Thorpe remained silent.
“Why’d you fucking tie me up, motherfucker? I don’t know shit. The longer you let me live, the more chances I get to kill your white ass.”
Damn. Phipps would be of no use; he mistakenly thought Thorpe was the one who’d restrained him. Whoever had put Phipps in this predicament must have done so while the man was unconscious—probably coldcocked him after he’d been disoriented by the stun grenade.
Thorpe stood, walked to a weight bench where he dropped the magazine from his pistol, broke down the weapon, and carefully placed the parts on the bench. Weapon disabled, Thorpe pulled off his bullet resistant vest, displaying his scarred and developed body. He again extracted his knife, passed behind Phipps, and cut through the Flexcuffs—releasing his captive.
Then, his back to Phipps as though the man were of no concern, he returned to the door, unlocked it, and tossed the knife outside. After relocking the door, Thorpe turned his attention to Phipps, who’d risen off the floor and stood motionless next to the pole.
Thorpe approached Phipps and assumed a fighting stance.
Phipps smiled. “Oh, you fucked up boy. Gone up a lot tougher than your skinny white ass,” he said with false bravado. Thorpe could hear the shimmer in his voice.
Phipps wasn’t nearly as lean as Thorpe, but he was thirty pounds heavier and probably stronger. Thorpe had at least one thing in his favor, though; he hadn’t recently been knocked unconscious as had his opponent.
Too bad for him.
Phipps removed his own shirt, revealing a myriad of tattoos and a fraternity brand on his left tricep. Toes facing Thorpe, feet shoulder width apart, Phipps adopted a boxer’s stance. He approached Thorpe with his branded shoulder turned away.
Odd.
Thorpe had noted the empty holster on the man’s his right hip, indicating Phipps was a righty. But Phipps assumed a southpaw stance. He was either ambidextrous or planned to attempt a kick or a takedown.
And a kick it was, a poorly executed one that Thorpe easily avoided. When Phipps’ foot landed, he took the stance of a traditional right-handed boxer. Thorpe moved in and caught a left jab on the forehead that rocked him backward.
“That’s right, bitch! Come get you some more!” Phipps encouraged.
The man was probably well versed in hand-to-hand combat, given his history in the Marine Corps. Thorpe got within striking distance and fired a kick at the outside of Phipps’ lead leg. He hoped to impact the sciatic nerve—the largest and longest single nerve in the entire body. When traumatized, it greatly affects the workings of the legs.
The kick landed, but Thorpe received an overhand right to the left side of his head. Though solid, it wasn’t a stunning blow. Thorpe feigned a wobble of the legs and a buckle of the knees. Phipps saw a wounded animal and took the bait; he rushed in. Another right hurtled toward Thorpe’s face. He ducked the punch and drove into Phipps’ hips. Arms wrapped around his assailant, Thorpe arched his back and lifted Phipps off the floor. Then, using all the strength in his core and legs, Thorpe torqued his body forward, driving his right shoulder into Phipps’ abdomen.
The move was so violent that Thorpe’s own feet went airborne as he slammed the back of Phipps’ head onto the gray concrete floor. Thorpe couldn’t see the impact, but the wet watermelon-like sound left little doubt Phipps had sustained a catastrophic brain injury. Even as Thorpe rose to deliver more punishment, he noticed the slack in Phipps’ facial muscles. The man was dead.
Thorpe stood and rubbed the side of his own head. His adrenaline fading, the pain from Phipps’ punch began to register. He felt a good-sized knot behind and above his temple. Good thing the strike hadn’t landed two or three inches forward, or Thorpe might be the slab of meat lying on the floor. Three inches between victim and victor.
Leaving his disassembled pistol in the barn, Thorpe stepped into the daylight. It was the first time in days that he felt he could walk on his own property without the prospect of a bullet stopping him dead. Before heading back to his house, he retrieved his discarded coveralls and used them to protect himself from the brisk February weather. Back inside, he stood next to Corn Johnson’s remains and pulled a six-pack of beer from the refrigerator. Thorpe popped open one of the cans, tipped it toward Corn in mock salute, took a drink, and walked out the door.
He carried the beer into his backyard and lifted the remainder of the six-pack high above his head. He then tore off three beers and trekked fifty yards into the trees. He left the lager on a stump—an offering to his unknown accomplice—and then returned next to his deck, built a fire in his pit, and sat down with his back to the woods.
Warm sun on his face, cold drink on his lips, Thorpe tried to make sense of his morning. He wondered if he’d ever know who his accomplices were or what their motivation had been. Someone had gone to a lot of trouble to remain anonymous. As he reviewed the events of the last few days, he remembered the man who’d been reported leaving the back door of Phipps’ home.
Was he the same man who’d today sprung a trap on Phipps and Corn?
There were too many loose ends, and every time Thorpe tried to grab one, he only reeled in more questions. Was Ambretta helping him? She seemed too smart to become romantically involved with a serial murderer, no matter how dashing Thorpe hoped he was.
She owed him answers, and he intended to collect. But first he had another visit to make. One collaborator still remained, Sergeant McDonald.
Thorpe stood and walked into his home, not bothering to turn and see if his beer offering had been accepted.
Tuesday
February 13
Morning
THORPE ROSE EARLY, PREPARED TO begin his quest for Sergeant McDonald but unsure how to go about accomplishing the task without drawing attention. He’d spent the previous day dealing with the bodies of Phipps and Corn Johnson. Because of potential tracking devices attached to his personal truck and no access to SID units, Thorpe was limited in his disposal options. Ultimately, he waited for Deborah to leave her home then loaded the tarp-wrapped corpses into the bed of his pickup and pulled into her barn. Afterwards, he trekked back to his place and fetched the Polaris ATV he used to work on his property. He transferred the bodies onto an attached four-wheel wagon and drove them several miles west of Deborah’s. After two hours’ work with a pick and shovel, he tossed the remains in the pit. He’d move them to a more suitable location when surveillance was less of a worry.
Today, without the burden of dead bodies, he decided to start the morning with a phone call to Ambretta’s cell. A recorded voice told him the number he’d dialed was “no longer in service.” A follow-up call to the Renaissance Hotel informed him Ambretta Collins had checked out yesterday morning.
He was trying to process her disappearance when his cell began buzzing in his hand.
“Hello?”
“It’s Hull.”
“Oh,” Thorpe replied, disappointed.
“That was a warm welcome.”
“Sorry, thought someone was returning my call.”
“Don’t be too sorry. I’ve got some good news. You home?”
“Yeah.”
“I’m five minutes out. Don’t go anywhere.”
Good news? He could use some. Thorpe walked out to his gate, opened it and returned to his front porch. As promised, five minutes after the call, Hull rolled up the gravel driveway and climbed from his car.
“What’s so important to get you out in the boonies this time of the morning?” Thorpe asked.