Hair of the Dog by Gordon Carroll (classic novels to read .txt) 📕

head hurt, but he had to figure out a way to get her back. He would do anything, kill anyone standing in his way.

In his mind he kept seeing Clair crying for him as she fell asleep, with her pudgy thumb stuck in her mouth and her little fingers resting on his cheek.

He wanted to crush the tough little white man and his dog for taking her, but he didn’t even know who he was. He forced himself to go back to the police. She would be there, at the police station. He’d seen the cop cars as they drove up, even while shooting at the gangsters and trying not to get shot. He saw they were Aurora Police cars and knew their main station sat near Alameda and Chambers.

Jerome made up his mind right then. He would go there and get her. He would walk right through the front doors and shoot until they gave her to him. The tactical part of his brain told him this was wrong, that he would fail, that they would kill him before he made it past the front doors, but the rest of him, the part that saw her sweet smile and reaching arms pushed him on.

But how? He’d had to leave his bag, money, and all but the one gun with only four bullets left. He’d need a car, money, weapons.

It didn’t matter… nothing mattered… nothing but Clair.

Jerome sat up, saw that his makeshift bandages were holding better than expected, and slowly flexed his fingers. They worked… they hurt… but they worked. The dog’s teeth hadn’t severed any vital tendons or ligaments as he’d at first feared. He’d have some nasty scars, but scars, like anything but Clair, didn’t matter.

The room spun for a few seconds before stabilizing and coming back into clear focus. The nausea still wobbled through his stomach and bowels, but he thought he’d be okay, that he wouldn’t throw up again, at least for now.

A cursory search of the house turned up little. No weapons, no money, no clothes. Just seven stale crackers, an unopened can of diet pop in the refrigerator, and a steak knife that he found on top of the furnace downstairs in the basement. He took it. As a weapon it wasn’t much, but better than nothing.

The tactical part of his brain told him that it would be wise to wait here till night. But what about Clair? How long would they keep her there at the station? How long till some type of social service worker showed up to take her away? And if that happened, he would never find her.

Jerome rewrapped his wounds with more strips of torn sheets and dragged his bloody clothes back on. Opening the door, he set out to get his Clair back.

21

“What now?” asked Clyde. They sat across from each other in the spacious SUV, heading away from Mason’s mountain.

Marsh licked his lips, his eyes dark. He rubbed his palms together just under his chin.

“I told you he’d be trouble,” said Clyde.

Marsh didn’t look at him, he continued to stare out the window.

“Yes,” he said finally, “you did. But at least we have her.”

“The police have her,” said Clyde.

“We are the police,” said Marsh. “The biggest and baddest of the police.”

“You planning on storming in there and just taking her?”

“Not exactly.”

“What about Mason?”

“Yes,” said Marsh. “That is the question. I’d hoped we could utilize him to clean up Larkin.”

Clyde didn’t say anything, letting the senator think things through.

“Set it up,” said Marsh. “Don’t launch, but have them ready for immediate action just in case.”

“Consider it done,” said Clyde. “There’s another problem.”

Marsh raised an eyebrow.

“A couple of Crips came into town and shook down one of our boys,” said Clyde.

“And that’s a problem?” Marsh shook his head. “I’m surprised you’re even bringing this to me. Take them out and be done with it.”

“I just thought, considering everything else going on, the upcoming race for president, the search for the girl, that you should know before we start a turf war.”

“Crushing the Crips is stopping a turf war before it begins.” Marsh took in a deep breath and let it out slowly. He shook his head. “You have a point though. Don’t make a statement with this. Just get it done and make sure the bodies aren’t found. We’ll let the Crips know what it means to try and move in on my town later.”

Clyde took up his phone and punched in a number. “PM says do it, but quietly. No bodies, no evidence.” He listened for a few seconds, then hung up without further comment. He looked at Marsh. “Handled.”

22

After Marsh left, I drove down to the Aurora Police Station to meet with Jared. He looked as good as a three-hundred-plus-sized man squeezed into a suit and tie can look. His office is on the second floor, with a nice view of the mountains off to the west. I picked up a brass and wood USPCA K9 tracking trophy from his desk as he hung up the phone.

“First place,” I said. “Nice.”

He grinned and shook his head.

“You know, that’s a long ways back, my man.” He patted his stomach. “I’m long past tracking days.”

“Bull,” I said. “That’s all muscle.”

“Yeah, just like yours. How do you do it, man?”

“I still track,” I said.

“Yes, yes you do. We’re still both man hunters, we two, only I do mine from behind a desk now while you still work the field.”

“So where’s Keisha?” I asked.

“With Child Protective Services, on the third floor. We’re waiting on Stacy Harrigan. She’s my best female investigator. Works with kids and gets all kinds on intel from them. This little girl’s got Stockholm bad. Completely brainwashed. She thinks the guy that kidnapped her is her daddy. Who knows what this monster was doing to her. That’s why I want Stacy on it.”

I nodded, thinking.

“What?” asked Jared.

“What?” I echoed.

“You had that patented Gil Mason — maybe not — look, I remember from the old days.”

I