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!”
