Read Bill Hopkins - Judge Rosswell Carew 01 - Courting Murder for Free Online Page A

treasure.
    “No,” the killer said, drawing the knife back. “It was my idea, I’ll do it.” Showing teeth and curling lips upward, the killer mimicked a smile. “You,” the killer said to Babe, “hold this filthy trash and I’ll do it.”
    Eddie Joe said, “Stop! Don’t do this. I don’t deserve killing. My God, what did I do wrong?”
    “Don’t listen,” Babe said.
    “You,” the killer said to Eddie Joe, “are filthy and I’m through taking filthy trash off you.”
    “What … what?” Eddie Joe said. The killer said, “Don’t act like you don’t know what you did.”
    “Stop lecturing. Do it,” said Babe. “I can’t pin this sucker forever. Do it.”
    Eddie Joe said, “Jesus! Jesus! Jesus!”
    The killer said, “Forever.”
    Eddie Joe said, “My God. Please don’t. Please don’t. Please don’t.” Not very memorable for famous last words, but it was all he could manage.
    Babe said, “Do it. Do it. Do it.”
    The killer said, “With pleasure,” and, leering, sliced Eddie Joe’s throat.
    Babe unpinned Eddie Joe.
    His fluttering hands clutched his nonworking throat after trying speech and finding it impossible. Damn near popping from sockets and spurting tears, his eyes bugged out cartoon-style. Eddie Joe’s forehead beaded sweat, which collected and ran in streams down his face, which grew whiter. The streams of sweat ran further down his neck, which grew redder. The sweat did little to pinken the red goo.
    Coppery and bright, the aroma of blood cascaded around the three of them. The killer sucked in the smell with deep breaths. Eddie Joe bubbled and sputtered, unable to catch a single good breath.
    The dying man scratched at his scudding heart, gripping under an aching rib cage. He fought to hold the wildly pounding muscle in his burning chest.
    As death shambled toward him, Eddie Joe bared his teeth as if growling at the stranger, the old man hulking down the road, the final visitor, coming, coming, coming. If not with speed, then surely with certainty. The final visitor for the final appointment for this flopping thing growing greasy with blood.
    Eddie Joe’s breathing sounded gritty, as if death had poured a bucket of finely ground sand into his flaming lungs. He thrashed, escalating into convulsions. At one point, he fell on a small log, hugged it, and jerked his arms and stomped his feet. A fat and purple thing that was his tongue jutted from between his white teeth stained with red. He pulled at that fat thing, ripped at his mouth wet with blood and spittle, and then tore at a throat that had given up.
    There was no air.
    There was no life to be had. As the killer had planned, the condemned man tumbled into the Great Void, tripped by the old bastard Death who never ever loses. Never.
    The killer spoke the words breaking the hush after the execution. “Our friend here got some of his precious blood on the Caddy. Messy, isn’t it?”
    “What the hell did you expect? Murder is messy.”
    “I told you not to call it that.”
    “It’s that excitement thing,” Babe said. “Sorry. I forgot.”
    “Shit for brains is what’s sloshing inside your skull. Don’t forget again.” The killer then ogled the body. “Messy, but worth it. Executions are bloody messy, aren’t they?” The killer clapped. And laughed. And it felt good.
    “Right,” Babe said through the not-funny laughter. “An execution can sure be messy.”
    The killer cut off the laugh attack to direct Babe, “Clean it up.”
    “Wait one minute,” Babe said, holding both palms facing out and up. “What was that talk about betrayal? About playing around? What did that mean?”
    “Crazy talk. People talk crazy when they’re about to be executed.”
    “You were making it with Eddie Joe after you told me you were through with him.”
    The killer spit on Babe. “You want me?”
    Babe trembled. “I need you.”
    “Then stop with the accusations. We’re in it up to our breathers. We can’t afford your asshole