Jackson merely smirked. “I have yet to see a player who didn’t finish the game one way or another.”
And with that he gave a kick to Gruver’s chair, rocking it on the front two legs, tilting the man closer to the edge.
“Hey!” Panic pinched the word and the subsequent oaths gushing out of Gruver.
“Who hired you?” Jackson made sure to keep his tone serene yet loud enough to be heard over a sudden gust of wind.
“Cram it! I ain’t talkin’.”
A smile twitched Jackson’s lips. “Correction. You aren’t talkingyet.” He strolled the few steps over to Blackjack and leaned close to his ear. “But maybe you are. Who is it, Blackie? Who hired you and Gruver?”
Silence, save for the faintclip-clopof horse hooves far below.
Jackson’s boot connected with the back of the man’s chair in a mighty kick. Blackjack teetered at a precarious angle, yelping like a whipped pup.
“Blackie!” Gruver cried, his face turned towards his friend though he could see nothing.
Heat poured off Blackjack, sweat caking his dark hair to his scalp as the chair thwumped back to solid ground. “Keep yer bone box shut, Gruver! He ain’t gonna kill us. It’s a scam, sure as anythin’.”
“Oh,” Jackson murmured as if they discussed nothing more important than the current price of rye. “Did I mention that as chief here, there is no one I must answer to at the station? No one to question me. No one to so much as bat an eyelash. That means I do as I please, and if it pleases me to blame your deaths on Constable Snagg, well…” In three strides he planted his boot on Gruver’s chair.
It flew forward.
Gruver shrieked like a girl.
At the last moment, Jackson grabbed the back rail and thumped the rear legs onto the tar paper.
“Who hired you?” This time his question was a lion’s roar.
“Shut up, Gruver!” Blackjack ordered.
Gruver whimpered. Pitiful, really.
Jackson stamped over to Blackjack, each footfall exaggerated. “My patience is at an end. Tell me now, or it’s time to say goodbye.”
“Ye wouldn’t dare,” Blackjack challenged.
“Wouldn’t I?” He kicked.
The chair tipped.
Blackjack plummeted over the edge of the roof, his screams an offense to the ear.
Immediately Jackson dropped to his rear, bracing his feet against what little ridge there was between building and thin air, prepared to grab the chain Snagg had secured to the roof should it not hold.
But it did. The chain jerked to a stop, piercing screams covering the sound.
And then silence—leastwise from Blackjack. Gruver was still crying out his bloody lungs.
Jackson peeked over the edge to see Snagg hauling Blackjack in through a window on the next floor down, the edges of a gag flapping from the thug’s mouth. It was a terrifying deception, yet necessary, and one he’d considered only as a last resort.
He pivoted back to Gruver. Manhandling his chair, Jackson turned the fellow away from the edge and yanked off the blindfold. “You ready to talk now?”
“Ye kilt him!” Tears and snot and spittle all leaked out. “Ye kilt Blackie!”
Jackson clenched his jaw. It turned his stomach to allow this man to believe his friend was dead, but the ruse could end up saving lives. “I prefer to think your friend has gone to a better place. And unless you wish to join him, tell me who it was that hired you.”
The man’s knobby Adam’s apple traveled up and down his throat as if he swallowed a rat. “It were Carky. Carky Smathers.”
