Linwood Barclay - A Tap on the Window

The man — I’d figured it was a man, and a glimpse of that hand proved it to me — was on the move, running around the cottage. I went the other way. I didn’t want the shooter coming upon where Claire was hiding before I got there. He’d have heard her and would have a good idea where to look.

I moved back to the first corner I’d rounded, took a peek around it, then hugged the wall that faced the lake, which gave me a view of the deck. Claire was crawling out from under it.

“Stay under there!” I screamed.

“Dennis!” she shouted, ignoring me. “Dennis, someone’s shooting!”

She grabbed the railing, started mounting the steps to the deck, heading for the sliding glass doors.

“Goddamn it!” I yelled at her.

The barrel of a gun appeared around the far corner of the cottage, then two outstretched arms.

“Claire!”

She glanced back at me.

I heard a sound like someone lightly hammering a nail, once. He’d taken a shot. The wood railing by Claire’s hand splintered.

Claire went down.

The top half of her body landed on the deck, her legs splayed across the steps.

“No!”

The word came out of me as a primal scream of anguish.

But then Claire stirred, pushed herself up. She hadn’t been hit. She’d tripped on the stairs.

I raised my Glock and fired over her, putting a bullet into the corner of the cottage. Fired again. And again. Thinking maybe I could shoot the bastard through the building.

I moved to the corner, hugging the wall, crouched down, so that when I peered around it, my head would be lower than he’d be expecting. I kept the Glock gripped in both hands, held my breath, hoping to hear something besides the pounding of my heart in my ears.

More rustling.

Distant running.

I peeked around the corner.

He was on the move.

Almost to the end of the road that led in here. Running flat out. Dark pants, black Windbreaker with a hood up. I sprinted after him. I could see he was headed for the pickup.

He stopped suddenly, turned, pointed his weapon my way. I threw myself to the ground like I was tackling an imaginary football player, heard a bullet slice the air over me.

More running.

By the time I was on my feet, he’d reached the truck and was getting in. It sped off, tires kicking up gravel. I wasn’t close enough to see a plate before the vehicle disappeared beyond a curve in the road.

Back at the cottage, another scream.

I ran back, coming around the front side. Claire stood at the sliding doors, looking inside, a hand floating over her mouth.

She didn’t have to step inside to see what had happened to Dennis. He was sprawled on his side by the kitchen table, his back to us. The chair had tipped over with him when he’d gone down. The blood puddling its way toward the middle of the room was coming from a hole in the back of his head.

“No no no no,” she whispered.

“Stay here,” I said, sliding the door open and delicately entering the room, careful to avoid stepping in the blood. I knelt next to him, put two fingers to the side of his neck. A futile gesture, I knew, but I had to be sure. I looked through the door into the bedroom, at a tiny hole in the screen in the window on the far wall. The killer’d never stepped inside; he’d just aimed from outside and taken his shot. Didn’t have to shoot through glass, so we didn’t hear anything down by the water.

I stood, saw that black notebook on the kitchen table, picked it up and slipped it into the pocket of my jacket.

“Dennis,” Claire said, standing just inside the door. “Dennis?”

“We have to get out of here,” I said. “That man may come back, or he may be waiting for us down the road.”

Claire was trembling, both hands over her mouth. I was worried she might be going into shock.

“Claire, listen to me. We have to get out of here.”

I’d already decided I didn’t want to take my car. It still had a GPS device hidden in it somewhere. I could get the keys to the Volvo, but there was only one way out, down North Parker Road, and we could be driving into an ambush.

I looked out at the lake.

“What’s over there?” I asked.

“We have to get him to the hospital,” Claire said quietly. “We have to get a doctor.”

“Claire, Dennis is dead. I have to get you out of here. The other side of the lake, it looks like it’s only a mile away. What’s over there?”

“Union Springs,” she whispered.

“A town?”

“A little town.”

I grabbed her by the wrist with my left hand, the gun still in my right. “We’re going to take the boat. We’re going to run like hell to the dock and get in the boat. Do you know if there’s gas in the tank?”

“How do you know he’s dead?” she said. “How can you be sure?”

“Claire!” I said sharply. “Is there gas in the boat?”

“I... I think so. Dennis and I went out in it yesterday. Just wandering around.”

“Come on.”

We ran down the hill to the dock. I got her into the boat first, put her in the middle of the three seats. I stepped in, lowered the motor so the prop was in the water, gave the rubber bulb on the fuel line several squeezes, put the motor in neutral, pulled the choke, and yanked on the cord.

It started on the first pull. I shoved the choke back in, powered the throttle back, then untied the stern and bow lines from the dock. I pushed off, put the gear lever into forward, and cranked it. It was cold out on the lake. Claire had no jacket. I slipped mine off and gave it to her. She put her arms into it robotically, her eyes glazed.

It only took about five minutes to cross Cayuga. There was a marina up ahead. Lots of docks, but only a few boats still in the water. A huge building just up from the shore where people stored boats for the winter. I found a spot to tie the boat up, jumped onto the dock and helped Claire out.

“Is there a business area?” I asked her.

She raised a weak finger. “That way, I think.”

We walked briskly up Basin Street to North Cayuga, which seemed to pass for the main drag around here. I saw a used-car dealer across the street. I didn’t have to hold on to Claire’s wrist all the time; she was keeping up with me. But she was so dazed I held her hand as we crossed the road. She wasn’t in a state of mind where I could trust her to look both ways.

We went straight into the sales office. A heavyset man in an ill-fitting blue suit got up from behind his desk, turned on a smile like he’d just flipped a switch, and approached us. But his smile didn’t last long. We didn’t look like typical customers, Claire’s eyes red from crying, and me sweating profusely.

There was also the small matter of the Glock strapped to my waist.

“We need a car,” I said.

His eyes on the gun, he said. “Take whatever you want.”

“I’m not stealing one,” I said. “I’ll rent one.” I got out my wallet, showed him my private investigator’s license, and handed him my Visa card. “How’s five hundred?”

He took the card. “Sure. And I’m going to need to see your driver’s license.”

“You’re going to do this fast,” I said.

“Of course.”

He did, too. Within two minutes he was handing me a set of keys to a white Subaru sedan.

I said to him, “Call the police. There’s been a murder directly across the lake. Brown cottage, front doors on the lake side open. Tell them the shooter may still be in the area. Male, five ten to six feet. He’s driving a dark-colored pickup truck. Black, dark blue, tinted windows. You got that?”

“Yeah,” he said.

I hustled Claire into the front seat of the Subaru and got myself behind the wheel.

“We’re going home,” I told her.