James Smith - The Flock

"I-" was all Ron said before he heard the intense crack of something wooden against what sounded to be something harder. He heard one of his attackers go down as the second released him, the object at his throat vanishing. He opened his eyes.

And he watched as Mary Niccols released the short section of two-by-four she was holding so that she could punch a strange man solidly in the face. The blond crewcut invader tried to dodge the blow, but Mary's work-hardened fist met him perfectly in the midst of his big nose and there was the unmistakable sound of cartilage snapping; Ron had heard it enough to know what it was. Broken-nose backpedaled, away from Mary, stumbling over his partner who was trying to rise, his brown-haired scalp ruddy with blood.

"Assholes," Mary screamed. Her right foot lashed out and caught the blond assailant full in the rectum. She knew that the man would be passing blood for at least a week. The guy finally did go down, but was up again, scrambling for the front door. His companion, who was a bit slower, due to having been bashed over the head with a two-by-four, found his own ass the target of a renewed and well-planted kick. He grunted once, fell forward and found himself outside as his companion led the way toward their automobile, a dark, late model sedan.

The pair at last made some speed toward the car and climbed inside. Mary latched the front door behind them, and watched as the two cleared out, tires spinning in the sandy soil as they left. Mary waited only to see that they were leaving before going back to assure herself that Ron was not seriously injured.

"You okay, Ron?" She reached out and put her hard hand on Riggs' left shoulder.

Ron ran his tongue across his front teeth. "Yeah. I guess." He shook his head, damp hair dangling into his eyes.

"You sure you're okay? Looks like they smacked you around pretty good before I stopped them." She patted Ron's shoulder, reassuring him. "Who were they, anyway?"

"Hell if I know." He looked up, into Mary's face for the first time. A feeling of guilt shuddered through him when he felt a surge of desire for her. "Did you get their tag?" he asked, doing a good job of ignoring the feeling.

Mary shook her head. "No, man. I was worried about you. Just made sure they were running, is all."

"Jesus. What the hell is going on here?" Ron reached down and picked up the towel, covering himself. He turned away from Mary and took an uncertain step toward his bedroom.

"Damn. There's going to be a nasty bruise at the base of your skull."

Ron's fingers traced over the lump there. "Bastards hit me with something when I came out of the bathroom. I didn't even see them. Didn't even hear them come in."

"Who were they?" Mary asked, following Ron. She watched her old boyfriend sit heavily on the side of his bed.

"How the hell should I know? Two jerks hunting for something. They kept asking me where something was."

"I know. I heard that much while I was sneaking up behind them. Dumb bastards. What were they after? You must have some idea."

Looking up at Mary, Ron blinked, shook his head to clear it, to assure himself that he was okay. "Yeah, I know what they were after. I don't know why they're after it, but I know what it is. At least, I think I know what it is." He paused, blinked again, and looked at Mary. "And what brought you here? You haven't been down here in months. Not since I…" He let the statement trail off.

"Well, if you didn't live so far out in the boonies, I'd come around more often. But to answer your question, I heard about that reporter, Dodd. He's dead, you know."

Sighing, Ron admitted it. "Yeah, I know."

"I tried to call you. About thirty minutes ago, but I couldn't get an answer. So I figured I'd drive out and see you. I had to come out this way, anyhow. See some people about a problem gator up near Lake Caloosa."

"Couldn't get an answer? I've been right here all morning." Ron stood up and stepped over to the phone. "It's dead," he said, staring at it. "They cut the lines?" It had to have happened just after he'd talked to Kate.

"What are you into, Ron? What do you know about this Dodd fellow getting killed?"

"I don't know anything about him getting killed. Jesus. All I did was take that disk from him. Damn." He reached for a pair of briefs and put them on.

"Thanks," Mary said. "I was getting tired of looking at your bare ass."

"What the hell were you doing looking at my ass?"

"Hey! I just saved your ass."

"Doesn't give you the right to look at it." He went for the pants, next, and pulled them on. "How does my face look?"

"Looks like you been smoking firecrackers, is what it looks like."

Riggs felt at his lips, could tell that they were, indeed, swollen. "I guess I should feel lucky that's all I have to worry about." He looked Niccols in the eye. "Thanks, Mary. I owe you. You really kicked their butts."

"Don't mention it. For now, at least. I'll wait until I need a heavy-duty favor." Niccols stood and waited while Ron finished dressing. "So. What are you gonna do, now? Go to the cops?"

"Yeah, I am. But first I'm going to go see someone about what they were after."

"Who? Where?"

"Gonna go see who's home at the Vance Holcomb residence out past Salutations. See if I can't get a certain young lady out there to take a look at something."

"At what?" Mary asked.

Ron strode over to his work desk, opened the top drawer, and pulled out the white envelope marked with the scrawled D. "At this," he said.

"Mind if I ride along?"

"Hell, no," Ron told her. "Way things have been going, I might need you either for backup or as a material witness." He hiked up his jeans, wiped his lips with the damp towel. "You ready?"

"Ready Eddie, they calls me."

The pair walked out, locking the place behind them.

Word had come by courier that William Davis Cauthen was on his way. It was important, it was big, and it was for Grisham's eyes only. That meant that there would be no bull on the table when Senator Cauthen got there.

Cauthen was a pal of Grisham's from way back. From before Vietnam, from before he was so much as a captain in the Marines. They had both attended the Virginia Military Institute together as young men, and before that, they had known one another. Even their families went back several generations; their great-great grandfathers had conducted business together. That was the mark of something that went deeper than friendship. That was the mark of two true-blooded American families. They were both steeped in the South and bathed in loyalty. Each knew that the other's word was steel. He looked forward to seeing Davis.

So, when his friend, the esteemed state senator from the panhandle of Florida called him to say that something big was in the works, Colonel Winston Grisham, U.S. Marines (retired) listened. He had told his wife to have the cooks prepare an early supper for his friend's arrival: a good, southern meal. Grisham was inspecting the kitchen, to see how things were going and what was being prepared. He stepped through the door that led from the parlor into the dining room, and the faint scents he had detected from the other side of the house were stronger.

Collards, he thought. How he loved a good mess of collard greens. He straightened his shirt, tucked it neatly into his pants, his stomach still as flat and hard as it had been as a teen, and pushed on the lockless door that led into the kitchen. Wonderful smells surrounded him, and he smiled, his big grin cracking his weathered face.

"I see you ladies are busy," he said, surveying the action.

"As long as you don't get in our way." It was his wife, and she was overseeing the activities, as usual. Mazie was still beautiful to him. Like the Colonel, she was lean and erect, only the crow's-feet around her eyes, the whiteness of her hair proving that she was older than her figure would indicate. She could still fit into her wedding dress. Grisham knew, because he'd seen her in it not two months before. She'd been in the upper room, the main guestroom where she stored it, trying it on when he'd walked in. God, I'm a lucky man; he'd told her. Indeed he was.