mud.
“Shell casing.” I brushed the brass off and dropped it into his hand. “From a forty-five. I’ll bet the farm that it came from a Thompson.”
He didn’t ask what that was and searched as well, turning up three others. “Should there not be more?”
“The shooter either dumped them into the hole or picked up all he could find. Leaving a pile of brass lying around would look funny and might get someone digging again. These are just the ones he missed.”
Barrett was six kinds of pale, with anger, disgust, and horror accounting for three of them. “He stood about here . . . and when we turned our backs . . . hideous.”
“We got lucky.”
“How is any of that lucky?”
“All that broken wood and nails inside the pit? Maybe we cracked our skulls, but we didn’t get impaled on anything or we’d still be down there.”
It didn’t seem possible, but he found another shade of pale, this one with a lot of green to it.
* * * * * * *
* * * * * * *
Barrett drove through a little place called Glenbriar, then took a road south a mile or so, pulling into a graveled drive that led to a rutted work yard. A sizable two-story brick building held court over the yard, which had a number of earth-moving machines and trucks parked in orderly rows. I thought I recognized the bulldozer and the shovel from the estate. They were filthy with mud that had I come to know all too well.
The building’s steel door had STANNARD CONSTRUCTION painted on it, the business office on the ground floor, while the top served as living quarters, or so I assumed. Not a lot of offices bother putting up lace curtains. No lights showed in the front; the place was ominously silent.
We got out and crossed the yard and did not bother knocking. The office door was locked. We exchange looks, vanished, and slipped inside.
Not much light filtered through the drawn blinds; I found the switch, turning on the overheads.
The office took up the whole lower floor. Stairs were at the back, leading up. A couple desks, some wide tables holding blueprints, and file cabinets filled most of it. One wall was covered with an oversized map of Long Island dotted with colored pins marking job sites. There was a pinhole on the Francher property, but the pin was gone, job finished.
Barrett went still, listening. “I thought I heard someone.”
“Look upstairs. Make sure.”
He vanished, which I didn’t expect. His invisible self was discernible to my eyes as a man-sized amorphous gray thing . It looked eerie as hell flowing up the stairs.
I located what seemed to be the boss’s desk, broke into the one locked drawer, and found nothing more valuable than a half a box of toffees.
The paperwork was up to date, including the bill for rental of equipment to a J. Barrett. It was marked paid in full, the yellow onionskin flimsy sitting in a wire basket next to the file cabinets waiting to be—
Upstairs a woman screamed: a full-throated, dissolve-your-bones, wall-shattering shriek .
Barrett yelped.
A gun went off.
That gray thing reappeared on the stairs, swept down, and surged toward me.
Barrett spookily emerged from the gray as he went solid. He looked rattled, but there weren’t any holes in him. “We should leave now,” he said, grabbing my arm and tugging me toward the exit.
“What’d you do?”
“Nothing. I surprised a lady in her boudoir. She’s in a bad mood, we should leave.”
A woman bellowed down from the head of the stairs. “I’m calling the cops, you creep!”
I shook off Barrett and yelled back. “Mrs. Stannard?”
“Who wants to know?”
“We’re just here to see your husband.”
“Who’s ‘we’?”
“I’m here with Mr. Barrett from the Francher estate. He rented a bulldozer and a shovel from your husband. We came to pay the bill.”
“Why did you not ring the bell?”
“The door was open.” I motioned for Barrett to go unlock it. He finally got the idea. It was even money whether he’d take
“Shell casing.” I brushed the brass off and dropped it into his hand. “From a forty-five. I’ll bet the farm that it came from a Thompson.”
He didn’t ask what that was and searched as well, turning up three others. “Should there not be more?”
“The shooter either dumped them into the hole or picked up all he could find. Leaving a pile of brass lying around would look funny and might get someone digging again. These are just the ones he missed.”
Barrett was six kinds of pale, with anger, disgust, and horror accounting for three of them. “He stood about here . . . and when we turned our backs . . . hideous.”
“We got lucky.”
“How is any of that lucky?”
“All that broken wood and nails inside the pit? Maybe we cracked our skulls, but we didn’t get impaled on anything or we’d still be down there.”
It didn’t seem possible, but he found another shade of pale, this one with a lot of green to it.
* * * * * * *
* * * * * * *
Barrett drove through a little place called Glenbriar, then took a road south a mile or so, pulling into a graveled drive that led to a rutted work yard. A sizable two-story brick building held court over the yard, which had a number of earth-moving machines and trucks parked in orderly rows. I thought I recognized the bulldozer and the shovel from the estate. They were filthy with mud that had I come to know all too well.
The building’s steel door had STANNARD CONSTRUCTION painted on it, the business office on the ground floor, while the top served as living quarters, or so I assumed. Not a lot of offices bother putting up lace curtains. No lights showed in the front; the place was ominously silent.
We got out and crossed the yard and did not bother knocking. The office door was locked. We exchange looks, vanished, and slipped inside.
Not much light filtered through the drawn blinds; I found the switch, turning on the overheads.
The office took up the whole lower floor. Stairs were at the back, leading up. A couple desks, some wide tables holding blueprints, and file cabinets filled most of it. One wall was covered with an oversized map of Long Island dotted with colored pins marking job sites. There was a pinhole on the Francher property, but the pin was gone, job finished.
Barrett went still, listening. “I thought I heard someone.”
“Look upstairs. Make sure.”
He vanished, which I didn’t expect. His invisible self was discernible to my eyes as a man-sized amorphous gray thing . It looked eerie as hell flowing up the stairs.
I located what seemed to be the boss’s desk, broke into the one locked drawer, and found nothing more valuable than a half a box of toffees.
The paperwork was up to date, including the bill for rental of equipment to a J. Barrett. It was marked paid in full, the yellow onionskin flimsy sitting in a wire basket next to the file cabinets waiting to be—
Upstairs a woman screamed: a full-throated, dissolve-your-bones, wall-shattering shriek .
Barrett yelped.
A gun went off.
That gray thing reappeared on the stairs, swept down, and surged toward me.
Barrett spookily emerged from the gray as he went solid. He looked rattled, but there weren’t any holes in him. “We should leave now,” he said, grabbing my arm and tugging me toward the exit.
“What’d you do?”
“Nothing. I surprised a lady in her boudoir. She’s in a bad mood, we should leave.”
A woman bellowed down from the head of the stairs. “I’m calling the cops, you creep!”
I shook off Barrett and yelled back. “Mrs. Stannard?”
“Who wants to know?”
“We’re just here to see your husband.”
“Who’s ‘we’?”
“I’m here with Mr. Barrett from the Francher estate. He rented a bulldozer and a shovel from your husband. We came to pay the bill.”
“Why did you not ring the bell?”
“The door was open.” I motioned for Barrett to go unlock it. He finally got the idea. It was even money whether he’d take
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