Gin Palace 02 - The Bone Orchard

footsteps. I turned and bent my knees to lower my center of gravity and out of sheer luck managed to duck under a swinging stick. It hit the wall, and the knuckles of the hand holding it made little divots in the plaster. I shot up fast and hit the stick with a hammer fist, knocking it to the floor. Without missing a beat my attacker moved toward me faster than I would have thought possible for a man his size. I braced myself to accept his charge, but it did little good.
    He came crashing into me, driving me across the room and into the wall opposite the door. Frames fell, glass shattered around my feet. My back crushed the few that remained hanging; I could feel the broken glass piercing my denim jacket and pricking my skin. I arched my back out of reflex and his shoulder slammed into my ribs. My body had nowhere to give, and my ribs nothing else to do but pop under his weight. The sound was almost metallic, like a pin shearing, and the pain caused my eyes to roll back for a few seconds.
    He grabbed my jacket and lifted me off the floor, pressing me against the wall. Only then were we face to face. Frames were still falling around me, smashing on the floor. Our eyes met. There was a brief cognition, and then, still holding onto my jacket, he dropped me to my feet. The instant they touched the ground he spun around, pulling me with him. I actually felt the force of gravity increase. I crashed into another wall, into another collection of framed photos. Plaster cracked where my shoulder landed.
    Before I could do anything I was off for another ride, my feet racing along the floor, trying to keep up. His legs were so much longer than mine, and anyway he was the axis of our little circle, he barely had to move at all, taking no more than a few strides toward the wall of his choice. He carried me like a child but I didn’t resist. His long arms were bent, holding me close to him. I knew I didn’t particularly want another run-in with a wall, but there was nothing I could do. He let go of my jacket and I flew into the wall and hit it, landing even harder than before. I felt my kidneys shift and blood rush to my head, where it throbbed and pounded as if I was hanging upside down. I slid to the floor.
    He scrambled for the stick then, broken glass cracking under his shoes. Then next thing I knew he was over me. The first blow landed just above my temple. My head almost flew off and I saw a blue light with a dense core of burnt orange. A second shot, a backhand, clipped my jaw. It rang the bone. I lifted my hands blindly for cover, and the third shot hit my left wrist. A fourth struck my right shoulder.
    He towered above me, taking wild swings, looking for that clean shot at my skull that would crack it open. He grabbed me then out of frustration and lifted me to my feet. The instant my feet touched the ground I reached out and grabbed for his throat, catching his larynx between my thumb and four fingers. I dug around it till my fingers and thumbs were close to touching. The Chief’s mouth opened then and his tongue stuck out, flat and motionless. I kept my hold on his throat with my right hand and trapped his right arm with my left. I locked the crook of my elbow under his and then pulled my arm into my ribs with one swift motion. His elbow snapped and he tried to scream but all that came out was gurgling.
    The stick hit the floor but I held his throat and broken arm a moment more, then released him. He dropped to the floor, coughing and cradling his arms. He lifted his head and looked up at me. His face was white and there were beads of sweat on his upper lip.
    I looked for the night stick and picked it up, then found the light switch and flipped it on. I turned back to the Chief and raised the stick above my head. I was about to bring it down when something caught my eye and stopped me frozen in my tracks.
    On the wall directly in front of me, in a narrow rimmed silver frame with a cracked glass, hung a photograph of Tommy Miller in his football uniform, taken, obviously, before I had crippled him behind the Southampton Library the night he and two friends attacked Tina.
    I looked at the photograph and suddenly couldn’t move. I glanced around the room, and every frame on the wall contained a photograph of Tommy from various times in his life, and all of them before I got to him. In the showcase were his trophies, dozens of them and, too, a letter congratulating him on his full scholarship to the University of