just inside the door and waited.
A good five minutes passed. Soon I heard the guide's voice. 'Everybody out? she called.
I didn't answer. I stood pressed against the wall with the sweat running down my face, dripping into my eyes, blinding me. I didn't wipe it away. The waiting seemed to go on forever; then, suddenly, I heard a noise, a muffled scraping noise that was different from the steady thrum of motors.
He was back there, in with the mechanical equipment. I had him trapped. He moved forward cautiously, fumbling with the metal bar used to shut the wooden gate and discourage tourists from taking a wrong turn and straying off the guided path. Still I didn't move. I stood, holding my breath, wanting to have him clearly out in front of me before I made a move and showed myself.
Davenport backed into the light. He was carrying something in his hand, something heavy-looking.
'Stop right there, I commanded. 'Drop it.
Instead, he swung around toward me. He was holding a hunk of iron grid studded with thick, purple glass. He moved so quickly that the piece of metal whacked into the barrel of my. 38, knocking it loose from my hand and sending it skittering across the wooden walkway.
In a split second I had to choose between going for him and going for the gun. The Smith and Wesson was too far away. I dove for Davenport's knees and knocked him away from me. He grunted in surprise as the piece of metal dropped from his hand and fell harmlessly away.
We were even now. No, that's not true. We weren't even, I was better off. I could tell from the way he fell that he didn't know how, that he had never played a day's worth of tackle football in his life. Chris Davenport was a goddamned wimp.
He tried to squirm away from me, scrabbling toward the gun, but I caught him by the legs and hauled him back. I flipped him over on his back and held him one-handed by the neck of his shirt, while his bulgy little eyes almost popped out of his head.
'Let me go. You've got nothing on me, he screeched in panic. 'You're choking me.
My knee was right there beside his crotch, itching to turn him into a tenor. Maybe even a soprano.
'I've got more on you than you know, you worthless little shit! After what you did to Kimi…
'I didn't do that, I swear. It was Tabone. It was all Tabone's idea.
'Don't bother to confess, I told him. 'I don't want to hear it, slimebag. I haven't read you your goddamned rights.
I pulled him to his feet. He stood there swaying, pulling at his throat as though I really had been choking him. I pushed him toward the wall and started to retrieve my gun when he whirled on me, aiming a vicious kick at my head. Even though I dodged to one side, the toe of his foot still caught my cheekbone. I lost my balance and fell. On my hand. My right hand. My broken fingers screamed with newfound pain.
Up until then I hadn't been mad. Not really mad. Not with the black-blooded rage that filled me now. He had scrambled up the steps toward the gate and was tugging at it, but the gate was locked with a lock that required a key on either side. It wouldn't budge.
With my left hand, I grabbed his leg and twisted it. I'm not often surprised by my own strength, but adrenaline does wonders. Davenport went down hard, yelping with pain. I fell on top of him, pinning him to the dusty wooden plank floor.
Our faces were only inches apart as he struggled to get loose, bucking and pitching in a futile attempt to throw me off while I hung on desperately, with my one good hand knotted in a handful of shirt directly under his Adam's apple.
'Listen, creep. Tell me one thing. Who used the bottle?
'Tabone, he squeaked. 'I swear to God, it was Tabone. I only watched.
And that was when I hit him. Right in the braces. With my splints. The braces popped apart, twanging like so many broken guitar strings, turning the inside of his mouth to hamburger. He screamed in pain and grabbed for his mouth as blood spurted from between his lips. He wasn't fighting anymore. Gingerly, I got off him and stood up. He rolled over on his side, coughing and spitting blood.
'Too bad, creep. I said, backing away. 'Looks like you'll have to be rewired.
I left him lying there. He wasn't going anywhere. Retrieving my gun, I went into the third room, where I pounded loudly on the gift shop door. When the guide opened it, she looked me up and down in stunned surprise. Covered with muck and dust and blood, I could have stepped right out of Nightmare on Elm Street.
'What? she demanded irritably. 'You again?
I nodded. 'I think maybe you'd better call 911. There's a guy out here who's hurt. He'll need an ambulance.
'What about you? she asked.
'You're right, I answered. 'Have 'em send two.
CHAPTER 22
It took a long time to get things sorted out that afternoon. After all, I wasn't even on duty. As they hauled Davenport away in an ambulance, he was screaming police brutality and I was claiming self-defense. Without witnesses, no one was going to prove it one way or the other.
I never did get back to Waterfall Park. I had a long cut on my jaw where Davenport's toe had connected with my face, and I had to go up to Harborview and have it stitched shut. We were in adjoining emergency-room cubicles. Evidently they were still trying to stop Davenport's bleeding. Somebody finally shoved a fistful of gauze into his mouth and shut him up.
Ralph Ames came to the hospital to take me home. As we pulled into Belltown Terrace's garage he said, 'By the way, we're having a little din-din.
I had stitches in my face, my clothes were still caked with blood and dirt. 'We're not having company tonight, I groaned.
'Just a few people, Ames answered. 'Archie's cooking.
How many is a few? I wondered, grumpily figuring I was in for another dose of Italian food, but when we got upstairs, there was no telltale odor of garlic lingering in the hallway.
As soon as we came into the apartment, a tiny ball of brown-haired braids and knobby knees flung itself at my legs.
'Unca Beau, Unca Beau, Heather Peters squealed. 'Are your fingers all right? Are they? Daddy said they're broken. I'm sorry. I didn't mean to. I just wanted to put one more balloon in the car.
And that's how, a whole week later, I finally discovered what had happened to my hand. The fingers were still broken, but how they got that way was no longer a mystery, and consequently, they weren't quite such a mental problem for me either.
'It's all right, Heather, I said. 'They're going to be fine.
Heather grabbed my hand, studied it, and then looked up at me with a serious frown on her face. 'The bandage is kinda dirty, isn't it?
'It certainly is, I told her, 'and so am I. You wait right here while I go shower.
When I came back from the bathroom a few minutes later, Tracie Peters, who has made it her business to know where everything goes in my house, was busily helping her new stepmother set the table.
'It's nice of you to have us up like this, Amy said, 'especially considering what you've been through this afternoon.
'No problem, I told her. 'Anybody want a drink?
Ralph Ames was doing the bartending honors. He handed me a MacNaughton's, and I retreated to the living room, where Clay Woodruff and Machiko Kurobashi, sitting together on the window seat, were deeply involved in a quiet conversation with Ron Peters, who was ensconced in his wheelchair.
As soon as she saw me, Machiko pulled herself up and limped over to me on her cane. She was still wearing the silk kimono, which emphasized her severely bruised and battered face.
I put down my drink. She grasped my good hand and held it, pumping it gratefully.
'Thank you, she said. 'For what you do for me. For what you do for Kimiko. So I not go to jail.
