Birth of a Monster Read Online Free Page B

knowing that if the
wave landed upon him, he would run back to the forest, call Harold,
fly back to Ringsetter, leave the country, and live in hiding for
the rest of his life, perhaps shunning even the mirror, which would
remind him of his cowardly betrayal.
     
    He grabbed the door and opened
it.
     
    And walked inside.
     
    He tried to act calm as he approached
the front desk.
     
    “I’m here to see David Havensford,
ma’am,” Righty said to a stern-faced, uniformed woman sitting
behind the desk.
     
    “Are you his attorney?” she asked
suspiciously.
     
    Righty had never been to jail before. A
couple of times, during his drinking days, the tavern owner had
thrown him out by the ears, but no one—at least in those days—knew
how to spend the better part of a week’s pay on a Friday night than
Righty Rick, and so the tavern owner had never escalated things to
the point where the local sheriff got involved. Thus, Righty knew
as much about jail protocol as a fish knows about tap
dancing.
     
    “No, ma’am. I’m just a
friend.”
     
    Righty noticed a nearby male officer
was sizing him up suspiciously.
     
    “May I see the chief of police?” Righty
said, wishing he would have started with that approach but
realizing it was too late now.
     
    The male officer was now looking at him
with as much interest as a cat hovering over a mouse.
     
    “Do you have an appointment?” the woman
asked.
     
    “No, ma’am, I’d like to make
one.”
     
    “What’s this in regards to?”
     
    “I would feel more comfortable talking
to him about that directly.”
     
    “Oh, you would, would you?” the male
officer asked, having left the role of spectator behind. The menace
in his voice was clear.
     
    “So, you’re not a lawyer,
but you are the
friend of a person we just arrested in the largest drug seizure to
date?”
     
    “I’m sorry if I wasted your time,”
Righty said, turning to leave. His heart was really galloping now.
He thought he was going to keel over.
     
    “Frisk him!” the male officer ordered
curtly.
     
    Righty was too petrified of making a
scene to protest as two burly officers approached him and then led
him towards a wall, where they instructed him to place both hands
while they began searching him.
     
    While his secret compartments made
their job a bit harder, they quickly noticed the large lumps inside
his coat, as well as the dagger inside his sleeve.
     
    “You’re under arrest on suspicion of
being a co-conspirator of David Havensford, aka Tats. Cuff him and
book him!”
     
    They tore off his large coat rudely and
smiled greedily when they saw the cash there.
     
    “Take him to the back!” an officer
ordered.
     
    When they realized his pants and shirt
were filled with money too, they told him to disrobe, permitting
him only the dignity of keeping his undergarments on, but those too
were subjected to a meticulous inspection.
     
    Righty seethed with shame and impotent
anger, and his heart sank as one of the officers fondled his
dagger.
     
    “She’s a beauty!” he said, letting out
a whistle the same as if he were viewing a naked woman.
     
    “What’s your name, you punk?!” one of
the officers said.
     
    “Sam Higler,” Righty said
calmly.
     
    “What kind of a made-up name is
that?!”
     
    The burly officer threw his hardest
punch to Righty’s gut.
     
    When Righty merely grimaced slightly,
but didn’t so much as bend over an inch, a chill went down the
officer’s spine.
     
    He knew the chief wanted to do business
with the head of the gang, but he had marked this guy as nothing
more than a low-level courier attempting to negotiate on the boss’s
behalf. He had heard the rumor that the head of the gang was a
boxer, and when he saw his right uppercut to the gut—that had
doubled over some of the toughest criminals in town—embarrass
itself thoroughly like a kitten pawing at its hulking mother, a
terrifying apprehension swept over him.
     
    But he had the chief to worry