Loyalty in Death (In Death #9)(77)

B, Donald Branson stood over her, swaying, eyes glazed and furious.

“Where the hell do you think you’re going?” He snatched her coat from the floor, swung at her with it. “I didn’t tell you to leave the house. You think you can sneak out while I’m away, you bitch?”

“Stay away from her.” Though fury was bubbling in his gut, Zeke’s voice was calm.

“Well, well.” Branson turned, stumbled a little, and Zeke caught the stink of whiskey. “Isn’t this cozy. The whore and the handyman.” He shoved Zeke in the chest. “Get the hell out of my house.”

“I intend to. With Clarissa.”

“Zeke, don’t. He doesn’t mean anything, B. D.” She pushed herself to her knees like a woman praying. “I was…just going out for a walk. That’s all.”

“Lying bitch. So you were going to help yourself to what’s mine, were you?” He shoved Zeke again. “Did she tell you how many others she’s whored with?”

“That’s not true.” Clarissa’s voice broke on a sob. “I never — ” She broke off, cringing when Branson swung back to her.

“Shut the f**k up, I’m not talking to you. Thought you’d put in a little overtime while I was out of town?” He sneered at Zeke. “Too bad I canceled the trip, but maybe you shoved your dick into her already. No.” He laughed, knocking Zeke back a step. “If you’d had her, you’d know she’s lousy in bed. Beautiful and a waste. But she’s mine.”

“Not anymore.”

“Zeke, don’t. I want you to go now.” Her teeth were chattering. “I’ll be fine. Just go now.”

“We’ll go.” Zeke said it calmly as he bent down to pick up her coat. He didn’t see Branson’s fist fly out. He never expected violence. But it connected with his jaw, radiating pain, shooting sparks. Through the buzzing in his ears, he heard Clarissa cry out again.

“Don’t hurt him. Please, don’t hurt him. B. D., I won’t go. I swear I — ” Then she screamed again when he grabbed her up by the hair.

It happened fast, in a kind of red mist. Zeke jumped forward, striking out with one hand, grabbing for Clarissa with the other. Branson fell back, feet sliding on the polished floor. He went down hard, and there was a sharp crack as his skull rapped onto the marble hearth.

Frozen, Zeke stood, one arm locked around Clarissa to support her, and stared horrified at the blood that began to seep and pool from Branson’s head.

“Sweet God. Sit down, here, sit down.” He all but carried her to a chair, leaving her huddled as he rushed over to Branson. His fingers trembled as he pressed them against Branson’s throat.

“There’s no pulse.” He drew in air sharply, ripped open Branson’s shirt, and began to pump the heart. “Call for an ambulance, Clarissa.”

But he knew it was too late. Open eyes stared up at him, the blood was streaming. When he forced himself to look, he could see no aura.

“He’s dead. He’s dead, isn’t he?” She began to shake, her eyes huge on Zeke’s, the pupils contracted to needlepoints of shock. “What will we do, what will we do?”

Nausea churned in Zeke’s stomach as he rose. He’d killed a man. He’d left behind every belief and had taken a life. “We have to call an ambulance. The police.”

“The police. No, no, no.” She began to rock then, her face white and strained. “They’ll lock me away. They’ll send me to prison.”

“Clarissa.” He made himself crouch in front of her, take her hands, though his felt soiled and evil. “You didn’t do anything. I killed him.”

“You — you — ” Suddenly, she threw her arms around him. “Because of me. It’s all because of me.”

“No, because of him. You need to be strong now.”

“Strong. Yes.” Still shaking, she leaned back and her eyes never left his face. “I will be strong. I will. I need to think. I know, I… But… I feel ill. I — Could you get me some water?”

“We need to call the police.”

“Yes, yes, I will. We will. But I need a minute first, please. Could you get me some water?”

“All right. Stay right here.”

His legs felt like rubber, but he made them move. His skin felt as slicked with ice as the streets outside.

He had killed.

The two servants in the kitchen barely glanced at him when he came in. He had to stand a moment, his hand braced against the door. He couldn’t remember why he’d come in, but he could hear, as if it was happening again, the sickening crack of Branson’s skull hitting the hearth.

“Water.” He managed to get the word out. He could smell meat roasting, sauce simmering. Sickness reared up into his throat. “Mrs. Branson asked me to get her some water.”

Without a word, one of the uniformed droids moved to the refrigerator. Zeke watched with a dull fascination as she poured bottled water into a heavy glass, sliced a fresh lemon, added it and ice.

Because his hands were shaking, he took the glass she brought him in both of them, managed a nod of thanks, and walked back to the parlor.

Water leaped over the rim of the glass and onto the back of his hand when he saw Clarissa on her hands and knees frantically wiping up blood.