The Girl Who Knew Too Much(55)

She snagged the strap of the handbag with the same hand she was using to grip her own bag.

Oliver regained some ability to keep his balance. He no longer needed so much support from her. They got through the loading dock doorway and kept going. Irene knew they had to get as far away as possible before the warehouse collapsed in flames.

They made their way around to the front of the burning building and into the clearing.

The fiery light revealed a man in a leather jacket crumpled on the ground. At first Irene thought he was dead. But when they got closer, she heard him groan.

“Help me,” he gasped. He levered himself into a sitting position and clutched his shoulder with one hand. “You can’t leave me here.”

“Sorry,” Irene said. “You created the problem. You’re stuck with it.”

“Please,” he gritted out. “Never meant to kill you, just scare you. Didn’t know the place would go up like a torch. You gotta help me.”

“Let’s get him into the front seat of the car,” Oliver said.

Irene stared at him, astonished. “Why? He just tried to murder both of us.”

“No,” the man yelped. “Didn’t mean to kill anyone.”

“We’ve got questions, and at the moment this bastard is the only one available with answers,” Oliver said. “I’ll keep an eye on him from the back seat.”

“Bad idea,” Irene said. “He has a gun.”

“No gun,” the man assured her. “Dropped it when you shot me. Name’s Springer. I’ll tell you anything you wanna know. Just get me to a hospital. Please.”

“There’s the gun,” Oliver said. He steadied himself on his cane and pulled a handkerchief out of his pocket. “Use this to pick it up. The cops might be able to get some prints off of it.”

Irene used the handkerchief to scoop up the gun. It was still warm. She wrapped it in the square of white linen.

“Got it,” she said.

“Search him,” Oliver said.

She found a knife strapped to Springer’s leg.

“Forgot about the blade,” Springer muttered.

“Sure you did,” Irene said.

“I’ll take that,” Oliver said. He grasped the knife in his free hand and looked down at Springer. “Neither of us can get you on your feet. Can you make it to the car on your own?”

“I think so. Yeah.”

Springer managed to haul himself upright. Irene opened the passenger side door. Hand clamped to his shoulder, Springer crawled into the seat. Irene closed the door.

Springer groaned and passed out.

Oliver opened the rear door and climbed into the back of the Ford. He leaned forward and clamped a hand around Springer’s wound.

Irene got behind the wheel. She fired up the engine, put the car in gear, turned around in the clearing, and started up the dirt road. Rocks spit under the tires.

“What are we going to do with Springer?” she asked.

“We’ll take him to the Burning Cove hospital. I’ll call Detective Brandon and let him know what happened. If Springer makes it through the night, Brandon should be able to get some answers out of him.”

“What about the fire?”

“We’ll stop at the first place we see that might have a phone, and notify the fire department. With luck the clearing around the warehouse will keep the fire from jumping up the hillside. There’s nothing but water at the back.”

She reached the end of the lane and paused before turning onto Miramar Road. She glanced back at Oliver. He was pressing hard on Springer’s wound. In the weak glow of the dashboard lights his face was set in hard, grim lines.

“Are you all right?” she asked.

“Never better. Drive.”

She pulled out onto Miramar Road and floored the accelerator.

“You know,” she said, “in the movies this sort of thing always looks a lot more thrilling.”

“I’ve noticed that,” Oliver said.





Chapter 27




“I thought you didn’t like guns,” Irene said.

“I don’t,” Oliver said. He drank some whiskey, lowered the glass, and rested his head against the back of the armchair. “But that doesn’t mean they aren’t occasionally useful.”

Irene came to a halt in the middle of the living room and surveyed him with a critical eye. He knew the look all too well. He had been getting it every few minutes since they had walked through his front door a short time ago.

“Are you sure you’re all right?” she asked. Again.

“I’m fine,” he said, lying through his teeth.

He was heartily tired of the question but he told himself she meant well. He tried to sort through his mixed reactions to her concern. Sure, it was nice that she cared. But he hated knowing that she had seen him at his weakest that night.