Fun and Games - Duane Swierczynski [30]
What are you waiting for?
Hardie took a few steps toward the front door, then froze. Probably a bad move to open that up. Last time he opened it, he had ended up in a body bag. Only insane people repeat an action and expect a different result. Insane people, and Hardie’s mother-in-law.
But somebody had to walk into the house. Somebody had to zip up Hardie and Delivery Dude into body bags. Somebody was making little creepy fucking noises downstairs. What did they do, go across the roof and in through the back deck doors?
Which actually wasn’t a bad idea.
Climbing up onto a roof with a chest wound, a barely functioning left hand, and a head full of junk—all while trying not to make a sound? Not recommended.
Hardie made it up, anyway, using a metal hose fixture as a foothold. He put his upper arms on the slanted tile roof, then swung his left knee up and caught the edge. Heaved himself up once; didn’t make it. Heaved again, then rolled over onto the roof. Hardie took a deep breath, then cautiously made it to his feet and started up the slanting roof.
The delivery van was still out front, but someone had moved it off to the side. It sat behind a white van now. Nobody in either vehicle, far as Hardie could tell. Up here he had a better view of the castle up on the hill. He could make out a name, too: smiley, someone had carved into the stone face. There was scaffolding covering the structure; the owner must have work in progress. Nobody in the windows; no signs of life whatsoever.
Hardie turned to face the opposite direction and… hallelujah, the topless chick with the phone was still there. She had a phone. Her mouth was moving. That meant she had service.
Thank you, God.
Please ignore the bad shit I’ve said about you over the years.
Mann, awaiting confirmation, glanced up at the house. This was taking way too long. Her eye burned and itched like fuck. It had been a long night without a break. Time for all of this to be over.
And then she saw him.
Charles Hardie, standing on the roof, looking down at her.
Hardie knew this moment wouldn’t last forever. Any second now the faceless fuckers who’d put him in a body bag could show up, or the woman could go back inside, or an earthquake could start rumbling, or a wildfire could break out… so he had to move now. He could either go back down into the house and do something really stupid and heroic…
Or he could be smart for a chance and call for help.
Be smart, you idiot.
Quietly as he could, he eased himself down the slope of the roof and jumped down to the driveway. He took great care to bend his knees as he landed to cushion the blow. He fell over, anyway. Picked himself up, then scrambled out onto Alta Brea and followed it back down to Durand until he was level with the third floor of the Lowenbruck home. Hardie glanced over at it, wondering if Lane Madden was dead or alive. He couldn’t do anything about that except get to this woman and have her call 911 and wait for the cavalry to arrive.
Right?
Hardie reminded himself:
You’ve been stabbed. You’re in no condition for a close-quarters brawl with god knows how many people.
You are not equipped to save people. You are not in the hero business. Remember, this is what got you in trouble three years ago. You’re no good.
You had thought you might be a hero once, but you were wrong. People stronger and smarter and more ruthless taught you that. You are nothing. You’re one of those people in movies who gets killed in the first act. A nameless hood. Someone the screenwriter didn’t even bother to name.
Don’t pretend to be what you’re not.
Hardie hurriedly stumbled down the path toward the nice naked lady with the phone and braced himself for a scream.
He really, really hoped she wouldn’t scream.
Because if she screamed, then he’d have to somehow convince her to go inside and make the phone call, because those faceless cocksuckers could pop their heads out of a window and start shooting at the both of them. A million bad film-noir scenes flashed through his head—guys slapping their meaty palms