Monument to Murder - Margaret Truman [120]
“Of course I’ve heard it, Robert. No credence to it, however. The man’s lyin’ through his teeth.”
“Why would he do that? From what I hear he’s terminal. What’s he got to gain?”
“Oh, you know how these jailhouse types think, Robert. He figures he’ll cleanse his soul for when he gets to the Pearly Gates. No basis at all for what he claims. When are you coming home?”
“In a day or two.”
Brixton lit another cigarette, wedging the cell phone between his ear and shoulder.
Silva was now only a dozen feet from him. He pulled the switchblade from his jacket pocket and came closer.
“You there, Robert?” St. Pierre asked.
“Yes, I’m here. I’m going to cut this short, Wayne. I’ll call you when I get back.”
As Brixton pushed the Off button, Silva came up from behind. “Hey,” he said.
Brixton turned.
“It’s me,” Silva said through a crooked grin as he lunged with the knife at Brixton’s chest. Brixton’s reflexive move turned him sideways to his attacker. The blade tore through his jacket sleeve and plunged deep into his biceps. Silva pulled the knife out and cursed. As he did so, Brixton squared and brought his knee up into Silva’s groin, causing him to double over and fall to his knees. Brixton took steps back, bumping into one of the statues. As he reached down and fumbled to draw his gun from his ankle holster, Mac and Annabel pulled up, their car’s headlights casting harsh light on the scene.
Silva got to his feet and was caught in the headlights. Brixton hadn’t felt the knife’s penetration but was now blinded by searing pain. He felt warm blood running down his arm and saw it spread onto his hand.
Mac Smith jumped out of his car. He hesitated; Brixton was on his knees, his left hand grasping at his right arm. The man holding the knife looked panicked. Smith braced for an attack, but Silva took off, sprinting up the street and around the corner. Annabel exited the car and went to Brixton, who now had his weapon in his good hand. “Oh my God,” she said as she helped him to his feet. “You left your raincoat in the car and we were returning it,” she said.
“Call 911,” Mac said to his wife. To Brixton: “What happened?”
“The guy came up behind me and—”
“A stranger?”
“I’ve seen him before, maybe twice.”
Smith looked down at a puddle of blood that had formed at Brixton’s feet. Brixton sagged against Smith.
“Take it easy,” Mac said. “Annie’s called for an ambulance.”
By this time a few hotel staff members had come to see what had happened and were joined by a couple returning to the hotel from dinner. An ambulance arrived within minutes, accompanied by a patrol car driven by a uniformed officer. Brixton, whose loss of blood had rendered him too weak to stand and almost speechless, was placed in the rear of the ambulance, where a medical tech managed to stem the bleeding.
“Get him to the hospital,” the cop said. ‘We’ll get a statement there.” He turned to Smith. “You saw it?” he asked.
“We arrived while it was happening,” Smith offered, and explained why they’d returned to the hotel after having dropped Brixton off. “He said he’d seen his attacker a few times before.”
The officer took Smith’s name and contact information. As he did so, an older woman walking a large dog joined them. “Someone died?” she said.
“No, ma’am,” the officer said.
She saw the blood on the pavement. “I knew it,” she said, “I just knew it.”
“Knew what, ma’am?”
“I knew that that man who almost knocked me over was running away from something bad.”
“You saw him?” Smith asked.
“He ran right into me. Billy here—Billy’s my dog—snapped at him.”
“Did you see where he went?”
“Yes, I did. He got into his car and sped off like a madman.”
“What sort of car?” the officer asked.
“One of those little sports cars, like James Bond drives in the movies.”
“What color was it?”
“Black. All black. I saw the license plate.”
The cop and Smith looked at each other.
“He’s from Virginia. I didn’t get every