“Show me the pictures of the oak tree. Never mind. I see them. Which one was taken first?”
She pointed to a photo. “And this one was an hour later.” She pointed to the second photo.
He studied them. “There's a shadow in the first one that's not there in the second one.”
“It's very marginal.” She got her magnifying glass and examined the shadow. “It could be wind moving the branches. It changes the entire composition.”
“Maybe.” He stood looking down at the photos. “Maybe not.” He turned on his heel. “I'm going back out there. Stay in the room and lock the door.”
“What?”
“Double cross.” He moved toward the door. “What do you do with a man who knows too much and has taken to making mistakes?” His voice sharpened with rage. “Dammit, I'm not going to let Powers be taken out. I need him.”
She grabbed her camera bag and hurried out the door after him toward the car. “I'm going with you.”
“The hell you—” He jerked open the driver's door. “I don't have time to argue with you. If you come, you do what I say. Got it?”
“Got it.” She jumped into the passenger's seat.
He peeled out of the parking spot. “Yeah, sure.”
“I don't like this.” Mae Powers frowned. “I told you five years ago that I didn't want to have anything to do with you or your dirty business.”
“But you haven't minded taking my money, have you?” Powers stood to the side of the window so he couldn't be seen from the street. “And there'll be a nice little bonus for you for going along this time. I'm even using a silencer so your neighbors won't know you're not as holier-than-thou as you pretend.” He didn't see anything on the street in front of the house. He'd stationed Decker in the alley across the street, but he couldn't see him at the moment. Well, he'd only have to phone him and he'd be here in a flash. There was no need to be this nervous. All the windows and doors were locked. He was still uneasy. He'd heard a lot about Morgan. He was one tough bastard, and used to getting past locks.
Well, he was tougher than Morgan. He gazed down at his gun with the attached silencer. All he had to do was sit here and wait and blow the son of a bitch out of the water.
“What's that?” Mae jerked upright in her chair, her gaze flying toward the kitchen. “It was one of the pots hanging over the bar. I thought you locked the kitchen door. I told you I didn't want to—”
He was already on his feet, running down the hall, past the staircase, toward the kitchen, gun in hand.
He heard a squeak on the stairs and whirled.
He didn't hear Mae's scream as the hurled knife entered his chest.
Shit.
Pain. Darkness.
Someone coming down the stairs.
Kill him. Kill him.
He lifted his gun.
“Stay here.” Morgan braked at the curb on the cross street from the brick house. “No arguments. I don't want you in my way.”
“That's a sure way to get me to— I'll stay out of your way unless I see something I don't like.”
He muttered a curse as he took off running toward the backyard of Powers's house. Too dangerous to go in through the front. Climb the oak tree and get in through the second floor.
Like the shadowy figure Alex had not been able to confirm.
He shinnied up the tree and went hand over hand up the branches until he reached the window.
The glass had been cut neatly out of the pane.
He swung silently from the branch to the windowsill and into the bedroom.
The door was open. He drew his gun, moved to press against the wall beside the doorway, and waited.
No sound.
No, that wasn't true.
A groan?
He moved out into the hall.
No, more like a whimper.
He looked over the stair railing into the hall below.
He could dimly see a man lying on his back at the bottom of the stairs. Powers? A woman in a red blouse was crumpled at the end of the hall.
And maybe someone else waiting in the shadows for Morgan to come down and be slaughtered?
He hesitated. Only one way to find out. Throw some light on the subject.
He hit the light switch on the wall and at the same time dropped to the floor, his gun aimed at the hall below.
Nothing. No movement. No sound.
He cautiously rose to his knees, his gaze on the end of the hall. He was a target. Not a good one, but enough to draw fire.
Nothing.
Powers whimpered again.
Take a chance. He had to get to Powers before the bastard died on him.
He jumped over the rail into the hall below and hit the ground running.
No one in the kitchen. He turned and ran past the woman, toward the living room.
Empty.
He checked the woman as he passed her on the way back to Powers. Dead. Her throat had been cut. Messy. It had been hacked as if in a blind frenzy.