why my manager called me,” she replied in a voiced that sounded strangely detached, even to her own ears. “He and Robert already figured it out. If I’m not back at the bookstore in a few minutes, they’ll be coming here for me . . . after they call the police, of course.”
“Really?”
Now, Darla heard a note of amusement in Barry’s flat tone.
“Last I knew, Curt’s murder was pretty much solved. The police already have their man . . . or, rather, woman. So what proof are your friends going to bring to them to show that I had anything to do with all this?” he demanded with a gesture that encompassed the basement.
Iron.
Hamlet for a witness.
Not enough to exactly hold up in court without her testimony as to what she’d seen and heard. Darla gave another reflexive glance at the wrapped body lying beside what was obviously meant to be grave, and then drew a deep breath. If she couldn’t get out of that basement, chances were Barry would soon be digging a second hole alongside the first.
“It doesn’t matter,” she bluffed. “The point is, they know.”
This time, Barry laughed aloud.
“Good try, Darla, but what you’re saying is that your friends don’t have squat. Add that to the fact I have no apparent motive for either of the killings, and the police have zero evidence to pin on me. Of course, now there’s you”—he paused and shrugged—“but I think I can solve that little problem.”
“Please, Barry, don’t do this,” she choked out, putting out a hand in a reflexive attempt to ward him off. “Everyone knows I’m here. It-it won’t gain you anything.”
“Did I ever tell you that besides pitching for my high school team, I was captain of the debate team for three years?” he asked in a conversational tone, as if she hadn’t spoken. “I always did have a knack for bringing people around to my point of view.”
With those words he started toward her.
For a terrible instant, Darla’s only thought was that this was like every lame cliché in every bad movie she’d ever seen: the soon-to-be murder victim just standing by helplessly while her would-be killer advanced on her. Go, go, go! the voice in her head screamed, but her legs would not respond. She was paralyzed, caught in a waking nightmare, and unable to flee her pursuer. Being “frozen in fear” really wasn’t just a casual expression, but a cold reality. And it seemed that she was having the very bad misfortune to learn this firsthand.
“Me-ooooooooow!”
The high-pitched shriek, like the battle cry of some demon feline, abruptly shattered the wall of fear surrounding her. Darla turned to run, but not before she saw Hamlet launch himself from his post atop the plastic-wrapped body. Claws fully extended, he flew right into Barry’s face.
The man screamed in pain and shouted a stream of obscenities as he attempted to dislodge the cat from his upper body. Darla didn’t wait to see what happened next. Adrenaline coursing through her, she sprang toward the stairs.
Fast as she ran, however, Barry was quicker. He’d managed to dislodge the attacking feline and had rushed after her, catching her arm before she could take the first step. His fingers bit through her coat sleeve, holding her in a grip from which she could not break free.
“Where in the hell do you think you’re going?” he gritted out, his face inches from hers, flashlight clenched in his free hand like a club.
She could see blood freely welling in the trio of claw marks that ran down one side of his neck. Hamlet had done some damage, she saw in terrified satisfaction. But what had happened to the brave feline?
She found out an instant later when Barry gave another shout and let go of her arm. This time, Hamlet had gone into stealth mode, silently leaping up and sinking his formidable fangs into the man’s shoulder. But Barry was wearing a jacket, and in a swift move the man slipped out of the coat and flung it to one side, taking Hamlet with it. Cat and jacket rolled across brick and plywood as the feline attempted to detach his claws from the fabric. An instant later he was free, and like a small black panther came charging forward yet again.
This time, however, Barry was prepared for him. With a growl of his own he flung the flashlight with unerring aim in Hamlet’s direction. Darla screamed a warning, but it was too late. She heard