Dead Even - Mariah Stewart [79]
If she answers, it means I have to tell her. If she doesn’t . . .
The phone rang six times. Finally, on the sixth ring, he heard a click, then, “Hi, you’ve reached Miranda Cahill. I can’t take your call right now, but if you’ll—”
He turned off the phone and sat shaking, looking over his shoulder, expecting Burt to jump out at him, take the gun from Archer’s own pocket, and shoot him with it.
Maybe the other number on the card . . .
He dialed the second number.
“This is Miranda Cahill. Please leave a message . . .”
Archer sighed heavily, wondering what message he could leave. By the time she got it, Burt would probably be back, looking for him. If he hadn’t killed Mr. Landry by then, well, it wasn’t much worth thinking about, was it?
There was no way out, Archer knew that now. Turning off the phone, he stuck it back in his pocket and started off across the field in the direction of the barn. Sick to his stomach, he stopped partway and lost the little bit of breakfast he’d had that morning.
At the back door of the barn, he paused and took the screwdriver and flashlight from his pocket. Holding the small light in his teeth, he carefully removed the screws that held the lock and bolt on the door. He slipped the three screws into his shirt pocket and opened the door slowly, quietly, though he knew no one was in there. No animals lived there, either. It was like the barn was just for show. Well, for show and for storing Mr. Landry’s gardening tools. If today was to be like every other day this week, in a few hours from now, Mr. Landry would come out of the house and walk to the pond, where he’d watch the ducks for a while. Then he’d go into the barn and get a rake or some other garden thing. He’d rake leaves or something around the flower beds for about twenty minutes, then he’d put the rake or whatever away. At some point—usually while Mr. Landry was working in the garden—the other man would come out and talk to Mr. Landry, and pretty soon they’d go back into the house.
Archer climbed the ladder to the loft and settled himself down in a spot where he had a clear view of the door. If Mr. Landry was alone, he was supposed to shoot him then. If the other man was there, he’d have to wait until later in the day and hope that Mr. Landry came back out without the other man following right away.
He hunkered down on the hard wooden floor, the gun in his hand, and waited for the door to open. He would not permit himself to think any more about what he was going to do when Joshua Landry stepped through it.
Archer had all but fallen asleep waiting. His one arm had gone numb, and he’d just sat up and leaned back against the wall, shaking the arm to get the blood flowing again, when he heard the latch lift on the wide door below him. He rested his head on the wall behind him, shaking his head slowly and fighting back the tears. Then, knowing there was no use, there was no way out now, he stretched his neck to look down into the barn.
Now or never . . .
Josh Landry pushed the door open just enough to walk through it. He stood with his back to Archer and sorted through some garden implements as if searching for just the right one. He’d just reached out for one when the first bullet whizzed past him on the left. Landry jumped back, ducked, and looked around the barn.
“What the—”
The second bullet passed him on the right.
“Son of a bitch,” Landry yelled.
The third bullet struck him in the chest, and he fell back, a surprised look on his face. The fourth and fifth bullets missed the mark, but the sixth hit near the third, taking him all the way down to the ground. As if in a daze, Archer came down the ladder holding on with one hand, the gun still in the other.
Just as he got to the bottom, the door was flung open, and the other man stood there, a gun held in front of him as he scanned the interior. Before he turned in Archer’s direction, Archer fired twice. The man fell, his gun useless now.
A loud discordant hum in his brain, Archer Lowell ran out the back door and fled for the shelter