“Is there another way out?” I whispered.
I felt Susan shaking her head beside me. “I don’t know.”
We reached the end of the hallway and found a connector passage linking the three parallel galleries that fed into the gift shop. I propelled her into the middle passage and stopped, weighing our slim options, wondering when help would arrive.
Susan tried to shake free of my grasp.
“Stay put,” I growled at her quietly.
“Why? I’m screwed either way.”
“You are if he finds us. Why did you deposit the hundred thousand dollars in the hearse driver’s bank?”
The question startled her, more because of where it was being asked than because of its substance. But it was a question I needed answered-to know, just for myself, the nature of the woman beside me and the extent of her guilt. I was forming a plan, but it risked allowing Billie to escape. I wasn’t going to let that happen if I couldn’t live with the consequences.
“Jesus Christ-I shot the man. It’s the only good use that stupid money’s been put to.” She seemed to understand the debate going on in my head. I felt her hand grip my upper arm in an earnest plea. “I knew if you found me, Shattuck would, too. Destroying David’s skeleton seemed the only way.”
“You killed David, didn’t you?”
She was silent for a moment. I knew that, ironically, the two of us held a momentary advantage over our stalker, who by now was reconnoitering the layout of the gift-shop area. Upstairs, there’d been one way in and out. Here, there were three. As soon as he committed himself to one of the passageways, the other two would be left open as escape routes. He was not going to move precipitously.
“To save Sean’s life,” she finally murmured, her voice seemingly sapped of energy. Despite the crimes she may have committed, I had never overlooked Gail’s high opinion of her or my own first impression when we’d met days ago. Her politics and mine might not have agreed, but her commitment to the welfare of others-including the driver she’d inadvertently wounded-spoke well of her.
But I was to get no more. The luxury of time that our predator’s caution had allowed us vanished with the loud squealing of wood scraping against wood.
Susan stiffened next to me.
“He’s blocking two of the three doors at the other end,” I said. “I expected that.”
From the sounds, I could tell he was leaving the gallery we’d entered open for his approach, so I retraced our steps, speaking as we went. “You need to hide in this passageway-behind the puppets, in case he has a flashlight. Let him pass by, and then run for help. Police should be here soon, but they won’t know where to look.”
It was too dark to read her expression, but I could feel her eyes upon me as she weighed my trust in her against her well-honed instincts for self-preservation.
I gave her shoulder a squeeze, hoping I hadn’t just staked my life on foolish sentiment. “Good luck.” In the dark, I felt her hand touch mine for an instant, and then she was gone.
The shooter had almost finished his handiwork, rearranging the tall, heavy counters in the gift shop in front of the other passageways. The last of his noise allowed Susan to hide herself somewhere down the passage. I waited in the narrow connector to the middle passage, peering around the corner.
The gunman did have a flashlight, held well away from his body so it couldn’t be used as a reliable target in the dark, and he kept switching it on and off to further camouflage his location. Anticipating my scheme, he didn’t proceed slowly and quietly as before, but began ricocheting from side to side, knocking over puppets and props as he went, ensuring that no one would be left hiding in his wake. His progress was now startlingly fast, brutal, and effective.
I had no idea where Susan had hidden herself, or how well. I only hoped that he would miss her in his own attempts to avoid becoming a target. But I also didn’t know how well her nerves would hold up. To remain utterly silent and still, inches away from someone intent on killing you, was a bit much to expect.
Reluctantly, knowing I was reducing whatever plan I might have had to a roll of the dice, I pulled my gun from its holster and aimed at the ceiling above the flickering flashlight. I knew I couldn’t hit him with such a shot, but I also wouldn’t hit Susan by accident.
I pulled the trigger and dove to the side, out of sight. The responding shot was almost instantaneous, slapping into the wooden wall behind where I’d been standing.
I froze for a moment, not knowing if my opponent would stop to take stock or charge to take me off guard. He chose the cautious route, keeping his light off and his movements to a minimum. I felt comfortable now that as long as she stayed put a while longer, Susan could make it to safety.
The light flickered again for a split second as the shooter got his bearings. I retreated farther back into the third gallery and began looking for a good hiding place. I’d done what I could for Susan; now I had to find a way to survive.
The third gallery, like the others, was lined with puppets set in scenes. Moving as quickly as possible, I made my way down its length, to get a feel for the territory. At the far end, there was a grouping of figures dressed in costumes, one of which felt, to my blindly groping fingers, like knitted material. I pulled out my pocketknife again, sliced into the fabric, and pulled at its strands. As I’d hoped, it began to unravel, creating a long, thin string. I tied one end to one of the puppets and retreated with the other back up the gallery, hiding as best I could amid a cluster of figures draped in sheets.
Now it came down to patience, time, and luck. The crowd outside had to be breaking up by now, walking to their cars; the performers were no doubt converging on the house next door to clean up and get ready to head home. The man stalking me knew that. It had occurred to me that perhaps the best way out of my predicament was simply to empty my gun into the floor. But by now, I wanted him as badly as he apparently wanted me.
I stayed against the wall for what seemed like hours, my gun in one hand, the piece of yarn in the other. The gunman had reverted to his earlier technique, where his progress became indistinguishable from the shadows around him. I had no idea which gallery he was prowling, or even, for that matter, if he hadn’t already passed me. I had planned to let him do just that, pulling the string to distract him, thereby getting the drop on him. But that had all depended on knowing where he was. I began to sweat in the total blackness, covered by dusty sheets, my body sore and cramped.
Suddenly, I heard two sounds: one distant, from near the building’s front door; the other far more important to me-a barely perceptible startled intake of breath, not six feet beyond me.
I was about to pull the string in my hand when the blackness around me disappeared in a stunning, blinding brilliance. The barn’s lights had been switched on.
Blinking rapidly, shading my eyes with the hand that had held the now-superfluous piece of yarn, I stepped from my hiding place to face the man who had killed Bob Shattuck.
He was halfway down the passage, his right side to me, similarly surprised but already twisting to get off a shot, when I saw Al Hammond’s face appear beyond him, above the tall counter that had been pushed up against the entrance. He was staring down the sights of a Winchester pump shotgun.
Simultaneously, we both yelled, “Freeze.”
And miraculously, fighting his own momentum with instincts worthy of a cat, the man froze in a half-crouch, his gun almost bearing on my chest.
“Drop it.” There was the hint of a smile then, the man opened his hand, and the gun fell to the floor with a dull clatter.
Outside, ten minutes later, with the side of the old barn flickering in the blue lights of four state police cruisers, I watched as the gunman, handcuffed but outwardly unconcerned, was helped into the back of one of the cars.