The only unusual note was the sheep lying in the middle of our driveway, placidly chewing its cud.
“Damn!” Michael said, as he braked and swerved onto the grass to avoid it. “I thought Sammy said he’d gotten them all back.”
“Maybe he miscounted, or maybe Farmer Early did,” I said. “We’ll worry about her later.”
“Just what we need,” Michael muttered. “More sheep thrills.”
I ignored him. I was racing up the steps to the front door by this time, with Michael on my heels. I pulled out my keys to get in, but Michael reached past me and shoved the door open.
The front door unlocked and hanging open—I didn’t like the looks of this.
“Hello?” I called. “Anyone home?”
I heard only echoes. I ran back to the kitchen. Empty.
“Shall I call Luigi’s?” Michael asked.
I shook my head and pointed to the half-eaten sausage and mushroom pizza on the table. Evidently Dad had gotten his favorite pizza after all.
I walked back into the central hallway and listened. Apart from Michael’s footsteps as he moved from the kitchen to the dining room and then the living room, I could hear nothing but the muted sounds of insects outdoors. Quiet. Too quiet; why weren’t we hearing police sirens by now?
“Dad?” I called up the stairs.
I raced through the upstairs floors while Michael checked the basement. We met again in the kitchen.
“Do you suppose he finished counting the money and went to Luigi’s?” Michael suggested. “Maybe that’s why the carryout pizza’s not finished. I’ll call and check.”
“Maybe I should check the yard sale area,” I said, peering out, though the entire yard was dark and still.
“Hello, Mrs. Langslow!” Michael said. “No, not now—something’s come up. Look, is Dr. Langslow there? Damn. Sorry. What about Barrymore Sprocket?”
Or was something moving in the yard, I wondered. I pulled the curtain aside to get a better look. I realized I’d left my flashlight in the car, and turned to get it. I’d need it for searching the yard.
“Your mother says your dad and Barrymore still haven’t gotten there, and they assumed they were still here counting the money,” Michael said, with his hand over the mouthpiece. “Shall I call the police and tell them—”
“Eeeeeeeeeeeeeee!”
Chapter 41
Michael almost dropped his phone when a bloodcurdling shriek pierced the night. I bolted for the back door.
“That came from the barn!” I said.
“We should wait for the cops,” Michael said, though I noticed that he was sprinting after me rather than following his own advice.
“Eeeeeeeeeeeeeee!”
“I’m not standing around waiting for the cops while Barrymore Sprocket commits another murder!” I said, just as I slammed into another sheep.
“Careful!” Michael said, a little late.
I planned to have a word with Sammy about his sheep counting abilities, next time I saw him. The sheep baaed reproachfully, scrambled back to its feet, and sauntered off. I had to catch my breath again before I could get up, and Michael beat me to the gate.
As we stumbled through the yard sale area toward the barn door, I berated myself for leaving the flashlight behind. There was still plenty of junk to stumble over. We plowed through the junk by brute force, and I was sure both my shins were bleeding by the time we made it to the barn.
We burst inside and by the faint light of a fallen flashlight on the ground we saw Dad, bound with clothesline and gagged with packing tape, lying in the middle of the open center area.
“Dr. Langslow,” Michael said, dropping down beside him. “Are you okay?”
“Take his pulse,” I said. “Better yet, keep your eyes peeled for Barrymore Sprocket, and I’ll take his pulse.”
“Right,” Michael said. He stood up, and I could see him looking around for a weapon.
Dad’s pulse was steady, and after a few moments, his eyelids fluttered.
“Dad,” I said. “What happened?”
“Growf!”
We all jumped—well, Michael and I, at least—and turned to see Spike, stumbling clumsily out of his bed and stalking toward us, growling. Which wasn’t unusual—Spike tended to be even grouchier when he woke up than the rest of the time. Not the first time I’d been glad to have a fence between us.
Dad made noises.
“Hang on a minute, Dad, I’ll rip the gag off.”
“Ow!” he exclaimed. And then his face grew serious. “No! Look out!” he pointed with his chin.
Michael and I whirled, and Michael raised the weapon he’d found—a broken bicycle tire pump. But Dad appeared to be pointing at Spike.