stairs, searching . . . and then burst into laughter as his beam caught
and held on a slim metallic shape lying several steps down from them. Glancing back
up at Darla, Barry gave his head a rueful shake.
“The idiot, he must have come down here for some reason and then dropped his phone,”
he declared, his expression relieved. He turned again and started down the steps,
adding over his shoulder, “He’s probably wandering all over the neighborhood right
now trying to figure out where he lost it.”
“Hey, it happens to the best of us,” Darla observed a bit breathlessly as she heaved
her own sigh of relief. She’d truly feared something bad had happened to Curt. Now
that she knew it was nothing worse than a dropped phone, she and Barry could have
their lunch as planned. As for Curt, he likely could survive awhile without his smartphone.
While Barry bent to retrieve the errant device, Darla squinted into the dimness to
look around the basement. The requisite old-fashioned coal boiler was to one side,
along with storage boxes and a couple of old chairs. The floor appeared to be its
original brick, although sections of plywood had been laid near the stairs to give
a more stable storage surface. She hadn’t noticed any unusual exterior access other
than the windows. Her practical side kicked in. If Barry could convert the space into
a garden apartment like Jake’s, that would add even greater value—
She paused in midthought as the wavering flashlight beam momentarily revealed a flash
of blue as Barry pocketed the phone and started back up the steps toward Darla. A
chill swept her, and she gripped the doorjamb.
“Wait,” she choked out. “Shine your light all the way down the steps, and to the right.
I thought I saw . . .”
She trailed off, and Barry stared at her in seeming confusion for a moment. Gathering
her wits, she leaned past the doorway and pointed downward into the shadows. “It’s
probably nothing, just a blue rag, but you’d better take a look.”
Obediently he swung around and began moving the flashlight beam back and forth in
wide arcs toward the area she’d indicated. “Tell me when you—”
“There!”
Shaking now, so that she didn’t dare let go of the doorjamb, Darla stared down at
the spot where Barry’s flashlight beam had paused. It could be a blue tarp, she tried
to tell herself. But as Barry slowly moved down the stairs, the pool of light around
the fabric widened.
No, not a tarp.
It was a blue Windbreaker . . . the same jacket that Curt had been wearing last time
he had stopped by the bookstore.
And as the flashlight beam zeroed in on it even more closely, she now could see what
appeared to be a human hand protruding from the jacket’s sleeve.
SEVEN
“CURT!” BARRY YELLED AND WENT STUMBLING DOWN THE steps toward the still figure lying on the basement floor.
Darla rushed after him as fast as she could, given the spotty light. Surely Curt was
simply unconscious, she frantically told herself. No doubt he had tripped on the steps
and hit his head when he landed. A tumble could explain why his phone had been lying
on the stairway rather than in his pocket. Frankly, she was surprised that neither
of the men had injured themselves before today. The brownstone was nothing short of
a disaster site.
By now, Barry was already kneeling beside his friend. Darla could see by the flashlight’s
yellow beam that Curt was lying on his belly a few feet away and to one side of the
bottom step. What looked like a crowbar lay across his back, reminding Darla of Curt’s
previous threats to lay in wait for the salvage thieves in case they made a return
visit.
A chilling thought came to her: had Curt tried to wield the bar against an intruder
only to come out on the losing side of the encounter?
She barely had time to consider that possibility before Barry grabbed the crowbar
and tossed it aside, and then
and held on a slim metallic shape lying several steps down from them. Glancing back
up at Darla, Barry gave his head a rueful shake.
“The idiot, he must have come down here for some reason and then dropped his phone,”
he declared, his expression relieved. He turned again and started down the steps,
adding over his shoulder, “He’s probably wandering all over the neighborhood right
now trying to figure out where he lost it.”
“Hey, it happens to the best of us,” Darla observed a bit breathlessly as she heaved
her own sigh of relief. She’d truly feared something bad had happened to Curt. Now
that she knew it was nothing worse than a dropped phone, she and Barry could have
their lunch as planned. As for Curt, he likely could survive awhile without his smartphone.
While Barry bent to retrieve the errant device, Darla squinted into the dimness to
look around the basement. The requisite old-fashioned coal boiler was to one side,
along with storage boxes and a couple of old chairs. The floor appeared to be its
original brick, although sections of plywood had been laid near the stairs to give
a more stable storage surface. She hadn’t noticed any unusual exterior access other
than the windows. Her practical side kicked in. If Barry could convert the space into
a garden apartment like Jake’s, that would add even greater value—
She paused in midthought as the wavering flashlight beam momentarily revealed a flash
of blue as Barry pocketed the phone and started back up the steps toward Darla. A
chill swept her, and she gripped the doorjamb.
“Wait,” she choked out. “Shine your light all the way down the steps, and to the right.
I thought I saw . . .”
She trailed off, and Barry stared at her in seeming confusion for a moment. Gathering
her wits, she leaned past the doorway and pointed downward into the shadows. “It’s
probably nothing, just a blue rag, but you’d better take a look.”
Obediently he swung around and began moving the flashlight beam back and forth in
wide arcs toward the area she’d indicated. “Tell me when you—”
“There!”
Shaking now, so that she didn’t dare let go of the doorjamb, Darla stared down at
the spot where Barry’s flashlight beam had paused. It could be a blue tarp, she tried
to tell herself. But as Barry slowly moved down the stairs, the pool of light around
the fabric widened.
No, not a tarp.
It was a blue Windbreaker . . . the same jacket that Curt had been wearing last time
he had stopped by the bookstore.
And as the flashlight beam zeroed in on it even more closely, she now could see what
appeared to be a human hand protruding from the jacket’s sleeve.
SEVEN
“CURT!” BARRY YELLED AND WENT STUMBLING DOWN THE steps toward the still figure lying on the basement floor.
Darla rushed after him as fast as she could, given the spotty light. Surely Curt was
simply unconscious, she frantically told herself. No doubt he had tripped on the steps
and hit his head when he landed. A tumble could explain why his phone had been lying
on the stairway rather than in his pocket. Frankly, she was surprised that neither
of the men had injured themselves before today. The brownstone was nothing short of
a disaster site.
By now, Barry was already kneeling beside his friend. Darla could see by the flashlight’s
yellow beam that Curt was lying on his belly a few feet away and to one side of the
bottom step. What looked like a crowbar lay across his back, reminding Darla of Curt’s
previous threats to lay in wait for the salvage thieves in case they made a return
visit.
A chilling thought came to her: had Curt tried to wield the bar against an intruder
only to come out on the losing side of the encounter?
She barely had time to consider that possibility before Barry grabbed the crowbar
and tossed it aside, and then
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