Chapter 30
“I know you’re out there!”
Clint stayed in the perimeter of the woods that bordered the back of his property.
From his position he could see Troy Baker and a squad of his friends moving around in the backyard.
The moonlight didn’t allow for seeing their faces as well as Clint would like to, but he recognized most of the voices.
They’d searched the barn and called out to him repeatedly.
There was a half dozen of them, one armed with a baseball bat. And only one of him. He was no fool. But he did have the tire iron he’d found in the barn.
This could get ugly; someone could get hurt and it wouldn’t be him. But he’d end up with the blame.
No thanks. Been there, done that. He would stay put.
The whole lot had arrived drinking and hadn’t let up. The only one who appeared to be sober was Keith Turner. He’d spent most of the time since they arrived trying to talk the others into going home.
Smart guy.
Clint sagged against a tree trunk. He felt sorry for Baker. Other than that, Clint was sick to death of the bullshit from these people. He couldn’t even go in the damn Piggly Wiggly and buy food.
Every instinct told him that recent events meant he was making progress. The vandalism, his gut clenched, was about running him off. Last night had been about putting him six feet under. He’d meant what he said to Emily. She might very well be in danger as well, considering she’d saved his ass.
He was reasonably sure she wasn’t going to listen to anything he said. Maybe Ray could talk some sense into her.
Like he did you, a voice he wanted to ignore nagged.
Clint straightened, tension charging through him again as Larry Medford, the guy with the bat, started toward his Firebird.
He’d figured they would get around to that. Dammit.
The initial blow shattered the windshield. Clint winced.
He had insurance but only liability, and he wasn’t sure it covered vandalism. Even that was costing him a damned arm and a leg. But the insurance had been required when he got his driver’s license.
Clint held himself back, remained invisible, as Medford prepared for the second swing.
The blue lights cutting through the darkness came just in time. The siren wailed to life and the baseball bat stalled mid-swing.
Clint waited until the two squad cars had barreled into his driveway before he stepped out of the woods. He tossed the tire iron in the general direction of the barn.
Baker and his friends were momentarily distracted by the arrival of the cops.
“Troy, what the hell are you doing?”
Ray Hale, followed by three officers, spread out to contain the rowdy group.
“Doing your job,” Troy shouted at Ray. “That bastard needs to go back to prison!”
“Where’s Clint?” Ray demanded.
“Coward’s hiding,” Medford said, too stupid to have dropped the bat. He held on to it as he sauntered right up to Ray. “We called his name and he was too chickenshit to come out.”
“Did you want something, Medford?”
Heads swiveled in Clint’s direction as he walked toward the group.
Troy lunged at him.
Clint stepped aside, narrowly escaping the impact.
“Let’s go, Troy.” Ray reached for him, but he wasn’t ready to go yet. He rushed Clint again. Like a linebacker coming in for the takedown, Troy’s shoulder made contact with Clint’s torso. They hit the ground together.
Clint shoved Troy off him and got up. The idiot scrambled to his feet and charged Clint again. He had no choice but to put Troy down.
Mike Caruthers hauled Clint off Troy. Ray and another of his men manacled the persistent little shit who would have made another dive for Clint.
“I’m gonna get you,” Troy threatened. “That’s a promise.”
Clint stared at Troy, told himself that his sympathy was wasted on the guy. “Do something constructive, Baker,” Clint suggested with enough threat in his tone to have Baker’s pals backing off. “Ask some of your so-called friends about their alibis that night.”
Baker tried to go at Clint again. He landed a right hook square in Baker’s face.
“That’s enough!” Ray glared at Troy, who was holding his bleeding nose and swearing. “More than enough,” Ray said to Clint.
Three more cars skidded to screeching stops on the road, drawing everybody’s attention.
“Keith!”
Violet Manning-Turner rushed into the fray, Justine Mallory right on her heels.
“Are you all right?” Violet hovered around Turner. He said something to her that Clint didn’t hear.
“We should all go home,” Ray said. “Except the four of you.” He looked at Baker, Turner, Medford, and Woods. “You fellas are coming with me.”
“Ray!” Violet challenged, evidently unhappy with the chief’s decision. Ray refused to back down. Justine Mallory stared at Clint for a long assessing moment before she turned and followed the others.
Clint exhaled a mighty breath. The air smelled of the charred remains of his home. His gaze lingered on the black rubble highlighted by the three-quarter moon.
He’d lost everything and the truth still felt out of reach. Like Psycho Sid said, the whole community would be happy to see Clint dead. Maybe Ray was right, Clint considered, defeat sucking at him. Maybe this whole effort was pointless. But he’d waited so long for this moment. He couldn’t quit now.
Shouting dragged his attention back to the squad cars. Troy Baker was bellowing again. His friends backed him up, making comments of their own. Something about traitor.
“Bitch.”
Clint’s blood froze.
Another car had arrived.
Emily.
Baker and his buddies were shouting at her.
Fury blasted away the chill and Clint stormed right into the middle of the ruckus.
Ray had finally gotten Baker and Woods into one of the cruisers. Turner and Medford were being hustled into the other. Not quickly enough, since Medford managed to shake loose and get right in Emily’s face.
“You’ll get yours too,” he warned her. “Just wait—”
Clint grabbed Medford’s shoulder and jerked him around. He put one solid punch in Medford’s face and the guy dropped like the bag of shit he was.
Ray restrained Clint as Medford was hauled into the squad car. “Shake it off,” he warned.
Clint yanked his arm free of Ray’s grip. “Next time,” he threatened, “I won’t play nice.”
He turned back to Emily. She hadn’t moved. She stood at the edge of his yard near the end of the driveway, her arms wrapped protectively around her waist. She looked lost.
The rest of the crowd, which was bigger than Clint had realized, had to be herded back to their vehicles. Every damned one looked as if they’d come from some fancy party. Come to think of it, Baker and his friends had been dressed similarly.
Violet stopped a few feet from Emily, Justine Mallory at her side. “You should be ashamed of yourself, Emily,” Violet accused. “Just look what you’ve done.”
Justine ushered her away, toward one of the cars parked on the road. Emily stared after them; her shoulders trembled.
This was what she got for rescuing Clint last night. The ache started down low in his gut, unfamiliar and fierce. She took an unsteady step and then another. She was leaving.
“Emily.” Her name came out raw. His throat was sore and swollen from the smoke last night. Couldn’t be anything else. She hesitated, glanced back at him, then walked away.
Maybe he had made a mistake coming back here. But there was no stopping the momentum now.