Robert B. Parker by Wilderness Read Free Book Online Page B

knocking.
    “Coffee?” he said.
    Newman said, “Instant,” and nodded at the jar on the counter. “Water’s probably still pretty hot.”
    Hood turned the gas flame on under the kettle, got a cup from the cabinet, and put a spoonful of instant coffee in it. He got two slices of oatmeal bread out of the second drawer to the right of the sink and put them in the toaster. When steam came from the kettle he made coffee, put margarine on his toast, and sat down at the table. He had on a blue T-shirt that said Adidas in white lettering across the front and he looked, as he moved and the small muscles played intricately beneath the skin, like a fine mechanism in perfect working order.
    “You want to talk?” Hood said.
    “About what?” Newman said.
    “About us killing this guy, Karl,” Hood said. “You got any jam?”
    “Refrigerator,” Newman said. Hood went to the refrigerator and took out a two-pound jar of strawberry preserves.
    “Good,” Hood said. “Smucker’s, they’re the best kind.”
    Newman nodded. “You and me?” he said.
    “Yes.” Hood put strawberry jam on his toast.
    “You and me go out and actually shoot this guy Karl?”
    “Yes.”
    “Why?”
    “Janet’s right,” Hood said. “Everything she said. It’s the only way to go.”
    “Maybe,” Newman said. “But why you?”
    Hood grinned. “What are friends for?”
    Newman shook his head. There was no humor in his voice. “Why?” he said.
    “It’s true,” Hood said. “I’m living alone. Jerry can manage the place for me if he has to. It’s the kind of thing I can do.”
    “Kill someone?”
    “Well, scuffle, fight, hit, handle trouble, you know.”
    Newman continued to look at Hood.
    “I’m good with my hands,” Hood said.
    Newman nodded. “Yeah, I know that, Chris, but”—Newman put his palms up—“kill someone? Someone you don’t even know?”
    “I know you. And Janet. And it’s what I can do.”
    “This is their business, you know. They’re professionals. What if they kill us instead?”
    “No point playing tennis with the net down,” Hood said. “It’s part of the fun.”
    “The threat of death.”
    “Sure. No fun if there wasn’t some strain to it. Not too much point in doing it.”
    “I thought you wanted to do it because it was a logical way to solve our problem.”
    Hood said, “No. I think you should do it for that reason. I’m willing to help for other reasons. And besides, I know you. It’ll eat your liver till you’ve done something.”
    “Or Janet will,” Newman said.
    Hood said nothing.
    “Okay,” Newman said. “Let’s do it.”

8
    Newman looked at the gun rack in Chris Hood’s den. There was a lever-action Winchester .30/30, a semi-automatic M1 carbine with a fifteen-round clip, a five-shot 12-gauge Ithaca pump gun, a Ruger .44 magnum bushgun. In a locked case beneath the gun rack was a 9mm Walther P-38 automatic pistol, a hammerless Smith & Wesson .32 revolver with a nickel plating, an Army-issue Colt .45 automatic pistol, a bone-handled bowie knife with a nine-inch blade, and a skinning knife with a four-inch blade that folded into the handle. In a wall cabinet beside the gun rack there was ammunition for all the weapons. The guns were all clean and filmed with a fine glaze of oil. The stocks of the long guns were polished, the holsters of the handguns were soft leather well treated. In the dim quiet room with the air-conditioner humming its soft white sound, the guns seemed precise and orderly and full of promise. Newman felt still and calm looking at them.
    “Take the .32,” Hood said. “Five shots, small, easy to carry. Wear it on your belt and hang the shirt outside.”
    Newman took the handgun and aimed it at a knot-hole in the paneled wall. He slid it in and out of the soft leather holster. He slipped his belt through the holster slot and redid the belt. He let the tails of his tattersall shirt hang out over his belt. The gun was invisible. He pulled it and aimed at the