KnockOut

“You remembered, didn’t you, Dillon? You remembered when you got close enough to Tammy Tuttle you saw her clearly. She couldn’t fool you like the others. She couldn’t—what does Blessed call it?—she couldn’t stymie you.”
    He nodded. “Yes, I remember. I guess it makes sense.”
    “No,” Sherlock said, shaking her head, “it doesn’t make sense. None of this makes any sense.” She drew in a deep breath. “You lucked out.”
    Savich shrugged. “Fact is, there wasn’t a choice. He was going to make Joanna kill herself. I had to stop him.”
    Joanna said, “That much power in this paltry little man, it scares me to death. Thank you, Dillon, for my life.”
    Savich smiled at her.
    Ethan said, “Joanna, you don’t look woozy or disoriented. Actually, you look okay. How do you feel? Headache?”
    “No, no, I’m fine, don’t worry, Ethan.” She sounded surprised, and vastly relieved. “Maybe he didn’t have enough time with me.”
    “Possibly so,” Savich said thoughtfully. “Okay, later, when we get she squared away, I want you to tell me exactly what you felt the moment you looked at his face, his eyes.”
    She nodded. “I can do it now—fact is, I don’t even remember looking at him, not at first, but it didn’t seem to matter. Do you know, I was certain I’d shot him, that I’d fired my gun, dead-on. For whatever reason, he wanted me to believe I’d pulled the trigger. But I hadn’t.” She looked down at Blessed again, at his blindfolded eyes, and kicked him one more time, on his leg. He jerked and gasped out, “You damned bitch, I’m going to have you roast yourself, have you hop right into a bed of coals, get you ready for hell.”
    Joanna said, “Yeah, right, you pathetic monster. You’ll be the one heading to hell, leading that family of yours.”
    Blessed gasped out, pain and anger in his voice, “Martin was my family. Is he in hell?”
    “No, because he saw your evil and he escaped from it, from you and Grace and your mother.”
    “I’ll bet you killed him, murdered him.”
    “No, I loved him, but since you’re crazy, I’m sure you’ll believe what you want.”
    “You burned his mind! You burned him up, made him nothing, like you. You’re weak and stupid, Joanna, and that’s what you made him. You’ll pay for that.”
    Autumn yelled at him, “Mama didn’t burn up my daddy’s mind, his mind was wonderful. Don’t you call my mama weak and stupid!” She kicked him with the toe of her sneaker.
    Joanna pulled her back, gave her a quick hug. “Good shot.”
    They listened to him curse her, one good meaty curse, then an-other, then his head lolled to the side.
    Savich watched him for a moment and said, “I’ll wager that if we took the blindfold off him you could look right at him and he wouldn’t be able to do anything. He’s too weak now to focus, to affect your mind. On the other hand, I could be dead wrong.”
    Savich said to Blessed, “You’re awake, I saw you twitch. You’d best pay attention, Blessed. You’re bleeding again because you’re not pressing hard enough. Get yourself together if you want to live.”
    Blessed licked his tongue over his lips, managed only one faint curse, and moved his hand back to his shoulder.
    Joanna said to Savich, “You should have killed him, Dillon. What will happen now?”
    She might be right, he thought. Faydeen was right to worry, because there was no way Blessed Backman would crawl through the courts blindfolded the entire time—he could hear the defense attorney screaming at the judge how they were torturing the poor man, deny-ing him his basic human right to face his accusers. Well, it was too late now. Ethan was right, they’d have to deal with it.
    The bedroom was soon full to overflowing with deputies, everyone talking, everyone avoiding looking at Blessed’s face, even though he was blindfolded and seemed to be helpless, like a snake with no fangs.
    Sirens blasted through the night, growing closer. Savich said, “I’m going with him. I’ll be sure all the EMTs know to keep his blindfold on, and why. I’m going to scare them.”

35
    IT WAS CLOSE to midnight before Sherlock and Savich were tucked in bed at Gerald’s Loft, snuggled close because the temperature had plummeted the instant the sun had fallen behind the mountains. De-spite the late hour they’d turned up, Mrs. Daily, bouncing with excitement, wanted to feed them.
    Sherlock reared back and punched him in the arm.
    “What? Hey,