Tropical Depression (Billy Knight Thrillers 1)

“A two-fifty-seven,” I said. “Hunting rifle.”

He nodded. “Probably a Webley, because that’s what I own, isn’t it? A two-fifty-seven Webley hunting rifle. A brummel hook. That’s it? That’s all you have?”

It suddenly didn’t sound like much. Maybe it wasn’t, but what I couldn’t tell him, couldn’t call evidence at all, was a lot simpler.

I knew. I had known since I came into this house that Doyle had killed the McAuleys, knew it without the smallest doubt. And he knew I knew it, and that suited him just fine.

“That’s about it,” I said.

Doyle laughed. “What do they call you—Bill? William? Surely not Willy?” He laughed again. He looked like somebody’s portrait of a Greek god at the peak of his power.

“Billy,” I said.

“Well, Billy. I know from your record you’re smart, too smart to risk a libel suit and a possible jail sentence by saying things like that in public. That’s why you came here to see me, right?”

“Right,” I said. I was still fighting down the good warm feeling I got when he called me smart.

“And you’re thinking to yourself that if you confront me with it, just blurt it out like that, maybe I’ll get flustered enough to do something foolish, right?”

I didn’t answer. He made it sound like a stupid idea. Maybe I should have taken the warning from the blueberry pancakes.

Doyle dropped the weights. They made a tremendous crashing sound. I sucked in my breath and took an involuntary step backwards. He took a step closer. If lightning had started to come out of his eyes it would not have surprised me.

“Well, what would you like me to do? Confess? Go with you to Parker Center and turn myself in? Did you think the power of your moral righteousness would knock me off my feet and sweep me into a jail cell?”

He took a step closer. I realized I was holding my breath.

“Or did you think I might lose it altogether and attack you? And then you could subdue me and take me in?”

Another step. I couldn’t even move my eyes away from his.

His voice dropped. There was something very intimate in his voice as he said, “Would you like to try to subdue me, Billy?” His hand lashed out, faster than anything I had ever seen before, and slapped my face. My head rocked around to the right and I felt a quick spurt of blood along my back teeth. “You’re welcome to try.

The hand came again. I was ready and ducked. It still caught me—just the tips of his fingers, but it felt like it took off a yard of skin.

“Good,” he said. “You’re very fast.” And he swung again. There was a merry little smile on his face and his eyes were sparkling. He looked like he was telling a favorite niece about the Easter Bunny. His hand smacked my face, just the tips of the fingers, and I was already getting punchy.

Smack. “Wonderful,” he said. Smack. “You have superb reflexes.” Smack.

I was anticipating, and moving as fast as I had ever moved, and he was tagging me. It was like playing one of those hand-slapping games with a kid; the adult is simply moving on a different and much faster plane. So you make encouraging noises so the kid will keep trying, not grow discouraged about life in general. But no matter what you may be saying, the kid doesn’t have a chance.

Neither did I. But Doyle was making the same encouraging noises, smiling his bright, cheerful, encouraging smile, and continuing to rip off the sides of my face.

Smack. “It’s not really fair, is it?” Smack. “I don’t know what it is.” Smack. “I was just born this way.” Smack-smack smack, a double with a backhand. “Stronger, faster, better than everyone else.” Smack smack. A trickle of blood started above my eye.

“Better?” I said, and dodged hard. For the first time he missed completely. It seemed to make him very happy; he laughed aloud.

“Ha!” he said. “Good! Yes, of course better. Some kind of genetic accident. I take no credit for it, but it’s true.” Smack smack smack. One miss. “If I am better at everything I do than those around me, why shouldn’t I say it? They all say it, they know it, I know it. It’s true. Yes, better.” Smack smack smack, like he was proving it.

I couldn’t take a whole lot more of this pounding. I had never seen anybody so fast hit so hard. There was already a ringing in my ears and the coppery taste of blood filling my mouth.

Doyle still looked like he was playing kid’s games, a jolly smiling uncle. He was just warming up. I had to do something fast or I was not going to get a chance to do anything.

Anybody, no matter how good he is, settles into a rhythm with any physical effort. A very regular internal meter develops and consciously or not you start thinking one-two-three, one-two-three. Muhammad Ali figured that out, and with his Ali Shuffle, settling a rhythm and then deliberately breaking it, he brought a lot of guys to a taste of canvas.

I thought I had caught Doyle’s rhythm. By anticipating it, I thought I could make him miss. I tried it once, and it worked. I had a chance, but it was a slim one. If I could catch his hand and step inside I might be able to land a couple of my own. And no matter how strong he was, if I could hit him, he’d go down.

I ate two more slaps while I waited for the right opening. I wanted him slightly off-balance, weight forward, leaning into the punch I was planning to throw. I would catch his arm, step inside, and uncork a haymaker.