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Back The Outside Man Save as PDF
Chapters (42)
  1. Cover Page
  2. EARLY BIRD BOOKS
  3. Praise for the Writing of Richard North Patterson
  4. Title Page
  5. Dedication
  6. Epigraph
  7. One
  8. Two
  9. Three
  10. Four
  11. Five
  12. Six
  13. Seven
  14. Eight
  15. Nine
  16. Ten
  17. Eleven
  18. Twelve
  19. Thirteen
  20. Fourteen
  21. Fifteen
  22. Sixteen
  23. Seventeen
  24. Eighteen
  25. Nineteen
  26. Twenty
  27. Twenty-one
  28. Twenty-two
  29. Twenty-three
  30. Twenty-four
  31. Twenty-five
  32. Twenty-six
  33. Twenty-seven
  34. Twenty-eight
  35. Twenty-nine
  36. Thirty
  37. Thirty-one
  38. Thirty-two
  39. Thirty-three
  40. Thirty-four
  41. Thirty-five
  42. About the Author

The soft answer drew him on. He looked eagerly at the girl, then to me. His voice seeped adolescent taunting, getting back his own. “Yeah, I guess you kissed that off to go fuck Kris Ann and live off her old man’s money. She must be good. You’ve really got it made now, don’t you?”

The girl turned to me, lips parted in mute appeal. “As running dogs go,” I answered mildly. “Of course nothing’s perfect. You never come to our parties.”

He moved closer. “I wouldn’t come near you or your cunt wife. You’re just a fucking leech.”

All at once I’d had enough. “Look at you,” I said, “dancing on your mother’s grave and spouting drivel while your girlfriend does the dishes. Christ, you haven’t the moral sense or compassion God gave a maggot. Your father’s worth ten of you.”

His fist smashed into my forehead.

I wobbled, staggering against the wall. His second punch cracked against my cheekbone. My knees buckled. I ducked by instinct as his next swing crashed into the wall above me.

He yelped, losing a split second. As he grabbed for my throat I spun, still crouching, and hit him in the stomach with a left hook. He grunted, air gasping from his mouth. I hit him in the ribs with a right cross, then sent a left to the stomach that doubled him over and drove him back. The girl screamed. I pivoted and sent a right to his jaw with all the force I had.

Pain shot through my arm as the punch stood him up. He dropped to the floor. The girl sprang from the couch and bent over him.

My face and throat ached and blood was rushing in my head. “I’m sorry,” I told her, and was. But she didn’t answer or even look up. As I left, the sound of Jason’s moans came through the hallway like keening.

I made it to the stairs and then down to the car, one step at a time, leaning against the wheel until my head cleared. But I had decided to find Mooring by the time I drove away.

Thirteen

THIRTEEN

Dalton Mooring’s home was fake antebellum, opulent but without the grace of time. The white brick and pillars were too new, the grounds too crammed with shrubs, the interior, with its porcelain and restored antiques, too clearly decorated. The effect was striking and a little desperate.

I waited in the foyer while the maid went for Mooring. The living room had the glossy heartlessness of new money and no children: silk flowers, deep blue rug, some wire sculpture, a bright abstract painting in a chrome frame. Above the mantel a smoked-glass mirror inverted the room. Here and elsewhere were small signs of drunkenness: a burn hole in the rug, scratches on a doorknob, rings marring the coffee table.