A Welcome Grave

He dropped his arms and looked at me with eyes that seemed almost sad. “Then people are going to die, Perry. People are going to die.”

The menace that had been in his voice the last time we’d met was back in full force. He moved again on the big rock, turning away from me slightly to look down at his footing as he stepped. I hadn’t even planned on going for my gun, but when he turned away like that, the opportunity was there, maybe the only good one I was going to get. The holster at the small of my back had a Velcro security flap instead of one that snapped, and a single, quick tug was all I needed to free the Glock. I drew it faster than I’d ever drawn a gun in my life, got it out of the holster and brought it around to bear on Doran’s chest, and right then he said, “Got ya.”

His back was still to me, his head turned so that his chin was against his left shoulder, looking back at me. The Colt Commander was pointed at my stomach, just off his right hip. It had been a staggeringly quick move; when instinct would have called for turning and facing me, he’d simply looked back over his shoulder and reversed the gun in his hand. Even standing there with his back to me, he’d beaten me.

“Feels like a tie,” I said. That awkward position, calling for him to fire almost behind his back, should have given me a clear advantage. But when the distance between a gun and the target is about four feet, that advantage disappears. If he squeezed the trigger, he couldn’t help but hit me.

“Gonna kill me, Perry?”

“Could be.”

For a moment we were frozen there, our guns not wavering. Then Doran shrugged his shoulders and lowered the Commander.

“I took a big risk coming to find you. But I’ve been watching you. Got the idea you knew who I was, that you were getting a sense of the situation. Figured I owed you a real explanation. I’ve given that. Want to take me down, now’s the time.”

I took one step forward. “Put the gun on the rock, Doran.”

He shook his head. “Nope. You want the gun, you better shoot me.”

Another step forward, but Doran countered by moving away, sliding backward. “Not ready to take the shot?”

“I’ll take it if I need to take it.”

“Why?”

“Because you’re a murderer, Doran.”

“Killing a man who set me up for his son’s crime, that’s not murder—that’s justice.”

“Not in anyone’s world but yours.”

“Then take the shot!” He stuck the Commander in his waistband and held up his empty hands, spread them wide. “Take the shot, Perry. You think that Jefferson didn’t deserve to die? Here’s your chance to settle it up, then. I know you owe him a whole hell of a lot, right?”

“I don’t owe him shit.” I kept shuffling forward, closing the gap. He was higher than me, though, my head even with his chest as he stood on the rock, daring me to shoot him.

“But I did?”

“He deserved to go to jail, Doran. Not to die.”

He threw back his head and laughed, and even as he did it he took another quick step backward, onto another, higher rock.

“You actually believe that could happen? That in this system we’ve got, this justice system, a millionaire attorney is going to go to jail and a poor guy with a record is going to walk? Bullshit, man. The way I look at it? Fate cut me a break and dealt Jefferson exactly what he’d earned when I rode that trash truck out of prison. That’s justice, Perry, sweet as it gets.”

“And extorting his wife? That’s justice, too? Not enough you took her husband, you also have to take her money?”

“I did five years, man. That’s not worth a few dollars to you? The fact that I did five years for another man’s crime?”

“It wasn’t Karen’s crime.”

“Wasn’t her money, either. Not originally.”

“Get on your knees and put your hands behind your head, Doran. You’re going to jail tonight, and then you can tell the police and the jury what your vision of justice is. Because right now, I’m the best suspect they’ve got, and I am not willing to go to prison for your sorry ass.”

A laugh bubbled out of his lips, the wild sound riding the wind just a pitch above the water thudding against the rocks at our feet.

“Here’s the beautiful thing—you could run me into jail tonight, let me sit there for weeks, months, years, and it wouldn’t help you. They could run every DNA test in the book at me, bring out the best detectives in the state, the FBI, the CIA, Sherlock Holmes, whoever the hell they got. They can run ’em all at me, and still your ass wouldn’t be cleared.”

My foot slipped on the rock and splashed into a shallow pool of trapped lake water, but I hardly noticed the chill. I was holding the gun on him, but he was still chuckling, looking at me as if I were the straight man in a comedy routine and didn’t even realize it.

“What are you talking about?”

“If the cops get me, it won’t help you. Know why?”

“No.”

His smile widened. “Because I didn’t kill him, Perry. I did not kill Alex Jefferson.”

I could add a few ounces of pressure to the Glock’s trigger and end this all right now. Call Targent to come down here and collect Doran’s body and figure the rest of it out. But the longer I looked at Doran down the barrel of the gun, the more convinced I became that it wouldn’t be the end of anything. He wasn’t lying.

“You dragged me off the street and put that bag over my head and bragged about killing him,” I said, the words coming slowly. “Told me why you’d done it, told me why it was justified.”

“I know that. But it wasn’t true.”

“Why claim it, then?”

The deranged look of amusement left his face, replaced with anger.

“Because it should have been me. The son of a bitch sent me to jail, set me up, made me do five years for his son’s murder. It should have been me.”

Doran planted his feet firmly on the rock and looked down at me, the barrel of my gun pointed at his chest.

“Last chance, Perry. You want to finish this, go on and take the shot.”

I kept the gun where it was, didn’t say a word.

“All right.” He lifted two fingers to his forehead in a salute. “See you around.”

“You’re not going anywhere.”

“Then take the shot,” he said again, and he began to run. He was gone from one rock and onto the next almost before I saw him move, running across the slick, uneven stones as if they were part of an indoor track, designed for speed and balance.

For a moment I stayed where I was, kept my feet planted and swung the gun after him. He was bouncing from rock to rock, though, moving horizontally and vertically at the same time.

“Shit!” I said, and then I lowered the gun and began to run after him.

He moved incredibly fast, considering the darkness and the treacherous footing. I was trying to match his pace and simply couldn’t; he seemed to make decisions about which rocks to hit even before they came into view, barely touching the surface of one before leaping to the next. We’d gone maybe thirty yards when my foot came down on a smooth, wet rock that was like glass. My front leg slipped out from under me and I was falling backward and sideways. My ribs connected with the edge of a stone slab, all the air vanishing from my lungs in a burst of pain, and then I was on my back, the gun clattering to the ground somewhere behind me.

I sat up as quickly as I could, but for a few horrible seconds it seemed I wouldn’t be able to draw a breath. Then the air came back in a long, shuddering gasp, and I struggled to my feet and looked for the Glock. It was wedged between two of the rocks behind me. I took a few painful steps over and picked it up, brushed off the dirt and rain, then looked ahead.

Doran was at least fifty yards in front of me now, and he’d climbed up to the edge of the breakwater, where