Go Under (Kate Valentine #9)

PROLOGUE

A thud shook the rowhouse, causing Gerald Mace to jump and drop the dinner plate he was washing. The China shattered, sending shards across the kitchen and skittering into the living room beyond.

“That’s what you get, asshole!” a voice outside called.

“Try it again, dickhead!”

This was followed by another thud and a series of colorful slurs that even in Gerald’s youth would have earned the speaker a stern reproof.

Gerald would be making no such stern reproofs. At seventy-one years old, his days of breaking up street fights were long behind him.

The fight, a squabble between two teenage boys who had chosen to combat the angst of urban childhood with violence, moved on. A few houses down, a younger, braver adult shouted, “Stop now, or I’m calling the police!”

The boys replied with another dazzling display of vocabulary, but they moved on, probably trading jokes at the adults' expense, the reason for their contest forgotten.

Gerald sighed heavily and reached for the broom, stepping gingerly around the shards of porcelain that a moment ago had been one of a set of four fine plates, a gift from his sister back when they still talked.

Maybe he should call her to let her know he'd dropped it, jumping at the sound of two kids fighting.

This had once been a good neighborhood, he thought to himself as he grasped the wooden handle of the corn broom and began gathering the remains of the dish.

It was clean, well-kept, free of theft and violence.

If boys had a score to settle, they did it in the field behind the school, and when it was over, they shook hands and called it quits.

Hell, Gerald had been in a few of those himself. It was an orderly affair. You fought until someone was knocked down or called it off. Then you moved on.

Now he couldn’t even wash his damned dishes without being treated to the sound of disrespect for others.

That’s what it came down to, really. Respect. No one had it these days. No one thought about other people or how their actions affected them.

His lips thinned as he moved to the living room to catch the far-flung strays shot outward by the force of the dish’s demise.

As his irritation calmed, he was forced to admit that the old days were no better than the current day.

He’d seen too many people stand in front of a jury of their peers and flaunt their disrespect for their fellow men.

He’d seen them laugh at the idea that they should care for anyone’s needs other than their own.

Oh, they never said so explicitly. Sometimes, they even defended themselves. They had no choice but to steal. They were out of money. That bitch always disrespected them, so of course, they had to "teach" her. He had it coming. He deserved to die.

It all came down to the fact that they believed they were more important than anyone else. Gerald was sick and tired of it.

He got the dustpan and reached low, wincing as something popped in his knee.

He was probably on the edge of losing that knee.

If it didn't go out tonight and leave him in agony on the floor, he'd make an appointment to have it looked at.

Which probably meant six weeks from now, considering how backed up the healthcare system in this damned country was.

He stood, groaning, and sighed, looking around at his house. The dwelling was spartan, with faded linoleum tile floors, Formica counters, and cheap pine furniture rubbed pale tan from decades of use. A gray cloth couch whose springs had lost their firmness years ago.

No pictures. An old television that flickered every time it started up, which wasn’t often. A refrigerator purchased new when he retired thirty years ago. Back then, he had enough income to live comfortably, but the dollar didn’t mean much these days.

His mortgage would be paid off by the end of the year.

Once that happened, he’d have a little breathing room.

He could start replacing things one at a time.

He couldn’t do anything about the floors or the counters, but he could get a new easy chair to replace the couch.

He could find a lightly used dining set that was at least sturdy.

The refrigerator was fine. It was loud, but it would keep running long after he finally gave up.

A knock sounded at the door. Gerald stiffened, still holding the dustpan full of ceramic fragments. What the hell?

Another knock sounded, gentle but insistent. He glanced at the clock. What the hell was someone doing out at this hour? Was this an attempt at a home invasion?

A third knock, and Gerald decided he at least had to check and make sure. He dumped the shards into the garbage can and set the dustpan on the floor next to the broom. He shuffled to the door and peered through the peephole.

He frowned when he saw a woman standing there. She looked to be about forty, pretty but starting to weather at the edges. She was dressed well enough that he doubted she was a burglar.

Why the hell was she here at nine o’clock at night?

She reached to knock on the door again. Gerald looked down. He was wearing an apron covered in food and grease stains. His hands were wrinkled and coated in grime, and though he couldn’t see it, he was pretty sure his hair was a wild mess.

She knocked once more, and Gerald decided if she needed to see him that badly, she could deal with seeing him look like this. After all, she was young enough to be his daughter. What was he going to do, seduce her?

He opened the door. “Yes?”

The woman looked at him with a hunger that took him aback. For a wild moment, he thought she actually might be lusting after him.

Except he was thirty years older than she was and had never been a looker even at his best. And the lust in her eyes didn’t really look like the kind that made babies.

“Gerald Mace,” she said.

A soft alarm went off in his mind. How did she know his name? “Who are you?”

“I’m vengeance,” she replied. “I’m justice.”

His eyes narrowed in confusion, but he rapidly understood what she might mean. His eyes widened. “You… but…”

“You hid something,” the woman said, taking a step forward. “Something that could have made things right.”

There was no doubt now. He swallowed, his mouth suddenly dry. “I… I’m sorry.”

She grinned at him, baring her teeth like a vampire. “It’s all right. The Lord will forgive you.”

She pulled a knife from behind her back. Gerald tried to close the door.

He was too late. With strength borne of rage and hate, the attacker overwhelmed him. He stumbled backward, and she fell upon him.