Something hit me across the backside, knocking me off my feet and into the bobcat-infested trench.
Chapter 41
As I fell, I twisted to avoid landing on Lola. I succeeded, but the effort threw me off balance. I landed hard, doing something to my leg that hurt so badly I almost fainted. But the five razor-sharp claws raking down my side snapped me out of it, and for a few frantic seconds I scrambled to put some distance between myself and Lola. Not that I felt like moving—I was pretty sure my leg was broken. But Lola seemed to want her personal space back. Fine by me. Whatever Lola wants, Lola gets.
When the dirt settled, Lola and I were lying at opposite ends of a ten-foot stretch of trench, glaring at each other. I could see a fresh trickle of blood from the wound on Lola's flank. I felt bad that I might have hurt her on landing, though I suspected it was her efforts to fight me off that had set off the bleeding. At least she seemed too hurt to come after me. A good thing, too. I was also bleeding, from where she’d lacerated my side. And worse, my leg hurt like hell, and lay twisted at an odd angle. I wasn’t up to defending myself.
But I might have to. Whoever pushed me into the trench clearly didn’t have my best interests at heart.
Lola howled softly at me—an aching sound, half threat and half pain. I wished there were some way I could tell her that I wasn’t going to hurt her. I wasn’t the enemy—the enemy was still up there. And probably still up to something.
Just then I spotted something on one wall of the trench—a little red dot of light, like the one Charlie Shiffley's laser sight projected onto whatever he was about to shoot. It played over the wall, found Lola, and moved on.
Whoever was using it was behind me. He’d have to circle around the trench to point it at me.
Probably a good idea to play possum. Let whoever pushed me in think I’d been even more seriously injured by the fall. Maybe I could get a clue to his—or her—identity.
I waited, ears straining. Nothing.
It was annoying that I couldn’t put a face to the enemy lurking overhead. One moment I expected to see the craggy face of Montgomery Blake peering over the edge, lobbing a few more genial insults down before he finished me off. The next minute I was sure it would be Shea, the SOB leader. I also spared a few thoughts for Sheila D. Flugleman—a normal person might not think manure a sufficient motive for murder, but she definitely wasn’t firing on all cylinders. And the Sprockets, who had appeared so conveniently soon after the body was discovered— what if they’d had something to do with putting it there? Even Charlie Shiffley—perhaps Chief Burke was right, and he wasn’t the innocent kid I thought he was. And I could think of other candidates for the killer if I tried, and I probably would if the wait went on much longer.
Patience, I told myself. Sooner or later, my attacker had to show himself, right?
Then a few clods of dirt fell on me. It suddenly occurred to me that maybe playing possum wasn’t such a good idea after all. I was lying in a six-foot-deep trench, and the person who had pushed me in was probably the killer. A killer who had buried his previous victim in a convenient nearby excavation. Human beings are creatures of habit—what if he was planning on repeating the process?
“Damn,” a voice above me said. “I thought sure she’d finish you off by now.”
Startled, I looked up to see Ray Hamlin craning his head over the side of the ditch.
“Maybe if you hadn’t shot her from behind with a crossbow before throwing her down here she would have,” I said.
“If I’d shot her, I’d have finished her off,” he said. “Wasn’t my lousy shot.”
“One of your clients did it, then?”
He chuckled.
“Yeah, one of my clients. Lousy shot, and a sniveling coward to boot. Took off like a bat out of hell as soon as that damned kid showed up and started threatening to call the police. I should have guessed that kid was going to be trouble. Should have guessed a little sooner you were, too. But we’ll take care of all that.”
His face disappeared. I glanced at Lola. She was looking up at where Hamlin's face had been, snarling silently.
“Good girl,” I said. “He's the bad guy. Remember that.”
Just then something landed on the dirt between us. A body, with its hands duct-taped behind its back. Lola howled, and I suspected she was swatting at the new arrival with her claws. It was Charlie Shiffley. He didn’t react to Lola's attack, so I grabbed his shoulders and pulled him back toward me as far as I could, until he was out of her reach. Then I checked his pulse to make sure I hadn’t just rescued a corpse. No, his eyes might be closed, but his pulse was strong and he was breathing fine. His hair was matted with something wet and sticky. Moonlight washed out the color, but I suspected it was blood.