Killer's Ink by Malcolm Shuman

Author:Malcolm Shuman
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781497663282
Publisher: MysteriousPress.com/Open Road

13

He heard his name being called from far away and wondered, dreamily, who wanted him. He tried to answer, but his shouts were lost in a tunnel of silence. It couldn’t be that important, he decided, and tried to go back to sleep. But the tunnel began to sway and he saw light rushing toward him. The sound of his name was louder now and he wished they would stop, because it was giving him a headache.

“Brady. Brady, can you hear me?”

“I can hear you,” he muttered, and the light in front of him resolved into a face.

“Are you all right?” The face was leaning over him, its features distorted.

“Who?” Brady croaked, and the features sorted themselves out into a familiar visage.

“Can you see me?” the face demanded. “It’s Matt Garitty.”

Brady sat up and the room shifted, sending a bolt of pain through his temples. “Aggg.”

“We have to get you to the hospital.”

Brady took a few deep breaths. It was coming back now: the lights in the window, the sounds from inside, his decision to confront the killer.

“Sheriff, I probably deserve to be kicked.”

“I think somebody did that already,” the lawman said wryly. “You feel like telling me what happened?”

Brady haltingly recounted what had happened, feeling foolish. “I guess he heard me in the hallway and hid behind the door. When I went into the room, he let me have it.”

“Let your house have it, too, from the looks of things,” the sheriff said. “I guess it’s lucky I happened to come by when I did.”

The publisher felt his head and flinched as his fingers touched a knot just behind the ear. “How did you happen by just now, Sheriff? It’s a little late.”

“I got a call,” Garitty said. “Are you sure you don’t need a stretcher?”

Brady tried to shake his head and groaned. He let the sheriff help him to his feet and swayed for a few seconds until he got his balance. Around him, the room was chaos.

“Anyway,” the sheriff continued, “it seemed like a good idea to come over and talk to you, and I’m glad I did.”

Brady stumbled through the hallway and past the wreckage of the living room. “What kind of call?” he asked.

“A witness,” the sheriff said, helping him out and across the lawn. He opened the door of his unmarked white cruiser and assisted Brady into the front seat, then went around to the driver’s side.

“I don’t understand,” Brady said. “You mean somebody saw what was happening here?”

Garitty shook his head. “No. I mean a witness in the murder of Annabelle MacBride.”

“Someone saw her killed?”

Garitty shook his head again and started the car. A second later they were headed through town. “No, Mr. Brady, not quite. But somebody thinks he saw the killer.”

“The killer?” Brady’s head shot around and a wave of nausea racked him. “Well, who was it?”

The sheriff’s face turned slowly, its features impassive.

“You, Mr. Brady. The witness identified you.”

Doc Sanborn finished bandaging Brady’s head and stood back to view his work.

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