Dying Embers by Robert E. Bailey Read Free Book Online

shaved head revealed a mastoid scar behind his left ear and he wore the remnants of a black moustache that started just above the corners of his mouth and drooped to his chin with the consistency of braided rope. He glowered at Leonard. “I told you not to come around here anymore.”
    â€œJesus, a cyclops,” said Lorna Kemp. Hemmings took it as a compliment and smiled at her.
    â€œHas two eyes,” I said.
    â€œA minor detail,” said Lorna. “He looks like he could snack on sheep like popcorn.”
    Leonard held the ham just close enough to the center mastiff for the creature to get a lick and try to snatch it with his stubby snout. The other two keened and strained quaking muscles against the fence.
    â€œI told you I wanted to see my sister,” said Leonard. “The people with me are detectives. They need to talk to Anne.”
    â€œI don’t care if they’re Santa’s little helpers. If you don’t get out of here, I’m going to rip off your head and shit down your neck.”
    Leonard threw the ham high over the gate, and the dogs bounded after it, snarling and tearing at the ham and each other.
    Hemmings looked at the dogs and then at Leonard. “Suit yourself, squid,” he said.
    Leonard said, “Can’t do a thing from in there, jarhead.” He smiled.
    Hemmings took a small black box out of his pocket and squeezed it with his thumb. The gate slid slowly sideways and in three steps Hemmings loomed over Leonard. Drilling his index finger into Leonard’s chest, he said, “Make your peace with God while you can still talk!”
    Leonard wrapped his fist around the finger and bent it back toward Hemmings’s wrist until I heard it snap. Hemmings went to his knees. He opened his mouth to speak and got out the word, “You—” The rest was a scream as Leonard twisted the broken digit.
    â€œHup-up-up, not your turn to talk,” said Leonard. “You’d just say some more of that rude crap you learned in boot camp.”
    Hemmings started his left hand up to his pistol and earned another twist of the finger.
    â€œI sure wouldn’t do that,” said Leonard, his voice taking the even tone of friendly advice.
    Hemmings, his face contorted, eased his hand back down to his side.
    â€œMr. Hardin,” said Leonard, “would you please relieve Mr. Hemmings of his hardware?”
    I took Hemmings’s Desert Eagle and patted him down. In his left pant leg, just above his boot, I found a six-inch dirk with a black textured rubber handle. I showed it to Leonard and gave it to Lorna to stash in the Humvee.
    â€œHere’s the problem you can help me with, Mr. Hemmings,” said Leonard. “Members of the Frampton family seem to keel over dead, drown, or die on the highway and I’ve not heard from my sister in two years. My letters are returned unopened and you’re rude on the telephone. Think maybe you can help me with that? Just nod your head.”
    â€¢ • •
    The fireplace was big enough to roast a spitted ox. Above the teak mantle,
The Dutchman
—a brass square-rigged sailing ship—took a starboard tack, emerging from the red brick as if it were a fog bank. An interesting decorator piece, I thought, but hardly the
Lyin
she’d parked out in front of the Amway Pyramid.
    The maid, Juanita—a young Mexican woman in full black livery, including a ruffled apron—had answered the door and showed us to the parlor. When she returned with Shelly Frampton the right side of the her face displayed a red handprint. She fled clutching her face and sobbing into her hands.
    â€œYou-have-in-vay-ded-my-home,” said Shelly Frampton, holding a voice synthesizer to her throat. She had almond-shaped nails lacquered a pearlescent white and gave the appearance of being larger than her one hundred and sixty pounds. Could have been the spike heels, or maybe it was her double-D bosom strapped