W is for Wasted (Kinsey Millhone Mystery)

a clay pot of marigolds by the rim. I threw it hard, directly at his face. A gash opened up on his forehead. Scalp wounds really are the most dramatic. No reaction from him. He probably didn’t feel a thing. The Biter flew again and I didn’t draw back in time. The blade nicked me on the cheek. Linton liked that, drawing blood for blood. I abandoned the chair. I grabbed the big plastic bag of sphagnum moss and held it in front of me like a chest protector. Linton struck and the blade opened up a long slit. Moss bulged through the cut like internal organs being liberated.
    I stooped to the mound of lawn mulch and swept upward, an armload of fine dirt flying at his face. He inhaled silt and coughed. He backed up, his body racked as his lungs fought off the insult. The dirt had stuck to his sweaty skin. A minstrel in blackface.
    I grabbed a second clay pot and threw it. He deflected it with his arm. Striking him in the head was my only hope. His heavy coat offered him padding. I was in jeans, shirt, and running shoes, my movements unhampered where he had the bulk of his coat to contend with. The only sounds we made were the grunts of two tennis players, putting everything we had into each shot. My body heat had jumped from chill to flame in the space of those few minutes. He was sweating. The Biter must have been slippery in his fingers but his grip was sure.
    I saw his eyes flicker again. I’d lost track of the cat whereas Linton had not. Ed had retreated into the shrubs, where he watched us warily. He crouched much closer to Linton than to me. I’d give up before I’d let Linton hurt the cat. My chest was on fire. My heart banged in my ears. I wanted to say don’t. I wanted to protest. Linton plunged into the bush and grabbed the cat. This was a mistake. Ed twisted and spat, hissing as he ripped into Linton with his claws. Linton struggled to secure his hold, but Ed propelled himself out of Linton’s hands like a whirling dervish. Linton made a sound and the cat was off like a shot. He put a hand to his cheek and then checked his fingertips. He was bleeding. I could see the angry red welt where Ed had made his mark with his rear claws.
    I needed a shield. Something between me and the blade. The aluminum lawn chair had folded in on itself to form a flat metal plank. We grabbed for it at the same time, both of us now holding on with two hands. The Biter remained in Linton’s grip, but he couldn’t maneuver the blade while clinging to the chair. He released his hold, allowing me full possession for all the good it would do. The chair was crudely constructed, not meant to endure much in the way of punishment. It was already growing heavy. My arms burned from the weight.
    Linton wanted full access. No impediments. Just me and the small deadly rapier no bigger than his index finger. I heaved the chair at him, but I was too tired to do so with any force. He backed up a step and the chair dropped with scarcely a sound. He lashed and as I jumped, I banged into the potting bench. I snatched the pruning shears from the spot where they were affixed to the garage wall. The second set was bigger, but I had to work with what was closest to hand. I opened the blades and chopped at him. The sound was good, so I chopped at him again.
    I swung the shears as though at batting practice. Linton’s face was red and his breathing was hoarse. The sound of childhood asthma. I pictured him chubby. A white, fleshy boy. A sissy on the playground. I could have beaten him in second grade, but girls didn’t do those things back then. I held the pruning shears low, giving my arms a rest. He struck. I jumped back, angling the shears in front of me. I whacked his left hand full force, hoping his fingers would loosen. He backed up a pace, pausing to catch his breath.
    In his hand, the Biter had the look of a claw.
    This was the difference between us. He was nuts. I was mad. His thinking was disorganized while I wasn’t thinking at all.
    I went after him. My only hope was to wear him down. He was heavier than I by a good seventy pounds. I was light on my feet. I was speedier. I would never give up. I would fight to the death if that’s what it took. He had his hands on his knees. He panted. I moved toward him, pulling the shears back like a baseball bat. I knew the risk. Linton might not be as tired as he looked. I might not be as strong. I drove at him, aiming for his head. His hand came up to protect his face. I struck the Biter on