Ben saw his opportunity and bolted. He lurched toward the other end of the catwalk, back toward Mike and Tyrone. Every step hurt; now both of his ankles were complaining. He ignored them. He had to keep going. He had to move forward.
He had almost made it to the end of the catwalk when he felt strong hands clamp down on his shoulders. “I don’t need a gun to take care of you.”
Armstrong grabbed Ben by the collar and slung him back against the guardrail. Ben came down hard on his sore ankle and screamed out as the pain rippled through his aching body. He felt himself wobbling, losing his footing.
Armstrong brought his fist around and smacked Ben hard in the face—right on the nose still damaged from their last encounter. Ben knew he was losing consciousness. He knew he was about to pass out, and that as soon as he did, he couldn’t possibly keep himself from tumbling off the catwalk.
Ben saw the fist coming around again. He tried to push away, but he was trapped, pinned against the guardrail with nowhere to go but down. He closed his eyes.
The fist thudded into his face. His head exploded, leaving him all but senseless. He could feel unconsciousness creeping up on him like a dark shroud. He knew the next blow would knock his feet right out from under him. After that, it would only take a gentle push.
“Rest in hell, Kincaid,” Armstrong growled. Ben felt more than saw the fist rearing back, getting into position for the final death blow …
“Freeze, you bastard!”
Armstrong’s arm stopped in midflight.
Ben recognized the voice, even if he couldn’t make out the speaker. It was Earl. Earl!
“I got a gun, sucker!”
Ben felt the impact of heavy footsteps crossing the catwalk. He pried his eyelids open.
Earl crossed the catwalk, a gun aimed directly at Armstrong’s head. “I’ll blow you to kingdom come if you so much as move. Get your hands up! Move away from Ben!”
Armstrong took a step back, obeying.
“Now get off the goddamn catwalk!”
Armstrong walked away, slowly, eyes to the front.
Earl caught up to Ben. “How you doin’, Ben?”
Ben gripped the guardrail. “Tryin’ to hold together,” he gasped. “Tyrone and Mike need help.”
“Looks to me like you could use some yourself. Let’s—”
His voice disappeared. When it returned, it was barely a whisper. “Oh, my God. Oh, Jesus in heaven!”
“What?” Ben saw Earl moving off the catwalk, gun aimed ahead, moving toward Armstrong. “What is it?”
“I just now saw this son of a bitch’s face. Do you know who this is?” He grabbed the man and shook him by the lapel of his coat. “Do you know who this is?”
“It’s … Grady Armstrong. Professor Hoodoo’s brother.”
“Brother, my ass. This is Professor Hoodoo!” Earl shoved him down to the ground; his head banged against the metallic surface. “He’s alive!”
“What?” Ben tried to stay conscious long enough to understand.
Earl cocked the gun and pressed it flat against the man’s temple. “Talk, sucker. And you’d better make it good.”
Armstrong smiled bitterly. “I believe I’ll decline.”
“I said talk!”
“Go fuck yourself.”
“I said, talk!” Earl pounded his face, once, twice, then again for good measure. “If you want anything to be left of your face come morning, talk! Who died in your apartment? Who burned in the fire?”
The man on the receiving end of the gun licked his swollen, bleeding lips. “That was my brother. The real Grady. We always resembled one another. Certainly enough to fool people after the body was burned. So I fixed things up so it looked like I died and you did it. Added a grisly little touch with my knife, just to make sure you got the maximum sentence, and as a tribute to my goddamn good-for-nothing daddy. And then I went to Grady’s lonely outpost in Montana and became him. It was easy; he went years without seeing anyone. Then I switched jobs, joined Buxley—as Grady Armstrong—and no one was the wiser.”
Earl stared at him, gaping. “But why?”
He shrugged. “Grady and I had a disagreement. The tiny matter of our daddy’s money. Grady got it. I didn’t. Even killing him wouldn’t get me what I wanted. But becoming him would. So that’s what I did.” He paused. “And once I’d decided to become Grady, Professor Hoodoo had to disappear.”
“I don’t care about that.” Earl lifted the man up and shook him, slamming his head back. “Why’d you do this to me? Why’d you do it to me?”
A sneer crossed Armstrong’s face. “You were never anything but trash, Earl. Bad gumbo scum-of-the-earth trash. You stole my woman. And worse, you stole my music. Said you were tryin’ to preserve it. Bastardize it was more like it. After Lily, my music was the only thing I had, the only thing that mattered. And you stole it, just like you stole Lily. So I took care of you. I fixed you up even worse than killing you would.”
“Twenty-two years,” Earl whispered. “I did twenty-two years. And you weren’t even dead!”
“During those twenty-two years, I forgot music, hid myself in Grady’s humdrum life. Quit the clubs, the drink, the junk. Tried to become someone I wasn’t, someone I’d never been before. I finally found some peace. I thought I was over hating you—till I heard you’d gotten out, started over, and opened a club—trading on your puny stolen reputation. The hate started boilin’ up inside me all over again. I couldn’t stand the thought of you on the outside, enjoying life. So I began making arrangements to put you back behind bars. Back where you belonged, in a life worse than death.”
“Twenty-two years,” Earl murmured. “Twenty-two years of my life gone—forever. I lost everything—my friends, my career—and my music. My music!” His hands shook with rage. “You deserve to die.”
“Earl, don’t!” Ben cried, gathering all the strength he could muster. “Don’t become the murderer he’s tried to make people think you are.”
“He deserves to die,” Earl repeated.
“Don’t do it!” Ben shouted. “You’ll spend the rest of your life in prison!”
“I don’t think so,” Earl said. His voice had a chilling quality. “You explained it to me yourself, Ben. A man can’t be tried twice for the same crime. I’ve already been convicted for the murder of George Armstrong. I’ve done my time. Double jeopardy has … what’s the word?—attached! There ain’t a damn thing they can do to me now.” He cocked the gun.
“Don’t do it!” Ben shouted, but it was too late. The gun fired at pointblank range, and Professor Hoodoo’s head exploded right before Ben’s eyes.
“No!” Ben shouted. He tried to push himself to his feet, but the moment he tried, all the pain and dizziness rushed back to the surface. The world began to swim around him, floating in elastic ripples, like a movie shot with a trick focus. He planted his feet, but his weight came down on the sore ankle and suddenly there was nothing between him and the ground. He was a bird, except this bird only flew in one direction: down. He sensed his body leaving the catwalk, tumbling under the guardrail, almost as if he wasn’t inside it anymore. He saw the ground rushing toward him.
It was the last thing he saw before, mercifully, the dark shroud wrapped him in its cold cold embrace.
Five
The Meaning of Jazz
Chapter 51
HE HEARD SOMEONE singing: