Lifeguard - James Patterson [38]
Just to make his point, the guy let me feel the edge of the blade again.
“Last chance, Mr. Kelly. See your brother over there? Sorry about the mess, but he just didn’t know anything about you coming here. It’s just not gonna go so easy for you.” He stretched my head farther back and pressed the tip of the blade under my chin. “No one fucks the people I work for.”
“I don’t have any paintings! You think I’d lie about it—now?”
He scraped the serrated edge of the blade against my neck. “You think I’m a complete imbecile, Mr. Kelly? You have something that belongs to us. About sixty million dollars’ worth. I want to start hearing about the art. Now.”
What was I supposed to tell him? What could I tell him? I didn’t know a thing about the missing art.
“Gachet!” I shouted, twisting my head. “Gachet has it. Find Gachet!”
“Sorry, Mr. Kelly, I’m afraid I don’t know any Gachet. I gave you to five and now it’s one.” He squeezed tighter. “Say hi to your brother, asshole. . . .”
“No!”
I yelled, expecting to feel the blade dig into my neck, and then my legs lifted off the ground. Maybe he was giving me a last chance to talk. I knew whatever I told him, I wasn’t leaving there alive.
I slammed my elbow with everything I had into the guy’s rib cage, heard a deep exhalation of air. His grip loosened enough for my feet to hit the ground, and his other arm dropped for just a second. Then I rolled forward, lifting him across my back. He flailed with the blade and I felt a slash against my arm. I slammed him as hard as I could against the wall.
Suddenly the guy was on the floor.
He looked about forty, bushy dark hair, wearing a nylon jacket, built like a brick, a bodybuilder. No way I could take him. He still had the knife and spun quickly into a crouch. I had about one second to find a way to save my life.
I reached around for whatever I could find. There was an aluminum baseball bat against the wall. I swung it with all my might. The goddamn bat shattered the beer lights over the pool table.
The guy stepped back in a shower of splintering glass. He was laughing at me.
“I don’t have the art!” I screamed.
“Sorry, Mr. Kelly.” He started to wave the knife again. “I don’t fucking care.”
He came at me, and the blade slashed against my forearm. Incredible pain shot up my arm, probably because I saw the cut happen. “That’s only the beginning,” he said, smiling.
I swung the bat across his arm and managed to nail him. He grunted. The knife dropped and clattered to the floor.
He barreled into me. I hit the wall and saw stars and bright colors. I tried to ward him off with the bat, but he was in too close. And too strong.
He started to press the bat into my chest, increasing the pressure against my ribs, my lungs. Slowly he elevated it higher. Until it was on my windpipe.
I started to gasp. I mean I was strong, but I couldn’t budge him. I had no air.
I felt the veins in my face bulge. With the last of my strength, I jerked my knee upward and caught him the groin. I threw myself into him. We rolled across the room, crashing into shelves behind the pool table—toppling games, pool sticks, the VCR.
I heard the guy groan. Jesus, maybe he hit his head. I spotted his knife across the floor. I scurried over and was back before his eyes cleared.
I wrenched the guy’s head back and jammed his own knife under his chin. “Who sent you?” This bastard had killed my brother. It wouldn’t have taken much for me to drive the blade into his throat.
“Who sent you? Who?”
His eyes rolled back, all the way to the whites.
“What the hell?”
I grabbed him by the collar of his jacket as if I were trying to lift him into a boat, and the guy just toppled forward into my arms.
The blade of a hockey skate was wedged in his back. I pushed him forward and he rolled over, dead.
I was drained and exhausted. I could barely move. I just sat there, breathing hard, looking at him. Then reality hit me. You just killed a man.
I couldn’t’ think about it—not now. I went back to my brother and knelt next to him a last time. Tears stung my eyes.