Very Bad Men Read Free Page A

bucket.
    The door squeaked on its hinges when he opened it, but not enough to catch the old man’s attention. In fact, when Lark stepped into the cabin, the old man was nowhere to be seen. A table lamp cast its glow over the sofa and the television. Over a pair of worn shoes abandoned on the carpet.
    Lark saw the lamp reflected in the dark glass of the window behind the sofa and quickly crossed the room to draw the curtains. As he stood by the window he heard the rush of water running, and without thinking he vaulted the sofa and pressed himself against the wall beside the bathroom door.
    With the tire iron raised in his right hand, he waited for the door to open. A minute passed, then two. From his earlier visit he knew that the window in the bathroom was a frosted square too small for a man to climb through. Charlie must be waiting on the other side of the door.
    Lark said, “You may as well come out. How did you know I was here?”
    A brief delay, and then the old man’s voice came through. “You stomp around like an elephant. Who are you? A friend of Scudder’s?”
    â€œI don’t know who that is.”
    â€œKyle Scudder. You’re one of his pals?”
    â€œNo, but I saw what he did to you at the bar. You should have your hand looked at. I can help you.”
    â€œAre you a doctor?”
    â€œI know some first aid.”
    â€œI don’t need your help. You clear out, before I call the cops.”
    â€œThe phone’s out here.”
    â€œI’ve got a cell.”
    Lark looked around at the ragged sofa, the threadbare carpet, the wornout shoes.
    â€œI don’t think so,” he said.
    He could hear faint sounds through the door. The old man’s breathing. The medicine cabinet being opened, then softly closed.
    â€œAll right, I’m coming out.”
    Lark lowered the tire iron and stepped in front of the door, pivoting so that his right shoulder faced it. He braced his feet, waited for the knob to turn, and hit the door with everything he had.

CHAPTER 2
    T he razor won’t do you any good,” Lark said.
    â€œFuck you.”
    The old man sat on the floor where he had fallen, his back against the vanity of the sink, the straight razor from the medicine cabinet clutched in his left hand. His right hand, still wrapped in a handkerchief, came up to wipe the blood that ran over his upper lip.
    â€œYour nose is broken,” Lark said.
    â€œI’ve had it broken before,” said the old man, his speech distorted only a little, like someone talking through thick glass.
    â€œIce might help.”
    â€œFuck you.”
    â€œLeave the razor and come out,” said Lark, “and I’ll get you some ice.”
    He backed out of the doorway and watched as the old man laid the razor on the floor and pulled himself up the vanity and to his feet. The man swatted away the hand Lark offered and made his way to the sofa, where he fell back against the cushions and pressed the heel of his left hand gingerly against his nostrils.
    Lark kept an eye on him from the kitchen. He laid the tire iron on the seat of a kitchen chair and took an ice tray from the freezer, a pair of dish towels from a drawer. He piled it all on the chair and carried the chair into the living room.
    He bundled some ice cubes in a towel and the old man accepted them without a word, laying the bundle against the side of his nose. Lark filled the second towel and pressed it against his own forehead.
    â€œWhat’s wrong with you?” the old man asked.
    â€œI get headaches.”
    The old man’s laugh sounded half like a groan. “That’s a damn shame.”
    â€œIt’s a symptom,” Lark said absently, and then a thought occurred to him. He had settled into the chair with the tire iron across his lap, but now he rose and put the iron and the towel on the floor and dug his notebook from his pocket.
    He found the page he wanted and held it a foot away from