The Penguin Who Knew Too Much(81)

“Okay, I don’t like the idea of you killing me and getting away with it. But you know what I like even less? The thought of you killing me for no good reason. To cover up a crime when you should know you’re only going to get caught anyway.”

“What makes you think they’ll catch me?” Hamlin asked. He sounded smug.

“Because you’ve screwed up. I was starting to suspect you, so I’m sure it won’t take the police that long.”

“Not if I give them a nice, neat solution to their case.”

“Oh, right,” I said. “As if. I know damn well you’re just going to screw it up. The minute Chief Burke gets here, he’ll take one look at the crime scene and say, ‘Confound it! It's that idiot Ray Hamlin! I should have gone ahead and arrested him yesterday.’ “

“That's not a very nice thing to say, is it?”

“You want nice, then stop pointing that crossbow at me. Just my luck. I wouldn’t be the second victim of that warped mastermind, the uncatchable crossbow killer. Oh, no. I’d be the unlucky victim of a criminal so dense they’d write him up in a News of the Weird feature about the stupidest crooks of the year.”

“You’ve got a mouth on you,” Hamlin said.

“You want to explain the nice neat solution you’re planning on giving the chief?” I said. “How Charlie Shiffley and I both just happened to fall into the trench with an injured bobcat? Or did we jump in—and he with his hands duct-taped behind his back, just to make things more interesting? And even though he’d just shot me with a crossbow, I jumped in to help him?”

“Well, they won’t find the duct tape, of course,” Hamlin said. “I’ll take that off before I leave.”

“Even without the duct tape, it's a pretty odd scenario.”

“Not odd at all,” he said. “Not for around here, anyway. You heard a noise—you came out to find Charlie here had wounded the bobcat with his crossbow. He shot you to keep you quiet— but then he succumbed to the injuries you inflicted on him during the struggle.”

“He had a crossbow pointed at me and I was stupid enough to struggle and lucky enough to inflict wounds?” I said. “Already I’m not buying this.”

“Maybe with a rock,” he said. “You got any big rocks in your garden?”

“You expect me to help with this plan? Which is not only stupid but incredibly bad for my health? Find your own damned rock.”

“There's no need to snap at me,” Hamlin said. His head disappeared. I heard him whistling a rather monotonous tune as he presumably searched the yard for rocks. Or perhaps the tune was fine and he was simply a rotten whistler.

I made sure the flashlight, which would make a far better weapon for his scenario, was well hidden under Charlie's body.

And then a thought occurred to me. Hamlin's plan called for shooting me—probably from the safety of the edge of the trench—and then, when he’d gotten me out of commission, bashing Charlie's head in with a rock. Shooting Charlie definitely didn’t fit into his scenario. So if I could pull Charlie on top of me to shield all the major body areas where a crossbow shot would be fatal, I’d mess up his plan. He couldn’t shoot me without hitting Charlie, and he didn’t dare shoot Charlie. And if I could then convince him that I’d passed out, and lure him into coming down into the trench...

It didn’t do my leg much good, but I dragged Charlie on top of me. Too bad he wasn’t stockier. I liked his height, which meant I could get my head and body under his torso, but he was slender enough that Hamlin could probably still shoot me in the rear, and my arms and legs stuck out. But my head and trunk were covered. That was the critical part.

And even better, maybe I could remove the duct tape from Charlie's wrists. Even if I did, there was no guarantee he’d regain consciousness in time to be much use, but at least it gave him a chance. But I hadn’t finished pulling the last few layers of tape off when the tuneless whistling stopped. I lay still, hoping the throbbing pain in my leg would subside, and tried to concentrate on what was going on at the surface. I could see a little bit, through the space between Charlie's body and his right arm. Eventually, Hamlin's head appeared.

“What the hell?” he exclaimed.

There was a pause as he studied the tableau in the bottom of the trench. I continued to play possum. “It won’t do you any good, you know.” I didn’t answer. “I can wait,” he said.

Waiting was fine with me. If he waited long enough Michael

would come back from fetching his mother, or someone would come back from the party.