Darkman by Randall Boyll Read Free Book Online Page A

Strack, who landed on the cable of the electronic bell. It began to ring, about once every three seconds. He reached into a pocket and withdrew a gold-plated cigar trimmer, freshly washed now, sparkling clean. He bent over and clipped off the old man’s left index finger, squeezed the blood out of it, then stuck it and the trimmer back into his clothes. He ambled away and disappeared around the back of the station.
    Louis looked up, irritated by the bell. Why couldn’t this dump have a rubber hose you drive over that rings the bell? Chalk one up to modern science: They finally had invented a better bell but, sadly, one that never shut up.
    He got out, wincing as the hot September air enfolded him. He walked around the double pumps and saw his father lying facedown in the dust. Had the old jerk-off finally keeled over?
    He went to him, knelt, and turned him over. There was a blot of blood on his chest, an ugly flower. Louis stared at it with large eyes.
    Behind him, a midnight-blue Lincoln Continental pulled away, not in a hurry, almost soundless. The man behind the tinted windows had lit himself a cigar.
    Louis saw none of this. Robert G. Durant and his vehicle disappeared unharmed and unseen.
    Louis cradled his father in his arms, lifting him off the electronic cable. He clutched him tight.
    The bell stopped ringing.

5
    Julie
    T HE FOLLOWING MORNING in Peyton’s apartment, Julie made two rather disturbing discoveries. The first was a short article in the morning newspaper that sketchily outlined what had happened to the elder Strack. The other was a single sheet of paper she found in her briefcase, along with hundreds of less interesting documents. It was obvious that it was not intended for her eyes.
    Peyton came out of the bathroom wearing a robe, scrubbing his hair with a towel, while Julie pondered the meaning of this particular memo, the one not intended for her. It was the documentation of an obvious bribe paid by Strack Industries to a certain Claude Bellasarious, dated July twelfth of last year. It was not good news.
    Peyton drew up behind her while she debated the pros and cons of spilling the beans or keeping her mouth shut. By spilling the beans, she would embarrass the surviving Louis Strack and most likely lose her position of trust—Pappas and Swain would be dumped out of Strack Industries like so much useless garbage. By keeping her mouth shut, she could expect to have a long and profitable relationship with the firm. Somewhere in between lay her own sense of decency and professional ethics.
    “Coffee?” he asked.
    She didn’t hear him. Christ, a woman busts her ass to make it big, compete with the boys, and then something this nasty chances along and ruins everything. To remain mum or not to? A hell of a question.
    “Coffee?”
    She nodded without hearing. Peyton shrugged and got her a cup. By then she had set the incriminating memo aside and had her chin propped on her hand, chagrined, bewildered, basically unhappy.
    “Just like you like it,” he said, and set the cup on the coffee table, right on top of the memo.
    “No!” she cried, but it was too late. She picked the cup up and saw the wet brown ring on the memo. It hadn’t ruined it by any means, but it would make weird evidence in court.
    “You’re being eaten alive,” Peyton said, and sat beside her. “Inner demons?”
    “Outer ones,” she said glumly. “Can you bring me the phone?”
    He looked around. His apartment was a catastrophe, obviously the victim of a terrorist’s bomb, so piled with junk that the floor seemed about to collapse. He scouted around, tossing old newspapers and pizza boxes aside. His bare foot clunked against something that rang, and he carried it to her. “When the hell are you going to clean up this dump,” he growled at her. “Surely you don’t expect me to do it.”
    She tried to smile but it wouldn’t work. She dialed Pappas and Swain, glad that she was already dressed and ready to go. It might be a