Goddess of Justice by Dwayne Clayden (mobi ebook reader TXT) 📕

Brad remembered a conversation he’d had with Maggie’s father, Judge Ethan Gray, the night they’d met at Maggie’s paramedic grad. Even then, Brad had concerns about the court system. It wasn’t a justice system, it was a legal system that ensured two things: the law was followed, and the rights of the accused were protected, more than the victims.

Still, all those minor charges related to drugs didn’t add up to a targeted murder. There must be something else.

He whistled. Lobo raced past and was back on the hunt. They jogged up the hill back to the farm, then headed to the barn he had converted to a gym. Despite its age, it was structurally sound. He’d power-washed the cow and horse stalls, replaced the insulation, and added a furnace.

He’d even been able to get a timeworn truck running. It was perfect for hauling stuff around the farm. He wasn’t sure how it would hold up on the highway, though. No sense getting new license plates.

Lobo headed to his bed in one horse stable while Brad started his workout. Soon Lobo was snoring, and Brad was grunting and sweating.

Chapter Six

Jimmy Duggan had been a regular customer at the Cecil Hotel Tavern for over fifteen years. When his wife died at fifty-five and left him a decent inheritance, the tavern became his home away from home. Most of the legacy now belonged to the bar.

The Cecil Hotel was in the east end of downtown. Never a five-star hotel, it had been built in 1912 to accommodate travelers and blue-collar workers. After prohibition ended in Alberta in 1923, the entire main floor was converted to a tavern. Now, fifty-seven years later, it barely rated one star. Downtown had over a dozen low-end hotels, but the Cecil was at the bottom. The fake paneling on the walls had faded and peeled, the ceiling had water spots, and the threadbare carpet was a dull gray with darker circles—not a design, but decades of spilled drinks. The tables were scarred with names and graffiti carved into the wood. The lighting was minimal, which was beneficial—you wouldn’t know how disgusting the tavern was. Police regularly responded to the bar. It was the number one location the police were called to.

The Cecil Hotel’s recent claim to fame was a robbery in ’79 last year where two employees were killed for one hundred dollars from the cash register.

Jimmy Duggan stood, slightly hunch-backed, and fumbled in his blue polyester pants pockets for his car keys. He stumbled and grabbed a chair for balance. No one noticed. Everyone here kept to themselves. Funny that they came here to get away in a tavern filled with guys trying to get away. With half the lights burned out, that didn’t help in the search for the keys.

After several frustrating moments, he noticed them on the table, next to the half-dozen empty beer bottles. Keys in hand, he searched for his wallet. Not in his polyester pants, front or back pockets. He glanced hopefully at the table. Nope. He squinted as he searched around. Maybe he could sneak out tonight. But if he did, he’d be banned here, and as rundown as it was, he liked this bar.

He staggered and reached for the back of his chair again for support. His hands landed on his worn black parka. Of course. He slid the parka off the chair and rummaged in his pockets, finding his wallet. He pulled out several dollars, tried to do math in his head, gave up and slapped a ten on the table. That should cover it.

Duggan lumbered toward the door, bumping into several tables as he wound his way through the bar. He reached out an arm to push the door and slammed into the dense wood. He moved back, pulled the door open, and stepped into the dark November night. Gloveless hands in his pockets, hunched over, he kept the icy wind away from his face.

His legs knew the way and led him down the block to the intersection where he’d cross the avenue to the parking lot and his Buick. It was the same route every night.

Duggan’s eyes tried to focus on the pedestrian light. He was sure it said, Don’t Walk. Fairly sure. Then the light changed to walk—he was mostly sure. He stepped off the curb. Halfway across, he was illuminated in the lights of a car. An engine revved. Duggan gasped.

The car struck Duggan’s right side. His lower body absorbed the impact, shattering his hip and femur. A blazing pain shot up to his brain. A scream started low in his throat. His momentum carried him over the hood where his head and face impacted the windshield, extinguishing the scream.

He rolled across the roof—clouds, snow, then more clouds flashed before his eyes. A shoulder caught a corner of the trunk, and he slammed into the pavement, rolling several times, and coming to rest face down.

No air passed through his broken nose.

Through shattered teeth and a broken jaw, his breathing came in gasps. The ice-covered road was soothing on his shattered face. People sprinted toward him as if in slow motion. Voices called to him.

His body shuddered with the cold, and his eyes closed.

Chapter Seven

The tones in Fire Station 1 blared, and the voice of the dispatcher came across the speakers. “Medic 1. Pedestrian hit, corner of Fourth Avenue and Macleod Trail SE. Unconscious. Injuries unknown.”

Amir Sharma and his partner, Jill Cook, shoved their chairs back from the kitchen table where they’d just sat down to eat their dinner, five hours after it had been cooked.

Sharma took one last, long glance at the roast beef, mashed potatoes, and the rest of the gourmet meal. He licked his lips, his tongue brushing over his dark mustache. For a thin guy, he could really pack away the food. But not tonight.

They raced out of the kitchen, then across the garage floor to the ambulance.