Season of the Witch by Timothy C. Phillips Read Free Book Online Page B

I certainly wasn’t going to call or visit his apartment any time soon. For the time being, I decided to go back to the office to give Lena a call. The phone was ringing as I came through the office door. When I picked it up, a voice that I’d never heard before began speaking immediately.
    “Roland Longville?”
    “Yes.”
    “Yeah. Listen, you’re that private eye looking for Itchy Danny Weber?” It was a statement, in a direct, uncaring tone, practiced in its apathy.
    “That’s right.” I could hear the calculating meanness in the voice of the other man. As I listened I knew from his detached, authoritative tone that in his world there were assholes and chumps and himself. I didn’t have to wonder into which category I had been placed.
    “Well, I know where he’s hiding out, if you’re still interested.”
    “Okay, so do you want to tell me?”
    He told me, and I suddenly had the feeling that I had already seen the man to whom the voice belonged. In the back of my mind I matched the curt, military voice with the policeman-like appearance of the man driving that mysterious Ford. A person who, it seemed, had miraculous knowledge of a case that I had only agreed to take a couple of days before. Moreover, I had discussed that case only with the two clients.
    Something made me open the desk drawer and stare down at my sleeping .45 automatic. There was more going on here than I had been told. Slowly, like a man in a trance, I picked it up and dropped it into my coat pocket.
    * * *
    I drove over the bridge at Little Shades Creek, to the 1200 block of Dodge Drive, the address the voice had provided. I was not so much surprised as annoyed to see that the beige Ford was parked on the sidewalk along the other side of the street as if I was meant to see it.
    I walked up to the beat-up building, a decrepit apartment complex, one of a long row of such buildings. It loomed quiet and sullen in the cold rain. I noticed that the landing had no light, and the battered front door was slightly ajar. No homeless people were gathered there, no aging winos lamenting their lost dogs. In this part of town on a night like tonight, that was strange indeed.
    It was just a little too inviting. I remembered set-ups like this from growing up in the projects in Westmoreland Heights, and from working there later as a patrolman and detective. They were the perfect place to lie in wait for someone. I had seen many little old ladies who had been relieved of their Social Security checks, their honor and very often their lives in such dark vestibules.
    The mysterious caller had stated Danny had been staying in number 23. I tried the call box, but there was no answer. It was also very dark in the hall. I pushed on the door and it swung slowly open. At that instant, I heard the creak of a board above me. It was in the darkest end of the hallway. Not wanting to, but knowing I had to, I stepped into that pool of darkness and my hand slipped of its own accord into my pocket to find the cold comfort of the Smith and Wesson.
    I pulled the gun quietly and flipped the safety off with my thumb. I tested the stairs, not willing to give my location away by stepping on a creaky board or kicking an empty beer can. Whoever was at the top of the landing moved slightly, but then quickly became motionless in the darkness. I silently flattened against the wall. I hoped that I was invisible, but really didn’t think so.
    I crouched as he fired the first shot, which went high and to the right. In the small hallway, the noise was horrific. I heard the window at the end of the hall shatter. I dropped to one knee and raised my gun, sending one his way. He began firing wildly, and I heard heavy footfalls as he came down the stairs. I rushed up toward him, blood rushing through my ears. Another shot came from above, out of the darkness of the stairwell, then another. Something struck the wall near me. Tiny splinters bit into my cheek.
    I fired three shots in a spread,