’ ta’ hit me all goddamned day, so just do it and get it over with!”
Incredulity flowed into my voice, unevenly mixing with the anger that had already claimed the space. “You’re going to let me hit you?”
“Ain’t that what I just said?”
“And you aren’t going to hit me back?”
“I am if ya’ don’t hurry the fuck up and do it!” he shot back. “Now come on!”
I didn’t wait for him to repeat the invitation again.
CHAPTER 11:
“Feel better now?” Ben asked, following the question with a hard groan.
“A little,” I said, inspecting the ends of my fingers where they protruded from beneath a stained cloth. “I don’t think it’s broken.”
We were currently parked in a booth back inside the diner, him positioned so that he was facing the door and me on the opposite side of the chipped and uneven table. The burgers from the sack were sitting before him, still folded neatly into their paper wrappers. He hadn’t touched them except to pull them from the bag before sending it across the street with one of the other officers.
At this point, I wasn’t entirely sure if he was going to eat them or just look at them longingly, as he was still holding an ice-filled dishcloth pressed against the side of his face. Of course, I wasn’t in much better shape considering that I had its frigid twin wrapped around my hand.
After a moment he grunted. “Yeah, well I wasn’t talkin’ ‘bout your hand.”
“Oh, you mean…” I replied, pantomiming a right cross.
“Uh-huh.”
“Truth?”
“Yeah.”
“Right now I’m still thinking about it.”
“That’s fuckin’ great,” he huffed, voice brimming with sarcasm. “So much for takin’ one on the chin.”
“How about you?” I asked.
“Hey, I’m not the one with the issues.”
“Okay, but I meant your jaw.”
“Oh…hurts like a sonofabitch.”
While the crux of my own pain was localized dead center on the knuckles, it was still radiating up my forearm, past my elbow, and stabbing into my shoulder at odd intervals. Much to my surprise, the explosion of rage had somehow served to negate my inherent clumsiness; so, as it turned out, I couldn’t have landed a punch any squarer onto Ben’s jaw if I had mapped the angle and trajectory with precision instruments.
Of course, in addition to that, not really knowing for sure that he wasn’t going to retaliate once I struck, I had gone for broke with that first swing, putting everything I could muster behind it-hatred, anger, strength, and weight. The problem was, as much as it actually ended up hurting him, for me it had still been pretty much like I had slammed my fist into a brick wall. At least, that’s how it felt to my throbbing hand.
He squinted back at me with one eye, reaching up and working his jaw with his right hand while still keeping the ice pack pressed against it with his left.
“Jeezus, white man…” he half-groaned. “Where the hell’d ya’ learn ta’ punch like that anyway?”
“You, as I recall.”
“Oh yeah…” he muttered.
We sat in silence for a short span then I asked, “So what do we do now?”
“That’s up ta’ you, Row,” he answered with a sigh. “I’ve given ya’ all I got. If you wanna keep hatin’ me then there’s nothin’ more I can do about it.”
“It’s not that I want to, Ben,” I offered.
“Coulda fooled me.”
“Look…My head’s not in a very good place right now. I’m sorry.”
“Yeah, I can tell. You talk ta’ Helen?”
“Yeah,” I grunted. “She told me you thought you were doing us a favor.”
He gave his head a shake. “I did, but I’m not talkin’ bout that. I wanna know have ya’ talked to ‘er about you? About what’s goin’ on inside your head.”
“A little.”
“A little ain’t enough, Row.”
“Yeah, I know,” I agreed. “But there will be time for that once I clear Felicity.”
“How’re you gonna do that?” he asked.
“I don’t know yet.”
“Well, I gotta tell ya’, Kemosabe. I don’t either, ‘cause no matter how ya’ slice it, it don’t look good.”
“Uh-huh. That’s all I seem to be hearing from you, my attorney, and everyone else.”
“Sorry. Just bein’ honest.”
“Are you telling me that even you think she’s guilty?”
He closed his eyes and shook his head, waiting a measured beat before answering. “I don’t want to, but…”
I waited for him to finish the sentence, however, he simply allowed his voice to trail off.
“But what, Ben?” I finally asked. “Can you honestly say that you think Felicity is a killer?”
“Under different circumstances, no.”
“So what’s so different about the circumstances now?”
“The cards just ain’t fallin’ in her favor, Row.”
“Last I recall you had nothing other than circumstantial evidence at best.”
“I’m afraid it’s gotten a little more complicated.”
“Complicated how?”
“I can’t really get into it, Row.”
“Damn you, Ben,” I spat in a low voice. “Don’t keep doing this. You can’t dangle that shit in front of me then clam up all over again. Tell me what’s going on.”