What in the world?
SMITH RUSHED INTO THE DEN, LAID THE RIFLE ON THE KITCHEN counter, and fired two shotgun blasts into the curtains that draped the sliding glass doors. Cold air rushed in as the glass was obliterated. He used the moment of confusion to retreat to the kitchen, crouching behind the bar.
Shots from his right, in the den, sent him hurtling to the floor.
STEPHANIE FIRED INTO THE WINDOW ADJACENT TO THE FRONT door. She followed with another shot. Maybe that would be enough to divert the intruder's attention from the deck, where Davis stood unarmed.
She'd heard two shotgun blasts. She'd planned on simply surprising the killer with the fact that people were outside and wait for him to fumble.
Davis apparently had another idea.
SMITH WAS NOT ACCUSTOMED TO BEING CORNERED. THE SAME TWO from earlier? Had to be. Police? Hardly. They'd knocked on the door, for God's sake. One of them even called out, inviting a fight. No, these two were something else. But the analysis could wait. Right now he just needed to get his butt out of here.
What would MacGyver do?
He loved that show.
Use your brain.
STEPHANIE RETREATED FROM THE PORCH AND DARTED TOWARD the deck, careful with the windows, using Rowland's truck for cover. She kept her gun aimed at the house, ready to fire. No way to know if it was safe enough to advance, but she needed to find Davis. The grim threat they'd uncovered had quickly escalated.
She trotted past the house, found the stairs that led up to the deck, and arrived just in time to see Edwin Davis hurl what appeared to be a wrought-iron chair into the glass doors.
SMITH HEARD SOMETHING CRASH THROUGH THE REMAINING GLASS and rip the curtains from the wall. He leveled the shotgun and fired another blast, then used the moment to grab the sport rifle and flee the kitchen, reentering the bedroom. Whoever was out there would have to hesitate, and he needed to use those few seconds to maximum advantage.
Herbert Rowland still lay in the bed. If he wasn't dead already, he was well on the way. But no evidence of any crime was present. The tampered vial and syringe were safe in his pocket. True, guns had been used, but there was nothing leading to his identity.
He found one of the bedroom windows and lifted the lower pane. Quickly he curled himself out. No one seemed to be on this side of the house. He eased the window shut. He should deal with whoever was here, but far too many chances had already been taken.
He decided the smart play was the only play.
Rifle in hand, he plunged into the woods.
"ARE YOU COMPLETELY NUTS?" STEPHANIE SCREAMED AT DAVIS from the ground.
Her compatriot remained on the deck.
"He's gone," Davis said.
She carefully climbed the stairs, not trusting a word he said.
"I heard a window open, then close."
"That doesn't mean he's gone, it just means a window opened and closed."
Davis stepped through the destroyed glass doors.
"Edwin-"
He disappeared into the blackness and she rushed in behind him. He was headed for the bedroom. A light switched on and she came to the door. Davis was taking Herbert Rowland's pulse.
"Barely beating. And he apparently didn't hear a thing. He's in a coma."
She was still concerned about a man with a shotgun. Davis reached for the phone and she saw him punch three numbers.