Billy Povich: Loot The Moon Part 25

Billy informed him, "If you f.u.c.king die before we have our talk, I swear to Christ that Charlie Metts will lay you a.s.s-up for the wake."

"Hes gonna kill somebody," the old man said, nodding in agreement with himself. "I saw it in his eyes."

White shirts and voices flooded the room.

"Go stop him," the old man said. "Dont let him hurt n.o.body else." He pushed Billy gently away. "Do it."

Twenty yards from the hospitals exit, a hand clapped him over the shoulder.

"Hey, nice to see you! Whats the rush?"

He whirled. There stood Martin Smothers, a dopey smile on his face. His beard was tied with two rubber bands into twin ponytails. He looked like the worlds wimpiest Viking.

"Hiya, Martin," he said, and stuck out a hand to shake the lawyers sweaty palm. His other hand discreetly patted the knife under his shirt, in his waistband. His knee throbbed where that son of a b.i.t.c.h had rammed him with the wheelchair. He was desperate to run, but reason overruled those instincts. After ditching the mask and stumbling down the stairs on a bad knee, he was this close to getting away. And then, of all the luck, to run into Martin Smothers in the hospital lobby? Like a cosmic practical joke.

Be calm. I can act my way out of anything.

He seized control of the conversation before Martin could question him. "I came here to visit a buddy who had back surgery," he said with a broad smile.

"Hows he doing?" asked Martin. "If he needs visitors, maybe Ill drop in and say h.e.l.lo."

"Hes not here, actually. I guess they sent him home a day early." He shrugged. "So I thought I made a trip for nothing, until I had the good fortune to run into you."

Martin stood back, put his hands on his hips, and beamed. "I cant remember the last time Ive seen you so chipper."

"Well, circ.u.mstances havent been the best recently-"

Martin looked past him and waved down the hall. "Hey, Billy!" he called. "Look who I ran into."

Great. Theres Billy Povich. Was there a convention here I didnt know about?

He tightened the smile, adjusted the facade, turned to face him. "How are you, Billy?" he said. He extended a hand as Povich walked up.

"Im great, Brock, just f.u.c.kin dandy. And you?"

Without breaking stride, Povich c.o.c.ked back a fist and drove it so hard into Brocks chin, he heard his jawbone crack before he hit the floor.

Barely conscious, he felt Povichs hands tighten around his throat. Povich screamed hoa.r.s.e into his ear: "Rackers didnt take you hostage, you took him hostage! You carjacked Stu Tracy, Brock! And if youve killed my father like you killed your own ..."

He squeezed tighter.

"No, Billy, no!" Smothers shouted. Unseen voices screamed and hollered for the police.

The world grew dark around the edges, and then Brock blacked out.

thirty-one.

The old man struggled with the details. "So n.o.body paid Adam Rackers to kill the judge?" he said.

Billy pulled the hospital blanket higher and tucked it under his fathers chin. He checked the IV drip running into his fathers arm. "Judge Harmony was dead before Rackers even broke into the house," he explained. "Brock had already killed him."

The old man let out a low whistle. "What could drive a boy to do that?"

"The police who interrogated him say Brock doesnt really have a good answer. He found out that his dad, who acted like Mr. Perfect, had a second family, and another son. Gil was leaving June and Brock, and moving to New York-thats a potent betrayal. Gil was taking most of his money with him too. You looking for a motive? Greed, or revenge?"

"Name your poison."

"Rackers was the key to the murder plan, but he didnt know it," Billy said. "Two weeks before the killing, Brock got the drop on Rackers when the little thief broke into the judges town house in Providence. Brock pulled a gun on him. But instead of calling the police, he hired Rackers to rob the Charlestown house and steal Junes diamonds, supposedly as part of an insurance scam.

"We bought Brocks story from the beginning-that Adam Rackers broke in and then took him hostage. The first part was true-Rackers did break in, as they had planned-but then he fell right into Brocks trap. The rest of Brocks story was a lie. It was Brock who marched Rackers through the woods at gunpoint. Then Brock carjacked Stu Tracy, and forced Rackers to drive the car."

"Probably was going to kill them both later," the old man offered. His quivering hand pressed the oxygen tube under his nose. "So he could make it look like he had escaped from his kidnapper."

"Brocks plan went off the road, literally, when Adam Rackers panicked at the wheel and drove into a tree," Billy said. "But Rackers was killed, and Stu was incapacitated, so he couldnt contradict Brocks story. They never used their names in the car, so Stu didnt know which guy was which. Thats why Brock faked a crying jag in Stus hospital room before he had said a word. He couldnt have Stu recognizing his voice."

"And thats why Brock couldnt let Stu live long enough to get back his sight," the old man said. "Boy, he had everybody fooled."

"Brock was a great drama student-his school said he was the best actor they had ever seen. Could have had a career. And so could Martin Smothers, I think. Martin staked out the lobby while I went up to check on Stu Tracy. He was clever enough to hold Brock there until I came back."

The old man licked his lips and turned approving eyes on Billy. "Being an investigator suits you," he said.

"I nearly got buried alive."

"You havent been to the dog track once since this case began."

Billy thought back. "Youre right," he said, surprised that he hadnt noticed. He shrugged. "I havent felt the impulse ... . Maybe I finally caught the rabbit."

The old man smiled. When the grin faded, he asked, "Hows Stu?"

"You saved his life. And risked your own to do it."

"Eh, not much to risk."

"In a few days, well get you transferred to a better room. Something with a view of the highway, so you can feel better about not being stuck in traffic. In two weeks, youll be home. Bos painting some get-well pictures for the walls."

The old man looked away. His blue eyes scanned the ceiling. "Might have been a better way to go, you think? Bleeding out after trying to help a friend." He turned suddenly to Billy and barked with surprising strength, "Im jealous of you and Bo, and Im sick of hiding it."

Billy fiddled again with the blanket. "Ive seen the jealousy in your eyes. Though I dont know why. Bo loves his grandpa."

The old man frowned and grew impatient. "Not jealous that way. Are you really as thick as that?" He huffed and seemed about to cry. He confessed, "Im jealous of you, Billy, because you have a son who adores you ... and I dont."

For the rest of his life, Billy Povich would marvel at how suddenly forgiveness had filled him, that moment beside his fathers hospital bed. The old mans cheating, his selfishness, the way he had dropped his family like a day-old newspaper-those wounds vanished that instant, as if they had never been, a weight he had dragged three decades, suddenly cut free.

He laid his ear on the old mans stomach and quietly cried. Trembling hands cradled his head.

"I finished your obituary last night," Billy said, finally. "My best work. I have a copy, if youd like to read it."

The old man sputtered, "Dont have my gla.s.ses."

"I could read it to you, Father."

The old man grinned and playfully pushed his son away. "Not yet. I want to make it a little longer, before it goes in the paper."

Also by Mark a.r.s.enault.

Gravewriter.

Spiked.

Speak. Ill of the Living.

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the authors imagination or are used fict.i.tiously.

LOOT THE MOON. Copyright 2009 by Mark a.r.s.enault. All rights reserved. For information, address St. Martins Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.

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