Who took that cash?
Somebody who knew where to look.
He obviously told someone, ‘cause I sure as hell didn’t.
A laugh burst out of me. Short. Sharp. Hurt like hell coming up, making me wheeze.
“What’s so funny, you old prick?”
“Seems like I’m not your only enemy, Bob.”
His gun went off again.
The round cracked off the rock wall, and a chunk of sandstone the size of a fist exploded outward. Shards rained down on my shoulder and into my hair. A sliver opened up a fresh cut across my ear, and warm blood trickled down my neck.
He’d fired wildly and recklessly. I’d hit a nerve.
I wiped the blood off my ear with the back of my good hand and kept my head down. Time to move.
I’d picked out a second spot the first day I’d gotten here, tucked behind a sandstone shelf about fifteen feet to my left, closer to the back tunnel, with a clean line to the cave mouth and a rock formation between me and any round Bob put through the gap. It took me four breaths to crawl there with the shotgun cradled in my good arm and my stitched hand screaming every time I put weight on it.
I made it. Settled in. Got the shotgun up on the shelf.
Better angle. Bigger field of view.
A shadow moved on the right side of the entrance.
A man darted from boulder to boulder out the front. Quick, low, but clunky. Not Bob. Bob moved like he had all the time in the world. Whoever this was moved like a kid running across an open paddock at night, hoping nobody shot him in the back.
I caught a glimpse and lost it.
Then he popped up again, edging out from behind the right-hand boulder with a rifle held wrong, holding it like the thing weighed more than he did.
Scrawny. Greasy. Mouth half open.
Ah, hell.
“Ahh, fuck me, Lyle. What the hell are you doin’ here?”
The rifle jerked toward the sound of my voice. Lyle nearly pissed himself, judging by the way he flinched and dropped behind the boulder again like he’d been shot.
“You killed my brothers, you bastard.” His voice came high and wet. He’d been crying.
I felt his pain. More than I wanted to.
But I’d buried things I felt before. No reason I needed to admit it, though. I can put those bodies on Bob. Just my word against his—and everybody hates cops.
“No, I didn’t, mate,” I called. Easy. Smooth as Bundy at the bottom of a long pour. “That was Bob.”
A beat of silence.
“He’s lying to you, Lyle.” Bob’s voice from the other side of the entrance was sharp and fast. “Frank killed them, just like I told you. He’s a fucking liar, and he’s trying to twist you up.”
“Think about it, Lyle.” I kept my voice steady. “Look at the size of me. Look at the size of your brothers. Bruce was twice my weight, and Wayne wasn’t much smaller. I’m sixty-three years old. I’m dying. How could I take down your two brothers?”
Lyle didn’t answer.
But he didn’t argue either. He was thinking.
