The Mourning Mail (FINAL)

Chapter 56

I wouldn't have had the slightest chance standing up to Ricky Mason, even if I'd brought the revolver. I hadn't seen the sheath on his left hip because of the angle he'd been standing out in the yard. With his free left hand, Mason had pulled a hunting knife from it. He was on me immediately, with the blade at my throat, his right hand clamped firmly onto the back of my hair. He kicked backward with his right shoe to slam the front door fully closed.

"So, what do you have to say for yourself now, bitch?" he hissed into my ear, standing behind me. "You think you can go around poking your nose into everyone's business, and it won't cost you?"

"Listen, Ricky, I called the police before I came to your door. They're on the way. They know you beat Brian Pierce to death, left him in the alley, and that you helped Seaver get rid of his wife's body. They think you might have helped him kill his neighbor."

"There you go again, bitch—you don't have a fucking clue. I don't know anything about any damned neighbor. I don't believe a word you say. You're freelance—that means nobody will hire you for a decent job. And without the paper, who's going to back you? I didn't see anybody coming to your rescue when we tapped your Uber—did you? No, you sure the fuck didn't."

I wanted to respond but thought better of the idea, the knife's sharp edge pressing against my throat.

"No one gives a damn about you and your little crusade to make Doc look bad, you and your fucking made-up stories. Doc could have had you killed any time he wanted, and now I'll hand him your rotting corpse as his birthday present."

Amid my panic and confusion came sudden coherence—I knew I needed to gain control of myself and these circumstances, or I wouldn't survive.

"But first, you're going to tell me who you've been talking to and what you think you know. And then, if anyone ever finds all your little bits and pieces, you can join your mommy and daddy and your brother, feeding the worms under that tree. You can spend all eternity explaining to them the screwups that got you there."

Okay, he wants to talk. I have a little time. But even with the new focus and the relative calm, I wasn't sure how to handle this situation. On the one hand, Mason came off like he'd been watching too many gangster movies and was talking for the benefit of a camera that wasn't there. On the other, Mason had beaten a man to death, albeit with help. Bottom line, he had a knife at my throat and knew way more about me than he should. I needed to cooperate and hope for the right opportunity.

In the meantime, Mason had twisted the back of my hair into a ponytail, using it to drag me all over the living room. As I tried to keep pace while off-balance and stumbling backward, he kept pressing the blade to my neck, moving it just long enough to cut the cord off a lamp or stereo component with his free hand while he used his foot to steady the appliance. I assumed he meant to tie me up, and that thought was comforting because it told me he wasn't planning to kill me right away.

Mason suddenly froze, then tilted his head like he was listening.

"Goddammit. What's that?" He yanked me to the corner of the living room and peered through the blinds in front of the big picture window. I'm not sure exactly what he saw, but I heard him say, "Fuck!" just before all hell broke loose.

There was an explosive crash at the front door, accompanied by the sharp sounds of cracking and splintering wood. Following the sudden burst of noise and confusion came the stomping of boots and clatter of equipment. Barked commands filled the air as three camouflaged men in riot gear charged through the opening. Mason cursed, and I screamed, my posterior pulled against him as he backed into the corner behind me. From the rear of the house, I could hear sounds of breaking glass, boots pounding on the deck, and furniture screeching across the flooring.