“I didn’t say that.”
“Wasn’t justified, what he did. My three are. Three of you will be too. And all the rest after you, three more or thirty more.”
Get him off that. He was agitated again, increasing tension on the thread. I threw a non sequitur at him: “How’d you find out about Colton?”
“What?”
“Colton. Spook. How’d you find out he was alive, living on the streets?”
“Why do you care how?”
“I’d like to know myself,” Runyon said. “You bump into him one day, recognize him?”
“Smart bastards didn’t figure out that part? Not so smart after all.” Valjean’s finger had quit moving, eased off pressure on the machine pistol’s trigger. Thread still holding. “All right, you want to know, I’ll tell you, then you can all die happy. No, I never bumped into him, I thought he was dead a long time ago. It was that blackmailing son of a bitch, he’s the one found out.”
“Big Dog?”
“Yeah, Big Dog. Found some crap belonged to Colton, newspaper stories about what he did to Luke and Dot.”
“Spook’s stash.”
“Colton talked to them like they were still alive, Big Dog heard the names, same names in the newspaper stories. Even a stupid bastard like him could put two and two together.”
My desk chair gave a sudden low squeak. Runyon shifting position, lifting his hands to drywash his slick face. It didn’t mean anything to Valjean, but it struck me as an uncharacteristic gesture. I positioned my head so I could look at Valjean and watch Runyon at the same time.
I said, “How’d he know to contact you?”
Valjean didn’t seem to hear that. He muttered, “Talked to them, for Christ’s sake. Blew them away that day, walked in there and emptied that Colt into them. My brother... wasn’t anything left of his face, one of the slugs took his head half off. Killed them and got away with it, seventeen years, and he was still talking to them like they were alive!”
When Runyon lowered his hands again, he let the left one drop to his lap and the right one rest on the edge of Tamara’s desk. The only things within his reach were her computer screen and keyboard, the keyboard on the sliding panel just below desktop level. His gaze slid my way long enough to tell that I was watching, then eased the other way to catch Tamara’s. She was looking, too.
I repeated my question to Valjean. “How did Big Dog know to contact you? Something else in Spook’s stash?”
“Not me, smart guy. He didn’t come to me, not the first time.”
“Robert Lightfoot?”
“Yeah, Bob. He used to sell cars, had business cards and Colton kept one, who the hell knows why. Big Dog tracked Bob down, said he knew where Colton was, wanted five hundred bucks to say where. Bob called me. We didn’t pay him, not right away. He spilled just enough to Bob, we figured we could find Colton ourselves.”
“But you didn’t.”
“No. We decided it’d be quicker to just pay the five hundred, so I met the bastard and gave him his blood money. Stupid. Should’ve punched his ticket for him then and there.”
Runyon’s hand was moving on the desktop, so slowly you wouldn’t notice unless you were paying close attention. When it crawled down a few inches onto the sliding panel, I realized what he was after: the mouse attached to the keyboard. His fingers came to rest next to it, near enough for him to lift his index finger and tap it once. He was looking at Tamara as he did it. I thought I saw her give a slight nod in return.
“You do it alone, shoot Colton?” I said. I moved a cautious half pace to my left as I spoke. Valjean didn’t seem to notice that, either.
“Yeah, alone. Bob wanted to be there to see it but he couldn’t, he’s in a wheelchair, so I did the job myself. Finally gave Colton what he had coming for what he did to Bob and me, Luke and Dottie and my folks, all of us, finally some justice after seventeen years. Payback, by God, eye for an eye. Colton and Big Dog and Marjorie and you three and anybody else gets in my way.”
Abruptly he began to pace. Crosswise behind my desk to within a couple of paces of the far side wall, turn, back across to the near side wall, turn. Head tilted sideways, eyes flicking watchfully over the three of us as he moved, his lips forming words that now only he could hear. Working himself up to it, the thread getting closer to the snapping point. I had the clear, chill feeling that when he decided to stop pacing, he would start shooting.
Tamara had maneuvered her hand and arm onto the keyboard, and her fingers were slowly loosening the mouse cord-connector. Runyon’s gaze met mine again; when Valjean made a turn away from him he nodded once, as imperceptibly as Tamara had, to let me know he was ready.
I moved another few inches to my left on Valjean’s next turn. For most of his back-and-forth path, my desk was between the two of us; but when he went into his pivot at the near wall, there were a dozen feet of open floor space separating us. A dozen feet... like a hundred yards of no man’s land. I waited until he turned back the other way, looked at Runyon and made a couple of small motions with my head, one at the wall, the other at the floor.
Tamara had the mouse connector free of its socket.
Valjean was still pacing, not as rapidly now, no longer muttering to himself.
Runyon’s fingers closed around the mouse.
I widened my stance slightly, slid my left foot back a few inches, and held a breath, thinking Here we go.
Valjean was looking halfway between me and the others, so that he could keep all three of us within the range of his vision. If he saw any of the calculated movements we made, they didn’t register, didn’t put a hitch in his step. Three paces from the near wall, he about-faced again, an almost military heel-and-toe turn.
And in that second—
Runyon swept up and threw the mouse sidearm, all in one motion — not at Valjean but past and behind him, its cord flapping and twisting like the tail of a whip.
Tamara cut loose with a banshee shriek, so loud and shrill it was a pressure in the ear.
Valjean pulled up short, his stubbled face registering confusion, his attention caught by her and Runyon and the flying mouse — no longer seeing me at all.
I charged him, head down, body bent as low to the floor as I could get and still make speed.
He heard me coming halfway, spun in my direction. The machine pistol was a semiautomatic; it chattered two or three times, but confusion and haste and the weight of the thing and the high angle of its muzzle threw all the slugs past me by a couple of feet. Runyon was coming by then; I didn’t see him until he slammed into Valjean, throwing the gunarm up just as the pistol hammered again. I barreled into Valjean from my side, the two of us sandwiching him, and we all went down in a wild tangle of arms and legs and squirming bodies. Behind us something heavy and metallic made a thunderous crashing noise; I could feel the vibration in the floorboards as I clawed a grip on the gun... hot metal, burning my fingers. I yanked it loose of Valjean’s grasp, threw it behind me.
Runyon had the other arm and the big struggling body pinned. I heaved up and back to get leverage and hit Valjean in the face with as much force as I could muster. It hurt him, brought a grunt of pain and weakened his struggles. I slammed him again, a side-swipe blow to the temple so solid that it popped one of my knuckles — a sharp pain I barely felt. The fight began to go out of him. Runyon’s turn: one, two shots to the face, the second on the point of the jaw. Valjean stiffened for an instant, went limp all at once. Down and out.
It was over.
The two of us lay draped over him for a few seconds, sucking wind. Then I lifted up again, onto my knees, and yelled, “Tamara!” Tried to yell it, but it came out in a hoarse croak.
I saw her before she answered. She must’ve thrown herself down and under her desk after she screamed; now she came crawling out. “Not hurt. You? Jake?”